Long they watched through the umbrous, sooted night. The moon hung dark as a tomb, leaving the stars as twinkling mockeries of sight through the clouded forest, haze rising from the frozen ground hit with untimely comfort.

“I feel like it should be colder.” 

“What?”

The replacement squirmed a little. “I dunno. It doesn’t feel right. The air is close and sticky, like it’s supposed to be biting cold and icy.”

“Then you’d just complain about it being cold.”

A little huff. “I don’t complain all the time.”

“The little you’ve been here, newbie, has been mostly gripe.”

But the kid seemed to be thinking louder than he could hear. “I mean, I might not like it if it was cold, but that’s what I’d expect at least. I’d rather be ready for someone throwing a punch than be caught off-guard by one. It’s like the quiet out here. All the pictures back home are always showing bullets flying or buddies drinking, but now I’m here and I’m mostly just sitting in foxholes waiting for something to happen.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“It’s not your fault. I guess I just came in with expectations.”

“I’m damn well aware it ain’t my fault.”

The awaiting silence returned as they peered over the lip of the small, muddy crater they had dug. The end of line. Hung out like the trailing tom at a turkey shoot. The veteran fiddled with his Browning, the heavy metal chunkings breaking the stillness for a moment.

“D’you know what our expectations were?”

“I figure the same as mine.”

“Ugh. No, you idjit, not when we first got in. Our more immediate expectations.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Oh, fer cryin’, we’s told, time and again, take this next hill and you’ll be home by Christmas. Drive ‘em outta this-er-that town and you’ll be home by Christmas. The President wants us all home by Christmas. Christmas, Christmas, Christmas. So much talk of Christmas it was like in Church on Sundays. You know, that old hymn? When we all get to Christmas, what a day of rejoicing that will be. Well, I dunno bou’choo but Christmas done come and gone and all I gotta show for it is scars on my shoulder from a tree that exploded next to me, a new foxhole on the end of the line, and some boy in a starched uniform to keep me company. Turns out we were more right than we knew.” 

The veteran never looked at him and the boy didn’t want him to, feeling every word shrink him a little smaller. 

“Tell me: how many times did you hafta cross your fingers before your ball was plucked from the fishbowl? Huh? Did you feel all woozy when you heard your number come outta their mouth? Did you hope it was a dream?”

The boy mumbled something.

“Say it again. I didn’t hear it.”

“I enlisted.”

And the ire drained from the old man. “Enlisted, eh?”

“Yes.”

The elder tried to save face by keeping his the same, but the younger showed the hurt plainly through the ugly grimace he wore trying to look tough.

“Well, if you enlisted, then you’ve got even less a right to carp. You signed up for this and, whether you expected what you got or not, you’ll fit in a lot better here if’n you juss grit and bear it.”

“Grin and bear it,” slipped out.

“Your mumblin’ may end up rilin’ me more than your complainin’. Say somethin’ or don’t. Don’t make me guess.”

“It’s just, my mom gets those little sayings wrong all the time. Grit and bear it. Take it for granite. Less instead of fewer. I’m sorry. It’s just a habit.”

“Whatever the hell the saying is, I suggest you do it.” The veteran seethed for a moment, that flash of regret passing. “No. You know what? I think even if you’re supposedly right on this, no one wants to see your fresh face walking around with a stupid grin all day. I said what I meant: grit your pearly whites down hard, look like a man, and bear whatever battalion throws your way. And if—”

“Evening, fellas.”

“Evening, sergeant.”

“No need to salute, private. It’s damned near midnight.”

“Sarge.”

“We holding up alright over here?”

“As far as I can tell. It’s a bit lonely here on the end though, and junior here says he doesn’t like the quiet all that much.”

“Heh. He’ll learn soon enough the different types of quiet. This one’s a good one. Feels stuffy, but I’ll put up money that they’re sitting over there fussing over grub, not battleplans, tonight.”

“You think so?”

“I wouldn’t mind fussin’ over grub.”

“I’ll get you two relieved in the morning and make sure that there’s a fresh pot on in company HQ. Help yourselves to something hot.”

“Best laid plans ‘a mice and men, gunny.”

“Always so dour. You need to lighten up.”

“I’ll lighten up when the day does.”

“Deal and I’ll hold you to it. Need anything to make it through till then?”

“Could use some dressin’. I gave the roll I had to doc and ain’t got anythin’ back.”

“We’re good on ammo. I made an account this morning.”

“Alright. I’ll see what I can do about the first aid, but no promises there.”

“Sounds good, gunny.

“Thanks, sergeant.”

“Good night, fellas.”

“Night.”

“Good night, sergeant.”

Just as suddenly as he had arrived, their sergeant had disappeared back into the night, leaving them alone on their little island lost in the silence and fog once again.

“Did I get that one right at least?”

“Huh?”

“‘Best laid plans of mice and men.’ Did I get that one right or am I pulling another ‘Momma’?”

“Well, technically, it’s ‘schemes’, but—”

“You little shit. I was pulling your leg. That means the same thing. Plans is schemes. Everyone says plans. I swear if you—”

A growing whistle cut through the mist, piercing louder and louder, stopping dead whatever they had coming next.

“Down!”

The first shell landed a couple hundred feet away, blinding bright and numbing sound, as the trail of barrage stepped its way closer to their hovel. The silence of quiet was subsumed in the silence of thunder. The world became flashes and quakes, splintering trees and spraying soil. The two soldiers ducked low in their place and all they knew was the press of the other’s body and the apocalypse around them. It was a timeless suspension of reality as they waited to see if they still existed at the end of it.

Slowly, slowly, the shells spaced out and eventually ceased, the loathsome scream of their approach leaving the battered air. In a snap, the veteran leapt to the trigger of the Browning. The recruit wallowed in the pit feebly.

“Get up! Prep the ammo for reload! They won’t trail this by much.”

The kid scrambled around behind the old man staging another belt for the Browning and jamming another few rounds in his Garand before hopping up to the mouth of their hole.

The haze and silence had settled back into place as though nothing had happened. Only the Earth showed the evidence with new divots plunged deep and splatters of cast off dirt, chunks of destroyed trees and small fires choking in the pervasive dampness. They lit small orange halos scattered about the hanging cloud. Then, sudden shadows broke across their glow, showing themselves as glimpsing flashes against the background. 

“There! I see them!”

“Keep your voice down. They don’t know we’ve made it through the barrage just yet. If we fire now, so will they and I don’t know how many we’re dealin’ with.”

They waited as the sound of hushed commands and footsteps rushed closer, headed straight toward their position, perhaps thinking the line had already been flanked. The boy sat there and licked his lips nervously, breathing softly. He strained his eyes to see into the dark. Then, he could see them crouching ever closer, and, as he did, the Browning opened fire, a cacophonous rattling of lead flying downrange. He followed suit, squeezing off round after round from his Garand. The figures in the dark dropped or ducked behind what stumps remained. Some turned to run. The tracers from the Browning swept back and forth like hurled motes of flame, some carrying off and out of sight, some stopping short, met by a thud and wheeze or thunk into wood.

The ring of his final cartridge leaping from the breach brought the boy back to the moment. A splash of dirt hit his face and he heard for the first time the whizzes of returning fire, the little hits of bullets on the lip of their foxhole. He reached into his ammo bag and plunged another 10 rounds into the belly of his rifle and took aim once again, catching silhouette after silhouette in his sights. He pulled the trigger and watched them fall.

“Running empty!” came the veteran.

“On it.”

The recruit turned and grabbed a fresh belt box and stepped back up to the Browning. A snap and a ping shook the world around, his vision suddenly catching sky and naked treetops. His helmet left him and clattered down outside the foxhole as he landed flat on his back in the depths of the pit. His eyes turned circles and his head swam. He looked at the stars and they seemed closer. He could see them moving through the sky, tracing little lines of fire as they passed. He reached out his hand skyward and felt something take hold.

“Get up!”

The gruff visage of the old man filled his sight and he felt himself being lifted back to his feet.

“You’re fine. Your pot did its job. Get back to returning the favor.”

The Garand was thrust back into his hands and he stumbled his way back to the lip of the foxhole. As he reentered the scene, he found himself less alone. Reinforcements had arrived, filling the other entrenchments, adding to the hail of lead pounding the forest. Wave after wave of phantoms in the dark plunged forward toward their line, reaching the point of solidity a small moment before being beaten back into the night or spilling across the ground. If he had time to think, he would have been exhausted, but the pulse of battle coursed through his body, granting strength from a place he did not know. The clamor continued for what hung on them as an eternity.

Then, the sound of rushing footsteps and foreign shouts retreated back into the mists. The shadows no longer encroached on the light. The two of them had held their places, and now, with the damp air sputtering on the hot barrel of the Browning and smoke pouring from the Garand, the quiet seeped back into the world. The fog encircled them, the dark enclosed, and their breaths returned to normal.

“Heh. Held your own there, kiddo.” The veteran slapped the youngster across the back. “You might be useful yet.”

He winced. “A little softer next time maybe.”

The old-timer guffawed. “Grab your lid. ‘Spect lieutenant’ll be around soon, and I wanna make sure you get a new one if that one’s busted.”

The replacement obliged and leaned his body up out of the foxhole to reach the helmet.

He saw it first, the veteran: the starburst shine out among the gloom. The crack, whistle, and thud of the shot all arrived at once, and only once. A potshot taken at a whim at a figure in the dark. The kid gave a little grunt and slid back into the pit, helmet in hand. His eyes were wide and white, looking around at everything and nothing. The old man bolted to him.

“You alright?” He patted him all over, trying to find anything wrong. “Talk to me, kid. You get hit? You made a noise.” Then, his hand found the spot. Just under his armpit, a hole surged blood. He jammed his pinky in and felt nothing but empty space angling down to the opposite hip. He moved his other hand there and found another wet patch. He ripped off the boy’s jacket and shirt to get as good a look at him as the dark would allow. His white body stood out stark against the loamy black surroundings, and his breathing began to shudder, a pained catch in its rise and fall. From the top wound, warm, foamy red flowed. From the bottom, dark, black blood. Lungs and liver.

“What happened?”

The old man jabbed him in the leg with a morphine and then another. Maybe reality would leave him be until it was over.

The boy spoke haltingly, choking out the breath he had left. “It’s cold. I’m cold. When’d it get so cold?”

The veteran pulled the soggy uniform back over him. “Here we go, buddy. I’ll get you bundled back up. Sorry ‘bout that.” He tossed down his own coat and pulled a thin, mud-caked blanket across him, tucking them in gingerly. “That any better?”

“Not you’re f-f-fault, b-but I’m s-still cold.” A few halted wheezes. “It’s...f-f-f-freezing.”

The old veteran hugged the kid close as tried to take the shivers into himself. But it was no use. That small frame shuddered and sputtered, breath rattling through a bloody-phlegm choked mouth, slower and slower. 

“That’s a li-little bet-t-t-ter. W-w-warmer. Thanks.”

And they stayed like that for a few more moments until everything sank back into black and silence.

A wet slam shook the house. My heartbeat filled the silence after like an echo. My broken daydream spilled over into reality as horrid images of what might be standing at my door froze my steps. Worse was the sight from the peephole. The emptiness of our porch was dyed in a smeared sunset red.

At first, what lay on the doormat was inconceivable: needle bones jutting out of pink blobs spilling over stretched white flesh. A deflated eye sat in a crushed socket, staring upwards blankly. A beak, once strong and black, was now crushed, splintered like broken tree branches. The ground saturated in a growing puddle of blood with broken feather liferafts drifting in the flow.

The shovel made a fine hearse for the crows' trashcan funeral. The only attendees were my grimace and the fox with the hungry eyes, which sat at the edge of the trees. I turned my back on it with a shiver.

The pale and sponge did little to blot out what remained after. I gave up when my arms leadened and my back screamed at me, threatening to buckle under my shifting center of gravity. The concrete will be forever stained by a rust colored secret, our door is forever dented by beak and saturated in death. Truthfully, I don’t think I could ever get the crow's memory out of the wood.

That night, dinner was chicken. Eating slowly, I suppressed the comparison of the meat's pinkness with what I had scraped from my porch. The meager portion I was able to retain was still cause for celebration. Lately, spices and the slightest overcooking cause debilitating nausea. Leaving me slave to that porcelain hole as it rips the meager scraps I can offer up so that our child doesn’t begin to scrape away at my marrow for nutrients.

Though, as the mothers before me, I give of myself to ensure my baby thrives. Spending hours brushing clumps of hair off my shoulders with brittle fingernails as I ford rivers of nausea and wrestle with my fatigue. Only herbal tea could remedy my hurt. Another gift from the earth, I would find what I needed for them in the garden, topped with bows of dew.

I can already tell he's strong like his father. Sharing that fervor for life and the inability to sit still. Traits that once captivated me in Eric now do so again in our son. Simultaneously filling me with fear and joy as I slip into daydreams of toddling walks in the woods and jumping off logs into creeks.

The vividness of my dreams has only increased. They bleed into my reality, straddling the line between daydream and hazy memory.

A sheen of sweat sticks the thin fabric of my dress to my chest. The forest air rests heavy on my shoulders and guides me with gentle hands in between the trees.

A deeper darkness than I had ever seen prowls just beyond a clearing. The wind whispers with a voice that drips like honey into my ears, giving me understanding beyond words. I enter the forest-made night, the trees bending over me with curiosity.

Animals lie resting on either side of my path. Does with heads leaned down to clean their fawn, look up with loving expressions. A goat couple rests against each other, the girl resting its head against the ram's throat. A grouping of blackbirds sits further back in the trees, silent like judges taking account of the new being in their sanctuary. Heads turn as I glide into the gnarl of an ancient oak.

Eric must have found me and carried me back. I don't recall anything but strong arms under my knees and shoulders, and the visions of death. Nearly all the animals cleaved clean in two from head to flank, each half mirroring its partner on the other side of the path. Only the birds had been saved from the savagery, lying in pairs with the gore, heads simply turned away at unnatural angles.

I woke from this nightmare to a steady creaking. Sure that it was just Eric working on something for a child we had been praying would come. I found Eric. He had created a human marionette for someone whom he would never be able to introduce himself to. To our answered prayer.

Now, I spend my days idly floating around the house to a chorus of missed calls and birdsong. The urge to allow nature in through open windows grows stronger each day. Inviting the ivy in to touch Eric like a lover and rest its head on the crib in anticipation of its occupant.

We finally chose a name. It was one of the few things the awful dreams gifted me. It floated down on a scrap of ashen paper as I watched Eric wave at me from the upstairs window before our home was swallowed by flame. Kazimir.

Since his christening, I have had nothing but peace. Finally able to fade into blissful nothingness for hours on end. Often waking up so ravenous that nausea cowers from me as I gorge myself to feed our growing boy.

Though my meals grow larger each day, the blessings never cease. The garden is plentiful, the number of chickens only seems to increase with my appetite, and gifts continue to arrive at my door.

As I watch the leaves fall, I know it's almost time for our little miracle to come. I can feel it in each distention of my skin made by his little foot. I can feel it in the soft pressure he puts on my bladder. Each cramp that doubles me over seems like thunderclaps before the approaching storm. Mostly, I can tell by my dreams.

No longer do nightmares shackle my mind. Instead, I dream of the mundane. The tender moments of love. Warm water baths, where I gently wipe our laughing boy's body with a washcloth. His father laughs along with us, a deep, bellowing sound that seems to shake the house and reverberate off my ribcage. It fills me with warmth, reminding me we will all be together again soon.

In 1825, a Black shoeshiner purchased a plot of land in Manhattan. Soon, Seneca Village became New York’s first free Black community. It prospered: families built homes, churches, schools; businesses thrived. It became a haven for those seeking hope, equality, and peace. This story is inspired by what came after

Spring sunlight spills across the dusty churchyard, warm and forgiving. Underneath a tall wise oak tree that sits at the edge of the churchyard, children laugh. Rope slaps earth, their voices ride the breeze. It is a good day - like most days. Ruth Davis steps out of the church with a slate board tucked under her arm. She closes her eyes and draws in a slow, intentional breath, then lets it go with a soft smile.

“Good mornin’, Ruth.” She turns to see Patrick, the Irishman, emerging from Mrs. Johnson’s tailor shop with a folded pair of trousers.

“Mornin’, Patrick. Mrs. Johnson.” She lifts her hand. They wave back.

The village hums gently around her. Black, Irish, and German families cross paths - trading greetings, clasping hands. Ruth breathes deeply, warmth settling in her chest. “Thank you, Lord, for another beautiful day,” she murmurs. She faces the yard. “Come on in now. Time to begin.” A collective groan drifts upward as children race past her into the church.

In the nearby garden, a locust lands on the brightest bloom. Around it, petals lie jagged and torn - having been a meal for an earlier visitor, perhaps.

A knock taps softly at the doorframe. Pastor Dunn stands tall, broad as an oak, smiling easy. “Headin’ to the crossroads. Need tools. And somethin’ to fight them locusts,” he says, voice rich and earthy. “My crops hangin’ on for dear life.”

Ruth shakes her head. “We’re all set, Pastor.”

He peers into the room at the waiting children. “Remember,” he tells them, “whether you’re plantin’ corn or kindness, it all needs tendin’.”

“Yes, Pastor Dunn,” they answer together. He tips his hat and heads down the steps, dust rising behind him.

The crossroads sits where two dirt roads meet - home to the general store, post office, tavern, and blacksmith. For a village this small, it thrums with life. Men in linen and wool, women in cotton dresses and aprons, sweeping stoops, tending horses, laughing easy. Pastor Dunn exits the general store with heavy satchels and a wagon wheel. A mule waits patiently. That’s when the horse appears.

The rider moves through the village without greeting - dark coat neat and pressed, sash at his arm, papers strapped tight to his side. Conversations falter. Heads turn. Whispers. He stops at the post office, dismounts, and nails a notice to the post outside. No words. He mounts again and rides off.

Villagers gather. Pastor Dunn pushes forward and reads.

NOTICE OF EMINENT DOMAIN.
LAND TO BE ACQUIRED BY THE CITY OF NEW YORK.
RESIDENTS MUST VACATE WITHIN 90 DAYS.

Gasps ripple. Someone tears the paper down. Mr. Hale steps in - pressed trousers, fine felt hat. “Now, don’t you all worry. I’ll speak to the officials,” he says calmly. “Leave it with me.”

“That’s mighty generous,” Pastor Dunn replies. 

A mosquito buzzes by Mr. Hale’s head as he hesitates - just a beat - a faint tightening at the corner of his mouth that the pastor notices. “This land here…” He catches himself, then continues evenly. “It’s a fine place. That much is plain. But you all are good people,” Hale says. “You don’t deserve this.”

The mosquito lands on his neck as praises are given. The crowd disperses, reassured. Mr. Hale slaps at the mosquito. Pop. He looks at his hand - blood splatter, specks of black. He brushes his hand against his trousers, muttering, “Damn mosquitos,” as he walks away.

Pastor Dunn watches Hale walk away, unease tugging at him.

Days pass. Worry settles like fog.

“What’s eminent domain?” Mrs. Yates, the village’s oldest resident - wrinkled but spirited - asks one morning, clutching the crumpled notice. Pastor Dunn exhales. “Means they think they can take our land - even if we say no. But we got deeds. We got rights.”

“You sure that’s enough?” she asks. He nods, though his brow tightens.

Two weeks later, the rider returns with an updated notice, pushing up the eviction date. They now have thirty days. In addition, it states - failure to comply will result in forcible removal. “They moved it up!” a man shouts, sprinting through the crossroads.

That night, lightning bugs flicker beneath a full moon as the church fills. Voices overlap. Fists rise.

Pastor Dunn and Mr. Hale stand at the front of the church. 

“They white. Who gonna stop ’em?”

“We gon’ lose everything!”

Pastor Dunn raises his hands. “Please.” 

Mr. Hale steps forward, smoothing out his coat. A fly buzzes by his head. “I did the proper thing and contacted city officials. I’m waiting on a reply.”

“Wait’n, huh?” someone mumbles.

A collective groan fills the air. Mr. Hale raises a hand, attempting to temper the room before it erupts again. “I should hear back soon.” 

“And if they don’t listen?” someone shouts.

“Let’s see what happens,” Hale says.

A bitter laugh cuts through the room. “We ain’t got time for proper.”

White landowners whisper of selling. Black and immigrant families refuse.

“I’ll go to Harlem,” Pastor Dunn says suddenly. “Find a lawyer. Fight it in court.” Silence. Then nods. Hope - thin, but breathing.

The courtroom smells of ink and damp wool. Light filters through tall windows, dull and gray, offering no warmth. Pastor Dunn sits rigid beside the attorney, his hands folded so tightly his knuckles pale. A few of Seneca Village’s residents sit behind Pastor Dunn’s table. The city’s representatives occupy the opposite table - three men in dark coats, papers stacked neatly before them. Calm. Certain.

The attorney rises first, clearing his throat. He speaks of deeds passed down, of taxes paid, of families rooted deep into the soil. He gestures toward Pastor Dunn, then toward the gallery behind him - Black farmers, Irish laborers, German tradesmen. “These people are not squatters,” he says. “They are landowners.” Murmurs ripple through the benches. Then the city stands.

Their lead counsel does not raise his voice. He does not need to. He speaks of progress. Of public necessity. Of authority granted by law. He never once looks at the villagers as people - only as obstacles. When he finishes, silence settles thick and suffocating. The judge leans back, fingers steepled. He adjusts his spectacles, glances briefly at the documents, and not at the room.

“Eminent domain,” he says, measured and final, “is a lawful exercise of municipal power.” Pastor Dunn’s chest tightens. “The court rules in favor of the City of New York.” A gavel strikes.

For a moment, no one moves.

Then the city men stand, smiling as they gather their papers. Hands extend. Congratulations are exchanged. Pastor Dunn lowers his head. Movement catches his eye. Mr. Hale rises from the gallery. Relief flickers - brief, foolish - before it dies. Hale does not look at the villagers. Instead, he smooths his coat and steps toward the city’s table, his stride practiced, familiar. He extends his hand before the officials do. “Well done,” he says.

Shock hardens on Pastor Dunn’s face. “What the…” Eyes widen. Jaw clenches. Something breaks. Pastor Dunn surges forward, vision blurring, rage burning hot and unholy. The attorney catches him hard around the chest.

“No,” he growls under his breath. “No Negro going to jail on my watch.”

Hale turns then, just once. His smile is thin. Satisfied.

“Should’a known you was a scoundrel.” Pastor Dun attempts to lunge at Hale again but the attorney’s grip remains.

A belt of laughter from Hale then he exits with the officials. Continued laughter trails behind them like smoke. Pastor Dunn sinks into the bench. His shoulders fold inward. For the first time, he does not pray.

The village does not fall all at once. It comes apart in pieces. Doors stand open longer than usual. Inside homes, meals go unfinished. Conversations trail off mid-sentence, as though words themselves have begun to abandon the place. Families begin sorting their lives. Sunday dresses are folded carefully, then unfolded, then folded again. Pots and pans clatter into crates. Children are told - again and again - to stay close. 

Deputized civilians watch over, enforcing compliance. Some walk through the village, spreading red “X”es across the doors of businesses and homes. 

Mrs. Johnson closes her tailor shop last. She runs her hand along the doorframe before locking it, her fingers lingering where generations have passed. 

Patrick loads his belongings onto a borrowed wagon, jaw clenched, eyes fixed ahead. He and his family do not look back, leaving nothing but dust in his path. 

Ruth walks alone to the oak tree.. The bark is cool beneath her palm. She lowers to her knees and digs into a small cloth bag hanging from her shoulder. She retrieves a hand trowel and  small wooden box. Inside the box - a folded, worn paper.  It’s a deed, issued by the City of New York, in her name and her husband’s: Isaac.  She reads it slowly. She folds the paper, places it back in the box, and begins to dig.

Pastor Dunn strides past, heading  to the church. “Ruth,” he calls, “What are you doin’?”

She flinches, then turns with a polite smile. “Oh my. You startled me, Pastor Dunn,” she replies. “I’m burying the old deed to the house. Just felt right leavin’ it behind..”

Pastor Dunn’s brows fold inward. “Why here?” he asks. “Why not with Isaac?”

She scoffs softly, “These city white folk ain’t got respect for us in life. What makes you thank they’d respect us in death? It’s got a fightin’ chance here underneath this old oak tree.”

He nods, considering. “I suppose you right,” he says.. “I’ll let you be..”

He continues to the church - the heart of the village. 

The sun sinks low as hired hands approach the church with tools of destruction in hand led by a few of the deputized civilians, carrying cap pistols.
Pastor Dunn rushes to chain himself to the rail, iron biting into his wrists. “This is sacred ground,” the pastor says. His voice does not shake. A pistol is drawn.

“You want to die for it?” daring the deputy as the pastor’s son appears from behind the church. 
“Pa?” the boy mutters, confusion and fear warring on his small face.

Pastor Dunn turns to the boy. “Go on home, now, son. You should be help’n your mother.”

The boy doesn’t budge. “Why ‘dat man got a pistol on you?”

Before the air can break, Hale steps forward.

“Enough!” His voice cracks. “Please. Don’t make the boy watch.”

Pastor Dunn looks at his son. Slowly, deliberately, yet painfully as tears stream down his cheeks, he unlocks the chain. He takes the boy’s hand. They walk away into an uncertain future. Past abandoned buildings. Past shattered porches. Past a little girl sobbing as her doll slips from her grasp and lands in the dirt, forgotten - leaving dust stirring behind them.

The village that once breathed warmth and laughter collapses inward, swallowed by greed and envy. Above it all, locusts swarm the crossroads as echoes of destruction fill the air.

Years later, the land seized by the city of New York became Central Park. During excavation in the late 1990s, a worker strikes wood beneath an oak sapling. Inside the box: a faded deed. The very deed Ruth Davis buried. Nearby, is a plaque that reads:

CENTRAL PARK
Seneca Village
Although the reason for the name Seneca Village is unknown, recent historical and geophysical research has uncovered a great deal of information about this unique community and it’s inhabitants. Seneca Village, which was located from 81st to 89th Streets between Seventh and Eighth Avenues in what is now a section of Central Park, is important to the history of New York City because it may be Manhattan’s first prominent community of African American property owners.

\Would love any and all feedback.*

Chapter I

The sun was setting. Another tiring day had ended.

People had started dying far too often. It appeared they no longer wished to cling to life, as if they had lived an eternity, grown weary of it, and simply decided to die young. Or perhaps it was merely the lingering aftereffect of the Black Death.

When the Black Death came, it consumed everything, much as darkness consumes light, leaving nothing behind but a desolate emptiness. A certain nothingness.

Every day work was ash and soot. Some fancy doctor from the West had come and proclaimed that all the dead bodies should be collected into a single grave and burned, claiming the disease would cease spreading. I knew it was wrong. We were speaking of people who had lived entire lives. They deserved to leave some mark behind.

I stood against it.

But then the royal decree came from the TSAR himself.

And so I collected and threw all the bodies of the town into one pit, as though I were disposing of rotten meat. Then they were set to fire.

The fire burned with an odd smell. Everyone covered their mouths in disgust.

But not I.

For in that smoke lingered dreams, aspirations, the very essence of so many souls. I wished to hold onto them, if only for a few seconds more.

"Rudolf..."

Someone was knocking at the door of my house, calling my name.

I wished to tell them to cease their knocking and let me rest, for I had buried many that day. But in this wretched town I alone bore the heavy burden of laying warm bodies into the cold ground. So I opened the door.

There stood Mr. Slovik, lamp in one hand and baton in the other. His hat was wet, meaning he had come from the southern side of town.

This town had acted strangely ever since the plague.

The people had grown frustrated, angry, ever ready to fight. Yet it was not only the humans. Even the weather had turned unnatural. Rain fell only on the far side of town, as though the clouds themselves feared this place and refused to bless it.

"Rudolf, forgive me for disturbing you at such an hour," Mr. Slovik said. "But there is another body that requires burial."

"Another one?" I grunted. "That makes the seventh since morning."

"I know. If this continues, we may have to burn some to make room. Or perhaps bury many in a single grave."

I gruffed in reply.

"Let me fetch my coat and spade."

As soon as we entered the graveyard, the thick smell of death struck me.

After burying so many, one ought to have grown accustomed to it. Yet I never did.

For every dead soul carries a different scent, as though each smell tells the tale of their life and the state of their soul.

The wise men of this modern age do not believe me.

But I know it to be true.

My heart speaks for it.

I began digging into the earth. It seemed colder than before, as if the ground itself had grown weary of burying men. As though Mother Earth had disowned her children, having seen how vile humanity had become.

With the help of a man and Mr. Slovik, we lowered the body into the grave.

As always, I placed a bell upon a wooden pole above it, in case the dead should one day awaken and ring it, crying for salvation.

As we lowered the dead body, the cloth slipped from the face of the deceased.

It was a girl.

A mere child, no older than thirteen.

The same old tale, no doubt. Mother and father selling their daughter to the highest bidder. Used as disposable flesh by the rich, and when dead, discarded like refuse.

The smell told the tale of abandonment.

After lowering her, I climbed from the grave and began filling it.

Dreams, ambitions, a whole existence fading into forgotten cold earth, as though it had been no more than a passing whisper, reduced at last to scratches upon stone.

When the grave was filled, I turned toward the man standing beside Mr. Slovik.

He showed no remorse.

No pain.

No sadness.

Only a blank stare, as if he had done this many times before.

His face was so ordinary, so forgettable, as though I had seen countless men like him, always moving under cover of night, servants of wealthy masters, disposing of what their masters no longer wished to keep.

Mr. Slovik tossed a small pouch toward me.

My payment for silence.

As though my voice could bring about miracles.

I suppose I am no saint myself.

I have my own evils.

Perhaps this is my punishment: to carry the weight of so many secrets.

I asked Mr. Slovik for the date.

Then, with my spade, I carved upon the gravestone:

✠ ANNO DOMINI MDCLXX ✠ (In the Year of Our Lord, 1670)

And I walked away in silence, forgetting someone I had known only for the briefest of moments.

Mr. Slovik asked, "Why do you place bells even upon the graves of those cared for by none? Those better off dead, for life was crueler to them than death itself."

"It is my tradition," I replied.

The sternness of my answer silenced further questions.

Chapter II

It was another dark night.

Years had passed, yet the burden upon my soul remained unchanged.

The weight was still there.

Thousands buried, and yet each time the same feeling of loss returned.

So I drank.

And drank more.

The letter before me lay open, bearing the seal:

✠ KAPITÁN STRÁŽE PÁN SLOVIK, ANNO DOMINI MDCLXXIII ✠

Mr. Slovik had become the captain of the town's guard.

A noble, perhaps.

Or perhaps merely the royal pet who disposed of their used toys.

The letter demanded my presence at midnight for a burial.

Some nobleman had died.

I wondered how many he himself had discarded in life. How many he had used and cast aside.

But such thoughts were above my station.

After all, I drank from their purses.

When I reached the graveyard, I saw the cap of the head priest from afar.

The servants of God had come to bless this noble soul, praising his many deeds.

The same old speech.

The same old blessings.

As though prayers could save a man from Hell.

I do not believe in God.

But I believe in Hell.

And in the Devil.

For humanity itself is the truest incarnation of evil.

When the priest was done, the body was lowered into the earth within a fine coffin.

Apart from the wood surrounding them, there is no difference between dead men.

Kings, nobles, and beggars alike all lie still beneath the cold earth, forgotten in time.

After the burial, I remained.

For no reason I could name.

Perhaps I wished to be alone.

Perhaps the burden of years had grown too heavy.

Or perhaps I merely needed rest.

I sat upon a weathered stone, not knowing whether it marked a grave. If it had, time had erased its inscription.

I lost all sense of time.

And then I felt peace.

The sort of peace in which a man wishes to lose himself forever.

Then I heard it.

Someone calling my name.

At first, I thought it only imagination.

Then again:

"Rudolf..."

And again:

"Rudolf..."

The voice was clear.

As though the wind itself had learned my name.

I rose and followed it.

It grew stronger with each step.

Perhaps a child had wandered into the graveyard.

But how would a child know my name?

Confused, yet compelled, I moved onward.

Past the polished graves of the wealthy.

Past the old stones of the common folk.

And finally toward the forgotten section.

The resting place of the lost, the nameless, and those upon whom life had shown no mercy.

The voice kept calling.

It called to me as the abyss calls the damned.

At last I stood before a small grave.

A child's grave.

A bell stood above it.

I had dug this grave.

For I alone placed bells upon the forgotten dead.

But whose grave was it?

When had I dug it?

How long ago?

The voice ceased.

I knelt closer.

Then suddenly the bell began to ring.

The voice returned, frantic now.

"Please... dig me up. Please. I want to be free."

For a brief moment, terror seized me.

Had I buried someone alive?

Had I mistaken sleep for death?

I looked around and saw a spade.

I seized it.

I was about to dig.

To save whoever lay beneath.

But as I moved, my foot caught against the gravestone.

I looked down.

Carved into the stone were the words:

✠ ANNO DOMINI MDCLXX ✠

Three years.

This grave had been there for three years.

"Please dig me up. I am alive. I want to be free."

"No..."

It could not be.

It could not.

I threw the spade aside and fled like a frightened child, never daring to look back. Like a child freed of all duty, freed of all weight.

The next morning, the townsfolk found old Rudolf seated upon a stone.

Lifeless. But his face was content as someone who finally achieved for what he wished his whole life.

And because Rudolf had no family, and none who cared enough to pay for a proper burial, he was laid to rest in the forgotten section of the graveyard.

In a grave beneath a stone marked:

✠ ANNO DOMINI MDCLXX ✠

Magic is a science of life that can help people, at least that was what Ife believed until the same people she helped snatched her from her home clinic just as she was treating a pregnant lady suffering with severe morning sickness. An old couple burst through her front door, demanding to see the witch. They dragged her out and tied her up on a stick in the middle of town.

Father Bitchass is the current religious leader of this backward town. He grew insecure that people were becoming more dependent on Ife’s magic and were losing faith in his god. He told the other church leaders that it was blasphemy to seek aid outside of Christ, and he convinced the community to turn their backs on her by declaring she was only pretending to be nice to sacrifice them to her demonic overload. All this happened during his sermons because he knew Ife had no interest in them.

Trembling in fear and rage, Ife stared back at her oppressors, losing the will to beg for their sanity. Alas, the sane are scarce in a patriarchy. This must be it, I live helping white people, I die by white people. Ife thought of closing her eyes, waiting for the sweet embrace of death as Father Bitchass began lighting the straw beneath her.

Father Bitchass was right to be scared on this day, the natives of the stolen land he chose to decree law chose this day to take back what is theirs. A battalion of strong warriors enters the town square after walking around the town trying to find their enemies. Little did they know they had made the attack easier by gathering in one spot, making themselves an easy target. As the natives entered the town's square, they couldn't imagine the horror they were about to witness: a young black woman in torn, tattered clothing tied up on a pole surrounded by straw and a white demon with fire near her.

Even the Gods of their land couldn't believe this and began crying, rain fell but only on Ife. Disbelief spread among the white prey as relief flooded the native warriors, giving them even more strength to win the battle, standing at the exits to prevent any escape. It must be stated that these warriors took no pleasure in the slaughter of men, but after countless diseases brought by these whites ravaged their community, in lieu of a displacement caused by said demons. Also, while facing a famine because the greed the whites possess is insatiable, so many plentiful food sources were reduced to mere single digits. The deaths of their young, old, and lovers fueled this raid. This was a raid for their vengeance, which is why they cried on the battlefield.

A great power flooded the brown-skinned children of the land, as well as Ife, who was being showered in this magical water. The ropes that held her to the pole began to levitate around her, which got sent around the town's square like a whip slicing the whites in half, horizontally , vertically, and even diagonally. To stay safe, the warriors stood along the edge, leaving only the whites in the middle. Ife begins to float above the crowd with her rain cloud above her, and like Zeus, she continues giving her judgment. All the warriors wept .

Ife could feel the pain of those who were lost because of these people, all the death and suffering. How can she handle the pain the Gods of the land feel watching their people die? She screamed in pain as she sent lightning bolts down on the accused, the reasons for this intense pain. When she was done, nobody could be recognized as human. Ife slowly fell as though the Gods were putting her down after using her as an instrument for their rage.

The leader picked Ife up and took her back to their camp, where they catered to her injuries and nursed her back to health. The community had already begun the demolition of Whitesville, using the parts to rebuild their community in their design.

Twenty-nine years have passed since we watched that elusive comet cross the sky. I was seven years old in the spring of 1997, when Hale-Bopp danced around the Earth for a brief moment before disappearing for the next 2,520 years.

My father showed us the comet without the help of a telescope. That bright speck managed to reach us all the way to the green balcony where my parents hung wet towels on humid days.

That night, instead of reading us a bedtime story, my father tried to explain gravity. He held a tennis ball in one hand and made strange gestures in the air to show us the position of our planet inside the Solar System. When the lesson was over, he seemed pleased and I was puzzled. I stayed awake thinking about it until midnight.

We are far from everything. We are very far.

My sister Rita was born that same spring of 1997. We rushed into the hospital in our dusty white Volvo one Sunday morning when the sun was at its fullest.

In time, Rita was brought into our small household, slowly, carefully. She had a room of her own, a poorly-ventilated cave painted pink and filled with teddy bears. Her room bridged our parents’ headquarters with the bedroom my brother and I shared. The four of us took turns checking on her, rocking her to sleep at all hours of the night.

But most nights, instead of doing nocturnal rounds, I used to lie awake listening to the radio. My brother and I had received matching pocket FM radios during Christmas of 1996. Some terribly outdated distant relative had mistaken them for Game Boys, the technological marvel my brother and I had spent months begging for. Still, when the cold morning of gifts and disappointment arrived, we played our part. Thanks Auntie. How did you know?

That was around the time I started liking music. I carried the little radio everywhere, pressing it close to my ear and tuning into random stations at low volume. When the summer came, I took the habit of lying shirtless on the cold ceramic floor, trying to outrun the heat at midnight, while listening to the songs and FM static until they lulled me to sleep.

The radio stayed on during the day, too, especially when my brother and I were grounded and confined to our room. The metallic hum from the tiny speakers seemed to drown the shouting from inside the house that never seemed to stop, not even when Rita started to cry and the phones rang unanswered.

We didn’t see much of our father after that. We still don’t, but at least I remember those years. Back when Rita had a full family. She never knew she was the glue that held us together for a while. It was enough.

Even so, we still visited those outdated relatives who gave us strange presents and fed us candies and allowed us to watch TV all day.

During one of those Sunday visits, sometime in the summer of 1999, my grandfather sat in the living room reading the newspaper, oblivious to the rest of the world. There was a building on its front page. Actually, there were two buildings. They looked identical in shape and height, connected by a bridge in the middle.

They seemed impossibly big. Bigger than anything I’d ever seen before. So I asked my father who’d built them. He said he didn’t know, but he told me those were the tallest towers in the world.

“They’re in Malaysia,” he said. “Very far from here.”

And I asked:

“Farther than Hale-Bopp?”

I didn’t think much about those skyscrapers again until the end of the summer holidays. Someone at school had brought up the subject of the International Space Station in science class. It’d been orbiting around the Earth for a couple of months — said our teacher — and since its launch, the ISS had taken photographs of Japan and Russia and China and Brazil, images no one had ever been able to capture before.

I never told anyone, but in that moment a dreadful thought took hold of me. I thought something terrible was about to happen: that someone hadn’t accounted for tall buildings around the world that could damage low-orbiting satellites, that as soon as the ISS traveled near Malaysia, those pillars would reach out and scrape its belly. And we’d have no more nice pictures of Earth, and we wouldn’t be able to peer out into space, either– for the shadows of buildings would fall upon us.

Twenty-nine years have passed since we saw Hale-Bopp cross the sky. We’ve built new towers and shiny cities, burning night after night. We grew our distances; perfected light pollution. And it all got so bright and blurry that we didn’t even notice when we could not see comets anymore.

Sometimes I still stay up at night with the radio on, waiting for them to show up. But my eyes are tired now, and I’m running out of batteries.

Haven't written anything since high school but this story was stuck in my head and I wanted to get it out

A man sits alone in a concrete cell sealed by a large steel slab of a door. He is gaunt, practically bones wrapped in skin. He has been on a hunger strike for weeks, but his body is covered in bruises and cuts from the guards who force-feed him to keep him alive. They won't let him choose his own way out. The guards want him to suffer; they know that every minute of waking life is agony for him, let alone his final punishment. He has been left with nothing. No chair, no bed, no pillow, or blanket. He has even been stripped of his clothing so there can be no possible attempt at suicide. Time has lost its meaning, and he is not even sure what day it is. Has it been two weeks, or has it been two months?

The never-ending darkness and silence are suddenly broken by the commotion of a large crowd coming down the hallway, a growing chatter rising among them. The familiar yell of the guards comes shortly before the door opens. Though it is just the light of a simple bulb hanging from a wire in the hallway, it practically blinds him.

He knows what is coming next. He is hauled to his feet by the guards. They attach shackles to his ankles and wrists, connected by a heavy chain wrapped around his waist. He shakes—maybe from the chains, maybe from the cold, or maybe because of what awaits him. With one guard flanking him on each side, he is led to the door. He instinctively brings a hand up to shield his eyes, but it is stopped by the pull of the chains.

He is led down the dimly lit hallway and out a simple wooden door at its end. As the door opens, a cacophony of flashes comes from seemingly endless cameras held by yelling photographers. The guards shout for order and demand calm, but the reporters are driven to get just one word, one sentence, or a glance in their direction—anything for the defining photo. The photographers are left behind as the guards march the prisoner through clean, neat offices and hallways until reaching a simple loading dock.

The prisoner's ride waits for him. It is something familiar to almost anybody and even sparks a small, joyful memory in the prisoner himself, if only for a fraction of a second. It is an old, worn circus wagon, yet still bright and colorful in an age-defying yellow. The open sides are enclosed with thick wrought-iron bars from floor to ceiling, allowing those on all sides to see the animal pacing within. It is difficult to tell from the engravings whether this had once been the domain of a lion or a bear, but whatever had dwelled inside, nobody would want it to get out.

There is no apprehension from the guards as they lead the prisoner into the wagon and lock his chains to a single eyebolt in the middle of the floor, leaving him with barely enough slack to stand, let alone move more than a foot or two in any direction. The wagon itself is not pulled by horses, but by a small team of donkeys—an added layer of humiliation.

The wagon begins to move within a convoy of Jeeps and Studebakers, filled with men armed and ready to keep the prisoner safe from anyone who might try to take the glory for themselves. The glory belongs only to the people. Looking out, the prisoner sees only disgust and hatred etched into every face. He had once been loved by millions, but now he can only feel the hatred. He hears the roar of airplanes and the rumble of tanks getting into position for the parade.

As the wagon slowly rumbles along the cobbled street, the prisoner can catch a glimpse of the spires between buildings of his final destination. He had heard that some of his men had gotten almost close enough to see them before being pushed back. As the spires draw closer, he begins to hear a new roar—not just of machinery, but of the crowd. Tens of thousands of people are cheering.

They turn a corner, and the street gives way to an immense square. This is the fabled Kremlin. Over the roar of the crowd, the aircraft, and the vehicles, a booming voice echoes from hundreds of speakers spread throughout the parade grounds:

"We now have a very special treat for the world from Comrade Stalin and the Soviet people—a monster, more than a man. Who has caused all your suffering? Who has caused all your pain these long four years of patriotic resistance? Who has taken your loved ones from you and driven the hordes across our lands and to the gates of Moscow itself?"

The wagon rolls into the main parade ground behind the donkeys, stopping in front of thousands of men standing at firm attention alongside dozens of freshly painted tanks. Patriotic slogans adorn the armor, matching the large banners held by soldiers in the crowd. The roar of hatred is deafening—a thousand insults, a million hate-filled words, enough to drown out the sound of almost everything else.

At the large podium overseeing the parade, a man in a military uniform steps forward to a microphone and raises his hands, demanding silence from those below.

"Comrades, this is a historic day for the Russian people. We come together today to celebrate our victory over the fascist invader, driving her to her knees in unconditional surrender. We took Berlin and have liberated so many of our brothers and sisters across Europe. We have ended the murder factories of the invader, and our great patriotic war is at an end. But something seemed unfinished. Where was Hitler? All of the others had either cowardly killed themselves or knowingly surrendered, aware of the atrocities they perpetrated. But not little Adolf. Today, we finally give justice to the heroes who gave their lives for the freedom and happiness of the Russian people and the people of Europe, by giving you the man who dragged all of the world into war and murder."

The wagon sits parked in front of the podium. Adolf Hitler stands inside—naked, bruised, skeletal, but still recognizable.

"We kept his survival a secret for fear that our ever-loyal Allies might want to see this animal given the rights of a man. This is not a man. This animal we have here is going to be put down for the whole world to see. There will never be a question of whether justice was served to this creature for the horrors he brought on all mankind. The presidium has decided on a punishment to be carried out."

At that moment, a group of women is led from behind the podium to an area near the wagon. The guards step down from their seats and unlock the cage. A step is lowered. His shackles are detached from the floor of the wagon. As he is led down the steps, it is eerily quiet. The distant hum of airplane engines can still be heard, but the massive crowd is dead silent.

As Hitler is marched toward the group of women, he notices another eyebolt driven into the ground. He is quickly chained to it, and the guards make a hasty retreat.

"These comrades are the bearers of our sorrows," the voice booms. "These women are the mothers, wives, and daughters from all the groups ravaged by this dragon with an insatiable appetite. These women will put this animal down with the tools they have all chosen. Their bare hands."

The group of women begins to slowly encircle him, and looking into their faces, he sees that there will be no mercy.

When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was the trees leaning over me. They were tucking me in under a blanket of stars and whispering soft lullabies through their rustling leaves. There was a peace resting on me despite not knowing how I had come to lie in the dewy grass.

Just on the periphery of my hearing, there was a faint mewling only broken by staccato thumps and wet snorts. As I sat up to look over my stomach, I could see the source of the noise at the edge of the clearing. It was a doe lying on its side, writhing in pain, clouds of dust rising from its flailing limbs.

I saw what was interrupting its pained moans as she suddenly lifted her head, stretching her neck until I was certain she would strain the muscles. She slammed it down with earth-shaking force upon the rock just below her head. I could see the bulge in her eyes as the impact forced broken teeth from her bleating maw.

I tried to look away, but couldn’t get my eyes far enough away from the doe until I found the source of her suffering. Her belly bulged as waves of flesh stretched, leaving lightning bolts of raw pink flesh that ripped through the soft white fur. The doe’s cries were back, its stomach distending with renewed fever.

I was peering through misty eyes at the suffering of this gentle creature. As she raised her head again, she looked up as if praying to a God she could never know. Her head reached as far as her neck would allow, the striations in the muscles apparent through the skin for just a second before she swung her head down. Her skull hit the rock with a sharp crack. A trickling of blood ran like a teardrop from the eye that faced heaven.

An oppressive silence sat in the air before her stomach began to move frantically again. The stretchmark lines that had formed before were now pressed outward until blood began to run out of the fissured skin. I tried to move, but my body betrayed me. I was rooted watching as the deer's stomach finally ruptured, opening to a bloody hollow.

The noise that came from within was unmistakable. It was a desperate gulp of air followed by the tell-tale cry of new life. I cried then, or maybe I had been crying all along. I found my sobs were strangled as the instrument of the mother deer’s destruction reached out from the void. The chubby pale appendage found its way to the ground shakily, each of its five fingers splayed out and grouping for stability. As the crying got louder, the head finally crowned and pressed out of the unnatural birth canal.

The infant crawled towards me. My body shook, and I couldn’t breathe. Time stood still as it closed the gap between us. I closed my eyes as I felt the hem of my dress lift, and pressure began to take hold. Mercifully, I opened my eyes not to the voyeuristic stars but to the ceiling of my bedroom.

The dreams have gotten worse since Eric died. In our weekly sessions, Dr. Gattis assures me that vivid nightmares are common in grief and pregnancy. When she asks about them, I shade myself from her sun line gaze, only telling her about my daytime anxieties. That I am not fit to raise my boy alone. That something may happen to us. That when there's no movement inside of me, it truly feels as though my baby has left me. The hollowed absence more palpable in my heart than my belly.

She tells me this, too, is normal. Reminding me of the generations of women who have endured the divinely gifted pain of this little miracle. I thank her for her time and care, holding my breath when she asks if I'm really okay. Only exhaling when the silence is filled with one-sided plans to talk again next week.

I do not leave our home anymore. The mountains have gathered around us like family providing all we could need in a sunrise baby shower. Sprinkling gifts of herbs and blessing the hens with health. They whisper encouragement on the wind with the dust from which all life was made, and the dust to which we will return.

Mom calls me every day. The maternal need to relate to me as she remembers the past privilege of motherhood. One she took for granted. A fact she ignores, along with the ashes of our rickety connection. Still, the olive branch must be offered even if no rainbow comes after.

She shares her horrors with me. Nightmares of her inadequacy, of death stealing my breath, she slept, of gravity's truth proving stronger than her sleep-deprived arms. I give her solace by admitting that I have the same fears all the time, and that I've been having bad dreams lately.

I just don't admit that in those dreams, the black maw of the well gazes up at me as I hold my child like a prayer. Its skin matches the pallor of the moon. The purple umbilical scarf shining wet in the night. The levy of my arms breaking, leaving the last feeling of the motherly connection, is the tug as my placenta is ripped from me. The only sound the child ever made being the distant crash as the darkness devours its meal.

Mom asks about Eric's family the way the wind whistles, unable to carry the tune of compassion. The toxicity of my reply seeps through the phone line. Those relationships long rotted away in sunless corners of a ghost's memories.

She asks me if I'm really okay, and I manage to lie without gritting my teeth. My mind taking pity on my heart as it focused on my current reason for existing rather than the one that had just left me. When she offers to visit the air bolsters my opposing poise. Our call ends, the goodbyes exchanged miles away, my attention stolen by a fox snooping around the hen house.

I talk to Eric all the time. The breeze carries my words like birdsong through the open nursery window so that the smell won't be overpowering as I paint murals of thickets, trees, and thrushes. My arms tired as joy finds me inviting memories in like old friends.

My bed calls to me over the screaming of tired feet. I tell Eric just how badly they swell. Sharing also how my belly itches as zig-zag lines of pink raw flesh are pulled to give space to our child. Smiling, I leave the window open, letting the soft air blow tears off my face as I tell him that he will never need my forgiveness.

I find pleasure in how well I've prepared this room. The stars smile down on me with timeless wisdom, assuring me that this room has everything my baby will ever need. I pucker my lips and leave a wet kiss, a promised sigil of protection, on what the baby will need most. The warm feelings of love are much stronger than the cold my lips leech from Eric’s forehead.

People don’t usually think much about the small things we carry with us. A watch, a photo, something you just get used to having around. But sometimes those things end up meaning more than you expect.

This is a story about a boy and a red bandana.

He got it when he was young. Nothing really special about it but somewhere along the way, a red bandana became his constant. It simply went where he went. It was there through the self-doubt of his teenage years, there when he took exams he wasn't sure he could pass, there when he walked across a stage to accept a diploma that no one knew he was nervous to receive. To an outside eye, it was just fabric. To him, it was something harder to name, it was a talisman of sorts, a good luck charm that helped him where so many else had failed.

He made it through school, into college, through college, and eventually landed a competitive job at the World Trade Center. By that point, the bandana had been with him through so many stages of life that it didn’t just feel like an object anymore. It was just part of him.

Like something that was protecting and fighting alongside him. Something that had his back no matter what. 

It’s hard to make sense of how something like 9/11 even happens. So many wrong things had to happen at exactly the wrong time. If even one thing was different, the outcome could’ve changed.

I don’t know if that’s fate, destiny, or just plain bad luck. But when something like that does happen, you get a glimpse of all the different angles of humanity and who people really are.

On the morning of September 11, after the first tower was hit, people gathered on the 78th floor of the South Tower. This floor was a sky lobby where workers would stop between elevator transfers. There was a lot of confusion at this moment. Some people started evacuating, others stayed put, waiting for instructions. Around 200 people ended up there, not really sure what to do next.

Then the second plane hit.

The plane made its final adjustment on approach, and the angle of impact sent a wing carving through the 78th floor at the moment it was most populated. The explosion was instant. The chaos that followed was absolutely disturbing and graphic. The only difference between instant death and initial survival was the incremental movements such as bending over to tie your shoe. Of the 200 people on that floor, only a handful would survive.

They survived because of him.

In moments of disaster, some people look for a way out, and others don’t even think about leaving, they step forward. It’s not really a decision in the moment. It’s something already decided deep inside, in the architecture of who they are, built quietly over the years. He was that kind of person. He just hadn't been tested at this scale yet.

Somewhere in all of that, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the red bandana. For a second, it grounded him. All the years he’d carried it, all the moments where it had been there.

He looked at it and said, “Alright, buddy…there are a lot of people that need us right now. We’re in a tough spot and its not looking good. I need you on this one”

Then he tied it on and went into the darkness. The thick smoke and everything that came with it couldn’t overpower the familiar smell in the bandana. It still carried a sense of home. In a way, his family was right there with him. 

What happened next mostly comes from the people who made it out.

They talk about someone who found them when they couldn’t see. Someone who helped them up, guided them, pointed them toward the stairs. A voice cutting through the panic. Hands pulling them forward when they didn’t think they could move.

They didn’t know his name.

They just remembered the red bandana.

He kept going back in. Through the smoke, through the heat, through all of it. Not because he had to, but because he chose to.

Dozens of people made it out because of that.

He didn’t.

Later, his mother would visit survivors with a photograph. A picture of her boy, young and bright-eyed, the red bandana worn proudly. Was this him? she asked. Was this the one?

They recognized the bandana before they could explain anything else. Same bandana. Same person.

It must have meant everything to his mother to hear that, to know the boy she raised was the same person people remembered in that moment.

When everything was at its worst, what showed up was not fear, it was who he had always been, who his mother had always known. 

I think that’s the part people miss sometimes. Yes, it’s about courage. Yes, it’s about heroism. But it’s also about something much more simple. It's the things we carry, and how they carry us back. How a simple piece of fabric can become a source of strength, and a reminder of who we are when it matters most.

That bandana made it into history with him. Fitting, for something that had been there from the beginning.

This is a story I created based on the true story of Welles Crowther and his heroic acts on 9/11. Wherever he rests now, I imagine he rests well. The kind of peace that is only given to those who spent everything they had for someone else.

I woke up as soon as the sun started to peek in. In the bed, the space next to me was cold; it hadn’t been slept in last night. The house was unusually quiet, as I was the only one awake. It was too early to start breakfast, so I went to work on my husband’s chores. My feet started blindly moving towards the door. They were heavy, as if someone filled them with mud.

 As I walked through the gray abyss of the world, I remembered. I remembered packing his bag with him, I remembered the tears, and I remembered the final embrace. He was gone. Why did he have to fight? They had plenty of other men! Why did they have to take my husband away from me? And all for what, a war?  

I began the work that my husband usually does; chopping wood and tending to the animals. After that, he would say goodbye to the children and then he left for work. He was a potter. He was really good at his trade, because he had such delicate hands. He used to make pots with those hands, he used to hold my children with those hands...and now he’ll be holding a musket. I sat there, in the pale gray, chilly, sleeping, world...and cried. My tears began to wash the old tear stains away, and create new ones. After a while, I began to calm down, somewhat. Well, I thought, I’m not getting anything done out here. 

Inside, I stared at the sky, which was ever so slowly stretching itself out for the day. As it stretched, it turned from pale gray to purplish-gray, purple, then blue. Pity, I was beginning to like the pale gray color. 

It’s no use. It didn’t matter what color the sky was, or how much work I did, he’s not coming back anytime soon. There was a horrible, hollow feeling filling up my heart. I was actually starting to miss the sadness. I’d rather be sad then hollow. I’d rather be anything, just as long as I’m not hollow. 

There was a small squeak from the hallway. My daughter sat there, watching me. I could tell that she was as broken as I was, if not more. 

“Mama, where’s Papa?”

“He’s um...not here right now.”

“He’s gone to war, hasn’t he?” 

“Sarah! Whatever gave you that idea?” She took a deep breath.

“I listen. I listen to you and papa. I listen to the neighbors. I listen to the men shouting in the streets. I listen to the important people that everyone else listens too. I listen to the important people’s slaves complaining. I listen to redcoats and their swears. I listen to the newspapers’ big, bold headlines. I listen to the world. All you have to do is look around, the sky, the plants, the animals, the people, they all scream war. It’s not that hard to figure out, you know...Mama?”

Hot tears began their slow journey down my cheeks. 

“Yes, Sarah. Papa has gone to war.”

At that moment, we both ran to each other and embraced. Hot tears and arms were flung everywhere, while the sky looked sadly on. “Yes, Sarah. Papa has gone to war.” played over and over in my head. Yes, Sarah. Papa has gone to war.

We sat there crying, wishing there was something we could do, but knowing there was nothing we could do. Wishing doesn't have the power to change. We sat there, for what seems like hours, even though it was probably actually minutes. After that, there were sniffles and sighs, and silence. 

The silence was unending and nerve racking. My shoulders started to shake and droplets of cold sweat began forming on my forehead. I wanted so desperately to speak, but I knew that there was nothing to be said. The silence spoke loud enough. 

When my husband was here, there was always something to say. It was never forced either, it was free-flowing and natural. Conversation was never hard in our family. The second silence struck, its horrible sound was drowned out by our laughter.

 Silence wasn’t always horrible, though. In our family, there was a peaceful, reassuring silence. The silence that lets you know that everything is going to be alright. That silence sounded like stars whispering to each other in the middle of the night, while the world slept on. That silence was the most peaceful sound in the world. However, it didn't exist anymore. 

Now, silence screamed out, its horrible sound choking us, causing us to drown in our own thoughts. That was the silence that I felt in that moment. My daughter felt it, too.  I’m positive that my husband felt it. No matter how bad the silence is here, it’s probably ten times louder on the battlefield, where the sound of guns firing and thousands of individual lives forming together into a single, screaming voice aren't even the loudest sounds. No, the loudest sound is the one that comes after the war. After are the battles are fought and done with, after all the dust settles, is the loudest sound, the sound of silence. The sound of hundreds of bodies lying dead and defeated, the sound of the thousands of lives that were maimed and broken by the empty bodies with their souls missing. That was the loudest sound. 

And that was the sound of silence that reigned in our house that day. It’s what I heard, it’s what my daughter heard, and it’s what my son heard, too. He woke up that morning to silence.

“What’s going on?” His voice was a scratchy whisper, not much unlike the whisper of death, hiding by my husband’s base, ready to get to work a moment’s notice. Sarah was the first to react.

“Papa has gone to war!”

The words didn’t sink in at first. He just stood there, looking confused. Then, that single sentence pierced his heart, causing it bleed out. Bits of emotion flew everywhere and crashed into the earth. He began grabbing at his head, trying to force himself to forget. When he realized that wouldn’t work, he turned to me.

“It’s not true.” There was nothing else to do. I looked him square in the eye and silently nodded.

“No it’s not! He didn’t go!” 

“Thomas”, I said, “I know that this is hard for you. But you just have to accept it.”

“No!” he screamed, while he began to kick. He started to beat the furniture, doing anything and everything he could to keep from accepting the painful truth.

“He didn’t leave! He’s at work. He just left early, that’s all. Yeah, that’s all.” His voice began to quiver. 

“That’s all.”, he whispered, then slung his face into his hands. He collapsed onto the floor, as I quickly sat down next to him, rubbing his back. 

“I know, Thomas, I know.” He looked sharply into my face and said, “Did you try to keep him here, Mama?”

“Yes, of course I tried.”

“Then why did he go?”

“He wanted to protect us.”

“From what?”

“From Britain, from the redcoats. The redcoats have been controlling us. They’ve been telling us what to do, what not to do, and how do do it.” With that, he promptly got up, put his shoes on, hugged and kissed Sarah, and then me. 

“Where are you going?”

“To fight with Papa. If it means protecting you, and being with Papa, I’m going to do it.” 

“No, you can’t!” Sarah ran in front of him and guarded the door. 

“And why not?”, he yelled. 

¨Because Papa would've wanted you here, to help us. What are we going to do without you? We've already lost Papa. Don't make us lose you, too.¨

He sank down into a nearby chair, realizing that there was nothing he could do. He looked up towards the sky. ¨Why me?! Why Papa? What did I do? Because whatever I did, I’m sorry! It’s not fair! You shouldn't make Papa pay for whatever I did, take me instead! You've already tortured me enough! I’ll do anything if you just bring Papa back! Please!¨ he screamed to anyone who might be listening. After that, he began to sob. 

To tell you the truth, I had been asking those same questions and saying those same things during my evening prayers. At that moment, I would've done anything to have my husband back. I continually bargained with whatever force that was causing this. I offered to give up anything, including my life, just so my husband would come back. I knew that my children were most likely doing the same thing. 

I would very much rather have my life ended than my husband’s. Without him, I felt that my life was basically meaningless. Now I know that that is far from true, but at the time, I believed it to be true. I sank into a kind of depression, and one that will never be forgotten. My life was empty, my words were hollow. My daughter saw this and said, “Mama, you have us.”

The words hit me as I realized all the emotion and truth behind them. My son stopped crying and we all embraced. Even though my husband was gone, I still had my children, and I still had to take care of them. That alone proved that my life was far from meaningless. And my husband was fighting to protect us. The least I could do was support him, instead of moping. I took a deep breath. My son glanced up and asked, ¨So, what do we do now?”

I thought long and hard about my answer. In the end, I knew that there was really only thing that we could do. “We live, we pray, and we hope.”

Li Xuan drifted through the courtyard of Daming Palace. Snow from the day before had been swept from the walkways. The palace walls were emblazoned with dragons, lilies, and dotted Vermillion Birds. Most men gave no mind to the wall. Li looked. Then he walked away. 

He was the twenty-second son of the Tianbao Emperor, Li Longji. His mother, consort Wu Xianyi, had died when he was thirteen. The Wu name still carried a chill in the palace. He rarely saw his father. They would eat together, but his father was too preoccupied with adjudicating petitions and governing the realm.

A man passed by the walls. The man did not so much as glance at the walls. To the officials of Chang’an, the walls were walls. Li thought he saw something more.

A figure approached from the west gate, following the palace wall. The man scanned from left to right searching. He circled the garden on his right, unaware of the wall. He noticed Li, hesitated, then approached. He introduced himself as Guo Zijin, son of Guo Chengzhang. Li recognized the name. Guo Chengzhang had been a scholar of ritual texts in the Hanlin Academy before his death last autumn from gout. Li vaguely remembered a minor funeral procession for a minor academician. He did not remember seeing this young man there, but he must have been.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Guo Zijin said

No one looked for Li. He waited. 

“I have my father’s notes, ” Guo continued. “On the Rites of Zhou.” He was preparing a new companion commentary commissioned by the Ministry of Rites. Then…” He paused. 

“He died,” Li finished

“Yes.” Guo responded solemnly. “The ministry told me to finish it. They told me it would honour his memory. I can’t even start. Every time I pick up my ink stick, I hear his voice telling me I will get it wrong.”

Li did not know why he was telling him this. He said nothing. 

“You read,” Guo said. “I’ve seen you reading in the library. You read everything, history, poetry, and treatises of war. I’ve never seen you write. So I wondered—” He stopped. “What are you doing now?”

“Looking at the wall,” Li responded.

Guo glanced at the mural and asked, “Why?”

Guo glanced back at the wall, “Why?”

Li gave pause. No one had asked him that. “Because it's beautiful,” he said quietly. “You could look too.”

Guo turned to the wall, and stepped back. He examined it without speaking. “It is a wall,” he said at last.

“Yes,” said the prince.

“The dragon in the mural,” Guo said. “What does it mean?”

Li opened his mouth, and then promptly closed it. The dragon coiled around a bouquet of flowers, its scales picked out of gold and cinnabar. “That is a good question,” he said, and turned back to the wall. “I don’t know.”

Guo watched him longer than he was comfortable. “Have you read the new manuscripts on Silla? The diplomatic protocols” Guo questioned.

“Yes,” Li murmured. He had read them twice, but could not remer a single line. 

“Good,” Guo said. He bowed and left.

Li remained at the wall a little while longer, then allowed himself to return to his chambers. On the way he saw eunuchs scrubbing the walkways slowly, but thoroughly. Monks sat before a shrine in virtue like stillness. The court officials dragged their feet homeward, bent beneath the empire they served. Downcast eyes. No one looking at the walls.

In his room his steps felt heavier than the last. He lay down. His head left an impression on the pillow. The impression was larger than the night before. He thought of all the sons of heaven, the formidable emperors of antiquity. Li tried to imagine himself as Gaozu, founder of the Tang. Then he remembered he could not. On his desk lay the silla scrolls. He still couldn’t remember.

The next morning Li woke slowly. Washing his face woke him fully. He then went to his tutor, Chang. On his walk, he saw that the emperor's court was already in session, the monks tending to their cloister and the eunuchs repairing shingles that had fallen off to the night's snow. Chang’s eyes looked tired. Older than usual. Li did not ask why. 

Chang spoke of filial piety, of how the mandate of heaven had always been lost due to its absence. Li could have mentioned how his own father executed 3 of his sons on trumped up charges. Chang had alreadyhis lecture prepared. Li agreed readily. It would be easier to agree.

“Why did Qin Er Shi’s empire fall?” Chang said.

Li replied with the best answer he had: nothing.

Chang continued, “Because Qin Er Shi refused to listen to hear the truth. He believed everything was under control.” The tutor broke for a moment. “So nobody told him when they were not. Or perhaps they did, and he refused to listen.” Chang drew in a breath “Silence itself is more costly than bad words.”

Li felt his chest compress.

After class Guo stood near the entrance. Guo stood with the same expression as before, but now mixed with something new. “What do you think…” Guo stopped. “Never mind.”

“Think of what?” Li replied “What did the dragon mean?”

“Yes,” Guo said, stepping closer. 

Li turned his head halfway, “I thought it meant beauty.”

“Why?”

Li shrugged. “Because it's beautiful. That’s all.”

“Wait,” Guo said, sharper now.

Li stopped but did not face him.

“Did you understand what tutor Chang meant? About silence costing more than bad words?”

Li stood still for a long moment. He thought of his fathers distracted gaze at dinner. He thought of the princes that were killed, either strangled or forced to swallow poison, their crime was being loved by someone their father feared. He never asked. Asking would mean hearing the answer. He thought of Guo’s father, dead with an unfinished job. This man standing before him now, burdened by work he could neither finish nor abandon.

He thought of himself. Never writing, only reading. Looking at the walls before him so he didn’t have to ask questions he didn't want to answer. 

“I don’t know.” Li said. “What does that old ghost know about silence? Talking is his job.”

Guo showed a face of disappointment, or maybe sympathy. “They took everything but his job. Chang’s son was exiled to Lingnan three years ago for submitting a complaint to the emperor that criticized the emperor's placement of An Lushan in Hedong Circuit. Chang could ill afford to defend him. He is not teaching you.” Guo’s voice dropped. “He is confessing.”

Li had not known. He had never asked. Why had Guo cared enough about Chang, or himself?

He hurried away before thought of a question to ask.

That night Li returned to the outer walls again. He had heard nothing new. He had done nothing new. But his footsteps sounded louder than the night before. Li reflected. He thought of Guo’s father, dead mid essay. Guo Chengzhang left his son an angry voice every time he tried. He thought of Chang, teaching the consequences silence with an exiled son he stayed silent. He thought of his brothers who he never knew, whose names were forbidden from the palace, so thoroughly erased he only knew their names from a funeral he barely remembered. 

He thought of the dragon on the wall, claws gripping stone, frozen and silent. Like his father. Like the court. Like him.

Coming home Li quickened his pace. He shut the door hard, changed, and lay down. A tear ran down his cheek. He did not know why, until he asked. The answer came as soon as the question finished. Those men lost something to silence, Guo his father’s voice, Chang his son’s freedom, and his nameless brothers lives. Guo came asking for help, and Li had said, That is a good question. And let the question die.

Outside, a courier ran past shouting something about the northern garrisons. Then the name An Lushan.

“Why?” He whispered. “Why am I crying?”

And the answer came: because you let it happen, and you still let it happen.

The clack-clack-clack of hurried footsteps woke Li. Eunuchs and swordsmen ran back and forth carrying tiny scrolls. He went to his lecture room. All the candles were out. Chang was not there. He thought of two choices: return to his room, or stare at the wall. Li chose solitude. He told himself it was what he always wanted.

The next day couriers and eunuchs still scurried. He went to his lecture room and Chang was still away. This time Li chose the wall. He glanced at the wall; he did not look properly. The paintings of dragons and lilies blended into shapeless colourful mass. He was afraid to look. Looking would mean seeing something. Seeing would be naming. Naming meant he could no longer wait for meaning.

From Li’s left, Guo Zijin sprinted, shouting, “Why are you still here? The walls are falling.” 

He seized Li by the shoulders, shaking him. “Young prince, we must leave at once! The emperor, your father has fled to Chengdu. An Lushan is at the gates!”

Your father fled. The words landed dully. His father had not sent for him. He did not wait and make sure he was safe. Perhaps he assumed he was already dead. Perhaps he had forgotten.

Li continued to stare at the wall. Dust and flakes drifted down. His pupils shrank. He raised his hand and pressed it against the stone. He let his arm go slack. Even still Li did not flinch. Not even fear could move him forward. He waited for tears. None came. What he was left with was harder and stiller. He pressed his fist into his stomach and held it there. 

Guo flinched back at every sound of the ram striking the wall. He grabbed Li’s arm. “Come back with me. I came back for you. Please.”

Li did not move. Guo looked at the prince, at the wall, at the dust, and the wall that would not hold. “You’re doing it again,” he said. “You’re waiting to be told what it means again.”

He sprinted down the hall, but stopped at the end of the corridor, remembering the boy who looked but never asked, the boy who read everything but wrote nothing. Then Guo turned his back and ran.

Li stood motionless. Then he sat on the cold stone. Then he lay down. His eyes began to tear and his nose ran. He did not cry from fear. Guo had searched for him, had come back, and Li did not even so much as answer a question. The tears blurred the mural that he was still staring at. 

In the blur of tears, he saw the difference. He had never wanted to look. To look at the dragon would have been to see his father, the emperor who had fled without his sons. To look at the field was to look at the court, to see why An Lushan had rebelled. To look at the Vermillion Bird would be to see the south, where the silent exiled men and the sick died. Looking would mean having an opinion. An opinion would require action. Risk.

His hand dropped to the stone beside him. A fragment of the mural lay there. The tip of a dragon’s tail and a lily decorated it. He reached out and picked it up. The edge cut his finger. He observed the bead of blood welled up, expanded and dropped on the snow.

Li lay on the cold stone. The ram struck again. He thought: Guo came back. He did not come back for the prince, rather he came back for Li. He pressed the shard to his chest and felt the edge on his ribs. Knowledge moves no muscles. He had read it, or maybe heard Chang say it. It didn’t matter who said it. 

He put his palm flat on the stone. He pushed.

His legs shook when he stood. He did not know why. His legs carried him. He reached the west gate, where Guo had fled. His feet were slow. He was twenty years sedentary. A lifetime of pacing back and forth. The ram struck the main gate again. Not loud, but rather dull. He knew he would not make it.  

Above the Daming Palace, the sky was grey and still. Snow began again.

Li walked. He did not know what lay past the west gate. He did not know if knowledge moved fast enough. His legs moved, and he was the one moving them. That was his answer.

It sloshes within my helmet, within my ears. Blood, only some mine. Every tremor from the limped trot of my horse sends little droplets from the peak of the wave crashing down to water level. The plops remind me of the shots of cannons, and every trot sounds a new barrage. I shake atop the trembling animal.

Quiet, why is it so quiet? The sun is at it’s highest, yet never has it not been blocked. Today, it is clouds, but when I was still a younger man who could walk, and when my horse held its pallid head high, it were the recruiters. They held their banner of suns up high, and in the shade, many were in awe. Not I, all I desired were to be blinded by true radiance.

I wish I had courage, prancing along with Rocinante and Sancho. What a good book Don Quixote was, I hope to find the second one somewhere within our destination.

I cannot walk, and my horse is plagued by my weight. Remnants of barbed wire are coiled around his nose and leg. He cannot yelp for that too would make him yelp.

My gaze is at the ground. My neck is weak, all I see is wire and dirt, wire and dirt. It hurts to sit in this one position for so long, and I shift my face forward. I am greeted by a nearing wall of barbed wire.

There is no way around. My horse gives no sound, merely stopping before it. His head is held low; he knows what must come. Only light cries come, and his limp worsens.

It is treacherous. By the end, I do not recognize my poor boy. I had chosen a beautiful, pallid white horse, but now he is chestnut in dirt and red with our blood. I can only lightly stroke him with my left-over energy. I am famished, but this poor boy has suffered day and night for me. This broken leg is condemnation so far from the intelligent life of my people, but he has saved me. My energy is well given, let him feel satisfaction even if he only carries my corpse.

Minutes ago, I joked of my corpse, but I feel dead already. I can only think of those at home and the corpses we could not carry.

I pat the horse’s ear. I feel this will be my last action before I fall to the ground, never to stand. His ears rustle, with little patches of his pure, pale hair opening to the light wind. I have no more apples for this wilting boy.

I cannot hold no longer, and I fall. My horse stops, looking at me once. If I had the energy to gaze at him from the center of my eyes, only then could I tell if he was sobbing too or happy to walk his natural weight for the final time. Goodbye, my great steed. We have ridden our delusion, receded our hopes and heights, and now rot together. Thank you.

Talking of my family, it was small. Just me, my wife Eva, and my son Marcus. We lived in a cozy apartment on the fifth floor of Tripson Heights in Los Angeles. We had good neighbours, especially the couple living next to us—Travis and Laura. They were newlyweds, starting a new life. I could see our first days after marriage whenever I watched them.

Eva… she had blonde hair that would shine in the sunlight. I would still get butterflies, even after we had been married for ten years. Her blue eyes made me speechless—literally—because Eva believed she was the queen of that apartment.

Marcus… he was completely like his mum. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and her attitude—even though he was just seven. Marcus would always stay with her, make her heart stop almost every week, and then do something so innocent that she would end up crying.

I would pray in church that no matter what happened, that woman and her son must stay happy. They were just… my whole world, in like, two bodies.

Someone once told me that without money, happiness can’t exist. I wish I could show that guy the life I built without crazy billions.

Travis was a Marine for the United States, so he had to go to Afghanistan. Poor Laura was left alone in her apartment. I often wondered why Travis would leave his newlywed wife alone when it was their time to understand each other.

So the only people Laura trusted and knew in all of California were the Carters—us. Eva became her big sister, and I was pulled into being her brother. Haha… I was kind of lazy. Marcus was already her squire since the day they moved in.

I was a civil engineer—making building plans, guiding workers, blah blah blah. Every day was busy and exhausting in a city like LA. But the moment I walked into my apartment and got a pillow thrown at my face by a seven-year-old boy, all my stress would vanish. Marcus was a kid, alright… but Eva—she would run to me and jump on me, wrapping her legs around me. Woah… her perfume… so perfect and gentle.

There were nights when I would wonder if I was even enough—capable of this beautiful life God had given me. Sometimes I would call myself stupid, useless—for not keeping Eva like a queen in a big house with diamond pendants, for not giving Marcus toys like other kids had. After all, I was just a civil engineer with a salary that disappeared into debts, loans, and mortgages.

Sometimes, Eva would realise what was going on in my mind. So she would always do one thing—drag me close and rest my head against her heart. I would hear her heartbeat, and God knows how… every doubt would just vanish, like it was never there.

I heard many times that in the history of this world, whenever life became beautiful… it was taken.

But in my case, God showed mercy. He didn’t take my wife. He didn’t take my son either. I would thank Him every day for His mercy.

Instead, He is taking me away—from them, from my whole world....

I am lying in mud, somewhere in Europe. My gun lies far from me—the same gun that was my only companion every day since I stepped into this land. I can feel metal inside my body… bullets in my chest. My vision is blurring… slowly, just enough to make me suffer.

They said it was for the nation, for humanity. They said it was an honour to serve in the army. But they never told me that I would have to kill another man… maybe just like me. Maybe a man with someone waiting back home.

But it doesn’t matter anymore. Because now, we are dying. And the men who sent us… they might be sitting on a couch, patting their child’s back, watching their wife cook dinner.

Humanity was saved… by ending us.

As we inched closer and closer to Shuri Castle, I felt watched. It was too quiet. Right as that thought popped into my head, the ground opened and the jungle seemed to scream with enemy soldiers shouting "Banzai!". I picked up my M1 firing at whatever moved. I saw a man drop. He didn't look much older than I was. He was 25 at most. We lost 10 men in that ambush, but we killed every last Japanese soldier.

My unit kept walking toward the castle, and we saw it. The castle was in ruins, but their tired but honorable guards were ready for a fight. A 30. cal team set up to the right, just out of view. When my CO gave the order, bullets rained down. We advanced through the castle. There was a burst of adrenaline as I cleared out a mortar pit, which kept me fighting until I heard a bayonet sink into my side.

Everything went black.

"Corporal! Get up! You're not dying like the poor bastards that got ambushed!"

I woke up to my sergeant dragging me from the fighting to a nearby medic where he disinfected and dressed my wound.

"Sir, I can get back in the fight," I insisted.

"Corporal, that's suicide in your condition! You're staying here, and that's an order!" my sergeant barked.

Without hesitation, I replied with "Sergeant, I can still fight, so with all due respect, I will take this castle!"

The sergeant didn't reply. I guess it was okay. I picked up a Thompson and joined back into the fight. The first main entrance was a mess of mangled Japanese and American troops. There were some survivors who I mercy killed. I felt something I hadn't this war. Guilt. These men were doing a desperate last stand for their country. The second gate was even worse. These soldiers appeared to have surrendered, their guns were 10 feet from where they died.

As I got through the Shureimon gate, I saw a mess. Japanese troops were slaughtering my fellow Americans with MGs. I picked up a dead man's rifle. An SMG couldn't take down an MG crew, so I knew a rifle would work. Without hesitation, I fired on the first squad. The bullets traveled cleanly through the first man's head, and the second man was hit through the heart. My comrades made quick work of the rest of the crew, and the cycle repeated until they were all dead. That didn't end the battle though, not until our radio operator called an airstrike anyway.

When the dust settled, there were surrendering Japanese troops. As I searched them, one did a desperate lunge with a knife, but I easily dodged it and then shot him dead. The battle was over. The shooting stopped. I stood there, rifle hanging at my side, waiting for it to start again. But it didn’t. I collapsed as I clutched my side. Blood. That soldier might have cut me after all, or maybe he tore open my wound. However much blood I lost, it wasn't good. As the world faded for the second time in a day, I didn't fight it.

I woke up in a hospital somewhere far from any sort of fighting. It looked unscathed. There was an IV in my arm and blood going into my veins. I felt weak. Hollow even. I reflected on that last day I was fighting. War isn't glorious. When I enlisted, I thought it would be one grand adventure. I noticed a note in my left palm. It was short and simple, talking about how the war was won and when I recover, I'm on the next ship home. That felt good in a way. We won the war, but at what cost? We lost so many good men, and we left Japan's economy in shambles, ruining thousands of lives. But I would have to get reaccustomed to civilian life. That would be difficult, but I think I can do this.

I always have.

Hi everyone, I lived in Asia countries for decades, I would like to share short stories I heard there, and hope you enjoy it and know more about cultures there.

Before Reading:

There was once a county magistrate named Qiao. He was an upright official who lived a simple life and possessed a witty, humorous demeanor. One day, Magistrate Qiao summoned his advisor (Shîye) to his study, produced a warehouse registry, and said, "The warehouse was burglarized last night. Go and see what is missing".

After inspecting the warehouse for a while, the advisor returned and reported, "Everything else is there, but two silver ingots and three gold bars are missing".

Magistrate Qiao looked at him and asked, "Is that truly the case?" The advisor replied, "Yes".

Magistrate Qiao then ordered his guards, "Bring in the guest".

A moment later, a young man entered. Pointing at the youth, Magistrate Qiao told the advisor, "As of now, you are fired. He will take your place".

The advisor was shocked. Looking at the ragged, barefoot young man, he asked in confusion, "Who is he?".

"He is the thief who stole from the warehouse," Qiao replied.

"What?" The advisor felt as if he were lost in a fog. "Sir... why would you fire me and appoint a thief as your advisor?".

Stroking his beard, Magistrate Qiao said slowly, "Strange, isn't it? Let me tell you a story".

Magistrate Qiao recounted that at dusk the previous day, he had met this young man on his way home. During their conversation, the youth—blushing with shame—confessed he was a poor scholar who hadn't eaten for two days and intended to steal something from a wealthy house just to fill his stomach. Surprised by such honesty from a "thief," Qiao decided to test him. He pretended to be a homeless man and suggested they rob a place and split the spoils.

As darkness fell, Qiao led him to the back yard of the yamen, distracted the guards, and told him to steal from the warehouse. The youth climbed over the wall and returned much later with two silver ingots, giving one to Qiao as promised. When Qiao asked if that was all that was in the warehouse, the youth explained that while there were many large chests and cabinets, he only opened one small box containing two silver ingots and three gold bars. He insisted that he only stole out of hunger and necessity, not greed for a fortune, so he took only the two silver ingots. After they parted, Qiao immediately checked the warehouse and found the young man’s account to be perfectly accurate.

Hearing this, the advisor broke into a cold sweat. He was a cunning and greedy man. When the Magistrate told him the warehouse had been robbed, he was overjoyed, thinking he could "fish in troubled waters" and blame any further losses on the thief. Upon entering, he saw that the large chests were still sealed, but in the small box the thief had opened, the silver was gone while the three gold bars remained. He had pocketed the gold bars, never imagining that Magistrate Qiao had set up a "test" (examination hall) for him right there.

Magistrate Qiao looked at the nervous youth and then at the advisor, smiling coldly. "Advisor, having heard this story, whom should I employ? This honest 'thief' or a greedy man like you who embezzles public funds?".

Speechless, the advisor submissively took the three gold bars from his pocket, placed them on the desk, and left in disgrace. Once he was gone, Qiao turned to the young man with a smile and said, "Although you acted out of desperation, theft is still a wrong path. Do not let it happen again".

The young man lowered his head, his face reddening with shame once more.

Mayburn, England. 1723.

Crowds arrived in droves to the town square, ready to witness the mass hanging of captured pirates. In preparation for the hanging, the town’s very own celebrity, Harry the Hangman prepared each noose with his signature auto-tightening knot. People from all over Britain came to see the craftsman at work.

The town of Mayburn was located on a cliffside. Harry, who originated in London, made the choice to move, not because of the views but for his profession. In moving to Mayburn, Harry achieved two things; one - it gave him an easy way to dispose of the bodies and two - if a person did somehow survive his noose, the rocks would certainly finished them off. He was known to have a 100% hanging rate. Over a thousand people were unfortunate enough to meet their doom by his hands.

Harry inspected the beams and posts of the gallows, ensuring that it would not break. He repeatedly tested the trap door swung down smoothly. His assistant, Marcus, who is the body man, reviewed all the hinges of the trap door for rust or any sign that would prevent the door from swinging open. Everything looked good and he gave Harry a thumbs up. The trap door was reset. Harry signalled a soldier to bring on the first batch of condemned souls. Filthy pirates, shackled by the hands and feet, are dragged through the crowd while obscene curses and insults are thrown at them by the townspeople. They are marched up the steps to meet their end. Every man, woman or child stepped onto their designated marker, rotated towards the violent audience and wait for their reaper to sign check them off their list. Harry wrapped nooses around each of the pirate’s necks, making sure they were snug around their fragile necks. After all were secured, he leaned on the frame post next to the lever and with a quick tug, the pirates were no more. An outburst of cheers roared from the audience. Harry looked fed up. He usually stirred up the crowd before each drop, tormenting them like waving a bone in front of pack of hungry dogs. Harry didn’t do any of his jokes. He just put the noose on the pirates and dropped them then going to take a drink of beer. Noose, drop, cheers then next. The cycle repeated for over an hour. Every time the trap door made its distinctive sound, the crowd would cheer. Marcus pushed his wheelbarrow under the dangling feet. While Marcus brought down the bodies, Sergeant Wilsbury stepped onto the platform.

“They’re a rowdy lot aren’t they?,” Wilsbury asked

“You should see them when a wee one comes up here,” replied Harry.

“What number are you on now?”

Harry wiped the sweat from his brow. “Dunno, maybe fifty. Not too many more to go”

The next lot of prisoners dragged their heels up onto the platform. Harry, once again, fastened each noose around the necks. Wilsbury decided to help wrap the noose around a female pirate’s neck.

Wilsbury smiled. “There you go madam. You are all set to go. ”

The woman spat on his crimson red uniform. Wilsbury took out his handkerchief and wiped the spit off him. “Thanks for dropping by Madam”. At that same moment, the woman vanished. Wilsbury walked back around to Harry who is slouched over the lever. “I do commend you good sir on your excellent work” Wilsbury applauded. Harry did not respond.

“Done” Marcus yelled as he wheeled the cart of bodies away to cliff.

“What is wrong with you Harry? You seem to be like a withered sap today. Were you down at the King’s Goose again last night?” Wilsburys chuckled.

“I found out someone slept with me wife,” Harry exclaimed.

“I’ve been with that women, fifteen years, ya hear.” Harry moans. ”An some bastard put his paws on her. She said he seduced her with jewellery.”

“I’m sorry to hear that Harry. If you find him, you have my blessing to do what you do best”

Harry waved his index finger over the crowd. “I bet it was one of these bastards,”

He stopped at a man with crooked glasses. “It could be the speccy one. She always thought specs made you smart.”

Harry waved his index finger again across the crowd, this time singling a drunk wearing semi-nice clothes.

“Could be him!” said Harry.

“Keep moving you lot.” A soldier yelled behind him, as he pushed through the crowd.

Mud and food were thrown at the pirates as they made their way to the gallows. Marcus returned back with his cart.

“These are the last few, Sergeant” said the soldier to Wilsbury.

After the criminals reached the top of the steps, they waited to be put in their positions. “Get on wit it!” cried a spectator. Wilsbury nudged Harry.

“What’s the point? They did nothing wrong.” Harry said.

“They’re pirates. They are enemies of the kingdom. They steal, murder, rape…”

Harry injected “and none of them touched my wife”

“Get out of your sulk and do what you are paid to do” A frustrated Wilsbury commanded.

Harry grabbed his bottle of beer instead. More turnips and cabbage are lobbed at the stationary pirates. Wilsbury yelled for the pirates to stand on their marks. With Harry deciding to drink over work, Wilsbury decided to hang the pirates himself.

“Bet one of them survives” An audience member heckled. The townspeople laughed. This infuriated Wilsbury more.

“My wife said he was handsome. Smelt good he did. It was the best sex in years,” Harry said after he swigged from the bottle.

“Be quiet, Mr Simmons. I will deal with your subordination after” Mr Wilsbury cried after he tightened a noose.

“What type of man takes another man’s woman?” burped Harry. ”I’ll tell you who. Only a man with a winged snake on his wrist can”

At that exact moment, Wilsbury’s sleeve pulled back revealing tattoo of a black serpent with wings. Wilsbury and Harry’s eyes locked onto the tattoo then each other.

“Oh my! I should be returning back to the barracks. Harry, if you would kindly finish the rest. Thanks. Carry on” Wilsbury said as he walked off in the opposite direction.

Harry stood up with fire in his eyes.

“Marcus finish the rest of them will ya?” asked Harry. “I’ll be back in shortly”

Marcus finished making the ropes nice and snug around all the necks. He made his way over to the lever.

“Hold up” yelled Harry. “This one was left out”.

In front of him, a man bound and stripped down to his vest and shorts and a bag over his head. He was shoved towards the steps. Murmurs could be heard coming from inside the bag.

“Oi you lot. This one is so ugly, I couldn’t even look at it in the eyes” Harry got the crowd curious. Laughter came from the crowd as the bagged person fell climbing up the steps. Harry yanked him up to a position where there was no rope. Marcus chucked Harry an extra rope. Harry swung the rope over the top beam and tied the noose.

“Truth be told, you’re just a pirate in a red uniform, Wilsbury. Night night”. Harry whispered into Wilsbury’s ears.

With a new lease of life, Harry riled up the town’s folk. “Down with the Pirates shall we?”

The crowd cheered. Wilsbury urinated his shorts. Laughter from the crowd hid the muffled sounds Wilsbury made. Harry flirted and teased the crowd with the lever. And with a quick tug, the pirates and Wilsbury dropped. Flailed around like caught fish. The crowd rejoiced until there was no more leg kicks, then it was a matter of dispersing. Marcus cut the ropes with each body dropped one on top of another. Wilsbury’s body was last on the cart pile. Harry smiled as he watched the cart disappear in the distance.

Marcus wheeled the bodies towards the cliff. As Marcus got to the edge, Wilsbury’s body regained consciousness. Marcus stopped the wagon when he heard coughing from the top of the pile of cadavers, right before he poured them over the cliff’s edge. He saw a flailing body and removed the bag from its head. To Marcus’ surprise, it was the Sergeant. Marcus could not understand how someone managed to survive the great Harry the Hangman’s noose. It was impossible for anyone to survive it. This would ruin Harry’s 100% hanging record. The Sergeant, gagged, screamed to be released. Harry’s assistant reached out to remove the gag before he noticed the rope knot around his neck. It was not Harry’s auto-tightening knot. At that moment, Marcus understood. The knot wasn’t intended to strangle him, it was meant for him to pass out. Wilsbury floundered to get off the piles of bodies but Marcus tipped the dead over the edge. A single wail faded until only splats echoed from below. Marcus turned around and went back to the town square.

“Yes! Ya’ll stink at this. Give me money, little man.” Silas Nash drunkenly said. Silas had won his final game of poker at the saloon for the night. Everyone in the town knew Silas. He was, of course, the town drunk. He spends his days drinking at the saloon and playing poker. He is very good at poker. Silas was cheering his victory over the table to the annoyed stares of everyone in the bar. They could not kick him out, however. His father owns the saloon and half the stores in town. Luckily for the patrons of this fine establishment, this would be the last time Silas would drink.

“You bar-fly. I’d quit your gloatin’ if I was you, partner.” A man said in a stern voice. He was sitting across from Silas in an all-black outfit, and a black hat tipped down, draping a shadow across half of his face. He raised a glass of whiskey to his mouth and took a hard gulp of the drink. Silas’s face was flushed from the alcohol, but it had become even redder after this comment. Silas stood frozen for an eternity at the poker table before he finally spoke up.

“And who are you to be talkin’ to me like that? I’ll ‘ave you know my daddy owns this bar,” Silas finally said. He tried, in vain, to hide the tremor in his voice. It was almost as if the man in black had seen the fear in him. He sat at the table staring at Silas, pondering his next move. The man quickly stood. Silas was not short, about 5’10, but the man loomed over him. He was lit only by a lamp on a table beside him from the side. There was a smoky smell coming off the man, almost like a campfire. The creases of the man’s fingers were darkened with dirt, and black ink was sprawled across his knuckles and hands. The man quickly motioned to his waistband and drew his revolver. The barrel of the gun pointed directly at Silas’s forehead from across the table. The saloon had fallen silent, and all the men turned to watch the event taking place in the back of the bar.

Silas threw his hands in the air in defeat. He wanted to speak, but no words could escape his lips. The man cocked the hammer of his revolver. Silas put his hands down and started to retreat. A loud crack went off in the bar. The bullet fired had nearly hit Silas but had lodged itself in the far wall. Silas sprinted for the double doors and scrambled away. His boots hit the grass, causing a soft thud with each stride. Silas was sure the man was following close behind; he never bothered to turn around and look. He quickly took a turn into an alley and entered his house above the store in which he worked. When he entered the house, he armed himself with a hunting knife and sat in a chair, viewing a window overlooking the street. He tried to stay conscious all night; however, the alcohol he had ingested hours before caused him to doze off and be knocked out slowly over an hour.

The next morning, Silas woke up with a throbbing pain in his temples and behind his eyes. He shuffled to his window and retched yellow chunks of bile over the edge. Silas had half vomited due to his hungover state and half out of fear. He had a faint recollection of the previous night’s affairs; however, he still remembered the man in black. That morning, he went to work, thinking he had escaped the man. He worked for 4 hours, periodically looking over his shoulder. He saw glimpses of the man in black from the corner of his eye, yet he was never there. His heart felt like a galloping horse; the thuds were quick and rhythmic. The door to the store flung open, and the man in black stood there, showcased in the contrast of the dark interior and the sunshine of the outside. A black and white bandana was covering all but his eyes, and the black hat was still present.

“Tell him I ain’t here,” Silas frantically told his store manager. Silas clumsily threw himself behind a shelf, trying to take cover. But it was too late. The man in black had spotted him.

“Get out here now you snob.” The man announced to Silas. Silas gathered himself to his feet and pitifully placed one foot in front of the other to greet the man. After completing his walk of shame, he stood a foot away from the man and gazed up into his dark brown, lifeless eyes. The eyes of a man who’d surely taken a life.

“You and me are dueling at sundown tonight. Get your gun and your horse and meet me in the town square. Don’t be late.” The man said certainly. The usually red Silas was drained of color, and his skin turned this sort of shade you see in eggshells.

Silas began to object, but the man had already thrown the door open and mounted his all-black horse. Silas leaned against the wall of his store and slumped onto the unswept floor. He put his hands on his head and thought to himself about what he should do next.

He left work early and mounted his white horse he named Margaret. He rode for half an hour before reaching his father's plantation. A golden haze lit his ride as the sun began to set. Orange and light purples shone through the leaves of trees on his way. The house stood in the middle of a field like a giant white tomb. The walls were covered in white plaster and white paint. The paint and plaster were withering away, showing the dark undertones below the cracks in the walls. Massive pillars stood before the door. The grand pillars were riddled with marks and scratches of an unknown origin. A long dirt road led to the door, which took almost 10 minutes to ride on from the fence line to the house. Trees lined the road, and slaves tended to them, cutting branches and clearing leaves from the dirt path.

Once he had finally reached the door, he knocked and was let in by a black woman in a white dress, which was turning brown toward the bottom, named Delilah. He thanked her and marched up the grand staircase to his father's quarters. The stairs creaked with a loud squeaking sound with every step. Silas slowly turned the knob of the door and pushed it open so as not to make any sound. A large leather seat sat at the end of the room, turned away from him. A table with a bottle of whiskey, a glass filled about an ⅛, and a stone in the middle, and an ashtray sat on a table in front. Mr. Nash sat in the chair puffing on a cigar while watching his tobacco fields from a window. The fields were worked by almost 100 sweat-glazed African slaves. The field was dry, and the workers had been slaving for hours. The room was completely silent, except for the muffled sounds of slaves washing dishes downstairs. Mr. Nash acknowledged Silas with a small guttural sound and ashed his cigar. He took the cigar to his mouth yet again, then spoke in a low, high-class voice

“My one and only son, Silas. What does he need from daddy, more money?” His father said before Silas had even spoken a word. He had not even given Silas the decency of facing in his direction.

“You know, son, I used to be respected in this state. I was invited to one of the governors' parties before. But you, my son, have destroyed everything I’ve built with your silly drunken antics. You are a complete disgrace to the Nash name. But what could my son possibly need to squeeze out of dear old dad before he kicks it?” Silas’s father spoke down upon him. He stood from his chair and finally looked at Silas. His hands rested on his chair. He had a cigar in his right hand, and a great plume of smoke billowed from his mouth. He had nearly no hair on his head and stood at a menacing 6’1. He was thin, and a mustache was present on his upper lip. His hair, down to his eyebrows, was pure white.

“I need you to come to the sheriff's office with me to report a stalker fella…sir.” Silas reluctantly said. His voice cracked when speaking and shook the same, if not more, than when he was speaking with the man in black. He explained the story in as much detail as he could with his father.

His father turned yet again so as not to face his son.

“We are Nash’s. We do not run. If you don’t want to be a complete disappointment to me, you will find this man and duel to the death. If you win, you gain honor. And if you die, you die with pride.” Mr. Nash replied after a moment of thought. No more words were spoken after this. Silas just thought. Silas began to understand his father's words and boarded his horse for a ride into the town square. Before leaving, he thanked Delilah for her hospitality.

At half past six, the sky began to turn to a deep orange color. Red tones and purple hues were also seen in the sky. They whisked together like a Van Gogh and displayed a beautiful battle between colors in which orange had prevailed. 30 yards away from where Silas stood was the man. The man in black had an orange glow around his hat, down through the outline of his entire tall body, and his boots. He stood with an armed cocked at near 90 degrees, hovering over his revolver. The same revolver that he had brandished at Silas last night. A chill bolted down Silas’s vertebrae, although it was 70 degrees outside. A bead of sweat had pooled on his nose and fallen onto the Earth, leaving a dark stain in the dirt. Bystanders whom Silas had known for years were beaming their gaze at him. He could feel their hatred for him. He knew they wanted him to die right here. Silas took his shaky hand to his waist and took an athletic stance. Both duelists had their hands inches away from life and death. They stared at each other, the bandana still covering the man's face. Silas could see the instinct in the man's eye. They were stone cold without even the hint of a twitch. The eyes of the man were set on Silas like a vulture circling its prey. Silas was sure the man could see the terror in his own eyes. There was a murmur amongst the crowd. A small whisper that sounded like a thousand buzzing bees. It was almost tranquil. In an instant, the sheriff shouted, “FIRE!” Silas drew his weapon from his holster in a quick motion. The gun felt heavy, not heavier than his father's expectations. The crowd fell silent as they heard the two distinct gunshots sound. Silas had his gun pointed at the man and a hand shielding his face in a defensive position. As he released his guard, he could see the man lying motionless in a large dark spot on the dirt. Silas was victorious. Silas had thrown his arms up in victory, dropping his weapon, revealing large dark blobs in his underarms.

Silas’s name was being chanted as he rode all the way to his father's mansion. He rode through the dirt path and ignored all the obstructions in his way. When he knocked on the door, Delilah answered and spoke

“Did you win?” She asked. Silas shoved her into the ground and sprinted upstairs to his father. He and his father stood eye to eye for a moment as Mr. Nash knew what had happened. Mr. Nash grabbed Silas and held him in a great embrace for the first time since Silas was young. They savored the hug for a long while before finally having a cigar together.

Silas was now moved into the house with his father. He had a wife and a son, and they lived there until they died. Silas died a rich and respected man. He was even invited to a ball the governor had thrown. When his father died, he inherited the plantation and the vast wealth and respect that came along with it. There was an enormous funeral for his father. Everyone there wore black. Delilah died a few months after Mr. Nash from an infection caused by an untreated cut on her foot. Her husband buried her, and there was no gravestone. The slaves wore their tattered white garments to her funeral. Silas didn’t notice until days later when he saw his clothes had not been folded. Silas replaced her in an afternoon with a woman he didn't bother to learn the name of. The house had finally become silent. Silas sat in that old dark leather chair, which once frightened him, smoking a cigar, clothes folded neatly by his bedside, and watching his workers work. The smoke of the cigar slowly flowed out of his mouth and suffocated the room around him, much like the toxic haze around the tobacco fields. Silas raised a glass of whiskey to his face and peered into the reflection displayed on the artistic piece in his hand. He saw nothing but his father's predatory eyes staring back into him. Silas had finally earned the respect of a Nash. Silas had finally become a “man”.

My second short story ever at 15 written for class. My first was too buns to post here. Let me know what you guys think! My second post because the first one got taken down.

I stared at the nightmarish wall before me. There was nothing else I could do- My body refused to step any closer.

Just standing near the thing filled me with dread, filled me with an overwhelming urge to run, to scream, to hide.

I felt repulsed, standing in its presence. The barrier was an ugly construct that oozed malice- made from my nightmares, built with my fears solidified into brick form. It took every last drop of willpower not to throw up in its presence.

My head felt like it was about to burst from trying to contain the urge to panic, to run away from the source of my dread. All I wanted to do was to avoid the wall- To walk away from the source of my troubles, or to find some way around it. Anything, to avoid having to confront it directly.

Alas, I couldn’t.

I spent a long time trying to find any other option, any alternative to directly confronting the manifestation of my fears. But no- I couldn’t. There was no way around it.

The only way forward, was through it.

I closed my eyes to cut out the rest of the world. I stood there with my eyes shut, taking deep breaths for several minutes.

I opened my eyes again. I swallowed down a cry for help.

I took a singular reluctant step forward. It was the slowest step I had ever taken in my entire life up to that point.

I held myself there, in that exact position, one foot in front of the other, for several minutes. I refused to move forward.

But, hesitantly, I did.

The second step was even slower than the first, and twice as difficult. I felt pain throughout my entire body, starting from my foot and traveling up my spine. Still, I kept trying to move forward.

It seemed like, with every inch of progress, my body was becoming heavier. And every inch of progress gained, hurt more than the last.

But I kept moving forward.

It was an extremely slow process, to make one arduous step forward after another.

Trying to advance towards the Wall of Fear proved to be a herculean task, and it felt as though the weight of the sky was on my shoulders as I tried to move forward, because nothing is heavier than fear.

Slowly though, I moved forward.

Slowly, very slowly, I approached the wall. Very soon, I was going to breach the barrier.

It was there, mere inches from the surface of the wall, that the thought of running away returned to me- To continue avoiding it; To give up on trying to ever conquer my fear.

I closed my eyes, and I took a very, very deep breath. I took the next step forward.

I felt myself getting enveloped by a thick, vile ooze. Immediately, a feeling of discomfort flooded my body. The urge to run away hadn’t left, and only got stronger, as I submerged into the Wall.

I took the next step forward.

My whole body was immersed in the sludge. It was pressing down on all sides, trying to push me out, trying to drown me.

I took the next step forward.

My throat was closing up. An uncontrollable trembling took over me, as my whole body was suddenly wracked with pain. I wanted to get out. I wanted to cry.

I took the next step forward.

I felt my mind screaming in terror. I felt a scream trying to escape through my mouth. Visions of terror made real occupied my thoughts, flashing, as my nightmares were projected onto the back onto the back of my eyelids. I had to swallow down a scream.

I took another step forward.

I felt tears leaking out of my eyes as my body began to seize up, every limb crying out in pain while a white-hot conflagration of terror blazed in my mind. The ooze threatened to drag me down, trapping me withing the Wall of Fear, beyond any hope of salvation.

I took one last, laborious step forward.

I felt cool, fresh air on my leg.

With one last, desperate effort, I wrenched myself free from the wall.

Hands on my knees, I spent several minutes trying to catch my breath, eyes wide open for the first time since I stepped into the wall.

Finally able to breathe normally, I looked up, and took in the surroundings.

I have done it.

I am free.

Before I knew it, all I saw was eigengrau. The color you see when you close your eyes. Though I knew my eyes weren’t shut, because when I did I remembered home. Mother,Father, my brothers, and everything. It’s gone.

I feel the skin of others pulling on mine. Ripping and burning. Any movement was a pain to bear. It was so tightly packed I felt 8 ribs break individually to just fit in. As I heard the broken bones of others and the hollers. The wooden floors cut my bare feet, and it was little to no air due to the fact we were on the bottom. Then I was blessed by miracle.

I was able to snap my wrist to break loose of the bindings. Then use my other hand and teeth to bite off the ones on my ankles. I can barely move my torso , but I can get out of this place. I use my senses to find way. The more I moved forward I saw a tiny beam of light from a hole in the wooden plaques. I felt a light in my souls as I was able to move forward. As I progress I feel the breathing of the others. I figured; if they’re awake it too much movement for me to go past as I’m injured. So I had to wait until they stoped breathing. It was hundreds of souls that I had to feel the last breath on my sweaty and bloody neck. About in the middle of my journey , where the light grew and the adrenaline from my Injuries allowed my goal to direct me from pain, the beam from the peep hole shone on a boys face. A boy. Younger than the boy I am. And I’m 14. His face, well it was gone. Only his eyes were left. He was folded and stacked on top of everyone else. He must have had it hard, when those men took us through that tunnel, or we would be killed by God knows what weapon was used against us. A weapon of the future. A weapon that is too easy to use, and too easy to take one’s life. Please , I pray this boy will thrive in a new life.

Though, I made it to the peep hole. The wood was wet and could be destroyed. I tore it down. The screams and tears I heard behind me rushed my head with fear, and joy. I’m going home. But what will happen to them? What just happened to me?I tore down the plaques of wood.

I saw a light beaming. And a ladder. Over the most beautiful field. The breeze. My skin was healed. My hair is healed. I’m healed. I’m out. This is freedom. When I get to the top. I see many others who already made it out before me. I see that boy, I guess he followed me. And I see my father, mother, and brothers.

An open field lay near silent. That silence only interrupted by the near quiet crackling of a burning teepee. A road broke through the lush fields of green and multicolored fauna. A man made dirt castle compared to the natural landscape.

A pair of boots jingled across the empty strip. The smell of a burning cigarette cutting through the scent of distant pine trees and natural mint. And even through the trace of death. A man in a cowboy hat takes a drag from his burning tobacco, letting the smoke roll out like a floating avalanche from his nostrils.

The sun laid low, barely peeking over the foothills that surrounded the only flat land for miles. It only got lower. The man walked a good 300 yards off the road and just into the wood line, stacking twigs in a square pattern on a forest floor scraped of leaves by his own boot.

A thump, a crack, and silence. An axe tearing through sawed wood from earlier that morning. Stored in a tent that was hastily set up just days ago. The man lit a match, setting it under his kindling and blowing on the embers that were birthed from the man made heat. The fire roared to life, spreading like a virus across the twigs. He stacked logs on top, sitting down next to the fire with a metal tin in hand.

As coals formed, he set his tin on top of them. His name was George. He was a middle aged man. Not a day over 33. But to him, still ripe with freedom and flexibility. Yet infected with knowledge no man would ever dream to know. He was 5’8. Short for someone in his profession, sure. But height didn’t matter behind the barrel of a smith and Wesson Schofield. Nor behind a 12 gauge. They tended to make up for his height for him.

He wore a singed cowboy hat. One with character. One that looked like it was put to use. His clothes were dirty, but looked taken care off. A buckskin vest that covered a cream colored long sleeve button up. A pair of darkened jeans, and rattlesnake cowboy boots.

His belt was a cows leather, accompanied by bullet loops and a holster that held his trusted Smith and Wesson. A beard and mustache covered his face and lip, his hair a good medium-short but groomed as well as one could within the wild. His facial hair matched his dark head, his skin rough and beat. Blue eyes piercing through the smoky aroma of the fire.

He opened a journal, taking notes of his past adventures. Another family chased away, another tribe losing the last pockets of influence across the American west. Confirmations for his worthy reward. Food on the table, and a smile on his children’s face.

The fire crackled, but only before being interrupted by a new crack. The sound of a broken twig. A silhouette standing just at the end of his camp. A savage child. The kid looked to be no older than 15. A young boy with the same fire in his father’s eyes. A fire that had been snuffed by George not even an hour ago.

The boy looked distraught. A lingering look of anger still remained. But, all he could do was sit. He stared through the fire, and into the icy blue eyes of a man without cause. Three clicks, the sight of a cartridge through a barrel. The consequences of peace.

(Quick Note: I'm an Eighth Grader who loves writing, point out writing mistakes.)

I stood on the wall, looking abroad to the outskirts of our city. This was the New Rome. Our Empire felt divided for so long under the Palaiologos Dynasty. Though, the Emperor now is truly our warrior, maybe even our savior against the pagan armies out there. The Men and Women and even Children of the city sing carols to the Lord for protection of the city against the Turks outside, and the Emperor is forever worried about what would happen if he let the city fall. I fear we are all going to perish. Our city seems to be abandoned, just like Jerusalem, the Holy City. I looked upon the shoreline, expecting to see the bustling of ships and merchants like before the Legend of the Fourth Crusade. Instead, I saw flags of the Moon and Star on a red banner. It pained me to see, for the city used to be delighted in trade and merchandise. It seems we are not going to leave the city alive this time. The Church Bells rang, and every man, woman, and child flocked to the Churches and Hagia Sophia, ready to sing possibly the last carols we may ever be allowed to hear. They chanted the songs of Greece and Rome, wanting to find some sort of salvation in these troubling times. The Churches ran loud with the beautiful singing and crying of the universal choir, and the entire population continued to pray for any form of sign to be able to continue. Justinian didn’t die for his empire to die in such a melancholy way. The singing grew louder, and the warriors stood high, including me, on top of the walls and took positions on the Holy monuments of Christ. The city continued to bustle, even under the lockdown, but it was never the same. The city has always been pretty damp since I was born, but never this level of damp. It feels offputting and almost… deadly quiet. Our Rome was still quite happy though, we knew God would protect us in the end. But that very night, as I went off-guard seeing no more Turks, they suddenly came out of fields, trees, and bushes, and began a deadly assault on the city. I blew the horn of war, expecting to see Belisarius’s Grand Armies come to save us, or the Lord himself to come down for us. Instead, I saw terror in my armies, pure unadulterated terror. They were brave, strong, but knew if they were captured, they would perish under torture. We took positions on top of the walls, firing arrows as they charged the city-gates and tried to blow our walls with artillery. We fought bravely against the paganists, and ultimately barely managed to defend the city. As they retreated, I thought to myself that we had barely enough time to regroup. After this assault, our forces were nearly halved, and I knew we only had a few battles left before the end of Rome. I slept awfully that night, knowing my life was most likely ending if I couldn’t strike back against the Turks. I moved to do anything for reinforcements, maybe from Sparta or even forces that had previously deserted, I didn’t care. Yet, it felt wrong still, to take in people who know the fight is long over, with no hope for any reconquest. Even the Pope had abandoned us, If only I could figure out the problems with the Church and the Catholics. I woke up the next morning tired, high-alert, and afraid. Yet, I gathered my armies to defend the gates at all costs, don’t let the Turks in, not even one. My armies, fearful, yet determined, listened and immediately took action to defend the city, reconstructing defenses everywhere for the coming onslaught of the Turks. Though it might not matter, we must fight for glory and prestige now more than for the defense of the city. Suddenly, the Emperor himself, stripped of his prestigious and holy clothing, and dressed in a simple warrior’s attire, stepped forward to us. Each step felt deafening from such an Emperor, he was the Emperor of Rome, of course, though Rome had shrunken, he was still the Emperor of the Romans. He said to us,

“Present your swords and shields, descendants of Greeks.”

I lifted my sword in an Officer’s manner, prepared, and ready to fight alongside the Emperor. I looked into his eyes, standing a few feet in front of my armies, and called them to silence in the name of the Emperor. But, suddenly, the Turks began to raid and belligerently began to destroy our fortifications. I screamed a cry to defend the city, and blew my horn once more to show the final stand of our great city. The Turks nearly broke the city walls countless times, barging the gates over and over until the wood was weak. I helped my soldiers build a new gate in front of it, and began the tiring task of fixing the fortifications. However, it was too late, the Turks broke a significant hole through the front city gate, and moved in brutally. I personally killed their evil and pagan officers, helping alongside the Emperor force the first Turkish raid to retreat from the gates. Once they did, the Battle was not over, the hole was weakly patched, and the Turks began to berate every gate and wall they saw, and broke into the city near the sea. I retreated my armies back into our second positions, letting the front city fall into the Turkish hands, but it was collapsing quickly. I retreated and retreated until we reached the back gate of the city near the straits, and from the other side I saw the flag of Islam hovering over what used to be a Roman port. I ordered my men onto the walls behind us, and turned around the cannons to extinguish the Turkish threat. They had taken so much, yet taken so many casualties, and knew that if I died, I would die in honor knowing I defended Rome with everything I had. The Turks moved closer to the walls, but soon stopped to regroup. I ordered a desperate charge, but they destroyed it, barely regrouping in time. Though it caused a crack in their offensive, it simply wouldn’t be enough to contain them. The Church Bells rang as the civilians had a final Saturday Mass instead of on Sunday, for we knew Sunday would be far past our final day. We only had hours left, and as we were managing to hold them off, they came in from the gates behind us, charging in and completely sealing our fate. Our warriors and archers fell one by one, archers formed in one spot to rain hell onto the Turks for a final time as they passed, and warriors led themselves into suicidal charges, screaming war cries that scared even the Sultan himself. The Emperor, who had fought bravely and still had not perished, continued to lead armies through the city into great charges. Yet, he and his remaining warriors and archers never died, and would continue these deadly raids onto Turkish fortifications in the city. But, it was known to all that the city had fallen, and men began to flock from their homes with sickles, knives, axes, and anything else they could find to fight against them. Cannons fired until we ran out of ammunition, and used broken pieces of our walls to forge new missiles to fire into Turkish positions. The Choir of the Hagia Sophia sang louder, being the last fortified area except for the Grand Palaces and the back wall. I tried to check their armies through this to reach these most Holy areas, and barely managed to smash through their defenses into the Palace. The walls of the Palace let us fight a little longer, but the walls were weak and not made for the onslaught of missile fire onto them. They collapsed, and we ran into the palace, the Turks followed, expecting to see a desperate Emperor on his knees begging for mercy, instead they saw a Warrior Emperor, fighting like an ape against them, and he still had not died. He screamed to us,

“The city has fallen yet I have not died!”

He led himself and his remaining loyal followers into a final suicidal charge against the Turks, dying with them, faithful to his promise. I took his surviving followers, leading them out of the Palace, and into the Cathedral, hearing the Church service still continuing to sing and sing. Yet, no salvation seemed to come. I led them into a final charge too, gathering the courage, yet I didn’t perish either, holding onto what I valued secondly, that being life. I moved to the roof of the Cathedral where the Turks were charging in and stopping the Church from singing their song that found me to tears. I crawled on top of the roof, to the edge, and saw a final warrior come up to finish me off. I stared into his eyes,

“Have you no mercy? You plunder, pillage, ruin what we find to be beloved and laugh?”

He laughed to himself, knowing I was one of the last standing officers, even if he couldn’t understand me, he knew what I was trying to say. He spoke to me in a final and unknown language I had never heard, and threw me off the Cathedral roof with a push.

I found myself falling endlessly, slowly, and still heard the final cannons of desperate Roman warriors. I looked up to the Turkish man, he was laughing, and I felt myself beginning to fade from my own body. It felt pagan, but it felt heavenly. I heard the choirs of the Church again, this time echoed throughout the sky, and this time it was of angels and not of people. I saw the angels, yet continued to descend to the ground. As I got closer, my body felt more and more away from my soul, and when I finally reached the stretch of the floor, I heard the final, deafening note of the choir ending the Holy song.

And I was blinded,

Was I dead?

I slowly opened my eyes, and saw the finality, the end, and heard my ears continue to ring.

But it was over,

All over,

And the Carols of this final Rome,

Finally ended.

“I didn’t want all this. I don’t want any of this. It’s not that I asked to be born like this—this, this… royalty.”

The king thought to himself.
A very young king.

He was merely seventeen.

His parents had just died. Not sure how—only that they had. Woke up dead in their bed, the officials said. He didn’t think much of it. Maybe they were too old. Both died at the same time, they said.

The council had already begun making decisions for him.
Corrupted ones, at best. Rarely did they think of the people.

Taxation fees.
Government robberies.

What can you do? What can I do? he asked himself. I am still a child.

His closest advisers spoke to him—and belittled him.

You will know when you get older.
You will know when you are fit to be truly King.
Right now, you’re just a symbol for the people.
So stay a puppet. Keep your mouth shut. Let us hold your hand—we adults will handle the problems.

Unfortunately, those problems were already making noise at the castle gate.

Unfortunately, those same problems had been brewing—roughly—for years.

And unfortunately… his head was the solution.

The clatter of wooden spoons and empty bowls.
Sharpened hay forks, sharpen pickaxe, sharpen broken shovels.
The ghastly vocal cords of bitter, hungry people—craving meals, thirsting for water.

The provisions.
The provisions had been stored inside the castle.

The council, planning months ahead, announced that all food and water would be heavily collected to save the kingdom—their kingdom of three thousand common folk—so it could survive the coming winter.

Truthfully—honest truth—it had nothing to do with winter.

Another enemy kingdom lay far, far away. Roughly one hundred miles. A two-day trip, if done right. If their enemy kingdom read the message, they would know it would be two days. A good quick two days to settle the chaos that occured over winter. Yes, yes, what a lovely plan, what a lovely plan.

The God-honest truth was this:
the council was preparing to swindle the kingdom.

They would collect every resource.
Sneak away.
Leave the people to be ruled by another.
Let them become slaves.

And the elites would walk away with stolen treasure, remade as merchants of knowledge and wealth in foreign lands.

The greatest getaway, merchants disguised as wise councilors. Who could tell the difference?

What idiots, they thought of the people.
What fools—to trust strangers in fancy robes, silly symbols, and false trusts.

And the greatest plan of all?

Let the young king take the fall.

Blame the king.
A child king.

What better face for ruin than a boy who still thought like one?

Blame the king.
Blame the king.

The rebellion had begun. The seeds of injustice had taken root, and the bloody spell of vengeance had been cast. The councilors did their part. They spoke with a few folks, merely saying they were just doing their part. Yes—they were tools. They were just following the cruel orders of this horrible, terrifying king. His outbursts. His yells. The powerful strength the young king supposedly possessed. All they were—simply innocent bystanders to an unjust king. Yes, the unjust king.

The greatest plan of them all.
The last king.

No children. No wife. No allies. His death would be an echo in an empty chamber of human history. No one would ever remember his family or legacy. No one to seek revenge. No blood to remember their relatives. No friends left behind.

They made sure he would stay locked up in his parents’ room, not too familiar with anyone but themselves—his closest advisers, his closest so-called friends. Yes, yes, let him think of his world as small as his eyes and senses could be allowed. After, in the middle of the night, we escape, leaving all the lesser officials—the maids, the cooks, the cleaners, the guards, and all—to take the fall.

The perfect ploy.
The perfect plan.
Not one word shall escape.

The sound of dead, beaten hearts had begun. The march of progress had stirred. The feet and sandals of women, children, and men vibrated the dust and dirt of human civilization. They marched to the castle’s gates, to the throne, to the throne—TO THE THRONE!

The young king heard.

Have they come to free me?
Yes, they finally come—my people.
They must have known that their king was imprisoned.
Bless my family’s legacy. Bless them.

At the gates, the councils saw.

It is time.

Their carriages of escaped were filled with salty hams, salty cow meat, salty dead dogs; sweet jars of fruits and vegetables; heavy bags of coins; soft scrolls marked with locations of goods ; invoices of trade; secrets of kingdoms; passages and layouts of the castles—the stone walls of secret passages. All to be shared, all to be sold for a price.

All knowledge.
All objects.
All words.
All values of a castle’s remnants—fully to be exploited and sold to enemies or conquerors seeking wealth and power to quench their greedy souls for conquest and invasion. Better yet, thieves. Yes, the thieves will lovely this.

Winner kills and takes all. Loser stays behind—the loser, the young loser of esteemed royalty—takes the blame.

The last king.
The young king.
Merely seventeen.

He awaited liberty and freedom in his parents’ room. The march and yells echoed closer and closer, until his heart heard:

“Off with his head.”

The young man sat silent.

" “I didn’t want all this. I don’t want any of this. It’s not that I asked to be born like this—this, this… royalty. I just wanted my parents".

History is simply memory. The past is no more than what we have collectively permitted to be so, and that which is considered objective, irrevocable truth is, in reality, the whims of an interested minority.

The number of people who even care about the number of moles on Caesar’s back or Beethoven’s favourite flavour of cake are, I’m sure you have noticed, vanishingly minute. Those miserable few, having somehow found only boredom in the more exhilarating amenities of life (like drink, or sport, or sex), gather in pesky little groups, ogle at a bunch of shrunken, brittle letters, speculate, and then nod affably and stupidly at one another as they decide which feebly-supported theory to write down. And just like that, it is history.

But Napoleon wasn’t responsible for Waterloo, and Adolf never wrote that insufferable book. And William Shakespeare never existed.

*

Stratford-upon-Avon simply means that the town of Stratford sits upon the River Avon. That medieval township is where this most macabre tale begins. You may have heard that it was the birthplace of the greatest English language writer in history. I would wager that you swallowed up that lie whole. No shame in it. You had no reason to doubt it. It was unquestionable because wrote he jumbled this like.

But though dear William (with his thines and thous) was himself entirely an orchestration, his composers actually did grow up beside that famed river. Judith and Susanna were their names, and none were their titles. Their blood flowed not with nobility, but two things which are in concert always more treacherous than royalty: ambition and ability.

Judith, the elder by only a minute (to her immense satisfaction), owned and exploited an eye that saw the beauty and poetry in this most rotten earth. All the more conspicuous manifestations of God’s hand - waterfalls, sunsets, waterfalls at sunset - she appropriately acknowledged. But the vision of Judith, also called Judith by her friends (she was awfully proper), went past those things. The young girl effortlessly saw the resplendence in the commonplace, and, dare I say, the ugly; to see the delicate kiss of Gaia in the scuttling, stinking swamp rat.

Susanna, in no way obedient for her youth (she never did believe her mother that she was extracted secondly from her bosom), saw in all happenings on Earth the ‘proper’ narrative precedents, and the ‘correct’ continuation. She saw in the aforementioned swamp rat the connecting events all intricately consorting to cause the rat to scuttle across the swamp (always dramatic), and also the inevitable path to which it was determined (always tragic).

As such, Judith wrote poems and Susanna busied herself with plays. And now - well done to you - you have correctly guessed where this is going. You are a natural Susanna yourself. But, as it happens, it is I who is telling the story, so, for now, keep it in thine pants.

From kyrielles to sestinas, ballads to rondeaus, limericks to sonnets, Judith bore the soul of a voracious learner of poetic styles. She rapidly became accustomed to them, and wrote rhymes uniquely evocative and novel in idea. She was satisfyingly strict in her form and metre, but knew how and when to bend the rules for an exhilarating and flourishing effect.

And, urchin or underling, your stoicism was endangered by the narrative plays of Susanna of Stratford, for she brought tears to the eyes of the most impassive and unmoving. Ceaseless, earnest laughter was wrung from those for whom the world had long ago lost its joy.

A book was released which inscribed in equal parts the efforts of both artists, and there followed from that release date, within a week, an immediate wave of consensus among the town that there was something special here. Both women were certified prodigies; but that certification for so long only came from the humble population of Stratford between whose hands the sisters’ works were disseminated.

This was of course until a traveling merchant, selling wayward-shooting crossbows and direct-to-Heaven’s-ears prayers, passed through the unassuming town. Against his strict commercial code, vexed by an obstinate and unyielding haggler in the form of Susanna and Judith’s father, the merchant agreed to accept payment for a sale in the form of something other than the King’s currency. He accepted a small book, in which was effusively promised to him a greater connection to his Lord than the mere twelve pence shilling could ever provide. Begrudgingly, he took the book, and swore he would return should he ever regret the transaction.

To his credit - this swindling tradesman - after investigating the book one night under the pale watchful moonlight and finding in it all manner of emotional revelation which he was assured, he did not follow his mercantile instinct and advertise the contents around England as his own. There was something that touched upon his heart that night, as tears flowed down his face, that persuaded him that to do so was a sin too egregious even for him. That, and, as the moonlight unobstructed by cloud or tree glistened the tears on his cheek, he knew above all other things that the eyes of his God were upon him. The musings of his soul had been seen by both the maker of the stories in his hand, and the Maker himself.

The merchant rode his modest wagon to God-fearing Worcestor, iron-making Birmingham, and cloth-dying Coventry, before the long route back to London town. There, he allowed himself one day’s rest, and then another for good measure. The Lord himself had required one, and he was not so arrogant so as think himself the Lord’s equal in vitality.

But on the third day of his arrival, he presented himself to a money lender, and read ebulliently from the works of the two sisters three sonnets and a play which he (and his horse) had on his travels memorised. The merchant was satisfyingly and predictably rendered prostrate by the end. He made an offer to the lender: he was to fund the reprinting of this book - ten dozen copies, to be exact - and the circulation of those copies around Greater London. The merchant, somehow both wolfish and piggish but not lionish, was to be accorded the lion’s share of the proceeds. The lender took exactly six deep breaths, the lot of them required to bring himself to his full height once again after being brought so low by the story of a Romeo and Julie-something rather, before asking which extraordinary person it was that had written with the Lord’s own bequeathed quill. There was an eternity’s pause, in which the gaze of Eternity Himself was felt as pale moonlight again upon the merchant’s face. His fingers trembled. The word ‘me’ was, in truth, such a small word, and would make the utterance barely a lie at all. But his answer came honest.

“I appear to have forgotten that, I’m afraid. I can only recall that the writer dwelt in Stratford, upon the River Avon.”

The lender, beseeched by his own greedy desires, hesitated, before explaining that there would emerge untold legal troubles if the Stratford writer was to find his works publicly distributed uncredited and be able to prove his authorship. Deflated, but not resolved yet to abandon the idea of extracting a pension from the situation, the merchant and the lender organised for a courier to make haste to the township of Stratford-upon-Avon bearing a message: the writer of the most singular collection of poems and plays was to make himself available to London to capitalise on a venture so sure and profitable that it would be medical madness to decline.

Word reached Stratford within twenty-four hours, and then the Heaven-touched sisters in minutes. Unpresumptuous in their talents, they were of course filled with awe at the compliment, and allowed themselves the necessary period to let the news of their success settle. But it was then that a realisation of deep, unwelcome dread came upon them. You must remember, approaching the seventeenth century, the feminine half of the populace was not yet accorded a great deal of approbation in the literary field. Raising their hands and claiming their works was likely to earn them not their deserved renown, but facetious mockery at the audacity of two hare-brained slatterns thinking to claim another’s glory. Any man who simply challenged their claim, regardless of evidence proffered, would be likely considered credible, and to him would go the spoils. All because of his bloody penis.

It was in their convent that night, aglow by the treacherous flickering candlelight, that in Susanna the Playwright a master play was born, intended to harvest from the state of affairs at least the financial fruits of their labours, given that the appropriate credits were presumably lost to them.

In their place, they would install a figurehead, a man who would pretend himself the writer of the great Judithian sonnets and the inimitable Susannian plays. It would require on the figure’s part no small degree of courage, and a trustworthiness to keep his trap shut. And there would be no one better to play the part than the man known to both of them, whose real name I suspect is known now only to the Almighty. The ladies suspected that this young man, having always addressed the pair of them respectfully and on two occasions brought them flowers, was partial to their interests. What they did not know was that he was deeply and hopelessly in love with them.

It was with a pair of Macbethian daggers hidden in their petticoats, that the women sought a covert audience with the man and nervously made their proposal. The blades did not see moonlight, as the young fellow’s agreement was immediate and apparently candid. He was sworn to secrecy, and then given an alias. It was thought suitable that he should be named after a monarch, but given that Elizabeth was Queen, a name was borrowed from her Lord Privy, William Cecil. It was also the case that the Dutch were effectively ruled by a man that was already starting to be referred to as William the Silent, and given that the success of the plan hinged on the man’s ability to in his soul seal secrets, this was thought doubly suitable. Given the power his tightened tongue conferred, the man himself chose his family name to match that position of authority and power, a name meaning “one who brandishes a spear”. Thus, technically, William Shakespeare was born in Stratford-upon-Avon.

William was introduced firstly to Stratford, then to London, then to Europe. He claimed first his copyright protections and then his rightful allowance. By day, he roamed England, a troupe at his heels, performing alongside the best known actors in the country the plays which it would be dishonest to say were merely successful. By night, he studied those plays and poetry with a greater tenacity and inquisitiveness than students of ‘his’ works have mustered since. And everywhere he went, not three feet at his rear were Judith and Susanna. For as he read, they wrote.

It was said of his mind that it was gifted by God, and as always with these rumours, it was said equally in the dark that the giver was in fact the Devil. Regardless, all were in agreement that it was an offering which William had suffered no waste of time in enthusiastically accepting. It was considered by not unholy men that, should the Almighty make in flesh and blood His second appearance, He would speak with the same tongue scribbling sacredly and elegantly across Shakespeare’s pages. Those content to invite charges of blasphemy suspected that the prolific playwright was indeed Christ made flesh once again, but no formal accusation was ever made, so the sisters considered them much ado about nothing.

The deceivers' victories metastasized, and with them William’s confidence. An outsider might have labelled it arrogance, but for the man’s insatiable charm and wit. In truth, William played his part so well that there existed not an iota of suspicion amongst the populace of his perfidious charlatanry. Having learned the plays by heart, he took to quoting ‘himself’ during public appearances, displaying an adroit grasp of vocal and Thespian techniques, and impressing onlookers with the lengthy yet gripping monologues of his protagonists, and sonnet after sonnet sometimes orated as if addressed directly to a specific lover in the crowd whose dreams that night were inevitably revisited by his solemn, heartfelt words.

The plays of Shakespeare attracted audiences from across the land and seas, and he took to performing in them himself. Performances featuring the man himself admitted twice the revenue, not for the increase in tickets purchased (for every theatre across the country was always packed), but for the premium pricing necessary to see the man himself take the stage. And his preferred stage, of course, was that of the Globe in London, the centre of cultural advancement in drama, as far as Shakespeare (who considered himself the authority on these matters) was concerned. It was not long before Her Majesty the Queen Elizabeth found time - in her unyielding schedule of being of use to no one in particular - to descend her pale bust down to the theatre and accord the playwright the highest honour of kissing her pudgy hand.

The Muses continued to harass the sisters with torrents of inspiration and there were very few suspicions as to the heist. The sisters had in large measure succeeded in their plan, as the rewards of wealth flowed like endless waves through the troupe, touched William Shakespeare upon his head as he relished and fostered the love for his sponsors, and then landed at their feet. All was well for many years.

But every debt must be paid, and every wing must degrade as it nears the sun.

One night, the vessel of the enterprise became self-aware and began to ask himself some questions. True, the fame and the approbation were all his to claim. And certainly he had his pick of women and noble company. He even possessed the most unique satisfaction of knowing, while he lived, that his name and feats would become legend, and in notoriety surpass even Kings and Queens.

But the glory, he reasoned, the true glory was owed to the two women who masterminded his legacy, who marionetted his puppet. The true glory that was denied to him was in the manufacture of ideas, the creation of art. This was the greatest, incontrovertible honour that could be wrought from existence.

It was not enough that all should believe the false tale; not enough that he should only be thought to be this writer of special magnificence. There was a perverseness to the entire venture that at first was merely irksome, but which now gnawed at him toothily. Night after night, he was pestered by this injustice, this indignity, and sleep evaded him until one night when he had reached his limit.

In one of these fits of frustration, pacing maniacally about his room, a solution offered itself. He made his way briskly to a writing desk, and with one hand wiping sweat from his brow, he dared compose a piece of his own. It was a sonnet of meticulous, arduous work, and throughout the composition he thrice wondered how the feeble sisters had managed it for so long without fainting. But at length, it was complete, and in completion there lay deep satisfaction.

Shakespeare wasted no time. He flew to the sisters’ quarters and begged an audience with them. The sun was soon to peak over the horizon, for the man had toiled much of the night away. Judith met him first, and Susanna soon followed. William proudly presented them both with his masterpiece. He even admitted both of them were the subjects of the love poem.

But to his trembling horror, they were unimpressed. With no small degree of compassion, they relayed their honest assessments as he demanded, and identified with ease the flaws; the wrenched rhymes, the cliched imagery, the lazy diction. William saw them now clearly, and punished himself by returning to his writing desk and scraping the insides of his skull for residual originality.

Days and then weeks passed as William became, as he had always dreamed, the most prolific writer in the country, penning countless poems and plays in imitation of his two loves, the dearest creatures in the world to him. And each time he presented them, the sisters dismissed them as uninspired - not unreadable, but often derivative and bland. It became clear to the sisters both that, despite his industry, there simply did not reside in William Shakespeare anything resembling the true artist’s knack, and they feared that he would never grant himself the relief of forgoing the pursuit. But they should have feared more than that.

The moon was at its highest when Shakespeare’s magnum opus came to him in a dream. He was in equal parts astounded, aroused, bewitched, and repulsed by it, and it dwelt in him and made no sign of departure. He took himself to his desk and wrote, and he did not cease for food, drink, or respite as he went. The sun rose and fell before he stopped his quill - it was a feat that should have driven a man insane, and perhaps it did. The result was a play the details of which I cannot tell you because they are lost. I can only confirm it was a tragedy, perhaps William’s own story.

The moon was this time obscured when Shakespeare assailed the sisters in their private quarters, an unseemly act were it committed by anyone else in the country bar Shakespeare himself or Her Majesty the Queen.

The presentation was vigourous and uninterrupted. For an hour, he expounded upon the play’s structure, characters, and themes, the creation kindling a light in William’s eyes as it could only do its creator. As they had never done before, the assessors took a short, private recess to deliberate. William took this to be a good sign and he perhaps shivered with anticipation. But when the sisters returned, the verdict matched all others.

“No.”

A dreadful poison of listlessness and fury appeared before Shakespeare and he drank it fully. He hung his head low and stared at the floor for long minutes. His hand trembled, still clutching the ever-sharp quill, the tool of his failure.

He leapt forward and plunged it deep into Judith’s neck. In no time, her porcelain-coloured nightgown was stained by a dark, hellish crimson. He had punctured the oesophagus, stifling the sound of what might have been a blood-curdling scream. His fist felled her next.

Susanna only whimpered as William closed the gap. The quill had broken off in his previous victim’s neck, so he wrapped his bloodied hands around the neck of his next. Her fingers clawed uselessly at his. It was frighteningly easy to maintain his grip until her desperate gasps expired and her legs ceased function.

The women lay lifeless, the greatest artists of that or any time. It was an indiscernible period of time before William’s wits returned to him and the scene struck him in a cacophony of horror, embarrassment, and then despair. He shuffled over to the cabinet in which the women had stored their timeless writings and took from it an armful of manuscripts, unrevealed and unpublished, which they had themselves deemed not quite up to par. He then returned quietly to his room and did not sleep for five days.

The deaths of the women were a popular conundrum, as their existence itself had been kept clandestine for a number of years. It had been so long since their last appearance at Stratford that its residents had presumed that they had abandoned the township for good, and so the mysterious deaths of two unidentified women so near to the kingdom’s most prized artist was largely ignored. William’s tangible trauma at the incident was chalked up to no more than his proximity to the crime. He denied knowing the women, and after a short and apathetic search for next of kin, the women were disposed of in an unmarked grave on the outskirts of London.

William gathered himself over the following months, desperately composing - or trying to compose - his next great piece. It never came. What did was an unforgiving avalanche of remorse for his deed, and grief for the loss of Judith and Susanna, whom he still loved. He quit the endeavour, and, as a way of preserving their legacy, released each year another of the unreleased manuscripts as William Shakespeare until the source was diminished.

William married Anne Hathaway, and she bore him a daughter who he christened Susanna, before the arrival of fraternal twins gave him Judith and Hamnet. History recalls that the boy, for unknown reasons, passed away aged eleven, and was buried at Stratford where he was born. On this point I can shed a little light; William did not know why, but for the length of this son’s short life, he felt only revulsion and contempt for him. There is no evidence of a further murder, although that is what I suspect. Shakespeare had resurrected his lovers and found the boy to be surplus. In a letter he handed to his closest friend on his deathbed - my ascendant through several generations - he revealed that much, along with all the horrible revelations I have here detailed.

It does not surprise me, of course, that it is commonly supposed that William Shakespeare went mad before his time was up. I would have, too.

In 2008, a pair of twins fell prey to a condition known as Folie à Deux. This shared psychosis resulted in the two women running directly into traffic on a motorway.

In 2017, a sixteen-year-old girl was diagnosed with a cancerous tumour on her kidney. Her twin sister displayed the exact same symptoms. Even though rigorous testing was done, the sister was found to be without any signs of cancer. The young woman diagnosed has gone into remission and relapsed several times. Her sister has mimicked her recovery and sickness consistently throughout this period.

There are an almost infinite number of stories that talk about twins sharing feelings, personality traits, even physical pain.

I have to wonder… will he feel my pain?

Though identical twins, we are not the same. My life has been as regular and boring as a Sunday sermon, while my brother’s forty odd years have been wrought with turmoil and mental malaise.

This is my only option now. Though the blood is not physically on my hands, I do deserve some of the burden of guilt.

The first time he showed signs of a sinister underside, was when we were seven. Climbing trees was a regular pastime, and we had both scaled an impressively large one. Like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, as we reached the crown of the tree, a beautiful butterfly rested on a jutting branch. Its colours were hypnotic, a mix of midnight black and cinnabar red. It spread its wings, as if welcoming us into its home.

I reached out my hand, a gentle movement towards the creature. Though doubtful, I hoped it would hop onto my finger and, even for a moment, a deep connection would be felt. Before that potential could even begin, my brother snatched the butterfly from its perch and, without a moment of hesitation, crushed it within a clenched fist.

“Ricky, what would you do that?”

Tears were streaming down my face.

Ricky simply shrugged.

“It’s just a dumb bug. It’s no big deal.”

We were twins, but Ricky was, technically, older than me. Though only by seconds, I looked to him as an older, and more mature, sibling. Looking back, I could have told someone and maybe avoided all this pain. But I know that, even if I’d known exactly where his life would lead, I wouldn’t have said a word.

The second time was much worse. Though comparing the worth of different living things feels a strange thing to do, the life of a bug paled in comparison to what happened the night I caught Ricky down by the river.

When I could hear but not see, I thought a small child was being murdered. A scream ripped through the bushes as I crawled to the river. The noise was a combination of fear and pain that went beyond understanding. I was only fourteen, but I had heard stories about the abuse of innocent people during World War Two in my History lessons. I stopped, waited, caught between a rock and a hard place. I heard the scream again and, with a boulder of worry in my stomach, pressed forward. A grin crossed my face when I saw Ricky, an automatic reaction. He turned towards me and smiled too. A long plank of wood was held tight in his hands. My eyes moved from his grip to the tip of the plank, to the source of the horrifying screams.

Bound to the end of the plank was a small ginger cat. Its body was secured with rope, so tight that it was a miracle its frail frame hadn’t been crushed like a trodden egg shell. The fur that was not obscured by the rope was sodden. The cat’s eyes were wild with fear and its head struggled in panic, thrusting out in every direction. Its neck craned, reaching for escape, as if detaching its head from its trapped body would be a better alternative to this torture.

Ricky turned back to the screaming feline, and shook his head. With a slow but deliberate motion, he lowered the animal into the river.

I didn’t speak.

“One… Two…”

I didn’t react.

“Three… Four…”

I simply stood frozen in shock.

“Five… Six…”

When he reached ten, Ricky lifted the cat out of the water. Its body was limp and lifeless. A strange sense of relief filled my heart, the sound of torment now quelled. Ricky turned to me once again, a huge grin plastered across his face like a sinister clown.

“Shit. I thought it would last longer.”

A wave of excitement washed over me. It came from nowhere, an adrenaline dump of giddiness like the endorphin release of pure bliss. Where did this come from? Why would I feel such joy at seeing something so horrific?

I vomited. Ricky pulled a face of disgust.

“Linda, that’s gross.”

As if I’d heaved up the fear that paralysed me, control returned to my body. I dived towards Ricky, knocking him to the ground. Pinning his arms with my knees, I slapped him hard across the face.

“What the hell did you do that for, Ricky? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Ricky simply smiled. A small trickle of blood ran from his lip.

“It’s just a dumb cat. Why do you care?”

I began to breathe heavy breaths. Was there really no way to make him understand?

“…even if you don’t care. Even if you don’t see anything wrong with what you did. If I tell anyone, they’re going to lock you up. They’ll think you’re a psycho.”

Ricky shook his head. His demeanour was calm.

“You’re not going to tell anyone, Linda. You wouldn’t do that to me.”

A silence hung between us. The subtle rush of the river gave a contrasting sense of calm.

I got off Ricky. I picked up the plank with the cat still strapped to it, and threw into the water.

“Go home, Ricky.”

I heard the decay of footsteps and when I turned around Ricky was gone.

***

“Hello?”

“Hello, Ricky.”

“…Linda? Linda, is that you?”

“Look, Ricky. Let’s cut the bullshit. I know it’s you.”

“…I don’t know what you mean.”

There was no worry, no slight quaver in his voice. If I didn’t know for certain, he could persuade me of his innocence. He’d already convinced the police the witness who saw him leave the scene of one of the murders was a case of mistaken identity. There was no other evidence than that one testimony, he was too meticulous for that.

“I know you, Ricky.”

“You know me?”

It had been thirteen years since we last spoke.

“I know you. You’re that guy who killed all those kids.”

For the first time since our birth, Ricky slipped. It was just a slight cough, nothing more than clearing his throat, but it was enough.

“How could you possibly know?”

“I know, Ricky, because every time you creep out into the streets at night to commit your twisted acts, I feel a rush of anticipation growing within me.”

“That doesn’t mean-”

“I feel it, Ricky. I feel what you feel. The thrill that comes with that build up. I try my best to shut it out, but I feel it. It makes it impossible to sleep. I check the news the next day, and another murder has happened.”

Ricky fell silent. For nearly a minute, neither of us spoke.

“Linda… if what you’re saying is true, then…”

“That’s right. I feel that too. The release.”

I could feel Ricky’s smile from the other end of the telephone.

“…and how does that feel, dear sister?”

My grip tightened around the phone. My knuckles turned white and the cheap plastic gave a slight groan under the stress.

“You know how it feels.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“It feels… amazing. But I can’t let you do this anymore.”

Ricky’s tone oozed with a cocksure confidence.

“I don’t see how you can stop me. You didn’t snitch before, and you’re not going to now. You say you know me, Linda. But I know you too. I’d be locked away for life in complete misery. You know how it feels when I do what I do, so you must feel the agony when I can’t get that release. You wouldn’t put yourself through that.”

It was now my turn to smile.

“I don’t plan on telling a soul, dear brother.”

Before he could respond, I hung up.

In 2008, a pair of twins fell prey to a condition known as Folie à Deux. This shared psychosis resulted in the two women running directly into traffic on a motorway.

In 2017, a sixteen-year-old girl was diagnosed with a cancerous tumour on her kidney. Her twin sister displayed the exact same symptoms. Even though rigorous testing was done, the sister was found to be completely free of cancer. The young woman diagnosed has gone into remission and relapsed several times. Her sister has mimicked her recovery and sickness consistently throughout this period.

There are an almost infinite number of stories that talk about twins sharing feelings, personality traits, even physical pain.

I have to wonder… will he feel my pain?

Will he feel his stomach cramp as the pills begin to take effect?

Will his wrist itch as I bring the blade to my skin?

Will he smell copper as I create my own release?

This is my only option now. Though the blood is not physically on my hands, I do deserve some of the burden of guilt.

I started writing this in 5th grade and just recently touched back onto it. Its still work in progress. DEBRIEF

1967 — Cold War

The Cold War was at full boil. While U.S. forces were engaged in Vietnam against Soviet‑backed North Vietnamese units, a smaller, quieter war was happening elsewhere.
My partner John and I were inserted deep into Soviet territory to gather intelligence on a classified nuclear missile facility tied to the R‑12 Dvina intermediate‑range ballistic missile program.

Our task force consisted of seven operators drawn from U.S. Army special operations units and Marine reconnaissance elements. Strategic overwatch was provided by a Lockheed SR‑71 Blackbird, with contingency strike support on standby.

DEPLOYING

We were transported via C-130 Hercules dreading the  long, exhausting sixteen‑hour flight. Once we reached the jump point, we got the green light and exited the aircraft under cover of night.

The fall felt endless.

After landing, we regrouped, checked weapons, and confirmed comms. One operator’s sidearm was damaged on impact and rendered unusable, but the mission continued.

MISSED THE DROP ZONE

Navigation confirmed our worst fear — we had missed the DZ by four miles. The team was in shambles, we could agree on which navigation system to use. John said we should use a compass, because the site was supposedly north of us. I thought that was bogus. I said we should use the maps given to us, because they were taken from the SR-71 taken a few weeks back. We ended up using a mix of both, John was wrong it was more north-east.

Enemy patrols guarded the surrounding area, armed with AKM rifles and SKS carbines. We moved on foot, sticking to low ground and shadowed terrain. We decided to take out the patrol nearing us to eliminate the threat. Me and John snuck up on the three men. An operator from the Raiders took the man with the SKS down from afar with his silenced rifle while John and I slit the Russian's throats. After the encounter we continued down the foot path.

About a mile in, we located a small storage shed. Inside were technical documents and schematics for the AKM, confirming recent production upgrades. We secured the intel and moved out.

Moments later, a Soviet patrol passed dangerously close. We slipped into a drainage ditch and stayed low until they cleared the area.

At the two‑mile mark, dawn was approaching. Time was no longer on our side.

We pushed harder and reached another auxiliary structure. Inside were blueprints for the T‑62 main battle tank, a vehicle barely known to Western intelligence at the time. That find alone justified the mission.

CONTACT

We finally reached the missile complex.

The facility was massive — perimeter fencing, guard towers, and heavy patrols. From a concealed position, we identified a hardened silo field housing R‑12 Dvina missiles.

Our objective was clear: access the control building, initiate a launch sequence that would destroy the facility internally, and exfiltrate before detonation.

After breaching the structure, we found it was filled to the brim with Spetsnaz armed to the teeth. We had to clear them out before we could start searching. After countless silent take downs we were sure that their reinforcements had dwindled. We were horribly wrong. We located the launch control room. John initiated the sequence and set a 20‑minute countdown.

That’s when alarms sounded. Spetsnaz were surrounding the compound. We knew we were up for one helluva gunfight. 

PINNED DOWN

Enemy troops flooded the area — Spetsnaz reaction units, heavily equipped and fast‑moving. We engaged while falling back, but their armor and numbers made it clear we couldn’t win a prolonged fight.

We broke contact and retreated toward the drainage ditch, using terrain to stay concealed.

Then we saw them.

A battalion of Soviet tanks — T‑55s and T‑62s — moving to secure the complex.

We were out of options.

CALL FOR FIRE

I got on the radio and transmitted our final contingency code.

Through the static came the response:

“Three Aardvarks are entering your AO. Sit tight.”

John looked at me, wide‑eyed.
“Each one can carry over thirty thousand pounds of ordnance.”

I added, “And a 20‑millimeter cannon.”

Minutes later, the sound hit us — three F‑111 Aardvarks screaming overhead at low altitude.

They released their entire payload.

The ground shook. Fire rolled across the facility. Tanks vanished in the chaos. The missile complex was gone.

CALL FOR EVAC

As the countdown reached zero, the silo detonated internally, finishing what the airstrike started.

We marked our position and prepared for extraction. We just had to wait it out.

Mission complete.