Six Years passed.

One morning,the prison gates opened. New evidence had surfaced, proving that Ju had been framed. The court declared her innocent but the years stolen from her could never be returned.

She walked out with only a small bag containing her belongings and the old newspaper she had kept hidden in her cell. The photograph of Jaemin stared back at her .

Except ...... The man beneath it was different ,it wasn't "Jaemin". Someone had given him a new identity . Ju travelled to the city where the newspaper had been printed.she quietly investigated the man in the photograph.Everyone knew him as a successful businessman who had recently moved there.

"He has always live here". People said. "He has a perfect reputation". Ju knew they were wrong.

Late one evening,she secretly entered the jaemin's office.She searched every drawer until she found a locked metal box. Inside were dozens of passports, identity cards , photographs and files. Every file belongs to a different person. Some names were marked with a red X . Others had the word "Next".

At the bottom of the pile was a new file.

Ju frozen. The photograph inside was her own.Written across the front were the words:-"Identity Transfer ----- Incomplete."

Before Ju could react,she heard slow footsteps echoing through the hallway outside. Someone was coming.

She quietly closed the box,hiding in the darkness as the office door slowly began to open

​

I loved a man... whose very presence was enough to make my heart restless.

I loved a man... every time I saw him walking toward me, I hid my scattered glances among the faces around us, afraid my eyes would betray what my heart could not.

I loved a man... after a long, exhausting day at work, he would cross my mind as I lay in bed, and somehow, he would make me smile.

I loved a man... whose sky-blue shirt could brighten my entire day.

I loved a man... his eyes, his hair, even the veins on his hands.

I loved a man... who called me "my lady." Though I belonged to no one, those words never angered me. Instead, they quietly found a place in my heart.

I loved a man... every time he came to collect his order, I served him with every kindness and every silent piece of love I had, though he never knew.

I loved a man... and I wish I never see him again.

I loved a man... and I wish he had never walked through that door.

I loved a man... and I wish that the very moment my eyes met his, the moment my heart trembled for the first time, had been erased from my life.

I loved a man... who has a wife and a beautiful child.

I loved a man... who never saw me as anything more than a restaurant employee.

I loved a man... and in my eyes, he was the finest man on earth.

I loved a man... and I fell into the trap of a trembling heart.

I loved a man... who made me leave everything behind—my future, my life—and return to my mother's home, because I knew that if I stayed, I would destroy whatever remained of me.

And here I am, in a new city, beginning again... with a heart wrapped in barbed wire, so it will never rush toward someone it can never have.

I loved a man... who destroyed my life without ever meaning to.

The fault was mine... and the heart was mine.

For no one has power over where the heart chooses to belong.s🥀

Sarah ✏️

Hello.
I am Dr. Henry Hill, a professor of archaeobotany at the University of Sheffield. My area of study is how past human civilizations utilized plants, whether for medicine, decoration, or agriculture, so, needless to say, I stumble across some fascinating phenomena.
For example, did you know that the first civilization (Ancient Sumeria, or Mesopotamia) used Opium Poppies? Sumerians cultivated it to harvest its sap for use as an analgesic (painkiller) and sedative. My students always find that to be amusing, imagining these ancient civilizations getting high off their asses when in horrible pain. Morbidly, I can see the humor in it.
Growing up, I always knew something was different about me. At age five, I would be out in my mother's gardens, picking weeds and asking her a million different questions about them. I didn't really enjoy socializing, opting instead to stay out in the fields at recess and pick strange flowers I found, always choosing the most beautiful, pristine little field daisies to take home and stare at with a longing, analytical gaze.
Or as analytical as a little kid can get, anyway. Which pretty much led to forcing my mom to help me learn about them, what they were, and forcing her to research it for me.
At age 7, I gather she had had enough of my many, many, many questions and of being forced to be an amateur researcher for her tiny, annoying kid, because she got me a little field guide to local UK plants for my birthday so I could read it myself. And read it I did. I vividly remember going through that thing at least a thousand times, usually during class or when I was supposed to be doing something else. Looking back with a modern lens, I am about 80% sure I was on the spectrum or at least had ADHD, but that's neither here nor there.
But I am not here to recount my life in any more detail than what is necessary. I am here to share the knowledge of a discovery that left me stripped of all certifications and forced to live out of my car for the past few weeks.
This recounting begins about 5 months ago with one of my best students, Liam Wo, a very bright young man who majored in Forensic Archaeology and intended to move to the United States to join law enforcement. He is... or, well, was, a prodigy in his field, and has been by far my favorite student.
Liam was also diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and he had to be home at the very strict time of 4:32 PM down to the second, or he would fall into an intense panic attack, convinced he was going to be in serious trouble with someone named "Amelia" if he was even a microsecond late.
I never did figure out who that was or why he needed to please this mysterious figure named Amelia. Still, I'm a professor, not a clinical psychiatrist, so I never inquired. I just knew he would bolt out of class about ten minutes before its scheduled time like a bat out of hell and take off to get home.
I remember the day with such vividness that every subsequent night terror makes me feel as if it only just happened mere moments ago.
I was grading that year's final essays on "Uses of Micro-Organisms in Medicine" and was on about essay number ten about mold. Call me finicky, but I remember being annoyed, as I wanted more creativity than the well-known story of penicillin.
I had begun to feel sleepy, so I stood up, rubbing my drooping lids with my hands, and headed to the lounge to make myself a cup of coffee. I looked at the clock on the wall, and it read 8:30 PM.
"Damn it," I mumbled to no one in particular. I had a bad habit of losing all sense of time and space when I was in the zone on a monotonous, repetitive task, whether I liked it or not.
I walked down the empty hallways, looking around at just how liminal the entire place looked. The droning hum of the cheap lights filled my ears, accompanied only by the slow clacking of my black loafers against the tan linoleum floors.
It would appear I was the only man dumb enough to stay so late, as all night classes had long since concluded and my colleagues had all gone home. I think I remember my longtime co-worker Lydia, a professor of ethics, coming in to say goodbye, but I couldn’t really remember.

I walked into the lounge with a deep sigh, the motion-detecting lights clicking on as I did so. On the dark mahogany table sat an abandoned coffee mug, an open pink donut box with long stale donuts from this morning, and some poor sod's black lunchbox.

I went over to the shitty little Keurig, popped a pod in, and was about to put a mug underneath it when I heard a sound that made me yell out in fright, almost making me shatter my favorite mug on the ground.

A cough.

Not just a normal cough, but it was wet, guttural, and absolutely disgusting. Is that heartless to say? That I was more disgusted than worried?

It was nearby, but not close enough for me to discern exactly where it was coming from. However, that soon changed as it let out another violent, disgusting hack that was much louder.

Or, rather, closer.

I found myself begging mentally for them not to be headed this way, but of course, I wasn't that lucky.

The door of the lounge opened with no preamble, and what I saw there turned my disgusted annoyance into pure confusion, shock, and horror.

Liam was standing in front of me, wheezing breaths coming from his chapped, cracked lips. He wore a disheveled blue-collared shirt covered in black spots; his black pants were stained with dust and dirt; and his hair was in complete disarray, matted with leaves, sticks, and other debris.

His face was beet red, and there were these dark raised bumps covering him. It was like a million small blisters, but they leaked a green-and-purple mixture that looked like pus, and I don't even know what. There were also black specks that matched what was on his shirt, but coating his face like the darkest of freckles.

He walked forward, his steps sloppy and nearly causing him to fall as if he were heavily intoxicated or had just learned to walk a day ago.

I had seen Liam not even four hours ago, and he did not look even remotely sick. He had been perfectly healthy, spoke up in class, and even chatted with me about his summer plans.

I went through a whole variety of different emotions, but one dominated the rest: terror with a healthy mixture of worry.

"Liam..." I say, my voice so meek I barely recognized it. "What the hell happened?"

He did not reply, looking at me with those yellow eyes. By yellow, you probably assume glaucoma or liver failure, but no. What used to be a natural white was now almost gold, or at least trying to be.

Imagine a little kid mixing watercolors and trying to make gold. It won't be perfect, but you can tell what color it is trying to be. That's what it looked like: gold, but made with various other colors.

He lets out another wheezing breath, opens and closes his mouth a few times to(I assume) gather enough saliva to speak, and finally groans out: "Host." In a strained, struggling voice as if that one word was hard to get out.

It sniffed the air, stepping a bit closer, legs shakily moving it closer to me.

Sniff. Sniff sniff.

I backed into the counter, then started to walk out into the office, my steps quickening.

"Host," I heard it whisper, quieter this time as if contemplative.

Before I could say a word, I heard quickened footsteps come at me from the direction of the lounge. Before I could react, he, nay, it, burst out of the door, now on all fours and starting to gallop toward me like some sickly antelope, his previous walking difficulties seemingly forgotton.

I am not afraid to admit that I screamed in terror and took off down the hall, the sound of hands slapping off the tile close behind me as Liam gave chase. He let out a yell that sounded more like a war cry, the sound alien coming from such a timid student like Liam. This only steadied my decision to keep running, now knowing without a doubt that he had completely lost his damn mind.

I run, and I run, and I run as I slam into the back door, aiming to get to the other side of the university where the parking garage was; where my car was.

Loud and feverish panting got closer as it seemed to realize my plan to escape, now picking up speed to the point I could feel flecks of saliva and its hot breath against my leg. It tried to swipe at my legs, but by the grace of what I have to assume is divine intervention, it missed and lost its balance for a moment, allowing me to get ahead.

I could see the blue-and-white sign that read "parking garage" in the distance. 200 feet. 190 feet. 180 feet.

It was pissed now; I could hear its breathing quicken and get heavier as what I could only parse was rage at being tripped. I made the mistake of turning around and saw its golden eyes now glowed in the darkness with eldritch bioilluminescence.

I lose my footing for a moment and feel a sharp, burning pain in my calf as it bites into my flesh. I let out a loud, agonized scream, then a horrified one as I realized it wasn't letting go. The black specks on its face began to squirm and writh, thin black lines starting to come from them.

No. Not lines. Worms...

Wriggling, needle-thin worms started to emerge from its face and toward my leg. In pure adrenaline-filled horror, I ripped my leg from its mouth with a loud, wet tearing, shooting more torment through my body.

I thank whatever creator for adrenaline's numbing effects because I was able to take off running once again, warmth flooding my socks and shoes as blood escaped through the chunk missing in my leg.

I could see it now; the parking garage was so close, and thankfully, my car was as well. As I said, the school was empty, so my red sedan stuck out like a sore thumb.

From behind me, I heard only silence, but I did not break my stride, digging through my pockets for my keys.

With no hesitation, I sloppily yanked them out, pressed the unlock button, and kept on limp-running to my vehicle. I had reached it. Safety.

I threw my driver's-side door open, got inside, locked it, and started the car, the headlights illuminating the dark parking garage.

It also illuminated what used to be Liam.

He was still on all fours, squatted down in front of my car about 20 feet away. Its body heaved up and down as it panted, the wriggling worms in its face beginning to retract back into its cheeks. It said nothing, glowing eyes staring forward at me.

For what felt like an eternity, we continued that standoff, both of us panting from the effort of the chase, staring at one another. But as soon as it began, "Liam" finally turned away from my car and scuttled away into the night.

https://www.wattpad.com/1645072671?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

Everyone here carries a broken heart.

Someone watched the years pass by, yet still searches for a partner to share the cold winter nights with... someone whose homemade soup fills the house with warmth, reminding them that they are loved and that someone still cares.

Another has endured battles of the mind and body, escaping here in the hope that a single word—or a glimmer of hope—might help recover what was lost and lead them out of the darkness.

Someone else offered everything they had on a silver platter, only to be met with betrayal and rejection. So they came here, hiding their story between the lines, believing they were invisible among thousands of words, never realizing that their words revealed them more than they concealed them.

A woman searches for love and reassurance after her life partner slowly drifted away, worn down by the weight she carried and the responsibilities life placed upon her. Here, she found warmth. Hidden behind her words, she quietly waits for someone to see her worth without leaving another wound.

Someone served their country and gave everything they had for its honor. Now they stand alone. Everyone they once knew has gone. All that remains are memories. They look back with quiet sorrow and find themselves here, among countless souls weathered by time.

This place... is where we hide when life becomes too heavy to carry alone. A place that allows us to keep moving, one step at a time.

And here I am—the newest guest among you—hiding behind my own words, hoping to find the light... or perhaps to become a small crack through which light can enter someone else's life.

This is only a small part of what I have encountered while wandering through endless lines of words, stumbling upon stories whose owners I never knew, yet whose pain I could somehow feel.

It is only a tiny fragment of the millions of stories that live here... where every word has a heart, every heart has a story, and every story belongs to someone who, like me, was simply searching for a place where they could be understood.

..S🥀

Sarah ✏️

He was my friend, and I believe she was the love he found in that country. During those harsh years of war, their story became one the soldiers often told each other. No one could understand how such a beautiful story had turned into separation, abandonment, and heartbreak.

She was nineteen years old, living alone in a large house. Loneliness filled her days, and watering the garden was her only escape.

One morning in June, at around ten o'clock, she was doing what she always did—watering the flowers. She looked up and saw him standing there, smiling.

"Hello," he said.

She smiled back.

"Hello."

Yes... he was only twenty years old. He needed money to finish his university education, and the only way to earn it was to join the army.

He was a soldier.

He looked at her, and she looked at him. The differences between them were immense. They shared no common language, came from different cultures, and belonged to two completely different worlds. He had come from the other side of the earth. Yet somehow, none of those differences stood between them.

Their first meeting ended.

The next day, he deliberately stood in front of her house. He knew it wasn't a coincidence, and so did she. He wanted to see her, and she wanted to see him. He was a soldier, she was alone, and all either of them wanted was for the day to end with a smile. He searched for a moment of peace in the middle of war, while she searched for something to fill the emptiness of her days.

I used to watch them, and I was jealous.

She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in that country. She wore a white dress, and her long brown hair flowed behind her. I once saw her through a fence, and I had never seen anyone as beautiful as she was. She had the brightest smile, and I envied my fellow soldier...

My friend.

Even now, I still think about that girl. She must be in her thirties by now. Sometimes I wonder...

Is she still alive?

Those were the days of the 2006 war.

That beautiful girl never had a fixed time to leave her house. Sometimes I saw her in the morning, sometimes in the evening, and sometimes at unexpected hours. My heart would race every time our military vehicle stopped in front of her house. In the middle of that war, simply seeing her was the only happiness I knew.

The last time I saw her was before I returned to my country. The air was thick with dust. She was wearing a black skirt and a red shirt, her long hair tied back. It was the only time I ever felt she looked sad.

I still wonder...

What happened between her and my friend?

I never asked him.

We returned to our homeland and eventually went our separate ways. Yet from time to time, that beautiful girl still visits my dreams like an angel.

I truly hope that one day...

I'll see her again.

S🥀

Sarah ✏️

Once upon a time, or however these stories are supposed to go, there was a dastardly spirit referred to as The Adversary, or Satan for short.

This mischievous spirit didn’t like humans very much. Having been a crowned prince of Heaven, an ancient guardian over all of creation, and his father's most beautiful prior invention, he felt a little… conflicted. He wasn’t happy seeing those he watched over being promised the kingdom he thought he would inherit.

But then, pride does go to people's heads.

Funnily enough, after being thrown into a hellish lake of fire (see what I did there?), he found himself worshipped more now than before, just with a few extra scorch marks on his sides.

Many foolish people see themselves going to hell, no matter what they do. So, they think, “Hey, if I'm going anyway, why not go with a little style?”

They assume that if they get all snug and cosy with our pretty little devil, then they might get some special treatment when they finally arrive. Except... It doesn’t end up quite as “special” when people have been doing exactly that for more than 100 thousand years.

So where does our protagonist finally show up?

-

One day- (well, days don’t quite exist in hell, but stay with me)- the Devil finally decided to partner up. With so many wives, husbands and everything in between, he chose to create an heir for himself and his kingdom.

Angels and demons cannot reproduce amongst themselves. But being that people can, it has been known for the two to mix. How convenient.

This is where we get Christine – our little “Anti-Christ.”

But as with all good stories, it can't be that easy.

Turns out, the Antichrist doesn’t really… exist. Or at least, not how we interpreted the scripture.

It's mostly just fake “messiahs” trying to turn people away from Christ and towards themselves, sometimes working for the Devil. The typical fake celebrities, controlling the media, and whatnot.

Those in heaven shake in their feathers, waiting for the end of the world and the day the heavenly father calls for Armageddon. They really don't like that she's here.

Hell, especially her father, lather themselves up waiting to see what dastardly deeds she will do… impatiently.

Those on earth dread her very sight, noticing the red glow behind her eyes, petrified they'll wake up with her sharp thangs in their necks. They expect something big.

But her?

Well, like most young adults, she has her own ideas.

-

She has set her sights on one thing: money.

Actually, she is working at a few small part-time jobs.

Firstly, a small chicken shop, a cinema and a bookstore.

So, you might be asking, why did she choose something so wickedly, so horrifically, so terribly… normal?

Well, bringing the “foretold” end of the world turns out to be quite a bit of effort, and she “ain't bout all dat”.

Surprisingly, it's way easier to just tick off everyone, heaven, hell and earth alike! How? By doing nothing and watching anime all day. Why not let them fight it out?

Maximum seething, minimal effort, and plenty of time to eat noodles. All a good day's work.

So how about we see what she's up to?

A small fried chicken shop on the outskirts of the city opens for the lunchtime rush.

“Have you seen the new girl?”

A young woman, on the smaller side, asks her cool “trendy” co-worker, whilst hiding behind the kitchen counter.

“Who, her?” He looks at our red-haired menace with a sly, playful smirk.

-

Christine fixes her little hat, standing at the main counter. She stands tall, now motionless, as stiff as an iron rod. Her eyes have a happy, cutesy expression.

Her face? A wide impish grin spreads ear to ear.

“She's just standing there…”

The man replies, “Well, duh, there's no customers yet.”

A quiet, mousy man hesitantly interrupts, “No… She's right. She is kind of stiff. Like, too stiff.”

“HEY!” He calls out, trying to get her attention.

No reply.

“New girl!” The daring man tries again.

“Max, leave her alone,” the woman says nervously.

Christine's mischievous smile remains still, shining wide in the freshly cleaned glass.

“Hot stuff!”

Christine's haunting face slowly turns towards the group, her body still fixed front and centre.

Max’s half-lit cigarette falls from his bottom lip.

She turns back to the glass.

“You shouldn’t smoke in here!”

Her eyes give an innocent, playful glint, talking through the reflection. Her expression remains just as horrifying.

-

Stacy looks in terror. Her chest tight, heart turning cold.

“The Fuc…”

“Shut up, Ben,” Max says sternly, deflecting his feelings.

Time ticks on. Still, the door remains closed.

Half asleep, head resting on his palms, Max notices someone walk past. “Damn, 3 PM already?”

A strange-looking goth man stands by the door, creepily looking through the window.

“Hey, Stacy! I think ur date is here?” Max jokes.

“Shut up, jerk,” she replies harshly, still hiding away.

The man stays still, staring at Christine from the side.

“Well? Is he going to come in or what?” Max waits impatiently.

The goth man walks in, his eyes fixed on Christine.

He struts to the counter and slams down a bloodied, dead chicken, with barbed wire and bones sticking out.

“Hello >:),” she says, emotionless with her unwavering grin.

“Your dad wants to talk to you,” he states sternly.

“You know we sell those cooked, right?” Christine says.

“HO hoh!” Max bellows a deep laugh. “No way! I have someone perfect for you!”  He smirks back at Stacy.

-

He teases, talking over the whining from behind.

Christine picks up the bloody mess, moving it to the side.

“Ring Ring…” Max jokes, struggling to hide his unease.

The goth man leaves. No orders, no explanation; he walks away as mysteriously as he arrived.

“Okay, WTF was that?” A voice emerges from behind.

Ben walks over, angry and annoyed. He checks the window to see he's actually gone.

He looks at Christine, who is totally unfazed; her expression has yet to change.

Stacy is horrified at the chicken laid on the counter she spends hours scrubbing to perfection every morning.

“Seems the new girl has made a friend,” Max jokes.

“And I thought I was the freak magnet,” he says with a teasing nudge. The others annoyingly huff, looking with a strop on their face, knowing he is talking about them.

Christine takes the chicken from the squealing mess and places it into her rucksack.

The group look on in shock. So much that even Max is brought to show some discomfort for once.

“Guess you're keeping that? Huh…”

“Wait, you know that guy?” Another screams.

-

A week or so later, Christine takes on a new role. The most demanding one yet.

Wails and screams wallow strong, and fill the halls.

Christine stands over with a hammer in hand, grimacing at the sight.

Her smile widens harder as her arm swings down.

The coffee machine gets a large thump on the side.

“Begone, fault!”

It gets more thumps.

“Thou shalt not hinder my sales quota!”

~ Tap tap tap ~

“I think you're making it worse,” Max states, grinning from the side.

He stands smug, not having needed to do any work.

“Silence,” she says cold and soulless. Her eyes lay cheery above her menacing grin.

Tap tap tap

Then suddenly, Whoooosh…

The dreaded matcha machine is back in order.

Stacy and Ben arrive, putting on their aprons.

-

“You guys ever think it’s weird we have all the same jobs?” Ben ponders to the group.

“I mean, we're not even teens anymore. We're like all 20 now…”

“Pffff,” Max dismisses. “It pays, doesn’t it?”

“This town is short on young staff,” Stacy notes, looking upon the empty cinema lobby.

“Yeah, but not of weeiirdos,” Max moves to playfully ruffle the top of Christine's hair.

She turns, giving him a stare as sharp as thorns from hell itself. “Maybe not,” he thinks to himself.

“What kind of weirdo wants a hot matcha coffee when watching a movie anyway?” He deflects.

An ominous presence haunts the lobby.

A strange, cloaked woman has entered the doorway.

“Never mind,” he adds.

She pulls out a dagger; the tip shines in the light.

“Uhhhh…”

“Oh, Bennnn? Think it’s your shift,” he says with a devious grin, trying to stick the job onto someone else.

Christine stands tall, unbothered; the reflection glints in her cheery eyes.

“Hello >:)”

-

The woman grows closer.

“Tickets at 5.99,” she tells the stranger.

“I wish to give an offering to you,” says the cold voice.

“Cash or card?” Christine responds unfazed.

“Wha… No! I want to prove I am worthy.” The woman teases her skin with the blade. The edge trails along her arm, close to drawing blood.

“Haloumi is 4.99 extra :)”

Her typical robotic tone offputs the cloaked stranger.

“I… Better come back.” She runs away, embarrassed.

Max, previously nonchalantly hiding in the corner, suddenly slams his palms on the counter.

“Okay, new girl… How the hell did you out weird that psycho?”

His finger pokes her face. Christine playfully tries to bite it back with her classic quiet growl.

“Yannnn >:)”

Stacy's soft voice squeaks from the kitchen window. “Why do I think this will be a regular occurrence?”

“How long until they date?” Ben says.

The two look at each other and laugh in the background until they wheeze. They have no idea who this new girl is, but know this is only the start of what’s to come.

Guten Morgen Deutschland!

We left Gander Air Base in the middle of the night; one filled with a depressing combination of fog and rain.  Our subsonic flight to the east seemed to shift the darkness into fast forward as we flew headlong into the rising sun.  I nudged Morel awake as we cleared the clouds on our descent into Frankfurt.  Everything not covered with buildings or plowed pavement was white.  Morel, a native Floridian, was stunned. “How come it's all white?” he asked.  “That is snow” I answered, watching his face as he tried to gain some understanding.  “That much?” he said, more to himself than an actual question.  Frankfurt was indeed buried under at least 10 inches of new snow.  He was silent until we neared the runway.  “Is it cold?” he said with his face pressed to the window.  I could have tried to explain, but the explanation would be self-revealing all too soon. 

As we jolted onto the runway, the notion of who I was, what I was and where I was all melted into an adrenalin charged lump in my throat.  Take the hill!  Survive!  Go back to the world!

After waiting around in the terminal for our bags to show up, and for the Army to figure out all the paperwork necessary to claim its human baggage, we boarded a bus for the Transient Barracks.  Even with the relatively good German language skills I had acquired from Frau Bell in high school, culture shock was a hard, sudden reality. Everything was foreign except the “Trink Coca Cola” signs.  Some things, like life, death, taxes and evidently Coca Cola are universal.

The Transient Barracks complex looked more like a prison compound.  Located somewhere in what I estimated to be central Frankfurt, they were surrounded by stone walls at least 15 feet high and strung with barbed wire along the top.  Four large, three story buildings occupied the rear portion of the compound.  The front area had two or three smaller buildings (I learned later that one was a mini PX / barber shop) and to the right as you entered the main gate were two other large buildings.  One housed the mess hall and a dingy little NCO Club (serving cheap pizza and beer), the other was a gymnasium.

We fell out of the buses into a loose formation with all of our bags, about 45 of us.  As our names were called from a roster, we were assigned to different rooms and given transient orders specifying when to report to the admin room.  Morel was assigned to a different building. I never saw him again.

I felt alone and the sense of self-preservation made me cautious about locking everything anytime I even turned my back.  At the appointed time I reported to the admin room for processing.  A very bored Sergeant reviewed all my paperwork, then determined I was “duty specific”, meaning I was already assigned to a unit.  He gave me a brief description of the facilities, chow times, a time to report to the gymnasium the next morning and a strict warning not to leave the post.

There were still a few hours till dinner mess, so I sat out in the commons area hoping to catch a glimpse of Morel.  Seated across from me at another table were a group of MPs that had evidently all trained together.  I could hear their conversation as they nervously joked together.  An officer came into the room, looked around and approached their table.  It seems they had all trained as canine handlers.  All their dogs had died from a failure in the oxygen supply on the plane over from the US.  They were being split up and reassigned to regular MP posts throughout Germany.  Their disbelief devolved into blind rage and then stunned silence.

Feeling like I was an intruder on their grief, I returned to my room to check on my gear.  I wrote a short letter home.  My roommate came back to grab his hat and said he was on his way to the chow hall, so I joined him.  After dinner I went back to my room, took stock of my belongings once again and repacked a few items.  I had agreed to meet my roommate in the NCO club for a few games of pool, so I checked my locks and walked across the lot to the club.  Cheap pizza never tasted so good.  We played pool, plugged the juke box, shared the comradery of transients and clung unknowingly to anything American.  Breakfast and assembly was scheduled very early the next morning so I got up to leave.  Walking toward the door I recognized the MP group from earlier in the day.  Together in a semi-circular booth, their grief had evolved into flowing tears, cursing and beers.

Half way across the compound I stopped in the cold, clear January night and looked skyward.  Although I don't claim to be an astronomer, I could tell that this was not the same night sky I was used to seeing in North Loup Nebraska.  North Loup seemed like a long way away, time and distance.  I pondered just how far away as I lay in my bunk, looking out the window over the top of the barbed wire.  Checking my locks once more, I set my alarm clock close to my head and tried to sleep.  I think I did.

My one-night roommate was still asleep when I left for breakfast.  He was still asleep when I returned to pick up my bags and head to the gymnasium.  He wasn't scheduled to ship out for another two days.  I checked the area for anything I might have left unpacked, grabbed my duffel bag, suitcase and gym bag and hauled everything over to the gym.  There were at least a hundred other GI's sitting in the bleachers.  A group of sergeants and officers down on the floor talked to each other, hurried in and out, shuffled papers and talked on phones for no less than two hours.  Finally they turned on a PA microphone and told us to “take seats and listen up - -as your name is called bring your gear to the floor and report to Sgt Bell.”  Sgt Bell raised his hand and stepped a couple paces to the side of the group.  Gradually, in lots of two, three or four, names were called.  The GI's would report to Sgt Bell, listen to some instructions and exit through a side door with one of the other NCOs.

“Neary, Michael---Keown, Thomas----Davis, Harry” Of course, no one ever pronounces my name correctly but this was the closest I'd heard all day so I grabbed my bags and made my way down to the floor.  Two other GI's got there about the same time I did.  We eyed each other like grade schoolers picking sides for a kickball game.  Sgt. Bell read off our names again and I confirmed I was indeed part of this group.  He quietly studied some paperwork in his hands then looked up at us.  “You three are reporting to the 11^th Armored Cavalry Regiment, 3^rd Squadron, in Bad Hersfeld.  I knew I was going to the 11^th ACR, but Fulda was the town on my enlistment papers, so I questioned the Sgt.  “The headquarters is in Fulda, but the 3^rd is in Bad Hersfeld.  That’s where you boys are going.”  I was trying to decide if this was significant when he handed me three large manila envelopes.  “Your poop sheet says you have some German language skills, so you're going to help me make sure all three of you make it to your post.  Grab your bags and follow these two Sgts. to the van outside, they'll take you down to the bahnhof (train station) and get you squared away.  Good luck Troopers.”

During the van ride to the train station it became evident that Neary and Davis knew each other.  They had trained together in Artillery School at Fort Sill.  Harry Davis was a big brute from West Virginia with a wild look in his eye that said “I'm gonna raise hell and there ain't nothing you can do about it.”  Michael Neary was a natural as his sidekick, average in stature, the son of a hard-working blue collar family in Buffalo NY.  I'm sure we made some small talk, but I wasn't part of their team yet and my thoughts were racing by faster than the shops and street signs on the road we took to the station.  Everything I thought I knew seemed absurd in relation to the overwhelming combination of antique architecture and shiny new buildings.  I had taken two train trips as a very small child but remembered nothing from the experiences other than the fact that I had ridden on them.  The notion of taking a train to our post was such a sudden reality I didn't have time to form my expectations.  As it turned out, no expectations could have prepared me for the Frankfurt Bahnhof.  The station was of such immense proportions I was stunned.  As the van stopped along the curb by an entry way, I couldn't even see the building’s full dimensions.

All understanding is accomplished by interpreting what we see or experience in terms of what we have previously seen or experienced.  I had nothing in my past that allowed me to relate to what I was seeing.  The Frankfurt Bahnhof has 14 railroad tracks that lead to its seemingly infinite interior.   The translucent ceiling appears to hang in space, hundreds of feet above the platform.  The volume of space contained in the station is such that one hardly notices the massive infrastructure of steel beams that support the building.  Entire passenger trains seem no more significant in this space than trucks at a loading dock.

One end is completely open where the trains enter.  The enclosed end houses a ticket office, baggage handling rooms, various shops and doors that led to other, unknown places.  Up a flight of stairs was a USO station.  I already had our tickets, so the two escorts led us up the flight of stairs and we locked our bags in some lockers.  Back downstairs they took us on a brief tour of the platforms, acquainting us with the track from which our train would depart.  One of the Sgts. pointed to a man behind the desk in the USO and told us if we had questions to ask him. With that they were gone and our isolation from familiarity grew more intense.  We had a good three hour wait for our “Abfarht” (departure) so Davis and Neary went straight back to the USO.  I retraced our steps to Track 12 where we would board our train.  A vendor was selling hot bratwurst and brotchen from a pushcart.  Another was selling flowers.  I did not yet understand that most German businesspeople would gladly accept US dollars and provide Deutschmark change.  (they enjoyed a healthy profit on their makeshift exchange rate).  The bratwurst smelled delicious in the cold air, but I rejoined the guys upstairs and settled for a bag of chips and coke from the vending machines.

The crowd of GI's thinned out as the afternoon wore on.  Without betraying my concern that I might cause our threesome to miss the train I confirmed our departure details with the man at the desk.  Everything was as I thought, but he did caution me on the punctuality of the German train system.  If a departure is scheduled for 4:00pm, the train will be well in its way by 4:02!

At 3:30 I suggested to Davis and Neary that we grab our bags out of the lockers and go wait on the platform. They were just as bored with waiting as I and we struck up a conversation about our upcoming train ride.  To this point the three of us had been polite strangers, like people sharing the waiting room at a doctor’s office.  However, the Army has a certain structure that dictates to some extent how you choose your friends.  In basic training we were platooned in alphabetical order and consequently my friends had names like Kelley, Kading, Kendra, Louderbach and Johnson.  Comradery of circumstance was now beginning to forge its special bond between Davis, Neary and me.

The steady coming and going of trains, and the attendant bustle of people boarding and de-boarding can create a lot of commotion and with it, anxiety and confusion.  A train pulled onto the track behind us.  Was this the one?  Were we facing the wrong side of the platform?  Convinced I was correct we held steady as the other train loaded and pulled out.  Right on time another arrived on Track 12.  As it slowed to a steamy stop in front of us I noticed a “2” on the side of the car, right next to the doorway.  Correctly assuming this indicated 2^nd class (our tickets were for 2^nd class) we hurried to board the car directly in front of us.

The train car had a narrow corridor on one side which allowed access to four individual cabins along the opposite side.  Struggling down the corridor with our bags, we peaked into each cabin till we found the third one to be empty.  The entry door slid open to the right.  Each cabin has two rows of three seats, facing each other.  Above the seats were luggage racks, a larger one on top and a narrower one below it.  The outer wall of the cabin had a large window extending from the ceiling to approximately three feet above floor level.  The window was divided into three panels.  The center section was one solid pane of glass while the two side sections could be opened by sliding the top half down.

I took a seat next to the window, stowing my suitcase up top and forcing my duffel bag under my seat.  Neary took the center seat on the opposite side and Davis took the seat nearest the door on my side.  We had only barely had time to get seated when the train jostled to a start.  The jolt of the train beginning to move also seemed to have brought us to a new realization.  The past few days had been one blunt awakening after another.  Leaving home after the holidays with family.  Processing for overseas deployment.  Flying over.  A day in the Transient Barracks.  Orders to go.  The trip to the train station.  The train station.  And now, the three of us, pretty much strangers, on a train heading to some place named Bad Hersfeld.

We cleared the station slow at first, making a few stops on the way out of Frankfurt at smaller stations.  The sun was hanging low in the west as the suburbs gave way to the German countryside.  A lot of it looked familiar.  Scattered houses, small farms, pastures and hillsides.  Yet everything was just a little different.  Maybe it was the architecture, or the more compact nature of the farms, or the look of the farm animals, but it was different.  Between taking in every new thing we could see and fighting the fear of the unknown, it was hard to maintain a coherent pattern of thought.

In what seemed a moment the sun was behind the hills and darkness settled outside the train, kept from entering our cabin only by a couple small fluorescent tubes and a light from the hallway.  Davis was the first to break the silence.  “Hey Keywon, didn't they say you spoke German?  Let's go find some Kraut babes and you can rap with them for us!”  His words shook me from my trancelike stare out the window into the blackness.  “Uh...year. Sure.”

With that he was up and opening the door out into the hallway of our train car.  Neary was right on his heels and their momentum kind of carried me along with them.  I took a quick look around to make sure I could remember our cabin since ALL OF OUR WORDLY POSSESSIONS were in there, unguarded.  Little did I know that would be the first of uncountable occasions on which Harry would lead us away from reason and into the world of “why shouldn't we?”.

As we made our way down the narrow corridor of a hall we looked into each cabin and made comments on each of the inhabitants.  After passing through two cars the inevitable happened.....Kraut babes...three of them, were headed down the corridor our way.  The distance between us closed and when the timing was right I blurted out, in German, “Hello, my name is Thomas, what are your names?” Hearing the words come out of my mouth startled me.  Their response was even more startling because I could understand them.  Frau Bell had taught me well!  Then it hit me...what do I say now?  Our canned conversations from class did not involve trying to hit on girls.  “We are in the basement, don't bump your head on the lamp when you come down.” isn't exactly a pick-up line! 

I struggled through any phrases I could conjure that might apply, but all I could do was elicit giggles and polite looks of surprise.  The moment was over, and they moved down the corridor, giggling and casting occasional glances back at us, then more giggling.

“What'd they say Kewon...what'd they say?”  Davis wanted to know.

“They liked me and Neary but wanted nothing to do with you!” I teased, feeling emboldened from the seemingly successful first foray into the German language.  “No they didn't!”, he shoved me a little to make his point.  For some reason it seemed like we all took heart from the encounter. We'd pretty much failed miserably.  But we had communicated with German girls - -we had a chance.  We walked along to the next car...didn't see anything interesting and headed back to the safe familiarity of our cabins.  Our bags were untouched.   Settling into our seats we were just starting to wonder how the post would be when the conductor knocked on the door to our cabin. “Your tickets please” he spoke in very good English with just a hint of his native accent.  We handed him our tickets, which are nothing more than little cardboard rectangles about half the size of a stick of gum.  My confidence was still high from our recent experience with the girls.  “Wie viel mehr halten bis zum Bad Hersfeld?” (How many more stops till Bad Hersfeld) I blurted out.  The conductor stopped cold still.  He looked at me, first in surprise, then nodding his head as if we'd just become the best of friends.  With a broad smile he said slowly and clearly “Es gibt noch vier mehr halten bis zum Bad Hersfeld”. (Four more stops before Bad Hersfeld).  He handed Neary back his ticket, nodded in my direction again and left our cabin.  Frau Bell was, in that instant, my hero.  However much fun we made of her back in high school German class, that woman had taught me how to speak German.  I could, at some level at least, communicate in this new world.

We counted the stops as the train began to clear out the further we got away from Frankfurt.  At one point the conductor stopped back, stuck his head in the door and looked directly at me.. “Bad Hersfeld am nachste halt.  Warten Sie neben die Ausgang”  (Next stop is Bad Hersfeld, wait by the exit door)  He smiled, nodded and went on his way.  He was a few steps down the corridor before my brain was able to finish the translation.  Remembering the warning earlier in the day about the punctuality of the German train system I told Neary and Davis our stop was coming and that we should grab our bags and wait by the exit door.  “Damn Kewon..you can really rap that Kraut crap!” Davis said as we hauled our stuff down the corridor.  I didn't yet realize that being able to “rap that Kraut crap” would open doors to me that were closed for most G.I.s.

“Coming to Bad Hersfeld next stop, be careful when you exit” the voice came over the intercom. (I'll dispense with the German translation, I'm sure by now I've impressed you with my language skills.)  We huddled near the exit like racehorses at the post.  We could see the lights of the city slow from a blur and start to take on the appearance of store windows, streetlights, houses and parking lots.  Our train stopped between two platforms, the doors opened and we jumped out onto the platform with our bags in tow.  Emerging from the car ahead of us I spotted another guy in Army fatigues.  As he walked our way I stopped him.  “Are you stationed here in Bad Hersfeld?” I asked.  Panic had suddenly overcome any confidence I had gained on the train ride.  Our instruction set ended with our arrival in Bad Hersfeld.  I had no information on where the post was or how we were to get there.  “Yeah..are you guys 'Cruits?” he offered.  “We're being stationed at Bad Hersfeld. Our instructions don't give any info on how to get to the post once we get here” my voice betrayed the calm I was trying to portray “do you think there will be somebody here to pick us up?”

“I doubt it” he said walking away with his bags “you'll probably need to take a taxi” 

By the time we got our bags in hand, he was gone.  We walked from the platform into the small station, crossed the open lobby and stepped out back into the night.  A clean plaza fronted the station, with a circular drive on the far side.  A cab was just leaving, probably with the GI we’d seen getting off the train. Another was waiting in line.  We approached like the lost foreigners we were.

Before we were halfway across the plaza the taxi driver was out of the cab headed our way.  “To Green Hotel?” he said.  Then, seeing our blank stares he added “the kaserne…Army post?”  “Yes” I replied, “we want to go the Army post”.   He grabbed my small bag and waved us on.  “Ok, good, I take you.”

“Well, we just got here and we don’t have any German money” I said, a bit too tired and shook to try my German.  “Is ok, if you have American dollars, I make the change for you”.  Not sure how that worked exactly, I was just glad to have a ride.  We loaded the rest of our bags into the trunk and climbed into the car.  Once we started to move, Davis spoke up “Dang…never been in a nice Mercedes.”  Our cab was indeed a very nice Mercedes sedan.

The streets flew by and in a few short minutes, we were parked in front of the post, across the street from the gatehouse and single draw bar gate that was down.  Staring like the new kids in school, we hadn’t moved to get out before the driver had the trunk open and was unloading our bags on the ground behind the car.  I got out and walked up to him, with a $20 bill in my hand.  “Will this work?”  He grabbed the bill “Ja, sure.  One moment”  He stuffed the bill into his wallet and pulled out several odd D-mark notes and a few coins, then handed them to me.  “Ok?”  I had no idea what I’d paid for the fare, but it didn’t matter.  We’d made it to the post. “Ja, vielen dank!” I said, my confidence returning.  3961

“Welcome to McPheeter’s Barrack - -Home to the 3^rd Squadron of the 11^th Armored Cavalry” read the sign above the lowered gate.  We were in the right place, 3^rd of the 11^th.

As we walked toward the guard shack a soldier stepped out to meet us.  “New guys?” he said without much interest.  “Yes, were you expecting us?” I blurted out.  “Uh, no” long pause, then “which unit are you supposed to be in?”  “How Battery” Neary said.

“How Battery is the first floor of that building right over there”, he pointed to the first building on the right side of the road leading into the post.  Even in the dark, the sickly green color of the paint was visible. I remembered the cab driver had referenced “The Green Hotel”.  On that side of the road were four identical buildings arrayed one after the other, going up the slope of the hill into the post.  The guard was already heading back into the guard shack “go into the second door at the far end of the building, somebody should be at the desk.” 

As we started to walk across the street towards our assigned barracks, Davis nudged me and pointed to a second-floor window, where a guy had his head sticking out, vomiting violently.  Steam was trailing down through the cold air, following his disgusting output. After another couple steps, a first-floor window in the next building up opened and a trooper stuck his head out, yelling in our direction “Cruits!  Cruits!  Go back!! Turn and run now while you can..hahahahahaha!!!!”  Then the window shut.  

“Hell of a welcome huh guys” Harry added, laughing.

Quietly I thought to myself.  “Was my mom right?  What am I doing here?”

https://www.wattpad.com/1644830467?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

Summary:

In the summer of 1984, eighteen-year-old Teresia Elkund is pulled from the life she knows and brought to Glenwood, where her mother’s new husband serves as assistant pastor at The Well Fellowship. They move into the apartment attached to the church, where private lives have a way of becoming very public.

Teresia has never believed the way the people around her expect her to. She writes instead, filling notebooks with the things she cannot say aloud. Then she meets Charles Connors, the pastor’s son, a boy with a past everyone else seems willing to excuse. Their relationship begins in secrecy and quickly becomes something neither family can control.

As the walls around her begin to close in, Teresia must decide how much of herself she is willing to surrender to be accepted, and what it will cost her if she refuses.

Link: https://www.wattpad.com/1602820409-teresia-chapter-1-the-move

Sup my wowza readers! Here is part 7 to my short story called Fume Sighs from the Oceanside. I hope you enjoy it! Thank you for your time.

Part 7 “A Beacon”

During the fall, Nico felt an oddity within his own body. Something circulated in every space of his body, through every vein, into even his very thoughts. Like a rush of water, it poured into every trace of his human body until it surfaced up towards his head. The feeling of being overwhelmed was not enough words to describe for Nico. Instead, it was a feeling of unfamiliarity. In his own body? How could that be so? It felt almost like an eternity as his body dropped like a rock into the ocean. The air felt colder, stiffer on his skin. Almost like it felt wrong to be touched by the air. Nico heard shouts from above, but his hearing was glossy and distant. All was lost and unfamiliar, that is, until he finally plummeted into the dark waters below. Once his body touched the water, all the pain, unfamiliarity and the strange feeling had all disappeared. The cloudy mind, the stiff skin, the unfamiliar feeling of being in his own body, all washed away upon diving into Oceanus’ domain. Now the jolt now felt as close to him as his mother’s warm embrace when he was born. Nico fell though, he continued to fall until his body touched the sea floor. He was now surrounded by orange reefs that hide him from sight. Nico opens his eyes for the first time, and believed to see a face. A female face staring down at him. He reaches out towards the face, but his arm felt as heavy as stone. Instead, he opts to just returning the stare back to the woman. She stares down with heavy disappointment and…depression. “Depression? Why do you look upon me with such sadness?” Nico said out loud. “I am in such a sorry state, that you must look at me like so?” Once Nico blinks, the woman’s face became clearer. Nico’s eyes widen upon noticing familiar traces of her face. “Thessa?” Nico said in a weak manner. Again, he tries to sit-up, but his body felt too heavy. “Thessa…I…I don’t know…” He said as he reaches up once again towards the sadden face. The face then slowly fades away into nothingness. “Wh-what? Was that a…hallucination?” Nico takes note of his hand, much larger in a bluish grey tone like his beloved. “What?” Nico manages to sit-up with the usage of the reefs around him. He finds that his entire body is larger with slightly larger muscles, webbed feet and a symbol of what looked to be waves on the center of his chest. Touching the sides of his neck, he felt 4 slits across the edges. “What kind of trick is this?” Nico had also noticed that his sight underwater was clearer then ever before. “Thessa, I didn’t mean to break your orb. Part of you…what does this mean through? Am I now apart of you? I must wait for you to return to…the ship! I must return to the ship! Surely, they’re still looking for me!” Even though his body felt weighted down, Nico struggled but successfully managed to lift himself up and swim towards the surface. Once he was up towards the surface, he could not find the Human Typhon anywhere in sight. There was a sudden sharp pain in his ears that caused him to recoil and grab at his ears to numb the pain. It did not numb the pain one but, but thankfully, the sharp pain went away just as quickly as it began. “What is going on? Oceanus, please guide me to my questions.” Nico waited for a moment before he decided to swim towards the southwest where he knew his home would be located. How long would it take him? By swimming, perhaps a year. There was no way he could tread the waters by himself. There was no…wait. “What kind of…hang on…I’m swimming at great speed?” Nico surprises himself as he swam with strong thrusts that shot him forward at least 8 feet at a time. “Has Thessa accidently gifted me the power of a Mer?” Nico thought to himself. “With my odd color of my body…” He takes a thorough look over his body, and finds several areas with his tan skinned still exposed around the written symbols of his leg and arm. “Ah…just spots on my body. Perhaps…could I…join Thessa now?” Nico grips his hands into fist before looking back up to observe the distance placed before him. “First, I must return home.” Nico went on swimming. His stride outshined the best Olympic swimmers, as in no time, he managed to swim the distance of a small island without breaking a sweat. However, this would soon end as he finally came across a ship. “Human Typhon!” Nico thought excitedly. “Now I’ll be able to return home!” The large ship was anchored in place. The color was a bit off, perhaps from the battle with the goblin devil, but it still had the same beauty she’s always had. There were sailors watching Nico as he approached the ship. Before he could reach out a hand to wave, the sailors threw over a net that captured Nico immediately. They haul him over with no dely. On the side of the ship, that Nico missed, it read ‘The Phantom’s Wish’. “Aye! Not so rough guys! It’s just me!” Nio was then plopped roughly onto the ship where he was surrounded by many gritty, dirty and scary looking pirates.

“Aye! ‘Tis a strange mermaid?” One of the larger pirates asked. “Look at its skin, it be a mermaid alrighty!” said another. “Ye idiot, thar's no tail!” Another one pointed out. A small fight broke as they were arguing over Nico’s appearance. Nico just watched in horror. He realizes his great mistake. Suddenly, heavy stomps filled the air, and everyone stopped their fussing to watch the tallest and largest of them all peer down on Nico with an evil smirk on his face. His beard was full, his skin was dark and he wore the captain’s hat.

“Well, well me young swabbies. Looks like we 'ave some scallywag far from home.” He croaked out a chuckle, along with the rest of his crew. Nico was still much too weak to put up a fight. The captain drew his sword. “Ah, ye're a part o' me crew now. 'n ye'll be helpin' us capture more o' yer kind. Ye won't struggle. Ye won't argue. 'cause dat's the way it goes wit' Cap'n Phantom. They say Davy Jones' Locker be the worse, well, we'll show ye who’s the worse.” And that they did. For a few months, Nico felt pain like he had never experienced before. He was tied up on the front of the ship and gagged. The phantom crew would stab at him to make sure he was alive, deliver jabs and kicks onto his head to keep him awake, and burn his skin just for fun. All the while, Nico’s skin would heal itself at an exponential rate. This would only cause the pirates to continue their torment. Even though his skin would heal, the scars never did, nor did his memory. The worse part is, that for whatever reason, Nico’s presence caused many mermaids to find their way over to be tricked and captured for their tails. The Phantom’s Wish was certainly granted. Time in and time out, the mermaids’ bodies of those he recognized: the Pinchers and Thessa’s people. His heart would ache upon seeing the bluish tone skins, hoping and praying to Oceanus that it wouldn’t be his beloved. The mermaids begged, they cried out from the pain. They pleaded with Nico to help them, but there was nothing he would do…but he was determined to put an end to this. “I’m sorry.” He muttered during the night through heavy tears. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.” Nico believed his strength was linked to the ocean, and being away from it caused him to become weaker. That is, until a stormy night, the ship clashed with high tides that fell over onto the surface of the ship. Nico felt great wrath for the mermaids that were killed and raging hatred for the pirates that tortured him day in and day out. With ease, he torn himself from the ropes and slaughtered many of the pirates with his impressive strength. They tabbed him with their swords, but no one would stop his reckless presence. Even captain phantom wasn’t sparred. Nico informs the captain, “Oceanus demanded his debt to be paid and that I shall.” Nico rips his left arm clear out from his socket then departs the ship. Even in the storm, Nico could sense who dwelled in the waters. He found a giant squid heading towards the Phantom’s Wish, and bid them good riddance. The young man continued forward. Thankfully, Nico managed to find his way back towards home and prepares for the worst outcome due to his new appearance. However, something even stranger happens to him. Once he had washed up on shore, his body gave way to a weight that rendered him immobilized. Then, his eyes were the next ones to become heavy. Nico would awaken to over thrilled guppies that tried dragging him closer to town, crying that it was a miracle he was alive, that Oceanus must have heard their prayers. Several men came along and brought him to a warm bed. They were practically clinging to him like static before Nico fell asleep again. When he wakes up, he is greeted by the captain and Marc. “Wait. Does my appearance not bother you?” Nico asked. He quickly scans over his arms, but they did not have the odd color nor the written symbols.

“Other than the many scars you received from probably the many sharks that tried taking you down!” Marc commented. Marc swears he watched Nico get carried off by the sea, but thanks Oceanus that he is alive.

The captain requested that Marc would step out to speak to the captain alone. Marc hesitated while staring over at Nico, but then obliged. Once he was out of the room, the captain said, “Tell me what happened.” Nico explains to the captain what had transpired; what he had endured. “You know why every soul here is crying? Why they can’t stop looking at yer face?” The captain questioned. Nico remained silent, confused on what he was trying to tell him. “My boy, you’ve been gone for a year.”

THE LITTLE MERCHANT
A Story of the Blackwood Manor

---

Chapter One: The Iron Gates

The iron gates of Blackwood Manor groaned shut with a sound like the closing of a tomb. Beyond them, the cart that had brought him here was already disappearing into the snow, his parents' silhouettes shrinking to nothing against the white horizon. They had not looked back. Not once.

Paul stood alone in the cavernous stone foyer, his bare feet cold against the flagstones, his thin tunic scarcely enough to ward off the chill that seeped from every wall. He was eight years old. He had been sold for two silver coins—the price of a good hen, he would later learn. His mother had not even needed the money.

The foyer smelled of damp stone and old tallow and something faintly metallic. Torches guttered in their sconces, casting long, dancing shadows that made the faces of the household seem to shift and warp like demons in a fever dream.

Richard, the man who had purchased him, did not look back. His heavy boots echoed down a dark corridor, each step a dismissal. "He's yours to break in," his voice drifted back, flat and cold. "I'll deal with him if he's still useless by morning."

And then Paul was alone with them.

Amelia emerged from the shadows first, her gown the color of dried blood, her smile too wide, too pleased. She glided toward him with the grace of a predator who has spotted wounded prey, and when her cold finger traced the line of his jaw, Paul did not flinch. He had learned long ago that flinching only made things worse.

Behind her, three boys loomed in the archway. Garrick, the eldest, cracked his knuckles like a promise of violence to come. Vane, thin and sharp, smiled with the quiet cruelty of someone who enjoyed pain as an art form. And Bram, the youngest, simply watched with pale eyes that missed nothing and revealed less.

Only one face in the darkness held anything resembling kindness. Old Silas, the steward—bent like a winter tree, his hands gnarled by decades of service—caught Paul's eye and mouthed a single word: Careful.

The game had begun.

---

Chapter Two: The Predator's Smile

"Hello, little one."

Amelia's voice was honey laced with poison. She crouched before him, her dark eyes roaming his face with a hunger that made the cold foyer feel even colder. Her breath smelled of sweet wine and something sour beneath.

"Such beautiful manners. They didn't beat the spirit out of you yet, did they?"

Paul looked at her. He saw the predator's smile, the calculating eyes, the hands that had destroyed so many children before him. And he thought of his mother. The one who had given him the scar across his ribs. The one who had sold him for two silver coins she did not need.

"Hello," he said.

He walked toward her. He did not run. He did not cry. He walked toward the monster with the steady steps of a boy who had already faced worse and survived.

Amelia's smile widened. She did not yet understand what had just walked through her door.

---

Chapter Three: The First Negotiation

That night, in her chambers—a room of crimson velvet and flickering candles and the cloying scent of roses—Amelia learned.

She had expected tears. She had expected begging. She had expected the same broken performance every child gave, the same empty promises, the same desperate lies. What she received instead was honesty.

"I know what you will do," Paul said, his small hands bandaged from the day's labor, his voice steady despite the cold knot of fear in his belly. "I know I can't change it. So I will learn to act the best. What's better, my lady—for me to beg and get hurt and maybe killed later, or for me to accept it and not have bruises?"

Amelia had stared at him. For the first time in forty years, the Lady of Blackwood Manor was speechless.

"You speak like a soldier," she whispered finally. "A soldier who's seen too many battles and knows he won't survive the war."

And then, to her own astonishment, she told him about her uncle. The one who had come to her chamber when she was eight years old. The one who had told her she was special, that no one else would ever love her, that she should be grateful for his attention. The one who had died choking on a fish bone while she watched and did nothing.

"I learned the same lesson you learned," she said. "Begging makes it worse. Crying makes them angry. So you smile. You perform. You become what they want you to be."

She looked at the boy in her bed—this strange, scarred child who had not cried, who had not begged, who had simply asked for gentleness—and felt something she had not felt in forty years.

Recognition.

"Two times a week," Paul said. "If I may dare to ask."

And the monster of the manor laughed.

---

Chapter Four: The Rules of Survival

The contract was struck that night, though neither of them wrote it down. It was inscribed instead in the space between words, in the hesitant touch of cold fingers on bandaged hands, in the silver bird pendant that had once belonged to a boy named Thomas and now hung around Paul's neck.

Two times a week. No bruises. No pain. Gentle.

In return, Paul offered something no one had ever offered Amelia before: willing participation. Not endurance. Not performance. Not the hollow pretense of affection. He offered to stay present. To learn. To cooperate freely rather than submit fearfully.

"You're negotiating," Amelia had said, incredulous. "You're actually negotiating. With me. In my chambers. Most grown men wouldn't dare."

But the boy did dare. And in daring, he changed everything.

The next morning, when Lucia—the eldest daughter, the only kind soul in a house of monsters—found him in her mother's bed, wrapped in a blanket, the silver bird glinting at his throat, she nearly wept with confusion and relief.

"She was gentle," Paul told her. "And it only happens twice a week."

Lucia had no words. In all the years her mother had been bringing children to her chambers, no one had ever come out with a contract.

---

Chapter Five: The Wolves

The brothers tested him, each in their own way.

Garrick, the brute, cornered him in the stables and found a child who did not beg. When Paul accidentally pricked his foot with a pitchfork, Garrick broke his nose with a single punch, then kicked him unconscious into the snow. But even as the darkness swallowed him, Paul did not cry. He had learned long ago that tears were wasted on monsters.

Bram, the silent one, watched from his barrel with pale, calculating eyes. He did not hurt. He did not threaten. He simply observed, cataloging every detail, searching for the secret of the boy who had survived their mother's chambers.

"You're different," Bram said. "The others cried by now. Or tried to run. You came out with a necklace."

Paul told him nothing. But he gave him something instead—a truth wrapped in a riddle. "Your mother is a book that can be read. A path that can be walked carefully."

Bram filed this away. He was patient. He would figure it out eventually.

Vane, the sadist, had not yet made his move. But he was watching too. They all were.

---

Chapter Six: The Kitchen

Below the manor, in the steam and fire of the kitchen, two old servants kept their vigil.

Marta, the cook—hard as saddle leather, sharp as a blade—took one look at Paul's bandaged hands and broken nose and felt something she had not felt in years: hope. Not for herself. For the boy.

"You've got iron in you," she told him, pressing a bowl of stew into his hands. "I don't know who put it there, but I don't think the Lady will succeed in melting it out."

Silas, the steward, pressed a smooth gray stone into Paul's palm. "I've carried this since I was your age. When I had to smile through something terrible, I'd squeeze it. Reminded me there was a world outside. A world before. A world after."

He closed the boy's fingers around the stone.

"Find your own river stone someday. Until then, borrow mine."

---

Chapter Seven: The Second Night

Two nights after the contract was struck, Paul returned to Amelia's chambers. His nose was broken. His head still ached from Garrick's kick. He was swaying on his feet, dripping blood on her expensive carpets.

And he told her she could have her second night if she wished.

Amelia stared at him. This child—this impossible, unbreakable child—was offering her something freely. Not because of the contract. Not because he was afraid. Because he wanted to.

"You're giving yourself to me," she whispered. "No one has ever done that before."

She set his nose first, her thumbs pressing the cartilage back into place while he bit down on her emerald silk gown. He did not scream. He did not cry. He just held on.

And then, when he asked her to look him in the eyes while she took what he offered—to truly see him—Amelia felt the last of her armor crack.

"If I look at you," she said, "I can't pretend. I can't hide. I'll see you. The real you. And you'll be real to me in a way no one has been real to me in forty years."

"Do it," Paul said.

And she did.

---

Chapter Eight: The Monster and the Woman

"You did horrible things," Paul told her afterward, wrapped in the blanket they now shared. "I can't deny that. But who didn't?"

He spoke of Silas, who had killed a man for bread. Of Marta, who had done unspeakable things to survive the war. Of the scars on his own body, given by a mother who had not even needed the money she sold him for.

"Everyone in this house has done horrible things," Amelia agreed. "The difference is that most of us stopped trying to be better. We accepted that we were monsters. It was easier than facing what we'd become."

But Paul had not accepted it. He had survived horrors she could only imagine, and he was still trying. Still negotiating. Still offering tactical gifts and forehead kisses and blanket-sharing.

"You see the monster," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "But you also see the woman. Which is worse, do you think? To be seen as only a monster, or to be seen as a monster who could have chosen differently?"

"I stopped looking for justice a long time ago," Paul replied.

And Amelia, the Lady of Blackwood Manor, the predator, the monster, felt something she had not felt in forty years.

She felt seen.

---

Chapter Nine: The Little Merchant

The days turned. The snow fell and melted and fell again. Paul split wood and mucked stables and endured Garrick's cruelty and Vane's mind games and Bram's silent observation. He ate stew in the kitchen with Marta and Silas, who began to look at him less like a victim and more like a comrade. He walked the careful path of his contract with Amelia, giving her two nights a week—sometimes three, when he chose to—and always, always looking her in the eyes.

And slowly, imperceptibly, the manor began to change.

Amelia smiled less like a predator and more like a woman remembering how to be human. Lucia found courage she did not know she had, standing up to Garrick in small ways. Even Bram's cold curiosity began to warm into something that might, in time, become respect.

The little merchant had come to Blackwood Manor with nothing—two silver coins, a scar from his mother, and a soul that refused to break. He had looked at the monsters and seen people. He had looked at the darkness and found cracks where the light could enter.

And though he was only eight years old, though his hands were bandaged and his nose would forever bear a small bump from Garrick's fist, Paul had done what no one else in forty years had managed.

He had begun to heal the monster of the manor. Not by forgiving her. Not by forgetting what she had done. But by refusing to let her forget who she could become.

---

Chapter Ten: The River Stone

One morning, weeks after his arrival, Paul stood at the edge of the frozen courtyard and looked out at the world beyond the iron gates. The snow was melting. Spring was coming. Somewhere beyond the manor walls, there was a river. There was a world before. There was a world after.

He reached into his pocket and felt the smooth gray stone Silas had given him—the river stone, worn by years of handling, carried through decades of survival.

One day, he would find his own river stone. One day, he would be strong enough to say no. One day, the contract would end, and he would walk through the iron gates and never look back.

But not yet. Today, there was wood to split. There were horses to feed. There was a kitchen full of warmth and two old servants who would be waiting with stew and bandages and quiet words of encouragement. There was a kind girl named Lucia who needed an ally. There were brothers to outmaneuver and a patriarch to avoid.

And there was Amelia—monster and woman, predator and wounded child, the book that could be read, the path that could be walked carefully.

Tonight, she would summon him to her chambers. He would go willingly, as he always did. He would look her in the eyes, as he always did. And perhaps, if he was lucky, he would see a little less of the monster and a little more of the woman.

The little merchant smiled, tucked the river stone back into his pocket, and went to face another day.

---

End of Part One

---

To be continued in Part Two: The Breaking of the Gates

“I haven’t been in a place like this in years.” She says as she walks into the room while taking in all the surroundings. I gesture to the leather seat in front of me as curiosity starts to pull at my thoughts.

“What, therapy?” I say as I take my seat opposite her. “No,” She says, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “A place where people think that they are safe.”

I crinkle my brows a bit in confusion, questions swimming in my mind. I ignore the urge to ask her to elaborate, but instead, I move to the next topic at hand.

“So, Ms. Sterning. Let’s get you started, shall we?”

She sits back casually. Legs crossed, posture relaxed like she owns this place. Though her demeanor is almost unreadable. Her eyes, especially, are dark brown, almost black, like they hold dark memories, as if it has experienced horrible things before.

I shake away my thoughts. With my pen set on the paper, I’m ready to do my job. Professional. Detached.

“Tell me, Ms. Sterning, let’s start with your childhood, shall we? Tell me a little bit about how you came to be.”

She sits back again, eyes on me. I shift in my seat, suddenly feeling a bit uncomfortable with her seemingly piercing gaze on me.

After a brief pause, she starts to answer my question.

“Well, I had a normal childhood. You know, two loving parents, a roof over my head. I had everything I could need.” Her eyes falter for a moment, like she’s holding something back.

A moment of silence goes by. I look up from my clipboard, patiently waiting for her to finish her story.

“I had a best friend too. We were inseparable since birth. You see, our moms were best friends in high school, so it was only natural for their children to become best friends as well.” Her gaze travels for a moment. A warm smile plastered on her face as she reminisced about old memories.

“Sadly, when high school started, she had to move away.” Her smile started to fade slowly.

“But even then, I never forgot her. We kept in touch, but that gradually stopped until her yearly postcards were no more. So then I took the initiative to pay her a visit. However, when I arrived at the same address from which the postcards were sent, no one answered. The house seemed empty of furniture too, so I assumed that whoever lived here does not live in this house anymore.” She folded her hands in her lap. She leaned forward. Came close to me. Too close for comfort. Her eyes almost look menacing.

“I know it was you who did it, Caden.”

—

My eyes shoot open. I bolt upright in my bed. I can’t breathe. My heart is beating rapidly. Sweat beads cover my forehead. These nightmares are starting to get too vivid. I look over at my nightstand and sure enough, there it is, 3 am on the dot.

This has become some sort of routine now. Each night, I’ve been getting nightmares that feel too real. However, this is the first time that this woman appeared in my nightmares. There was something about her. Her presence felt too real. This is nonsense. It was just a dream, go back to sleep. I lay back down and close my eyes in an attempt to fall asleep, but I can’t shake off this feeling of paranoia. Her voice still echoes in my head. I know that it was you…

—

My eyes scan over the document I’m holding. I have a new patient today. Something catches my attention. My eyes widen in realization. The patient’s name reads “Anastasia Sterning”. Sterning. Sterning. Where have I heard that name before? My mind instantly goes back to the nightmare I had this morning. My heart sinks, and my breathing becomes a little more noticeable. This can’t be. This can’t be the same woman, right?

The sudden knocking at my office snaps me out of my thoughts. Is it time already? Anastasia Sterning is currently right outside that door. Waiting.

You’re being ridiculous. It was just a damn nightmare. I open the door, and there she is. Her presence…it feels too familiar. Those eyes. I’ve seen those eyes before.

“It’s been years since I’ve been in a place like this.” My attention quickly turns back to her. Oh, this can’t be. Am I having another nightmare?

“Care to elaborate, Ms. Sterning?” Calm and collected, such a big contrast to the actual thoughts forging immense uneasiness within me as we speak.

“Well, last time I was in therapy, I was only just a teenager.” Oh, thank God. I sigh in relief.

“Well, that’s the circle of life, I suppose,” I say, shrugging with an unapologetic smile. She sits on the seat opposite mine. I study her quite closely. She leans back, so comfortably in fact that if someone were to come in here, they would mistake the owner of this office. My body fills with déjà vu. This feels like a movie im rewatching for the second time. Everything feels the same.

There is something about her presence, though. It’s unsettling. It feels like she knows something that I don’t. That feeling alone is enough to eat me up from the inside. What is your deal, Ms. Sterning?

—

My eyes are on her patient file again. There is just something about this woman that I can’t place. My eyes read her name over and over again, as if in doing so I’d get an answer to all these bizarre questions. Maybe I will find what I so desperately seek. Some comfort to ease my racing mind. Contrary to the horrid nightmare I had this morning, talking to Ms. Sterning was much more pleasant than I had initially anticipated. She was friendly, open. Her conversation was light. I could tell that she avoided the heavy parts of the conversation, though. Oftentimes, shying away from certain topics, redirecting my questions elsewhere.

The phone rings. The sound pierces the quiet air, making me nearly jump.

“Dr. Wright speaking, how can I help you?”

Silence. “Hello?” I say, slightly concerned. Breathing becomes noticeable on the other end of the line. The breathing becomes heavier by the second.

“She knows what you did.”

The line runs dead.

What?

https://www.wattpad.com/1644552088?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

I picked this up after seeing it on the best sellers lists for several weeks.

I'm about 25% of the way through so no spoilers please, but... Has someone who read this book and enjoyed it give me hope that it gets better?

So far it just reads like a Hallmark Channel movie. The characters are so unrealistically corny and naive. It's obviously building up to some twist regarding Theo but I'm hoping the payoff is worth it.

**Synopsis:** Game theory goes out the window when a sociopath executioner lines up four men to see how far his blade will go.

**After Dinner Conversation** is a growing series of award-winning short stories across genres to draw out deeper discussions with friends and family. Each story is an accessible example of an abstract ethical or philosophical idea and is accompanied by suggested discussion questions.

*★★★ If you enjoy this story, subscribe via our website to "****After Dinner Conversation Magazine****" and get this, and other, similar ethical and philosophical short stories delivered straight to your inbox every month. (Just search "After Dinner Conversation Magazine")★★★*

PART ONE:

Neil sat silently in the bustling coffee shop on the corner of 4th and 9th. The dim orange lights shined softly over his brown hair, illuminating the unkemptness of it as well as making the soft wrinkles in his coat more profound. All around, people murmured as they started their days. Phones were ringing, people were holding contests over who was more burnt out and overworked. Casual conversations scattered about life, love, work, and all other daily nuances in between. A few tables over he could hear a child crying. He winced as it screamed, further aiding his annoyance to a  day that had barely begun.
He placed one earphone in, trying to tune out the howling child, and pretended not to notice the apologetic mother frantically scrambling to gather her things and drag the unruly kid out.
He was good at that. Drowning out the world around him. For a second, a smile crossed his lips. He was doing that. Muting himself down to just a small glimpse of someone close enough to human. That was the goal. That was his job.
He liked it that way. He depended on it, not being noticeable. Never one to draw attention, never one to crumble. Everything he did was measured. Calculated. Carefully considered before being put to action. He spent his life placing himself in a box, one where all angles were equal and measured.  He was never too early or too late. Never enough of anything to be talked about. Just enough to coast under the radar without drawing any attention whatsoever.
His eyes quickly scanned the room.
The mother left with her child. Too much attention.
Two ladies in pan suits were in a corner, both with hair tied up sharp and enough makeup on to look put together but not enough to make it seem unnatural. Still, too much attention. Anything that kept someone's gaze for more than a second was too much attention in Neil's eyes.
To the left, the barista was ringing in orders, already overwhelmed with the rush as she was every day, except for Tuesdays and Sundays. Those days, she got to go do whatever she did in her free time.
Neil pondered on the thought for a second. He had been coming here every morning during the week for months now, and never once bothered to ask her name or what she liked to do. Maybe she would sit at home and make her own coffee with an expensive machine she bought on Amazon. Maybe she would go hiking with her friends, or even go around enjoying different museums. Maybe she did things far more sinister, using her cash tips to go buy drugs under the radar.
Neil smiled to himself at the thought, letting his imagination run wild with the barista’s drug circuit. Imagining her face plastered all over the news after a bust.
A ping from his phone quickly snapped him back to reality.
As he looked down, he saw an email notification from the lock screen.
With a sigh, he pulled it up.
“CONGRATULATIONS NEIL! YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED THE WINNER OF A BRAND NEW TRACTOR SET FROM HARBOR-”
He promptly clicked delete and report spam, shaking his head at the ridiculous sentiment of a tractor phishing scheme.
As he reached back for his coffee, his eyes wandered to the window for a moment. He froze, hand still halfway curled around the handle of the stark white coffee cup.
His eyes landed on someone peculiar. She was standing in the middle of the road, arm out in front of her. She puffed up her chest, as to appear bigger, more predatory, which came at a great contrast to her stark white and thin appearance. She seemed like she was made of porcelain, and would crumble at the next honk of a rushing car. A flood of horns honking and people yelling crossed from outside the cafe, passed the windows, and all but muted themselves on the hardwood floor.
She would crouch for a second, shuffle a few paces forward, then stop and throw her arms out again, sporting a face of sheer determination and will power.
Her skirt flowed with the wind and the force of the cars racing by her. Her black hair gently lifting and falling after each breeze.
Neil sat there, unable to break away his vision.
It was a ridiculous scene. In his mind, it was akin to David and the Goliath, this small frail girl trying to stand up against modern day machinery.
He glanced down, trying to see what had her in such a fuss that she would be willing to ruin multiple commuters' mornings, and as he did, he involuntarily inhaled sharply.
Down, on the ground, hopping away from the doll-like woman, were tiny puffs of feathers. They were hopping diagonally, forward and backwards, wearing their lack of compliance like a badge of honor.
And the girl, now with a beet red face, was speaking to them, frustrated and on the verge of tears, trying to get them out of the road.
Neil focused hard on the girl’s mouth, trying to make out what she was saying. In his head, he filled the space with “C’mon!!!” “No, not that way!” “Hurry on lil’ fellas.”
Neil sat and watched, moved in a way he hadn't been by a stranger before. He tugged on the collar of his shirt, trying to go back to not noticing her, but kept finding himself looking up hoping to see her success.
His phone pinged again, but this time, he put it on silent before sliding it into his pocket and getting up. With a quick stretch of his lower back, he placed $4 in cash under the mug and walked outside, standing just off center of where the crosswalk ends.
She was just steps away now, gently shooing the baby birds closer to the other side of the road. Neil stood there, observing like he always did. He let time slow down around him, letting the world fall into silence.
Neil hated drawing attention to himself, his livelihood demanded it. Yet, this woman demanded attention. Placing herself into the spotlight in order to save a few measly pigeons.
Neil had to know more.
He waited there for her to finish guiding the birds. He watched as she carefully scooped each one over the ledge and back into the foliage lining the shops along the street.
A few beads of sweat glistened across her forehead and upper lip. Neil watched as she grabbed her scarf and shakily brought it up to her face, dabbing the sweat off before standing up a little straighter.
She smiled to herself, looking closely at the bushes to see if there were any signs of her little friends she just saved. From above, birds were chirping, and she allowed herself to look up at them with delight.
Neil sat there and relished in the moment with her. He took note of the way the sun hit her pale skin and rosy cheeks. Soon enough, he found himself smiling as well.
The moment did not last long, however.
With a jump she fumbled with her bag to pull out a phone.
Neil didn’t catch the name on the screen, but he did see the way her face fell after she held the phone to her ear.
At that moment, it was as if the sun disappeared.
Her head fell, shoulders tensed, as she gave a little nod before putting the phone back into her bag.
She looked up once again, eyes scanning the rooftops and balconies in search of something.
Whatever answer she was looking for wasn’t there.
She turned on one foot and began walking down the street, her hair, skirt, and scarf flowing gently behind her as she passed Neil.
Before he could think, he shot out his hand and grabbed her arm.
She turned, eyes full of fear, facing Neil.
At that moment, everything stopped for him. There was nothing left in this world but this frail, terrified girl and his hand touching her.
“Wait-” He stammered.
The girl looked at him wide eyed.
“What was… what was all of that?” He asked.
He couldn’t help himself. His mind was one that demanded answers. He spent his life categorizing people. Loud, narcissistic, quiet, guilty. He made a living getting answers for puzzles no one else could solve.
But, this girl, who went from assertive and attention seeking to nothing but an empty shell perplexed him, and one thing Neil hated more than anything, was uncertainty.
Her eyes glanced around, as if waiting for someone to save her.
“What do you mean? Please. Let me go.” She whispered, tears welling up in her bright eyes.
Neil took a second to assess the situation. He cringed at himself as he threw her arm back to her.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, it’s just, I’ve never seen something like that before.” He murmured.
She looked him up and down, determining if he was a threat.
Guarded, she asked, “What do you mean?”, still glancing around.
“You held up dozens of people just to help some pigeons. I mean, they’re like rats. Vermin. You stopped traffic and yelled and then all the sudden became…” Neil stopped himself before saying something that could come off as insulting.
Her eyes turned sharp.
“They’re not vermin.” She cutted.
Neil sat there stunned as she started to turn and walk away.
“Wait, that’s not what I meant... I mean, why?” He gasped, walking to keep up with her.
“What’s it to you? Leave me alone. I got somewhere to be.” She snapped.
“I just-” Neil paused, “I just think it was amazing. That’s all.”
That seemed to stop her.
She turned again, facing Neil, looking deep into his eyes to try to find a twinge of sarcasm or ill intent.
There was none to be found.
“Thanks, I guess.” She whispered, continuing to walk away.
“I mean it.” Neil spatted.
“I know.” She sighed.
She kept walking, and Neil found himself wanting to walk with her, watching her walk down 4th to somewhere unknown. He wanted to follow, do what he’s been trained to do his whole life. Observe, record, piece together, but he knew better than that.
In a split second, he quickened his pace and caught up to her.
“What!” She asked, exasperated.
“What’s your name?” He asked with a pant.
She paused for a moment.
“Aubrey.” She answered quietly.
“I’m Neil.”
She stopped and looked at him.
“It’s nice to meet you, Neil.” She said, with a tired smile.
“It’s nice to meet you too, Aubrey.” Neil responded kindly, feeling warmth in his cheeks. An awkward silence ensued.
“I know this is odd, but, can I get your number?” Neil asked shakily.
Aubrey raised an eyebrow.
“Why?” She asked.
“I want to get to know you.” Neil asked with a small, nervous chuckle.
Aubrey took a second, head tilting to the side as her breath quickened.
She looked around nervously, eyes darting from car to car and building to building.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She finally whispered with a sad smile.
“Oh. Why not?” Neil asked with a frown plastering his face.
With a sigh, she looked up at the sky. Above them, birds were flying by and landing on the overhanging balconies and wires.
After a moment, she looked Neil in the eyes.
“Does that part really matter?” She chuckled.
Neil froze.
That was the part that mattered most.
“To me, it does.” He said.
She hesitated. Not wanting to disappoint a kind stranger but also not ready to give more information.
Neil sensed the hesitation and pounced on it.
“Okay, how’s this? You give me your number, tomorrow, we go get coffee right where the baby birds are so you can check on them.” Neil asked exasperated, desperation clearly written on his face but he didn’t seem to mind.
Aubrey smiled.
“Okay. Just for coffee is fine, I guess.” She smiled, pulling out her phone.
The two of them exchanged numbers, smiling before going their separate ways. Neil clutched the phone in his hand like it was a treasure, and to him it was. He hadn’t had any fun cases in a while, just the usual cheating spouse suspicions. To him, this was fun. Aubrey was a puzzle he would get to solve. The assertive, shy, polite, rude, bold and thin woman was circling his thoughts as he walked back to his apartment.
Unbeknownst to either of them, a man across the street was watching, recording, documenting, observing.

Xuchang • Southern Suburbs

Early in the morning, a refined young scholar rode a fine steed with snow-white hooves along the official road outside the city. Dressed in a white robe with black feathers and a thick black fur cloak, it was none other than Guo Jia.

It was already late autumn, and the weather in the city had truly become cold.

Riding through the bleak autumn countryside was by no means a pleasant task for him. Yet there was something he had to deliver to that person with his own hands.

After riding a while longer, he saw a woman on a gray horse by the roadside, even more spirited than Guo Jia’s own. The woman wore simple black clothing, her long hair slightly curled and cascading over her shoulders. Her beauty was exquisite—she was Xiao Meng.

“Brother Xiao Meng! I finally found you! You have no idea how I feared getting lost and not being able to find you, wandering who knows how long through these woods!”

Guo Jia was delighted to see Xiao Meng.

“Brother Guo, good morning. Please, come with me.” Xiao Meng’s expression was cool and calm, neither warm nor cold, and after speaking, he turned his horse and rode ahead.

Guo Jia followed behind, the two of them traveling in silence along an ever-narrowing path.

Guo Jia naturally understood why Xiao Meng was displeased and didn’t speak, lest he bring discomfort upon himself.

Only as they approached Sima Lang’s private residence did he finally break the silence and say solemnly, “That day, I angered the Emperor and frightened you, Brother Xiao Meng. It was my fault and I wish to apologize.”

Upon hearing this, Xiao Meng glanced back with a smile. Guo Jia felt his heart skip a beat. “You’re too serious, Brother Guo. You’ve always been unfailingly thorough—surely you anticipated the Emperor’s tolerance before you spoke those words.”

“I only counted on Lord Wen not acting rashly. If he dared to ask the Emperor for help and let you enter the palace, then the Emperor’s breadth and skill must be out of the ordinary.”

Guo Jia savored Xiao Meng’s smile, like a spring breeze, his gaze lingering on Xiao Meng’s graceful figure. “Fengxiao simply trusts Lord Wen’s judgment of people.”

“…Yes, the Emperor truly is a good man, and he will be a good sovereign.” After a moment, Xiao Meng turned and looked at Guo Jia. “Brother Guo, I hope that everything you said to the Emperor was sincere.”

“Rest assured, Brother Xiao Meng. Fengxiao would never speak falsely to the Emperor or Lord Wen. My coming to see Lord Wen is precisely for this reason,” Guo Jia replied earnestly.

A few days earlier, Hua Tuo had come to see Xiao Meng and brought a message from Guo Jia, saying he had something he wished to deliver to Lord Wen in person and hoped to meet Lü Bu.

Now, on the verge of meeting Lü Bu, even someone as shrewd and seasoned as Guo Jia felt uneasy—a tension far greater than that of facing the most difficult of battlefields, for reasons he could not explain.

Perhaps it was because Lü Bu was always an unpredictable man, and facing him alone was the most uncertain of moments.

With these thoughts, the two arrived at a secluded entrance to Sima Lang’s residence.

Through layers of uneven woodland and narrow mountain paths, they reached a tranquil, almost paradisiacal retreat.

What a fine place… Guo Jia looked around, thinking this to himself.

Compared to the stillness of the main building, the side building was more lively: a reclining chair sat outside, a wine jug rested on a small table, hunting tools and firewood lay by the door—imbuing the place with a simple, vibrant atmosphere.

The two dismounted and tied up their horses. Xiao Meng led Guo Jia to the herb garden, where Lü Bu was presently picking herbs to strengthen Xiao Meng’s constitution.

“He’s inside. Go ahead.” Xiao Meng brought Guo Jia to the entrance of the herb garden, dropped that line with a smile, and left.

A white-walled arch separated the herb garden from the outer courtyard. Passing through the moon gate, Guo Jia stepped onto a smooth stone path flanked by rare plants, the air tinged with the unique fragrance of medicinal herbs.

At the path’s end lay a large field.

Guo Jia saw, a short distance away, a tall man kneeling and working in the garden, dressed in simple, dark clothing, no different from an ordinary country farmer.

Yet the man’s sharply defined features made his profile especially striking. What amazed Guo Jia even more were his hands.

Guo Jia always paid special attention to people’s hands, as they often revealed more than a face.

Those hands told Guo Jia their owner was by no means a mere brute. The hands were strong, the bones prominent. Guo Jia had met many generals, their hands powerful but often rough and clumsy; scholars’ hands were delicate, but soft and weak.

But these hands, though stained with soil, seemed cast in divine steel—every joint and muscle the very image of strength and beauty, poised to unleash astonishing force at any moment.

These were the hands that had wielded the Sky Halberd and the reins of Red Hare, conquering all before them. Now, they carefully extracted a rare herb from the earth.

Sensing someone’s presence, the “farmer” paused and stood up.

Instantly, Guo Jia felt an overwhelming pressure envelop him, his breath quickening.

The farmer turned, casting a sideways, commanding gaze at Guo Jia.

What Guo Jia saw was a face chiseled like an axe and a tall, imposing physique radiating masculine strength; a pair of piercing tiger eyes fixed on him.

“Guo Jia, you wanted to see me—for what purpose?” Lü Bu opened directly.

Lü Bu, carrying a tray of herbs, motioned Guo Jia to follow him to a bamboo pavilion by the garden.

Beneath the pavilion stood a plain table and two sturdy chairs, lacking any carved embellishments—quite different from the understated luxury elsewhere. Guo Jia guessed these were Lü Bu’s handiwork since moving in.

A scene flashed in Guo Jia’s mind: under the moon or at dusk, Lü Bu and Xiao Meng sitting in these chairs, sharing tea or wine, chatting and laughing as time passed by…

Lü Bu set the tray on the table and sat down in one of the chairs without inviting Guo Jia to sit. Instead, he looked up naturally and asked, “What is it you’re here to give me?”

Guo Jia immediately composed himself and replied solemnly, “It is a secret edict from the Emperor for Lord Wen.” With that, he took a scroll from his robe and respectfully passed it with both hands. Lü Bu stood, received it, sat again, and unrolled the scroll to read in earnest.

It was near noon. The autumn sun was warm, and the herb garden filled with serene fragrance.

Absurd… he’s really treating me as if I were his own lord… Though the atmosphere was pleasant, Guo Jia felt like a staff officer awaiting Lü Bu’s orders after reviewing military intelligence.

Yet, to go and sit in Xiao Meng’s chair—he wouldn’t dare, even if he had a tiger’s courage.

He just felt a bit stifled, but not entirely opposed to it.

Guo Jia glanced at Lü Bu: under long lashes, his eyes were sharp and focused—no need for explanation. Guo Jia quickly looked away, afraid to draw Lü Bu’s attention, and gazed at the herb garden, quietly waiting.

The edict stated that Lü Bu had gained the Emperor’s full trust and was granted authority: should any court official threaten the Emperor or seek to usurp the throne, Lü Bu was empowered to execute them on the spot and report afterward.

After a while, Lü Bu finished reading, put the scroll away, and said calmly, “I understand the Emperor’s intent. However…” Meeting Guo Jia’s gaze, Lü Bu gave a faint smile, “Such an important secret edict—why would the Emperor entrust it to you, rather than deliver it himself…?”

Lü Bu’s gaze grew sharper. “To gain the Emperor’s trust in such a short time—Guo Fengxiao’s abilities truly surprise me.”

Guo Jia felt as if pierced by two blades, slow but sure.

“In fact, the Emperor dearly misses Lord Wen and originally hoped to summon you with this edict for a proper reunion. But…” The real pressure helped Guo Jia regain his calm—one of his greatest strengths as a top strategist.

He responded with composure, “The matter of the six generals executed in Xuchang has greatly disturbed Lord Cao, making him extremely suspicious. The palace is riddled with his spies. To avoid further trouble, His Majesty had to entrust me with this task.”

Guo Jia smiled, his fox-like eyes now shining with intelligence—all earlier unease vanished.

Lü Bu’s eyes now held genuine amusement. He could keenly sense the change in Guo Jia’s demeanor.

“The Emperor’s favor is engraved on my heart. After all, both His Majesty and I were born in chaotic times, and must rely on those shaped by chaos. Naturally, we weather the storm together.” Guo Jia smiled placidly.

“Well said. True trust can only be built on essential connections.” Lü Bu gestured for him to sit, his expression much more relaxed.

Only then did Guo Jia pull out the chair and sit, secretly heaving a sigh of relief.

At that moment, Xiao Meng, now dressed in pale blue, entered the garden with tea, set out the pot and cups, and poured for both Lü Bu and Guo Jia. The aroma was refreshing. “This tea is freshly brewed, Master Guo, please have a taste.” With gentle words, Xiao Meng turned and quietly left.

“The Emperor’s meeting with you—Xiao Meng has already told me all about it,” Lü Bu began once Xiao Meng had gone. “But as the youngest in the Chancellor’s office, I’ve heard the Chancellor treats you like a son, even entrusting his affairs after death to you. Yet here you are, coming to see me… I did not expect this.”

Guo Jia gave a dry laugh. “Rumors and reality are far apart. Lord Wen has suffered enough from rumors himself, I’m sure.”

Indeed, people all said Lü Bu was nothing but a brute, greedy and lascivious. But how many truly knew the real Lü Bu?

Guo Jia took a sip of tea and said, “And to be honest, persuading the Emperor to assign me this task—there was some self-interest involved.”

“Oh?” Lü Bu looked at him with interest.

“By eliminating Jia Xu, Lord Wen has done a great favor for both me and Elder Brother Xun. Fengxiao had to thank you in person.” Guo Jia put down his cup and bowed formally.

“Sigh… Brother Guo, you’re too kind. I killed Jia Xu out of necessity, only to protect myself. Besides—compared to him, you’re the true strategist. Even if he remained at the Chancellor’s office, could he do anything to you? There’s no need to thank me.”

Lü Bu smiled and drained his tea.

A few evenings before—

Lü Bu and Xiao Meng sat by the window, drinking tea and savoring Xiao Meng’s new, exquisite pastries.

Naturally, Xiao Meng recounted in full detail Guo Jia’s audience with the Emperor.

“This Guo Fengxiao is truly formidable. Of the Eight Marvels, I think he’s the cleverest,” Lü Bu remarked while sipping tea.

“If I act, Jia Xu’s death was inevitable. There was no need for Guo Jia to do anything more. Eliminating a rival is a small gain for him.”

“The real gain is his connection with the Emperor?”

Xiao Meng nibbled a pink flower-shaped pastry, thinking how this new attempt tasted quite good.

“Xiao Meng is truly clever.” Lü Bu pinched his cheek, finding Xiao Meng’s current appearance utterly adorable.

“Cao Cao holds the Emperor hostage to control the lords. Everyone thinks the Emperor is a puppet, but Guo Jia sees otherwise. The Emperor has great ambition: only those with ambition are useful.”

Lü Bu ate more pastry. Usually, he didn’t like sweets, but those made by Xiao Meng were an exception.

“Exactly. The Han and the Emperor are weak, but for that reason, they rely wholly on Guo Jia. With no one else trustworthy at court, even the Seven Marvels and other strategists must choose a single master. But Guo Jia now serves two—one openly, one secretly. Doesn’t that give him much more room to maneuver?”

“But...” Xiao Meng hesitated. “Isn’t that dangerous? If Cao Cao found out what he’s doing behind the scenes…”

“Then he would die a terrible death!” Lü Bu laughed.

“But in times of turmoil, safety doesn’t come from avoiding danger. The more you try to evade risk, the more passive and vulnerable you become. Only by seizing and expanding your advantages can you gain real security.”

As he spoke, Lü Bu rose and stoked the brazier to warm the room further.

“Of course, striving for anything is a gamble. But he understands that true safety lies in one’s capacity to bear risk. That’s the paradox of turbulent times.”

Xiao Meng listened, taking Lü Bu’s words to heart.

Lü Bu sipped his tea and mused, “That Water Mirror Marvel is indeed admirable.”

Back in the herb garden

Guo Jia, understanding Lü Bu's underlying meaning, smiled and said, “In the end, I owe the greatest thanks to Brother Xiao Meng, for giving me the chance to meet the Emperor. Only after meeting him did I realize how great his ambition is—the Han’s revival is truly possible!”

“That’s true. If you want to thank anyone, it should be Xiao Meng.” Lü Bu smiled, poured himself more tea, and sipped.

The Lü Bu of legend—seeing is believing!

That was Guo Jia’s thought.

After a brief calculation, Guo Jia said, “Since both Lord Wen and Brother Xiao Meng have shown me such favor, I must repay you both. The world is not yet settled, and Lord Wen is a hero of the age. To retire now would be a shame. If you do not reject me, I shall devote all my strength to helping you rise again!”

Guo Jia bowed, eyes sincere, voice resolute.

Lü Bu bowed his head slightly, set down his cup, and after a moment’s silence, sighed, “Sigh… The Emperor sent you here, no doubt hoping you’d persuade me on his behalf!”

“Yes, the Emperor sincerely wishes for Lord Wen to return and aid him!” Guo Jia replied.

Although the Emperor never said it outright, whenever Lü Bu was mentioned, nostalgia and dependence shone from his face—much to Guo Jia’s surprise. The world scorned Lü Bu as ungrateful, but in the Emperor’s heart, he carried such weight and trust.

In fact, Lü Bu, famed for disloyalty, though betrayed by defectors, still commanded the loyalty of men like Gao Shun, Zhang Liao, and Chen Gong. Even in dire straits, they followed him to the death.

Even now, Zhang Liao remained steadfast; when Guo Jia used the imperial edict to have him restrain Jia Xu, Zhang Liao thanked him for the chance to avenge his lord. In his heart, “my lord” was still Lü Bu, not Cao Cao.

Even when Xiapi fell, there were many soldiers who preferred death to surrender, knowing full well their lord’s reputation was ruined.

How, exactly, did Lü Bu manage this?

Guo Jia earnestly wanted to work with him—to discover the answer.

But Lü Bu only smiled bitterly. “Please tell the Emperor that Lü Bu will always be grateful for his kindness—his commands I shall never betray! But precisely because I have decided to be a loyal subject of the Han, I cannot and will not taint myself with power ever again. Moreover…”

Lü Bu looked at Guo Jia, utterly sincere. “If I were truly like Cao Cao or Yuan Shao, why would Heaven have let Jia Xu defeat me and forced me to flee to Chang’an?”

This time, it was Guo Jia’s turn to be at a loss. Lü Bu’s words made old memories flash through his mind.

Back then, when Lü Bu held Xiapi, Cao Cao’s siege dragged on, depleting men and supplies, until he nearly gave up.

The more one possesses, the more one calculates—and often, the less courage one has.

But Guo Jia judged that Lü Bu was at the end of his strength and stood alone in advising, “Lord Cao, was not Xiang Yu also unmatched in martial prowess? Yet, once he lost power, he was doomed. Lü Bu is no greater than Xiang Yu. If we persist, we will surely win!”

Time proved him right.

His reward was Cao Cao’s complete trust—after this, Guo Jia became the unquestioned chief strategist of Cao’s camp.

He could say that he was the nail in the coffin of Lü Bu’s ambitions.

Lü Bu’s defeat led to his own success.

Who could have expected that Lü Bu would have a different fate, now cleansed of his past, living in peace with Xiao Meng?

So, besides Xiao Meng, might Guo Jia himself be one of the key people who changed Lü Bu’s destiny?

Guo Jia almost wanted to confess that he had insisted on attacking Xiapi.

Of course, he didn’t dare. But the urge was real.

This Lü Fengxian was not only daring himself—his courage was contagious, inspiring those around him to take bold actions.

Could this be why fate denied him his destiny?

At that moment, Guo Jia recalled Xun Yu’s evaluation—Lü Bu was a destroyer of order, not a provider of it.

After the meeting, Lü Bu escorted Guo Jia back to the main road before parting.

On the way back, Guo Jia still pondered Lü Bu’s earlier words.

“If you truly feel you owe me a favor, Fengxiao, please repay it to the Emperor.” As they rode, Lü Bu said this calmly. After a pause, he added, “I entrust His Majesty to you.”

“Lord Wen, you spent so little time with the Emperor, yet you feel such loyalty. The slanders against you are truly absurd!” Guo Jia was deeply moved, turning to Lü Bu.

He understood—Lü Bu no longer cared for fame or fortune, and the Emperor had little left to offer, yet still Lü Bu made this request. It was clear that this once ambitious and greedy man truly cared for the lonely young Emperor in the palace.

Lü Bu laughed. “Believe me, I really am a base and selfish man—such people shouldn’t serve at court. But as for the Emperor…” Lü Bu’s features softened at the mention, “When I first met him, he was just a child.”

That was… a father’s care and affection.

Guo Jia was shaken by what he saw. He had never imagined that a god of war who spent most of his life in bloodshed could show such an expression.

He gazed at Lü Bu, drew a breath, and said firmly, “Rest assured, Lord Wen. Fengxiao will ensure the Emperor’s life is safe and smooth.”

“Then my thanks to you, Fengxiao,” Lü Bu replied with a smile.

The sun was setting, yet Guo Jia felt that the late-autumn countryside was warmer than when he first arrived.

End of Chapter 34

Thank you for reading my story. Wish you have a good day! ✨🌺💖🙏🥰

Copyright Notice:
Chapter 34 “Alliance of Destiny”
Original work by Jing Xixian (Vampire L), all rights reserved.
No reproduction, adaptation, translation, or commercial use in any form is permitted without the author’s written consent.
© Jing Xixian (King Heyin) (Vampire L), All rights reserved.

I hope you'll join me on the lanai, I'll put coffee on. Thanks,

https://substack.com/@ziggy239/note/p-206686777?r=4dhd5a&utm_source=notes-share-action&utm_medium=web

https://open.substack.com/pub/joycewwwwww/

I woke with a start at the crash from the next room. Vusal was yelling at the top of his lungs, flinging things to the floor. Now and then I caught my mother's voice too. I was scared, but I knew there was no point getting up and going in to them, so I pressed my hands over my ears. Vusal was the man my mother married after the divorce. I never found anything to call him. He couldn't stand the sight of me. During fights like this, seeing me only set him off worse. The noise kept growing; my heart was pounding. All my worry stayed with my mother. The truth is I held a grudge against her too. For days I'd been thinking about taking off somewhere far from here. But where, how? I was still in seventh grade. My mother gave me pennies for spending money. My father had stopped caring about me long ago — actually, since he remarried, we'd met just twice.

The noise from the room, instead of dying down, got louder. Vusal kept repeating the word "parasite"; I heard it but didn't know what it meant. I couldn't even tell what the fight was about. The days when my mother and father were still together came back to me. As far back as I could remember, they'd fought too. Those fights were usually on weekends or holidays, over going somewhere. From what I understood, my father couldn't afford the things she wanted. He'd say the same thing in every fight: "Where am I supposed to get the money? Should I steal it?" And my mother, eyes swollen from crying, would yell back: "What, so everybody who goes out and enjoys themselves is a thief?" My father never raised a hand to her, but he'd smash whatever was in the house. He'd break everything, then grudge the money when it came time to fix it. When they split up, I didn't know whether to be glad or sad. Sometimes I thought at least I was rid of the fighting; then I'd think about growing up without a father and it terrified me. At first both of them tried to win me over, fussing over me, giving me little gifts. After my mother remarried, everything changed. Vusal couldn't stomach me. At first only I knew it; later he didn't bother hiding it from anyone. The strange thing was, from the day my mother remarried, my father lost track of me too — never came looking, never asked. As if the whole thing were somehow my fault. And the strangest part: I started to accept the worth they put on me. Little by little I couldn't stand myself. I felt humiliated, unloved, useless — a kid nobody needed. Sometimes when a teacher praised me at school I'd think she just didn't know me. Didn't know how worthless I was.

I took my hands off my ears and listened. Finally a door slammed shut with a bang. Vusal must have left, I thought, and went to the door. Not a sound. I went back, straightened my bed, got dressed. I was about to leave the room when I heard my mother on the phone and stopped. She was saying Vusal had called me a parasite. Her voice carried clearly. She was talking to a friend:

"Oh, girl, God made me unlucky, what can I do? There was a time I'd have given anything just to go out somewhere. That wretch would sooner drop dead than take me anywhere. And now look — I'm stuck at the mercy of this one. What am I supposed to do? Vusal won't go if the boy comes along. Says the sight of him gets on his nerves. It's my daughter's birthday, we want to go out somewhere. And his father won't even have him for a day or two."

It was like a live wire hit me; I'd gone red in the face. A week ago it had been my birthday. Not one person said a word about it. There was a time they threw me parties, bought me presents. I used to blow out the candles on the cake, loving every second of it. This year my mother had bought me a shirt. When she handed it over she said, "Don't wear it yet." She was still talking; now and then it sounded like she was crying. My ears were ringing. I'd gone to bed hungry the night before, and now my stomach was turning.

At last, after the long call, she hung up and came to my room. I stood at the window and pretended to be busy. She cracked the door open. "Come eat something," she said. For some reason those plain words I heard every day made me happy. I got up and went to the kitchen. After I ate, I told her I'd go to my father's for the weekend. So I wouldn't have to see her relief, I kept my eyes off her and said, "I'll stay there." Any other time she'd have piled question on question; this time she agreed without a word.

When I got to my father's I couldn't believe my eyes — actually, I thought I had the wrong place. Everything was renovated, new. The woman he'd married was very well-kept, even prettier than before. From the feel of the place and the look of my father, you could tell they were living well. Something he used to say came back to me: "Arzu, the day will come when I'll have money too — that's what I'm working for." Well, his mood was good, anyway. He kept asking me odd questions: "So your mother can afford weekend getaways now?" Not waiting for an answer: "She can throw you whatever birthday she likes now, can she?" I mumbled something I didn't understand myself. He had no interest in my answer. It was as if he wanted to needle me. At every turn he was showing off how well-off he was, what a good life he had. The second the cryptic questions ran out, he got up and scooped up the baby that had just woken. Without a glance at me, he started playing with it. That was better than his pointless questions. I knew he wanted me to carry all of it back to my mother. For a moment I felt sorry for myself. That doesn't usually happen to me — usually I hate myself more than anyone does. I wasn't jealous of my sister with her birthday party, or of the baby brother my father was tossing in the air. Still, I felt sorry for the boy Vusal called a parasite — for myself.

Before long I was leaving my father's loaded table with an empty stomach. I didn't know where I was going. I knew the house at home was empty. My father's wife, the one done up like a doll, had told me, "Leave while it's early. You'll run into stray dogs in the dark." I opened my mouth to say I wanted to stay the night. Then my eyes met my father's, cold as ice. He nodded along with his wife as if he cared about me. That one look killed my appetite. I picked at the food, then got up. I set off — not toward home, but in no particular direction. I was glad to spot a park ahead. I reached it, found a spot out of sight, and sat down. I was trying to figure out what to do next. My grandfather had died. My aunt had taken my grandmother to live with her. The more I thought, the tighter my chest got. I drifted off to sleep.

In my dream I was at my father's house. Only now it was the rich house my mother had always wanted. Everything neat and in order, the furniture brand-new, the table full; the cool air had turned every room into paradise. My mother was cooking in the new kitchen, and I was waiting, eager, for the food to be ready. I woke to the rasping voice of a boy with filth all over his face. He was asking me for money. "There isn't any," I said at first. Then, scared of the ugly boy lunging at me, I shoved my hand in my pocket — I knew there was no money there. I felt something and a wave of relief went through me. Heart pounding, I pulled it out: twenty manat. My father must have slipped it in. Either way, I was glad. The boy snatched it out of the air, right out of my hand. More than the money, I grieved the dream he'd cut short. Now I was afraid to even sleep there. The boy's face wouldn't leave my eyes. A little later he showed up again. This time he didn't ask for money. Fixing his bulging eyes on me, he said, "Want to make some cash?" I looked at him helplessly and shrugged. Bug-eyes pulled some kind of pill from his pocket and handed it to me. "Take it, it'll set your head straight, then we'll talk." Whether from the smell or for some other reason, I swallowed it dry, no water.

The next day, when the police were shaking me, trying to bring me round, my head had turned to stone. Dusk had fallen, the dark closing in. I don't know why I'd slept so long. I was shivering a little in the evening cold. I stared blankly at the people asking for my address. I didn't answer, but I knew both addresses by heart. Because I didn't want to go back to either one, I shrugged and said, "I don't know." The wind that bent the trees began to blow through my heart too — but since no one was waiting for me at either of those two addresses, in my heart I thought: my address is right here.

Welcome, dear reader, to your unrequested entry point into my story. I’ve been instructed to dumb it down, and I am the dumbest boy in school, so that shouldn’t be too hard.

This story belongs to Odysseus, Christ, and Prometheus. And Sisyphus. But he doesn’t need me to write him a story - one must imagine Sisyphus happy.

It is my story, but it’s not true. It is only a memory of how I felt and said and thought, but it’s fiction, don’t be confused- everything true is fiction. The first chapters I shared will always be the first chapters, they take place at the exact center of the story, the eye of the storm, the one choice that changed everything. But one day it will be preceded by a note encouraging readers to jump to this page instead. Understanding isn’t everything, and they can always be flipped back to if you really want to, but they just need to exist to meet my ends, no one has to read them.

The story is about a boy who drowned when he was twelve. He was naive and trusting and he drowned, but he kept breathing and walking every day despite his decay. He was rescued from the bottom of a swimming pool by an entity I can’t explain yet. I know, I said I was trying to be coherent, but I genuinely can’t touch the octopus with a ten foot pole right now. He’s only going to be confusing, so for now we’ll just understand him as a case of Dr. Strangelove syndrome - Alien hand syndrome. For the better part of our protagonist story this is how he understands him, so we might as well do the same.

Our story leader also suffers from insomnia - this affliction I share with him. As well as circulatory issues causing severe leg cramps, but I long ago dubbed that “My favorite Affliction”, so I forget that it’s a bad thing sometimes. His story is not the only one I hear vibrating in the walls at night, but it’s one of the oldest. It’s the one that insisted to be seen first.

More about me - I always keep a knife handy, thought I abhor violence. The knife is a tool, not a weapon. If Christ was a carpenter, then I am a whittler. I’m not making a ship or a home - just toys. All of the best toys are the ones I don’t remember making.

—-

lol - good. The best ones shouldn’t stay long

"The best ones" it's a paragraph of nonsense. what even is the intention of your story?

Hallelujah! He speaks! It’s not the best written or most interesting, it just has information in it that might end up being to revealing about the overall story in the long run, so they might be be better as a flash in the pan.

Ah, it's part of a larger narrative. Well, a heads up, I'm also deleting some of your works for violating the 24hr rule

Please do, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

—-

Hopefully I don’t need to beat the dead horse too long, but there are those among us that see an inconsistency, an interjection, as an irrelevance. Nothing could be further than the truth - these words insisted that this was their home, and if you look closely enough you can see why.

I’m sorry, I’m getting too literate again - back to the basics.

About him: in many ways he was once me, but I still only found him in a book, I did not create him. In one of the Ergon books our protagonist tries to use the magic of names to name a child that will defend his home and its people from hardship. In execution, things went awry. Years later he returns to find that the boy has been more of a sponge - absorbing and partaking of everyone else’s sorrow. They were relived by his gaze, but he was burdened. What that must be like. He grew from there - he has his own love life, his own addictions, his own crutches. They are sometimes one’s we’ve shared, but they are his now.

My name is Bryton - that is my real name, my penance for my years of silence is to tell you my actual name. To be seen is my atonement.

He has a name, but I don’t like to use real names - they detail so little. Every night he watches hundreds of human lives end - for this reason he is known as the dreamer, the worm, and one day The Wyrm, but I’m getting ahead of myself again.

—-

Alright, a word of advice though. If you have one paragraph snippets, I suggest combining a few of them into one posts. One paragraph stories don't garner much attention and the confusion bait will eventually grow wear on the reader's patience. Users might even start reporting you for spam as it's happened before.

I know, I’m fluctuating between too long and too short. I’ll swing like a pendulum to the right length eventually

Ah, understood. And no worries. I understand your intentions it's just that reddit works a little differently. It's more of a discussion forum than just standard social media formats. People like the longer or more engaging content as there's more to discuss in the comments.

I know, I just come from a world where you only want your message to be understood by those who go looking for it. They were meant to scare off those who wouldn’t care, I don’t know how to talk to them yet. I’ll have an actual human being step in as editor next time to keep things coherent

Understood! Thanks for explaining your intentions too as some of your posts came across as schizo posting lol. And there are ways to have that sort of erratic narrative. I recommend browsing the ARG tag for any inspiration as some stories there do similar tactics

I know, I know - I thought about the right way to do this but I just didn’t want to. I wanted to steer the ship right into the whirlpool and slingshot out the other side, but even I’m not that good.

I disagree, I did like a couple of your more coherent entries. I encourage you to keep trying and developing your execution!

Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, it has been very edifying. Hopefully we’ll talk again one day under less disciplinary circumstances!

—-

Are we all on the same page now? No? We’ve lost a few listeners. Well shit.

I will continue our story tomorrow, but the character limit is looming, and I’m certain this is already longer than it ever needed to be.

—-

Did every one of my responses begin with “I know”? God I’m a jackass. I do not know. I have not known a single thing in my entire life.

**Synopsis:** A Pastor is invited to open a church on another planet, but finds its furry inhabitants have a unique faith all their own.

**After Dinner Conversation** is a growing series of award-winning short stories across genres to draw out deeper discussions with friends and family. Each story is an accessible example of an abstract ethical or philosophical idea and is accompanied by suggested discussion questions.

**Synopsis:** A Pastor is invited to open a church on another planet, but finds its furry inhabitants have a unique faith all their own.

**After Dinner Conversation** is a growing series of award-winning short stories across genres to draw out deeper discussions with friends and family. Each story is an accessible example of an abstract ethical or philosophical idea and is accompanied by suggested discussion questions.