Ellena Restrick is a first year undergraduate Creative and Professional Writing at Canterbury Christ Church University. She has self-published two novels under the names of 'Darkness' and 'Regret' and is currently working on the third novel in this trilogy. ‘What they never told you about the New World Order’ Subject 01304AK. Code name: Lebensborn. Legal name: Genesis Böhm. Target acquired by London Metropolitan Police after being found wandering dazed through Piccadilly Circus, covered in blood. Recommended course of action: Indefinite term of confinement at Broadmoor institution (*Consider for potential collaboration with MI5 if she co-operates*). The subject is not to be harmed under any circumstances. Interview to commence at 1846, March 13th 2017. * I finish reading the target’s file, a red mist starting to descend. If even half the things documented are true, she should leave this place in a body bag, to be thrown into an unmarked grave somewhere along the bank of the Thames. I place the tape in the recorder. There’s an audible click as she rolls her neck and relaxes back into her chair. “You know what you’re here for Ms. Böhm. You laid your terms and the powers that be are willing to accept them. Freedom in exchange for your confession.” I tap my pen on the desk in time with my heartbeat. The way she’s looking at me. She still thinks she has the upper hand, after everything. Poor deluded bitch. “Really?” She sucks her teeth. “That really doesn’t sound like something I would say. Are you sure it was me?” I look up at the security camera. Huh, Big Brother is watching, always watching. She sighs and leans back in her chair. “You know of Operation Paperclip? Obviously you do, stupid question. Nobody wanted to believe that it was true. Nobody wanted to believe that the American elites would make a deal with the devil. Humans do the strangest things for information. It’s in your nature. Nothing ever really changes; the play remains the same, only the names and faces alter. I was created for one purpose: to be genetically superior. Introducing a new strain into the breeding ground. They could not have predicted how perfectly their little ‘experiment’ would turn out. Evolution at the hands of a narcissist. Doctor Karl Eisenmann. My father. Bastard. Theoretically, I am immortal. My cells renew as soon as they experience cell death. Some people would dream of it; to be frank, being stuck like this is complete shite. Functional fucking immortality. If only my father had lived long enough. Allied soldiers strung him up like a dog. Believe me, they changed their tune when they realised his scientific abilities. How useful would a race of people like me have been in the Cold War climate? Perfect soldier with no genetic abnormalities. I couldn’t die even if I tried and, believe me, I’ve tried. I was transported to the States under an assumed identity. Operation Paperclip. Area 51. Mind control and aliens and all that shit. Believe what you want to believe. I experienced it first-hand. It took me ten years to get out of that place. I never had a concept of Hell until that place. Trust no one. That’s what I have learnt over my lifetime. Trust no one. Even fucking loses its appeal after the thousandth man. That distraction faded away pretty bloody fast. Then again, I guess that is the nature of distraction; it’s not something that is supposed to be permanent. I have been so many things in my time: a wife, a mother, a rebel, a Satanist (that was an interesting year) and a whore. There comes a time when you run out of masks to wear and I’ve only been at this for less than a century.” She stops to clear her throat. She wants my pity; I can see it in her icy, dead eyes. Unlucky. “Can I have a cigarette? I’m absolutely gasping. It’s almost like I didn’t come here of my own free will…wait.” She pauses for a few moments to gage my reaction. “I figured there was no reason to deny myself anything. I have been the victim to all manners of vice and perversion…actually, no. Victim is the wrong word. I have been…open to all manners of vice and perversion. I’m not a victim. It seems disrespectful to them. They’re who you really want me to talk about, aren’t they? You claim leverage but you know nothing. That’s the thing, isn’t it? I have all the power here and you lot fucking hate that. I’ve made it clear I’m confessing to nothing. Keep me here as long as you like; I’m not like to die of old age waiting.” * I shift in my chair, uneasy. She folds her arms. It is taking every inch of my self-restraint not to lean over this table and knock her teeth down her throat. Crack her head on the table and spool her brains out. I’d be doing the world a favour. I take a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of my top pocket. I light the cigarette and pass it to her. She takes a drag and exhales. “The power to create and destroy life. Every human on this pathetic lump of rock has this power and yet only a few will ever make use it. I’ve never understood it. Maybe I have another level of clarity. To take life is divine but you reject your divinity for placidity. It’s illogical. Have you ever wondered what it would feel like? To watch the life leave somebody else? I’ll give you an example. Human context, if you will. Adolf Hitler nearly died seven times before 1945. Seven isolated incidents. Seven different opportunities and everyone failed. Imagine this world if only that Tommy hadn’t granted the gift of mercy in No Man’s Land…conscience doth make cowards of us all.” * She picks at the skin around her fingernails before taking another draw. Aryan bitch. If the higher ups hadn’t given the express order that she was not to be harmed, I would have taken her out the back and put a bullet in the base of her skull. Wait for her to be incapacitated and then incinerate her. The only reason she’s still alive is because no one was really trying to remove her from the equation. They want to make others like her, utilise Nazi technology, to weaponize them. Preparation for war. Immortal soldiers. Why the fuck are the British the first to come up with this idea? One thing we did before the Americans. * “You’re staring at me again…what was your name? Agent Callaghan? That’s right, isn’t it? Confirm that for me.” “How did you come to that conclusion?” “It was really quite simple. I can see it through your top jacket pocket. That’s how I know you also have a torn photo of people I assume are your wife and daughter. The fact that it’s torn indicates a break-up so ex-wife. Bitter break-up.” I pinch the top of my thigh. She starts laughing, flaring her nostrils. “Aw bless, I’m just fucking with you Callaghan. One of your colleagues mentioned your name before and you were looking at that photo outside. Am I wrong?” She’s right. Divorced less than a year and she’s already run off to Canada with my daughter. She always was a vicious bitch, even in the best times of our marriage, hence why she screwed my best friend and every person in the street. She refused to put my name on her birth certificate to deny me any legal rights to my child. Bitter is a fucking understatement. “You don’t have to say anything. I know I’m right. We don’t have to have a conversation but it might make it a little less painful for both of us. I like to think I’m a good conversationalist; I’ve been at this long enough to avoid awkward silences.” A few moments of silence pass. She slaps her hands down on the table. I lurch forward and pull her forward by her collar. “You listen to me. You’re going to tell us exactly what you promised to and then you’re going to disappear. Things could be so easy for you if you just co-operate.” “I know how this shit works, Callaghan. My life has never been my own; you people are never going to give me my freedom. Every government has promised me freedom and screwed me over. I don’t believe a fucking word that comes out of your mouth. I’m confessing to nothing.” She takes a drag of the cigarette and exhales, looking me up and down. “You can’t play a player; I’ve been at this way too fucking long.” She shifts in her chair again, placing her elbows on the desk. Before I can react, she stubs the cigarette out on her arm. She’s trying to make me feel uncomfortable, prove her point that everything I can do to her, she can do to herself. She doesn’t react; she just watches my reaction, expecting me to be disgusted, to flinch. She said it herself; you can’t bullshit a bullshitter. “Diagnosed or undiagnosed?” she says, leaning back into her chair, throwing the cigarette butt on the floor. “I don’t know what you’re trying to get at,” I reply, not breaking eye contact. She runs her tongue over her teeth. “You know exactly what I’m getting at. Don’t think you can lie to me either. Now answer the question: diagnosed or undiagnosed?” “Diagnosed. Sociopathy is a benefit in my line of work. How could you tell?” “I usually get a mild reaction when I’ve done that in the past. The fact that there was no reaction suggests an inability to empathise with pain reactions. A clear case of sociopathy. I was just interested to see if your employers were aware of your personality disorder.” I can feel her foot rub against my thigh. “We’re the same, you and I. Sociopaths are made, not born. I was made, not born. We’re the same.” * Maybe we are both victims are circumstance. Neither one of us asked for this life. I just made a better job with my lot. But there is one thing I know: we are not the same. We will never be the same. She stands up and walks over to me. There’s a moment, just a moment, when I try to stop my impulse. She’s tested her luck way too fucking much. I slowly take my knife out of my belt, not breaking eye contact. I grab her arm and force my blade deep into her chest. I twist it and pull it out. She staggers back, clutching her chest, wide eyed and terrified. Vermilion pouring out of her. She falls back, groaning. She was never going to co-operate; I just did my job. I could claim self-defence but the powers that be have already seen everything. Functional immortality, my arse. * “Clean up on aisle three,” I say, watching the camera. I stand up, dropping the knife on the floor, and walk to the door. It’s locked. It shouldn’t be locked. That was part of the deal; I wasn’t to be locked in with her. I bang on the door. “Smith, you better open this fucking door right this second,” I say directly in my mouthpiece. I hear someone clear their throat behind me. “What part of functional immortality do you not quite get?” I feel the point of the knife against my back. “You know what, this arrangement is really not going to work for me. Did you like my trick with the door? New skill, haven’t quite mastered it yet. As fun as this has been Callaghan, I’m going to go now. You understand, don’t you?” I can’t move. I can’t breathe. She places the knife on the flesh of my neck and slices across. A kiss from a cold, metal lover. I slump, leaning on the door. I can’t process it but I don’t need to. Death has always been a friend of mine. “Next time, I kill every fucking one of you.”
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Kensley Lewis is a 23 year old student at Full Sail University and studies Creative Writing for Entertainment. She resides in North Alabama and spends her free time with her husband and their 3 year old son, reading, and binge-watching television shows. UNFINISHED BUSINESS “Melissa! Josh! What happened?” Leroy screamed. “Honey, don’t come in here,” whispered Melissa, faintly. “Dad, it’s too late,” Josh uttered through a sob. “What do you mean? It’s too late? Where are you? What happened?” Leroy rounded the corner to the living room in their house, stepping in something that felt like a puddle. He tried to take in the scene, the murder of his wife and son. He ran over to their mostly lifeless bodies on the floor, clutching them to his chest, crying. Looking up, he caught a glimpse of the man who murdered his family, but not good enough. . . The shock of the dream woke Leroy quickly, and just in time, too. He’d almost veered into the oncoming traffic lane. But, he didn’t account for the car in his lane, going the opposite way, and headed straight for him. Lights flooded Leroy’s vision and then everything went black. The pelting rain startled Leroy awake. Slowly getting up and taking in his surroundings, he realized he was in a shallow ditch on the side of the highway he’d been driving on. Not seeing his car nearby, he was curious as to how he had gotten there. The last event Leroy can call to mind was driving home from an overnight shift. After that, his mind was blank. Must’ve hit my head, he thought. He checked for his phone, grabbed it out of his pocket, and tried to unlock it. Dead. Of course. Leroy walked for what seemed like weeks, yet it was only an hour and a half. He fretted over not being able to have contact with anyone, but it was only for a split second. He didn’t have anyone to go home to. No one was waiting for him to come home. No one was waiting for him to take them to school. Not anymore. Though it had been three months since his wife and son were murdered, he still couldn’t fully grasp that they were gone. After another half hour of walking, the traffic began to pick up. Maybe I should just hitch a ride. There’s no way I’m going to make it another forty or so miles to the nearest town. Leroy walked across one side of the highway and into the median that was covered in un-cut grass, standing tall against his knees. An hour passed, but no one would give Leroy the time of day. And who could really blame them. He looked like hell. It began to rain, and finally a red Ford pickup truck stopped close enough to talk to Leroy without blocking the asphalt highway crossing in between medians. “Need a ride?” The mystery driver shouted. “Yes, please!” Leroy yelled back, coming out of the median and crossing over to reach the passenger side. “Where to?” “Middleton. It’s just about thirty minutes that way.” Leroy pointed towards the road and direction he was walking earlier. “Sure, headed that way myself.” “Thanks for stopping. My legs were giving out on me.” Leroy couldn’t put his finger on it, but he was sure he’d seen this man before. Though it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. Middleton was a pretty small town. They rode in silence for thirty minutes and Leroy could see the lights of the city. “Hey, when we reach Middleton, can you drop me off at the police station? I think I had an accident with my car on the highway and I need to report it.” “An accident you say?” the driver laughed. “Yes, I was on my way home from work and some lunatic was driving the wrong way. Last thing I remember was headlights and then everything went dark. Since I couldn’t find my car, I imagine that’s what happened was an accident.” “A lunatic? I’ve never been called that before.” A grin broke out over the driver’s face. “Well, I can’t take you to the police. But I can take you to someone else. How’d you like to see your wife?” Leroy was speechless and paralyzed. Now he knew where he remembered the man from. The same man who’d ran out of his house three months earlier. They drove through Middleton and out to a farm. The truck stopped and the man got out and grabbed Leroy. He took out a chainsaw from the back of the pickup. They walked over to a nearby pig pen. “Your family was shock value. I’m just finishing the job. Pigs eat anything.” A storyteller first and foremost, Hannah Coffman has a bachelor's degree in English Creative Writing and a fascination with the written word. Over the past several years, she's gained experience as a writing tutor, a journalist, a technical writer, and a grant writer. From her home in Rolla, Missouri, Hannah spends her days writing, exploring the Ozarks, kayaking Missouri's rivers, hiking, and traveling, and she's counting down the days until her next adventure. As Summer Vanished “Is this yours, Dakota?” A classmate held up a small, stuffed animal hanging from a keychain. It must have fallen off my backpack. I resisted the urge to wrinkle my nose and snatched it from her hand a little too forcefully. “Yeah.” If I had looked behind me as I walked away, I probably would have seen her expression change: mouth slightly open, eyes narrowed. But I didn’t look. I never looked back. It was August the 15th. # On the first day of school, everyone tries to talk to you, even the people that you’ve known since kindergarten and never held a real conversation with. What’s the point? So on this day, I like to do the opposite of everyone else. I make it my goal to leave school with no new friends and no conversations of any consequence. Most years, it’s fairly easy to do. Ignore people, and they’ll ignore you right back. It’s not that I don’t like people; it’s just that I don’t care for most of them. It’s not even that I have some deep-seated prejudice against the human race, or that my heart is deeply wounded, or that I have trust issues, or some shit like that. I just find my own company more interesting. I can’t talk to girls because I am incapable of being dramatic. And I can’t talk to boys because I am incapable of being flirted with. I can’t tell you how many times it’s gone like this: “Dakota, this guy was the one. My heart is absolutely shattered. And you’re telling me I should just get over it?” Sometimes it goes like this: “Hey, what’s your deal? Are you cool with hooking up?” I have this stare I give to guys who aren’t worth a word. I practice it in the mirror sometimes. It’s very effective. But during my junior year of high school, a girl named Summer made it incredibly difficult to leave the building without having a real conversation. # Every year as the first day of school peeks its lazy head over the horizon, I make it my goal to sleep in as late as possible. August the 15th was no different. At 7:30 AM I tripped into jeans and a pair of sneakers, and threw my backpack over one shoulder. And I put on lipstick. I love lipstick, the delightful smeariness of it and even that waxy taste it has. I love it. I have a whole shoe box full of different lipstick colors sitting on my dresser. I’m sixteen. Well, I’ll be seventeen in just a month. This is my story. I write because I don’t think I could stop if I tried: that’s one thing I forgot to mention. I write. Everywhere. On my walls, hands, jeans, on the inside of my shoes. I was writing, sitting on the cold hallway floor scribbling in a notebook, when I first heard footsteps approach me on August the 15th. At that moment, I was jotting down a list of topics for my blog, which is basically a high schooler’s perspective of Saint Louis, Missouri, and the things that happen here. I think two people read it. Maybe two and a half. “Hey, I’m new here, so I’m introducing myself to everyone. I’m Summer! What’s your name?” Summer? Like, 500 days of Summer? I did a quick analysis: Weird name. Hair curled in long, thick strands and straight, choppy bangs that fell over her eyebrows. Scarf obscuring a bland t-shirt. Long, skinny limbs. Thin lips. I must have stared a little too long, because she gave me a strange look. She wasn’t pretty, but I noticed her skin was, stretched and smooth like wax. “Dakota.” I said, brushing my long, dark hair away from my face and mentally making a tally mark: one. That’s one new person I had to talk to today. I tried to turn, but before I could, the girl called Summer caught my arm in a fragile, bony hand, and she caught a little bit of my hair, too. “Ouch!” I exclaimed. For the first time today, I was forced to turn around and face another person. Summer was looking at me intently, far too intently for my comfort. “You’re different,” she said. “I just moved to Saint Louis from Michigan with my dad. I don’t have any friends or family here or know anybody. Are you free tonight?” “If you let go of my arm, I’d feel more free,” I said. She let go. Her delicate, bony grasp couldn’t have possibly hurt me, but her eyes were something else. “I’ll meet you somewhere after school if you tell me your last name,” I said. I wanted leverage, and it was the only thing I could think of in the moment. I didn’t want her to have the upper hand. I did want to know what made her so vicious about making friends that she would grab a stranger’s arm. “Stephens,” she said. Summer Stephens. Of course, I thought. She had a name that rolled off the tongue, and a nose that protruded too far out of her face, and she was sticking it in my business. But never mind. I hadn’t had a friend, a real friend, since my cousin Carly moved to New York when I was in fifth grade. But like I said, I preferred it that way. I asked, “Dewey’s?” Everyone I’ve ever met has been obsessed with Dewey’s pizza, a local chain. She just gave me a blank stare… right. I forgot that she mentioned she wasn’t from Saint Louis. “You like pizza in Michigan?” I asked. “I think that’s pretty universal,” she said with a smile. “Okay, Dewey’s, then. I’ll see you there at four.” I walked into my next class, twirling the sterling silver ring on my left pinky. The tiny engraved eagle on the ring spun around and around with my thoughts. # On August the 15th, the conversation we had at Dewey’s was one part bizarre and two parts comfortable. When I talk to my cousin Carly on the phone (I only answer when I’m forced to and I can’t avoid her because my mom heard my phone ring) it’s so stiff. Swapping words, that’s all our conversations are. When Carly and I were little we used to play Mario Kart, and play in this creek behind my house that I now realize is filled with sewage and old tires. When we were little that didn’t matter, but now we have nothing to say to each other. She lives in New York in a loft and goes to a different café every day for lunch. I eat pizza weekly. “So, what’s there to do around here?” Summer asked. “Not much,” I said. “I don’t believe you,” said Summer. “I saw you writing, and saw a camera sticking out of your backpack. There’s no way you just sit around after school.” “I don’t,” I said, “but most people will tell you Saint Louis is boring as hell.” “I don’t care what other people would tell me,” she said, her voice becoming so high it was almost squeaky. “There’s a reason I wanted to talk to you. I’m asking Dakota, not everyone else.” I twirled my ring around my pinky: once, twice, three times. At the time, I remember thinking Summer was just odd. Delightfully so. After that, our conversation spiraled and we discussed the merits of eating banana peppers straight from the jar and that maybe crop circles were caused by aliens after all. I think Carly would have rather died than discuss those things. But that’s why we talk twice a year, on a good year. # When I got home that night, my mom asked, “Were you at Dewey’s?” and I said, “Yeah.” But I didn’t tell her I had been chatting with Summer. Mom probably imagined me alone at my usual table, legs crossed, working on one of my stories, sipping a coke. “Were you writing a story?” Mom asked, on cue. My mom is a worrying sort of mom. I guess most moms are, but mine worries and asks a lot of questions, but never really gets to the bottom of things. “Yeah,” I said, still choosing not to tell her about Summer. “I’ve got a couple of things going up on the blog this week. There’s a girl from Chesterfield that just straight up disappeared. And a cat that rides the bus downtown.” Mom smiled like she hadn’t heard a word I said. “Good, sweetie. Dinner at seven tonight!” And she turned her capable hands to cut broccoli, or something. I heard her humming a popular song from the radio. I walked upstairs to my room, my cat weaving around my legs, leaving white patches of fur on my black leggings. I abhor doing laundry, so I pushed her off. “Out, Princess!” Then I felt bad for yelling at her and called her back in while I pulled out my laptop and sat down on my navy-blue comforter, arranging soft pillows behind me. As penance for yelling at Princess, I decided to start working on my story about the large calico cat, Brady, who had memorized the bus routes in downtown St. Louis. But as I composed my piece, something overtook me. I sat in place, twirling my ring once, twice, three times, while I listened to Princess purr. I couldn’t stop thinking about the girl who had disappeared out of Chesterfield. Chesterfield was like, twenty minutes from where I lived. It was the kind of place that had tulips planted next to all its roads and where people shopped at grass-fed grocery stores and basically, where nothing bad ever happened. When people disappear and their posters go up in post-offices with the word MISSING posted over them, that’s when I’ve always felt the search was hopeless. How often do people’s eyes stray to those posters and actually commit them to memory? Who thinks to themselves, “I’ll remember this face”? Once, I even thought I saw someone who was on one of the posters—a boy, about 12, riding his bike in front of my house. But I never told anyone. I never did anything. And sometimes I still feel guilty, but only when I’m awake before 7 A.M. I adjusted my laptop on my legs. I had to write about the girl who disappeared: Sydney Merchant. I Googled her name. She was an average high school student, apparently. The few pictures of her in the articles I read revealed grainy selfies of a blonde teenager. A picture of her in a coral colored homecoming dress, laughing. A family photo with a sheepdog. I researched Sydney’s life until I fell asleep with my laptop still open and my cat, Princess, curled up against me, leaving her tell-tale white hairs all over me. # By August the 19th Summer and I had gotten pizza together twice and drank Coke at a café on a Tuesday afternoon. While we ate and sipped from glass bottles (the best kind, we agreed), we talked about everything, and it was nicer than I could have imagined. Once, Summer suddenly asked my opinion on book jackets. “Do you think it’s nice to imagine your books wearing little clothes?” she asked. I had never thought of that before. “Yes,” I said, “but only if they’re crisp and clean. I don’t like the waxy kind that are on library books.” “Mmm,” she agreed over a mouthful of pepperoni. “Have you ever been in love?” Summer asked me next. She was a rapid-fire geyser of questions. “I can’t pretend that anything has ever happened to me,” I said. “I’ve never dated anyone or broken up with anyone or even fought with anyone, not really. The worst fight I ever had was with my sister Lindsay, and it ended in a pillow fight.” “That’s not what I asked,” she said after I paused for a breath and twirled my ring on my finger under the table. Once, twice, three times. “Sure, I’ve been in love. Hasn’t everyone?” I tried to change the subject because I wasn’t comfortable talking about being in love when I felt I had no right to be in love. I’ve never had a boyfriend. But she nodded and smiled. “Me, too. His name is Jefferson.” “Jefferson?” “Jefferson.” # My laptop came to life with a whirr. Ever since she had grabbed my arm and coaxed me into friendship, I had inklings that Summer Stephens wasn’t who she said she was. But on the night of August the 19th, as I typed “Sydney Merchant” into Google, a new article came up that I hadn’t read before. “Merchant’s boyfriend at the time of disappearance, Jefferson Moray, has stated that he has started a Facebook group for support of Merchant’s family and friends during this time. If anyone has information or sentiments to share, we direct them to the page labeled ‘Find Sydney Merchant.’” I just stared at the screen until it blinked off. Jefferson. That couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? She’d never told me his last name. # On August the 23rd I decided I wanted answers. “Where do you live?” I asked Summer, throwing decorum to the wind. “I live a little on the outside of St. Charles,” she told me, referencing a calm suburb of Saint Louis. "My parents live in St. Charles, too,” I said. “You’ll have to drop by sometime,” hoping she would extend her own invitation. She just smiled with her thin lips and said, “I’d love to. I’m glad to have friends, and my dad will be glad, too. He was so worried that the move from Michigan would make me lose all interest in being social.” That wasn’t the response I had expected. I stumbled a little over my next words. “Well, next week then. You’ll have to come over for dinner. My mom’s not much of a cook, but she does make a mean Pasta Helper dish.” Summer laughed. “You’re lucky to have your mom. I’ve lived with my dad for as long as I can remember, and that means eating out most meals and pretending to cook the rest.” “What happened to your mom?” I asked, bluntly, immediately regretting it. “I’m sorry.” I apologized, “I didn’t mean to ask that.” “No, don’t apologize. I don’t mind. My mom still lives in Michigan, so I saw her occasionally before we moved here, but not often. She was never married to my dad, and she left before I ever remember them living together.” “What’s she like?” “Like a bald eagle. You know how bald eagles are symbols of freedom? But when you look at one up close, especially the ones in cages, they don’t seem very free at all. My mom is like a symbol of motherhood, unless you look too closely.” I just nodded. Even though my mother has always been around, humming in the kitchen, I knew exactly what Summer meant. # It was the 25th of August when I trusted the girl called Summer enough to take her to the railroad tracks by the Mississippi river, the spot I like to go to think and create theories about life. When I told her that, she laughed, but not the kind of laugh that hurts. “Have you ever dyed your hair, Dakota?” she asked me quite abruptly. (I was used to her abrupt questions.) “No,” I said, “I like color, but not in my hair.” “Huh. I dyed mine before I came here, and it’s washing out so fast. I was wondering if there was any way to make it stay dark.” I looked more closely at her hair. It was a dark mahogany, but I could see corn-like color at her roots, and a gradient that didn’t look salon-achieved. “Did you use box color?” I asked. “Yeah,” she replied, “I guess that was a mistake. My dad doesn’t like to give me money for anything involving hair or makeup or beauty products, mostly because he’s afraid I’ll become like my mom.” “Like your mom?” I prodded, aware that I was prodding. “Yeah. I think every time he sees her in me, it hurts him, you know? It reminds him.” # That weekend, my older sister Lindsay came to visit. I still hadn’t mentioned Summer to Mom or Dad. When I was gone, they assumed that I was in the places I normally frequented: getting pizza, wandering by the railroad tracks, reading somewhere or studying for a test in this little coffee shop called Marge’s. I think the last time they actually asked where I was going, I was either 12 or 13. They knew early on they didn’t have to worry about me getting into trouble. And if I wasn’t getting into trouble, what else did they have to worry about? Lindsay had recently dyed her brown hair to black, which reminded me of Summer’s question. “Hey, did you use box dye?” I asked. “Of course not,” she retorted, obviously offended. “Sorry,” I muttered, “I wasn’t saying it looked bad. My friend just told me that box dye always fades really fast and she doesn’t know how to keep her hair dark.” Instead of answering my question, Lindsay just asked, “Your friend?” “Yeah, my friend. Her name’s Summer.” “Huh,” Lindsay said. “Glad you made a friend.” I don’t think she meant it sarcastically. I twirled my silver ring. # On August the 30th, Summer and I sat at a two-person table in Marge’s coffee house. The door was wide open, and sun and sky spilled in among the dark scent of coffee beans. “Do you like tattoos? Would you ever get one?” Summer asked me while she bit into an apple. Sometimes she got really excited about our conversation and would talk with her mouth still a little bit full. It was childlike. Endearing, maybe. “I like to write on myself with pen, but I also like to wash it away. I don’t think I could ever settle on something permanently,” I replied. I tapped my fingers on the table in a comforting rhythm. “I have a tattoo,” Summer told me in a confessional tone. She flipped her brown hair, and the red tints of the dye glowed madly in the sunlight that shone through the doorway. She was wearing this yellow sundress that clashed with her hair. “Yeah?” “Yeah… I got it last year, with my dad’s permission. I wish I hadn’t gotten it, though, because it was for my mom, and I don’t feel like she deserves it, now. When I told her about it, she barely smiled…I don’t know.” Her voice trailed off and she sat there silently for a moment, apple hanging listlessly from her hand. “What is it of?” I asked. “It’s a bird, because she reminds me of an eagle, like I told you. A bird, and it has her initials in it.” When we left the coffee shop, we spilled a tip on the table of quarters, dimes and nickels. # I was chewing on the end of my pencil when Summer walked into the school library. Her hair was curled like usual and she smiled in my direction. I looked at her and sized her up, twirling my ring. She could have dyed her blond hair, creating its dark mahogany color. She could have cut the bangs that fell across her forehead, the bangs that Sydney didn’t have. But there was one thing that was bothering me: Sydney had blue eyes. Summer’s eyes were brown. “Have your eyes always been brown?” I blurted in a hushed whisper as she pulled out a chair and sat at my table. From across the room, I saw a librarian glare at me. Summer looked startled, touching her face rapidly in a self-conscious gesture. Actually, for a moment, she looked scared. I felt so bad I immediately recanted: “I mean, you know, how people’s eyes are sometimes a different color when they are born? Like, mine were blue when I was born, and now they’re green.” This wasn’t true. It was also the first lie I’d told in a good while, making it slip uncomfortably off of my tongue. “Oh,” she laughed. “No, I think mine have always been brown. My dad’s and my mom’s eyes are both brown, so it makes sense.” I mentally made a note: look at Sydney’s parent’s eye color. I jotted letters on the back of my hand with a pen: L A S P E C. The first letter of each word, so I would remember. “What’s that?” Summer asked, swinging her legs up into a crisscross position. She forgot to hush her voice and I noticed the librarian looking at us again. “Just a note to myself,” I explained, softly. Then Summer asked: “Where would you like to be buried? Do you think it would be nice to be in a family plot, or somewhere new?” For a moment I forgot about Sydney and Sydney didn’t matter anymore. I was just having a conversation with Summer, this girl who had become one of my very best friends. “Somewhere new,” I said. # As it turned out, both of Sydney’s parents had brown eyes. I found pictures of both of them after twenty minutes of social-media stalking. I had thought of the next question I was going to ask Summer: “Do you ever think about leaving, running away, and going wherever you’d like?” I had decided that Sydney was Summer, Summer was Sydney. And she had trusted me enough to tell me about her mom, and to sit with me for hours and ask and answer questions. I felt she could trust me with this final secret. I looked through pictures of Sydney, as many as I could find. There weren’t a lot, because she didn’t have a Facebook page or other social media. There were pictures in news articles, and on the Facebook page that her boyfriend, Jefferson, had created. I couldn’t spot a tattoo in any of the pictures. I wrote out the questions I meant to ask Summer in one of my notebooks. I wrote the questions so many times that they crisscrossed each other, and some were written horizontally, and some vertically. Some were etched into the page so many times they bled over onto the page behind it. “Are you Sydney Merchant? Are you running away? Are you trying to hide your identity? Who are you? Are you really named Summer Stephens? What about your dyed hair, and your boyfriend Jefferson, and both your parents’ brown eyes? Why did you want to leave them? Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?” But that day, she didn’t show up to school. I thought maybe she had a stomachache, or needed a mental health day, or maybe she came in for a half day and I just missed her in last period. I twirled my ring, but I lost count of how many times. I drove home in silence, without even the radio to keep me company. It was September the 12th. # On September the 19th, I asked my sociology teacher. I’m not intimidated by anyone, but if I were, I would be intimidated by him. He’s taller than anyone—His name’s Mr. Richard, I don’t know his first name. I don’t know if his first name was ever relevant, not even when he was very small. “I haven’t seen Summer Stephens in a week. She hasn’t answered her phone, and I can’t find out from anyone what happened,” I told him. He just gave me a grave look from behind glasses that masked the color of his eyes. “I… I guess what I’m asking is, do you have any idea if she transferred schools, or moved back to Michigan, or is she okay?” Mr. Roberts shuffled a few papers around on his desk, and pulled out a roster. He handed it to me. “Summer Stephens?” He asked. I quickly glanced over the roster. Then more slowly. Then slower still. In between the last names, I could not seem to find hers. I squinted. Turned the paper sideways. Then realized how silly I looked. I walked away without asking him again. Or anyone, for that matter. # It’s August 15th again, meaning I haven’t been to Dewey’s in nearly a year. Last time I was there, a few weeks after Summer, someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I jumped so quickly I felt my nerves stretch. “I’m so sorry,” an unfamiliar voice said, “I just thought you were someone else.” I thought it was someone else, too. I had a wild hope that Summer had returned from wherever she had gone: that she had questions to ask me and pepperoni pizza to order. Summer passed into fall and fall passed into winter. In the spring, I’ll graduate high school, and I wonder if she will too, or where she is, or if Sydney Merchant is lost forever to the world. I don’t think I’ll ever stop wondering. I know that I’m different from other people. I chew on the end of all my pencils, and I listen to jazz music from the forties, and I hate hipsters and love gum, and ripped bell-bottom jeans from Goodwill or the nineties, and all different shades of lipstick, and I just don’t particularly care for people. And now there is something else: now I’ve lost someone I never really knew. With a passion for storytelling spawning before he even could write, Pete Cotsalas, a Massachusetts native, does not feel accomplished unless he has written daily. Fiction is his passion. With a BA in English/Creative Writing he hopes to milk all the use possible out of this basic credential, and dreams of the world reading and enjoying his work. He is an avid reader and researcher in his spare time. To inspire himself, he often contemplates “If it exists, I can write about it.” Unbeknownst Revival Teleportation via Chliste’s spell was travel in discomfort. Ivanna would compare the sensation to being caught in a silent tornado grasped in a giant’s fist. Blinding flashes of colorful light surrounded them until their destination. Out of the haziness, the mines of Scholder materialized. No trees were in sight. No songbirds warbled. Nervously, Myria gazed into the abysmal darkness below. “Where is the Asylum?” Ivanna and Glee pointed to answer. The structure upon the far cliff was Tearmann Asylum. Located on the far northwest corner of Scholder Province, Tearmann was perched on a cliff, overlooking miles of mines, not accessed for years. These mines were harvested clean of their ample supply of precious material centuries before. Tearmann Institute was once a smelting station until its function became pointless. The mines which the people of Scholder now worked in were exclusively on the south rim of the canyons, miles from there. From the distance where they stood, it appeared as a child’s dollhouse, teetering on the edge of a chair. “Blimey!” exclaimed Glee, nearly sliding off a cliff. “Why did you not transport us all the way to Tearmann?” “Heavy warding against such magical is on the walls,” Chliste explained. “Just as in Caineann, it is to prevent escape. This is the closest I could manage.” Hiking the narrow paths along the cliffs was strenuous. Without treetops to obscure the sun, rays loomed down on them, hellishly, as the party ventured upward. Clutching at a cramp in her side, Ivanna stopped to catch her breath. A droplet of perspiration hit her in the eye from Froman, a few paces uphill. Ivanna found it astonishing that inmates could be escorted along such a set of winding trails, with the constant danger of falling into the canyons below. Offering Ivanna a handkerchief, Glee looked down into the deep ravines of the mines. “I can only imagine,” he muttered, plaintively. “Do you honestly think it coincidental that they decided to establish this place up on the cliffs of a mine? It was a clever exclusion technique. The powers that be simply wanted so-called undesirables away from mainstream society. If we were to search depths of these mines, I have no doubt we would find skeletal remains of many inmates, discarded like rubbish. You know, there was a dark time, even after The Days to Forsake, when it was the norm for Fathach authorities to execute those with mind impairments. Or use them for medical experimentation.” Glee ceased his unwarranted assessment, upon reaching the large gateway to the Asylum. Initially, it looked as if Tearmann was run by a tribe of ogres and trolls. Grunting and shouting, they carried, or dragged inmates along corridors, and in and out of chambers. Dwarves, elves, goblins and men, in restraints babbled incoherently, or flailed in resistance. Quickly Glee explained that these trolls and ogres were manpower. Originally, they were met with uncertainty when asking a troll who was in control of operations there at the institution. Finally they were granted an audience with an old elf, drinking a goblet of wine beside a fireplace in a study, seeming out of place between two inmate chambers. Standing as they entered, he gripped his monocle beneath his bushy eyebrow, with irritable impatience. “Who are you? State you business here,” he demanded, over the pained cries and whimpers. A troll crony was administering a flogging of an inmate in the adjacent chamber. Becoming much more hospitable when Ivanna and Glee produced their Enforcer badges, the elf introduced himself as Spratly, “Coordinator” of Tearmann. “Of course, I can take you to Humblainenzie, the fairy. Right this way.” Down and expansive, dank corridor, Spratly escorted them. The stone hallway was lined with cells. “This is positively despicable,” Glee muttered, looking around. Behind a set of bars to their left, a young goblin shivered, seated in a puddle of water, leaking from above. “Why do we treat the violent, convicted criminals on our continent with more grace than those who suffer mere mental impairments? This place needs more regulation from The Legion.” Ivanna rolled her eyes. “You say things such as that quite often Glee. Every time you disclose an opinion of that nature, I advise you to go forth and address The Grand Legion about them. I said that about the goblin segregation in Ullbarr, and countless other issues you have mentioned.” “They would not listen to me,” Glee said. Ivanna knew he would say this. A large assortment of inmates was in a wide dormitory on the left side of the long corridor. An old dwarf with one arm shouted, pointing at Ivanna, Glee, Myria, Froman and Chliste with his one remaining arm. In loud bellows he accused them of being Rakshasa, and continued this rant as they passed. Spratly explained. “That ward is reserved for veterans of The War for Right. Many of them lost their minds on the battlefield. The only ones remaining are dwarves and elves, as they live much longer than you humans.” Glee muttered under his breath. “Somehow I have a suspicion that they did not all have an opportunity to allow time to end their lives.” “What ward is Humblainenzie in?” Ivanna asked to divert the subject. The elf shook his head. “The traveling fairy has not been kept in a ward in over a century. He roams the corridors free. Here he is.” Humblainenzie did not appear crazy or unbalanced. In most aspects he appeared, at first glance, the same as any other fairy. Walking with a distinct lightness to his step, he was short, half the height of Myria, who was the smallest of their traveling brigade. One differentiating factor setting him apart from other fairies was his wings. They were shackled behind his back. Never before had Ivanna seen a fairy rendered flightless. Agreeably, Spratly left the five visitors alone with Humblainenzie. Upon laying eyes on Chliste, Humblainenzie grinned, with a colorless twinkle in his eyes, characteristic of a happy fairy. “Chliste, it is good to see you.” “You as well,” said Chliste, with less charisma. Sorrowfully, he looked at the wing restraints. “However, I am sorry about the limited freedom.” “A minor hindrance,” said Humblainenzie, glancing behind his back. Tips of his wings twitched helplessly. “Ogres tell me it is a necessary precaution. Discomfort is something I am able to cope with. To what do I owe this large visitation?” As he often did, Chliste overlooked casual introductions and pleasantries, arriving directly on topic. “My companions and I seek information on Djinn.” Sparkles seemed to flicker slightly from Humblainenzie’s eyes. Following a short pause for composure, he nodded. “For millennia, I explored the vastness of realms. They operate in a labyrinth, as a giant whirligig essentially. Crossroads between them are sporadic and unpredictable. More than once, I happened upon the Djinn. I can only tell you so much about them. If you desire complete answers, I can escort you to someone who can deliver.” With a nod of his head, he led them toward another section of the narrowing corridor. Lit torches which had lined the walls up until now became scarce. This seemed to be a forgotten wing of the asylum. Six cells they passed were vacant. One nearly at the end of the corridor had an occupant. There was a human male in this ward, mumbling incoherently to nobody. “Nameless inmate,” explained Humblainenzie. “Everyone calls him Lockjaw. Day and night, he sits there mumbling that jargon, which nobody has deciphered. He was admitted a decade ago, discovered aimlessly wandering the forests of Province Dli. Although he may seem unremarkable, hear this. They have neglected to feed him since. Ten years, this human has gone without sustenance. Still he lives.” In Ivanna’s eyes there was only one explanation. “Impossible, then he is not human. At least he is not entirely.” “Has a healer examined him?” Glee asked Humblainenzie. The fairy scoffed “Healer? In what level of delusion do you blissfully find sanction? There has not been a certified healer in Tearmann in three decades.” Curiously Ivanna glanced from the apparent immortal man, back to the shackled fairy. “What causes you to think he has the answers we seek?” It was Chliste who answered her question. Leaning his head against the bars, he cupped his hand around his ear. Chliste looked and Humblainenzie, listening to the man’s mumbling, with widening eyes. “He speaks the language of the Cryptic Alphabet.” Humblainenzie nodded, and looked at Glee with a mischievous fairy smirk. “See, Chliste is far more perceptive than the most educated healer.” Slowly he pushed the rusty cell door open. “In all this time, he has never stood from that bunk. Nobody has bothered to lock his cell. Would you care for a closer examination?” At the bedside, Chliste touched the man’s arm and closed his eyes. Everyone else remained silent, knowing the golem was reading the man’s energy. Chliste nodded, and opened his eyes. “This man suffers from acute, yet prolonged Barrier Shock,” he surmised. Humblainenzie explained to the humans and Wolf. “That condition predominantly exists among fairies. We use it to refer to a state of mental or physical impairment which one can occasionally succumb to after crossing between realms of reality.” “Can you… can you cure it?” Glee asked Chliste, reluctantly. “Typically, yes I can,” Chliste said. Ivanna’s heart leapt as she saw in Chliste’s face something she never had before. Fear, Chliste looked fearful, looking down upon the murmuring mess of a man. With silent hope, she wondered if it was merely his new heart taking its root. “But… I sense unusual aura around this man,” continued Chliste. “Honestly, I have never detected anything remotely like it. It feels like… an immeasurable mass of restrained power. I can also tell you… this man is centuries old.” “How do you know?” Glee asked. Gazing at his hand, as if not believing it his own, Chliste flexed his long pale fingers. “When I touched him, I saw flashes of memory,” Chliste said. “He remembers a time when the illuminating cracks still loomed in the sky.” “That means he recalls time when our world was pending completion,” Froman said, cocking a mangy eyebrow. “Faraoise told me of such a time. That means that this man’s life precedes the Days to Forsake. How is that possible?” A pause followed. Solidifying his discomfort not knowing answers, Chliste changed the subject slightly. “It is a riddle he speaks. The same is etched on the walls of Faraoise’s layer.” Solemnly, he recited it. “Above the mind which conceives and designs, they grow. Outside the exterior, they thrive. Colorful beauty, permitting vanity, displaying wealth, shapes and styles are worn in a plethora.” “Hair,” said Myria, shrugging. Somehow that seemed too simple to Ivanna. Inquisitive faces of the others proved she was not alone in that feeling. “Gemstones,” said Chliste. “The answer is gemstone. “Mind” references not the physical brain of any creature, but of Faraoise herself, who conceived the world. Perhaps if I answer the riddle, in the Cryptic Language, his shock will dissipate. One minor precaution, I will take.” Raising his hands, Chliste murmured an incantation and his sclera shined a cerulean blue. Initially, it did not seem that anything happened. Then Ivanna noticed the orange light from the one torch in corridor was not longer flickering. The flame was perfectly stationary. Poking her head outside the cell, she saw an ogre, carrying a tray of bread to another cell standing still in his footsteps, not moving a muscle. Chliste explained “I have enacted a time-stopping charm, excluding those of us occupying this room to conduct his remedy without interruption. Also, if it does not work, and something less satisfactory occurs, I believe it better if time were not moving at normal pace.” Widening her eyes, Myria blurted “Wait, what do you think might-?” Inhaling, Chliste ignored her, murmuring the answer to the riddle, “Gemstones” in the gibberish language. As if a miniature earthquake occurred within this one cell, Ivanna felt the sensation she were falling, and was then caught. This had to mean the energy in the room had shifted. Curing the Barrier Shock nearly drained Chliste. As the man ceased his nonsensical utterance, and sat up, Chliste collapsed. Ivanna bent down to tend to Chliste. Panting and grunting, Chliste shook his head, silently saying he would be fine. He pointed to the man regaining consciousness. “What is your name?” It almost frightened Ivanna to ask this question. “I… I do not know,” the young man said, blinking and rubbing his head. “Irrelevant,” Froman sneered in Ivanna’s ear, his foul-smelling breath striking her nostrils. “His name is not pertinent to our goal.” To the stranger he asked “What do you know of Djinn?” as pointedly as Chliste. Humblainenzie was correct. This man did know of the Djinn. He provided an answer so readily, it almost sounded rehearsed. “The Djinn are all-powerful, but thrive on benefiting others. Forming reality out of the desires of others substantiates and empowers them.” As he spoke, the man looked around at them, blinking them into focus. “Djinn are the archrival or evolution.” “How is that?” asked Glee. “They are parasitic, ticks suckling blood. Acquirement forms one of the basic dictums Faraoise conceived when she created the concept of life. Part of accomplishment is strive and growth it requires. When Djinn simply supplement a wish, and provide it, eliminating that, it hinders a life essential.” Crouching down to face the man, Froman gazed into his eyes. “What have Djinn to do with the Warlock Loyalists?” Blinking ceased. The stranger’s eyes widened, as he looked into Froman’s aggressive face. “Do you not know? A Djinn leads them. Loyalists are comprised of more than mere dwarves, men, goblins, trolls and elves. The most powerful being in all of the realms walks among them.” TO BE CONTINUED |
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