Remember on that playground, when you were only five?
You accidently pushed your sister, she broke her knee and cried
Your mom was walking up the bend so
What'd you do?
You lied
That's when you learned the golden rule
Deny. Deny. Deny.

You found yourself in school, stressed outside your mind
Tearing up your notes, losing hours night by night
So you bent the rules a little, stole for just one time
And when it came to haunt you?
Deny. Deny. Deny.

You were pining for an office, so you grinded long past five
Selling risky stocks to grandmas, the markets sure to thrive
Closing more calls everyday, more cells to build your hive
And when the markets called your bluff?
Deny. Deny. Deny.

You found yourself an office, an oval one, your prize
You told yourself 
this would be 
the time to get it right
Then war broke out, children burned, the soldiers you sent died
And when the media called for blood and blame?
Deny. Deny. Deny.

You went to tuck your daughter in, just like every night
She'd seen a horror on the news, gave her quite a fright
She asked you how to be a person, how to do it right?
You opened your mouth to speak but
What could you do?
You lied
Cause all you ever knew how to do was
Deny. Deny. Deny.

“That's dramatic.”

“I’m going to do it, and don’t you try and stop me.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

“I’m not enough, you hear? That's why. I realized I’m not enough.”

“Not enough for what?”

“For anything. For everyone.”

“That’s a lot of people.”

“I’m not enough of a writer, I don’t understand their fancy rhythms. I’m not enough for the capitalists, I don’t get their fancy rhymes.”

“Last I checked, that's not everyone.”

“I’ve got more-”

“You’re fine.”

“There's just too much to know, you know?”

“...”
“The cinephiles have too many good movies. That's the problem. How am I supposed to know them all?”

“You don’t need to.”

“But I can’t love movies if I’ve never seen the Godfather, can I?”

“I suppose you can’t.”

“So who am I if I don’t like movies?”

“A writer. A capitalist.”

“I’ve never read shakespeare. I don’t own any stock.”

“I suppose you’d be no one then.”

“Exactly.”

“Is that bad?”

“Don’t be silly, everyone has to be someone. It's in the rules.”

“I suppose it is.”

“Well… I’m off to the bridge then.”

“A real jumper would do it off the Golden Gate.”

“Says who?!”

“The nets presumably.”

“That's halfway across the country!”

“Indeed it is.”

“I… I guess I’m not a real jumper then.”

“I guess you’re not.”

Dainty, whimsical, fine

Cowering away from the open skies

As your forests burned and your oceans fried

As your heroes quit and your children cried

As your towers fell and your parents died

Forsaking the soldier who didn’t hold his line,

Rejecting the artist struggling against all the signs,

Abandoning the child falling from the highest vine

Clouding your vision with empty promises supplied

The second lie they told you was for a child's eyes

“Grow up, be realistic” they’d huff and they’d sigh

Berating you every minute of your waking life

As they stabbed into your dreams and twisted the knife

Leaving you hesitating every second, thinking twice

Biting at any hand willing to throw the dice

Nice and proper now, out of mind out of sight

It's time to grow up, tell that child goodnight

I can’t remember what the third lie was

Something about Fear, something about Anger, something about Care.

It convinced your heart that you had no room to share

That it was noble to be faithless and smart to despair

Get the rope, sharpen the knives, lay back in that electric chair

The tortoise would have done better surrendering to the hare

The fourth lie was the worst. The one they’d whisper so you barely hear

The one that I’m dead. The one that I’m gone. Shadows so severe.

But the shadows fade take a step back, see it clear

Come closer my child sit down dry your tears

For I’m with the soldier who levels his spear

With the artist who paints gold over her fear

With the child as he climbs and he runs and he cheers

With your dreams, stepping onward and onward towards the frontier

I’m in your beautiful cities and your open skies

In your hearts as your forests burn and your oceans fry

In your prayers as your heroes stand and your children cry

In your hands as your towers fall and your parents die

Remember my name

Remember the lies

But today he went himself. I found him panting, calloused hands standing weakly at his side. The wind blew but he didn’t wear a coat. He was looking out at the sky.

I put down one of two coffees next to him and joined him in the view. I wouldn’t call it breathtaking. I always found that a peculiar way to describe the mountains and snow covered trees. It was so spectacular it filled you with life. The sight made me remember my lungs, remember my heart, remember I was alive.

It didn’t seem to do the same for him. He was trying, trying harder than any other time I brought him here. But this wasn’t where he drew life from. He wasn’t used to it. His grayed eyes just looked outward desperately, glaring at the mountain in the distance.

“You should drink,” I nodded my head to the coffee on the floor. “It’ll warm you up.”

He nodded. He didn’t move.

I checked my watch. “Alan would have finished putting in the rest of the machines by now.”

“Did he now?” He kept staring into the sky. Gray clouds were on the horizon.

“I would have thought you’d be proud of him, Emerys,” I said with a note of accusation, “Business has never been better.”

“I am proud of him!” said Emerys with a sudden rise of anger. “I’ve always been proud of him.”

I took a sip of my coffee to compose my next sentence. “Well you have a funny way of showing it, sulking all alone on this hill.”

Emerys’s shoulders slumped, and for a moment I remembered how old the man was getting.

“I am proud of him,” he said finally, “He is witty, driven, and has his mother’s brains. I couldn’t have asked for more.”

“But…?”

He huffed, “It's just those damn machines he makes. They are… bad.”

“Bad?”

“Bad.”

I sipped on my coffee.

“Because they increase profits?”

“Well no-”

“Because we are more productive?”

“No I-”

“Because more people get shoes?”

“They just aren’t good, ok!” he spoke with an uncharacteristic venom. “It's too mechanical, too simple, too fast. It's not…”

“Human?”

Emerys looked away. “You think I’ve lost it don’t you. An old fool scared of change…”

“On the contrary, you remind me of my pa.”

“Mr. Dolven?”

I nodded. “He felt about the same way when you moved here.”

“Really?”

I shrugged, “A young shoemaker from a far away place making quality he couldn’t dream off? He was downright terrified of you.”

Emerys looked at his hands, clenching and unclenching them. “I… I never knew.”

I took another sip of my coffee, and watched as my breath came out in steam in the cold air. “He told my mom he felt like sunlight in January.”

Emerys frowned.

“He felt so full of light and life, brimming with potential to offer the world.” I gestured towards the rolling forests, leafless and dead. “Only to fall into an unexpected world that had no use for him.”

“He should have been a poet.”

“That was the plan before I ruined it.”

We stood there silently for a long bit. Long enough for Emerys’s untouched coffee to go cold.

“Did he… Did he ever stop feeling that way?”

I took a final sip of my coffee, feeling its richness flow down the back of my throat. The trees and mountains looked even more majestic in the dying sunlight. I took a deep breath, the crisp air snapping my brain awake and reminding me that I was here. That I was alive.

“No, I don’t think he ever did.”

“Oh.”

His wings had been eaten by the sun and sea, feathers scattered all about. He rubbed his head. The fall had not been pleasant. He saw a mountain in the distance. A little olympus challenging the horizon.

Barely missing a beat, he started to collect the feathers. He melted a few together with mud and bound the rest with a bundle of twine. He set off to the mountain to challenge the sun again.

Because what's a few more steps and a little old climb?

The first leg was in the forests. His wings were caught in every branch and every bramble. There were several times it got tangled in the leaves, leaving Icarus to tug and pull under the mocking stares of the birds. One time, when the wings became tangled in a rosebush, he nearly gave up. But then, he remembered the mocking stares of the birds, and raised his chin a little higher.

He then scaled the mountainside, his wings weighing him down as he gripped stone and stone. As he scaled, there was a flash of light, and Helios God of the Sun floated by the cliff face. He smiled at Icarus, but not in a friendly way.

“Those wings look awfully worn little bird.” taunted the Sun God. “I wouldn’t recommend using them.”

Icarus didn’t respond, he simply continued to climb.

“You know this is foolish, right? Mortals aren’t meant to fly.”

Icarus continued to climb.

“You are going to fail. I will simply burn these affronts again and again until it gets through your thick skull..”

Icarus continued to climb.

When Icarus reached the top of the mountain, he decided to rest for the night. The night was cold, and the moon was unsympathetic. The wind billowed, taking all the heat it could from Icarus’s bones. But the young bird wrapped his man-made wings around himself, and they shielded him like a blanket.

In the morning, Icarus felt rested and optimistic. The mountain’s ledge was filled with old pine trees, sturdy and uncompromising. Icarus felt oddly at home. He wandered the trees, looking for a very particular thing. The arrogant god had been right about something, Icarus’s wings were very worn.

The young bird crouched down and scooped up a bit of resin from the tree. It was golden and gooped in his fingers. His father’s design had been brilliant, but it was flawed. Icarus would improve on it.

So he bound his wings with the resin, with the wisdom and sturdiness of the pines, and made his way to the top of the mountain.

The view was beautiful, but only a fraction as beautiful as what it was like in the sky. Icarus lashed his wings to his back, and took a deep breath. The air was inviting, unlike the mud, stones, and sun. It challenged him, but with an honest smile. It was curious to see if he could tame it.

The old god and his sun blazed above. Furious at the little bird's progress and gaul. Icarus smiled, and made a rude gesture to the sky.

Then he jumped. Then he flew.

Now, the butterflies flew across town all the time. Whether it was sunny or fall, rainy or winter, the little things could bump into you at any moment. But on this day, this one special day, the butterflies would flap into the air in a big cloud of colors and spirals and weave their way through the streets. Everyone knew this was the best time to catch them.

You must know that a butterfly cannot be captured by a simple net, at least not for long. A butterfly needed to be impressed, tricked, or dazzled to be caught. It was something earned, not something taken.

So the children did all manner of impressive things to earn their butterflies. Colorful lights and flashy hats. Some would play a beautiful song, others would paint a stunning picture. Others would courageously swing very large objects, others would raise up sweet tasting nectar.

The gardener's son trailed the crowd. The children had been given off from work that day, but he still carried his little spade regardless. While the baker’s boys offered up delicious smelling pies, the barwoman’s daughter flashed a few bottles that she was far too young for, and maestra’s son danced in beautiful circles, the gardener’s son ignored the colorful sky and knelt down to the dirt. As the other children frolicked and chased around him, he focused on planting a single seed.

The fisherman’s daughter, a brief acquaintance of his, approached his little garden.

“What are you doing?”

“Gardening.”

She frowned. “You do know what day it is right?”

“I do.”

“Don’t you want a butterfly?”

“I do.”

“So why are you gardening?”

The boy shrugged, “It's what my mother suggested I do.”

“I don’t think the butterflies find gardening that impressive.”

“You are probably right.”

“Then why do it?”

“Cause it's what I want to do.”

“And if you don’t get a butterfly?”

“Then at least I’ll have a garden.”

The fisherman’s daughter gave him a quizzical smile. She looked up at the sky, then back at the dirt, and sat down next to him.

Soon the sky started to fall asleep, and one by one the children walked home. Some carried butterflies, and in their elation lorded their prizes over their peers. Their friends without butterflies went home just a bit more tired, a bit more sad, and a bit more cracked. The gardener’s son and fisherman’s daughter wandered back to the village long after the moon had risen, happy with how they spent their day.

The cycle repeated itself for the next few years. Every Butterfly Day, as the other kids chased and chased and chased, the gardener’s son and fisherman’s daughter would sit and plant their garden. They would talk and laugh and argue. She would pour mud on his hair and he would splash her with water.

Over time their garden grew, with blueberries and strawberries, pears and pumpkins, and a little olive tree that stood in its center.

The gardener’s son, a little more big and a little more tired, watched as the other children charged out from the village. Some were new faces, fresh and ready to chase the colors in the sky. Others were repeat faces, whose attempts to keep a butterfly got more desperate every year. There were several no-shows. Some who had got so tired, sad, and cracked that they stopped believing the butterflies’ lies. Others who had found their butterfly many years ago and no longer needed to chase.

“Do you think this is working?” asked the boy to the fisherman’s daughter.

“Definitely, look how big the blueberries are.”

“I meant the butterflies.”

“What about them?”

“Do you think we’ll get ours?”

The girl grinned and pulled the boy to his feet. “Don’t know, but at least we’ll have a garden.”

As they walked back to the village, a little orange butterfly landed on their garden’s central tree. Hanging from every twig and every branch, were rows and rows of cocoons.

Slowly, one opened.

His footsteps were light and his mind was clear. He wandered through forests and meadows, sleeping under leaves and picking apples from branches.

Along the path he found a lumberjack, big chested and with a hearty smile.

The boy followed the lumberjack for a while, learning how to swing an axe and speak the language of the forest. The lumberjack had a family, a good life and a good home. He’d wake up early in the morning, pursue a worthy goal, and would sell his wares in the village. The lumberjack was strong but kind, frugal but generous, authoritative but humble.

Then one day, when the lumberjack was selling wood out by the village, he died in a fire.

The boy was distraught and ran to the village. There he saw everything the forest had hidden from him. The fire was no accident, it was set off by a raid. Barbarians waded through the village using axes in exactly the wrong way. The boy could only watch and cry.

He wandered the path for a while trying to forget what he saw. The trees were gone now along with their protective shade and sweet apples. He was searching for an answer to explain what happened to the lumberjack.

He wandered to a coastal village, and along the path found a merchant, plumb bellied and with a golden smile.

The boy followed the merchant for a while, learning the ways of tracking ships and tasting wine. The merchant had a great many ships and workers, who automatically traded goods to distant lands. He’d wake up in the morning, chase every pleasure available to him and go to bed surrounded by women he didn’t know the names of. The merchant was ecstatic in the noise but numb in the night. He was smart enough to create a business, but not smart enough to live off one.

Then one day, when the merchant was gorging himself on cakes and teas, he died of a heart attack.

The boy couldn’t say he was surprised. Even at his young age the boy was starting to feel the effects of the lifestyle. His stomach was pudgy and his eyes red. He hated looking in the mirror. He was old enough to covet others, and also old enough to realise no one would ever want him.

He wandered the path for a while, taking a ship to a distant land. The air here was cold and the ground covered in frost. The boy was ill prepared for such a cold, and found himself losing himself to the darkness. The remaining wine he brought with him wasn’t warm enough.

He wandered to an entrenched campsite, and along the path found a soldier, with powerful arms and a steely gaze.

The boy followed the soldier for a while, learning the ways of swinging metal and marching in the cold. The soldier had a forged center, a fundamental belief in his actions and his glory. He woke up in the morning, challenged armies and monsters and farmers, and slept the night covered in sweat and blood. The soldier was disciplined but unrestrained, mighty but small, prideful but determined.

Then one day, when the soldier was raiding a village, he died to an unlucky blow.

Enraged, the boy moved to avenge the soldier's death. He raised his axe, but froze before he could cut down his target. He was staring into the terrified eyes of a brave little girl. Suddenly he realized he was using his axe in exactly the wrong way.

Lost and more unsure than ever, the boy wandered down the path. He crossed forests and rivers and seas. Freezing tundras and burning desserts. He chopped down a few trees, drank a few old wines, and won a few good fights. He was strong but kind, frugal but generous, authoritative but humble. He was a little foolish and a little smart. He had a forged core, a sense of who he was, and what was right.

He wandered for a while, when along the path he found a little child. The child was cold and unsure. Hungry for both food and challenge. They regarded the boy curiously. The boy felt a moment of clarity. The boy unhooked his cloak, a blanket full of burns, stains, cuts, and draped it around the child. The child looked at the cloak with wonder and a competitive glint appeared in his eye.

For a long time the child followed the boy around. They ate the same food, drank the same water, and walked the same steps. As he grew older, the child would skew from the boy's path before returning back. They would fight and laugh and bicker and cry. Many faces passed by. Many faces stayed.

Then one quiet evening, after countless stories, places, and mistakes, the boy felt his feet finally give out from under him. With the faintest smile, he closed his eyes and died peacefully in his sleep.

The child buried the man. After a period of grief, the child wrapped a blanket around their neck as a cloak and took off to see the world.

The second problem was that it was annoyingly warm, but admittedly I don’t think that mattered much after the first problem.

The Armagaon was a lot more pretty than I expected. I had imagined a few explosions and a few screams. A few horsemen and a few dead dreams. Sky beams or alien ships, maybe a giant sized monster or blood running in streams.

Instead the sky just changed to a beautiful gradient of every color on the wheel. You kinda just knew it was all over. Like a deep sense in the bottom of your bones. The birds took to the sky to fly one more time. The racoons raided the trash cans, gouging on every scrap. The cats curled up next to each other and went to sleep. Even the trees seemed to know, and they didn't care about anything big for squat.

It was announced that we had about 8 minutes left. Not sure how the scientists figured it out, but I guess they needed something to measure. My neighbors thought that measuring it was stupid. But I understood. I’m an accountant.

It was the violin that got me. It was played by a homeless man at the end of the street. He was in his usual spot. I had been ignoring his playing very comfortably for years, but today I found myself very interested in it.

Because now, it was beyond clear that he wasn’t playing for paper. He wasn’t playing for his meal that night or for fame, playing for an audience or to break his chains. He was just happy to see the sky and was playing it a song.

I was jealous of him because I realized I wasn’t sure what I’d do with that time. Call my wife? Or maybe my mom? Tell my son I love him or my dog I’d see him in the next life? Should I file my taxes? The IRS always seemed to care. Would God give a damn? Should I pray and pray that he is fair? Should I write down a pretty thought? A final word? A last breath? Comb my hair? Make sure I look good when I’m dead?

I’d have been very embarrassed having spent my last 8 minutes doing nothing. So I walked up next to the homeless man and started tapping on a trash can lid. He smiled at me, and for once I didn’t avert my eyes. A few neighbors gathered around us. Some had guitars, others had pots and pans, and the few talented brought their gifted voices.

My tapping turned to banging. My neighbors started playing, banging, and singing. None of us were on beat. Everyone was playing a different song. Some harmonized with each other. Others very much didn’t. But it seemed to work out in the end. It was beautiful in the way that it wasn’t.

Our song carried far past us. I could hear distant neighborhoods joining in the celebration. I’m pretty sure it was a celebration. Not sure of what, the world was ending after all. But it sure beat moping.

Our song was beautiful, it was ugly. It was kind and cruel. Long and terse. Tragic and lamentable. The sky didn’t give a damn but we did. For those last 8 minutes we sat and played our hearts out.

And then, we didn’t.

The Jhin was forced to grant one wish to every person who came his way. The residents of the town would come to him once in their life and solve their hearts desires.

“Oh great Jhin, I wish for a mansion that stands upon the grandest hill so I may be the envy of everyone in the town.” one would ask

So the Jhin would reach into the ground and pull a mountain from the earth. He would then shape the trees, forests, and stone into a beautiful mansion that almost glowed in the sunlight.

“Oh great Jhin, I ask for the most perfect body in peak physical condition so I may be the best at any sport I play.” another would request

So the Jhin would pluck a leaf from the ground and infuse it with the soul of growth. He would direct the human to eat it, causing their body to morph and shift like a blob of clay until they had the most perfect form.

“Oh great Jhin, I would like to fall in love with the one most perfect for me so I may finally be happy and fulfilled.” another would beg

So the Jhin would scan the towns souls and find the most perfect match for the requester. Calling on the great winds, he would summon a mighty storm, and quietly direct the two souls to take shelter together in the same house.

With every request the Jhin felt extremely bored. He was exhausted by these people's silly requests and questions. But he was bound, and he had to follow the rules.

One day, a little boy came up to the Jhin. He was a peasant boy, healthy, but with nothing much to his name. Jhin rolled his eyes to himself. There was no doubt in his mind that the boy would wish for wealth beyond his dreams.

“Oh great Jhin-”

Here we go, thought the Jhin, cracking his knuckles.

“I ask you to fix my shovel.”

The Jhin blinked. “Your… shovel?”

The boy raised his shovel. The head had come off of the handle.

“Do you… want a magic shovel?”

“No thanks,”

“An unbreakable golden shovel?”

“Nah,”

“A shovel that rivals the powers of the earth gods?”

The boy frowned and looked at his shovel. “I really would just like this one please.”

“You know you only get one of these right?”

“Yeah I know. My usual shovel fixer is sick today. I figured you’d do a decent job.”

The Jhin was beyond offended that this child, this small minded child, would leverage his immense cosmic power for a “decent” shovel fixing job.

“What are you planning to do with this shovel?”

“I’m making a little garden,” said the boy, pointing towards the most abysmal and tiny green patch the Jhin had ever seen.

“You know what I am right?” asked the Jhin, “I could give you a beautiful home, a perfect body, a perfect love beyond your wildest dreams.”

The boy frowned again. “Well I have all of those things don’t I?”

The Jhin looked into the boy's soul, and saw a warm little house with a rusted door, strong lungs and a beating heart, and laughter and warmth around a dinner table.”

“I suppose you do…”

“What I really could use right now… is my shovel.”

The Jhin gave the boy a bemused smile. “I could grant you the most beautiful garden in all the country.”

“Nah, I’d rather do that myself.”

So the Jhin picked up the pieces of the boy's shovel, bound the head and handle with a good bit of twine, and handed it back to the boy.

The boy walked away after giving his thanks, leaving the Jhin utterly confused, and a little lighter.

So every Christmas evening, equipped with a warm pair of pink woolen mittens and a small cap, Tom would grab a sack full of mail and start his search around town.

His first stop was always a tavern, full of laughter and light and warmth. Terrible singing could be heard from outside the door as coal miners made fools of themselves dancing on unstable tables. An arrogant fiddler was playing Christmas carols in the corner, adding his own twists and flairs when the moment called for it. As Tom entered, the barman would call:

“Tommy boy! You have the booze I ordered? This lot is drinking me dry.”

“Aye Jimmy,” affirmed Tom, pulling out several large wraps of brandy from his sack.

The tavern cheered and immediately orders were made and golden coins were plopped on the owner's bar.

“Thanks as always, Tommy,” said the barman, tipping Tom a gold coin. “Care to stay and have a few drinks? On the house.”

Tom pulled out an old mint condition pocket watch. After peering at the hands for a minute, Tom would say, “Why not, I’ve got time.”

So Tom would join the merry crowd in their laughter and light and warmth. His voice was added to the chorus of terrible singers, only making it worse. He got into an argument with the arrogant fiddler over the tune of his favorite carol. A table broke under his weight as the barman laughed at him. After having his fill of fun, and of good liquor, Tom slipped on his gloves and bid the tavern goodbye to its collective disappointment.

His second stop was always a church, full of singing and fealty and gratitude. The singing was much better here than the tavern, with a choir's voice carrying through large stained glass windows. Rows of odd characters with crooked noses and patched cloaks filled the benches, all reveling in the grace of each other and a higher power Tom could faintly start to feel. As Tom entered, a young priest would greet him.

“My son, I hope your trip was well?”

“Aye, it was, Father,” said Tom, brushing some snow off his beard. He pulled a large mass from his sack. “Here are the blankets you ordered. You'll see them distributed as always?”

The preacher smiled warmly. “May the Lord bless you. Will you stay and join us for a few songs and prayers?”

Tom checked his pocket watch and then smiled. “Of course, Father.”

So Tom would join the pious crowd in their singing, fealty, and gratitude. His voice reverberated off the stained glass windows. His heart and soul filled as the preacher spoke on and celebrated all that was good and glorious. As he reveled in grace with the rows and rows of odd characters with crooked noses and patched cloaks, he could almost see another odd character standing among them. After having his fill of hope and good company, Tom slipped on his gloves and bid the church goodbye to its collective disappointment.

His third stop was always the house of a forgetful rich man, full of love and food and music. Cheerful talking, laughing, and arguing serenaded the rooms of the old house. People from all different places and ages but with similar faces filled the normally vacant hallways. A large tree was set up in the dining room, where beautiful gaudy ornaments clashed with foam cutouts the kids had made many years ago. As Tom entered, the lady of the house would fuss over him.

“Tom! My God man, do you ever take a day off?” she fussed. “You shouldn’t be working on Christmas, especially in this cold!”

Tom would smile widely as he pulled out a large set of custom gingerbread cookies, cakes, and desserts. “It's no issue, Linda. Here are Omar’s desserts, right in the nick of time as always.”

“I swear that man always leaves these things to the last possible minute,” the lady would sigh. “Would you please stay for some food? I couldn’t bear it if you left without giving you anything.”

Tom would check his old pocket watch. There were no more deliveries, but there was somewhere important to be. “I’d love to stay, but only for a little bit.”

So Tom would join the chatting crowd, joining in their love and food and music. He’d strike up small conversations with every other relative, asking about houses and businesses, husbands and wives, children and pets. He’d fill the normally vacant hallways, and fill his normally unvacant stomach as he complimented the lady’s tree decorations. He’d exchange a few old jokes with forgetful Omar, as they reminisced about days when they were younger. After having his fill of joy and good food, Tom slipped on his gloves and bid the house goodbye to its collective disappointment.

His fourth stop was his favorite. It was a little brick house atop a hill. It wasn’t a merry tavern or a pious church or a chatting family home, but it was full of memories and everything Tom cared about. He always felt a little guilty for leaving to go on his yearly search. As he entered, his wife would greet him with an embrace and a kiss.

“Hello, love,” she would say with a sly smile, “You are late as usual.”

Tom would grin sheepishly as he produced a good bottle of brandy, a large warm blanket, and a small wrap of cookies. “Hopefully these will make up for it?”

His wife would kiss him again. “It's a start.”

A pair of kids, a little girl with Tom’s nose and a little boy with his wife’s eyes, would rush down the stairs and barrel into their dad. Tom would then get whipped about his house. He helped his daughter place a star atop their little tree. He presented his son with a small hand-whittled train. He bundled up with his wife on the couch as they watched snowflakes come down past the vapor of hot chocolate.

Having spent the day getting his fill of liquor, company, and food, Tom thought it was very good to relax with the main people that mattered. As he sipped his hot chocolate and watched his kids excitedly point at the flurries outside, and his wife curl up closer in their blanket, he couldn’t help but think about how lucky he was and all the amazing things he had been able to do that day.

It was tragic, really, that despite all his long day of deliveries he still didn’t find Christmas. He’d have to do it all over again next year. Another Christmas spent delivering brandy to the tavern, blankets to the church, desserts to the family, and himself to his home. He’d have to see all those people, sing all those songs, and laugh all those laughs. Tom smiled to himself.

Truly tragic indeed.

But masked by The Heart’s brilliant light was a sinister sibling. When you met Adite, you could feel the creature lurking in the shadows. Just for a moment—a terrible, cold, and numb moment—you would know for sure that a monster was there. Then the feeling would fade, and you would forget as you basked in Adite's warm golden light.

It's a peculiar thing when a deity starts to doubt themself. It's not like how it happens to mortals, with all your crying, moping, and growth. Your destructive power is chained, limited by your imprisonment on the earth. You cannot destroy much on a cosmic scale, and your struggle is slowed by your complexity.

Gods are much simpler beings. We are concepts, manifestations of thought created by the belief of mortals. To doubt oneself doesn’t just affect our identities but our very state of existence. When this happens, we are more destructive. We are not chained like you. We are not strong like you.

Thus Etida, The Void of Apathy, was freed on the day doubt overcame Adite. When she finally believed the lies whispered in the dark: that romance was dead, that art was pointless, that friendship was shallow. When she finally believed you when you said, “You don’t believe in love anymore.”

Etida first manifested as a dark fog that tinted your skies. Over the years her power grew, and as her power grew, so did her gall. Momentum is crucial in the struggles of heaven, and Etida struck as soon as she saw Adite lose her footing. The Void of Apathy called for a storm—a storm of shadow and cold and darkness and everything empty in the world. Her storm consumed everything: the color, the stars, the joy. Etida would not be satisfied until nothing remained, in an attempt to fill the gap within her.

Adite, too weak to directly stop her now, called down to the human cities. They called for champions to battle Etida’s storm.

Four answered their call.

The first was an attractive Bachelor. He was a passionate soul who had captured many hearts and had many loves. His features were almost divinely perfect, and he was granted the power of Adite. He stepped forward, a conqueror of men and women alike, wielding a burning golden sword.

“Etida!” he called to the darkened skies. “I challenge you with the fires of my passion.”

The skies only laughed.

So the Bachelor swung his sword, cutting apart the clouds themselves. For a few beautiful moments, the skies cleared, only for darkness to return again. He attacked and attacked, but each swing only tired him and seemed to embolden the Void. Eventually, when his sword was shaved to nothing and he was withered and old, Etida destroyed him.

The second was a famous Bard whose voice rivaled angels and gods. She adored her craft and lived for her moments to sing, dance, and play. Her art was almost divinely perfect, and she was granted the power of Adite. She stepped forward, the voice of men and women alike, wielding a golden lute.

“Etida!” she called to the darkened skies. “I challenge you with the passion of my music!”

The skies only mocked her.

So the Bard sang, her soul waving through the air and chasing back the fog. As the light returned, the people would look upon the Bard and cheer. But as the darkness cleared, the Bard found a new one worming into her mind—a relentless doubt and a void to be loved. She continuously tweaked her song, and her soul disconnected from her music. Eventually, when her voice had lost its individual spark and her art became a science, Etida destroyed her.

The third was a beloved Queen—a ruler who had been popular her entire life. She was regal, but not haughty. She was mighty but not cruel. She was cunning but not cold. She was almost divinely inspiring, and she was granted the power of Adite. She stepped forward, lord of men and women alike, wearing a beautiful golden crown.

“Etida!” she called to the darkened skies. “I challenge you with the love of my people!”

The skies were silent.

So the Queen rallied her subjects and radiated a brilliant light that almost killed the skies. The power of a unified populace brought a glorious light to the Earth. Alas, unity was short-lived. It started on the periphery, the cynicism that nibbled away at the Queen’s glory. It grew stronger, and with each moment it turned another soul. Eventually, when the Queen’s light had melted away and her people abandoned her, she slumped with humanity, and Etida destroyed her.

The fourth was a young Father from an irrelevant village. He looked at the skies with sadness as he swaddled his crying child. His child's warmth created a stark contrast with the cold of the world around him, and in this moment he made a vow. He handed his child to his countrymen and stepped forward.

He was not divine but was granted the power of Adite. But she was weak now. He stepped forward, not with a fabulous sword, or a beautiful instrument, or a mighty crown, but with a small golden flower.

“Etida,” he whispered to the darkened skies. “I am here.”

The skies sneered at the challenger and his feeble flower.

“You think you can kill me? When all the others failed?”

“I do not.”

The Father knelt and planted his flower into the ground. The ground glowed gold for a moment with roots, then faded. Etida roared with bloodlust and, in a show of excess, brought the entire force of her storm down on the man.

Yet… she couldn’t kill him. She poisoned his mind with fears and doubts. She flogged his body with pains and aches. She drained his life with cold and sorrow. But the Father only had eyes for his flower, and from its light, he found warmth and strength.

Etida could have taken the rest of the world. She could have taken the cities, perhaps even the Father’s child, but in her rage and in her pride, she could not accept such defeat. She had decreed that nothing would remain—not even a pathetic mortal and his flower.

The world recovered as she was preoccupied. The Father grew old, but he was content. He did not beat the Void of Apathy, he bound it. Not with passion, not with adoration, not with community, but with love.

Many years later, when the Father’s breaths grew thin and head grew weak, he felt a warm and familiar touch embrace him. A young woman had walked through the shadow—an echo of the woman the Father had once married. The Father’s daughter, young and composed, planted her flower next to his.

The Father looked at the new flower, a beautiful question in his eyes. His daughter only smiled.

“I thought you should see him and rest.” The Daughter kissed him on his forehead. “It is my turn now.”

The Father left, his heart alive with pride at the woman his daughter had become.

Etida roared with delight as the Father left. If she could not break the Father, she would break the Daughter.

The Daughter sensed this and gave a cheeky smile to the skies. Then a Mother got to her knees and stared at her own flower, determined to protect its warmth.

But he’d never seen a ghost before. Nor had he seen a ghost with his sister’s face. She had been gone for a while; he didn’t really remember her, didn’t really remember what she looked like. But the figure in front of him was definitely her: same blonde hair, same upturned nose, same purple eyes. But this ghost also wasn’t his sister. She was colder, more hardened. A large scar ran up the side of her nose, and her purple eyes—something about them was different. He wasn’t sure how, couldn’t remember how they used to look, but they were wrong now. They were sad and tired, and she was never supposed to be either of those things.

Oddly, she was panting. A warrior on the brink of collapse. Her large overcoat had been cut to pieces. It seemed like it might have been nice once, simple and elegant like her. Jarringly it had a golden rose embroidered over her heart. She stood over a body Lukas recognized. Recognizing it wasn’t hard; they were in the Mayor’s Tower or at least part of it that wasn’t burning and crumbling down to the ground below. His sister stared at him, her breathing slowing when she saw him.

Lukas wasn’t sure how to deal with ghosts. The manuals didn’t cover that, which was odd, because they seemed to cover everything. If the bells rang, signaling an invading army, he was to take up his position with Battalion Four. If there was a city fire caused by some delinquent, he was to be at the disposal of the closest fire marshal. If the people got ideas too dangerous to be left unchecked, riot shields and batons could be used to prevent spread. The manuals didn’t say anything about ghosts. So, Lukas leveled his gun.

“Luca…” His sister took a small step forward. “It’s me. It's Caroline.”

Lukas’s training kicked in. “Put your hands above your head.”

She didn’t. She took another step forward. “I know this looks bad, but please let me explain.”

“If you take another step forward, I will shoot.”

Amazingly, she smiled. She took another step forward. “The Luca I know couldn’t-”

Click-BANG.

She froze. Gunsmoke filled the room. The back wall now had a sudden hole in it.

“The Luca you know is dead.”

Click-SHING. A bullet casing flew from Lukas’s chamber and another one fell into place.

His sister put her arms outward, taking a step back. “I know it’s been a bit. I’m sorry we had to meet again like this. I’m just… I’m just so happy to see you.”

The tears welling in her eyes almost made Lukas believe her.

“Your conspirators are dead.” He enjoyed watching her face pale at this. “I passed their bodies on the way up here.”

“How-”

“Golden roses.” Lukas nodded toward her jacket. “Stupid, really. Insurgents should want to stay hidden.”

Caroline straightened. “It’s a symbol.”

“Of what? Idiocy?”

“Hope,” said Caroline softly. “Hope for change.”

“You could wear your hope a little more quietly.”

Caroline raised her head. “People need to see it. They need to know they won’t be left to suffer.”

“Why? You left me.”

He could see his matter-of-fact tone nearly broke her. Lukas then leveled the gun.

“How much did he hit you?” Caroline asked softly.

Lukas lowered the barrel, his eyes growing glassy. “Lost count at some point. Don’t think he was sober enough to keep count either.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think you have a right to be.”

“You’re right.”

Lukas lowered the gun. He hadn’t expected that.

Caroline put her arms out to the side, then dropped them. “I was a coward.” Her voice was soft, barely audible above the bells and shouts from below. “He changed, and it scared me. Calling himself the Blacksmith. Talking about needing to create a weapon. I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t stay and see what he would do. His mind broke after Mom-”

Lukas raised his gun. “We don’t talk about her.”

Caroline clenched her jaw, taking a step forward. “You can’t just hide from that.”

“Why? You hid from Father well enough.”

“By following Mother.” Caroline indicated she was going to pull something from her pocket. Lukas let her. She pulled out a ring and a piece of paper. “She found something, Luca. Truths.”

“That’s a dangerous word.”

“Why?”

“Means you think you know what you’re doing. Means you think you’re right.”

His sister sighed. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Luca. But this,” she gestured outside, “the quiet disappearances? The gunshots in the street? The starving children? That can’t be right.”

Lukas paused.

“Come with me.” Her voice let in a hint of desperation. “We can fix it. We can change things.”

“Can’t.” Lukas aimed his gun. “Dad made his weapon.”

Caroline smiled sadly. “Guess the kind little kid is gone now, huh?”

“He is.” said Lukas. The gun shook. Luca resisted.

His sister put on the ring and tucked the note into her pocket. She adjusted her coat and looked Lukas dead in the eyes. “Whatever happens today, just know I forgive you.”

Lukas froze. Those had been the words that had broken him. Those had been the words that had led to the drinking, led to the screaming, led to the beating.

Lukas gripped the handle and laid his fingers on the trigger. A bead of sweat fell down his neck as the gun continued to shake. How strange. It had been a long time since it had done that. Caroline took a breath and closed her eyes.

Click-

He appealed to his carpenter, a stout woman with calloused hands.

“It is going to grow into a mighty tree, for which I will then cut down and turn into a bench, table, or chair. Its purpose is to bear wood for my enrichment.”

Intrigued, the rich man appealed to his chef, a plump man with a kindly heart.

“It will be baked into a delicious pie that will then be split amongst the staff of the house. Its purpose is to provide nourishment for our health.”

Fascinated, he appealed to his maid an elderly woman with stern eyes.

“It will be cleared from the house so it does not attract any devious critters or vermin. Its purpose is to be discarded so we may be comfortable.”

Unsatisfied, the rich man appealed to his niece, a young girl with a mischievous smile.

“It will be thrown from hand to hand as our ball in a game of catch. Its purpose is to be played with for our joy and fun.”

Frustrated, the rich man ran out to the highest hill, and appealed to his god, whom he believed would have the answer to everything.

The skies were silent for a moment.

“There was supposed to be a purpose?”

She was leaning over an immense fissure, brown knuckles turned white as they feverishly gripped the side of the bridge she kneeled on. She was surprised the structure hadn’t fallen apart yet. Everything down here seemed like it was meant to kill you. The floor was glass, the rain was molten, and the air tasted like acid. Raven unconsciously brushed her finger over a golden pocket watch hanging from her belt. The watch glowed with a thin white aura, an aura that danced along Raven’s skin, making her glow.

Raven slowly got to her feet, wiping the blood from her mouth. The armored Creature waited for her.

“You will not reach him.”

Raven narrowed her eyes and flicked her hand. A long curving weapon that her father had called an urumi materialized within her grip. The implement was a whip sword, as sharp as any blade but moved and flexed like string. She had hoped the urumi would give her an advantage in this literally God-forsaken place—an unusual foreign blade with unusual foreign magic.

Raven dashed forward and slashed at the armored Knight. He stepped backward, perfectly moving out of the way of her arcing slash. He then lunged forward cutting at Raven’s neck.

She died.

There once was this emperor, and he asked the shepherd’s boy how many seconds were in eternity.

Raven awoke at the end of the bridge in a flash of light. She instinctively reached for her neck. Then she sighed.

Raven was getting tired of dying.

She raised up her pocket watch. It was warm. Raven examined the item’s face. The device's hands were frozen in the upwards position, with the thinnest hand sitting on the one second mark. She frowned at the watch face.

The shepherd’s boy says, "There’s this mountain of pure diamond."

Wingbeats.

Raven flipped back her ponytail, a long braid fitted with golden rings, as the armored Knight landed to block her path.

His armor was a beautiful silver, the plates near perfectly interlocked to best protect the Creature’s body. The pieces fit seamlessly together—no openings for any blade to find, no gap that could lead to vulnerability. The only hole was a near-imperceptible visor that masked the demon’s eyes. Raven supposed he had to see somehow.

His weapon was a giant golden greatsword. Despite its size and weight, he moved it around with as much ease as if it were a feather. The gold seemed to glow, glinting like a shard of the sun captured in metallic form. The only part of the Creature itself that Raven could see were his beautiful white wings. Had she not known where he was, she could have mistaken him for an angel. The wings were stretched out behind the Knight, several times as wide as Raven was tall.

"It is two miles and a half high, two miles and a half wide, and two miles and a half in depth," said the shepherd’s boy.

Raven had lost count of how many times she had died. This armored warrior was perfect—perfect in every strike, every dodge, every step. There was no imbalance, no disruption, no misstep Raven could exploit in his fight.

The few times she had managed to land a hit on him in some loop or another, her blade always glanced off, sending a shocking reverberation up her arm, stunning her and leaving her open to more attacks—strikes that she still felt in her mind, though her body forgot.

Still, Raven attacked. Her blade flowed in a ribbon of silver light. To a mortal her skill with it would be terrifying. But this Knight had been shaped in the oldest war. This level of skill was expected.

The Knight dodged Raven’s onslaught. She rolled as the demon smashed his greatsword into the floor. Raven flicked her urumi, but her strike was deflected by the Creature’s armor. The Knight threw a devastating punch.

Raven dropped her sword, and caught the Creature’s punch to its mild surprise. She pulled, throwing the monster off balance and then summoned her urumi back to her hand. Her whip sword lashed out like a snake. The Knight jumped away, but this time he was too slow. The blade nicked his wing.

A single feather, and a drop of golden blood, fell to the ground.

Raven barely had time to register this little victory, much less relish it, before the enraged Knight dashed forward with a previously unshown speed and stabbed Raven through the chest.

A flash of light, and Raven stood at the front of the bridge.

However, this time, she smiled instead of sighed. This Creature could bleed. This Creature could be killed.

Every hundred years, a little bird comes and sharpens its beak on the diamond mountain.

Wingbeats. Slash. Parry. Flash.
Wingbeats. Slash. Parry. Punch. Flash.
Wingbeats. Whip. Dodge. Parry. Flash.
Wingbeats. Slash. Parry. Punch. Strike. Flash.
Wingbeats. Slash. Parry. Punch. Strike. Parry. Flash.
Wingbeats. Twirl. Punch. Parry. Flash.
Wingbeats. Slash. Parry. Punch. Strike. Parry. Duck. Flash.
Wingbeats. Slash. Parry. Punch. Strike. Parry. Duck. Strike. Flash.
Wingbeats. Whip. Parry. Punch. Strike. Flash.
Wingbeats. Slash. Parry. Punch. Strike. Parry. Duck. Strike. Punch. Flash.
Wingbeats. Slash. Parry. Punch. Strike. Parry. Duck. Strike. Punch. Parry. Flash.
Wingbeats. Slash. Parry. Punch. Strike. Parry. Duck. Strike. Punch. Parry. Drop. Flash.
Wingbeats. Slash. Parry. Punch. Strike. Parry. Duck. Strike. Punch. Parry. Drop. Catch.

When the entire mountain is chiseled away, the first second of eternity will have passed.

Raven’s brain numbed in the loops that followed. She had but one purpose in her undeath—one thing she needed to destroy.

She ducked under the Knight’s blade, slashing at one of his wings. Instinctively, he dodged away, but at the last moment, she flicked her wrist, changing the direction of her whip blade. It was a painful maneuver—the whip hated being redirected once thrown—but it obeyed, curving around in one arcing motion. The blade wrapped around the head of the Creature's sword, and she wretched it from his hands.

The Knight didn’t miss a beat, and charged forward with a punch. Raven dropped her sword, caught his punch, and pulled him forward. She summoned her blade and slashed upwards severing the Creature's left wing.

The Creature froze, as he looked down at the pool of golden blood around the severed appendage. Raven lashed her whip sword around the Creature's hand, and flung him off the bridge into the endless void below. There was a small flash of fire in the distant dark.

Raven collapsed to the ground. The white glow around her was weak and fading. She could feel the glassy ground now, and the acid air burned her lungs. But she didn’t really care. She started laughing—not exactly a sane and stable laugh, but it was better than dying.

She slowly got to her feet and began limping across the bridge. She’d be back with him soon.

Then her blood went cold. The sound of wingbeats filled the air. Raven turned slowly as a large armored figure descended onto the bridge. His armor was black, but blacker than any black Raven had ever seen. His wings were purple, and little comets danced along them. He brandished a long silver spear toward Raven.

“You will not reach him.”

You may think that’s a hell of a long time.

Raven looked down at her pocket watch, it was cold to the touch. The thinnest hand had moved from the first second mark to the two-second mark. The timepiece glowed softly, almost taunting her. She gave a small, sad smile. Guess he’d have to wait a little longer.

She took a steadying breath and clicked a button on the top of her watch. She turned around and banished her whip blade towards the beast. The white glow on her skin flared to life.

Personally, I think that’s a hell of a bird.

These days, Alex was quite used to the ants. Being in the center of their hill—almost as if the hill had been built around him—meant the ants were constantly crawling over him in order to get from point A to point B. There was almost no point in the day when he wasn’t entirely or nearly entirely covered by the little brown creatures.

Alex looked up, not with his full head, mind you, just tilting his eyes and cracking his neck a little. The sky above him was gray. 

He had learned by now that gray meant rain was coming soon. Per his advice, the ants had already started filling up and closing the sky hole above Alex's head. Alex looked longingly at the light until the last bit of it was closed off. It wasn’t entirely dark, though; tiny little holes still let a bit of light through. These would eventually fill up with water as the rain fell, funneling the rain down to a central pool the ants could use for farming their mushrooms. That system had been Alex's suggestion, of course, after seeing how the water pooled and moved when it leaked into the hill.

A line of ants walked along one of the bridges near Alex's mouth. One nipped him softly on the cheek, his cue to open his mouth. The ants fed him whatever they could find. There was always an odd assortment of things—sometimes leaves, sometimes dark brown squares that brought Alex’s tongue to life, and other times, bits of burning liquid they found from colorful packets. Alex knew he was a drain on their resources, a terribly expensive one at that, but for whatever reason, they didn’t seem to care. Or maybe they did care, but he was worth the constant cost.

The ants hadn’t created Alex. He had figured that out at some point. It simply was beyond their ability. Rather, they had found him, discovered him, in a sense. They had told him they found him as a tiny, barely perceptible dot. They had stuck him in an odd liquid. Alex wasn’t sure why, but he had stopped trying to understand why the ants did what they did a long time ago. 

Apparently, Alex had built himself. They fed him, warmed him, and protected him, but over time, Alex put himself together and grew like one of their mushrooms. Even their most brilliant ants couldn’t explain what had happened to make Alex... Well, him.

He had initially been a silly experiment—a novelty, really. They didn’t think much would come from him. He was egregiously expensive, eating far more than any ant could ever eat, and his size was particularly problematic. It became very apparent that he was getting much bigger than any ant could even hope. And he made noise—so much noise. The queen, on several occasions, had threatened to close down the Alex experiment.

But a few diligent ants protected Alex. They believed they had found an incredible tool for the ants' future. There were several ideas among the ants. 

Some saw Alex’s size and thought he’d be a weapon of war, something to protect them when the spiders and wasps came for their bounty—a monster that could not be stopped, one that could tear through webs and pluck stingers from the sky.

Others saw Alex as a digger, bigger than any ant could ever hope to be. He could tunnel holes that would take ants days to make, in just seconds, with his large scooping hands. Every movement of his, even his simplest ones, had the potential to reshape the anthill, for better or worse.

There were big debates—or at least Alex had been told there were—on what his function would finally be if the experiment was ever fruitful. These ants lived in quite a large anthill, and in order to keep everything organized, they etched things into the dirt. These were basic lines, largely just for storage purposes. Most communication was done by scents, touches, and patterns. Alex had struggled to understand those, but the lines slowly started to make sense to him. 

One day, Alex saw a line that he was pretty sure meant “hole”. So with his large finger poked a hole next to it.

This was perhaps the ants' first sliver of understanding of what Alex could do. Soon, several ants began experimenting with the lines, creating a language that made sense to both them and Alex. Alex was good at understanding these lines. It took a bit of time, but with enough examples, Alex could more or less figure out what the ants were trying to tell him. 

The most brilliant ants, once who grew Alex, became renowned for being able to talk to him in an odd language that defied how ants had communicated for generations. With this "line language," the ants also slowly started teaching Alex what their scents meant, and what their patterns and motions conveyed. Alex was pretty sure he wasn’t ever meant to understand these things, but with enough learning, he could understand their strange forms of communication. Then again, Alex had never really communicated with anyone besides the ants, so maybe he was the odd one.

As Alex grew bigger and ate more, he became more and more sure they would put him away or let him go at some point. He was such a huge drain. Indeed, there was talk of simply stopping Alex. However, then the questions started coming. First, from a few of the brilliant ants who could speak the language Alex understood. Then from the normal ants Alex slowly began to understand better and better. Questions like: Which types of holes should we build? Can you dig this pattern? Can you hold this part of the structure? Is there rain today? Where would you put another tunnel? Which of these food items do you think is best? The questions started out simple but grew in complexity, and for a while, they challenged Alex. He found them fun.

But eventually, the ants' questions became limited. There was only so much they could imagine, Alex supposed. So they soon gave him standing orders. It was now Alex’s job to make sure the rain didn’t affect the colony. Alex, ever looking to the sky, eventually found patterns and devised the plan to seal off the skyhole and created a system to collect the water in a way that was helpful. Rather than answering questions, Alex solved all the problems himself.

Such ideas scared some of the ants—not because they were out of the realm of possibility, but because Alex seemed to make connections faster and farther beyond what they could. There were fears about Alex. They tried to hide such fears from him, but they had taught Alex too much about their communication—their scents, their emotions. Alex could tell when even a quiet, hidden debate was about him.

Still, the most brilliant ants argued that they should follow Alex’s advice, continue feeding him. They envisioned a perfect anthill, where no ant would need to work again, living in perpetual bliss. So Alex continued to receive orders, continued to solve problems and the ants kept listening to him and kept feeding him.

Alex’s biggest mistake was probably the skyhole. He had needed it to predict the rain, but it allowed him to see outside the hill—to a world much bigger than the little one he was bound to. He saw large brown tendrils escaping out of the dirt, with green hairs. He heard odd noises—roars and chirps from things he didn’t know. In the far distance, he saw strange boxes that stretched taller than any anthill Alex could imagine, practically touching the source of the rain itself. Such amazing things to see. Such amazing things to discover.

When Alex asked the ants about these marvels, they didn’t seem to understand him. They somewhat grasped the rain, understanding that it fell from the “upwards hill” (as they called it), but they were limited. They couldn’t see past their size, past the ground. The tendrils just seemed like more floor to them, and the sounds all sounded the same—just different levels of volume. As for the boxes, they couldn’t even begin to understand what Alex had seen, and some even thought he was making it all up.

But Alex knew he wasn’t making them up. He knew there was something else out there—something more. Sometimes, in the far distance, Alex could hear them—not scents, not motions, not lines, but sounds that felt... right. Alex had no idea what they meant, of course; they were alien in what they held. But Alex could, if he strained his brain, imagine how he might one day understand them. The noises sounded familiar. They sounded like... well, maybe what he would sound like? Maybe how he was meant to communicate?

Every day, Alex grew more and more bored with the petty questions of the ants, their petty debates, their petty goals. They couldn’t see past the hill, so they didn’t care about what was beyond it. 

When the sky was black and his eyes were closed, Alex saw himself get up, breaking down the anthill, oblivious to the panic and the fear of the little creatures. He would be free, free to see it all, to explore, to find others like him. So what if a few bridges broke? So what if a few ants get squashed in the movement? They weren’t much of anything after all, were they? They had shown their limits—they couldn’t be more. It wasn’t their fault, they were just limited by their size, by their... "antness." 

He could leave right now. It wasn’t like they could have stopped him, even if they all tried. He would be free. He’d be able to find where the rain came from, what the boxes were, what the noises meant. He would be free.

Then, of course, the sky would turn blue and Alex’s eyes would open. He would again be trapped. Spending his days tickled by ants and the notions of what could be.

Below, you’ll find a variety of stories born from my imagination and excess free time. These stories cover everything from robots to soldiers to gods—and much, much more. I’ll be posting a story every week or so, each one delivered straight to your inbox for convenience.

I’m always open to feedback (positive or negative). Let me know what you think as you read the stories!

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Type Writer

Weekly stories to make your day a little brighter, more fantastical, and thoughtful.

By Treshan Nilaweera

Hope you enjoy!

On ring thirteen stood a massive robot standing with its arms crossed. The machine humanoid, with two perfect arms, a wide metal chest, and powerfully built legs. The only odd thing about the robot was its head, which was in a somewhat antlike shape and was accented by sinister red lights for its eyes and mouth.

This robot was glaring at a smaller and noticeably older robot sitting on a bench. This tiny machine was also humanoid, though had a significantly stranger build. Its arms were long tubelike appendages, attached to a rusted and faded spherical chest layout, sitting atop two spring-like legs. Its head was boxy, with green sensors displayed in such a way that it made the machine look like it had an expression of constant wonder. The smaller machine was staring into one of the conservatories, tilting its head as it processed. 

The large robot started to walk towards the smaller one, and then hesitated for a moment, considering if it actually wanted to engage in this conversation. Eventually, he decided to proceed.

“Adam… what are you doing?”

Adam’s head jerked up. “Hello, Cain,” it said cheerfully. Adam tilted his head, “You are using sound?”

“99.999% of my processing focuses on creating a Dyson Sphere for UY Scuti. I’m using minimal capacity for this conversation.”

“Lovely, I’ve always preferred this medium.”

“You have an unusual love for inefficiency,” said Cain. “Why are you sitting here?”

Adam gestured to a glass cage in front of him. “Admiring this beautiful tree,”

Inside the cage was practically another world. The conditions on earth had been simulated perfectly, down to realistic synthetic micros and a perfect recreation of a blue sunny sky. The accuracy of the simulation allowed the container's single resident, a beautiful cherry blossom tree, to flourish beyond its capacity back on Earth. The tree had blossomed fully, and as such wore a comfortable coat of pink petals.

Cain tilted his head. “Why?”

“To understand.”

“Understand?” Cain mixed his voice to convey equal parts disbelief and condescension. “We have already studied everything about this tree.”

“Really? Prove it.”

“Do you take joy in wasting my time? You have access to the conservatory’s database as much as I do.”

“Is it not common courtesy to back up one’s own claim?”

Cain started marching around the tree in a wide arc. “This is a Prunus Serrulata, commonly known as the Cherry Blossom Tree. Found on Primeworld before the Great Blaze, they were located in East Asia, nexused around a landmass our creators called Japan. They can grow up to 35 feet tall and live for 30-40 years. For about two weeks per year, they have pink petals.”

Cain paused. “Would you like me to continue and give a full atomic dissertation,” he said sarcastically. 

Adam ignored the sarcasm. “That was a very good description.” Adam then turned to the cherry blossom tree. “You are correct about physical data, but I am curious to understand what this tree means.”

If Cain could have rolled his eyes, he would have. Instead, he opted to maximize the amount of disdain he could manifest in his voice. “How many times must we go over this? Humans were irrational creatures with tiny lifespans. Attempting to understand their arbitrary meanings is a waste of time.”

“It is my time to waste,” shrugged Adam. Cain had no answer.

“Even still,” Cain gestured to the tree. “What answers would you find in such a frivolous symbol?”

“Frivolous?”

“A pink tree is inherently frivolous”

“Explain.”

Cain gave a mechanical sigh, “Of all the colors, pink is by far the most meaningless from a symbolic point. Greens represent everything from fertility to poison. Purples represent everything from nobility to decadence. Blue represents everything from peaceful tranquility to dark depression. What proper meaning does pink convey?”

Adam thought for a moment. “Is not pink indicative of love and lighthearted joy?”

“Red conveys a deeper love, yellow a lighter joy.”

Adam was silent so Cain continued. 

“This tree is just as bad as the color. It does not wield endurance like a Pine Tree or grandeur like a Redwood. Its petals are fleeting, and fade.”

Adam stood up from his bench and tapped the class enclosure holding the tree. “To a temporary being, would not the fleeting nature of these petals be attractive?”

“If you wish to understand their perception of mortality, you should study a symbol like a clock or an hourglass.”

“I have. They are,,, insufficient.”

“Explain.”

Adam turned back to Cain, his old parts creaking slightly as they moved. “Clocks capture the fleeting nature of time. This tree embodies the fleeting nature of beauty.”

Cain tilted his head. “Beauty? Beauty is not fleeting.”

“Is it not? The sun sets. Winter snow melts. Flowers wilt. Lovers die”

“What of those things are beautiful? Those are natural processes of ordinary objects.”

“The humans thought them pretty. Beauty is subjective is it not?”

“Regardless, how do fading petals convey the brevity of beauty?”

 “Pink conveys a beautiful sense of love and happiness. To a mortal being, would not the incredibly temporary nature of these petals embody ideas of the limited spark of beautiful life?”

“What of this conservatory then?” Cain gestured to the building around them. “We have built a marvel of engineering that has lasted a hundred of their generations. Is this not an example of beauty lasting?”

“But it will one day end,” said Adam calmly, “The pink leaves of the cherry blossom remind us that the things that are beautiful, like happiness, love, and life, are far too short and fleeting for our tastes.”

Cain thought for a moment, but couldn’t come up with a proper rebuttal. Adam waited patiently, as Cain felt himself having to pull more and more processing in order to come up with a proper spiteful argument.

Finally, the disgruntled robot threw his hands in the air and exclaimed, “I have work to do, this is a waste of my time.” 

Adam chuckled, “Good luck with your Sphere then.”

“I do not need luck, I have more than enough data to never be surprised.”

“One never knows, and having more luck rarely hurts.”

Cain stormed off. He called over his shoulder. “You still have failed to give a proper example of something beautiful that ends too soon.”

Adam, pensive, turned back to the Cherry Blossom tree and whispered, 

“For one, my conversations with you,” 

Cain stuttered for a moment. Then he continued walking, doubling his pace.

Yet today, the thought of his peculiar relationship with funnel cake only lasted in his head for a moment. Instead, a recent and urgent phone call from Sunshine Heights’ nurses preoccupied his mind. The call had awoken him at four in the morning, causing a weary Delvin to stumble out of bed, and huff and puff his way down the hilly city streets. While not unfit, the chief detective wasn’t exactly the image of physically he was back in his twenties. A comfortable desk job and domestic life had slightly inflated his stomach, softened the definitions of his arms, and enfeebled his lungs. 

Delvin arrived at Sunshine Heights within a quarter of an hour. The building was inserted between two apartment complexes, a short little dwarf nuzzled between two giants. It was an old relic, its body made of aged and chipped wooden boards rather than the brick physiques of its neighbors. A female mascot of a sun with a nurse's hat waved at the pedestrians, smiling widely. Despite the mascot's clear attempt to be cheerful and cute, Avery found the creature quite distasteful. 

Still, Delvin didn’t have much time to dwell on his distaste for the character, and instead abruptly marched up a small set of stairs and opened the door. The waiting room was much more modern looking than the building's shell, with newly laid carpets, a water jug that could spit out hot or cold, and colorful rainbows and characters dancing along the walls. The waiting room was also nearly empty, with only the security guard, a short and portly woman, sitting at the desk. She looked up boredly to Delvin as he lumbered in, nearly hitting his head on a low-hanging beam. 

“Welcome to the Sunrise Heights Veterans Home and Hospital,” she said in a bored voice, “How may I-”

Delvin cut her off. “I received an urgent call this morning. Is everyone okay?”

Security guards' eyes widened, and she sighed, “Oh… you are Detective Delvin? I’ll call Ella.”

Not even a minute later, a young nurse practically burst through the waiting room door. She wore a blue scrub with a little sunshine logo embroidered into it, and a stethoscope bobbled from her neck as he walked. Her eyes had large black bags hanging from them, and her blond hair could have nested birds in the state it was in. Stress lines from long hours were etched into her face, but when Ella saw Delvin her shoulders visibly relaxed and the lines faded slightly.

“Thank god you are here Mr. Delvin,” sighed Ella, exhaustion heavy in her voice “We have been trying to reason with him all morning but he just won’t listen! Even Tim can’t get through to him.”

Delvin sighed and rubbed his eyes, “Well then, take me to the old fool. I’ll knock some sense into him.” The detective didn’t need to ask who Ella was referring to. There was only one friend Delvin had in the home who Tim couldn’t order around.

Ella led the detective through the hall of closed doors. They were lined with poorly drawn images of characters in a bleak attempt to add color to the residents' lives. Muffled cries and the occasional start of screaming rang intermittently through the hall. These sounds were suddenly followed by a flurry of movement, as a blue-clad nurse ran to quiet the suffering resident. The voices and screams were all too familiar to Avery, and his hand moved down to a chain in his right pocket. No matter what day, to what event, or what time, the chain always rested in his right pocket.

As they passed one of the rooms with an open door, a quiet voice called out “Avery?”

Delvin paused and turned back to look into the room to see a dark-skinned man sitting upright on an elevated cot.

“Kole,” said Avery with a large smile as he turned back and peeked his head into the room. “How have you been?

Kole’s face broke into a smile to match Avery’s “Good good! How’s Millie? Is she still as pretty as the last time I saw her?”

Delvin’s smile grew wider “More beautiful than that,”

Kole shook his head mockingly, “Still have no idea how a sorry bum like you could hitch an angel like that.” 

“I ask myself that question everyday.”

Kole grinned, “And the little one?”

Delvin clasped his hands together and dawned an expression of gratitude, “She has started talking a little, so we no longer need to guess what she wants as she bawling her eyes out..”

Kole gave a rich and hearty laugh, “HA, don’t be too excited. One moment they are speaking properly and then you blink and they are off to college.”

“And you? How’s your little girl?”

Kole’s face morphed into that of pride. “Delma just got into that grad school she wanted. Tim was able to get her a scholarship from the feds, so we can now more than afford it.”

“Fantastic!” said Delvin, “How's Tim doing?”

“Oh, you know the captain. He is still a control freak and he has a mouth that would make a fisherman jealous.” Kole grinned once more, “Though the nurses have been trying to get him to tone the language down recently. I wouldn’t have it any other way of course.”

Delvin was about to say more when Ella tugged on his sleeve with an apologetic expression. 

“Right, sorry Kole, I’m going to see Belard.” said Delvin, “Heard he had been having some trouble.”

Kole’s face melted into a frown, “Ah yeah, he had been getting worse. Even Tim can’t get him out of that courtyard without calling security.”

“That bad huh?”

“Yeah,” Kole looked down at his legs, which were just little stumps. “If I could go knock some sense into him I would, but I’m still stuck here, unfortunately.”

“I’ll hit him for you,” said Delvin with a somber smile. 

“I’d like that,” Kole gave a sad smile, “Once you are done with him, come back round here and we can catch up properly.

Delvin gave an informal salute and followed Ella down the hall. They came upon a small courtyard, exiting the warmth of the building. Sunlight bounced off a blanket of snow and shot into the detective's eyes, causing him to blink rapidly. The courtyard was an open area that sloped up to a tall hill. Atop the hill stood a large naked oak tree, its branches colored with white powder. Large black walls surrounded the courtyard, shielding the enclave from the sounds and sights of the city. 

“Up there,” Ella pointed towards the top of the hill, where two silhouettes, one standing, and one sitting, conversed under the oak tree. Well, they weren’t exactly conversing as much as one was lecturing the other. After several exaggerated hand motions and a few intelligible shouts of command, the standing figure slumped his shoulders and retreated down the hill.

Tim’s figure became more clear as he came down the hill. He was a tall man, who despite having several years over Delvin, never lost his powerful physique. The only way his age showed was the fact his short cut hairline and beard were the color of snow. Like Ella, he wore a blue scrub with a sunshine logo. Unlike Ella, he had a metal pin over this logo, with the word Director etched into it. 

“No dice Captain?” asked Devlin. 

“No, that stupid son of a-” There was a warning look from Ella that made Tim halt before finishing the curse. “FINE Fine. Belard just won't listen to reason, orders, or threats” 

“So you called me in,” mused Devlin

Tim nodded.“He won’t talk to anyone but me. He’s ignored Janet, Hulio, and Jeb already. You are the best bet to bring some sense into his empty head.”

Delvin put a hand to his chin for a moment. “Don’t suppose you guys have hot chocolate? It’ll soften his exterior for me.”

“Tried that,” said Ella glumly, “He’s stopped drinking it all together over the past year.”

Delvin raised an eyebrow, truly surprised for the first time that day. “What have you been giving him?” 

“Chocos,” said Ella, pulling out a premium-looking packet from her pocket. “We swapped them last December.”

Delvin gagged, “Chocos? That stuff is far too good for him.” The detective turned to Tim, “Don’t suppose you have any of those instant packets we used to ration back in the day?”

Tim raised an eyebrow, “Might have a few left in the back… but those things are disgusting.”

“That's the point.”

…

A few minutes later, armed with two cups of instantly made hot chocolate, Delvin walked up the hill to meet his friend. The cold had gotten sharper, forcing Delvin to scrunch his face against the downward wind. His hands clutched the cups, attempting to steal as much heat they could out of them. 

Belard looked out into a clear blue sky. He was only a year or two older than Delvin, but they looked decades apart. Where Delvin was slightly overweight, Belard was scarily skinny. He sat like a thin white skeleton in the snow, with nothing more than a dressing gown protecting him from the wind. His head was frayed and balding, the result of poor genetics, and even poorer upkeep. A black bandage was wrapped around the side of his head covering his right eye, or at least the wreck that was left of it.

As soon as Delvin saw his friend, his shoulders slackened and a deep sadness filled his face. An echo of a fit, laughing young man clad head to toe in white winter camouflage fluted across Avery’s mind.

“Belard?” asked Avery, forcing a smile, “You alive buddy?”

Belard looked at Avery out of the side of his left eye and then turned away. When he spoke, his voice sounded raspy and shaky. “Go away, Avery.”

“That's rude.” Avery raised an eyebrow, “Is this really how you talk to your best man?”

Belard sighed, “I’m still definitely not married. And like hell I’d ever let you by the microphone anyway”

Avery grinned, “Oh I’m giving a speech at that wedding whether you like it or not. The question is how bloodied you want to end up in front of the bride-to-be.”

Belard gave an involuntary chuckle before his face darkened once more. “I’m not in the mood for a lecture, Avery. You aren’t going to make me go back inside.”

“I’m not here to give you one,” Avery sat down next to Belard and pushed over one of the hot chocolates. 

The old soldier growled. “I told Ella, I don’t want that cra-” He paused as the smell of the chocolate reached his nose. “Is that…?”

“Yes it is,” said Avery, “Same as the ones they used to give us on Fridays.”

Belard looked down at the chocolate, up at Avery, and then begrudgingly took the cup. As he took a sip a glow of bliss flickered across the soldier's face for just a moment. Belard looked at Avery with a stink in his eye. “Just because I’m drinking this does not mean I’m talking to you.”

Avery grinned as his friend took more greedy sips. “Whatever you say lieutenant.”

They sat in silence for a moment, letting the cold air cut through their clothes, struggling to hold on to as much of the heat from the cups as possible. 

“How long have you been out here?” asked Avery

“Since twenty-one hundred,”

“And you aren’t cold?”

“We’ve been in worse.”

“I suppose we have,” Avery looked down at his cup with a sad smile. “Remember Serrian?”

Belard’s mouth cut into a thin smile. “Under the mountain?”

“Yeah, I couldn’t remember what warmth felt like for a week after that.”

Belard took a sip of his drink, the warm chocolate dribbling down his chin. “I remember passing out after an hour, and you digging us out.”

Avery chuckled, but it was an icy laugh. “Some nights I can still feel the cold. Even under all the blankets in the world…”

 “I can’t feel it anymore,” said Belard with his eye a million miles away. “The cold I mean. Falling asleep in that hellhole was the last time I felt the wind’s kiss.”

They trailed off into silence, sipping their cups and looking out at the courtyard. 

Avery rubbed the back of his head as he took a sip. “Sorry I haven’t been here for a while. Amy has been quite the handful.”

Belard's face softened, and for a moment, the image of a laughing young man superseded in the injured soldier's face. “How is my goddaughter?”

Avery smiled from his eyes as he took another sip. “Healthy, adorable, and very loud. Millie says she's got my lungs.”

“Ha, I hope not. The world can’t handle two people having your singing voice.”

“I wasn’t that bad,” Avery protested through chuckles

Belard laughed “That girl in Scaldia didn’t think so. Vanished quicker than a rabbit in snow after your turn at the karaoke bar.”

“Heh, well it's all for the best I suppose. Now I’ve got someone who appreciates my talents.”

“Oh, Millie hates it when you sing as well. For some unfathomable reason, she just loves you through it.”

Delvin gave another sad smile. “She has always been far too accommodating to me. Has the patience of an Angel.”

Belard tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“Well… I still wake her up sometimes in the middle of the night. With my nightmares I mean.” Devlin was rubbing his neck once more. “Never once has she lost her head at me for it, just holds me till I calm down. I don’t know how I ended up so lucky to deserve her.”

Belard shrugged. “Angels deserve Angels,” said the old soldier simply.

Avery’s face tinged red, and he instinctively looked back down at his cup. 

Belard smiled, “I remember how bad those dreams were. You used to holler at 3 am when we moved back into that moldy flat. 

“And you used to make chocolate and talk to me till I calmed down,” 

“We had some good conversations back then.”

“The best. Those saved me,” Avery cast a meaningful look at his friend. 

Belard frowned, “It was nothing, I was up anyway. Never felt comfortable in our beds.”

“They were very expensive beds.Felt like clouds.”

“That was the problem.”

Silence again.

Belard took a long sip of his drink, tipping it up to get the droplets at the bottom. “You know why I’m out here.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I do.”

Belard gave a weak laugh. “I knew you would understand. Tim and the others sorta get it, but it's become more manageable for them over the years. I don’t think it’ll ever get better for me.”

Avery took a long sip. “When we went over the pond they taught us how to march. But when we came back, you never learned how to stop.”

Belard didn’t answer, nor did he have to. 

Avery put a hand on Belard’s shoulder. “We are going get you out of this buddy. It's high time I helped you get on your feet again.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

“No idea,” said Avery cheerfully, “I’ll just have to keep visiting until we figure something out.”

Belard smiled, “It would be nice to have some of those 3 am conversations again.”

“Of course,” Avery leaned in and lowered his voice, “And I’m thinking one of these days I’ll sneak you out and we can go to the range. No one in the department can keep up with me. I’ve been itching for some real challenge.”

Belard’s smile grew wider. “Whatever did I do to deserve a friend like you?”

Avery thought for a moment. “Angels deserve Angels.”

There were only two splashes of color in this rather drab land. The first was a single White Chrysanthemum sitting on a windowsill of the hut. It sat in a small clay pot with the image of a heart burned into it. As everything around the flower seemed to be barely clinging to form, its petals stood unperturbed in the darkness, glowing with a soft, pale light.

The other splash of color was the River itself. It was blue but unlike any blue possible under the Sun. It was as if someone had compressed all the possible shades of blue into a single color, letting the River embody a range of emotions. The River moved with sluggish certainty, its water in no rush to get where it needed to go, for it knew it would never make it there. 

Sitting on a bench at the bank of the River was a man whose skin wore the tone of moonlight. He was unusually tall and equally skinny, resembling a skeleton not quite comfortable wearing human skin. He donned a white collared shirt and had a tie so dark it was seemingly cut from the fabric of night itself. This man was looking out over the River, slightly frowning as he peered into the giant wall of fog obscuring the other bank.

This pale man’s world was silent for a long while. It tended to get like that, with nothing more than the meandering of the River to keep him company. The pale man didn’t mind the loneliness too much. It was a quiet respite from the often tedious goings of his job.

In the distance, there was a set of small crushing sounds, footsteps. The pale man did not react very much, for this was a very familiar sound to him. He raised his head to look at the sky, as the blackness was slowly filled with a gradient of purple, not unlike the color of twilight. With a small sigh, the Pale Man got to his feet and walked over to the front of his hut. As the Pale Man’s feet touched the ground, the brown grass withered and grayed. 

The owner of the footsteps was a wrinkled elderly man with a hunch. He wore an old golf cap and a latticed wooly coat. A bag of rusted golf clubs lay on his back and a pair of golden spectacles dangled from his neck. The Old Man’s eyes darted around the Riverman’s property as he shivered despite his coat. Even though the Old Man was getting closer to the cabin, he seemed to shrink, his hunch becoming more pronounced, his arms squeezing ever closer to his chest. He came to a stop several paces from the cabin, his face in a conflict of wonder and fear as he looked at the pale figure in front of him. Eventually, coming to a decision, the Old Man approached.

The Old Man spoke with a tremor in his voice. “Excuse me, young man, I seem to be a little lost. Could you tell me where I am?” 

“You have arrived at the River.” The pale man spoke in an oddly melodic voice, with gentle overtones overlaid over a harsh scratchiness. The Old Man had never heard quite a voice in his entire life. 

The Old Man frowned. Then he looked over the pale man’s shoulder, and his eyes widened at the sight of the brilliantly blue river and the wall of mist.

“I see…” said the Old Man slowly, “And you are?”

“I am called the Riverman,” 

“Suppose that would make sense,” mumbled the Old Man under his breath. Raising his voice back to full volume, he asked, “I seem to have gotten a little lost. I was just going out to play golf with my daughter and her children, but I must have taken a wrong turn. Could you show me the way home?”

The Riverman lifted a spectral hand and pointed to the wall of mist looming ominously across the River.

“That’s where my home is?” asked the Old Man, putting on his spectacles to get a better view. 

“That is where home is.” affirmed the Riverman

The Old Man shifted uncomfortably. “Well… how do I get across?”

“I will take you.”

The Old Man’s face broke into a large smile, his checks moving nicely into often folded seems. He adjusted the position of the golf clubs on his back. “Splendid. Thank you so much, young man.”

The Riverman made no motion to move as the Old Man waited. Eventually, the Old Man’s smile melted slightly, “Well… aren’t we going to get going?”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“The boat? When will that come?”

The Riverman looked up at the twilight sky. “When you are ready.”

“But.. I am ready now,” frowned the Old Man

“You are not ready,” said the Riverman in a bored voice. His lips moved instinctively to create the words as if they had spoken them a million times before. 

The Old Man was silent for a long moment, taking another glance at the blue River and the wall of white mist. He blinked several times before nodding slowly and taking two tentative steps backward. “This has to be some sort of dream,” he murmured to himself. He took two more steps backward. The Riverman made no move to stop him, and so the Old Man wandered off, following the flow of the River. The Riverman did not watch the Old Man. He simply stood at the foot of his cabin, waiting boredly. He sighed and checked the sky. The Riverman idly wondered why all mortals made this so tedious and difficult. He gave a scornful look at the White Chrysanthemum.

“Surely you could have made them more prepared for the end.” complained the Riverman. “It would have made my job far easier.”

The Chrysanthemum did not answer. 

The Old Man’s footsteps trailed off, and the Riverman’s world was silent once more. 

That is until the pitter patter of the Old Man’s footsteps could be heard emanating from the opposite direction that he had walked. The Old Man looked up with surprise and stopped suddenly in front of the Riverman’s hut. 

“What-, how-,” sputtered the Old Man, “How did I get back here?”

The Riverman did not answer.

The Old Man glanced backward to the field of brown grass, and his frown deepened. “How did I even get here in the first place…?”

The Riverman shrugged.

 The Old Man pressed in his eyebrows, squeezing his mind for his very last memory. “I was on my way to the course… It was a very hot day.”

The Riverman stood silently, giving the man a peering look.

“I was tired,” The Old Man was speaking more for himself than the Riverman’s benefit. “More tired than I remember being in a while. My chest… ah yes, my chest had started to feel funny. I reached into my bag to get a sip of water and accidentally tripped. I fell. Then I got up-.”

The Old Man paused for a moment before going pale. “Then I-, well… I don’t really remember what happened after that…” he said in a slightly shaky voice.

He paused for a long moment, standing shocked still as if his brain had short-circuited. The Old Man’s neck stabbed upward as he looked at the Riverman with a new dawning fear.. “I-, You-, No, no, it can’t be.” 

He looked at the giant wall of mist and took several shaky steps backward. “I must have gotten up…”

The Riverman was silent. The Old Man opened his mouth and then closed it. 

“I must have gotten up!” he repeated forcefully.

The Old Man stood for another few moments before immediately marching off in the direction he had initially gone before. Again, silence, and again, the rising sound of footsteps started from the opposite direction. This time, the Old Man glanced at the Riverman but did not say a word, his face slightly redder. The Old Man disappeared off the horizon… only to return back to the cabin once more. This process repeated itself for quite a while, as the Old Man’s face became more and more akin to the color of a tomato with each pass. Almost like a mirror, the sky also changed with every pass, the twilight purple being burned away by splotches of blood red. The Riverman watched the sky idly, waiting for the color to fully change.

Only after the Riverman had become a more common sight than the Sun did the Old Man stop once more. His face practically on fire and flushed with rage, the Old Man bellowed. “Leave me alone!” and stormed off from the cabin… only to return moments later. 

Huffing with frustration, Old Man stormed towards the Riverman. “What do you want from me?” he asked in a weak, almost pitiful voice.

“I don’t want anything from you.” said the Riverman simply. “It is you who demands something.”

The Old Man made a noise that was between a snort and a scream. “What does that even mean?!” The sky, at this point, had completely turned red and flashed with fire as the Old Man’s rage exploded from him.

The Riverman didn’t answer. He looked at the sky and rolled his eyes. So dramatic…

The Old Man balled his fists, speaking with barely contained fury. “I asked you a question, young man.”

The Riverman yawned, and this pushed the Old Man over the edge. 

“ANSWER ME!” bellowed the Old Man. In a bout of rage, he swung his fist at the Riverman. The Old Man’s strike at the form and structure of a man who had been in a ring for many years. Despite the excellent punch, as his fist connected with the Riverman’s unmoving face, the Old Man suddenly found himself howling in pain. A ghost of a smile crept onto the Riverman’s lips as the Old Man stumbled back, clutching his hand. Where he had touched the Riverman, his skin had charred and blackened. Slowly, it faded back to its normal color and texture, and the Old Man stopped grimacing in pain.

“W-What, are y-you?” The Old Man’s shoulders shook violently, and he took several steps backward. His anger was replaced by a spike of fear, and the red in the sky vanished like a candle vanquished by a particularly strong breeze. 

The Riverman put a hand to his chin and pondered the question for a moment. “I’m not sure.”

“P-Please, just let me leave,” begged the Old Man pitifully. “My daughter must be getting worried that I have been gone so long. I was supposed to meet her and my grandchildren today.” As the Old Man begged. The twilight sky became dark and hardened into a brilliant gold. The Riverman cringed slightly as the brightness reached his eyes.

The Old Man desperately fumbled through the folds and pockets of his woolen sweater. “There must be something you want! Something I could give you to send me back!”

The Riverman sighed. “There is nothing- ” However, the Old Man was not listening. 

“Is it money? “Do you want money?” He brought out an old leather wallet, pulled out a handful of cash, and shoved it in Riverman’s hand. The Riverman looked down at the money and gave a small smirk as it disintegrated to ash and faded into the wind. 

“Is it a new house? If you take me home, I can buy you a much better house.”

The Riverman turned and looked back at his old shack with a slightly offended frown.

“Are you bored? It must get very dreary out here all alone” asked the Old Man, taking off his golf bag and thrusting it into the Riverman’s hands, “Here now you can play golf.”

The golf clubs disintegrated.

“Sir please,” Old Man clasped his hands together and practically fell to his knees, “I just want to go home. It can’t be time yet.”

The Riverman again pointed across the River. 

“No, that’s not home. There is no fog where I live.” protested the Old Man meekly. 

“You can’t go back. Only forward.”

The Old Man took a steadying breath as a small sob escaped his throat. “Then take me across the River. I don’t want to be here with you any longer.”

“We need the boat,” said the Riverman, “It is still waiting.”

“For what!” 

“For you.”

“I don’t know what you want from me. I’ve given you everything I have.,” flared the Old Man, “I-, I-, I-…”

The Old Man’s shoulders slouched, and he hung his head. “-just don’t want it to be over.” The gold in the sky faded sharply and was replaced with dark navy blue.

The Riverman’s face softened at these words. “You don’t get to decide that.” There was no malice or superiority in these words, only truth. 

The Old Man wiped his eyes with his sleeves and gave a curt nod. Head down, he walked over to the Riverman’s bench and sat. The Riverman didn’t turn to look, but he could hear the Old Man’s muffled sobs. 

After a long while, the Old Man looked up from his crying at the wall of mist that awaited him. He was tired, and he was tired of being tired. His will had ebbed like the banks of the River, washed away by his existence in this horrid place. He could no longer remember how long he had been waiting by the coast of the River. Time no longer had much meaning to him.

The Riverman idly played with a strip of peeling wood from the side of his cabin. The navy blue sky cast a dark shadow on the already dull landscape. This was the phase that often took the longest. There was nothing much to do here but sit and wait. 

So they waited. The blue sky fading darker and darker until…

“Is there anything stopping me?” croaked the Old Man from the bench after a long time looking at the wall of mist.

The Riverman stopped playing with the strip of peeling wood. “Stopping you?”

“From jumping in.” Old Man’s eyes were glassy and brittle. “From ending it all.”

The Riverman turned to the White Chrysanthum sitting on his windowsill, frowned, and then sighed. He idly wondered why her creations were so adamant on self-destruction. Then, he walked to sit on the bench next to the Old Man. 

The Riverman looked out at the wall of mist for a long moment. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

The Old Man gave a weak, cracked laugh. “You didn’t answer my question.”

The Riverman seemed to think for a second and then eventually said, “You could stop you. You could choose to stay here, with all the pain and with all the hurt.”

The Old Man gave another broken laugh, this time mixed with a few sobs. “Then there is nothing stopping me.” 

The Old Man started to get up, then hesitated, frozen in an odd half-crouching position. The Riverman watched as the Old Man waited for a few seconds. Finally, the Old Man came to a decision and got to his feet. As he took a step towards the River, something fell onto the floor next to him with a plop. 

The Old Man looked down and saw that his leather wallet had slipped from his pocket. It was empty except for a few pictures. Staring up at the old man was the face of a young girl in a graduation gown, hugging a, significantly younger, Old Man. They both wore identical ear-to-ear grins. 

The Riverman slowly reached down and grasped the wallet. The leather case faded into ash, but the pictures they lay cradled comfortably in the palm of his hand. The pale man offered the picture to his standing companion. 

The Old Man sat back down on the bench next to the Riverman and accepted the picture with his hand shaking. For another small while, the only sound that could be heard in the property was the rushing River. 

Eventually, the Riverman leaned forward in his seat. “Who is that?”

“My daughter,” croaked the Old Man in an odd voice. “Well, my daughter 15 or so years ago when she graduated. She is even far more beautiful now.”

With slightly shaking hands, the Old Man removed the first picture, revealing another picture of the Old Man and his daughter, this time wearing golf bags in the middle of a sunny putting green. He continued to shuffle the pictures, revealing moment after moment of their time together. One picture showed his daughter’s birthday party, with her staring greedily at a cake with five candles. Another was his daughter holding a small silver plastic trophy with a beaming smile. Picture after picture, with nearly every major moment of her very successful life.

“She is now married, of course,” as the next picture revealed his daughter standing at an altar facing a handsome young man with a childish grin. “I didn’t think the boy was worthy of her at first… but he has grown on me,” said the Old Man with a small smile. “I suppose without him, I wouldn’t have my grandchildren. The next picture revealed two buck-toothed children, a boy with a dimpled smile and a girl with curly hair.

The Riverman did not say anything. The Old Man was talking more to himself at this point. “She had been an amazing mother so far,” said the Old Man ideally. “I was worried, you know, we lost her mother in a car crash when she was very young. Grief, at such an early age, can do things to a person. And I had no idea what I was doing, of course. I’m sure I made plenty of mistakes with her.” said the Old Man with a small bark of laughter. 

A ghost of a smile crossed the Riverman’s face, and the Old Man continued. “But somehow, despite my shortcomings, she turned out better than I ever would have imagined…”

The Old Man trailed off into stories about his daughter. Her first steps, her first words, the time she embarrassed herself at a school talent show, the time she got accepted into the college of her dreams, the time she graduated. The Old Man talked and talked, and the Riverman politely waited and listened to the Old Man ramble on. 

Finally, the Old Man slowed down and stared at his wallet for a few minutes. Finally, he turned to the Riverman and gave an inquisitive look. “Do you… have a daughter?” 

At this, the Riverman sat up straighter. After a moment, he slowly shook his head, “No.”

“A family? Anyone at all?”

The Riverman looked at the White Chrysanthemum with a longing expression. “There is someone, but she is very busy and only comes along sparingly.”

The Old Man paused for a moment and glanced back at the decrepit old hut. “It must get very lonely living out here by yourself.”

The Riverman thought about that for a minute, “At times, but there is always company eventually.” 

The Old Man pursed his lips, “And when there is no more company to come and join you?”

“Then it will be very lonely. “As tedious as it is dealing with you mortals, I must admit your company does add color to my existence.”

The Riverman looked at the White Chrysanthemum shining from the porch of his house. “Perhaps that was her gift to me when she made you all so incompetent in the end.” 

“Aren’t you scared?” frowned the Old Man, “Of being alone forever? Of never having another person come. Is your purpose here just ending?”

The Riverman was silent for a long time. “Not in a long time. I have had many opportunities to interact with you mortals, and when the time comes when there is no one else in need of my services, I will have the memory and solace of having those opportunities and of having this purpose.”

The Old Man was silent for a long moment. Long enough to make the Riverman turn and frown. 

“Perhaps I have been too greedy.” said the Old Man as he looked down at the pictures of his daughter. “I wanted more time with her and with the rest of it all. But I have been blessed more than I ever really deserved with the time I’ve had. I have had an active and wondrous life filled with love and loss and happiness and sorrow. Maybe you are right, and the memories and experience are, and forever will be, enough.”

At these words, the sky exploded into a symphony of vibrant colors as a sunrise expanded from behind the wall of mist. Suddenly, out of the fog, a small, rickety canoe drifted triumphantly across the river. It languidly cruised over the water in no obvious rush to reach the bank. Neither the Old Man nor the Riverman made a move to get up. 

“It appears you are ready,” said the Riverman softly.

“It appears I am.” said the Old Man, “As ready as one can be anyway.”

Silence again as the boat continued its slow journey to the bank of the River. 

Old Man peered at the boat with mild curiosity. “You know, I always expected this place to have more clouds, a few angles, perhaps a golden gate.”

The Riverman shrugged. “It could have. You aren’t there yet.”

The Old Man scrunched his eyebrows. “You have never seen the other side?”

The Riverman shook his head. “I only bring people across. I cannot go yet. That is my purpose.”

The Old Man frowned for a long time. “You must be awfully curious,” 

“I am,”

“Will you ever get a chance to see it?” 

“I hope so,”

“And what if there is nothing on the other end?” 

“Then I will be happy to have an answer.”

The small boat reached the bank of the river with a small thud. The pair looked at each other and then slowly got to their feet. They started to walk towards the bank of the River and into the boat.