THE COMPLETE COMPENDIUM

GEROME

Rays of golden light filtered through the foliage of the wood. The birds were singing in the trees, the flowers were blooming And Gerome just wanted to get the last key shard from the final Guardian so he could open the supply closet for his janitorial job. In his belt there was a sheath and a sword with a purple handguard that he had got from the sword mage after Gerome ruined his Boxing gloves when he punched through the mages chest. At last he came to a clearing with a man sitting on a hill with a helmet and a full suit of armour and a sword on his lap and a key shard on his belt. “Alright just please give me the shard,” said Gerome tiredly already knowing the response. The swordsman Then slowly looked up, acknowledging Gerome's presence. His eyes met with Gerome's, and the determination in them was evident. It was clear that he was not going to give up the key shard without a fight.

Then out of nowhere The swordsman got up from his seat, drawing his own sword with lightning speed but Gerome unsheathed his Sword with the same proficiency and then faster than most eyes can see: a metallic ring echoed through the forest.

Both of them circled each other, their swords glinting in the sunlight. Gerome was tuckered out from fighting the other four Guardians in his already month long detour, but he fought him with respect as he did with all his enemies though this swordsman especially for he was equally skilled, if not more.

Both of them continued clashing their swords against each other in a series of attacks and counterattacks. Their movements were fluid and precise, each one trying to find an opening and trying to not give the other one that would end the fight in an instant. The swordsman's attacks were swift,fast,and powerful but Geromes strength and intuition was greater for indeed if it wasn't for his fighting prowess he would have died long ago in this venture or as far as his employer (a inherited millionaire with a liking to shoes specifically for Air jordans is concerned for his singular house staff a vacation). Swords clashed, sparks flew, and their grunts were the only sounds that could be heard in the otherwise serene forest.

But as the fight continued, Gerome began to realise that although his fighting prowess was superior the swordsman was still too skilled to gain a decisive advantage on. He needed to end this fight. Then Taking a quick breath, he stepped back and surveyed the situation. He noticed that the beam of light coming through the canopy was casting a bright reflection off the swordsman's helmet.

Gerome quickly took advantage of this and redirected the sunlight into the swordsman's eyes, momentarily blinding him. It was the perfect opportunity for Gerome to make his move. He lunged forward, successfully disarming the swordsman and with one quick stroke the fight was over and the swordsman's head with its hewn steel collar fell to the ground.

The wind blew through the branches and the birds and squirrels rustled through the leaves and the woods were oblivious to the fight that just happened. Finally after a while Gerome looked down to the disembodied head and couldn't help but feel some pity for the fellow but he did not feel sad because at the end of the day he did not know why he fought to defend the key shard or even how he got it. The only information he got was when he found his supply closet at his employers basement locked and the key under the mat in front of the door was missing; there he found a sticky note on the doorknob that said this riddle: the Key which you seek has been split into five and five Guardians had been given charge to protect them, one the stone giant of the beach long, two the axe marauder in the valley of death, three the mage of swords in the mountain snow tops that mammoths once roamed, four in the tunnels of the city of angels there lay an assassin of death, five a swordsman in peace in the woods of griffith. The note had a L on the bottom

Gerome then decided that he had been looking at the body and head long enough and went to a broken chain with the key shard next to it and he promptly bent down and picked it up then proceeded to walk back to where he came. He sheathed his sword and took out what little money he had and started to count to see if he had enough to remake his closet key with the shards for he had plenty of time to do so for he will walk to his destinations because his janitorial wage did not cover both a bus ride and a visit to the place where he got his quality boxing gloves: Benicios pawn shop.

It had been two days since he had slew the swordsman and Gerome after walking to the pawn shop of Benicito gave him all the money he had (he had to sell him the sword to have enough coin) and the key shards to make into one again. Benicito completed this task in only two hours for he was skilled in the craft of blacksmithing with it being one his favourite hobbies but when Gerome tried to buy another pair of boxing gloves he did not have enough money. Benicito still gave him the gloves because he remembered that when his dad, an Italian immigrant to America Lost his job as a waiter at Don Alfonsos during the great depression. During this time on a cool summer evening in 34 young Benicito saw an expensive bike on display in a bike shop's window and he coveted it but when he asked his dad for it he said that they simply don't have the money. Because of this Benicito never wanted anyone to get denied their passion just because they couldn't afford it.

Gerome thanked him then slung the tied velvet red boxing gloves on his back and turned around to walk away but as he was walking out the door Benicito asked what happened to the boxing gloves he bought two months ago? Gerome simply looked back and said calmly “they got worn out”.

Benicito did not question further.

Now Gerome was at his house and after resting from his month long journey he woke up at 5am in the morning he went to his clothes closet down the hallway covered in PHD’s in there frames with the earlier ones in custom made oak, slowly degrading to the later ones with frames purchased from Bootleg Pete and changed his pyjamas into his Janitor uniform which he he cleaned at the laundromat around the block of his apartment the evening before with coins he found on the street. Then he got his reforged janitor key and went off to work.

Gerome’s employer's large two story Grey White suburban house didn't look too out of place in the Beverly Hills neighbourhood. As Gerome was walking through the well tended front yard Grass (by Gerome) he looked up at the upper story window that looked in his employers bedroom and saw that he was opening a shoe box carefully on his desk and took out a pair of the newest Air Jordans. Gerome had silently promised himself that one day he will get a pair when he came to the front door and he got his id card from his pocket to a scanner next to the door then after a automated voice said “welcome employe number 2#” The door unlocked and he went in.

The way to the supply closet in the basement was normal enough with the house's regular plain white grey colour scheme with all of its surfaces/ decorations/ plants all being spotless, clean and well maintained even after a month of Geromes absence. The Basement was darker but still well lit due to his employer's insistence to replace the lightbulbs every half year and after Gerome walked to the end of the concrete lined corridor he came to a wide room.

Then he went to the door at the end of it, passing items of his employer like tennis rackets, unworn shoes (none of them Air Jordans) and unopened boxes that he specifically told Gerome not to touch. When he got there he got his remade key out of his pocket. He put it in the key hole and finally opened the closet that had been locked long enough but when Gerome was going to grab the mop and bucket he heard a raspy voice behind him “so you,v gathered the shards uh”

Gerome, just wanting to do his job, turned around and said “yes sir how may i help you” because he did not want to fight in his employer's house and have a large mess to clean. The man who was behind looked old and he had a janitor uniform eerily similar to Geromes with a black cape around him and yet even though his face had wrinkles and his hair was white Gerome just knew that he was younger than he looked. “No no” chuckled the man before he said smiling “it's what i can do for You”. Gerome gave a look of slight intrigue “after all it's the least i can do since it was i who broke asunder your key and gave them to the Guardians” he continued more intently. “How were you able to find those people and how were you able to convince them to guard the shards” said Gerome with this question being the only one left that he had interest in.

The man frowning said with spite in his voice “well you are not the only one who had a hundred PHDs and unlike you i did not squander it by being a lowly janitor”. The man then took off his cape revealing the Herthrio hidden sword in its sheath on his belt “I became a janitor because I realised that PHDs and Degrees are worth as much as the paper they are written on” said Gerome serenely. The man relaxing until he had a small grin on his face said with a tone that in normal circumstances would be sincere “i'm sorry i seem to be forgetting my manners let me introduce myself i am Lutho” Gerome squinted at his face as if the name was familiar but he can't quite put a finger on it. “Of course you don't remember why should you” said Lutho annoyedly “let me remind you” he continued “i was apart of your college class all the way back in freshman year and before i was always the top of my class doing calculus in middle school doing quantum physics in high school and at the science fair i made Proton pack and how their gullible faces looked when i made it fire a beam in the air” said Lutho looking at the ceiling as if recalling good memories. “Oh you that dude that always stalked me everywhere I went, '' Gerome said. Luthos face then became neutral and he looked at Gerome before he spoke again “and when I got Oxford I expected much the same dominance as I had in the past…. Until YOU came along” Lutho said with sudden scorn “you just had to be the best, getting a Degree every Damn week! Said Lutho as he drew his sword and Gerome, already seeing where this will eventually lead to slowly reaching over, got his spare Boxing gloves off the shelf in the closet and started to put them on. “ no matter how hard i worked and how many PHDs i got you always had THREE MORE” said Lutho frothing “and when you got recognized as the best student of your class i couldn't deal with the shame you bought me and fled all the way back to america in dishonour and from that day on i planned day and night for my revenge on you!” Barked Lutho. “I can see that” Gerome noted and then Lutho froze for a second and then looked Gerome dead in the eye “but when I was in your exile I had to take this disgraceful job as a Janitor for an arrogant shoe collector” he said coolly. “You were the employee before me?” questioned Gerome “Yes and then you had the audacity to take the only thing I had left, do it better and for half the pay no less!” fumed Lutho as he took a step forward “I hoped you would have died fighting those Guardians I entrusted," Lutho sneered with absolute Hate “I'm glad I was wrong”. Gerome, tying his boxing gloves said simply “if I squandered my intellect by becoming a Janitor why would you become one?” Lutho then clicked a button on his sword's hand guard and the blade was suddenly wreathed in flame and he leaped forward with malicious intent.

His flaming sword was aimed directly at Gerome's heart but Gerome swiftly dodged the attack and took a few steps back, probing Lutho's prowess for already Gerome can already tell his relentlessness was greater than any of the Guardians.

The two circled each other in the confined space, neither willing to make the first move. Lutho might be rabid with anger but he still wasn't devoid of caution . The only sounds it seemed to Gerome in the basement was Luthos heavy breathing and foot falls and his own controlled Breaths and swift steps. Lutho then swung fiercely and fueled by anger, but Gerome parried it precisely with a quick jab, the fire blade and velvet boxing glove clashed and there was a shower of sparks and Lutho was stunned by such a move but a jab across the face by Gerome quickly took him back.

As the fight went on one savage second after the next, Lutho's attacks became more desperate and reckless. In contrast, Gerome remained calm and focused, waiting for an opening to strike. Suddenly as Lutho was trying to land a feral blow he momentarily tripped on one of the shoes on the floor, Gerome saw his opportunity and with a swift movement, he struck a lethal blow to Lutho's abdomen.

Lutho stumbled back, his sword falling from his grasp, its flame suddenly going out as he clutched his bleeding stomach. Gerome took advantage of this momentary weakness and delivered a swift punch to Lutho's head, sending him crashing to the ground.

Gerome was tired but he was not yet exhausted, their bodies covered in sweat and blood. Lutho, with tears of betrayal in his eyes, looked up at Gerome with hatred and regret. Gerome, his expression still cool and calm, raised his boxing glove to deliver his power strike that he had always trained when he first started honing his boxing skills just after his middle school graduation. His fist hovered in the air for a moment then light and space started to warp around the epicentre of Geromes fist then sparkles began to flicker and flash and then with the force of a small bomb delivered a final, fatal blow to Lutho's head.

The sound of a skull cracking was the only thing that broke the heavy silence in the basement.

Gerome let his fist lay in the 8 foot crater on the concrete floor where Luthos head used to be and after while he stood up looking down at the body and thought how any of the Guardians could be convinced by a so obviously mad man however intelligent. He continued to stand there for a few minutes before deciding to put back the boxing gloves and take out his cleaning supplies.

Gerome worked quickly and efficiently disposing of the body and sword by putting them in the back of the closet and bathing it in some chemicals to ward off the stench and pest that will come during decomposition and fixing the crater by putting the fragments back together and fusing them with a concrete mixture he made on the spot. He then cleaned off the blood of the surfaces and all the evidence of the fight until he could see his reflection on it and after he was satisfied he finally got to work.

As Gerome got out of the basement and into the living room he started to sweep and then mop thoroughly. Then his employer walked Regaly with one hand behind his back down his bifurcated staircase with his brilliant white Air Jordans on “Gerome what noise was that?” he said with his chin up “i fell down” responded Gerome. “Well then you have much work to do for I do not want to injure myself by slipping on some filth that you allowed to accumulate in your month of neglect in this place” said the employer with forced Majesty letting out the fact the home was still cleaner than most households. “I will sir” said Gerome respectfully and his employer let out a quiet hmm before walking back up the stairs like he was in a Shakespeare play.

As Gerome went back to cleaning he thought about how fine a thing it would be if he was able to wear a pair of those Radiant white Jordans.

SPOOKY STORIES

1

In the seemingly subterranean labyrinth of shadowy alleyways, there dwelled a lone figure, his icy grip wrapped tightly around a stolen treasure—a tub of Stubby Keanu Reaves Ice Cream. The darkness had been his accomplice, cloaking his daring heist from the watchful eyes of the Short One, a force not to be reckoned with if one values their life of even this illicit underworld.

A sense of triumph coursed through the thief's veins as he contemplated the lucrative rewards that awaited him in the shadowy black market. The allure of such a precious commodity, one that no one had dared to pilfer before and survived afterwards to tell the tale, had fueled this audacious act. However, as he stood in the deafening silence of his solitude, a chilling reality caught up to him so absolute from the inky depths behind him that he could not do anything but go into what surely will be his last deep contemplation of his life, that shattered his fleeting moment of exhilaration as a hand from below placed itself on his shoulder followed by a deep quiet voice,

“I was also looking for that”.

2

It was a dark and stormy night, and there I was walking through a deserted park that had been empty ever since the massacre that occurred here. Officially it had been terrorists who were responsible but anyone who knew the very few survivors who escaped. Knows that it was something far more horrifying. Which is why when I passed the fence marking the government-induced exclusion zone my reason for being here was to investigate what was truly responsible for the utter annihilation of the people that were here. I had come prepared for anything; I was armed with a sword, a knife, and a gun for protection. I felt invincible. Nothing could possibly harm me.

As I strode confidently through the park, I came across a small patch of wildflowers. I stopped for a moment to admire the beauty, but it was too late when I realised that my foot had become tangled in the vines, and I stumbled with a loud crash.

That's when I heard a noise I'll never forget. It was a low growl, coming from a small creature hidden in the undergrowth. As I raised my gun to aim, I realised with horror that the ghastly, monstrous beast that caused such calamity was right in front of me, an unusually small hamster.

Before I had a chance to react, the hamster sprang from its hiding place and clamped its razor-sharp teeth around my throat. I screamed as I felt its long claws digging into my flesh. I struggled to break its grip but it was too late. The hamster had me in its vice-like grip for what seemed like an eternity before finally loosening its grip and allowing me to drop to the ground.

I looked up in horror as the small but vicious creature stood atop me, its mouth caked with my bloody remains. I shuddered with fear as it leisurely began to slowly shred my body to pieces with its razor-sharp teeth. I had never felt such excruciating pain before. I wanted to scream but my throat had been ripped open and all that escaped were guttural gurgles.

When it was done, the hamster left me a mutilated, bloodied mess of what had been a human being mere moments ago. I lay there, slowly bleeding out, my life draining away. I closed my eyes, knowing that this was the end.

The last thing I remember was the sound of the small hamster scurrying back to its hiding place in the undergrowth.

3

The night had been peaceful and quiet until the news of a serial killer being on the loose changed it all. He had been described as tall and menacing with a characteristic yellow and brown bomber jacket and a face shrouded in darkness. The news had sent chills down my spine and plagued my thoughts since then for this was the serial killer that had been sent to death row for his abominable crimes,the one that nobody talked about,the one that no one could forget.

That night I couldn't sleep. I was just lying in bed, trying to rest, when I heard a strange noise coming from the kitchen. At first, I thought it was just nothing or maybe the wind whipping around the house. But the noise seemed to be persistent and ever growing in intensity. It was a sound of metal clashing, something being moved or thrown around.

My heart was beating hard in my chest as I carefully entered the kitchen, making sure to stay as quiet as possible. To my utter horror, I saw the serial killer standing in the middle of the kitchen. He had his back towards me. In his hands, was a machete and a bowl of cereal, and he was maniacally slashing at the cereal as if his life depended on it, the bowl fragmenting with each strike.

After staring in shock for what seemed like an eternity, I shook myself and ran away from the kitchen. It felt like he was looking at me with his cold eyes, like he had superpowers and was able to sense my presence. I ran and I jumped back into the bed, completely freaked out.

I've never seen such a horrifying sight before. I hope it was just a nightmare, but deep down I know it wasn't. The serial killer had arrived, and he was here to unleash the terrifying nightmare that was his revenge on the innocent city.

4

It was a dark and rainy night. The man came home from his work and walked through the front door. He had dreaded this rainy night for days; it had been forecasted for weeks but now it was here it made the forecast seem like they were predicting a drizzle by comparison , then he remembered a certain precious object he had left in the living room.

he proceeded to walk through the hallway leading to his living room, he noticed a strange absence. The air felt heavier, the sound of the rain louder and something was missing. Then it struck him – the small expertly crafted Kolibri pistol he made himself(his profession was watch smithing but he was recognized as a master in that field), always in its dime size glass case, was gone.

The man thought it must have been one of his family members, who had decided to take the Kolibri pistol for an excursion in the rain. With a sigh of relief, he returned to the hall, when suddenly from the living room someone pointed a gun straight at him – a murderer, pointing the tiny Kolibri pistol.

The man trembled in fear, he begged for mercy but the murderer just smiled in a sinister manner. Before the man knew it, the murderer's finger bigger than the gun itself was already on the trigger. The sound of the gun filled the air, and the sheer power of the gun reduced the man into a thin pink mist of blood and blasted a 10 foot wide hole in the wall behind.

That was the last time anyone saw that man, as if he never even existed. The rain kept pouring, washing away the traces of the tragedy. However, the echoes of the gun remained in the living room, as a reminder of one fateful and spooky night.

5

Jade had grown accustomed to the nightly silence of her small, suburban hometown with its peaceful community in which the most drama the town experienced was hearing the news about the massacre in a park supposedly by terrorists a few towns over. But this night seemed different. As soon as the clouds covered the moon, a distant scream pierced the stillness of the night.

Jade shivered. The sound originated from the desolate house next door. It had been abandoned one fateful day three months prior after the previous owners had mysteriously vanished with only traces of blood found in the basement. Although She had always wondered what happened to the couple she never heard a sound from within its walls until now.

Agitated and scared, Jade tried to shake the feeling of dread that embraced her. Still, something compelled her to investigate the strange and unearthly sound and find out what had happened on that day three months ago. So, she placed on her sneakers and slowly crossed the street.

The door to the house seemed to be unlocked, its hinges creaking with every inch. She eventually got to the open basement door and descended the stairs as the temperature dropped. She continued onward in search of the source of the scream. Her heart beat with anticipation. What was within this pitch-black basement?

At the end of the darkness, a small glimmer of red reflected off the walls. It seemed to be a spot of blood. As she continued, the trail grew more and more pronounced, leading her further and further into unknown depths.

Finally, she reached the source of the red – a pile of unrecognisable mush. She gasped with horror. What mayhem had occurred in these walls? And what type of creature could have caused such intense destruction? Her fears only grew at the thought of being the next victim.

At that exact moment, she heard something move behind her. Startled, she spun to instinctively run back up the stairs. However, the figure that stood before her was not one of terror; but rather, of absolute horror. It was a small brown Chihuahua with its coat smerd with blotches of blood. With one lunge, its teeth sunk into her flesh and its claws tore at her skin. It disembowelled her but before the innards could hit the floor it ripped out her throat as well and perhaps blessedly before she could truly understand her pure agony and suffering the ruthless beast eviscerated her head

Jade was ripped to shreds and reduced to unrecognisable mush. Her lifeless body lay limp in the darkness, her life gone in an instant:she didn't even have time to scream.

The Chihuahua's dark, beady eyes looking up at the moon as the cry of an animal echoed through the silent night.

Daniel salazar

10/27/23

THE APEX PREDATOR

It was November 2023 and a man named Jake who wore a sky blue jacket and a pair of old black hiking boots that he got from Temu along with a pair of rugged blue Levi jeans had entered Chernobyl, a town in Ukraine that used to draw its power from its nuclear reactor of the same name and when the facility had a meltdown it made the entire surrounding area into a wasteland. The reason why he did it being the type of man who would want to go to Chernobyl, had heard of places of great danger that bred dangerous creatures and he wanted to see one for himself for it was one

of the precious few things still able to make his blood run after he made the mistake of exploring the deepest darkest corners of Reddit and 4chan. Little did he know that such a great danger was to come and that he would not be alone. He had only taken a few steps from behind when he heard a voice, an old man's voice. “The Apex Predator here may not be what you expect”, the voice said.

Startled, Jake turned around to find the source of the voice, but there was no one there. He shrugged it off, deciding it must have been his imagination, and continued on. He walked for a while, passing trees forever in autumn and desolate buildings that in truth had been desolate even before the meltdown of the reactor due to the “utopia” of communism that made it. Jake had passed a few animals, mainly squirrels and birds but nothing particularly “interesting” in Jake's book like whatever dangerous creatures that were here had been wiped out before. Eventually, he wondered if Chernobly was as dangerous as those guides who led him here had described until he came upon a dark lake. Suddenly, out of the lake burst a twenty five-foot-tall Super Mutant Behemoth with its massive muscles, saggy green skin and lipless mouth. It carried a deformed fire hydrant as its club and charged at Jake, intent on killing him.

Fearing for his life, Jake ran away as fast as he could, desperately trying to find a way to save himself. He ran towards the depths of the nuclear reactor itself (he had travelled near the location because he believed the closer to the source of the radiation of the place he was the more likely he was to find dangerous creatures unfortunately he was right) and, coming to a group of locked doors, he found one that was still unlocked. He slammed the door behind him and prayed that the massive being outside wouldn't be able to break through the door's rusted steel.

Jake had a faint hope that the monster would give up its chase but as he heard its stomps and bellows getting louder he knew that it wouldn't stop because it fancied itself the top predator and it saw his excursion into its territory a threat to its position and it won't stop until he was dead or something far more powerful kills it. And then it began. The Behemoth started smashing its club into the door, over and over again, each time causing the walls to shake and rattle with cracks in them spreading every time. Jake held his breath, ready for the inevitable collapse, when all of a sudden the attacks stopped and Jake heard a loud clanging of metal with the monster evidently swinging fiercely but it quickly was replaced with the sound of flesh being cut and sliced and groans of pain. The monster then tried to bellow out but it was silenced with an unmistakable wet thunk of a blade being thrusted into the back of its throat (Jake knew this because he had seen his fair share of duals and trust me there were a lot of them). Suddenly, there was a loud thud, followed by an eerie silence.

After what felt like an eternity, Jake plucked up the courage to go and see what had happened outside. He opened the door carefully, and what he saw took his breath away. There, in front of him, was the Expertly dissected body of the Behemoth, its face still in shock as it faced its final humbler and standing atop it was a man in Wasteland Armour of rags and reinforced metal plates on top and a Great Helm. He also held a sword in his hands that he had just finished cleaning the blood off with a piece of cloth and a black cloak was draped around his shoulders.

Jake was filled with curiosity. He stepped forward and, gathering all of his courage, asked, “Who are you?”'. The man turning slowly towards him hesitated slightly thinking about what to say before replying calmly, with his voice resounding, “My name is Salazar… Daniel Salazar”.

With that, Jake knelt before Daniel, as he had realised that he had just witnessed something truly remarkable. Daniel Salazar was the Apex Predator, the one who had shown up at the last minute and saved him from death.

“Thank you sir for saving me. I thought that thing would have killed me for sure,” said Jake with immense Gratitude. The Apex Predator Daniel Salazar looked at him through his dark helm before saying casually “I killed this creature because it had become too aggressive thinking that it was the master in this land” Daniel Salazer then looked at the face of the beast before tilting his head to Jake and said with deadly seriousness “do you think that too”? Jake leaned back “Uh no no sir I..I came here with no illusions of…of superiority” said Jake with genuine fear in his voice.

Daniel deciding that he was no threat went to the feet of the behemoth and started to drag the humongous body for he had specifically left the tendons intact so he wouldn't have to carry pieces just looking back one last time to give Jake the advice “I would get out of this land before dusk for that's when the packs go scouring the area around the reactor for corpse’s” and just like that he went out of the reactor and into his domain beyond.

Jake sat there for a while in shock before remembering what he had said and started to run all the way back to the place where the guides said they would pick him up. He had nearly died today, that being more clear as he continued to run but he realised also that he had come for an experience of a lifetime in a world where Bare topped Russians fighting bears bare-handed in the Siberian wilderness and a janitor fighting a stone giant on a beach with literal Boxing Gloves was one of the more normal occurrences and an unforgettable Experience he could tell his Grand-kids one day he absolutely got.

AVERAGE DAY IN BRITAIN

Daniel

2/23/24

It was a normal morning for Archie The family's oldest child. He brushed his teeth and after using the loo went to the expected scene in the kitchen with his father reading the Guardian newspaper while drinking his coffee. Archie's two younger siblings, a sister and the brother of the names of Clara and William their mother was making tea along with Fish and chips and English Pancakes for breakfast. The family's Grandpa on the side of his fathers who had Scottish ancestry just came out to the table with his old and wizen face and a long white beard that stooped down most of his abdomen. He was probably reflecting in his room with Great war medals hung on the wall just before like he did every morning. His name was Cameron but all of his friends who called him that had long passed away so the family just called him Grandpa or father for Archie's dad.

“Mom is that fish and chips I smell” said Archie hungrily “yes it is” responded Archie's mom who then began to skin another fish with a knife. “This knife is of really good quality. Where did you get it?” asked the mom, “I got it yesterday at Soho knives” said the dad without looking away from the newspaper. “Really? You said that you would get a new one yesterday. I didn't know you could get a knife permit that fast”. "" What knife permit?” said the dad when the British policeman barged through the brick wall.

The whole family then panicked except the Grandpa who stayed calm because the whole family knew that doing anything without a permit in this country ment death on the charge of treason for being in possession of an unauthorised item. The policeman had a neon jacket and a custodian helmet. The police man then asked sternly with a British accent that any Englishman would be proud of, to the dad “Excuse me sir, but do you 'appen to 'ave a permit for that knife youv just bought yesterday?'. The dad gaining his composer came to the police man and led him to the living room and explained “now officer I have my permit in my personal chambers so if you can so kind to let me go get it i can produce this permit you ask for” “alrighty then but you ought to be fast about it” responded the thoroughly British officer.

The father thanked him but when he got to the dining table the father quickly told his family quietly “pack your bags we're leaving for America”. Understanding the reason behind this on the fly decision, they grabbed their essentials and rushed out of their home with Archie barely having enough time to pack his toiletries, clothes and his books about the history of religion in the British isles, specifically of Catholicism. The journey to the airport was a blur, with the dad trying to buy plane tickets while he was driving, breaking a few road safety laws and having more than a few Chaps yell obscenities at being cut off. They could hardly believe what was happening. They had lived in England their whole lives, but now they were being forced to flee due to a neglected permit for a kitchen knife. As they were driving they passed Williams' favourite restaurant st. JOHN and he said “mommy can we have food there” “no little one we cant right now” said the mom forlornly “how come?” asked William “we don't have time to spare right now” responded the mother

As they travelled towards the airport, they passed by Big Ben and Buckingham Palace but unlike before they saw them in aw now they passed tense for around these places authorities were found in higher concentrations and if the fastest path to the airport didn't pass them they wouldn't have at all.

Upon reaching the airport, they were going through the airport security as fast as they could out of fear that their passports would be frozen but before they got on their flight their hearts sank as the same policeman from earlier appeared in front of them once again. '`Oi now, Seems to me you didn't 'ave a bloomin' permit for that knife, did you?'”he sneered, looking at the father with derision. Just as he was about to take a step forward, the Grandfather, who had been a quiet and reserved figure until now, suddenly let out a loud cry of “Scotland forever!” with bagpipes mysteriously playing and in an instant he charged at the police man with a Scottish claymore in hand.

The two engaged in a fierce fight, the grandfather wielding the two-handed sword with strength and determination, while the policeman used only his bare fists as weapons for guns were outlawed so a lawful individual like himself would have been proficient with his fists. The family watched in awe and terror, knowing that their grandfather was risking everything to protect them so they took the opening to get on the plane that was already starting to go down the runway.

The police man took multiple powerful strokes from the claymore and when he got hit by a particularly hard strike likely fueled by the oldmans hate and anger he kept bottled up ever since he served his country a long time ago and it was sufficient to break the skin and cause the policeman to bleed and when he touched his forehead and saw his own blood on his hand he then said with understanble British anger “you bloody bugger” and the old highlander was dodging and parrying the formidable attacks from the officer that would easily have shattered a lesser person But just as the plane was about to take off, the grandfather ducked a monsteus left hook that would have certainly have killed him and then he kicked the policeman into the nearby snack shop but before he was able to get up to continue the fight (for in truth if it wasn't for the necessity of boarding the plane in time the fight as far as Cameron and the policeman were concerned was just getting started)The Grandfather then with slight hesitation before he was able to get his battle frenzy under control ran out the terminal on the run way towards the plane and catching up he jumped on at the last second, joining his family in their escape to America.

As the family were finally settling down in the plane exhausted from their journey “you have a claymore?” said Archie “Ai i had it when i was just a wee Lad when my father gave it to me as a family heirloom” said the Grandpa with pride in his voice “then how come my dad didn't have it?” Archie asked “he was supposed to inherit it just as he was supposed to inherit the farm before you were born but instead he sold it and came to work in good Ol,londontown”said the Grandpa with spite in his voice “o’pa you know what that Government official escorted by those officers said “did we have a permit for inheritance?” Archie's dad defended then the Grandpa and Archie's dad got into a small argument but quickly started to come to terms again for they were sad and happy with the knowledge that they were leaving their home behind and embarked on a new journey to America where they didn't have to have a Permit for everything ... yet.

“THEY CANT STOP ALL OF US”

3/12/24

Daniel

Ethan sat peacefully on the porch of his cabin, watching the leaves sway in the gentle breeze. He took a sip of his coffee, enjoying the serene atmosphere of the woods around him. His wife, Emily, sat beside him, knitting a scarf for their granddaughter. They had stayed in this cabin for many years a little way outside a small town where they occasionally go to shop, Just living a simple life in the mountains.

As Ethan and Emily enjoyed their quiet morning, they suddenly heard a car park outside. Ethan's heart skipped a beat as he recognized the sound of his son's Mavericks car. It had been a while since they had last seen him, as he had been busy with his own family and work always living the hectic life which Ethan supposed was just him living up to his name for he was always a very very mischievous child (that was not peanut butter the then-toddler spread throughout the bathroom) Ethan quickly made his way down the steps of the porch to greet his son and his family.

The kids, full of energy and excitement, ran towards Ethan and hugged him tightly. They followed him into the cosy cabin interior with the carpet well maintained by Emily and with the bookshelf containing many leather-bound editions of Ethan's favourite Books like The Silmarillion/The God of War Novelization/The Capitalist Manifesto/The Canterbury Tales/ and the recipes of the world of Tolkein (for Emily's use, Ethan only know how to make Pancakes without burning down the house) all right next to the warm but not hot flame in the fireplace in the living room, then after Ethan leaned into his massive Wingback chair lined with red fabric and with a sigh the Kids immediately sat around him to hear the stuff of dreams that was his storytelling. After eagerly listening to Ethan's stories about his adventures in the forest for a few decidedly well-spent hours. They eventually settled down, and one of the kids named Aragorn (Maverick is a Lord of the Rings fan if you were wondering) turned to Ethan and asked him the question that they wondered about but had dreaded asking him about – “what happened at the Battle of Area 51?”

Maverick shared a knowing look with his wife as he said, “You know grandpa is sensitive about his past, kids.”

Ethan then Chuckled, his heart full of love for his grandchildren. He reassured them that it was okay and that they were just curious. He had decided that they shouldn't be left in silence because of his past trauma so With a hint of hesitation, he began telling them his tale

It was a cool September 20th morning in 2019 when Ethan and his comrades, part of an internet coalition, gathered near the base of Area 51. The Coalition was an Army of people from all walks of life and had formed ranks to form a Battleline with surprisingly good discipline and organisation with the plan being to send the first wave to take the outer defences and the second to bring Heavy Weapons to break down the fortifications of the base itself. The front line had the occasional Banner Bearer carrying the coat of Arms of Instagram/ Facebook/Youtube/Naruto’s clan/ and Australia (don't ask why). They were chanting the war cry, 'THEY CAN'T STOP ALL OF US,' in full view of the base's defenders who were still fortifying their position.

Ethan was at his post in the now mostly empty camp when one of his cohorts, a large man with a bushy chestnut beard who was a part of the coalition's reserve formations like Ethan, came walking towards him and said leaning on a tent post “so what do you think we will find inside'' Ethan looked at the man with a smile “well I worry more about we even getting a chance to see what's inside” the man then gave a look of slight intrigue before saying “why you say that, don't you think we won't win?” Ethan just smiled as he looked away towards the coalitions peoples amassed in formation ready for battle and said “no it's because I think they wont need us” Ethan then pointed at the many different types of troops and explained “you see there's so many people with just as many ways of fighting like theres people with Authentically made katanas there's others who uses brass knuckles and Shurikens along with some Bow and arrows and Greatswords sprinkled among them” the man then laughed and said “I fear our assistance will be needed for those exact reasons”. Suddenly, a war horn blasted through the air, signalling the start of the attack. The first wave of thousands launched a frontal charge at the base, with the battle line consisting of kyles and millennials in the centre, and the webb's naruto running in the flanks.

The government defenders of U.S. Army soldiers and well-armed FBI and CIA agents who were all cooperating in perfect union with the threat of the secrets of the base being revealed forcing the bureaucrats of all government organisations to operate together in a rare event of all of the officials prioritising their duties over there pockets, quickly began gunning down the attackers in waves. The coalition Army continued to charge with the determination to secure whatever mcguffin each person believed to be in that base but the Battleline was quickly being disorganised for most of the banner bearers the troops relied to lead them were the first to drop and except for a few exceptions they were now leaderless. Realising the dire situation, the Coalition decided to deploy their Elite shock troops – of Florida men and Madlads, which included Ethan (he had inherited his Floridian ancestry from his fathers side which explains a lot of his actions) .

Their orders from high command (a bunch of people who represent their part of the coalition like a weeb with every type of naruto merch imaginable a Karin whos wig is bigger than her head and a mediaeval enthusiast who goes everywhere with a very Well-Made suit of Armour and Will speak every dialect of English from old to Victorian until you understand him with any question you ask to name a few) was to attack the base from the hills in the rear, and Ethan's column began marching towards there objective leaving behind the noise of battle and maintaining a good pace even in the sweltering heat as the sun started to reach high noon then after awhile they stated to approach a rocky hill. However, as they got closer, they just noticed a lack of resistance for many started to speak about how the bases garrison could not have seen and intercept hundreds of enemies moving into the avantages high ground behind them, and their suspicions were confirmed when a random florida man within their ranks popped his head above and cracked “well it seems like none of these moma boys have the guts to face people from the great sunshine state” when his head got shot off. they were suddenly met with a barrage of gunfire from behind the rocks. Ethan's unit was getting ripped to shreds,there was confusion and chaos everywhere with gunfire from multiple directions, the unit assaults were uncoordinated and unfocused and they were about to break and retreat.

But their Captain, Dylan (the virtual personification of the Madlad), rallied them with his sheer force of personality and led them in a charge against the enemy. The fight was fierce, with bullets flying everywhere and people getting gunned down. Ethan watched in the haze of battle as his comrades were killed and the enemy agents and soldiers were slain and gutted by the swords/ automatic desert eagles/ and other makeshift but very deadly weapons of the Florida men and Madlads.

They fought fiercely, motivated by the Leadership of Dylan (who quickly proved himself the strongest fighter out of all of them) and their camaraderie as one of the most elite soldiers of the coalition. Finally, after what felt like hours, they were able to kill or rout all the enemies. With the hills now under there control they started to move there victorious but blooded unit in position to attack behind the base but when they looked down to the battle below they saw the coalition had already launched the second wave of Karines and tin hat conspiracists with support weapons such as makeshift mortars/ rocket charges/ and potato guns that use the potatoes known as grenades as ammo and although they were fewer in number than the first wave they still numbered in the thousands and had same determination as well furthermore initially even though they were receiving heavy fire they were taking relatively light casualties due to their looser formation but then they were getting stuck in the morass of corpses from the first wave most of whom were shot down with too few of them reaching government lines where their superior melee prowess could be put to play with any decisive effect, and when The second wave was at its most vulnerable they started to get picked off at an alarming rate with their ranged weapons return-fire being vastly outstriped by the soldiers and agents.

Then from the base sallied out the reserves of the Garrison and started going towards the hills to retake them in a counter attack. Dylan, seeing the Battle as lost, looked back at his men and ordered them to retreat and almost all did and it was not because they wanted to save themselves but because the sheer conviction in Dylan's voice told them that they needed to survive to tell their descendants one day the Horror that happened here. So even as Ethan was running down the hill to retire from the battle he looked back one last time to see Dylan and a select few Madlads and Floridamen with whom peace was never an option and violence was never the answer it was the solution holding back hundreds soon to be thousands of soldiers and agents.

Ethan's grandchildren listened with wide eyes, their mouths hanging open partly from the terror of the account and partly from it being more amazing than any story from their grandpa's Rustic life. They always knew him to be a Florida man but they never really expected that their gentle and peaceful grandpa had once been a part of such a daring and dangerous Battle.

As Ethan finished his tale he had become silent as he spoke those final words and seemingly was stuck in his own thoughts, until little Aragorn asked him “are you alright grandpa”. Ethan then looked at his family with a twinkle in his eye. He had accepted the fact that he will always be traumatised and always have nightmares, but now he was content with his life in the mountains. The woods and his peaceful cabin that was his home, and so he said to the young one “ol little Aragorn I would have gone through a hundred of those Battles” “really why?” asked Aragorn. Ethan just smiled slowly “well because if I didnt I wouldnt have my You my family” said Ethan calmly but with the same conviction Dylan had once used.

RUSSIAN

Daniel Salazer

3/15/24

There was a remote village in Siberia the type whose name no one cares to remember outside the local populace and it wasn't the only one of its kind with people's only future there was drinking themselves to Death for all the powerful politicians of Russia the ones who can bring these folk out of poverty don't or won't partly because unlike other more important settlements you won't find Villages names like this one on a map and partly because the Politicians know that it will never in there lifetime make more money than they put in. it was here that lived a young Russian boy named Andrei Aleksandr who was scarcely 16 and yet he already had bulging muscles/ a masculine face along with a deep manly voice to boot and could out drink many an experienced alcoholist in a vodka drinking contest (which he had against the various different local inhabitants of the village 18 times already). It seemed in every way shape and form that Andrei was a man except that he still had one more thing to do, a thing every Russian excluding the ones that literally live in palaces (aka every Russian Bureaucrat) had to go through to be considered a Man.

One winter night, as the snow fell softly on the village, Andrei was in his room in a humble set-up with only a bed/ a closed window/ a tub/ and a cabinet like with every person in this small village stored their own personal stock of vodka and with only a single candle for light was where he was conducting a preliminary ceremony ever since the sun sank beneath the horizon. He had undergone the ritual of bathing in vodka several times and while he was still dripping he started swearing an oath to his eternal hatred of the Western world over and over again for hours until the first rays of the sun lit up the snow-covered landscape. Then As he finally deemed himself ready, he went to where he bathed in the lifeblood of every Russian, took a deep breath and then submerged himself into the tub filled with vodka for one last time. He relished The burning sensation for he knew that it would sharpen his senses for what was to come

Once the ceremony was over Andrei stepped outside and took in a deep breath of the cold crisp air with beams of sunlight illuminating his face and his Frigid breath, he knew it was time for the Trial. He then stripped off his shirt and started into the snowy forest, ready to face the challenge that lay ahead for him. he entered and after a few minutes disappeared into the ever-thickening wood, his mother was looking at him through a window of their cot crying of joy and with worry with the father (the Chechnya War Veteran and now vodka brewer) with his big brown beard putting his hand on the poor women's shoulders in order to comfort her for their son will either come back a man or not at all.

He had been trekking through the forest for a few hours now, his feet crunching the thick snow beneath and with every step, he felt himself getting closer to his goal in the forest where there were almost no animals excluding some birds and a squirrel and he knew there was a reason no deer or some thick boar came to this place and when Aleksandr stumbled through a bush in full view of an opening in the woods in which was what he had been looking for – a massive Siberian bear. It was almost as big as an elephant and was scratching its back on a tree that was barely staying rooted. Its rugged brown fur showed scars and marks of past hunters making the mistake of thinking a 20mm ZanderBolt Rifle Shell hitting anywhere except the weakest part of its head would have done anything more than annoy it….that and alert it of their location

Without any hesitation, the young Russian let out a loud cry and charged towards the bear, ready to fight it with just his bare fists. Almost immediately the bear swept him aside, sending him crashing into an ancient tree leaving four deep long streaks across his chest by the Predator's gigantic clawed paw with enough power to shred anything less armoured than a tank and then the vicious bear leaped for the kill but Andrei rolled away just in time and the Bears jaws big enough to swallow a cow whole clamped around the tree trunk and before it could free it self Aleksandr turned around and gave a swing at the Bears flank and with a loud bang produce by the seer power of the punch Andrei felt one of the animals ribs give away with the Beast giving wrathful growl in reply and now encouraged the two undoubtable monstrous Russian Bears went at it.

The bear's attacks were ferocious but the Russian with a quickly vanishing boyhood swiftly dodged the attacks and followed up by giving bone-shattering punches aimed at the beast's various vitals in its chest cavity and its head in return and sometimes Andrei let the bear clamp its jaws around his forearm or chest in order make it vulnerable for attack. It was a battle of strength and will, in which there could only be one clear winner.

Eventually, after a long and gruelling fight that lasted hours (it was really 12 1/2 minutes but try telling that to Aleksandr) the bear and he were circling each other both injured and blooded both still perfectly able to kill each other but this standoff had to end one way or another so when the tiered Russian seem to stager for a second the Bear leapt forward to deliver a death blow but in doing so it made itself vulnerable in a certain way and gave Aleksandr a chance he's been waiting for since the very beginning. Andrei then landed one last powerful punch to the area where the base of the neck met with the skull in the bear's cranium, knocking it down to the ground. As he looked down at the massive corpse of the bear in which the achievement of killing it had been what his entire life had been leading to, a smile then spread across Andrei's face. In a thick Russian accent, he said, “You'll make a good fur hat.”

Despite his injuries, Aleksandr managed to pick up the bear and carry it and make the long way back to his village with some difficulty. As he entered the village it had just reached High Noon, everyone could see the pride and satisfaction in his eyes. He had passed the trial, and he was a boy no longer he was now a man.

The villagers greeted Andrei with cheers and celebrations, congratulating him on his bravery and strength and for their new fully proven comrade. And as he walked through the village, going towards the local tanner with the massive bear on his back, Andrei couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment and fulfilment. He had proven to everyone not only was he just a man but also that he was a true Russian as well, a man of strength/ fearlessness/ and a hatred for anything Western only matched by his love for vodka.

A few weeks later Andrei Aleksandr with his fine new Bear fur hat that the Tanner Pavel had made sure would keep his head warm through any winter had decided to go to his lifelong dream of going off to the wider world. Now Andreis father had obviously had objections to it but they both had long ago settled the matter: the Brewers only son would go out and see the world and maybe one day get a wife and have a very large family with her but when he dies Aleksandr has to come back to manage his inheritance of the family brewery and it will be his home village were he live his last days in and so as Andrei was walking down the only serviceable road in and out the village (and has been since the 1920,s) with a relativity large Bindle that carried his personal belongings (mainly vodka) and after a while with the specks of lights from the occupied buildings of the village in the horizon with the setting sun Aleksandr looked back for one last time and thought that even though he didn't know what he'll see and meet outside his rustic village but he knew that at the very least no one will be able to mess with him unharmed. Then he turned back down the road and went on his way.

KARIN

Daniel Salazer

3/16/24

It was a sunny May morning with people going to and fro from the parking lot in front of a Target whose manager is a man named Devin and he was currently doing the job of a cashier due to the store having a chronic lack of funds due to tight budgeting from his superiors which forced the stores only two other employes to cover the roles of cashiers/ janitors/ and Aile stockers. The reason being the new policies of Biden's economy which ensured that if you didn't have welfare before; you definitely need to now and If you object they'll label you a Republican which in this Liberal city of L.A is synonymous with being called a Racist/fascist/white supremasist/and Transphobic.

Devin had just checked out the final protein jug and with a huff put it in the cart that carried enough bodybuilding products to last a regular person a lifetime and after the customer a massive bodybuilder thanked him he went on his way. He had barely left behind the counter when the next customer came in and is was a karin with her large blond hair and her gucci purse, Devin was surprised for he knew like with all people of california that most karin,s have disappeared after the Rumoured massacre that was the battle of Area 51 but he kept a good face for he remembered in the Era before the Battle the mistake of aggravating a karin. The aloof woman then puts a single Bottle of perfume on the counter to get checked out and Devin was happy to oblige but when he scanned the barcode and looked at the price he slowly turned to her hesitant to speak “well are you going check it out or not’ the karin said with characteristic Sassiness when he didn't speak for a while and after he tells her the price was 140$. The karin suddenly stared at him with her mouth open before saying wrathfully “um Excuse me” Devin then shrank back a little before she continued “what do you mean 140$ this product was 20$ cheaper last week!” Devin then says in a seldom tone “sorry mam it's just Inflations really bad right now” the Karin says with rising anger in her voice “now get me your manager because these outrageous prices has to be a mistake” but Devin releasing to late when he made the mistake of saying “mam i…i am the manager” the karin initially looked in shock for as far as she cares insolence but then it was quickly replaced with anger and her eyes started to glow an white so radiant that it was reminiscent of the Air Jordans that people still fought duels in the streets for and then she started to float and her hair started to flow and flutter like it was falling under water with an aura of blonde energy crackling all around her making the lights flicker along with a bunch of different products floating around her as she showed her ultimate form. Devin at the moment with his so far unremarkable life flashing before eyes Thought that his end was near to be brought about by this…this Super Karin, out of nowhere a voice with undeniable authority then Filled the Target “hold your horses it seems you gone up and took it too far” as Devin/the Super Karin/ and all the people left who didn't leave (recording the encounter with their phones for anything that was posted in social media less interesting than this wouldn't even have people caring to take a quick glance) already looked towards the source of voice and they all saw a man with a full brim hat who after looking up at them revealed to have a perfectly shaped jawline along with a quality hand made Cigar in his mouth. He also had boots with silver spurs on them and a brown buckskin jacket tucked in some rugged blue levi jeans that was held up by a black leather belt and a gold buckle that depicted a cowboy hunting some bison on horseback and along with on his sides in sheath and holster: a 20 inch Bowie Knife and a magnum that was more handcannon than revolver and even though nobody knew they could still feel it deep inside just by looking at him that he was the personification of the western concept of masculinity or at least was before the Woke movement was a thing.

The Super Karin sneered “um who are you” in a distorted but still unmistakably Karin voice and the man said calmly “oh me? well I guess Colt will do” the Super Karin then said with barely contained rage “look here mister you do not want to slight me so tell me why you are here or else” Colt then says with a slight chuckle “just to remind you that your role as a woman does not cover you being the most aggressive person in town. Then after the Super Karin perceived sexism in that response, she then flew at him at a blinding speed but Colt faster than lightning unsheathed the Bowie knife parried it and still he was sent flying through the wall into the parking lot outside with the Super Karin close behind and when Devin just processed what happened he ran through the same hole in wall the Super Karin sent Colt through and when he got outside to see what was going on, he saw the floating Super Karin looking down at Colt in the ruined parking lot with holes everywhere in the asphalt and many cars wrecks in the surrounding buildings and streets. even though they have been out of his sight for scarcely a minute they seemed to have been fighting for hours; then the Super Karin reached out with a glowing hand and sent a nearby car at Colt who just sliced the Honda Accord in half with the Knife and countered with drawing his massive revolver and quickly unloaded it at the Super Karine who flinched with every titanium tipped shell that crashed into her but no sooner than the final bullet hit her, she started sending blasts of blond energy at him in a frenzy and Colt started to run around her in order to dodge them but then she sent a blast ahead of him while she flew behind and so Colt immediately reversed his momentum to avoid getting hit but when he turned around he saw too late the Super Karins fist right in front of his face and when it connected it sent him flying above the clouds with not a single second passing before she flew in hot pursuit.

Devin was shocked at such a move and thought he had seen the last of the Battle when he started to see Ethernal clashes across the sky above the clouds of the Blond yellow of the Super karin smashing against the red energy of Colts sheer masculinity who apparently is able to fight in the sky just fine despite probably not being able to fly for everyone's perspective below it seem like a amalgamation of tens of thousands of heaven shattering firework . Eventually Devin along with the whole city wittinessed a red streak going down from the clouds and a yellow streak going under and back up at the red streak multiple times faster than the speed of sound and when they clashed in a massive explosion that covered the entire landscape in a monochromatic gradient that cleared the sky utterly and then it stopped with everyone below wondering what just happened but when nothing else happen and no clear winner showed themselves Devin found himself walking back to the Target and once inside he started to do what he could to get the store back in operation and at first his mind was occupied with the thoughts of how could he and seemingly everyone else could have so non-chantlantly have shrugged off what just happened but when he was in his bed looking into the leaking roof in his tiny one bedroom one bathroom apartment whos rent is literally more than a castle in europe he then relised in foresight it shouldn't be too surprising for every one saw an encounter like this every month or two albeit at various intensities but the more prevalent reason why people go back to work after bearing witness to such events is that some have mouths to feed and others Air Jordans to gift but all had bills to pay.

KUNG FU

Daniel salazar

3/17/24

The bustling streets of L.A.’s Chinatown in the height of summer was a familiar sight to John. He had been coming to this neighbourhood since he was a young boy and had developed a love for its vibrant culture and for him its very delicious food. His favourite spot was a small restaurant tucked away in a corner alley, “the tasty food restaurant” which is known for its authentic Chinese dishes. As soon as he stepped inside with his brown leather jacket and blue jeans he saw the expected sight of the busy restaurant with waiters going to and fro to customer's tables taking and delivering orders and many acquaintances talking about their everyday lives to each other, the familiar aroma of spices and incense engulfed him, instantly making him feel at home.

John took his usual seat at a corner table, the one with the best view of the street. As he read through the menu, a young Chinese man with traditional blue robes of the finest silks with a dragon weaved in golden thread wrapped around him caught his eye. The man seemed to exude an aura of calm and strength, and just by looking at him, John knew (from hard-earned experience) that he was a martial arts master.

The Chinese man gracefully made his way through the restaurant, heading towards a table on the other side just behind a wall. Then As he disappeared behind the divider, John couldn't help but feel curious. Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by the commotion of three dozen agents in black suits entering the restaurant, creating a circle around the Chinese man's table. John could see half of the circle from his point of view.

John was now very intrigued, and he leaned in to listen as one of the agents spoke to the Chinese man in Mandarin (if you hadn't caught on by now John knows a lot about Chinese culture, especially their language). “Mr. Wong Lee, we need you to come with us. we have some questions for you.” A stern expression adorned the agent's face as he extended his hand towards the Chinese man.

Mr. Wong, meanwhile, simply smiled and shook his head. “I am not sure what you want to ask me, but I am afraid I cannot accompany you. I am currently Preoccupied.” His calm reply surprised John.

The agent's expression turned into a frown. “I'm afraid this is not a matter of choice, Mr. Lee. You will come with us, one way or another,” he retorted, his hand now gripping Mr. Wong Lee’s arm firmly.

Mr. Wong's smile never faltered as he simply replied, “I am sorry, but I cannot allow you to do that.” And with a swift move, he broke free from the agent's grasp and landed a strong punch, sending him flying across the restaurant and into a pile of chairs and plants.

The other agents quickly sprang into action with taser/ baton/ and pistol in hand, surrounding Mr. Wong and attempting to apprehend him. However, Wong’s martial arts skills proved to be a formidable force as he effortlessly dodged their attacks and retaliated with swift and powerful movements.

John watched in awe and shock as chaos ensued behind the wall. Plants and chairs were being flung in all directions and stray bullets were flying everywhere, all the while with the occasional agent getting knocked into other parts of the restaurant not to get up for some time. It was like a scene out of a movie. But amidst all the chaos, Wong Lee evidently remained composed and focused, staying one step ahead of his opponents.

In a matter of minutes, the fight was over, and Mr. Wong emerged decisively victorious. With a calm expression, he walked back towards his own table and sat down like nothing ever happened

John was still trying to process what he had just witnessed when he started towards the table of Mr Lee despite being terrified because he wanted to know the meaning of this incident and although he occasionally saw a match between two Kung fu practitioners for various reasons he just knew that this was far more important than the others and so while stepping over the unconscious body’s of the agents, John finally sat right in front of the Master.

For a while John just sat nervously there, his hands trembling as he fidgeted with a white napkin near him. It took him a while to put forth the courage to actually ask the question. He came to this obviously very skilled Master who was just looking at him observantly, for. Finally, John asked abruptly but as respectfully as he could, “Why were those agents after you?”

Wong gave him a knowing smile before answering, “It's a long story, my friend.”

And so surprisingly without hesitation, Mr. Wong began telling his tale, he had been raised and trained by his Master Baihu in the Báisè bǎolěi Temple that was located on a mountain in China, Baihu took him in after he went to the village one day that was at the foot of the mountain to restock some supplies when he saw the then young Lee who had been abandoned in the local orphanage when he was a baby, getting beat up by a gang of bullies and Baihu decided to intervene and beat up the bullies using all force just short of fatal and when Wong saw Kung fu for the first time in action he immediately decided that he must learn it. When he begged Baihu to take him, the Master decided to pity him and took the child Lee with him up the mountain and from that day on Baihu became his Father in all but name. Wong Lee then said with pride long ago instilled in him that the Temple was famous for its secret of success, a secret that had been passed down for generations. His Master had taught him everything, from martial arts to discipline and determination.

But everything changed when the Chinese authorities caught wind of the Temple's rumoured secret. And they then attacked the Temple, determined to get their hands on it. Despite their skills and their determination to Defend the place that represented everything they held dear, the Temple's Kung Fu Disciples and Masters who led them were outnumbered ten to one by government soldiers.

Baihu, seeing the inevitable defeat, gave his now-star Pupil Wong the secret and told him to escape. The last thing Wong saw of his Master while running down a secret mountain path known only to the Temples Masters, was him joining the rest of the Temple defenders holding off the hordes of Chinese soldiers pouring through an Breach in the Temple's thick Masterfully made pearly white walls that had only been made after a three-hour bombardment of the chinese army's heaviest Artillery pieces, and in the process had almost certainly sacrificed himself for the sake of his disciple.

With tears in his eyes, Wong continued his story. He had been in America for a year now, trying to establish and make a new life for himself. But it wasn't easy. He had trouble adapting with the local populace (he had already got in 13 fights with various peoples and Groups apart of BLM after he made the mistake of saying the Mandarin word for happy in front of them).

Their waiter suddenly interrupted the conversation, asking for their orders (she was aware of the unconscious Agents on the ground but she had to clean up bigger messes before). Wong respectfully ordered Bok Choy Mien, a traditional Chinese dish, while John ordered a Grilled Chicken Steak.

As they waited for their food to arrive, John couldn't help but ask the question that had been nagging at him as he heard The Masters story. “What is the secret of success?”

Wong then looked him in the Eyes and said in a quiet but serious voice “Now why should I tell it to you?” John then responded in a panicked voice “Well uh…I mean… I'm sorry if I offend you and if you want I can leave right now” Wong then chuckled a little before saying “it's okay i'll tell it to you for it will be selfish to withhold it from a kind person such as yourself” he then signalled John to get closer and after he leaned in, Wong whispered, “It's not one thing, my friend. It's a combination of many things. But if I had to choose one, it would be this: never be lazy. Always work hard and never give up.”

John had been trying to make sense of the simplicity of the answer that so many had died fighting for when Their food arrived, they both thanked the waiter in Mandarin and they started consuming their meals with John eating hungrily and Wong eating slowly with a chopstick. As they ate, Wong told John more about his life in America and how he was trying to make a name for himself in this new country trying to establish a new Temple with nigh impregnable fortifications based on the principles of his old one of Discipline/ hard work/ and Kung fu, John, in turn, talked about his prior service as a combat Engineer in the U.S. Army, and now his current life as an Architect with Bills to pay, a girlfriend to spend time with and a leaky sink pipe behind the refrigerator to fix, and such. All the while Wong showed incredible respect listening to John's story even though they both knew his life is by far the more stale of the two.

After they finished their meal they started to exit the restaurant with both of them agreeing to split the bill in which John played his half in dollar bills and Wong with traditional hand-minted Chinese coins, and as they went down the street both started to part ways but John who had took a liking to the Kung fu Master from there brief time together said hesitantly, “Do you live around here?”

Wong Lee looked up at him with a small smile and replied, “Of course. This is Chinatown.”

SERI DAN

Daniel salazar

3/28/24

It was a fine summer day in Ohio, In which was the tranquil embrace of the rural farm of Acole's father Rhett who inherited the Estate from his father, Acole was a diligent young boy with black hair/ blue eyes/ and a light complexion like that of his father, the boy had barely seen five winters, so after waking up and doing his chores and eating a breakfast of pancakes/ eggs/ and bacon with the rest of the family that consisted of his mother whose name was Amilea/ Roselin the baby sister who can barely walk/ and his father who was already in a felt hat and blue overalls along with a chiselled chin that was the reason his wife married him. After the meal, Acole went out to tend to the animals in the barn, with it being his farm chore since last winter. The animals whom Acole fed and watered were of the finest stock with the majestic mares and stallions being known as the fastest in the state, always fetching a very good price when Rhett occasionally takes them to the market and the other animals live long lives and in their prime for almost all of it. This was accomplished by centuries of selective breeding going all the way back to the farm founding in the years preceding the establishment of the United States and since then the family generation after generation has made it their duty to maintain the purest and strongest lineages with only the rare new livestock or two being added for making the gene pool just big enough to prevent inbreeding. As Acole put the finishing touches on Bessie VIII, his father's prized cow for the annual livestock competition tomorrow, he was putting the large Navel blue 1st place ribbon on the old cow's neck from last year's competition when the ground beneath his feet began to shudder and tremble.

An earthquake of immense force struck, its destructive tremors sending shards of plaster cascading from the barn's ageing beams. The animals all started haying/ yelping and panicking at the sudden shaking, Acole stumbled outside, his heart pounding with a mix of terror and confusion. Amidst the chaos, he spotted his father amidst the hayfields, he was running frantically as fast as possible towards the house and then he yelled at Acole without stopping “go to the tool shed i'll meet you there after I go get mom and your sibling”.

With lightning speed, Acole raced towards the shed knowing exactly where it was for it was the one his father always forbade him to go to out of fear he might hurt himself with the shed's many sharp implements, as he ran in with its weather-worn planks creaking with every step and the well-maintained scythes/ hoes/ swords and guns (for the critters) all clamouring from the shaking. Acole then hid behind a cluster of weed-whacking instruments and noticed a narrow gap in the wooden walls, but when he looked through his eyes beheld his father entering the family house and moments later observed the building collapse, followed by the Barn caving in as well with its baying animals being suddenly silenced and all the places that had been his life thus far had been reduced to piles of broken timber and shattered glass.

Before he could fully grasp the magnitude of what just happened, the shed collapsed upon him, its heavy beams pinning him beneath. Darkness enveloped him, suffocating and complete, before he knew it he lost consciousness.

Acole woke up to Faint noises reaching his ears, the scraping of rubble being cleared away. A sliver of light appeared illuminating his small pocket, and so With trembling hands, Acole, not knowing what else to do, reached out and grasped what felt like a hand on the other side.

A moment later, he was pulled free from the wreckage and landed on the ground still trying to process what he experienced. As Acole overcame the initial shock, he looked around and noticed the ruins of his former home, now bathed in the golden hues of dusk.

A deep yet conserved voice from behind startled him. “Come with me, Acole. There is nothing left for you here.”

The words that had pierced him like a dagger came from a man that was clad in brown robes and a hood that clocked his face, he scared the still disoriented boy who couldn't help but notice the man's hand on the pommel of a sword with a black hand guard. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice trembling.

The man knelt before him, and took off the hood revealing the face of a young adult with black pupils, a chin like his father and hair that was between brown and maroon, although he seemed younger than his pa Acole even now felt that this stranger was much older than he looks. “Your family has perished, my boy. You are alone.” said the man with a soothing voice

“N…no you lying you have to be lying”, said Acole refusing to believe what he already deep down knew to be true, but the man with an unwavering gaze simply responded calmly “I have seen many calami… disasters before, there are no survivors” the man then extended his arm out and said gently “take my hand”. Acole hesitated not quite trusting this mysterious person but as he looked back to the ruins of his old life he realised that the man was right, there was nothing left for him here and so Acole took his hand. the pair then started walking towards the woods that surrounded the farm

As they walked, Acole felt an overwhelming sense of loss. The life he had known was gone in an instant, swept away by what he felt was a calamity.

“Who are you?” Acole asked after they had been walking in the woods for some time with the last rays of light about to go with the sunset.

The man then looked down at him and smiled gently before saying. “I am Dan Seri Dan or if you want just Seri Dan for short”. Acole was just thinking about that abnormal name when they came upon a wooden cabin in an opening of the forest with a light in its upper-story window.

At first, Acole simply explored the homely cabin with its kitchen that seemed to have food stocked in every cabinet and the bedrooms that were all neatly folded with the mattresses being filled with soft feathers but soon he decided to go to sleep for it was already late and Seri Dan let him choose a room in which Acole chose the one with the window looking out the front of the cabin. In the morning Seri Dan made Breakfast for them both which consisted of poorly made pancakes and tough jerky that's suitable for a person who goes a long time travelling only worrying about sustaining themselves when they were eating the meal together Acole said “You know I can teach you how to make a good meal” “really”? Responded Seri Dan without looking up from his plate “Yes I'm pretty sure you forgot to add eggs to the pancake batter” Acole said “Well you can tell me tomorrow” Replied Seri Dan with a slight chuckle and so Acole did for days after then for weeks that soon turned into months and before long the seasons started to pass for Acoles new life

In the days that followed that first morning Seri Dan introduced the child to his study which was a big room with many bookshelves filled with texts of every subject and a large oaken desk and a fine chair of cedar in the middle behind which was a window that looked behind the cabin. It was here that He started to impart knowledge to Acole, Books of every kind were available and from the very beginning the kid just wanted to absorb all of their contents, and the cabin's walls echoed with the sound of eager reading along with constant encouragement from the man who was surprised at the rate that the still young boy was grasping concepts. Mathematics, history, and the exploration of distant lands expanded Acole's horizons, but when he was reading about historical figures who had unsavoury reputations, to say the least, Seri Dan would tell him that although these people may not be the best, one should never consider them evil for they are always two sides to a story.

Seri Dan's teaching extended beyond mere academic pursuits. He started educating Acole about magic, teaching him the intricacies of spellcraft and various Magical arts including Dark magic and when Acole questioned him about it he said “How can you know if an art is wrong if you have tried it yourself”, At this point their bound had grown enough for Acole to put his trust in him. Together, they ventured into the woods, walking Beneath the verdant canopy of ancient trees, eventually, they got to a small opening where Seri Dan let Acole use the magics that he was already becoming proficient at. He first raised his hand in the air manifesting an orb of light that lit up the surrounding area then he thrust his arm forward and sent a small stream of fire. “Nice job you already getting better,” said Seri Dan who put his hand on Acoles shoulder “But let me show you what is truly possible” he continued as he put his hand forth and immediately dark energy started crackling around his arm and dark clouds started to form overhead then a massive thunderbolt struck and absolutely incinerated a boulder nearby and it sent rumbles through the ground. Acole looked at him and knew that the magic just used was far beyond what he was able to do now and yet he knew that this man who took him under his wing had barely even tried.

It was like this way for some years until Seri Dan started to hone Acole's physical abilities to extraordinary levels. The training he put him through was tough but it was always enjoyable for it was rewarding seeing his strength grow every time, eventually, he was darting through the dense undergrowth of the forest at nearly the speed of sound with his feet barely skimming the ground as he dodged and manoeuvred around trees and obstacles. He also was able to carry and throw fifteen-ton boulders hundreds of feet away with the distance increasing with each training session.

Then Acole's sixteenth birthday approached. To mark this milestone, Seri Dan after presenting a cake that he made for every birthday before (the cake increased in quality every time Acole critiqued on how to improve Dan Seri Dan,'s baking skills), bestowed upon him an exquisitely crafted sword, its blade gleaming like a silver moonbeam and with an ashy black handguard like Seri Dans own. For the next week, they spard constantly in order to improve his swordsmanship. Seri Dan clad in his utterly Dark Armour and cape that he sometimes wore while he supervised his training, stood as Acole's mentor. The clash of steel echoed through the forest as Acole's skills rapidly progressed using every move and trick that he was taught and had read but Seri Dan was almost effortlessly able to keep up.

As the sun began its final descent, casting ethereal shadows across the woodland and snow began to fall, Acole retired to his bed in the cabin. Exhaustion tugged at his eyelids, but contentment filled his heart. Today had been another day of expanding his limits once more and maybe he would someday match or maybe even pass the man that even though both never admitted was a father to him as he was a son.

In the fading twilight, Acole closed his eyes and drifted into a peaceful slumber for it will be the last one he will have for a very long time.

Suddenly, Acole's slumber was shattered by a voice echoing from the depths of the night. “Dan Seri Dan!” the voice called in an insistent and menacing tone. The name sent a surge of alarm coursing through Acole's veins. He hadn't seen any other person since Seri Dan took him under his wing.

so, Acole slowly rose from his bed and cautiously approached the window. Peering out into the moonlit darkness, his heart skipped a beat. Standing before the cabin, bathed in the eery luminescence, was a figure clad in obsidian-black Armour and if there wasn't a full moon out he wouldn't have seen engraved in the suit itself odd patterns like mist as dark as the night. A sinister aura emanated from the stranger, who also bore a menacing glave upon his back.

Acole's mind raced. What could this ominous visitation portend? With trembling hands, he descended the stairs, his concern growing with each step. As he entered the dimly lit hallway, he found Seri Dan already donning his own eerily familiar Armour, with the dark hues of its almost unreflective surface.

“Seri Dan,” Acole whispered, his voice barely a murmur. “What's happening?”

With a grim expression, Seri Dan put a protective hand on Acole's shoulder. “Go back to your room,” he ordered. “I'll handle this.”

Acole hesitated for a moment, his heart filled with trepidation. He knew that whatever lurked outside was dangerous, but he couldn't bring himself to leave his Father in all but name alone. Finally, he reluctantly retreated to his room, his mind tormented by a thousand unanswered questions.

Moments later, Acole peeked out the window, his breath catching in his throat. There, in the snow-covered clearing, stood Dan Seri Dan facing the cloaked stranger. The tension between them was palpable, like a taut bowstring moments before its release.

“Hokroth,” Seri Dan greeted the newcomer, his voice devoid of emotion. “What brings you here?”

Hokroth chuckled darkly, his voice like gravel grinding against stone. “Oh, you know why, Dan Seri Dan,” he replied. “It's been almost a decade since you embarked on this folly. Vandecelsh is getting impatient for this apprentice you promise to make into a Harbringer of Calamity, and you know what happened last time when Lexcunin let some conservative Hillbilly thwart his attempt to bring ruin to San Francisco.” Seri Dan candidly said “Yes, I know”. Hokroth for a moment stayed silent, then with comprehension one only gets from knowing someone for a long time said, “You haven't told him, did you”?. Seri Dan gave an impassive response “I will tell him once he is ready” Hokroth let out a wave of laughter with his arms crossed before replying “Seri Dan I knew you did some horrible things even for a Harbringer but kidnapping a child right after killing their family to indoctrinate and train them to become a bringer of death and destruction I mean from the moment you suggested the idea to Vandecelsh’s council I knew that was a lot even for you”

Seri Dan said in a forlorn voice “he is still in training” Hokroth then seemed to shake his head before remarking “You want to help him I can see that but you must know withholding the truth will only do harm” and with that, Hokroth turned around and walked away

Acole's mind whirled in confusion. Why had Seri Dan concealed the truth from him?

A fury unlike anything he had ever experienced surged through Acole. He felt like the person he loved had betrayed him, was this the reason why he had raised him to become a monster? With a shout of wrath, he went and packed his belongings in a leather bag he had made himself and then abandoned his room, the sword that had been gifted to him by his mentor barely a week prior in hand.

Dan Seri Dan stood at the front door of the cabin, his eyes filled with sorrow and regret visible even through the dark silts of his helm’s visor. “Acole,” he called, “I meant to tell you when you were ready”

“Why should I listen to you after you lied to me this whole time” yelled Acole with tears forming in his eyes. Seri Dan looked down filled with remorse before looking Acole in the eyes and explained “Originally my goal was to take you and train you to become my disciple so when you were ready you could be instigated as a new Harbinger of calamity and I know what I did was wrong but I,v grown to care for you, I grown to see you as a son”. Acole whose anger was predominating all his thoughts screamed “YOU KILLED MY FAMILY!” and then lunged at Seri Dan, his blade flashing through the air and charged him through the door with less than a second passing before Acoles blade lashed out at the person he cared for so long A fierce fight ensued, the clash of steel on steel echoing through the forest. Acole's skill was formidable with him attacking at nearly the speed of sound, but Seri Dan was simply supersonic and while standing in the snow he effortlessly blocked and parried all of Acoles assaults who although didn't notice with his thoughts clouded by his Ire, Seri Dan could have landed a fatal blow 142 times and counting.

Acole was swinging his sword down at Seri Dan with all his strength but he sidestepped the attack and before Acole could recover, kneed him in the gut with such power that it sent him flying across the clearing but as soon as Acole stopped he stood up ignoring his pain and thrust his left hand forward and shot a beam of flame with plasmic intensity fueled by all his rage/ anger/ and pain that instantly evaporated the snow in the clearing melted the surrounding ground into magma and burned all trees around into ash but Seri Dan was forcing his way to Acole with the beam not even reddening his Jet Black Armour. When he was right above Acole, Seri Dan raised his hand above him and dark energy started surging through his arm, black clouds started forming above and when Seri Dan thrust down his fist a column of lighting struck Acole flinging red hot earth and glowing magma whilst creating a crater 50 feet wide and 10 feet deep.

Slowly, Dan Seri Dan approached his fallen pupil and put his foot on his chest, he then gradually raised his sword to land the death blow. Acole braced himself, his eyes closed in resignation.

Dan Seri Dan had his sword poised for a finishing thrust to the neck but he found himself unable to, he had done abhorrent things in the past all without remorse, Seri Dan had always prided himself as one of the more powerful of the Harbingers and when he unleashed that earthquake that claimed Acoles family, he indeed wanted him to become his apprentice but when he looked at the face of the boy whom he fostered for years Seri Dan realised that he loved him to much. He lowered his weapon, and with a voice filled with emotions he hadn't felt since Vandecelsh recruited him when he was young some 200 years ago. “I'm sorry, Acole,” he whispered. “I never wanted things to end this way.”

With that, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the darkness. Acole was left alone in the crater, his body aching, his heart shattered. Then, tears started streaming down his cheeks.

As the first rays of dawn pierced through the canopy, Acole was curled up in a ball sobbing. He had lost the last person he loved, the only family he had left, and only after the birds had left their nightly abodes and started singing did Acole stand up leaning on the sword with its still unblemished blade. He began to walk away from the clearing for twice his home had been destroyed and twice his life had been destroyed along with it. So as Acole started towards the nearest town that he faintly remembered his original Father Rhett told him was at, somewhere southeast, he could only think, he may forgive Seri Dan for what he did one day but he will never stop until he had his revenge against the Harbingers of Calamity that had caused not only him but countless others suffering. “I will kill this Vandecelsh who leads these monsters in their abominable Crimes” was the last thought Acole had as he entered the forest that surrounded his home one last time.

HORROR STORY

Daniel Salazer

3/18/24

It was a dark and chilly summer night at Lake Facet with the nightly noise of the wildlife nearby. It was perfect by Dawson’s standard who with a group of friends gathered around a campfire treating themselves to some smores after a long day of hiking in the forest that surrounded the lake, and were enjoying the warmth of the flame while admiring the mesmerizing view of the pristine lake. After a while, Dawson always the most daring of the group decided to start telling a story about his exploits in the Battle of Area 51 for he was the only one out of them all who could say they had served in the internet’s Coalition Army and survive to tell the tale (that was only because on the Day of the Battle he had overslept in his tent at the Coalitions Army camp near the base and while all the others gathered up in formation and launched the attack at the sound of the war horn, so when he finally went out yawning it was already the late stages of the Battle after the first and second waves of the coalition had been cut down and no word came of the florida men and Madlad Shock Troops sent to attack the rear, with the base sending out their reserves to raid the coalitions camp defended only by the few Formations the high command held in reserve, Dawson seeing the dire situation quickly fled away from the feld of Battle but since none of the Friends had yet met any other surviver of the Battle they just had to take Dawsons accounts for granted). He started to describe how he led the charge against the bases defences and how he slayed hundreds of Soldiers and Government Agents with his sword with him finally being the last to retreat when he realised the rest of the allied army had been gunned down.

As they sat by the campfire, Dawson’s friend, Mark who is always in competition with him, suddenly started to tell a spooky story. It was about a notorious murderer named Vason Jordgese, who was known to roam around the lake, hunting and killing innocent people. Everyone knew about Vason, who treated him like an urban legend up to this point.

According to Mark who was lighting his face from below with a flashlight, the latest Murder had happened just two days ago, a mile North away from where they were in the forest of Lake Facet. Dawson’s heart raced as Mark continued to tell the spine-chilling details of the murder with its messy nature of the killing with the Murderer seeming to hit everything except the vitals of the victim. He couldn't believe that such a horrific event had taken place so close to where they were now.

Mark's head would have been Cleaved in half by the Machate of the figure that was Vason Jordgese who wore a black makeshift muscle suit (it was a trash bag) that just made him look obese with a white hockey mask with a blue streak across the left side but when the Murderer had his weapon held above poised to strike Mark who was still distracted telling the story to notice him, suddenly tripped and landed on his face

The group, seeing who it was all screamed and ran for their lives following Dawson who they thought was leading them but in reality was just the first to flee. They all ran deep into the woods, their hearts pounding with fear and adrenaline with Vasons heavy footsteps and panting steadily lagging further and further Behind.

Eventually, Dawson and by proxy, the rest of the friends stumbled upon an abandoned house. It was old and decrepit, with broken windows and a door barely hanging on its hinges. But it seemed like their only option for shelter. Dawson was the first to enter seemingly without hesitation, the Group then all rushed right behind because to them it seemed he already knew a hiding spot and was taking them to it, and for Dawson, he didn't think before entering the run-down building he just hoped that Vason wouldn't follow him.

As they made their way through a dimly lit hallway with plaster peeling from its walls, the front door suddenly collapsed, blocking their escape route. They still didn't stop for a second, for they all had made up their mind that Vason was just behind them (he was more than half a mile behind), lurking somewhere in the darkness or in a corner of their eyes.

The group quickly followed Dawson as he made his way up the dilapidated stairs, trying to find a safe place to hide. They eventually came to a bedroom on the second floor. It seemed relatively safe, and they all huddled together, trying to calm their nerves. They thought they were safe, at least for the time being. “What was that?” said Nash who was Breathing Hard “That had to Vason Jordgese who after us” commended Mark who was still sorting things out himself. “This can't be happening!” screamed Venesa who was having a panic attack and had a few of the females of the group trying to calm her down.

It had been about five minutes of the group trying to process what they had experienced when They heard Heavy footfalls and rustling from downstairs. Vason had somehow found an alternate entrance and was now in the house with them. They could feel their hearts beating out of their chests as they listened to his hurried stomping and stumbling getting farther and farther from their hiding spot.

They all then huddled together in the middle of the bedroom, the Group then started discussing what to do. They were all panicking and throwing out various ideas on how to escape from the killer. Some suggested breaking a window and climbing out, while others thought of trying to sneak out instead, they argued for who they all believed to be the best plan and did do so for a few minutes with Jordgese only getting marginally closer to their location all the while none of them got close to making a decision, Mark, in a fit of frustration, went away from the huddle and while looking away, stomped on a random part of the floor.

To everyone's surprise, the plank broke and revealed a secret cache of guns and weapons hidden underneath, many with cobwebs but all undoubtedly still working (the house used to belong to the full-blooded Republican Leroy III a descendent of the still living Jenkins who died fighting off 2 of the 3 Great beasts that were the Hamsters that a Harbriger of Calamity clad in his atramentous, Starless Armour tried to unleash on the unsuspecting city of san Francisco and after the Harbinger releasing his defeat fled and the Leroy unknowingly threw the Third hamster hundreds of miles away to a small towns park full of unsuspecting people few of which survived the ensuing massacre, he then succumbed from his wounds and as he died he did so knowing that he had brought the name Jenkins honour by saving a city full of people despite most of them being democrats whom he despised and so passed another man of the Legendary line of Leroy Jenkins.) The group was stunned and didn't know what to do with this discovery. Some commented on different ways on how to use them to escape Vason Jordgese.

Then Venesa who by now recovered from her panic attack suggested using the guns as a distraction to lure the murderer away while the rest of them split up and looked for an exit. This way she reasoned, at least one person would have a chance of escaping and getting help. However, they needed to decide who would be the decoy.

Dawson, already feeling jealous of the praise Mark was getting from the group for finding the cache, volunteered to be the decoy. the friends then all agreed instantly for they never doubted Dawson's perceived Bravery, After equipping him with the Weapons, they thanked Dawson one by one who was already having regrets as he slowly walked out the door with the many rifles pistols and machine guns clacking and clattering on each other and after he started running and yelling at a random direction, the rest of the friends dispersed in accordance with the plan.

Dawson moved through the house, firing the guns one by one in different rooms to create as much sound as possible. His heart was racing as he ran through the dark and eerie rooms, hoping that to him his almost certain sacrifice won't be in vain. And then, without releasing it he sprinted out the back door of the house. He was still going full speed cycling one gun after another shooting their clips into the night sky only slowing down to activate and throw a grenade, all the while Dawson was screaming at the top of his lungs, after some time he finally spent all the guns and he was catching his breath, winded. As he turned around with the house barely visible at this distance through the thick woods, he realised that he was the one who had chanced upon the exit, and his friends were still almost certainly lost in the maze of rooms and dark hallways.

Dawson thought about going back but he decided to run away instead all the while he heard the occasional screams of his friends coming from the house as Vason Jordgese caught them one accidental encounter at a time.

While Dawson ran from the house he told himself that he did it to go get help and the rest of the group would probably have thought that too, which he most likely would as soon as he got the chance but deep down Dawson knew the reason why he fled, it was because Marks story was too spooky. He had made out Vason as a buff killer who could run faster than a car/ seemingly teleport whenever he likes/ is able to track you down across a continent/ strong enough to cleave anybody in half who doesn't have the very best Armours/ and is essentially a walking regenerating tank. That's why they all ran the way they did and None of them knew whether it was true or not but for Dawson he wasn't about to confirm any of Mark's suggestions by Facing Vason Jordgese himself.

A TRAIN RIDE

Daniel salazar

4/1/24

One fine 2024 morning In the bustling city of New York, there was a man named Kenneth who along with many other people started to fill a fully booked train that was to (according to the adverts) embark on an extraordinary journey from New York State to the distant West Coast and it was no surprise that Kenneth’s heart pulsed with anticipation as he boarded the Grand train itself, The Zephyr Encounter with its sleek silhouette, adorned with intricate golden filigree, that exuded an air of grandeur. Its gleaming exterior reflected the morning sun's rays, casting a warm glow upon the surrounding area. Each carriage was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, boasting oak wood panelling, plush velvet upholstery, and crystal chandeliers that sparkled like celestial bodies. It was this masterwork of a locomotive that would transport him to a mediaeval festival that he had been aching to go ever since the 2019 one was cancelled due to most of the mediaeval enthusiasts being slain in the battle of Area 51 but recently their numbers have been rebounding especially when the few survivors of the battle reported how effective their very well made suits of plate Armour were with them being some of the last to fall only after the soldiers and agents concentrated all their fire on them when most others had been shot down.

When Kenneth sat down on his luxury seat and put his suitcase underneath he admired all the intricate ornaments of the carriage and even though he proudly wore his expertly crafted gleaming sword in its leather sheath that he had paid the smith extra for ornaments of its own. He still felt like a beggar living in a luxury castle hotel.

As the train pulled away from the station, Kenneth's gaze was captured by a peculiar figure who was passing by and immediately he and all the other passengers knew that this was Adle Waldmen, the enigmatic owner of the railway, walking with regal authority, adorned in an opulent black suit reminiscent of some 1800s gentleman. A monocle was perched on his right eye, and a stylish bowler hat crowned his head, and in his hand, he carried a finely crafted oakwood cane. He was undoubtedly going to his luxurious private carriage at the rear of the train (which is saying something considering that the economy car in the Zephyr is better than most other trains' first class.)

After surrendering his golden ticket to the conductor, like all the other passengers, that cost him a whole month's pay, for the two days before the fare to Adle’s train was sold out, it was the most sought-after and most fought-over item in America just after Air Jordans, Kenneth settled into his seat. As the train rolled through the countryside, offering breathtaking views of rolling hills and crystal-clear lakes, the track's path was meticulously set/ chosen/ and preserved by Waldmen for the very best trip experience (more than one village was removed and covered up with some underhand trading to improve the scenery in some places). Kenneth's anticipation grew with each passing moment.

As midday approached, Kenneth was studying his sword-fighting manual to review some techniques that although he got down pretty well, wanted to perfect for he would be participating in the sword duelling tournament at the festival, when the train's servants distributed the passenger's meals. To his astonishment, his own supposedly gourmet platter was not what he expected, it consisted of nothing more than a single slice of orange, adorned with a solitary leaf. A wave of indignation washed over him. He felt cheated and deceived.

Unable to contain his outrage, Kenneth stormed through the train carriages with the other passengers being startled as he marched past, his anger visible on his face. Finally, he reached Adle Waldmen's private sanctuary and barged in unceremoniously through the oakwood door with its golden trimmings and shiny lacquer finish. The room wasn't too dissimilar from a 1850s professor's study and sitting on a couch the railway magnate was indulging in a glass of an Old Overholt fine-aged scotch whiskey.

“What is the meaning of this meagre fare?” Kenneth demanded, his voice trembling with anger.

Adle Waldmen looked up, his monocle glinting in amusement. “My dear sir, the meal is quite fancy not to mention exquisite,” he drawled in his pompous aristocratic voice.

“Exquisite?” Kenneth scoffed. “If you consider this snack to be a meal then I demand a refund”

“I'm afraid I can't provide you with a refund,'” Waldmen replied smoothly. “Your fare was purchased in advance and is non-refundable.”

Kenneth's frustration boiled over. “You little!” he exclaimed, drawing his sword from its sheath.

Adle Waldmen's countenance changed. He stood up and a high-class smug spread across his face burnside to burnside, he then extended his oakwood cane and With a flick of his wrist, the handle parted, revealing a herthiro hidden gleaming blade concealed within.

The carriage suddenly lurched forward, and the two engaged in a furious melee. The clang of steel on steel echoed through the opulent space as Kenneth's sword clashed against Waldmen's razor-sharp blade. The carriage, once a realm of some learned Victorian noble, was now transformed into a chaotic mess like a battle just happened within its walls. Objects flew from shelves, curtains were torn, and fine china shattered beneath the weight of the relentless and ferocious duel.

With each exchange, the rage in Kenneth's eyes intensified. his muscular frame bringing forth powerful strikes. he was skilled from his regular swordsmanship practice but Waldmen, with his agile movements and cunning strategy, whose form and technique were evidently superior countered every move, his monocle reflecting the cold calculation of a master swordsman made with plenty of funds for the finest tutor’s money can buy and a man who has way too much time on his hands.

As the vicious fight escalated, Waldmen seized an opportunity and broke away from Kenneth who was getting close to cornering him and ran from the carriage, dashing through the train's open corridors. Kenneth, with his anger fueled by the escape and lack of the refund, pursued with unrelenting determination, his heavy boots pounding against the plush carpeting. Passengers and servants alike scurried out of their way, their faces etched with a mixture of awe and fear.

Through the crowded dining car, where conversations abruptly ceased, Waldmen deftly vaulted over a table, sending champagne flutes shattering to the floor. Kenneth, his sword cleaving through the piece of furniture with no regard for the property of the man he was hating more and more with each passing second, followed in close pursuit, narrowly avoiding barreling through a group of bewildered diners who were going to their familiars on the other side of the carriage.

Continuing their reckless chase, they tore through the observation lounge, where expansive windows offered a breathtaking panorama of the passing landscape. Kenneth, his sword glinting in the sunlight, lunged at Waldman, who nimbly dodged the attack and went through the space in between the observation car and the next and climbed a ladder on the side that led to the train's roof.

With the wind whipping past the fast-moving train, Waldmen traversed the final few carriages, his cane sword at the ready. Kenneth, summoning his last reserves of strength, climbed onto the roof as well, his heart pounding with a fierce and utter resolve to end this pursuit once and for all and to get that refund.

For a final time, they clashed upon the roof, their swords screeching against each other with one using mediaeval sword duelling skill and the other using speed and agility. Then in a moment of overconfidence, Kenneth thought Waldmen who seemed momentarily off balance, had his guard down, then when the final carriage they were on lurched forward, he thrust his sword towards Adle’s heart who then lunged to the side and swiftly tripped Kenneth, sending him crashing to the highly detailed black metal surface. As Kenneth struggled to rise, Waldmen seized the advantage and raised his cane sword, poised to deliver a fatal blow.

“It seems I will do the world well when I put down a ruffian like you,” drawled Waldmen in his high-class, almost Victorian voice.

But As Waldmen uttered those words, a tunnel loomed ahead, its entrance low enough to graze the top of the train. Waldmen had no time to react as the roof of the carriage nearly scraped against the tunnel, and violently knocked him off, with not even enough time for a scream.

The train eventually emerged from the tunnel, its passage shrouded in darkness. As the light returned, Kenneth slowly pushed himself to his feet, his body aching and his mind reeling from the harrowing experience. He glanced at the edge of the roof, where his sword lay discarded when he fell, and then after a few attempts he was able to stand up and make his way to his sword, bend down, pick it up and with some effort put it back in its sheath. Kenneth, after taking one last breath of the pristine air of the landscape the Zephyr was passing, turned and started to make his way back to his seat.

Kenneth knew that he would probably never get that refund now but he can be as sure as the sun rising that he will get to the festival in time for that tournament.

SECRET TECHNIQUE

Daniel Salazar

4/4/24

Amidst one fine April morning in the alleyways of downtown Los Angeles, Bernly, a person barely old enough to be considered an adult was navigating the maze of buildings that had been neglected by the city's Democratic officials for years with cautious strides. In the palm of his hand, he clutched a faded piece of parchment with its surface adorned with an intricate dragon symbol. The paper had been given to him by one of his friends, Asher just after his 18th birthday a few weeks back who told him this place was better than the UFC and proceeded to tell him the directions. At the time Bernly who although was a fervent UFC fan who never missed a fight, didn't understand what he had ment at the time but as he looked at that piece of paper on his drawer every night he started to get more and more curious until today he decided he must know

So As he approached a dilapidated doorway with a large man guarding the entrance, his gaze fell upon the same emblem etched above its archway. A surge of anticipation coursed through him as he slipped the note into his pocket and went forward. “Hold” said the guard in a deep voice, Brenly did so just now noticing a large scar across his left eye “um i heard that there is arena down there” said Bernly with as much confidence as he could. The guard just chuckled as he motioned to the entrance “yah, it leads to the pits but why should I let you?” Bernly was caught off Guard he didn't seriously think he'd be barred “I was able to find my way here” answered Bernly with some hesitation, the guard just shook his head before saying “well I can't just let anybody who wonders here in”.

Bernly panicked, trying to think of a solution before going for the tried and true method that had been used almost as long as Civilization has existed “will this convince you?” Bernly said as he took out a wad of cash from his pocket, the guard took the money flipping through it before taking a step aside and responding like he was an old friend “well that's all you had to say!”. Barnly then cautiously stepped inside. A narrow, winding staircase spiralled downward into the darkness below, leading to what Asher had insisted everyone had been going to see.

Upon reaching the bottom, Brenly was met with a deafening chorus of cheers and the pungent scent of adrenaline. An underground arena far larger than any UFC ring he had seen with floodlights on the roof sprawled before him, filled with a raucous crowd of spectators. In the centre of the ring, two formidable warriors stood poised for battle.

One was undoubtedly a seasoned karate practitioner clad in a white dogi with a black belt around his waist and just by looking at his stance he could tell was different than kung fu’s but doubtlessly shared the same doctrine of lightning-fast reflexes and unwavering technique, even from where Bernly was standing he could see it was none other than Ghisou Ijku, the same one who won the karate championship in California a few years back. His opponent, however, was a colossal man, his muscles bulging beneath his skin like granite boulders. He towered over his adversary, his sheer size seeming to mock the concept of fair play.

As the fight commenced, Ghisou unleashed a barrage of precise strikes, but the giant took all of them smiling. With each passing moment, it became clear that the power imbalance was insurmountable. The giant effortlessly toyed with his opponent, Ijku's blows were shrugged off with ease like bullets bouncing off heavy armour.

Finally, with a single devastating punch which at this point seemed more like a mercy, the giant sent the karate practitioner slamming into the ground making a crater big enough for it not to be foolish to think that he had ceased living. The crowd erupted in thunderous applause as the announcer posted on a ledge overlooking the entire area proclaimed, “The unstoppable force, Colossus, has won yet again!”

Arrogance seeped from Colossus's voice as he taunted his vanquished opponent, “Come on, give me the next one. I will annihilate them.”

Already knowing the routine the announcer's booming voice then filled the arena even as the once fearsome Karate champion was carried out of the fight pit by some blue uniformed staff, “The next competitor is a mysterious warrior of the name” The announcer then squinted at a piece of paper in his hand before continuing “Kushno!.”

A hush fell over the crowd as the entrance tunnel opened and a lone figure emerged. Kushno, shirtless and radiating an aura of calm intensity, his long black hair almost seeming to float while the characteristics of face betrayed his Indian ancestry, walked into the ring with a measured stride. With a Well-built Frame made with years of gruelling training.

As the two made their way to one another and started facing off, a sense of anticipation hung heavy in the air. The giant taunted the smaller man before lunging at him with his massive fists without warning

For a man as big as himself Colossus did a surprising amount of feints, with each one carrying the potential to shatter bone and sinew almost certainly trying to test his new competition’s metal. To Bernly's astonishment, however, Kushno never flinched once even when Colossus threw his fist within inches from his face and when Colossus occasionally put a real punch in mist of his feints Kushno already seemed to know the intention behind it, effortlessly dodging around his blows with an agility that was far beyond the Karate practitioner before him. the movements were fluid and elusive and portrayed someone with total control

For a time, Colossus swung blow after blow against the empty air that his opponent had been a moment before. then, Kushno who hadn't attacked once throughout the fight. swiftly evaded past one of Colossus's monstrous punches and returned a counter strike to the face with such force that it sent his opponent reeling dozens of feet back.

A collective gasp swept through the crowd as Colossus struggled to his feet. A flicker of arrogance still lingered in his eyes as he addressed Kushno, “It seems you are stronger than I thought. No matter. I will destroy you with my true power.”

With a guttural roar, Colossus engulfed himself in blazing flames, his body radiating an oppressive heat so hot that Barnly who was near the very back of the crowd felt like he was standing right next to a bonfire. Colossus then stalked towards Kushno, his flaming feet turning the ground beneath them into slag with each and every step “congratulations, you made me use my ultimate Technique” said Colossus with a voice that reflected the flame engulfing him before continuing “the only other person that made resort to this was when I was hired by a mafia boss to kill some poor Indian dudes son as punishment for not paying back a loan but I must admit before I incinerated him with my plasmic punch, he convinced me that martial art skills aren't just for frauds who call themselves, “Masters” hell I was so impressed by his prowess I actually decided to spare his child I was suppose to sent with him to the afterlife”, some long ago pent up rage and anger seemed to surface on Kushno's hitherto calm face before regaining his composure. Colossus then grinned as he stood over Kushno “and now I will give you the privilege to die knowing you did what many others couldn't, making me try” the virtual personification of bruiser gloted for the final time. he then raised his burning fists poised to inflict a strike so powerful that the aura around him alone informed the entire audience that it would destroy much more than just the area.

But in the face of this fiery onslaught, Kushno remained almost impossibly unresponsive. Then Without uttering a word or betraying a hint of emotion, he raised his arm and extended his hand. As his fingers curled into a specific position, a profound silence descended upon the arena. To Bernly's and the crowd's incredulous disbelief, Colossus's flames extinguished, and he sank to his knees, his arrogance shattered.

“Please,” he begged, his voice trembling, “not the Kuchiku-kan Technique! I beg for mercy.”

But Kushno's response was swift and merciless. With uncanny precision, he unleashed the Kuchiku-kan Technique, his hand striking Colossus with a force that seemed to shatter the very air. In an instant, Colossus's body was erased from existence, leaving behind only a faint trail of blood on the arena floor.

After a few moments of absolute silence, A deafening roar erupted from the crowd as Kushno emerged victorious, his power uncontested. Then As he disappeared into the shadows from where he entered, the announcer's voice echoed through the arena, proclaiming Kushno the undisputed champion.

Bernly found himself being propelled back up the stairs towards the exit, carried by the surging crowd who had decidedly seen more of their fair share of adrenaline-inducing fights. He then emerged from the alleyway amisted the crumbling building in which he came, his mind reeling from what he had witnessed. The fight had transcended the realm of mortal combat that was UFC and showed what was possible no doubt from having no purpose but to strive and become more powerful.

As Bernly made his solitary journey home, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to that man than met the eye. His ability to wield that Technique with such precision and devastation suggested an unimaginable level of skill and control. Bernly had pretty much an encyclopaedic knowledge of all UFC move/ fighting styles/ techniques/ and strategies but the Kuchiku-kan Technique he had only heard in the most serious inner circles of the fighting world, the mere mention can make even the most jovial conversations into forlorn ones with anyone that has even the slighted knowledge of fights for though almost no one knew what it was, the Technique was synonyms with Death.

So as Bernly finally made it to his car that he had parked on a curb of the street, he couldn't help but think that Kushno was much more powerful than he had thought.

ICE CREAM

Daniel Salazar

7/8/24

It was one scorchin' summer day, James, a pro surfer, was strollin' through an alley in Venice Long Beach. He was runnin' late for a sesh with his buds, who were probably shreddin' gnarly waves while he was lost in the city, all 'cause his alarm clock decided to flake out. His footsteps echoed off the grimy walls as he weaved through the maze of brick buildings, kickin' himself for how easily he could've avoided this mess. Then, outta nowhere, a gruff voice cut through the silence.

"Psst... here, amigo," a raspy voice called out. "I got something' special."

James stopped dead in his tracks, heart thumpin' hard. From the shadows of a busted-up doorway emerged a shady figure in a tattered brown coat. It was Bootleg Pete, notorious in Long Beach's underground for his shady deals, and known to James ‘cause he sold him his Navy blue surfboard at a steal.

"What's the deal, Pete?" James asked, keepin' his guard up.

Bootleg Pete chuckled, a wicked gleam in his eye. "Oh, a variety of wares, dear boy. But today, I offer you something truly extraordinary - mystery ice-cream.”

James squinted. "My dude, did you say mystery ice-cream?"

"Aye, a confection of a recipe of my own make that will tantalise your taste buds and transport you to realms unknown,” Bootleg Pete declared with a flourish. “But be warned, it's not for the faint of heart.”

Knowing that if he refuses Bootleg Pete will probably break into his house and try to sell it to him there , James then reached for his wallet with a sigh before saying “all, right I'll bite.”

Bootleg Pete's grin widened as he pocketed the cash and pulled out a fancy little box from under his coat. “Enjoy it my friend, I made this batch fresh.”

With shaky hands, James cracked open the box, findin' a wooden spoon waitin'. He scooped up a hefty bite of the mystery treat. As the cold sweetness melted on his tongue, a surge of energy shot through his veins.

Suddenly, the alley started morphin', and James felt weightless. The walls melted away, replaced by swirls of colour and some far-out tunes. Ideas that always felt fuzzy became crystal clear, as if a veil had been lifted from his mind.

He saw the interconnectedness of all things, the beauty in chaos, and the infinite possibilities that lay within each moment. Tears of joy streamed down his face as he understood the true nature of existence.

With each bite, the transcendent experience intensified. James felt himself floating upwards, his body becoming as light as a feather. The walls of the alleyway receded, revealing a vast and awe-inspiring cosmos.

“is…is this real!”James exclaimed.

“Oh,this is real alright,” Bootleg Pete's voice echoed from below. “ to be honest I didn't think you would have survived but now I Am certain that my recipe was a success!.”

As the cosmic vista unfolded before him, James realised that life would never be the same. Empowered by the wisdom he had gained, he soared into the sky no longer caring for the Airplane he almost crashed into but doubtlessly would have came out unscathed and into the boundless void that is space looking for even further enlightenment if such thing is possible, forever transformed by the mystery ice-cream of Bootleg Pete he got at Long Beach.

ASTRONAUTICAL AFFAIRS

Daniel Salazar

7/9/24

It was a fine day in 2028, the sun casting a gentle glow over the vast expanse of a green field in Oxfordshire, England. Amidst the swaying grass lay a man clad in a sleek blue suit of astronautical power armour. As he stirred and slowly rose to his feet, the helmeted visage of Sergeant John Ramirez surveyed the scene around him—a crashed spaceship smouldered in the distance, its once gleaming hull now scarred by battle. Memories flooded back, each one a vivid and painful reminder of recent events.

Ramirez had served as a seasoned veteran in the 12th Colonial Marines Regiment, stationed at Fort Colonel O'Rian on Mars. In the days leading up to that fateful morning, life had been a blend of routine patrols across the Pelleron Province, rigorous drills manoeuvring the formidable Mark 5 Vanguard-class heavy mechs, and the tight-knit camaraderie shared among the finest unit stationed on the red planet.

But everything changed abruptly during a routine breakfast in the mess room, the tranquil atmosphere shattered by a chilling broadcast on the TV above. The screen flickered to life, displaying two figures clad in ominous purple armour, plasma rifles gripped firmly in their hands. The ornate T regalia emblazoned on their equipment marked them unmistakably as members of Tesla's infamous private army—a force long rumoured to have ambitions beyond merely protecting their corporate interests on Mars ever since Elon Musk himself came to mars after moving most of his business assets to the still mostly red planet.

"The Governatorial Palace has fallen! Our sovereign decrees the expulsion of all foreign influence from our planet. Long live Emperor Elon Musk!" The proclamation echoed with an air of finality, it sent shockwaves through the fort,then out of nowhere tremors reverberated through every corridor and bunker. Outside, the air crackled with urgency as thunderous artillery pounded the ground, accompanied by the sharp hiss of laser fire slicing through the Martian atmosphere. The evidently newly formed Imperial Martian Army, with their electrical mechs freshly forged in Tesla foundries, advanced relentlessly under the blood-red Martian sky, their purple gleaming armour reflecting the fury of their onslaught.

Ramirez sprang into action with the reflexes of a seasoned soldier, his voice cutting through the chaos as he rallied his comrades to their battle stations. Men and women scrambled with gritted teeth and determined faces—some manned the fortress guns and fortifications, defiantly returning fire against the mechanised invaders despite knowing they were prime targets. Others raced through the echoing hangars, hastily boarding fighters and ships, hastily Doning on their Astronautical power Armours and vanguard mechs.

Led by the resolute Captain Harris with his signature sword in its sheath by his side, Ramirez and his fellow pilots thundered into the sky, their vessels roaring with the combined urgency of survival and defiance. The mission was starkly clear amidst the chaos: escape Mars and reach the precious hyperspace ring in orbit, (a technology acquired by the US military through a deal with Bootleg Pete, at a definitely not inconsiderable price).

As they ascended, the landscape below blurred into a canvas of chaos and destruction. The horizon burned with the glow of fires and the trails of falling debris, marking the battleground they were leaving behind. Each passing moment carried the weight of their mission, the desperation to break free from the revolution whose vast scale was becoming even more clear with every mile climbed into the Martian sky.

In the cockpit of his fighter, Ramirez gripped the controls with fierce determination, his mind focused on the looming danger ahead. Captain Harris’s voice crackled over the comm, steady and resolute amidst the tumultuous backdrop of battle. Together, they forged onward, with a few other vessels from nearby bases following them hoping to escape with the rest.

But as they breached the atmosphere, hope collided with despair. The once-safe route to Earth had become a nightmarish warzone. The hyperspace ring's garrison was now heavily besieged by the Imperial Martian Navy. Questions raced through Ramirez's and doubtlessly every other person's mind—how had the enemy amassed such forces so quickly and without detection beforehand? The disbelief mingled with the urgency of their situation, as enemy fighters and warships swarmed like angry hornets, their lethal intent cutting down allied ships attempting to flee the system one by one.

"We have to reach that ring!" Captain Harris's voice crackled over the comm, a beacon of unwavering determination amidst the chaos. Ramirez tightened his grip on the controls, his knuckles white with tension. With every evasive manoeuvre, his heart sank as he witnessed friendly vessels vainly trying to fight back with their guns as they succumbed to enemy fire, some piloted by faces he knew, their sacrifices etched into his soul.

Just as they neared the battered hyperspace ring, tragedy struck with devastating precision. Ramirez's fighter shuddered violently as a direct hit crippled one of its engines, alarms blaring and smoke filling the cockpit. Through blurred vision, he saw Captain Harris break formation, his ship hurtling towards an entire squadron of enemy fighters.

"No, Captain, don't!" Ramirez's voice cracked with desperation, but his pleas were swallowed by the din of battle, the comm channel filled only with the chaotic roar of conflict.

Then. Summoning every ounce of strength and resolve not wanting Harris' almost certain sacrifice to be in vain, Ramirez manoeuvred his damaged fighter toward the flickering gateway of the hyperspace ring as the last few damaged ships started to enter. The transition was a disorienting whirlwind of colours and sensations, wrenching him from the brutal ballad of death and destruction in Martian space. As consciousness ebbed, he clung to the memory of Captain Harris— a man who was always rumoured to be a Madlad but only now did he knew how true that was.

As he walked through the plain all he thought was how he was going to avenge his fallen comrades.

DETECTIVE

Daniel Salazar

7/4/24

It was night in Beverly Hills and the street was bustling with activity covered with police officers going left and right on the well-kept lawn in front of the large white two-story house. Neon flashlights pierced through the darkness as they were setting up perimeters/ taking out equipment/ and overall preparing the Murder scene to be investigated by the Detective. The crime was reported sometime before midnight when a loud scream echoed through the night.

The police came only half an hour later for it is rare for a theft of someone's flowers to go unnoticed in a neighbourhood like this and a murder will have its entire police force on it, like tonight. When the local Investigators first came in the opulent living room they were greeted by the macabre sight of the house's owner in the spotless marble floor lying in the middle with his body contorted in many unnatural angles with deep bruises that marred all of his body consistent with a brutal beating, undoubtedly with all his bones broken or as the lead Investigator said in the chilled air of the room “this dude was just bodied”. Almost immediately the authorities noticed the clean nature of the scene with every plant in place/ every piece of furniture wiped down/ and a lack of plaster despite the fact there was a massive indent in the wall like someone got hit by a car going 100 mph into it, there wasn't even a speck of blood.

Whoever did this cleaned the scene well, as Master Detective Brandon could tell. With his brown deer stalker hat/ Great coat/ pipe/ and a thick luscious chestnut Beard, Brandon could see the heavily mangled but somehow still recognisable victim fits the description on the dossier he read coming over here. He was a caucasian male, age 32, black hair and a name of Jones Friedmen. Jones had inherited close to a billion dollars when his parents, cunning stock brokers, both died from a plane crash when they were going on a business trip more than a decade ago.

Since then he had lived a mostly secluded life in his house in Beverly hills but one of the first things the authorities and the neighbours picked up was that he was a collector of brilliant white Air Jordans. They immediately cited this as the most probable motive, even the ones totally unlearned in crime investigation knew this to be obvious. As did Brandon who noticed that other than the pair of Air Jordans missing from Jones feet, (Brandon knew as such because there was literally no other type of shoe in the house) absolutely nothing else was missing. The Master Detective, the only person in the almost unblemished living room other than chief investigator Karol after he requested the rest of the team to go outside for privacy, leaned over his weathered gaze to observe the Body more closely.

“So what do you think” said Karol with an almost New Yorker accent, Brandon then took his pipe out of his mouth and puffed out a smoke ring before speaking “well from what I heard, whoever did this knew what they were doing because from what I understand your forensics people weren't able to get anything at all, is this true?”. Karol just nods before saying with slight shame “yah, that's right” Brandon then looks back to the corpse before setting his mind to a process that was the reason why he had “Master” in his title.

“You know I always thought in my 18 years in the force that the most pointless of crimes happen over these accursed shoes, what do you think?” said Karol but the Detective was deep in thought. He already deduced “ the person responsible was only interested in the Air Jordans, the absence of other stolen items serve as proof of such. Karol looked around before turning back to Brandon, wondering if the Master had even heard him. So then the next question is, how did the suspect do it?

The chief Investigator then spoke with more intensity “sir could you speak to me” but once invested in something almost nothing would distract the Detective until he solved the problem. Friedmen had a security system in place that would have at least have sounded an alarm, that must mean that whoever the perpetrator was had access to the house, but who? Karol was now screaming at Brandon to respond but he just slowly looked at the wall opposite of him, the one bearing the conspicuous crater on it.

Whatever happened here to cause that must have surely have caused a mess so who would have access to the premise and be able to immaculately clean up all the evidence before the short time when the police arrived. Brandon was looking behind him with the chief Investigator trying to get his attention when he eyes caught someone mopping in the hallway. He knew that Jones had precisely one custodial staff on payroll but what casted away all doubt was the fact he was wearing radiant white Air Jordans.

“Hey, you're the one who killed him” yelled the Master Detective, running towards him. Then the janitor threw the mop down with a thud and pulled out a pair of velvety red boxing gloves and said in a voice filled with rage, regret, and sorrow “And I'll do it again!” before charging right back at him.

as he lunged forward, he started swinging wild but very powerful blows. Brandon, calm and focused, dodged the initial onslaught though barely due to his various martial arts skills he developed as a sort of practical hobby with years of training and practice during his spare time.

The janitor's punches were monstrous, fueled by raw emotion rather than technique. Though Brandon could tell weaving through the barrage that this man usually fought with greater skill due to the fact that these punches would have pulverised his employer rather than expertly breaking him down, then countering with precise strikes aimed at disabling the unstable custodian. Brandon aimed for pressure points and vulnerable joints, but the janitor simply tanked through hits that would have normally sent even seasoned fighters sprawling on the ground.

As the fight intensified, the janitor landed a solid jab to Brandon's face, momentarily stunning him. Seizing the opportunity, he then broke away and dashed towards the adjacent hallway. Brandon shook off the blow, swiftly recovering to give chase. "Karol, get backup!" Brandon shouted with urgency as he pursued the fleeing janitor through the house's corridors.

The janitor burst out the back door into the moonlit street, Brandon hot on his heels. They emerged into a narrow alley behind the mansion, where the janitor turned to face the detective once more. His eyes reflected a mixture of determination and desperation as he presumed a boxing combat stance.

Brandon circled cautiously, his arms tense at his sides, watching for an opening. The janitor, hearing the impending arrival of backup, gritted his teeth and started charging up a power strike beyond any he did before. "Cosmic Slam Jam!" he roared, his fist crackling with energy that warped and then started to fracture the fabric of space-time itself.

Recognizing the impending danger, Brandon braced himself, putting his arms up preparing to defend against the janitor's unleashed power. as the janitor released the utter force of his punch, the backup, led by Chief Investigator Karol busted through the back door. The alley was then engulfed in a blinding Radiance as the janitor's Cosmic Slam Jam collided with Brandon's guard.

It was just another day on the job with me cleaning and maintaining my employer, Jones estate flawlessly for the third time in my shift and him in his artificial Shakespearean air, lecturing me on how I better make up for my months absence from which my return was still less than a year old and those Radiant white Air Jordans that just seemed to exude the purest light being worn by that same person. I always wanted a pair but that would have never had made me do what I did. It was at the end of my shift when I was about to put my cleaning equipment away I saw my employer in front of the janitor closet in the basement with a pair of Air Jordans in a blue box he was probably trying to find a place to them put away but as I got closer I saw over his shoulder what I feared what he looking at, the now skeleton body of Lutho.

The one who tried to kill me in this same basement, do to me getting more PHDs at Oxford then taking his spot a few years later as my employers janitor and doing it better. I killed him in self defence but it was too late to explain that to him as he turns around and runs pass and away thinking me a monster, then as I get the boxing gloves from the closet and catch up to him in the living room (he tripped at least four times) and then only thinking how I can't let him tell anybody, bodied him almost without remorse, his screaming only stopped when I stuck his already broken body into the wall and when he fell back down he was gone and the only thing that remained was the brilliant white Air Jordans.

I spent the next 15 minutes cleaning up the scene and when the authorities came I with no small amount of effort avoided the attention of everyone as just the house's janitor but when the Master Detective noticed my ill gotten Air Jordans I couldn't hold all my regret and anger and decided to go down fighting. When I heard reinforcements coming to the Detectives aid in the back alley way I knew I had nothing to lose so I unleashed my most powerful attack that I hethrio thought to be simply too dangerous to use, my Cosmic Slam Jam. Then when the shattering space-time around my fist collided with the Master and engulfed us both in an all consuming light I thought I had perished.

It was when I finally opened my eyes when I realised I was in a snowy forest. I was confused. I didn't know where I was, what happened to the Detective or if was I was still alive, then grief hit me. How could I have done what I did, it was against all what I stood for and was all I vowed I,ll never be but worse of all at that moment standing over the corpse of someone I knew to be innocent all I thought about was these accursed Air Jordans that now adorn my feet and still makes me covet them. I was sitting in the snow in languish when I heard something in the distance.

I wondered what it was so deciding to do anything to distract me from my guilt I went to investigate. When I made it close enough through the crunchy snow to see the source I noticed what seemed to be A village on fire and there seemed to be bandits attacking it? I was conflicted about what to do, I could run away for I still don't know if the Detective or anyone else is still after me but I feel a compulsion that if I have any Chance of redemption I have to help these people.

So looking back to where I walked from I sigh thinking just maybe my mistakes were far away enough so that I might be able to make a new life for myself.

Then turning back I came to the village's aid.

Gerome the Great

Daniel Salazar

9/24/24

The conquer of the Kingdom of Oster, the bane of the dark wizards, the Marshal of the Imperial

Army, the Patron of dogs, the Reformer of Taxes, the Incorruptible one, the slayer of bandits, the

humbler of the Van Versh, the uniter of the Western kingdoms, the temporal Regent of the Grand

Empire, the acting king of Taloburg, the champion of the Northern principalities, the diplomat to

the Eastern realms, the rescuer of damsels, the Savior of Kavograd, the liberator of Stratengrod,

the master of the sword, the stormer of keeps, the breaker of Siges, and the maker of cheese.

These are just a few titles people know him by and in most cases it all they know him by. You

see here Gerome mysteriously appeared in Garago woods in the Grand Empire 25 years ago.

There he slayed his first bandit while protecting the village there from a roving band of them. A

few months later he enlisted in the Imperial army and made a name for himself at the battle of

Osterburg in which he fought and won a duel against prince Tomet. From there the rest is

history. Now how Gerome got here is something he keeps very vague, mostly as jokes at feasts.

For he used to be a janitor in this world and how he was transported to the other world (which is

also named earth there in its direct translation) started when he noticed his employer had the new Air Jordans.

After which he promptly bodied him and when the Master Detective found out it was him, he once again promptly took out his Velvet red Boxing Gloves that were used to do the deed and proceeded to fight him. During this fight he unleashed his most powerful attack, his Cosmic Slam Jam but the attack was too powerful so when he did this it teleported him though fabric of reality and ended up on the other world. The only other person he entrusted this information with other than himself is his Dog Belgian Waffle (the people of that world only Know Belgium by Gerome’s say so).

This isn’t surprising considering that in his will Gerome specifically stated that Belgian

Waffle is to inherit all of his processions.

He Values his Dog so much that when a Dark wizard kidnaped his Dog to do his experiments,

Gerome single handedly rescued his Dog Killed the Dark wizard in a Duel and from that day

forward ignited his hatred for Dark wizards.

In other words, it’s no coincidence that he got his title the patron of dogs shortly after.

It is also to be noted that Gerome’s title “the maker of cheese” is well founded. It is one of his

favourite hobbies and when he decided to share his knowledge with a few of his apprentices and

together they made an enterprise out of cheese making stretching across all of the lands even

on the western fringes of the Eastern realms. So, it comes as no surprise when I tell you that his

cheese is considered to be of the highest quality. It was also his favourite food, and his enemies

knew that.

Now there was this minor noble, the Count of Rueguart who was jealous and mad at Gerome.

You see, ever since Gerome reformed the Imperial Tax Laws of the Grand Empire (for he had a

PHD in accounting in his past life) with the permission of Grand Emperor Jan VI, the count

wasn’t able to cheat even a single gold crown from his subjects. Furthermore, he couldn’t harm

Gerome directly for his Martial abilities were far surpassed by Gerome’s and he couldn’t poison

him since the court's head Imperial Wizard Tim would always look for such things. Then one

night the count was walking through his castle and was taken aside by a Dark wizard and before

he could scream the Dark wizard said “you want to get at Gerome” confused the count replied

“well yes” then the Dark wizard responded “then you have to listen to me Very carefully” the

Dark wizard then proceeds to take a small black orb out of his dark robes “I need you to put this

in Gerome’s personal cheese caldron and it won’t be found by that infernal Wizard Tim for it is

not a poison” the count still confused said “if it not a poison then what is it''? the Dark wizard

responded in a lighter tone of voice “if you succeed you will soon find out in a few days from the

court gossip” then the Dark wizard gave the count the small orb and vanished.

So, a few days later when Gerome left with his war party of Imperial Knights/ men-at-arms/ and

a few regular soldiers from the Imperial army who wanted to fight with the legend himself to root

out some bandits from a nearby forest the count snuck in Gerome's personal kitchen. When he

was in, he got the orb the Dark wizard gave him and plopped it in the cauldron of still

conglomerating cheese near the fireplace. So when Gerome returned from yet another

successful raid against the bandits he sat down by his kitchen table and had dinner of his own

home-cooked meal, but when he ate his wheel of cheese he felt his stomach hurting then

without warning he had to go immediately to the castles toilet which he designed himself (for he

also had a PHD in engineering in his past life) after which he proceeded to have the most

explosive case of diarrhoea he ever had in his life.

A few days later when the court physician looked from his notes at Gerome sitting in his office

he said “your lactose intolerant” Gerome then let out an ear shattering ‘noooooooooooooooooo”

as if he lost a fundamental part of him, and for the rest of that day all he could do was think and contemplate about his new reality with nothing but his thoughts and some inconveniently timed thunderstorm to accompany him in his sorrow.

Shortly afterwards Gerome began preparing to go on yet another journey. partly because he wanted to

find a cure for his curse but also, he wanted to escape his administrative responsibilities as

acting King of Taloburg.

You see a while back King Henry II of Taloburg (the Kingdom of Taloburg is a kingdom within the Grand Empire) invited Gerome for the festival that was to be held in his capital city also named Taloburg.

Little did they know Henry's II son prince Joffrey was planning to assassinate his

father to inherit the throne. So, when the day of the festival began Henry II was overlooking the

festive’s from his balcony a hooded assassin shot an arrow from a rooftop at him but Gerome

who was standing near by jumped in the way just in time and then the arrow was turned away

by Gerome’s Imperial plate which had been enchanted by the Imperial wizard Tim himself.

When the assassin started running away Gerome like the absolute Chad he is jumped from the

balcony onto a roof and started to chase after him, and After chasing the assassin for a while

Gerome eventually unsheathed and threw his sword at the rogue and the blade went right through one of the assassin legs causing him to fall in an alleyway. After the assassin was captured and after a little pressure from Gerome the rogue finally spilled that prince Joffrey paid him to kill the King. Henry, after learning his son was behind his assassination attempt, did not have the heart to kill his only son so he wrote him off the line of succession. Shortly after King Henry II died of heartbreak from being betrayed by his own son and left the throne of Taloburg without an heir. Since the only other eligible heir, the uncle had forgone society in order to live the life of a hermit.

The question

of who would succeed the throne hung heavily in the air. Then surprisingly without even asking

for it the nobles of the royal court voted for Gerome to be the acting King of Taloburg which with foresight shouldn't have been too shocking since Gerome being the naturally good person he is, did favours to many powerful people

and had friends in high places and most importantly had a reputation that preceded him.

Gerome accepted this honour although deep down he knew that his newfound responsibilities

would take time from his favourite hobbies and his valued bonding time with his then recently

adopted Dog Belgian Waffle.

So, after Gerome Donned his Imperial plate and entrusting Belgian Waffle to his affairs of state,

He finally mounted his trusty horse Jose and sent off on his journey. Before he left, he had

consulted the Imperial Wizard Tim and although he could not or more likely would not fix

Gerome’s lactose intolerance, he was able to give him a hint that his curse was done by Dark

magic.

Even as he was galloping through the castle’s portcullis, he knew exactly where he would find

the information he needed, Lettowald.

Lettowald is one of the five major cities of the northern half of the Grand Empire. The city was

named after its founder who may or may not have been a vampire. It is also known for its

rampant corruption and inequality.

As Gerome and his horse Jose could see from the hill, they were standing on overlooking the

city of Lettowald with its rich city centre where its nobility lives and the slums that surround it.

Even as he quietly rode through slums, he was appalled by its living conditions. He had seen

bandit dens he had raided in the pass have a higher standard of living and when Gerome got to

one of the many draw bridges going over the moat separating the rich inner city and the slums,

he was almost glad the guard stationed there only took one look at his exquisite suit of Imperial

plate and let him pass. After wandering the cobbled streets for a while he finally found the place

he was looking for the drab and bleak and not to out of place prison of Lettowald. After walking

through the demeaning entrance and the equally demeaning hallway he finally got to the

reception desk. The guard clad in a cheap breastplate/ helmet/ and an arming sword in his

sheath got up and said, “well if it isn’t Gerome the Great himself so what brings you here to this

forsaken place” said the guard with faked merriness, Gerome replied, “I am looking for

somebody” the guard stepping closer said “and who would that be”? Gerome leaning his head

to the guard’s ear said quietly “Valem” the Guards expression then immediately darkened.

You see Valem was a cultist and a few years back he and a few of his fellow cultist along with

their master, a Dark wizard named Mor’thergin, were doing a ritual to summon a demon before Gerome and a small raiding party of Imperial Knights and men-at-arms put a stop to it. During this raid all of his cultist

associates were slain, and his Dark wizard master was killed in a duel with Gerome who then

proceeded to banish the moments ago summoned demon lord with a thimble of holy water (holy

water is extremely rare in this world and extremely powerful against demonic and Dark forces).

So, when Gerome opened the cell door the first thing he saw was the pale and bald cultist

chained up to the wall. “You killed my cohorts slay my master and still come back” said Valem in

an increasingly louder voice “what more do you want from me!” Exclaimed the cultist “I don’t

want much from you Valem I just want some information” said Gerome in as polite a voice as

possible. “why should I tell you anything after what you did to me” said the cultist “well I don’t want to hurt you in this state but if you don’t comply I will have to use Drastic measures” said

Gerome as ominously as possible “you wouldn’t torture me with your code of HoNoR” said

Valem sarcastically Gerome then decided to use a bluff “your right I wouldn’t harm an already

broken man” the cultist gave Gerome a inquisitive look “but I know somebody who will” Valem

then gave a look of slight concern “you see I have my wizard friend Tim here right outside tha…”

“Please I’m sorry I’ll tell everything you want just don’t send him” said Valem out of nowhere.

Gerome not to surprised that his ploy worked for Tim sometimes scares even him said “I Know

that you were your Masters right hand man so tell everything you know about dark wizards “Valem responded “I don’t know much about Dark wizard beyond what most people already Know”

Valem then pause for a second then resumed “but I know my master was friends with his fellow

dark wizards” Gerome intrigued said “really tell me there names” Valem then proceeded to rattle

off a bunch of hard to remember names that are typical of Dark wizards and wizards in general

many of whom started with Mor, then one name runged a bell Mor’kan.

You see, Mor’kan is the only Dark wizard that Valem listed that Gerome didn’t kill or capture and

one of the last Dark wizards left in the Grand Empire courtesy of Gerome’s campaign against

them. “stop” Gerome Exclaimed, which Valem promptly did with a confused look in his face “tell me where Mor’kan is” ordered Gerome “he could be anywhere by now but last time I checked he was with his accomplice in Éclatville the capital of the Western Kingdom of Thudoux'' replied Valem “I see that’s all I wanted to know,” said Gerome.

Even as Gerome was riding out the depilated and poverty ridden town of Lettowald cause by the

people in power belief in superiority by birthright he silently swore that if he ever became Grand

Emperor that he would fix inequality throughout all of the Grand Empire but even as Lettowald

disappeared in the horizon he already realised the enormity of that task for Lettowald wasn’t the

only corrupt town of the Grand Empire whose nobility would fight tooth and nail for every piece

of their wealth and power that would go to people they believed to be of low birth.

The journey to the western Kingdoms had been pleasant for the grass was green, the air cool

and the sun warm. Gerome had been so at ease that he didn’t notice that he had passed the

border between the Western Kingdom of Thudoux and the Grand Empire and he only realised

he did when noticed the changing flora and language. Although Gerome knows how to speak all

the languages of the Western kingdoms and the Northern principalities and enough of the

Eastern realms to pass from his time there as a diplomat representing the Grand Empire. As he

camped for the night Gerome while looking at his makeshift fire remembered how he gained the

title “the uniter of the Western kingdoms”

You see before the Western kingdoms were like the Northern principalities, constantly fighting / crafting secret alliances / and plotting amongst each other, but richer. Then one Day King Domaqe II of the Kingdom Naya was

killed in a coup launched by his brother Lysandre who then proceeded to send his own nephew

into exile in order to inherit the throne. Lysandre had Imperial ambitions, and he started to wage

war against weaker neighbouring Kingdoms. The Grand Empire itself couldn’t help since Grand

Emperor Francis, who may or may not have been a werewolf, signed a treaty with all the

Western kingdoms 8,000 years ago stating that the Grand Empire cannot wage war Against any

of the Western kingdoms to ensure peace on the Grand Empire's western frontier. So, when

Gerome came to stop Lysandre only a few kingdoms joined his cause for they were naturally

suspicious of a foreigner but after Gerome led coalitions troops to victory at the Battle of Paltuox fields which on the eve of Gerome was up the entire night overlooking the Army clad in his Imperial Plate because he didn't put a night attack pass Lysandre and also It was one of the few times Gerome genuinely thought about going back to the other world where he had left his family if nothing else, afterwich most of the kingdoms were suddenly much more willing to join Gerome under his banner. They eventually after a long gruelling siege were able to take Lysandre’s capital Etoilevaux and restore

the nephew as King of Naya and from that day on he also became known as “the uniter of the

Western kingdoms'' and just like how he fought against the Van Versh and the all the Northern

Principalities who rebelled made Gerome their champion which at the end in both case they

continued to plot and kill another and their respect for Gerome had only prevented them from

waging a war directly against each other.

Gerome wondered if it was even possible to establish true peace without further bloodshed, that

was the thought he was thinking about when he made it out of the woods and saw Éclatville for

the first time.

Éclatville Was a much pleasanter sight than Lettowald from his vantage point overlooking the

city he can tell that most of the commoners live in conditions worthy of minor nobles something

Gerome had only seen in the richest towns of the Grand Empire and even as he trotted down

the cobbled streets he can tell it was a stark contrast to the Dark and drab Lettowald for

everywhere he went the sun was shining the birds and townspeople were singing and

everywhere was filled with vibrant colour and even the stone seemed full with life. Gerome felt

even if was born a peasant he would have been fully content with living life here as a baker and

with his Dog. Eventually after travelling the pleasant streets for a purposely long time, he finally

got to the place where he suspected the Dark wizard Morgan thought would be the last place

people would look for him, the Royal Palace of Éclatville.

After Gerome left Jose in the stables outside, he started to walk down the Great Hall. He noticed

it was embroiled with the finest gems, the most detailed tapestry, and the highest quality

masonry. Its grandeur was only matched by the Imperial Palace back in the Grand Empire. As

Gerome got to the end of the hallway, he saw some nobles talking so Gerome in his most

courtly voice said, “hello my good sirs I am Gerome at your service” Gerome then kneeled, the

two then nobles greeted him back with a small hand gesture when one responded, “are you

Gerome the Great?” Gerome answered “I am he” the noble then put his hand on Gerome

shoulder plate “then stop grovelling like a peasant and let’s talk as Equals” Gerome then got up

and the three started walking around when the noble said “my name is Aurelien de Montclair

and this is my fair wife Genevieve d’Aubencourt” only now did Gerome notice the second noble

was a women “now we have adequate ourselves with each other let’s talk about what brings

you here in his majesty’s Royal Palace”. Gerome proceeded to tell them his journey here and his

quest to find Mor’kan and bring him to justice for what he did to him. Gerome finally asked, “I

humbly ask you if you know someone who might be in league with a Dark Wizard?” Aurelien

smiling said “well if there’s any person that fits that description it has to be Salley”. Gerome

intrigued asked “who is Salley?” Aurelien who seemed delighted said “Salley is the receptionist

in the Laboratory in the dungeon” the noble then proceeded take Gerome throughout the Royal

Palace until they got to a spiral staircase “this is the entrance to the Laboratory Salley should be

one of the first thing you see” said Aurelien “thanks for your help kind sir and it has been an

honour to talk to you both” responded Gerome but even as he was walking down the staircase

Aurelien said “don’t mention anything about the plague doctor or she’ll never stop talking about

him!”.

If it wasn’t for the green light emanating from the bottom of the staircase it would have been as

bleak and dark as the prison of Lettowald and when Gerome got to the bottom of the staircase,

he was met with a pale lady seated at a desk dressed in a dark garb who wore black lipstick and

had metal rings in her nose ears and one through her left eye brow and yet was still pretty. She

reminded Gerome of his now vague memories of the goth girls of his past life. She was

surrounded by tables and stands filled with alchemy bottles and contraptions and yet she still

stood out from it all. “I am Gerome at your service my fair lady” Gerome said with a slight bow “I know who you are” said Salley as she looked up from her desk “you’re the saviour of Kavograd

the breaker of sieges and the rescuer of damsels” Salley said that last title with a little spite “I

suppose you want something a potion and contraption or like always directions to the plague

doctor however charming he may be” said Salley as she looked to the ceiling. After awhile Gerome

finally spoke “I just need some information” Salley looks back at him replied “oh and what may

that be” “so I have been told that someone down here may be an accomplice with a Dark

wizard” said Gerome “of course those high born nobles would send you to me” said Salley with

a slight sneer “in that case you probably look for that Dark wizard who’s a friend of plague

doctor” Gerome now intrigued said “can you tell me more about this friend of his” Salley replied

in a monotone voice “awhile back this Dark wizard came to the plague doctor and they started

talking about many thing mainly about death and the such” Salley yawed and then continued

“when he left I overheard that he was going to the Van Versh’s capital of Nova” Gerome excited

now he finally had an idea of where Mor’kan is and was that much closer of curing his curse

before he left Sally yelled out to Gerome “do a favour for me” Gerome looked backed “yes?” “Kill that Dark wizard for me” said Salley Gerome confused and said “why?” “When he was here, he took all of the Plague doctors’ attention away from me” Gerome who gave a small grin under his helm replied, “don’t worry he is not the first Dark wizard I killed, and he won’t be the last”.

The Dark wizard was right, almost overnight there had been rumours throughout the entire castle

about Gerome supposed curse of Lactose Intolerance but when the count of Ruegart learned

that Gerome had left for another journey probably to catch the Dark wizard he started to worry.

As the days wore on, he started regretting his decision for he worried that if Gerome caught the

Dark wizard that employed him in his plot, he’ll will spill out that he was involved in the crime

against Gerome. So, one night when the count was walking nervously through his castle the

Dark wizard again took him aside and before he could even speak “did you do what you were

told?” asked the Dark wizard “well I put that orb you gave me in Gerome cheese caldron” the

Dark wizard in an elated voice “ha yes my brilliance worked yet again “but” began the count

before he was interrupted by Dark wizard “I knew I couldn’t get near Gerome’s kitchen myself

for that dastardly wizard Tim would sense a Dark wizard mile away that’s why I had to employ

you instead” “but” the count said again and again he was interrupted by the Dark wizard

self-praise “now I did this I wonder what else I am able to do with my intellect” continued the

Dark wizard but the count blurted out “Gerome went on a journey to get you”. The Dark wizard

immediately flew in a rage and said, “HE DID WHAT” “I’m sorry I didn’t know of it until he

already left,” said the frightened count. The Dark wizard calming down, slowly turned around

and said, “I assume a plotting individual like yourself has connections to the assassin’s guild?”

It had been many months since Gerome left the Western kingdoms crossed the Grand Empire

and now standing on a hill overlooking Kavograd with the only notable events on the way being

Him having accidentally wandered his way to the Uncles hut in Teliano forest while Gerome was passing through the boundaries of Taloburg and for a few nights afterwards they proceed to engage philosophical debates like the true meaning of the human soul and the such (the uncle had plenty of time to think about those matters ever since he had foregone his Royal Taloburgean lineage for the simple life in the Forest) and later on with Gerome fighting and killing a cave bear over a deer carcass whose pelt Gerome later sold to a fur

trader named Dene for accouple gold crowns in Osterburg during Gerome last day in the Grand

Empire.

The city is the capital of the Principality of Yagchiv and it still showed it scars of war when the

Van Versh besieged the city for seven long months for at the time the Principality was one of the

only northern Principalities that hadn’t been conquered by the Van Versh yet and as Gerome

was travelling pass he saw the hill which on the 18th day of seventh month of the siege

the Grand Empire who felt threatened by the rapidly growing power on there Eastern frontier

and the Prince Mustekov of Yagchiv remaining forces charged their Imperial Knights and Boyars respectively down toward the Van Versh’s siege camp with Gerome on the forefront of it. When charged into the camp they were routing the Van Versh even as they tried to put up a desperate defence and in the middle of it Gerome on his horse Jose who he bought from totally not sketchy Bootleg Peat a few months back started to slice through armour and hack off limbs with his sword and just two hours after the initial charge Gerome was already being praised with his new found title “the saviour of Kavograd”. Gerome was still thinking of how the people threw him and his victorious Imperial Knights along the principality’s Boyars poppies in their praise while marching through the city, when he made camp for the night a few miles northeast of Kavograd.

If there had been bandits near the path Gerome travelled, they all stayed well clear of him for by

now he was well known in these parts and the bandits here knew that confronting Gerome and

Death meant the same thing to the likes of them.

When Gerome finally reached the city of Stratengrod he took in the view and a deep breath of

the cold crisp air for by now the sun was setting the beginning of winter brought a thin layer of

snow across the landscape and the chimneys of the many taverns in the city promised a

comfortable sleep for anybody who chooses to take lodgings there. If there had been a choice

to take temporary residence in one of Stratengrod’s Taverns and camping yet another night in

the wilderness, it had been decided when the grey clouds overhead promised a blizzard. So,

Gerome continued downhill he was at and went towards the city he had once liberated.

You see Stratengrod is one of three major towns of the Grand Principality of Noskiv and it is

considered to be one of the four strongest fortress towns of the northern principalities. It was

also a part of the Kingdom of the Van Versh’s first wave of conquest which was why when the

Imperial and allied principality armies who have recently rebelled against Van Versh rule

marched on the city, the Van Versh were willing to do anything to protect the city for if

Stratengrod fell the way to the Van Versh’s capital Nova would be open to attack. When allied armies assaulted the city it was a long gruelling battle for its fortification proved to be formidable. Even Gerome with his Impressive Marshall Prowess found it hard to fight the enemy back one battlement at a time but eventually they pushed back the Van Versh back to the keep and in the middle of the melee Gerome had just beheaded an enemy Boyar when he heard a roar

spanning the entire battlefield and when he looked up he saw the then only rumoured Dragon of

the Van Versh (Dragons are rare in this world for they were almost hunted to extinction). Its fire

and claws threw Imperial soldiers and principality warriors into disarray, it seemed like the Van

Versh were about to win the battle and possibly the war. When Gerome, with a wounded arm for

a stray arrow found its way through one of few gaps in his Imperial plate, saw the Dragon in the

town square acting as a rallying point for the enemy. So, Gerome with his injured arm got a

lance from the corpse ridden street, mounted his trusty horse Jose who answered his call and at

a full gallop plunged the Lance into the unaware Dragon's Heart through a gap in its scales and so as it fell It Bellowed in its own language its captors hadn't allowed it to speak since its imprisonment as a young Dragon (translated) “Damn you humans I wish calamity upon you all and your kin for all you did to my kind and for you to taste Death as I have this Day” . it was Only later when Gerome learned the meaning of those words, when The allied troops were then able to

regroup and counter-attack, and Even as the still injured Gerome lead the final assault against the keep, he simultaneously gained the titles “the stormer of Keeps” and “the liberator of

Stratengrod”.

After wandering the streets for a while, the worsening blizzard made Gerome to stop at a Tavern

of middling Quality “the Broken Axe”. When he paid for his lodgings and put Jose in the Stables,

He decided to have a few drinks at the bar before going to sleep in his bunk. When Gerome got

to the bar, he ordered some beer and after drinking a few pints one of the men with a great

beard also at the bar started to talk to him “I can tell you are a Foreigner so tell me what brings

you here” said the man wiping foam from the bush on his chin. Gerome who felt in a more

talkative mood said, “well I’m looking for a Dark wizard, but I don’t suppose you have seen one

passing through here have you?'' The man seemed to consider Gerome’s Question and then

said “no I have not, But can You tell more about this fella?”. Gerome obliged telling the man his

journey so far telling him why he was doing it only keeping out the specific names of people and

places, when Gerome was finished the man with a more tense look said, “now tell me the truth

are you Gerome?”. Gerome seeing no way around the question replied “yes I am Gerome” for a

Second the man seemed like he was about to lash out then he Laxed and said “although my

father was a Huscal of the Van Versh I can’t criticise someone with a hard earn reputation as

yourself” Gerome relieved that warriors and renowned adventurers in general were still revered in the cultures of the northern Principalities replied “thank you my good sir may I ask you your name?” “Zaria, Zaria Volkov ''

answered the man. Gerome and Zaria proceeded to talk about political matters, then abouts

which Taverns had the best Beer and finally about the quality of the local pelts. Eventually

Gerome got up and said, “well it about time I got to Bed it’s been a pleasure talking to you Zaria''

but even as Gerome was climbing up the wooden ladder leading to the bunks Zaria yelled

“make that forsaken Dark wizard pay for what he did to you!” Gerome then looked back at Zaria

with a slight smile and said, “that I will''.

When the first rays of the sun hit the snow-covered roofs of Stratengrod Gerome got up from his

bunk packed his supplies and equipment Donned on his Imperial plate took Jose out of the

stables and prepared to be off on his way but before he did Gerome went into the Tavern for the

Last time and gave the bartender a bag of gold crowns for Gerome is a very wealthy man due to no small part to his many journeys which he found to be just as lucrative as they were dangerous and said “tell everyone the drinks are on me”.

The landscape surrounding the road from Stratengrod had been blanketed in fresh pristine

snow with its only inhabitants being the evergreen trees, white rabbits, and the occasional deer. And besides from saving a peasant from being mugged by a bandit who promptly fled at the sight of Gerome clad in his suit of Imperial Plate riding slowly towards them on his steed for he knew he didn't need anything but intimidation and his reputation to ward off most threat on the road and after being thanked by the peasant he continued on his way

Gerome had just sworn to himself that he would one day bring his Dog Belgian Waffle to these

parts when at last after going over a hill saw the Van Versh’s magnificent and relatively

unscathed capitol Nova.

You see when the allied Imperial and principality armies were starting to march to the Van

Versh’s capitol, prince Ivan of the house Dragomir inherited the throne when his father King Vladimir V died from “illness' '. Ivan was very charismatic and very persuasive. So, he was able to expertly navigate the peace negotiations reducing every demand at him to the minimum and

squeezing every drop of value from his cessions by somehow making it look like the coalition was in the wrong, quite convincingly it might be add along with other thing and in the process saved his capital from being ravaged. In matter of fact all of the northern principalities are still technically part of the Kingdom of the Van Versh although by now the Van Versh only directly control a territory equivalent to a

grand principality. As Gerome can see standing in the marketplace surrounded by the city’s stone buildings with

their glissading red shingles bustling with merchants/ fur traders/ and artisans. Gerome had just

convinced himself of the enormity of the search ahead when he spotted a darkly robbed

individual with a staff walking into one of the streets leading to the marketplace. Odd Gerome

Thought, thinking that he already found the man he was looking for when he started to stealthily follow

him, for Gerome learned the hard way in the past the importance of being able to move without

even the slightest clamour or clink from his Imperial plate is to stealth during his many raids. When the figure walked into a secluded alleyway, Gerome followed him in and finally revealed himself with his arms on his

Tassets and said “I have you know, I have you trapped Mor’kan” the dark robed figure turned

around and Gerome noticed its black hat and beard along with the scar across its left eye before

it said “no I have you trapped” then the illusion disappeared. Gerome had just told himself that

he had to stop falling for those tricks when ten assassins surrounded him, and Gerome had

barely unsheathed his sword when they all attacked him. In the melee Gerome had cut off limbs

and rend through leather Jerkins and light mail while his own armour turned away arrow and sword strike. Gerome had just

gutted one of his assailants when he noticed one of the assassins on a roof with a heavy

crossbow loaded with a black bolt which Gerome knew from experience was enchanted by Dark

magic. It was one of the only combinations that could penetrate even Gerome’s Imperial plate

and yet when the assassin fired the bolt Gerome like chad he is and always will be caught the

projectile midair and used its momentum to spin him around and chuck the bolt back full force

which promptly proceeded to pass right through the assassin’s skull. A mace hit Gerome on the

back of his helm Dazed he turned around and sliced the head off the assassin responsible who

had a look of a man who regretted not having run away when his enemy was distracted.

Just liked that it was over almost as soon as it began. When Gerome was barely starting to

consolidate his thoughts someone behind him yelled “incindium!”, Gerome was by now well

acquainted with that spell and he dodged the fireball just in time. The Dark wizard Mor’kan,

having seen he lost the advantage of surprise, started to run away but Gerome immediately got

up and started to run after him. Gerome was already halfway to Mor’kan when the Dark wizard

ran into Nova's busy city square and reached into one of his robe pockets and threw a handful

of gold crowns onto the floor. Almost immediately the entrance from that street was clogged with common townspeople/ Beggars/ and even some guards who just don’t get paid enough causing Gerome to lose a few precious minutes. When he finally chased Mor’kan all the way out the southern city gates the Dark wizard was already long gone but even as the dark figure was

disappearing into the horizon and the setting sun's last rays hit the snow-covered landscape

with its red orange hue Gerome knew that the final chase had just begun.

The count of Ruegart has been becoming extremely nervous for when that Dark wizard forced

him to use his connections to the assassin’s guild to organise a hit on Gerome but the assassins

who took the job said that they would collect their pay with proof of their success on the 15th of

this month, but the 15th had already passed over a week ago. So, the count decided he had

enough and started packing supplies/ a few bottle of exquisite wine/ a small chest that

represented his personal treasury and finally his highly ornate sword with its fine leather sheath

which he put around his waist and to the dismay to his horse lugged on the rest of the cargo on

the beast's back and went on his way but the count had barely gotten half way through the court

yard when the Imperial wizard Tim himself appeared in front of him out of nowhere dressed in

his usually brown robes and hat with his oak-wood staff and pipe in hand and mouth. Spooked

the count tried to sound unalarmed “oh, Tim it’s you so what brings you out here today” “don’t

even try I know what you did” interrupted Tim. The count now sweating said “what do you mean”

“you know what I mean for I was the one who let you apply that cure to Gerome cheese while

he was gone” responded Tim with such confidence that it was like he saw it with his own two

eyes. The count pale as a ghost said with a quivering voice “but why?” “You see I let you do it so

Gerome would go on that Journey to hunt down Mor’kan because if went to do so myself every

creature of Darkness will never come out into the light” said Tim with a slight grin and continued

“that and he makes for some good entertainment every time he goes on one of his adventures”.

The count now Petrified knew that he couldn’t escape Tim, dismounted his heavy-laden horse

and kneeled at his knees and begged “please spare me, I’ll give you anything you want, my

wealth , my wine , my castle but just don’t hurt me!”. Tim with a look of wisdom of a being that

had been there at the conception of the Grand Empire 11,000 years ago under the reign of

Grand Emperor Jan I for which Tim had served in his court as the First Imperial Wizard said,

“don’t worry I won’t harm you, but I will bring you to justice as Imperial Law sees fit”.

Gerome had been tracking Mor’goth for weeks at a fervidly fast pace going south out of the

Northern principalities and into the western most fringes of the Eastern realms and yet the Dark

wizard seemed to always be just one step ahead. When Gerome stopped at the few small,

isolated villages there to buy supplies he was reminded how rudimentary and basic his skills

were at the languages of the eastern realms and in fact when Gerome served as diplomat

representing the Grand Empire in the royal court of King Jian Tianlong of the eastern realm of

Xianhua, he was only able to respond with basic yes and knows or with answers that were short

and to the point or terms he had just learned as he went along when they were talking about long term relations and trade between the two

nations and yet Gerome still knew enough to get basic essentials and directions of the

surrounding landscape. Gerome had stopped at another village to rest for the night and before he went to a room, he rented nearby he started to ask the local people if they had seen a darkly robbed figure pass by

and Gerome was delighted when one of the residents said they had. The squint-eyed man with

a few greying hairs with the name Li Wei took him to his humble home and after introducing

Gerome to his family they sat down and began talking. Gerome couldn’t understand most of

what he said but he understood enough to know that Li Wei had seen the figure pass by the day

prior and had gone into the Qinglin nearby . After Gerome had

found where Mor’kan was he thanked the man with a simple phrase of gratitude and went back

to his rented room to rest for tomorrow he will bring the Dark wizard to Justice.

In the Morning Gerome got up packed all of his stuff and accepted the offer of breakfast from

the people housing him for Gerome knew that although the chances of him being killed in the

upcoming encounter was abysmal it will never be Zero, So after eating the dish of rice, chicken,

and very well-seasoned curry (Gerome handled the spice like a man) he mounted Jose and

went off to Qinglin woods.

Although the area was located more south than the Northern principalities it was still the height

of winter, and the lush forest was covered in a couple of feet of snow. Gerome had been

wondering for little more than two hours and only saw a stag during that time albeit a very

magnificent one with its pelt and antlers being the pride of any hunter who would acquire them,

Gerome had just begun letting his senses become one with the forest when he stumbled across

the end of his journey, Mor’kan.

Mor’kan was standing in an opening in the woods with his feet buried in the perfectly white snow and his black robes moving with the cold wind. As Gerome rode closer, he saw that the Dark wizard looked exactly like the illusion in Nova with his birch-wood staff at hand and sword in the other and pipe in mouth. It was no doubt this was the wizard he had been chasing for almost a year despite the fevered pace of his pursuit. “Well, if it isn’t Gerome the Great, I know you have been chasing me because you blame me for your lactose intolerance so let me tell you straight and simple, I was the one that gave you your curse and I’m proud of it!” exclaimed Mor’kan. Gerome, who had begun to dismount Jose, remembered that when the court physician gave him that diagnostic like it was yesterday.

“I knew that you will eventually catch me even if you had to chase me to the ends of the Earth

so let’s end this once and for all!” yelled Mor’kan. Even as Gerome walked toward the Dark

wizard in his glistening Imperial Plate he said in a cool voice “I would have done the same” and

then he slowly unsheathed his sword, but even as Gerome went into his battle stance Mor’kan

took the initiative and yelled “elekro!” and conjured a bolt of lightning but Gerome, being a

Veteran of many a duel with these practitioners of Dark magic was able to doge away in time

and the bolt hit the ground next to him leaving a small charred crater. Gerome decided to charge

Mor’kan before he cast another spell, but the Dark wizard then flung a large boulder at Gerome

with his magic and Gerome then cut the boulder in half but even as he did Mor’kan yelled out

“inferium” and a bright red jet of magical flame shot out of his staff. Gerome quickly put his

sword and cut the stream in two and even though his Imperial plate had been Enchanted by Tim

his armour was heating up at a very fast pace and his sword was already reddening yet Gerome

pressed on one step at a time until his skin started burning from the heat of his own armour he

spun around and knocked Morgan staff from his hand and stared to do a discipline series of

strikes Parries and thrusts. Even as he tried to fight back without the magic from his staff Mor’kan was overwhelmed and finally Gerome saw an opening and knocked Mor’kan sword away and then gave A Royal backhand across the Dark wizards face with his gauntleted fist smacking the pipe out of his mouth and him to the ground. Gerome then put his sword at the neck of Mor’kan and said, “will spare you if you take away this curse you bestowed upon me” the Dark wizard with a look of wounded pride bellowed “ELEKROZAM!!!!”.

Gerome felt the bolt before he heard it and dodge with almost inhuman speed but when the

beam of lighting hit the ground it incinerated everything a dozen feet around leaving only a large

black crater and the ashes of what used to be Morgan in its wake. Then Gerome went to his

Knees and let out and anguished “noooooooooooo!” not for the death of the Dark wizard himself

but for the chance to ever be cured of his curse.

Even as Gerome started his long Journey back to the Grand Empire, he had already accepted

his fate, but he found solstice knowing that Cheese making wasn’t the only thing that made him

happy in life his Dog Belgian Waffle is living proof of it.

When Gerome finally got back to the Grand Empire the first thing heard in Osterburg was that

Grand Emperor Jan VI had fallen ill.

You see Grand Emperor Jan had no heir for he was a very pious man and a Celibate (all of the

Western kingdoms/ Northern Principalities/ and Grand Empire and even some western

villages of the Eastern reams worship the lord of light) and by Imperial Law the nobles were

required to elect a new Grand Emperor should the worse come to be and the old Grand

Emperor pass away for the Imperial Bureaucracy can take months if not years to elect a

candidate. As expected, everyone in court immediately started arguing/ throwing red tape

everywhere/ and trying to make their candidates seem like the perfect choice and the others

sound like puppets working for the corrupt nobles who backed them, not caring if it were true or the other way around or not.

Gerome also caught news that The Count of Ruegart had helped Mor’kan give Gerome his

curse and had already gone on trial and found guilty for his crimes. The count was stripped of all

his landed titles and their privileges which then went to his wife, countess Amara von Rosenburg

for his son Friedrich was only six. The count was originally going to be locked up in a dungeon

too but on the Request of Gerome who didn’t what any more people to get hurt on account of

his curse, instead just went into house arrest. Gerome was in his personal quarters in the Imperial Palace for more than a week now, thinking of his new life without cheese when the Imperial Scribe came into his room took out an Imperial decree and announced that “by Request of the sickly Grand Emperor Jan VI that Gerome the

Great is to be the Temporal Regent of the Grand Empire until all the Houses of this Great nation

has elected and coronated a proper Grand Emperor” the Scribe then started to list all the noble

who had signed this Imperial Decree. This did not surprised Gerome for like why the nobles of

the Kingdom of Taloburg elected him as there acting king, he did many favours to the Nobles of

the Imperial court during his many adventures and Kept good relations with most of them but

most importantly when it came to politics Gerome was a true neutral doing what’s only what’s

best for the Grand Empire and that sat well for many of the Nobles who were already digging in

the quagmire that is the Imperial Bureaucracy. Gerome accepted this Great honour for he was

willing even to do the most soul crushing administrative responsibilities that came with the title in

order to keep his mind off of his now Permanent lactose intolerance and in accordance with

Imperial Law Gerome was obliged to give up his lesser title of “acting King of Taloburg” to his

successor which would be his Dog Belgian Waffle.

That Day was Eight months ago and Gerome after a long day of dealing with petty politics, was

in his temporary Imperial Regalia, standing on a balcony in the Imperial Palace overlooking the

setting sun for today marked exactly the 27th year he unleashed his Cosmic Slam Jam and

came to this world and was also 3 years exact when he went on his Journey to catch Mor’kan

and make him take back his curse and came back with rare failure but even as Gerome looked

at the sun disappearing rapidly behind the distant hills he knew that he had many more

adventures to come. Then Gerome’s Dog Belgian Waffle came from behind him and placed his

furry head on Gerome’s soft robes. Gerome then petted Belgian Waffle on his Head and

Gerome was comforted for he Knew that he would not be alone for when he did.

MATHS TEACHER

Daniel Salazar

8l20l24

The morning sun hung low in the sky, casting an eerie glow over the remnants of yesterday’s chaos. Jan Doe stood on the roof of Havenstone High, staring down, cold and calculated with a small grin on his face. He gripped the hilt of his sword, feeling the familiar weight of it, the cold steel a comfort against the rising tide of panic swarming in the town below. The parking lot, usually filled with the laughter and chatter of students who just got their first car, was now a indifferentiable from a Warzone, dominated by the enormous form of the Great Serpent—a creature easily bigger that three blue whales and probably heavier too, coiled lazily as if contemplating its next meal.

“Blimey,” Jan muttered, peering over the edge, “I think it's laying on Principle Hart Burrows Honda Civic” He adjusted his glasses, squinting against the sun’s glare. “This isn’t how I envisioned the first day of term” thought Jan Before resolving “but then again when I got that cancer 2 years back I made myself recover from it the next day to continue to teach the students who thought i was gone for good, so why should I let this situation intervene in my instruction.”

A few moments passed, the only sound was the distant rustle of leaves and the faint echo of sirens of various emergency services in the background. Jan took a deep breath, his mind racing. He was a man of logic, a Maths teacher who believed in equations and proofs, not fantastical beasts (no matter how real they were). Yet here he was, armed with a sword, facing a creature summoned by a Harbinger of calamity—a warrior wielding a sword clad in obsidian black Armour, intent as the its title suggest, to bring fourth Calamity using its powerful spell casting and equally as strong physical prowess with its weapon as the first responders unfortunately found out.

“Right, Jan,” he whispered to himself calmly, “it’s just a giant snake. You’ve planned to deal with snakes interrupting school before.” He then reminds himself the reason why he always does the jobs he doesn't get paid enough for, the murmurs of his students, the way they laughed at his odd quirks, how they’d roll their eyes when he’d insist that maths was more exciting than they realised. “I wonder if my Floridian lineage is what makes me this way…all well a question for another time.” said Jan as he prepared to administer this monstrosity its final lesson.

Then With a determined shout, he leapt from the roof, the wind whipping at his clothes as he descended. “enumeratio veritatem praehendit!” he yelled (Doe’s Favorit statement to recite to his students), landing with a thud that reverberated through the asphalt. The serpent raised its great head, yellow eyes narrowing as it regarded him. Jan could almost hear the question in its gaze: Who dares disturb my slumber?

“Hey!” Jan called out, raising his sword high. “I’m not letting you delay another day of instruction,” His voice echoed, a mix of bravado and sheer insanity. The sword glinted in the sunlight, and he took a step forward, the heart hammering in his chest a contrast to his cool and efficient thought process.

The serpent hissed, a sound like steam escaping a kettle—hssssss. It coiled tighter, muscles rippling beneath its iridescent scales. Jan felt the ground tremble as it shifted, preparing to strike. “Come on!” he shouted, waving the sword to get its attention. “I’ve got quadratics to teach!”

With a sudden flick, the serpent lunged, jaws wide, fangs glistening. Jan jumped sideways, barely avoiding the snap of its jaw as it crushed some poor students' brand new red Ferrari behind him. “It seems I have to be more careful” thought Jan as He dodged again when the serpent swung its tail, creating a gust of wind that nearly knocked him off his feet.

“ay! You better stop that!” he yelled, frustration bubbling up inside him. “It would be much more simpler for me if you just left this town alone!”

The serpent reared back, letting out a deep, rumbling growl that vibrated through the ground. Despite this Jan’s resolve hardened as he thought of his students—of their faces when he’d told them that learning could be an adventure. He couldn’t let them go two days without learning about the intricacies of maths.

“Alright,” he whispered, his voice steadier now remembering what the instructor of Martial Arts club, Kamaichi had taught him. “Just aim for the head.” He tightened his grip on the sword, muscles tensing as he anticipated the next move.

Suddenly, a figure appeared at the edge of the parking lot, clad in jet-black armour that shimmered ominously in the sunlight. The Harbinger of calamity. Jan’s faltered momentarily as he knew of the rumours regarding their Terrible power. This was the one who had summoned the beast, and now it stood there, watching him with an amused expression.

“Do you really think you can defeat my serpent, teacher?” The voice was deep, laced with mockery. “You wield that sword like a child with a toy.”

Jan’s gaze hardened for even though he trained his proficiency in it to a degree far greater than most, he knew that he probably was one compared to him. “I'll reckon you won't be saying that when I slay this pet of yours .” He turned back to the serpent, which seemed to hesitate, as if sensing the resolve emanating from him. “observe”

With a roar, Jan charged forward, sword poised to strike. He ducked under the serpent’s snapping jaws and aimed for the vulnerable spot behind its head. “Hah!” he cried, bringing the blade down in a swift arc. The serpent twisted, and he felt the rush of air as its tail swung dangerously close, knocking him off balance.

“Get up!” he shouted at himself, scrambling to his feet. The serpent writhed, and he could see the Harbinger stepping closer, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Pathetic,” he sneered. “ You’re a fool To think you can oppose me. ”

“perhaps.” Jan shot back, gaining his footing. “But I was a fool the moment I became a teacher, a fast food worker almost gets paid as much!”

In a flurry of movement, he launched himself at the serpent again, the blade glinting as it sliced through the air. “I will tolerate this no longer!” he declared, determination fuelling his every move. The serpent hissed and lunged, but Jan was quicker this time, rolling to the side and coming up behind it.

“Ah, here we go” He aimed for the soft spot just beneath its skull, adrenaline coursing through him. The sword connected with a dull thud, and for a moment, Jan felt a surge of victory.

But the serpent twisted, and he realised that its scales were thicker than anticipated. It whipped around, anger igniting in its glowing eyes. Jan barely had time to react as it lunged again.

“You little!” Jan said as He jumped aside, narrowly avoiding the snapping jaws. “I can't believe I underestimated A monster of this calibre” His heart raced, but he still stood steadfast, he had seen people fight against greater odds before to get a pair of Brilliant white Air Jordans.

The Harbinger stepped forward, arms crossed. “You’re brave, I’ll give you that. But bravery won’t save you from the inevitable.”

Jan glanced back, breathing hard from the thoroughly good warm-up. “What do you want?” he shouted, frustration spilling over. “Why summon this beast?”

“Chaos is my calling.” The Harbinger spread his arms wide, as if embracing the destruction. “And you—” he pointed a gauntleted hand at Jan, “—are merely a distraction.”

“I could have said the same about you!” Jan shouted, redirecting his focus back to the serpent. It was coiling again, preparing for another strike. “Lets try this again” Doe said

He readied himself, heart racing. The serpent lunged once more, and this time, Jan was ready. He sidestepped and thrust upwards, the sword piercing through the soft scales at the base of its skull. A hiss of pain erupted from the creature, and Jan felt the world around him slow down as he drove the sword deeper.

With a final, deafening roar, the serpent collapsed, its massive body crashing to the ground with a resounding thud that shook the very asphalt beneath Jan’s feet. He gasped with relief, stepping back, breathless as he stared at the fallen creature.

The Harbinger’s expression shifted from amusement to rage. “Impertinent Brat, You may have defeated my serpent,” he spat, “but you cannot defeat I, Kromrondrika!”

Jan turned to face him, sword still in hand, the weight of his victory settling over him. “The chance of that is Low,” he panted, “but never Zero”

Putting his visor down The Harbinger lunged as fast as a thunderbolt, but a year back Jan had caught a bullet behind him in the middle of a lecture before, shot by the quiet kid in the back of the class and without breaking rhythm went behind the troubled boy, knocking him out before continuing his lesson, all before anyone else realised what happened.

He then sidestepped, swinging his sword in a wide arc. The blade glazed off the Rerebrace of the Harbinger’s Dark as night Armour in a shower of sparks, surprisingly causing him to stumble back with a sharp gasp. “How Dare you have the audacity to strike me!”

“I can hit a lot harder than that!” Jan yelled, heart racing. The fight had shifted, and he could feel the tide turning in his favour. Kromrondrika charged again, Dark energy crackling around his sword that would have easily had cut through a tank let alone an unarmoured man, but Jan was ready, his movements driven by instinct and the sheer will to destroy anything that got in the way of his job.

With a deep breath and a fearless mind, Jan prepared for his final offence. He resisted the urge to succumb to panic as he saw The Harbinger's sword cut through the air. Time seemed to slow as he calculated his move; he would use the momentum of his enemy against him. Positioned at just the right angle, he aimed for the unarmored gap at The Harbinger’s neck—a clever vulnerability that had not gone unnoticed “Quick Maths” yelled Jan as he thrust at a blazingly fast speed even for the opponent in front of him, the Sword connected and in that moment, he stumbled back holding his throat and even through the visor Jan can tell he was stunned and when he dropped his sword fell with a clank his final thoughts were about how a mere mortal was able to not only defeat but kill a Great bringer of calamity such as himself, until finally leaving behind only the echo of their fury.

Jan stood panting, the sword trembling in his hand. He looked around at the quiet aftermath—the serpent lay still, Kromrondrika's corpse remained lifeless and the parking lot was filled with a heavy silence. “Well, that was that,” he murmured, wiping sweat from his brow.

Suddenly, he heard the unmistakable sound of people approaching. He turned to see a small group of students had gathered at the edge of the parking lot, their eyes wide with awe and disbelief. “Sir!” one of them shouted, grinning. “That was epic!” Jan knew when he got back to work the next day his students would be glad at his safe return outwardly but secretly be disappointed that the Great beast had only cancelled a single day of school but he cherished the praise for it was moments like this he lived for, “just remember to do your homework tonight” said Jan smiling.

JAMES'S ENCOUNTER

daniel salazar

8/22/24

The cosmos glimmered like a tapestry woven from the dreams of ancient gods. Stars pulsed in rhythmic harmony, casting a soft glow over the moon that James floated above - a blue humanoid hole in space revealing another cosmos within whose radiance was on par with even a pair of brilliant white Air Jordans (not that he cares much for material possessions now) . Once a carefree surfer rode the waves on the sun-kissed beach of venice, california, now a faint far away memory, he had traded his simple life for the boundless expanse of the universe—a journey sparked by an encounter with Bootleg Pete and that transcendent mystery ice-cream of his. Now, he possessed an understanding of reality that transcended the ordinary, a consciousness that soared through the fabric of existence itself.

James perched on a rocky outcrop, gazing at the swirling gas giant that dominated the sky. Its colours danced and shifted, a symphony of blues and greens, punctuated by flashes of crimson lightning that erupted from its depths with a crackling *KRAKOW!* He took a deep breath, filling his Astrol lungs with the cool ether of space, and closed his eyes, allowing the cosmic energy to wash over him.

“Whoa,” he murmured, a smile creeping across his face. “This is unreal.” He opened his eyes again, feeling the weight of the universe pressing gently against his newfound form. Each atom felt alive, vibrating with possibilities. Yet, an unsettling feeling crept over him, like the chill of a distant storm.

*CLANG!*

The sound reverberated through the silence, drawing his gaze across the moon’s desolate surface. Emerging from the shadows, a figure clad in jet-black Armour approached. The armour glimmered ominously, absorbing the starlight, while the figure’s face was obscured by a menacing visor. Two sharp horns arched from the helmet, giving him an otherworldly appearance.

“James,” the figure rasped, his voice like the grinding of stone. “I am Vandecelsh, Grand Master of the Harbingers of Calamity.”

James straightened, almost forgotten instincts flaring. He could feel the dark energy radiating from Vandecelsh, a palpable weight that pressed against his consciousness. “Uh, nice to meet you,” he said, forcing a smile. “But I’m kind of busy right now.”

Vandecelsh tilted his head, a slow, deliberate movement. “Busy? An enlightened being such as yourself should not wander alone among the stars. Allow me to offer you my friendship.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” James replied, his heart pounding, along with feeling he hadn't felt in awhile . “I’ve got my own path to follow.”

The Harbinger’s posture shifted, a ripple of disappointment passing through him. “It is regrettable that you refuse such an alliance. With your power, we could accomplish great things together.”

James’s brow furrowed. “What kind of things?”

“Chaos. Calamity. The unravelling of reality itself.” Vandecelsh’s voice dripped with dark allure, but James felt a shiver crawl down his now stardust spine. “You could be a powerful ally in bringing forth the end of this stagnant existence.”

“Yeah, that’s not really my vibe,” he said, backing away slowly. “I’m more into exploring the universe, you know?”

Vandecelsh straightened, the air around him thickening. “Your refusal is unfortunate.” He raised a hand, fingers curling like claws. “I had hoped you would join me willingly, but I see now that I must persuade you.”

Before James could react, the ground trembled beneath him, and a booming *THUD!* echoed through the air. A colossal shadow loomed behind Vandecelsh, a great beast materialising from the darkness—a lion-like creature, its form shifting and pulsating with cosmic energy. Eyes like burning suns locked onto James, radiating a hunger that sent a jolt of panic through him.

“Oh, wow” he shouted, remnants of his human instinct overriding thought. He dashed sideways as the creature let out a guttural roar, a sound that resonated deep within the moon’s crust. *ROOOAAARRR!* The ground shattered, sending debris flying as the beast lunged forward, claws carving through the air.

James felt a surge of power coursing through him, igniting every fibre of his being. “I can’t let him get me,” he muttered, focusing his energy. Tendrils of light spiralled around him, forming a shield as he faced the oncoming horror. “You want to play?”

With a swift motion, he unleashed a burst of energy greater than that of a star, a radiance that illuminated the moon’s surface. *ZAP!* The blast collided with the beast that would have easily destroyed the planet's satellite they were on if it hadn't, a surge of cosmic brilliance that sent it sprawling back, if only for a moment.

But Vandecelsh laughed, a chilling sound that echoed through the void. “You think you can escape me so easily? This is merely the beginning!”

James didn’t wait for a second attack. He flew off the edge of the moon, the gas giant looming over him like an angry god. “I’ve got to warn Earth,” he gasped, pushing himself to unleash a final surge of speed. The cosmos blurred around him as he rocketed into the void, a steller heart pounding in his chest.

*WHOOSH!*

As he broke through the thin atmosphere, the stars became a dizzying swirl of light and colour. He could still feel the presence of Vandecelsh, like a shadow trailing him through the fabric of reality.

“James!” The voice echoed in his mind, a haunting reminder of the darkness that pursued him. “You cannot escape your destiny!”

“I’m not your pawn!” he shouted back, determination igniting within him. He had tasted the depths of the universe, and he would not allow a Harbinger to dictate his fate.

The gas giant shrank behind him, stars stretching into lines as he propelled himself faster than light, the threat of Vandecelsh and his beast lingering ominously in the recesses of his mind. He had to reach Earth, to warn them of the calamity brewing in the depths of space.

As the familiar blue planet came into view, a sense of urgency clawed at him. Time was running short, and the fate of reality itself hung in the balance.

“Get ready, Earth,” he whispered, determination flooding his veins. “I’m coming.”

And with that, James hurtled toward the planet to the one person he knew might have a chance to do something, Tim. ready to confront the darkness that sought to consume everything he held dear. The stakes were high, and the cosmos buzzed with anticipation—an encounter that would alter the course of not just his life, but perhaps of existence itself.

DOWN TOWN

daniel salazar

8/23/24

The sun hung low over downtown Los Angeles, casting long shadows across the cracked pavements and graffiti-strewn walls. In the midst of this urban sprawl, the fluorescent lights of Walmart flickered like a beacon. Davis Gonzales, a lanky man in his early thirties with tired eyes, pushed a mop across the floor, the rhythmic *swish-swish* barely audible over the distant chatter of customers.

“Davis!” called a voice from the back. It was Marlene, his supervisor, her voice sharp and impatient. “Get a move on! We need those aisles cleaned before the evening rush!”

“On it!” Davis replied, forcing a smile, though his heart wasn't in it. He often found himself daydreaming about the stories he’d heard from that crackhead in the alley. The man, who went by the name of Jack, had fought in the U.S. Rangers, or so he claimed. Davis always thought Jack was just embellishing, a side effect of too many hits of meth, but he liked to listen.

After his shift, Davis made his way to the alley behind the store, a shortcut to his modest flat. The alley was dark, littered with remnants of yesterday's life: crumpled fast-food wrappers, broken bottles, and the omnipresent stench of decay.

“Hey, Jack!” he called, spotting the familiar silhouette hunched over a pile of rags. Jack looked up, his unkempt beard framing a face that was both weathered and wise, eyes sparkling with a manic energy.

“Davis!” Jack grinned, revealing a crooked smile. “Just in time! You won’t believe the exploits I had today.” He brandished his officer sword, the blade gleaming despite the grime. “I single-handedly took down a gang of pirates in the Caribbean!”

Davis chuckled, shaking his head. “Pirates, huh? What were they doing in the desert?”

“Desert pirates! They roam the sands like ghostly phantoms!” Jack exclaimed, his hands gesturing wildly. “But listen, I’ve got a story about the Arch-Bully of the Deep Ghettos. You’ve heard of him, right?”

“Sure,” Davis replied, leaning against the wall. “What about him?”

“Word has it he’s got an army of thugs, and they’re planning something big. You should watch your back, Davis. You never know when they’ll strike!”

Davis laughed lightly, a mix of amusement and concern. “I’m just a Walmart employee, Jack. I don’t think I’m on their radar.” (though Davis knew that anyone who had the guts to deny Bootleg Pete doing business on their territory would be a fool or a very dangerous person Indeed)

“Don’t be so sure,” Jack replied, his tone serious now. “You’re worth more than you think.”

With a wave, Davis turned to leave, the evening air cooling around him. He didn’t believe Jack’s tales, but they made the monotony of his life a little more bearable. As he walked, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. The streets seemed quieter, the shadows a little darker.

Suddenly, a group of boys appeared in front of him, their laughter echoing menacingly. Davis recognised them as the local bullies, the kind who thrived on intimidation.

“Look what we got here,” one of them sneered, stepping forward, his figure bulky and imposing. “It’s the poor little Walmart worker.”

Davis’s heart raced. “Just let me pass,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Not so fast,” the Bully Captain mocked, cracking his knuckles. “I think we’re going to have a little fun.”

Before he could react, the boys lunged. Davis stumbled back, his back hitting the cold wall of the alley. The laughter turned into jeers as they advanced, surrounding him. Panic surged through him as he realised he had nowhere to run.

“Please, I don’t want any trouble!” he pleaded, holding up his hands in surrender.

“Too late for that,” the leader growled, drawing closer. “You’re about to learn what happens to losers like you.”

Just as the situation seemed hopeless, a figure burst into the alley. It was Jack, the crackhead, sword in hand, his coat fluttering behind him like a cape.

“Get away from him!” Jack shouted, his voice filled with authority that belied his ragged appearance.

The gang turned, surprise written across their faces. “What’s this? A crazy old man?” the Bully Captain laughed, but Jack’s fierce gaze silenced him.

With a swift movement, Jack charged in, his sword glinting in the dim light. *Swish!* The blade sliced through the air, catching the first bully off-guard. The boy fell back, a cry escaping his lips as he hit the ground, clutching his arm.

“Run!” one of the others shouted, but Jack was already upon them, a whirlwind of fury and precision. Davis watched in awe as Jack moved with an agility that seemed almost superhuman. Each strike was precise, calculated.

“Get him, you cowards!” the leader shouted, but his bravado wavered as Jack took down another bully with a swift kick, sending him crashing into the trash bins with a *clang!*

Davis felt a surge of adrenaline. “Jack, be careful!” he called, though he was mesmerised by the sheer power of the old man.

Jack faced the leader now, their eyes locked in a battle of wills. “You shouldn’t pick on those weaker than you,” he said, his voice low and steady.

The bully captain smirked, adjusting his stance. “And what are you going to do about it, old man?”

In an instant, they clashed. Jack’s sword met the bully’s brass knuckled fists in an explosion of sparks, each blow echoing in the narrow alley. The sounds of metal clashing against metal mixed with grunts and shouts. Davis held his breath, his heart racing as Jack began to gain the upper hand, his movements fluid and confident.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Jack taunted, dodging a punch and retaliating with a swift slice that barely grazed the bully’s shoulder.

With a burst of energy, the bully captain lunged, but Jack sidestepped, sweeping the man’s legs out from under him. He fell with a *thud*, and Jack stood over him, sword poised.

“Enough!” the bully captain gasped, scrambling back, his bravado shattered. “You can’t do this! You don’t know who I am!”

“I don’t care who you are,” Jack replied, his voice low but firm. “You’re nothing but a coward.”

The bully captain glared, his face contorting in anger. “You’ll pay for this, old man! The Arch-Bully of the Deep Ghettos will hear about this! You’ll regret crossing me!”

With that, he stumbled to his feet and fled the alley, his gang trailing behind him, muttering curses and threats. The echo of their footsteps faded into the distance, leaving a stillness that felt almost surreal.

Davis stepped forward, still trying to process what had just happened. “Jack, that was—”

“Crazy?” Jack finished, sheathing his sword with a flourish. “Yeah, I know. But I wasn’t going to let them hurt you.”

Davis shook his head, a mixture of relief and disbelief washing over him. “Why would you do that for me?”

“Because you’re one of the few who treats me like a person,” Jack replied, his tone softening. “I may be a crackhead, but I have my principles.”

Davis looked into Jack’s eyes, seeing a flicker of the soldier he once was. “You really were in the Rangers, weren’t you?”

Jack nodded, a shadow passing over his face. “Yeah, I was, the 113th Regiment. But that life is gone now. All I have left are these stories... and this sword.”

“I think you’re more than just stories,” Davis said quietly, a newfound respect blossoming within him.

“Maybe,” Jack said with a shrug, glancing around the alley as if seeing it for the first time. “But I need to make sure you’re safe. The Arch-Bully won’t take this lightly.”

Davis felt a chill run down his spine. “What should we do?”

Jack’s expression hardened. “We prepare. I’ll show you how to defend yourself.”

“Me? I’m just a Walmart employee.”

“Exactly. You’re just a regular guy, but that makes you a target just like having a pair of white Air Jordans. We can’t let them win.”

As they stepped out of the alley, Davis felt the weight of Jack’s words. Perhaps he wasn’t just a bystander in his life; perhaps he had a role to play in this unfolding drama.

Over the next few days, Davis trained with Jack in the alleys and rooftops of downtown LA, learning how to wield a makeshift weapon and defend himself. They moved like shadows through the city, Jack always alert, his eyes scanning for any sign of trouble.

“Focus, Davis,” Jack would say, as Davis struggled to master the basics. “You have to be quicker. You can’t let them see your fear.”

“I’m trying!” Davis grunted, sweat trickling down his brow. “It’s not easy when I’m just trying to stay alive!”

Jack chuckled, the sound warm despite the tension. “You’ll get there. Just remember, it’s about the will to fight back.”

Days turned into weeks, and whispers began to circulate about the old crackhead with the sword who had taken on the bullies. The gang started to avoid the streets near the Walmart, their fear palpable. But Davis knew it wouldn’t last.

One evening, as they stood on a rooftop overlooking the city, Jack’s expression darkened. “They’re planning something. I can feel it.”

“Do you think it’s the Arch-Bully?” Davis asked, the name sending a shiver down his spine.

“Could be. But whatever it is, we need to be ready.”

The next day, as Davis walked home from work, he spotted a figure lurking in the shadows. His heart raced as he recognised the bully captain, flanked by a couple of thugs.

“There he is,” the captain sneered, stepping forward. “The Walmart loser. You thought you could hide?”

Davis’s throat went dry. “I’m not hiding,” he stammered, trying to sound braver than he felt.

“Just a little chat,” the captain said, a cruel grin spreading across his face. “You’ve been a thorn in our side, and I think it’s time to settle this.”

Davis took a step back, his mind racing. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Too late for that,” came the familiar voice of Jack as he emerged from the shadows, sword in hand. “You’re not touching him.”

The bully captain’s expression soured. “You again? I should have known you’d come crawling back.”

“You don’t want to do this,” Jack warned, his grip steady on the sword. “You’re outmatched.”

“You think you can take me on again?” the captain spat, puffing out his chest. “You’re just a washed-up junkie.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

With a sudden roar, the captain lunged at Jack, fists swinging. The alley erupted into chaos, the sound of flesh meeting flesh mixing with the clang of metal.

Davis felt fear claw at his insides, but he couldn’t just stand by. He picked up a nearby piece of broken wood, trying to find his courage. “Stay away from him!” he shouted, though his voice trembled.

Jack fought valiantly, dodging and weaving, his movements fluid, cutting down the bullies one by one. He landed a blow with the pommel of his sword that sent one of the thugs sprawling, but the captain was relentless.

“Get him!” the captain yelled at his remaining goon, who charged at Jack from the side.

Davis could see Jack was tiring, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. “Jack!” he yelled, adrenaline flooding his system. He swung the wood with all his might, catching the goon in the side. The thug stumbled, surprised, and fell to the ground.

“Davis!” Jack shouted, a mix of surprise and pride in his voice. “Stay back!”

But Davis couldn’t stop now. He charged forward, the wooden plank raised high, ready to defend his friend. The captain sneered, turning his attention back to Davis.

“Look at you, playing hero,” he mocked. “You think you can save him?”

“I’ll do whatever it takes!” Davis shouted, his heart pounding.

In a flash, Jack took advantage of the distraction, launching a swift strike that caught the bully captain off-guard, sending him crashing against the brick wall.

“You don’t belong here,” Jack said, standing tall over him. “This is your last warning.”

The captain, shaken, scrambled to his feet. “You’ll regret this!” he spat, stumbling away, his pride shattered.

As the alley grew quiet, Davis lowered the plank, panting heavily. “Did we do it?” he asked, disbelief flooding his voice.

Jack nodded, a grin spreading across his face. “We did. You stood up for yourself, Davis. I’m proud of you.”

Davis felt a swell of warmth, the weight of his earlier doubts lifting. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Just remember, it’s not over. The Arch-Bully won’t let this go.”

“Then we’ll be ready,” Davis replied, determination hardening in his chest.

And for the first time in a long while, he felt alive, ready to face whatever challenge came next in the sprawling maze of Los Angeles. Together, they would stand against the darkness that threatened their streets, the bond between them forged in the fires of adversity.

As they walked out of the alley, side by side, Davis knew that he wasn’t just a Walmart employee anymore. He was part of a story, a fight worth fighting, and he was ready to embrace it.

Which was fortunate because a few months later when The sun dipped low over the city, it cast an elongated shadow across the cracked pavement of an alleyway. Davis paced back and forth, his heart racing. He had come a long way since Jack saved him from the bullies a few months back, and under Jack's … unorthodox tutelage to say the least, Davis had honed his skills, learning combat techniques and improving his physical abilities to a high degree (he decimated an abandoned car in 5 punches flat during one training session) . he was meeting Jack after work, a ritual that had for better or for worse been something they always did, but today he was taking longer than usual .

“Where the hell is he? It's not like he has much to do” Davis muttered, glancing at his watch. The minutes seemed to stretch into hours. He leaned against the cool, grimy wall of the alley, the faint hum of traffic in the distance a reminder of the normalcy outside the gritty world of the alleyways that had been abandoned by the city's democrats.

Just as he was about to pull out his phone, a heavy footfall echoed from the entrance of the alley. Davis turned, his breath hitching in his throat. Emerging from the shadows was the Arch-Bully of the Deep-Ghettos Infamous second, The Arch-Bully of the Shallow Ghettos, clad in his intimidating high-quality Armour and opened visor that glinted menacingly even in the dim light. A sight Davis knew he had to one day face but never actually thought would come.

“Ah, look who we have here,” the bully sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. “Davis Gonzales and his little friend. I suggest you surrender now, or things are going to get messy.” He cracked his knuckles through his gauntlets, the sound reverberating off the walls like a foreboding drumroll.

Davis’s heart raced, his instincts screaming at him to run. But he stood his ground, fists clenched by his sides. “We’re not afraid of you,” he shot back, trying to sound braver than he felt forgoing the fact that he was currently alone.

“Is that so?” The Arch-Bully stepped further into the alley, the light catching the sharp edges of his armour. “You think you can take me on after a few lessons I heard you had been taking from your little crackhead mentor? Pathetic.”

Just then, Jack appeared from behind a dumpster, his unkempt beard wild and eyes gleaming with determination. “You picked the wrong alley, mate,” he growled, brandishing his old officer's sword once again. “Get ready for a lesson in humility.”

The Arch-Bully laughed, a cruel sound that echoed in the enclosed space. “Humility? You think you can teach me that? Let’s see what you’ve got!”

With a roar, the Arch-Bully lunged at them, and the fight erupted with a flurry of movement. Jack swung his sword, the blade glinting in the fading light, while Davis mirrored his movements, adrenaline coursing through him. They were a team, and for the first time, Davis felt a thrill of confidence.

“Watch your left!” Jack shouted as he ducked beneath a powerful swing from the Arch-Bully that was far more powerful than the bully captains had been, the air crackling with tension.

Davis sidestepped, and threw a punch with a force that would have shattered a lesser opponent squarely on the bully's jaw. “Take that!” he shouted, a surge of triumph rushing through him.

But the Arch-Bully retaliated with a swift kick that sent Davis sprawling against the wall. “You’re stronger than I thought,” he grunted, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. “But not strong enough!”

With a roar, the Arch-Bully unleashed a torrent of energy, blasting Davis against the wall with a force that knocked the wind out of him. “No!” Jack yelled, fury igniting in his chest. He charged forward, sword raised, and with a mighty swing, he struck the Arch-Bully’s armoured frame hard enough to send him crashing through a wall, bricks flying in all directions.

Davis scrambled to his feet, gasping for air. “Jack, watch out!” he shouted as the bully staggered to his feet, eyes glowing with fury as he put down his visor.

“Oh, you’re going to pay for that,” the Arch-Bully hissed, energy crackling around him like a storm. He raised his hands, sending blasts of raw power towards Jack, who barely dodged in time.

“Davis! We need to move!” Jack shouted, his voice a mix of urgency and adrenaline. “Stick close!”

“Right!” Davis replied, determination flooding back. They raced through the alley, the Arch-Bully's energy blasts narrowly missing them, exploding against the walls and sending debris flying.

Suddenly, Jack stopped, rummaging through his tattered coat. “Here, take this!” He tossed a gummy bear super vitamin to Davis, who caught it clumsily.

“What’s this?” Davis asked, eyeing the small Gummy suspiciously.

“Something I got from Bootleg Pete,” Jack said with a grin. “Just trust me!”

Davis popped it in his mouth and swallowed the yellow gummy without hesitation. Almost immediately, he felt a surge of energy coursing through him, revitalising every nerve ending. “Whoa! This is—”

“Focus!” Jack interrupted, already sprinting towards the street, the sounds of chaos echoing behind them.

They burst into the bustling street, weaving through pedestrians who barely noticed the mayhem behind them. “He’s not going to let us get away,” Jack panted, glancing back as the Arch-Bully emerged from the alley, his rage palpable.

“Then we give him a show,” Davis said, adrenaline pumping. “Let’s go!”

In a flash, they were running through the streets at hyper-sonic speeds, weaving between cars and pedestrians. The city became a blur, their surroundings collapsing into a kaleidoscope of movement. Buildings shook as the Arch-Bully started dashing after them, unleashing blasts that shattered windows and sent people screaming into the streets.

“Keep moving!” Jack urged, dodging a blast that obliterated a lamppost. “We have to tire him out!”

They zigzagged through the city, the Arch-Bully relentlessly pursuing them, his power growing with every step. “You think you can outrun me?” he roared, fury echoing in his voice. “You’re nothing but insects!”

“Maybe,” Jack called back, “but they called me mad Jack for a reason!” He leapt onto a nearby rooftop in a blur, the movement fluid and instinctual. “Come on, Davis!”

Davis followed, using every ounce of the energy from the super vitamin. They leapt from rooftop to rooftop, the city sprawling beneath them like a chaotic battlefield.

“Let’s end this!” Davis shouted, drawing on the strength he had gained from Jack’s training. They landed in an abandoned warehouse, the air thick with dust and shadows.

“Here!” Jack pointed to a series of old steel boxes stacked against one wall. “We can use these as cover!”

As they took positions behind the crates, the Arch-Bully crashed through the entrance, his armour gleaming ominously. “You think you can hide from me?” he taunted, voice echoing in the silent warehouse.

“Let’s give him a taste of his own medicine,” Jack whispered, glancing at Davis. “On three.”

“One… two…” they both held their breath, hearts racing.

“Three!” They sprang from their hiding spots, launching a barrage of attacks. Jack swung his sword, while Davis threw everything he had into a punch that connected with the Arch-Bully’s Breastplate with the force of a large bomb.

The bully staggered back, momentarily stunned. “You think you can defeat me?” he roared, but now there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

“We’re not afraid of you!” Davis shouted, newfound confidence surging through him. “You’re just a bully!”

With a furious scream, the Arch-Bully charged, glowing gauntlet raised but this time Jack was ready. He sidestepped, using the momentum to swing his sword low, striking his poleyn knocking him off balance. “Now, Davis!” he yelled.

Davis didn’t hesitate. He launched himself at the Arch-Bully, fists flying, landing blow after blow cracking Armour and bone until the bully stumbled to the ground, panting heavily. “This is for everyone you’ve terrorised!” Davis shouted, his voice filled with righteous fury.

The ArchBully looked up through the torn steel of his visor , fury giving way to desperation. “You think this is the end? You have no idea who I work for!”

Jack stepped forward, sword poised. “We don’t care anymore. This ends now.”

With one final thrust, Jack brought the sword forward, the tip aimed directly at the Arch-Bully’s chest. But he stopped inches away, breathing heavily. “You’re done. Get up and leave. Tell your boss we’re coming for him next.”

The Arch-Bully glared, but the fire in his eyes had dimmed. With a grunt, he scrambled to his feet and fled the warehouse, his now in tatters armour clanging as he retreated into the night.

Davis and Jack stood in the silence that followed, panting and covered in sweat. “Did we… Did we really just do that?” Davis breathed, still buzzing from the energy of the fight.

Jack grinned, a weary but proud smile. “You did, kid. You did good.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Davis said, a sense of camaraderie swelling in his chest.

“Just remember, this is only the beginning,” Jack replied, sheathing his sword. “There are always bigger fish, as I'm sure we will find out if The Arch-Bully of the Deep-Ghettos ever decides to deal with problems personally instead of sending his crooneys.”

As they stepped out of the warehouse, the night sky stretched above them, stars twinkling like distant promises. Davis looked up, a sense of hope blossoming within him. “Whatever comes next, I’m ready.”

“Yeah, you are,” Jack said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

Together, they walked into the night, ready to face whatever challenges awaited them in the chaotic streets of Los Angeles. The city, with all its dangers and darkness, felt a little brighter now, the bond between them stronger than ever.

AIR JORDANS

daniel salazar

8/26/24

Timmy (no longer little) stood outside the towering brick facade of Eastwood High, his heart racing with a blend of excitement and trepidation. The school buzzed with life as students milled around, laughter punctuating the air. It was a new beginning, but he knew it came with a price. He glanced down at his feet, where the radiant white Air Jordans gleamed under the autumn sun. They were more than just shoes; they were a symbol of status, a beacon that christened him a Cool Kid, and that would draw attention, both good and bad.

“Oi, mate! Nice kicks!” a tall boy with spiked hair called out, his eyes glinting with admiration and something else—desire, perhaps.

“Cheers,” Timmy replied with a casual grin, but his instincts kicked in. He’d learned early on that admiration could quickly turn into envy.

As he entered the cafeteria, the atmosphere shifted. Conversations hushed, heads turned, and eyes zeroed in on him like hawks spotting prey. Timmy swallowed, a rush of nerves flooding through him despite his outward swagger of the most undeniable calibre. He could practically feel the tension building, the anticipation of something inevitable lurking in the back of his mind.

“Hey, you! Yeah, you!” A burly teen with a tattoo of a skull on his forearm stormed over, his friends trailing behind him like eager wolves. “Give us the Jordans.”

Timmy looked up, their faces a mix of intimidation and bravado. “Nah, I’m good.”

The tattooed teen’s eyes narrowed. “You think you’re too cool for us? Hand ’em over, or you’ll regret it!, I'm a part of the Arch-bullie of the Deep Ghettos Gang.”

Timmy felt a familiar surge of adrenaline. He’d been here before—too many times to count and too many goons from mafia bosses and Cartel leaders to recall. “I said no,” he replied, his voice steady.

“Not a smart move, newbie.” The kid lunged, but Timmy was ready. Years of training in martial arts kicked in, his body moving with instinctual precision. He sidestepped, delivering a swift kick to the kid’s knee The sound of a dull thud echoed as the teen crumpled to the ground, a pained gasp escaping his lips.

“Ugh!”

Gasps rippled through the cafeteria. The other students seemed torn between awe and fear. In an instant, chaos erupted. Timmy found himself surrounded as the bullies' friends charged at him. He rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding a punch that sailed past his head. “Not today!” he shouted, countering with a well-placed jab to another attacker’s stomach, sending him sprawling into a table filled with lunch trays.

“Whoa!” a girl yelled, clutching her sandwich, her eyes wide. “This is insane!”

Timmy was in his element, the movements of his martial training born from necessity flowing through him like a dance. He dodged and weaved, using his opponents’ momentum against them. A swing aimed at his head missed, and he retaliated with a low kick that sent the attacker tumbling backwards, crashing into a group of startled onlookers.

“Get him!” shouted a voice from the crowd, and like a wave, more students surged forward.

Timmy’s heart raced, but he felt a surge of adrenaline. He was in control, his training guiding him. He grabbed a wrist here, twisted an arm there, and with a *crack*He knocked another opponent down with a roundhouse kick to the back of the head. The cafeteria erupted into a cacophony of shouts and gasps, the sound of sneakers squeaking against the tiled floor mingling with the *thud* of bodies hitting the ground.

“Stop him!” someone cried, but they were met with more resistance than they bargained for. Timmy danced around them, a whirlwind of controlled power. He was aware of the stakes—his Air Jordans were worth fighting for, but so was his dignity. He would not be a victim.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he taunted, a smirk tugging at his lips as he dodged another strike. His confidence soared as he realised he could handle this.

With a final, sweeping kick, he sent the last attacker tumbling into a table, the loud *crash* echoing through the cafeteria. Silence fell in the aftermath, the only sounds being the groans of injured students and the distant ringing of a bell.

Timmy stood in the centre of the chaos, breathing heavily. He surveyed the scene: bodies sprawled across the floor, some nursing wounds, others simply stunned. The Bully groaned at his feet, clutching his knee.

“Next time, think twice before challenging someone,” Timmy said, his voice steady but laced with a hint of triumph. He turned, put on a pair of sunglasses he had in his pocket and strode towards the exit, feeling the weight of their stares shift from hostility to awe.

As he walked out, the cafeteria door swinging shut behind him, he heard the whispers start. “Did you see that? He just took them all out!”

“Who does he think he is? The new king?”

Timmy couldn’t help but grin. The stakes had been high, but he had faced them head-on, and now he was no longer just the new kid—he was someone to be reckoned with, something he had to teach his fellow students in his last school.

In his next class, a History lesson, he found a seat in the back, still buzzing with the adrenaline of the fight. The teacher droned on about ancient civilisations, but Timmy’s mind wandered back to the cafeteria. He had proven himself, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning.

“Nice show back there,” a girl whispered from the desk beside him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’m Mia, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Timmy replied, trying to sound nonchalant. “I didn’t exactly plan on it, but I expected it.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’ve got some serious skills.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Just a tip, though: you might want to watch your back. Those guys don’t take defeat lightly.”

“I can handle myself,” he said, a hint of bravado creeping into his tone. But her words lingered, wrapping around him like a vine. He had fought them off today, but what about tomorrow?

As the bell rang, signalling the end of class, Mia stood up and stretched. “Let’s see if you can take on the rest of the school at lunch. I’ll be watching.”

Timmy chuckled nervously. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur, with Timmy navigating the halls like a celebrity. Whispers followed him, excitement crackling in the air. He was the boy who could fight, the boy with the Radiant Jordans. But the thrill was laced with a growing sense of unease. He had made an impression, but at what cost?

As lunch approached, dread settled in his stomach. He had proven his worth, but the attention was intoxicating yet dangerous. He could already imagine the next wave of challengers, the looming threat of retaliation.

In the cafeteria, he took a deep breath and walked in, the atmosphere shifting as heads turned once more. He spotted Mia at a table, waving him over. He made his way through the crowd, trying to ignore the hostile glares from the remnants of the defeated group.

“You survived,” she grinned, gesturing to the empty seat. “I was starting to think you’d become a legend overnight.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Timmy replied, sitting down. “I’m still the new kid.”

“Maybe, but you’ve got a reputation now.” She leaned in, her expression serious. “You need to be careful. You’ve sparked something, and it’s not just admiration.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured that out,” he said, glancing around at the students who were now whispering and pointing. “What do you think will happen?”

Mia shrugged, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the room. “I’d say a rematch is on the horizon. They’ll want to reclaim their pride, and you’re the target.”

“Great. Just what I need,” Timmy muttered, running a hand through his hair. He felt the weight of the shoes on his feet, a reminder of the power they bestowed and the danger they attracted.

As if on cue, the Bully from earlier appeared, flanked by a few of his friends. They approached with purpose, and Timmy’s stomach dropped.

“Looks like you’re not done yet,” Mia whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Timmy,” the buzz-cut kid said, his voice low and strained. “You think you can just walk in here and take what’s ours? You need to prove yourself again.”

Timmy stood up, adrenaline surging once more. “I’m not afraid of you or your crew. You lost, remember?”

The kid sneered, his expression darkening. “That was just a warm-up. We’re going to settle this properly. A duel. You against us—no more games.”

A hush fell over the cafeteria as students leaned in, the tension palpable. Timmy’s heart raced. This was it. The stakes had been raised, and he couldn’t back down now. “Fine,” he declared, his voice ringing with defiance. “Let’s do this.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd as they began to form a circle around the two groups. Timmy felt the weight of their expectations, the need to prove himself once more, he needed to not only Win but dominate. He looked at Mia, who gave him an encouraging nod.

As they faced off, Timmy’s mind raced. He would have to rely on his training and instincts, but he also needed to be smart. He couldn’t let the adrenaline cloud his judgement. The Bully took a step forward, signalling his friends to surround Timmy, who remained composed at the centre of the circle.

“On three,” the Bully kid said, his confidence unwavering. “One… two…”

The tension coiled like a spring. Timmy could feel it in the air, a crackle of energy that mirrored his own resolve.

“Three!” The word echoed as they charged, a wave of bodies surging forward.

Timmy dodged the first attacker, spinning and delivering a calculated blow to the side of a head. *Whack!* A punch landed on his ribs, but he absorbed the pain. He wasn't able to defend what's his by being fragile, countering with a swift kick that sent the assailant sprawling.

“Get him!” someone cried, and the swarm pressed in. Timmy fought with precision, dancing around the chaos, ensuring not to cause unnecessary harm. He could hear the gasps and cheers from the crowd, the sound ofJordans slapping against the floor as bodies collided.

“Come on, Timmy!” Mia shouted from the sidelines, her voice cutting through the noise. “Show them what you’ve got!”

With every move, Timmy felt the thrill of battle coursing through him. He was not the new kid; he was a cool kid. He sidestepped another blow, delivering a punch that sent a student flying into the wall with a *thud* leaving a crater in the wake.

But as the fight wore on, fatigue began to set in. He was outnumbered, and while he remained in control, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was pushing his limits. The Bully kid was still in the mix, rallying his friends, and they were growing more desperate.

“Together!” the kid shouted, and with that, they charged as one.

Timmy braced himself, focusing on the rhythm of their movements. He took a deep breath, letting instinct guide him. He ducked low, sweeping one leg out to take down two attackers at once. *Crash!* They hit the floor, and for a moment, the tide seemed to turn in his favour.

But then, he felt a sharp pain in his side as someone landed a blow he hadn’t seen coming. He stumbled, his vision blurring momentarily. The Bully kid seized the opportunity, lunging forward, but Timmy reacted, pivoting just in time to send him crashing down again.

“Not today!” Timmy shouted, determination flooding through him. He could feel the crowd’s energy, their support fuelling him. He wasn’t just fighting for himself anymore; he was fighting for respect.

As the last of the challengers fell to the floor from a karate chop to the back, humiliated and defeated, Timmy took a moment to catch his breath. The cafeteria was silent, the air thick with disbelief. He stood tall, chest heaving, looking over the sea of students who now regarded him with awe.

“Who’s next?” he panted, a triumphant grin breaking through.

But instead of more challengers, a wave of applause erupted. “Timmy! Timmy!” they chanted, the sound echoing off the walls.

He couldn’t help but laugh, the rush of victory washing over him. In that moment, he realised the true power of his Air Jordans wasn’t just in their shine or the status they conferred. It was in the strength he had cultivated, the friendships he had begun to forge, and the respect he had earned.

As the crowd began to disperse, Mia approached him, a proud smile on her lips. “That was incredible! You really showed them.”

“Thanks,” he replied, still riding the high of adrenaline. “I didn’t think I’d actually make it out in one piece.”

“You’re going to be a legend around here,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Just remember, with great power comes…”

“Great responsibility?” Timmy finished, chuckling. “Yeah, I get it, I watched spider man as well.”

“Right. Just don’t let it go to your head,” she warned, nudging him playfully. “We’ve got a reputation to uphold now.”

Timmy grinned, the weight of the day finally settling in. “I guess I’ll have to keep practising then.”

As they walked out of the cafeteria together, he felt a sense of belonging begin to blossom. The battle had been tough, but it had forged connections and respect. He was no longer just a new kid in radiant shoes; he was part of something bigger, a community that had embraced him despite the chaos.

And as he stepped into the bustling hallway, he knew this was just the beginning of his journey at Eastwood High.

TRIP TO MEXICO

daniel salazar

8/27/24

The sun hung high over Vera Cruz, casting a warm glow on the vibrant streets filled with laughter and the intoxicating scent of street food. Rory adjusted his sunglasses, glancing at the colourful stalls bursting with fresh fruits and handmade crafts. “This place is incredible!” he exclaimed, nudging his friend, Ben, who was busy snapping photos of everything around them.

“Yeah, it’s like a postcard!” Ben replied, his voice filled with excitement. “Let’s get some beers before we head to that restaurant. What was it called again?”

“Los Tres Hermanos,” Rory said, recalling the reviews he had read. “But it’s in the other direction.”

“Directions, schmerctions!” Ben waved his hand dismissively. “Just follow me. We’ll find it.” With that, he turned onto a narrow street, oblivious to Rory’s hesitant expression.

“Are you sure this is the right way?” Rory asked, his brow furrowing slightly as they passed a group of men loitering on the corner. They wore dark glasses and had an air of menace about them, but Ben was too busy scrolling through his phone to notice.

“Of course! Just a bit further!” Ben laughed, his carefree attitude infectious. Rory couldn’t help but chuckle, despite the prickling unease creeping up his spine.

As they ventured deeper into the unfamiliar area, the atmosphere shifted. The cheerful sounds of the market faded, replaced by a tense silence. Rory caught a glimpse of the men again, and his heart raced. “Ben, I really think we should turn back.”

“Oh, come on! Look at them!” Ben pointed across the street, oblivious. “They’re just chilling. Maybe they know where the restaurant is!”

“Ben, those guys don’t look like they’re just chilling,” Rory said, his voice dropping. He leaned closer, squinting at the men. “I think they might be cartel members.”

“Cartel? Nah, you’re being paranoid,” Ben scoffed, laughing loudly. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Rory opened his mouth to argue, but before he could respond, Ben shouted, “Oi! You lot aren’t planning to rob us, are you?”

Rory felt his stomach drop. The laughter faded from the street, and all eyes turned to them. The men exchanged glances, their expressions darkening.

“Ben, no!” Rory hissed, grabbing his friend’s arm, but it was too late.

One of the men stepped forward, his voice a low growl. “What did you say, gringo?”

“Just joking, mate!” Ben said, half-heartedly waving his hands, but the tension was palpable. Rory’s heart raced as he glanced back at the group. They were closing in fast.

“Run!” Rory shouted, yanking Ben along as they sprinted down the street. The sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind them, punctuated by shouts in rapid Spanish. “We need to get out of here!”

Ben laughed nervously. “What’s the plan? Just keep running?”

“Find somewhere to hide!” Rory yelled, scanning their surroundings. They ducked into an alley, the narrow walls closing in around them. They pressed against the damp brick, trying to catch their breath as the footsteps faded for a moment.

“Do you think we lost them?” Ben panted, his face flushed.

Just then, the shadows deepened, and the men appeared at the alley’s entrance, their faces twisted in anger. One of them pointed at Rory and Ben, and within moments, they were grabbed and pulled roughly into the light.

“Hey, let go of us!” Rory shouted, struggling against their grip, but it was no use. The men were too strong.

“Shut up!” one of them barked, and Rory’s heart sank further as they were shoved into a van, the door slamming shut behind them.

The ride was a blur of sharp turns and jarring bumps, Rory’s mind racing with thoughts of escape. Ben sat beside him, wide-eyed but oddly unfazed. “This is just a misunderstanding, right?” he whispered, trying to keep his voice light.

“Misunderstanding? We just insulted a cartel!” Rory replied, his anxiety bubbling to the surface. “We need to think of something!”

After what felt like an eternity, the van came to a halt. They were yanked out and blindfolded, disoriented sounds of chatter surrounding them. Rory’s heart raced as they were led into a dimly lit room. The blindfolds were removed, and they blinked against the harsh light.. "Well, this is…different," Ben said weakly, trying to lighten the mood, but the glimmer of fear in his eyes betrayed him.

At the front of the room stood the cartel leader, his scowl deepening as he surveyed them. "You think this is funny?" he growled, stepping closer.

Rory swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. "No, sir. We’re really sorry."

Ben, however, had a different idea. As the leader turned his back to speak to his men (probably to ready some tools if harsher punishment is required) , Ben began to pull silly faces, bulging his eyes and pouting his lips, clearly trying to break the tension. Rory's heart raced as he watched, horrified that his friend could be so reckless.

"Silencio!" one of the cartel members snapped, but Ben just kept going, eliciting a few hesitant chuckles from the others. Rory felt a mix of disbelief and admiration.

The leader turned back abruptly, his expression darkening. "You disrespect my men, and you disrespect me. Do you understand?" he rumbled, his voice echoing ominously in the small room.

Rory opened his mouth to speak, but Ben piped up instead, "We’re just two tourists making bad choices! Isn’t that what vacations are for?"

Rory’s eyes widened as he realised how close they were to crossing a line.

"Enough!" the leader bellowed, and Rory braced for the worst.

But instead, a strange flicker of amusement crossed the leader’s face. He turned back to his men, and Rory seized the moment. "We didn’t mean to offend. We’re just—"

"Only gringos would joke in such a situation," the leader interrupted, a smirk breaking through his scowl. "You’re lucky I have a sense of humour."

The tension in the room shifted slightly, but Rory wasn’t ready to breathe a sigh of relief just yet. "Thank you," he said cautiously, unsure of what would happen next.

"You will leave this place and never return," the leader warned, his tone grave. "If I hear from you again, it will not be so amusing."

Ben rolled his eyes, clearly not taking it seriously. "Yeah, yeah, I get it."

Rory’s heart dropped as he realised how foolish Ben was being. The cartel members exchanged dark looks, and Rory could feel the atmosphere shift once more.

"Let’s go," the leader commanded, and they were roughly untied and pushed back towards the van.

As they were escorted back to the van, Rory shot a warning look at Ben, who shrugged, a grin still plastered on his face.

When the van stopped, they were unceremoniously dumped onto the curb in a less than savoury part of town. The door slammed shut, and the engine roared to life as they sped away.

Rory inhaled deeply, his heart still racing. “We made it,” he said, disbelief lacing his voice.

Ben straightened, brushing off his clothes. “See? All bark, no bite!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the empty street.

Rory’s stomach dropped as he turned to Ben, horror etched on his face. “What are you doing?”

Just then, the van screeched to a halt, and the men piled out, fury etched on their faces. “¡Hijos de puta!” one shouted, brandishing a baseball bat.

"Run!" Rory yelled, grabbing Ben's arm and pulling him away, but as they sprinted down the street, Rory cast a forlorn glance back at the approaching cartel members, the realisation hitting him hard.

What had started as a fun vacation had spiralled into a nightmare, all because of one reckless comment from his friend. The stakes were high, and they were far from safe.

The reality of their situation crashed down around Rory as they dashed through the narrow streets of Vera Cruz. “You and your big mouth!” Rory yelled, adrenaline coursing through him.

“Hey, I was just trying to lighten the mood!” Ben shot back, panting heavily.

“Next time, think before you speak!” Rory retorted, his mind racing as they turned a corner.

But the men were relentless, their shouts echoing behind them. With every turn, Rory felt the weight of their mistake hanging over them like a storm cloud. They darted into another alley, breathless and desperate.

“Do you think we lost them?” Ben gasped, leaning against the wall.

“I doubt it,” Rory replied, anxiety bubbling within him. “We need to find a way out of here.”

A sudden noise startled them; the sound of footsteps approaching. Rory’s heart raced as he looked around frantically, searching for an escape route.

“Quick, there!” Ben pointed at a door slightly ajar. Without a second thought, they slipped inside, shutting the door behind them.

They found themselves in a dusty old storage room, filled with crates and bags. The muffled voices from outside made Rory’s heart pound. “What now?” Ben whispered, panic creeping into his voice.

“Wait it out,” Rory suggested, glancing around for anything that could help. “We can’t risk being caught.”

As they crouched behind a stack of crates, Rory’s mind raced. They had come to Vera Cruz for a relaxing holiday, and now they were hiding from a cartel. This wasn’t how he had envisioned the trip.

“What if they find us?” Ben’s voice trembled, and Rory could see the fear in his eyes.

“They won’t. We just have to stay quiet,” Rory replied, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

Time seemed to stretch as they listened to the chaotic sounds outside, the shouts and laughter of the men mingling with their own frayed nerves. Rory felt the weight of their situation bearing down on him, and the prospect of being caught loomed like a dark shadow.

Eventually, the voices faded, replaced by an unsettling silence. Rory and Ben exchanged wary glances, both knowing they needed to make a plan.

“Maybe we can sneak out the back?” Ben suggested, eyes darting around the room.

“Yeah, but we need to be careful. They could be waiting for us anywhere,” Rory replied, his mind racing through possible escape routes.

After a few tense moments, they carefully crept towards the door, Rory peeking through the crack. The coast seemed clear, but his heart thudded in his chest. “Alright, on three,” he whispered. “One… two… three!”

They pushed the door open slowly, slipping outside. The alley was empty, but they knew they couldn’t let their guard down.

“Let’s get back to the main road,” Rory urged, and they began to move cautiously, sticking to the shadows.

Just as they reached the end of the alley, a figure stepped into their path. Rory froze, his heart racing. It was one of the cartel members, and he looked furious.

“Hey!” he shouted, pointing at them. “You! Get back here!”

“Run!” Rory yelled, grabbing Ben’s arm as they bolted down the street, the sound of angry shouts echoing behind them once more.

They raced through the winding alleys, their breaths coming in quick gasps as they dodged around corners, desperation fuelling their flight. Rory’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, but one thing was clear: they had to get out of this mess.

“Where are we going?” Ben gasped, his face pale.

“I don’t know!” Rory shouted back, adrenaline surging through him. “Just keep moving!”

They burst onto a busier street, the throngs of people giving them a moment’s reprieve. Rory quickly scanned the crowd, looking for any sign of safety.

“Maybe we can blend in?” Ben suggested, his voice shaky.

“Good idea,” Rory replied, trying to keep his composure. They hurried to a nearby café, ducking inside just as the cartel members emerged onto the street.

“Coffees for two?” Rory said quickly to the barista, flashing a smile that felt more like a grimace.

“Yeah, sure,” the barista replied, eyeing them curiously.

Rory and Ben took a seat in the back, their hearts racing as they tried to calm their breathing. They could see the cartel members scanning the street outside, searching for them.

“I can’t believe we’re in this mess,” Rory muttered, shaking his head. “All because of your stupid joke.”

“Hey, I didn’t know they’d take it so seriously!” Ben replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “What are we going to do?”

“Wait it out,” Rory suggested, trying to regain his focus. “We need to stay low until they leave.”

As they sat in the café, Rory felt the weight of their predicament pressing on him. Everything had spiralled out of control, and it was all because of a few careless words.

After a tense few minutes, the cartel members finally moved on, their voices fading into the distance. Rory let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, relief washing over him.

“Are we in the clear?” Ben asked, peering out the window.

“I think so,” Rory replied, glancing around the café. “But we can’t stay here forever.”

“What do we do next?” Ben asked, anxiety creeping back into his voice.

“Let’s head back to the hotel,” Rory suggested. “We’ll figure things out there.”

As they left the café, Rory felt a renewed sense of determination. They would get through this, and they would certainly be more careful in the future.

The streets felt different now, the vibrant colours muted by the weight of their experience. “I promise, next time I’ll listen to you,” Ben said, his voice serious.

“Let’s just make it back first,” Rory replied, his heart still racing. They navigated the winding streets, staying alert for any signs of trouble.

Finally, they arrived at their hotel, a sense of relief flooding over them. As they stepped into the lobby, Rory felt the tension begin to ease. They had escaped, but the lesson would stay with him forever.

“Maybe we should just stay in for the rest of the trip?” Ben suggested, a sheepish grin on his face.

“Agreed,” Rory replied, returning the smile. “And how about we skip the jokes for a while?”

“Fine by me,” Ben said, laughing lightly. “I’d rather not end up in a cartel again.”

As they made their way to their room, Rory felt a sense of camaraderie with Ben. They had faced danger together, and despite the chaos, they had come out stronger.

“Let’s order room service and watch some terrible movies,” Rory suggested, a grin breaking across his face.

“Now you’re talking!” Ben replied, chuckling.

Rory knew they would look back on this trip one day and laugh, but for now, he was just grateful to be safe. As they settled into their room, the bright lights of Vera Cruz twinkling outside, he knew he had to leave back to the states tomorrow if he valued his life but today Rory can already tell, was one he will remember for the rest of his life.

BOXING CHAMPION

daniel salazar

8/28/24

The arena buzzed with electricity, a thrumming anticipation coursing through the crowd like a live wire. Matt sat on the edge of his seat, his heart racing in time with the chants of the spectators surrounding him. The dim lights overhead caught the glint of sweat on the fighters below, illuminating the massive octagonal cage in the centre of the arena. It was a world he had idolised, a world where his father reigned supreme.

“Look at him, Matt!” his mother shouted over the roar, her voice strained with excitement and a hint of worry. “Your father looks like a gladiator!”

Matt nodded, wide-eyed, as he scanned the muscular figure of his father, Joseph “The Titan” Ramsey, bouncing lightly on his feet in the corner of the ring. The crowd erupted into thunderous applause as the announcer's voice boomed, “Ladies and gentlemen! Tonight, we have a title match for the ages! In this corner, the undefeated champion, Joseph ‘The Titan’ Ramsey!”

“Go on, Dad!” Matt shouted, his voice lost in the cacophony. He clutched a small, worn-out teddy bear, a relic from his childhood, the only piece of comfort amidst the chaos. He could feel the warmth of his mother’s hand gripping his shoulder, her anxiety palpable.

As the bell rang, the atmosphere shifted. Joseph sprang into action, his movements fluid and powerful. With every punch, every dodge, Matt felt his chest swell with pride. “He’s unstoppable!” he yelled, his voice rising as he leaned forward, hanging on every swing and jab.

The first round passed, and Joseph dominated, showcasing the skill that had made him a champion. Each punch landed with a *thud*, and the crowd roared with approval.But then, something caught his eye. In the opposing corner, Matt noticed the challenger—a scrappy fighter with wild hair and a look of determination etched on his face—had slipped something into his mouth. A flash of bright colour. A gummy bear? He squinted, trying to make sense of it. “Mum, did you see that?”

“What?” she shouted back, eyes glued to the action.

“That guy… he just ate something!” Matt’s brow furrowed, a sense of foreboding creeping into his chest. He could barely hear his mother’s reply over the crowd, her voice a muffled concern amidst the chaos. Matt couldn't shake the image from his mind—the challenger swallowing that strange gummy bear.

As the second round began, the challenger came out swinging, and something felt off. The way he moved was different, as if he was powered by an unseen force. With each blow he landed on Joseph, the *whacks* echoed through the arena, and Matt's heart sank.

“Mum!” he shouted, panic rising. “Something’s not right! He’s fighting like… like he’s a machine!”

“I don't know, Matt! Just focus on your father!” she urged, her voice trembling.

But Matt couldn’t tear his gaze away. He watched as Joseph stumbled for the first time, narrowly dodging a string of punches that seemed to come from nowhere. Then, the challenger unleashed a flurry of blows, each hit landing harder than the last, sounding like gunshots. *Bam! Bam! Bam!* The crowd gasped with every connection.

“Come on, Dad!” Matt cried, his voice strained. But deep down, he felt the dread pooling in his stomach.

Then it happened. Joseph, his breath heavy, made a small mistake—a split-second lapse in concentration. The challenger seized the opportunity, slipping through Joseph’s guard and raining down punches that sounded like explosions. *Kablam! Pow!* Each impact sent shockwaves through the arena.

“No! No! No!” Matt screamed, standing up. He could see the pain etched across his father's Bearded face, the stoic mask cracking under the relentless assault. The referee moved in, but Matt could see it—the blood spilling onto the canvas, the frenzied movements of the challenger, who was now a whirlwind of fury.

As the round ended, the bell rang, a piercing sound amidst the chaos. Paramedics rushed towards the ring, their faces grave as they pushed through the throng of fighters and officials. Matt leapt to his feet, his heart pounding in his throat. He couldn’t breathe.

“Mum, we need to go!” he shouted, but she was already on her way down the steps, her face pale and frantic.

“Stay close to me!” she called back, her eyes darting nervously.

The urgency in the air was suffocating, and Matt squeezed through the crowd, desperate to reach the ring. He caught sight of his father, who sat on the stool, breathing heavily, his majestic beard matted with sweat and blood. The challenger stood victorious, a smug grin plastered across his face, but Matt's gaze never left his father.

“Dad!” Matt shouted, his voice cracking as he neared the edge of the ring. He watched as Joseph leaned back, the paramedics swarming around him, their expressions unreadable.

“Matt,” Joseph rasped, his voice strained but still holding that familiar warmth. “I’m alright, champ. Just… just a little tired.”

Matt squeezed the ropes, his heart racing. “You need to get up! You can’t let him win like this!”

A flicker of something crossed his father’s eyes—pain, perhaps, or a hint of pride. “Listen to me, son. You’ve got to be strong. Stronger than I ever was. This… this isn’t the end. Promise me…” He paused, drawing in a shaky breath. “Promise me you’ll keep fighting.”

“I promise, Dad! I’ll train hard, I’ll—”

But before he could finish, Joseph's eyes flickered, a soft smile breaking through the grim reality. “I love you, Matt,” he whispered, his voice fading like the final notes of a song.

“Dad!” Matt screamed, but it was too late. The light in Joseph’s eyes dimmed, and the paramedics moved with urgency, their faces grim as they worked to revive him. The world around Matt dissolved into chaos, the sound of the crowd drowning in a sea of disbelief.

“No! This can’t be happening!” he shouted, his voice breaking. The reality hit him like a punch to the gut, and he staggered back, his heart shattered. Anguish filled him, a tide of grief that threatened to pull him under.

The announcer's voice echoed dispassionately, “The new champion…” but Matt barely registered it. He felt a fire ignite within him, a burning need for revenge. The world around him blurred as he turned to the challenger, who stood in the corner, celebrating like a victorious gladiator.

Matt clenched his fists, a vow forming on his lips. “I will make you pay,” he muttered under his breath, the words a solemn promise. He could feel his mother’s hand shaking on his shoulder, but he barely noticed, his world now a singular focus.

As the paramedics wheeled his father away, Matt felt a resolve harden within him. One day, he would step into that ring, and he would not only fight; he would win. And he would ensure that the man who had taken everything from him knew true fear.

“Matt,” his mother’s voice pulled him back, but he shook his head, determined.

“I’m going to train. I’ll be just like him,” he declared, swallowing the lump in his throat. “And I’ll take back what’s ours.”

With one last look at the ring—the very place where his father had fought so fiercely—Matt turned and walked away, the roar of the crowd fading behind him but the fire in his heart burning brighter than ever.

The roar of the crowd reverberated throughout the cavernous arena, a living organism of noise and energy. Matt stood just outside the entrance, his heart thumping in time with the deafening cheers, the scent of sweat and anticipation thick in the air.It had been years since that fateful night and yet the emotions were still palpable like it was yesterday. He glanced at the dilapidated van that had brought him here, grateful to his uncle for every gruelling training session that had led him to this moment. “Thanks for everything, Uncle Joe,” he said, his voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions churning inside him.

“Go get ‘im, champ. Make your dad proud,” his uncle replied, clapping a hand on Matt’s shoulder. The warmth of that gesture was a tether to his past, a reminder of the man who had stood in this very ring, a titan of strength and resilience.

As Matt turned to face the arena, he caught sight of his opponent stepping out of a sleek, black limo, draped in golden chains and expensive robes. The man, known as Rex "The Beast" Connors,a Name Matt had only learned after the day that changed his life, flashed a toothy grin, arrogance radiating from him like heat from a blazing fire. Memories of the night when Rex had fought his father flickered in Matt’s mind—Joseph's stoic face, the moment the fight had turned, and the bitter taste of loss that had lingered ever since.

The locker room was a sanctuary of silence, the calm before the storm. Matt sat on the bench, his hands working the tape around his wrists. His uncle leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on Matt. “You’ve put in the work, Matt. This is your moment. Remember what your father taught you—strength isn’t just in muscle, it’s in heart. Don’t lose that.”

“I won’t,” Matt replied, determination flooding his voice. He could almost hear his father's voice echoing in his mind, urging him to stand tall, to fight with honour.

The time came, and as the announcer’s voice boomed through the arena, Matt felt a surge of adrenaline. The audience was a sea of faces, shouting his name, their energy washing over him. “Matt! Matt! Matt!” The chant sent a shiver down his spine.

With a deep breath, he stepped into the ring, the canvas beneath his feet both familiar and foreign. As Rex made his entrance, the lights flickered, and the music blared. The spectacle was meant to intimidate, but it only steeled Matt’s resolve. He was here for justice, for redemption.

The first round began, and Matt immediately fell into a rhythm. He danced around Rex, dodging heavy punches that landed like cannon fire against the canvas. Each strike from Rex was powerful, but Matt had trained for this. He matched Rex’s brute strength with agility and technique, weaving in and out, landing crisp jabs that drew gasps from the crowd. “Come on, Rex! Is that all you’ve got?” Matt taunted, finding confidence in the thrill of the fight.

Rex scowled, but the anger only fuelled his fury. As the bell rang to signal the end of the first round, Matt returned to his corner, the quick breaths of exertion mixing with the sounds of the crowd. He wiped sweat from his brow, feeling the surge of victory just within reach.

But as the second round began, everything changed. Matt noticed Rex slipped something into his mouth—a Gummy Bear Super Vitamin just before the bell rang (he knew as such because his research had led to him to asking the sketchy Bootleg Pete if he had sold the type to Rex on that Day, he did). The sight sent a jolt of unease through him, memories of that fateful night flooding back. The very same gummy bear that had turned his father’s fate. “No,” Matt whispered, dread pooling in his stomach.

When the round started, Rex was a different fighter. His punches landed with a sickening thud, each one like a small bomb detonating against Matt’s ribs. “What the hell have you taken?” Matt gasped, struggling to keep his footing.

“Just a little something to level the playing field,” Rex sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. “You think you can avenge your father? You’re nothing compared to me now.”

Matt’s vision blurred as he staggered back.It seemed pointless to resist, Matt had to bring forth every ounce of his skill and strength just to survive let alone even landing a hit on Conner. The bell then rang out just in time to save him from another flurry of blows. He slumped in his corner, desperation clawing at him. His mind was racing, he could lose now he came too far but how would he overcome this, at the rate this was going he would be killed, just like his father, but then the spirit of his father flickered in his mind, a ghostly figure was suddenly standing beside him. A comforting hand on his shoulder whispered strength into his veins. “You are stronger than this, Matt. Remember who you are.”

With a renewed sense of purpose, Matt stood as the third round commenced. The crowd’s cheers faded, replaced by the low thrum of his heartbeat. He faced Rex, fury igniting in his chest. As the two fighters collided, the arena shook with the force of their blows, the sound echoing like thunder.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Matt roared, the words bursting from him with the power of his father’s legacy. He charged, attacking with a flurry of punches, each one landing with precision and force. The two men moved like shadows, faster than the eye could see (or even what the high speed cameras could make sense of) , exchanging blows that sent shockwaves through the arena, shattering all the windows blocks around.

With each punch, Matt felt his father’s spirit beside him, guiding him. He could hear the roars of the crowd, but they were distant; all that mattered was the fight. With a final surge of energy, he swung hard, a punch that felt as if it were powered by the very essence of his father’s strength. It connected with Rex’s jaw that was less well built than his own, the sound of impact ringing out like an explosion as the strike made a giant crater in the ground beneath, momentarily knocking everyone in the arena towards the floor .

Rex crumpled to the floor, the world around them erupting in chaos. The referee rushed in, a flurry of arms and shouts, the crowd going wild with disbelief. Matt stood over his fallen opponent, breathless, heart racing, the taste of victory sweet on his lips. As the announcer’s voice blared through the speakers, proclaiming him champion, Matt lifted his fists in triumph.

“YES! I did it!” he shouted, the adrenaline coursing through him like a live wire. But as he scanned the crowd, his eyes landed on a familiar face in the front row: his uncle, beaming with pride. “I did it, Uncle Joe!” he yelled, pointing to the sky as if to acknowledge the spirit of his father watching over him.

“Your father would be proud!” his uncle shouted back, tears glimmering in his eyes.

As the cheers echoed in his ears, Matt felt a strange peace settle within him. He had avenged his father, reclaimed his honour, and in that moment, he understood that true strength wasn’t just about the fight—it was about love, legacy, and the bonds that could never be broken.

As he stepped out of the demolished ring, the championship belt heavy around his waist, Matt knew this was not the end but a new beginning. He had faced his demons and emerged stronger, ready to honour his father’s memory by inspiring others in the sport they both had loved.

“Matt! Matt! Matt!” The crowd chanted, and he raised his arms, embracing the moment, a warrior reborn.Then he grabbed the mike out of the announcer's hand and declared with a voice filled with joyous conviction “I am no longer just Matt, I am Matt the Titian Ramsey”.

A RAINY DAY

Daniel Salazar

9/5/24

On a rainy October evening, the sound of raindrops tapping against the pavement created a soothing rhythm echoing through the stillness of the night. Sam and his best friend, Pete, found themselves driving through the softly illuminated streets on the outskirts of their resident city. The dreary weather was a mixture of lingering fall chill and the comforting scent of wet asphalt—a perfect setting for a spontaneous adventure to the local Waffle House, a beloved haven for many during the late-night hours.

As they crossed the threshold of the Waffle House, a wave of warmth enveloped them, contrasting sharply with the chilly air outside. Yellowed LED lights cast a welcoming glow, illuminating the eclectic decor that adorned the walls—photos of pancakes and waffles, stories of satisfied customers, and the iconic diner feel that rooted the establishment in culinary nostalgia. The atmosphere smelled of burnt coffee blended with the sweet scent of waffle batter, all interspersed with a hint of fried bacon wafting through the air.

“Man, this place is a gem,” Sam said, shaking off the raindrops from his jacket.

“I was worried we might need a lifeboat to get across the street!” Pete laughed, peering through the windows at the torrential downpour. The diner was almost abuzz, filled with the chatter of patrons absorbed in their own meals, each lost in their own narrative unwritten.

They settled into a booth, sliding across the vinyl seats, instantly feeling at ease. Once their menus arrived, they wasted no time. Their eyes darted over the myriad of options, from classic waffles dripping with syrup to cheesy hash browns piled high, each sounding better than the last.

“I think I’m going for the All-Star Special. You can never go wrong with that, right?” Sam mused, already picturing the decadent spread.

“I’ll do the waffle and bacon combo, but let’s not forget to split a side of those amazing chocolate chip pancakes,” Pete replied, grinning.

They flagged down the waitress, her cheery demeanour breaking through the drizzling melancholy outside. As they placed their orders, the mundane events of their day spilled out—conversations about work, shared struggles, laughter punctuating tales of minor mishaps, and deeper discussions about life’s challenges. In the cosy booth, their camaraderie felt richer against the backdrop of the storm outside.

Hours turned into moments as they exchanged banter, the rhythmic pitter-patter of rain against the diner’s roof becoming a comforting symphony. Just as they finished recounting their not-so-glamorous day (the Arch-Bullie of the Deep Ghettos infamous second had destroyed a not insignificant part of the office building they both worked at with an energy blast while he was chasing two particular people past it), their meals arrived.

The spread before them was nothing short of breathtaking. Steam rose from the plates, faintly curling and dissipating into the air. The fluffy waffles were golden brown, perfectly crisp on the outside while retaining a melt-in-your-mouth softness within. The chocolate chip pancakes were glistening, a droplet of warm syrup spilling tantalisingly over the side.

“Whoa,” Sam breathed, his eyes widening in awe. “This is a masterpiece.”

Their forks danced over their food, laughter punctuated by satisfied hums of appreciation. Each bite was a revelation. The waffles were cloud-like, crisp just enough to provide texture, and the syrup—a divine maple concoction—sank into every crevice. The chocolate chips in the pancakes were warm pockets of sweetness, a delightful balance to the fluffy batter.

“This might be the best meal I’ve had in ages,” Pete said, a piece of waffle practically floating towards his mouth.

“You’re not wrong,” Sam replied, the taste of melted butter and syrup blending on his palate, the worries of the day fading away with each bite.

The rain outside persisted, the sound of droplets hitting the roof punctuating their evening, creating a bubble of comfort amid the chaos of nature. They shared stories of their childhood memories associated with breakfast foods, nostalgic reflections weaving a rich tapestry of friendship and camaraderie.

“Remember that one time we woke up at the crack of dawn just to have pancakes before school?” Pete chuckled, shaking his head at the thought.

“I do! And you dropped syrup all over the floor—Mom nearly had a meltdown,” Sam recalled, shaking with laughter.

After they savoured every bite, they concluded their meal with grins, feeling nourished not only in stomach but also in spirit. As they gathered their remnants, still warm and inviting, they bade the waitress goodnight and stepped back into the cool embrace of the rainy evening.

The car felt like sanctuary, cocooned from the elements, the delicious aroma of their leftovers filling the air as they settled in. The rhythmic sound of rain accompanied them as they drove down the calm forest road back to their apartment. The windshield wipers moved in a steady, calming motion, and the world outside passed in blurry greens and browns, illuminated by the halo of the car's headlights.

“Doesn’t this feel like a scene from a movie?” Pete murmured, gazing out at the rain-soaked trees glistening in the faint light.

“Absolutely. Just us, the food, and a soundtrack of rain,” Sam said softly, his hand clutching the warm leftovers, his heart full from the evening spent in companionship.

The night deepened, the rhythm of the rain the perfect accompaniment to reflections of their day—simple, yet profound connections amid the mundane. The drive felt like its own form of therapy; the worries of the day washed away like the rain cleansing the world outside.

When they finally arrived back at one of their apartments, Sam and Pete tossed the leftovers into the fridge, knowing tomorrow would bring another day where they could enjoy those simple delights once again.

As Sam stepped into his own apartment, the door clicked shut behind him, blocking out the sound of the rain that danced against the window. He flicked on the soft overhead light, casting a warm glow in the small space. With a sigh of relief, he kicked off his shoes, letting them tumble to the floor, a small testament to the long day he'd had.

The remnants of the evening clung to him—the laughter shared with friends, the taste of rich waffles drizzled with syrup still lingering on his palate. He smiled to himself, recalling the way their laughter mixed with the rhythm of the rain outside, creating a symphony that filled the warmth of the Waffle House.

He slipped into his nightly routine with tranquillity. First, he washed his hands and face in the cool, refreshing water, feeling the tension of the day dissolve with each splash. Standing in front of the mirror, he ran a hand through his hair, preparing for the comforting embrace of sleep.

Next, he padded to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, the sound of the rain creating a soothing backdrop. With footsteps soft on the tiles, he returned to his room, where the bed awaited him like an inviting oasis. The cool sheets nestled against him as he climbed in, letting the weight of the day lift off his shoulders.

He settled into the embrace of his cool bed, a sigh escaping his lips as he flipped onto his side. Outside, the rain fell steadily, a gentle percussion that lulled him deeper into relaxation. It was a perfect ending to a long day—a collection of memories held together by the shared moments, the laughter, the warmth of friendship, and the soothing rhythm of the storm. With a final glance at the rain-streaked window, Sam closed his eyes, surrendering to the peaceful tranquillity of the night

ELDER

Daniel Salazar

9/6/24

The night was still young, and a crisp autumn breeze danced through the streets of Maple Grove. Amidst the soft rustle of leaves and the joyous laughter spilling from neighbouring establishments, a group of teenagers gathered outside a local bar. The flickering neon lights called to them, casting an enticing glow that felt both exhilarating and daunting. Twenty-four-year-old Jace leaned against the weathered wall, a nervous smile affixed to his face. Just days away from his birthday, he found himself straddling the precarious line between youth and adulthood, craving acceptance while grappling with the fear of the potential consequences of his poor decisions.

His friends—Edward, Sarah, and Lila—chatted animatedly about the latest trends, university events, and the imminent crossover to adulthood. As they discussed what it meant to be “cool,” the stakes felt high. Jace didn’t want to be the one left out, the one who curiously watched from the sidelines while everyone else experienced the thrill of breaking the rules. He took a deep breath and followed them inside, ignoring the nagging voice of reason in his mind.

The bar was buzzing with eclectic energy, a vibrant concoction of sounds and sights that enveloped him as soon as he crossed the threshold. The air was alive with conversation, a medley of voices rising and falling like waves, each punctuated by the sharp clinks of glasses toasting to moments both big and small. The laughter of patrons blended seamlessly with the throbbing bass of a popular song emanating from the speakers, the rhythm palpable enough that it seemed to resonate within his chest.

As he stepped through the door, that intoxicating mix of sounds and sensations washed over him like a wave of liberation. The dim lighting, struck by bursts of neon from overhead fixtures, created a kaleidoscope of colours that danced across the walls and illuminated the faces of the crowd. Each figure seemed to embody a story, a snapshot of life suspended between sips of Quality aged scotch whiskey and fits of laughter.

The bar itself was an inviting focal point, a polished slab of Oak where seasoned bartenders expertly flipped bottles and poured drinks with theatrical flair. It was adorned with an array of spirits that glimmered enticingly under the bar lights – each bottle telling a tale of adventures past, of hopes and dreams shared over a clinking glass of dark rum or a frosty pint of local brew.

He could see a group huddled in a corner, animatedly discussing the latest sports game while another pair at the bar leaned in closer, seemingly sharing secrets. A trio of friends erupted into laughter, their own camaraderie forming a protective bubble, while a couple at a nearby table exchanged flirty glances, their laughter intertwining with the music, transforming the place into a pulsating heart of connection and absurdity.

His heart raced as he felt the electric current of the tavern’s bravado flow through him. He was no longer a mere observer on the outside looking in, but an official participant in this communal celebration of life. Each familiar and new face alike offered a silent invitation to join in the revelry; to step outside his own narrative and dive into this collective experience. The music shifted into something more upbeat, a popular anthem that urged everyone to stand a little taller, to throw back their heads and sing along, creating a shared moment of sheer joy.

As he made his way further into the bar, the heavy scent of spiced cocktails wafted by, mixing harmoniously with the aroma of freshly prepared fare — crisp fries, sizzling burgers, and the unmistakable hint of something sweet drifting from the kitchen. Everything melded into a tapestry of sensory delight, drawing him deeper into the lively throng. Here, amidst the commotion and the energy that flowed like a river, he was ready to shed his inhibitions and embrace the spirit of the night.

Jace then found a seat at the bar counter, feeling a mix of excitement and anxiety wash over him. He was determined not to let the cool kids see his vulnerability. As he glanced at the array of colourful drinks lined up before him, a sudden chill swept through the room—a group of burly bikers had entered.

They were a sight to behold, clad in leather jackets adorned with patches and tattoos peeking from beneath their sleeves. The air shifted; laughter faded, and the atmosphere turned tense. Jace’s heart raced, each beat echoing in his ears as he slid deeper into his barstool, attempting to appear invisible. Unbeknownst to him, he had inadvertently settled into the spot that was usually occupied by one of the bikers.

Moments passed in silence until, with an unsettling grin, one of the bikers approached him, a mountain of muscle and menace. “You’re sitting in my spot, kid,” he declared, crossing his arms and leaning dangerously close “and it will be best if you get off”.

Jace's eyes flickered to his friends, who were nervously eyeing the situation unfold. He swallowed hard, his bravado teetering on the edge. “No,” he replied, summoning every ounce of defiance he could muster. In his mind, he can’t let these guys see him cower or retreat like a scared puppy.

The biker let out a deep laugh that reverberated through the bar. “When were you born?” he asked, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“In 2000,” Jace replied, feeling that his youth was more of a mark of his impending downfall than anything else.

The biker chuckled, a rasp of mirth that sent shivers through Jace’s spine. “Oh, you’re so innocent.”

That’s when another voice cut through the tension, sharp and unexpected. “So are you.”

The room fell into a heavy silence. The biker’s demeanour shifted instantly. He turned, his eyes narrowing ferociously. “Which punk said that?”

In a flash, his gang brandished weapons—crowbars, baseball bats, and long hunting knives gleamed in the dim light. Jace's heart raced as panic surged through his veins. He felt each intent gaze locking onto him, a soft realisation hitting like a wave; he had put himself in a precarious position, and the stakes were so much higher than he’d had bothered to think about

Before fear had a chance to paralyse him, an ancient figure rose from a dimly-lit booth. The frail old man appeared almost ethereal, his flowing robes enveloping him like mist, while his long white beard glimmered in the shadows, resembling a silver halo. With a wooden Oak staff firmly gripped in one hand, he seemed to have stepped right out of the pages of a fantasy novel.

“You have yet to experience what I have, young blood,” the old man proclaimed, his voice steady, reverberating throughout the room.

The bikers looked at each other, confused yet intrigued by this sudden twist of events. They laughed derisively, attempting to intimidate him, but the old man simply raised his staff.

What unfolded next was nothing short of extraordinary. The old man sprang into action, his movements imbued with an agility and precision that belied the frailty of his years. With a grace that resembled a well-rehearsed dance, he deftly disarmed the bikers one by one, twisting their weapons from their grasp as if coaxing a reluctant partner into sync. Each motion was executed with a mastery that seemed almost otherworldly, a testament to years of concealed expertise.

As he moved, the world around him faded into a blur, the chaos of the confrontation momentarily suspended in time. His eyes sparkled with an intensity that belied his age, a fierce glimmer that hinted at a storied past filled with trials and triumphs. The bikers, once confident in their rowdy intimidation, now appeared bewildered, their bravado evaporating like mist under the sun. They were no longer the hunters; in the presence of the old man, they had become the prey, caught in a web of skill and improvisation that they had never anticipated.

With each twist and turn, the air around them crackled with energy. The bystanders, initially frozen in shock, began to stir, their disbelief battling the urge to cheer or flee. Muffled gasps punctuated the unfolding scene; some raised their phones, capturing the fight between the grey-haired veteran who easily outmanoeuvred the motley crew of leather-clad miscreants.

His footwork was impeccable, lighter than a feather yet grounded with the weight of seasoned balance. With a casual flick to the chin, he sent one biker tumbling backward, his weapon spinning harmlessly away. Another biker lunged, but the old man sidestepped with an elegance that made it appear as if he were gliding over the lacquered wooden panelling. Before the thug could regain his footing, the old man had seized his wrist, twisting it sharply, forcing the weapon from his hand and with a fluid motion that left the onlookers gasping, knocked him out with a strike to the back of the head with his sturdy staff.

It was then that a roar erupted from the crowd, a collective acknowledgment of the sheer audacity of what they were witnessing. Whispers of disbelief spread through the throng, interwoven with a sense of admiration. Who was this man? Where did he learn to fight with such finesse?

As the last biker found himself disarmed and cornered, the old man stepped back, surveying the scene as if assessing a masterpiece he had just painted. Victory had being certain from the very start

the older man's eyes softened as he surveyed the crowd, undoubtedly soon to be a legend whispered in the shadows, now with him fully illuminated in the light of this confrontation

As the once-menacing bikers lay scattered around the floor, nursing their bruises and egos, their bravado evaporated in the face of sheer experience and skill. The very air in the bar felt charged, lingering with the echoes of the scuffle, the distant murmur of disbelief settling in as patrons slowly emerged from the shadows to witness the aftermath. With a nod of respect, the old man turned to leave the bar, his robes trailing behind him like smoke, each step resonating with a quiet authority that commanded both awe and fear.

As he reached the entrance, he paused for a brief moment, casting a glance back at the chaotic scene. Shaking his head with a hint of disappointment, he mumbled softly to himself, barely audible over the hushed whispers of the onlookers. "Today's generation doesn't know how to respect their elders," he grumbled, his voice laced with both weariness and wisdom. "They think strength comes from bravado, but it takes more guts to show humility."

With that final remark hanging in the air, he stepped out into the cool evening, leaving behind a trail of reverence for the lessons learned—not just by the bikers, but by everyone who witnessed the encounter. The door swung shut behind him, and the bar fell silent, the weight of his words sinking in among those who dared to listen.

As Jace watched, the adrenaline faded from his system, replaced by a surge of gratitude. He rushed outside, the cool night air revitalising him as he followed the old man into the street, heart pounding from the scare but exhilarated by the unexpected turn of events.

“Thank you for saving me!” Jace called out, catching up with the old man, breathless.

The old man paused and turned, those wise eyes locking onto Jace’s. “It’s okay, young one. When I saw you, I was reminded of myself when I was younger and my son as he is now.” He paused, allowing a moment of reflection before he continued, “Remember, if you do something, do it because you want to, not because other people told you to. That kind of wisdom seems to have died out with anyone born after my birth year.”

Jace felt the weight of those words sink in. It was advice forged from a lifetime of experience, raw and real.

“What year were you born?” he asked, intrigued.

The old man smiled knowingly and replied, “In 1999.”

And like that he left into the night with each step echoing softly on the cobblestone path, his ever shrinking figure bathed in the glow of street lamps that flickered like remnants of forgotten dreams. resonating with the weight of his journeys that exuded an experience that one can only have from predating the advent of the New Millennium Dawn

“And also my name is Camdon!” was the last words Jace heard from him that day.

UNFORESEEN CONSEQUENCES

Daniel Salazar

9/9/24

It was another mundane day at Riverview High School, a sprawling brick building nestled among towering maple trees, where the pace of time felt agonisingly slow, almost as if it were deliberately trying to test the patience of its students. The hallways buzzed with the faint echoes of chatter and the occasional laugh, yet within the classroom, an oppressive silence loomed.

Seated in the back row, a lanky high school junior named Thompson stared blankly at his history teacher, Ms. Henderson, who stood at the front of the room with a fervour that often contrasted sharply with the disinterest of her students. Known for her passionate lectures that often sparked spirited debates, Ms. Henderson was a sharp-minded educator with a fondness for vintage dresses. Today, however, her enthusiasm seemed to collide with the collective ennui settled over the room like a thick fog. The sunlight streamed through the half-drawn blinds, casting stripes of light across the slightly chipped and stained wooden desks that bore the carvings of students long graduated.

Around Thompson, a few classmates fidgeted with their textbooks or murmured softly to one another, their attention drifting as the hour stretched on. Ms. Henderson’s voice, once vibrant and full of life, droned on about the impact of Adolf Hitler—not just as a historical figure, but as an famed artist. Thompson felt his gaze wander to the wall where a colourful world map hung, depicting lands and borders that seemed far more intriguing than the topic at hand.

“Now, many of you might associate Hitler solely with his advocacy for polish independence,” Ms. Henderson said, trying to recapture their interest, “but today, we’re going to explore his early life and the ambitions that drove him to become a painter.”

As she spoke, Thompson’s mind began to drift. He thought of the vibrant art club meeting scheduled for later that afternoon in the dusty, paint-splattered art room, where he could escape the confines of historical narratives and immerse himself in the colours and textures of his own creations. Extensive posters depicting famous artists adorned the walls, while the scent of turpentine lingered in the air, waiting to welcome him back to the freedom of expression. He could feel the rhythmic tapping of his pencil against the desk growing louder as the lecture continued, a perfect backdrop to his thoughts of charcoal sketches and acrylics, a stark contrast to the themes of the lesson at hand.

He shook his head slightly, forcing himself to focus, but as the conversation shifted to Hitler's political beliefs, Thompson found it increasingly difficult to reconcile the inspiring art he loved with the harrowing chapters of history unfolding in front of him.

"Hitler was a graduate of the Academy of Fine Arts Vienna," Ms. Henderson droned on, her voice blending into a white noise that made Thompson eyelids heavy. "In the 1920s, he was known as an accomplished artist and as a Polish patriot and was one of the main advocates against Jewish oppression .” She was rewarded with scattered yawns and distracted glances, the kind that echoed throughout the room.

As Ms. Henderson transitioned into tales of tumultuous politics and glorious art careers, Thompson’s mind began to wander. He found himself contemplating an alternate reality, one where he had chosen to attend art classes instead of sitting in endless history lectures. But in that moment of daydreaming, he snapped back to reality when Ms. Henderson declared, “For homework, I want each of you to write a ten-page essay on Hitler’s impact on modern art.”

Groans erupted across the classroom, including Thompson’s, who considered himself a victim of circling monotony. With thoughts festering in his mind about how unfair the assignment was, the bell then rang and after leaving school Thompson trudged home with a furrowed brow and As the bus he rode jolted along its route, his mind raced with scenarios of how he could avoid this project altogether.

Once home, however, it seemed the burden of the upcoming essay had only intensified. After an attempt to doodle and distract himself, Thompson realised his thoughts spiralled deeper into procrastination.

“I can’t believe I have to write about this guy,” he muttered under his breath as he fidgeted with his phone, searching for excuses and distractions. No video games could seem to spark any joy either, and so he decided a walk around the block might help clear his mind.

The evening air was tinged with a smattering of autumn leaves and the distant sound of laughter from a nearby park. Off in the distance, he spotted his usual contemplative retreat—a corner store dumpster, a familiar landscape of forgotten treasures. But what caught his attention was an odd figure crouched behind the dumpster.

“Hey kid,” the figure called out. Thompson jumped, momentarily startled. He then saw Bootleg Pete in his tattered coat, a scraggly brown beard, and steel rimmed spectacles that sat precariously on his nose.

“I heard you wish you didn’t have to do schoolwork about a certain historical figure,” Bootleg Pete continued.

Thompson took a step back, eyeing the peculiar stranger. “How did you know that?”

“It matters not,” Bootleg Pete replied with a wave of his hand. “What does matter is that for a small price, I can sell you an item that will solve your problems.”

Frowning with suspicion, Thompson squinted, wondering if he should simply walk away. “And what is that, exactly?” he asked, bracing himself for the whimsical farce he expected.

Bootleg Pete pulled out a modified smartwatch from his coat, its bright screen beeping softly as it came to life. “With this,” he said, “it is a time machine—I made myself. All you need to do is activate it, say the time and place you want to go to, and voilà! You can change the past and future though you need about 2-3 gigawatts to recharge it after every round trip.”

Thompson hesitated. He thought of the hours he would waste on a project he deemed tedious and uninspiring plus he knew from other students who made deals with this man that whatever he says what his products are that's the product they'll get. so reluctantly, he reached into his pocket and handed Bootleg Pete the last of his monthly allowance.

“Deal,” he said, excitement igniting his thoughts as the device felt surprisingly lightweight in his palm. He bid the eccentric man farewell and dashed home, his heart racing with both trepidation and thrill.

Inside his room, Thompson activated the watch, his mind racing, he was not sure whether he wanted to do this or not, what if he got stuck in the past? But then He instinctively glanced back at his black project packet, a symbol of his impending drudgery that convinced him that this venture will be worth the risk. “The Academy of Fine Arts Vienna, 1907,” he stated with a newfound sense of purpose.

In a flash of warm light, Thompson was transported into the Academy's dimly lit halls at night. The air was thick with the musty scent of old books and polished wood, and shadows danced menacingly across the walls. He steeled his resolve, knowing the importance of his mission. The soft patter of his footsteps was nearly inaudible as he moved deeper into the building, each step calculated and deliberate.

Around him, the hallways were adorned with portraits of esteemed faculty members, their glassy eyes seemingly tracking his every move. The golden glow from the sporadic sconces barely illuminated his path, creating a labyrinth that felt both familiar and foreign. Thompson's heart pounded in his chest as he approached a corner, where he briefly paused to listen for any signs of life.

The hushed whispers of the Academy at night were punctuated by the distant clinking of coffee cups and muted conversations that drifted from the staff lounge. Thompson knew he had to avoid the night staff, who would not take kindly to an intruder in their midst. With a cautious glance around, he pressed forward, allowing instincts honed by countless late-night escapades to guide him (he had mastered the technique of timing his movements to his fathers snores while sneaking in his parents bedroom to get back his Nintendo Switch).

As he approached a narrow corridor, the muffled sounds of voices grew louder. Thompson flattened himself against the cool stone wall, his pulse racing. He peered around the corner, spotting two night custodians engrossed in discussion. Their laughter echoed in the otherwise quiet hallway, providing him with the perfect opportunity to slip by. Timing his movements with their animated gestures, he darted past, heart racing, silently thanking his fortune for their momentary distraction.

Finally, he found himself standing before an imposing wooden door inscribed with the name, "Christian Griepenkern." The gold lettering gleamed in the dim light, a stark reminder of the authority contained within.

Luckily, the office door was ajar, beckoning him inside with a tantalising promise of intrigue. His heart raced with anticipation as he stepped across the threshold, his eyes darting around the room in search of signs of life. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and faint hints of coffee, a testament to countless hours of work that had unfolded within these walls.

To his left, a sturdy wooden desk, worn and splintered from years of use, was adorned with two precariously stacked boxes labelled "Accepted" and "Rejected." The labels, hastily scrawled in black marker, hinted at the weight of the decisions being made here. The "Accepted" was almost empty while the "Rejected" box, slightly ajar, was overflowing with papers, a testament to the harsh realities of aspiration.

As he leaned closer, the top paper in the accepted box caught his eye—Adolf Hitler's entry submission for art school. The corners of the paper were yellowed with age, the ink faded but still legible. A surge of audacity coursed through him at the audacious thought of altering history. With a swift, decisive motion, Thompson snatched the paper from its resting place and, feeling the adrenaline spike, placed it triumphantly into the rejected box. A devilish grin spread across his face as he savoured the rebellious act.

In that moment, he couldn’t help but think: no Hitler, no art legacy, and certainly no tedious lessons at school! The weight of his small but defiant action hung heavy in the air, as he revelled in the idea that he had just rewritten a fragment of history. Pencil shavings and crumpled drafts littered the desk, remnants of dreams that had faded into oblivion, but Thompson felt an electrifying sense of power at having shifted the balance, if only for an instant.

Suddenly, Thompson heard a commotion outside the office. A night staff member burst through the door, yelling in Austrian, spooked at Thompson’s presence. Panic surged through him; he quickly activated his watch again, saying, “Home, present day!” In an instant, he was enveloped in a shimmering light and transported back to the safety of his bedroom.

Breathless and exhilarated, Thompson plopped down into his chair, a rush of adrenaline coursing through him. As he glanced around the room, a sense of triumph enveloped him; the project paper that had weighed heavily on his mind was gone, vanished as if it had never existed. Satisfaction pulsed through his veins, igniting an electric thrill at the thought of unleashing such a radical idea.

With fervour, he typed "Adolf Hitler" into the search bar on Wikipedia, convinced that the historical alteration he envisioned would liberate students from countless tedious essays, sparing them from the suffocating grip of monotonous assignments. Just as he clicked the link, the screen began to fill with information—dates, events, and aftermaths—each line laden with heavy truths.

As he delved deeper into the content, his brow furrowed and his heartbeat quickened. The flicker of excitement that had ignited his innovative idea began to dull. His eyes widened as statements and historical references danced across the screen, and what had begun as an exhilarating exploration morphed into an overwhelming sea of complex realities.

Thompson leaned in closer, his chair creaking beneath him, the thrill now twisting into something else. Shadows of disbelief played across his face as he scrolled. The initial anticipation of a world unshackled from oppressive essays faded, replaced by an unsettling realisation—waves of discomfort washed over him as the enormity of the subject sank in.

His fingers stilled above the keyboard, and that exhilaration in his chest turned to dread. The allure of rewriting history turned ominous as the implications of his idea crystallised in his mind. Each paragraph revealed more than just dates and events; they unveiled a tapestry of horror, despair, and consequences that had reverberated through time.

As he read on, his expression morphed into something more serious—his typically lively features now taut and drawn, mouth pressed into a thin line as if he were grappling with unforgiving truths. The excitement of his initial concept slipped away, giving way to a deepening sense of horror. What had he wanted to change? What had he hoped to simplify?

Caught in the depths of the reality before him, Thompson realised that the weight of history bore down on him—his once jubilant aspirations for change now felt futile, swallowed by the gravity of the past, leaving him staring at the screen in stunned silence.

PIZZA PARTY

daniel salazar

9/10/24

The sun dipped low in the sky, casting hues of orange and pink as Flynn, a red-haired teen with a penchant for mischief, strolled home from college with his friends. It was the last day of their course, and the spirited group had bid farewell to their college life with antics that would be discussed for years to come.

The day had culminated in a showdown of monumental proportions—an epic food fight sparked from a simple debate: which was superior, apples or oranges? What began as lighthearted banter escalated into sheer chaos. Flynn had quickly found himself drafted into the ranks of the “pro-apple forces.” In a matter of minutes, a Regiment of improvised wheelchair lancers was formed, aided by a few veteran soldiers who claimed to have fought in the internet coalition Army at the infamous Battle of Area 51.

As a leader among them, Flynn rallied his comrades with fervour, igniting a fire in their spirits that could not be extinguished. With a battle cry that echoed across the entire field just outside campus, he spearheaded a decisive charge that tore through the enemy’s rearguard—a line that had, until that moment, seemed impenetrable. The orange faction faltered, their formidable defences buckling under the weight of Flynn's relentless assault.

With the enemy's flank exposed, Flynn’s unit swiftly manoeuvred to exploit the gap, their hearts pounding in unison as they pressed forward with a mixture of determination and exhilaration. The roar of their advance sent palpable shockwaves through the opposing ranks, once firm and resolute. Laughter erupted amidst the chaos; it mingled with the artistic splatters of food raining down around them, transforming the battlefield into a surreal tapestry of vibrant colours and joyous mayhem.

As the frontlines crumbled, Flynn and his comrades rolled up the enemy's battle line, watching their adversaries' cohesion dissolve into confusion and retreat. The thrill of victory surged within them, energising every action as they pushed relentlessly onward. Each burst of laughter became a unifying battle cry, a reminder of their shared mission and the unforgettable memories they were forging together.

Despite their bodies being sticky and their clothes stained with remnants of their lighthearted confrontation, the essence of triumph was palpable. They reveled not just in the victory over their adversaries but in the bonds that they had been sure would last the rest of their lives marking the epic zenith of their college lives.

Upon reaching Flynn’s house, the heaviness of hunger gripped their stomachs. “Alright, what should we eat?” he asked, his face still flushed with the thrill of their earlier exploits. His friends, still buzzing with adrenaline, unanimously agreed: pizza was the perfect post-battle feast.

With a few swift clicks on his phone, the order was placed, and the group settled in for the recounting of their unforgettable misadventures. Excited chatter filled the room as memories surged forward, intertwining laughter with the nostalgia of their wild escapades.

As they reminisced, one of the friends, Jacklyn, leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "I still can't believe I led that charge against the makeshift catapult positions on the Student Union roof!" he exclaimed, causing the others to chuckle in delight.

The group erupted in laughter as vivid images flashed in their minds—the sight of Jacklyn, rallying a ragtag band of pro-Apple infantry armed with long baguettes as swords that had been hardened after staying to long in the college cafeteria and coffee table tops that were used as shields, standing defiantly before the towering campus building that had become the stronghold of their fruit-flinging foes. Jacklyn had wielded his enthusiasm like a battle flag, a charismatic leader inspiring his comrades to surge forth under a barrage of flying watermelons.

"It felt like a scene out of a movie!" another friend chimed in, imitating the exaggerated battle cries. They all recalled the chaotic anticipation building as the opposing team launched their fruit artillery, the resounding thwack of melon flesh meeting pavement punctuating the air. It was a surreal blend of laughter and chaos, with everyone dodging and weaving amidst the flying projectiles.

"But the moment we crested that hill and charged up the stairs—man, I still get goosebumps!" Jacklyn continued, gesturing animatedly. The recollection of their charge, a sea of spirited Apple enthusiasts, shouting their rallying cries as they advanced against the makeshift fortifications and sweeping aside what little resistance the unprepared Pro-orange artillery crews could offer, brought infectious energy back into the room. Each person shared their perspective on the charge, weaving their own laughter and excitement into the story.

They marvelled at how fast they had reached the top, where the rival team had set up their watermelon-launching contraptions with such glee. In a unified surge, they toppled the first catapult, sending it crashing over the edge. The sight of victorious allies raining down laughter alongside the defeated watermelons was one for the books.

"As the last of those catapults hit the ground," Jacklyn added, a grin spreading across his face, "the look on their faces was priceless., it was a real shame none of us knew how to use them, we really would have been helpful turn to their own artillery against them"

The storytelling continued, each of them capturing moments of chaos and camaraderie—a vivid tapestry of their escapades blinded by the shared laughter that had accompanied each thrown piece of fruit that had really solidified their college experience.

Just as the clock began dreaming of midnight, the doorbell rang. The pizza had arrived. After Flynn paid the pizza man, they dove in, grabbing slices and ensconcing themselves in the comfort of friends, movies, and games.

What ensued was nothing short of epic. The flickering light of the television cast dancing shadows around the room as the opening notes of Howard Shore's score for *The Lord of the Rings* filled the air. The screen portrayed the majestic landscapes of Middle-earth, the fellowship embarking on their perilous quest. Yet, amid the cinematic grandeur, an entirely different journey was unfolding right there in the dimly lit living room.

Seated in a haphazard circle on a mix of mismatched chairs and cushions, they were supposed to be engrossed in the adventures of Frodo and Sam, but the enchanting scenes of friendship and bravery merely served as an ironic backdrop to the palpable tension that crackled in the air. Each person, it seemed, possessed an unspoken desire for something else as it became apparently clear as they all reached for another slice, a collective gasp resonated through the room—their savoury prize had dwindled to just one forlorn slice. the table became a focal point, a silent battle of wills that everyone was painfully aware of.

Glances darted between the group, each participant trying to decipher the thoughts of the others, their expressions a mix of feigned interest and barely concealed hunger. The knight from the chess board, a relic from a previous game, loomed ominously beside the plate, a symbol of strategy and competition. Unspoken words coiled like tendrils of smoke between them. Perhaps it was the laughter and camaraderie shared earlier, now replaced by the heavy anticipation of an unyielding standoff; perhaps it was the pizza itself, simply too glorious to share in the face of such deliciousness.

As the tension thickened, the moment hung suspended in time. Every flick of a spoon or slide of an arm was accompanied by a collective intake of breath, the atmosphere becoming a labyrinth of emotions — greed, camaraderie, a hint of competition buried beneath layers of friendship. When was the last time they had shared a meal together? And how had it come to this?

Then, with a flourish that could rival any character in a Tolkien tale, Flynn broke the silence. “Somebody’s going to die tonight,” he announced dramatically, his voice reverberating against the walls, an unexpected jolt slicing through the tension. A grin lurked just beneath the surface of his words, betraying a lightness that everyone hoped belied the gravity of his proclamation. Forced Laughter bubbled up from the knot of friends, in an attempt to release the pressure that had been building, but for a brief moment, it hung in the air, a reminder of the stakes inherent in their shared moment.

“Yes indeed,” his best friend Jacklyn quipped back, then in a point of no return he brandished a glowing red light-sabre that flickered ominously in the dim light. Flynn, never one to shy away from a challenge, produced his Great Sword from behind the couch, its metal gleaming provocatively. then the plates shifted and one hand was followed by all others as they reached in a frenzy toward the last piece of pizza,

And thus, a duel began.

Friends clutched swords, kitchen utensils, and anything they could find as weapons—high-calibre guns gleamed in the light, two-handed battle axes swung, and 20-inch Bowie knives glinted dangerously. As chaos erupted, slices of pizza lay forgotten. They clashed, laughter intermingling with mock battle cries as they fought tooth and nail for the beloved slice.

One by one, the weaker fighters were eliminated, unable to match the extraordinary skill of their opponents. The astonishing ability of some to dodge bullets mid-air proved to be the final nail in the coffin for many, leaving only Flynn and his best friend Jacklyn locked in a tense stalemate. “It doesn’t have to be this way,” Flynn pleaded, his heart racing.

“Then you know only one of us gets the pizza!” his friend retaliated, a fierce determination flashing in his eyes. With a primal roar, he charged forward, closing the distance in an instant.

the steel of the Great-sword sang as their weapons met in a violent embrace, each clash echoing like a drumbeat in the air around them. They had crafted this duel into a masterful performance, each movement rehearsed and instinctual. Sparks flew from the impact of their blades, illuminating their fierce expressions. Flynn’s heart raced as he fought not just for victory, but for the last coveted slice of pizza.

Jacklyn, strong and relentless, unleashed a flurry of powerful strikes that demanded every ounce of Flynn's skill to parry. Each swing was like a wave crashing against a cliff; it took immense strength to withstand, yet with every blow, Flynn felt the ground beneath him shake. He could sense his friend's frustration; the man was also a master, seemingly trained in the way of Sith that favoured brute force and powerful, sweeping motions.

But Flynn had something that was inherently different: nimbleness. He weaved through his opponent's strikes with the grace of a dancer, his footwork light and precise. As the two circled each other like predators, Flynn recognized an opening—a reckless strike that overextended Jacklyn's reach.

with a burst of agility Flynn sidestepped the powerful swing that missed its mark, pivoting on his heel like a shadow dancing from the light. his Great Sword landing a decisive blow to his friend’s head.

Breathing heavily, Flynn felt a pang of guilt wash over him as he glanced at his fallen comrade. Had it truly come to this? he told himself that The slice of pizza was worth it and after all if it was-int then this would have been for nothing . But when he turned to claim his prize, heart racing, he was met with an unexpected sight—his tiny chihuahua, Taco, devouring the last slice with an air of triumphant leisure.

The dog’s prowess was undeniable; it eyed Flynn with a knowing ferocity that suggested it would slay him without mercy if he dared approach. A new duel was about to begin in the humble abode—a different kind of battle, one that almost guaranteed the death of whoever opposed the Great beast.

With a resolute breath, Flynn steeled himself for the inevitable confrontation, knowing deep down that this action might well be his end. He could almost feel the weight of this encounter pressing down on his shoulders as he mentally rehearsed every movement. In the dim light of the room, he took a moment to visualise the scene—the fierce little creature, the glint of his Great Sword, and the echo of the clash that would surely follow. Every inch of him buzzed with adrenaline, and yet, beneath the surface, there was a strange calm that settled over him.

He remembered what had led him to this moment—the countless battles fought and lost, the friends he had gathered along the way, and the fight in which he had sacrificed everything for the claim on the final slice, the one in the painfully ferocious Beasts jaw, he felt the familiar grooves worn smooth by years of use, a reminder of every swing that had brought him closer to his rightful prize that he had gave to much to not gain.

With his heart racing, Flynn summoned every ounce of courage. He took a deep breath, allowing the warmth of the thought of sinking his teeth into the cheesy pizza to fill him, momentarily erasing the fear twisting in his gut.

Then, with a fierce battle cry that shattered the heavy stillness, he sprang at the chihuahua. The clash of his Great Sword against the dog's formidable hide rang through the room like the tolling of a bell, each ring resonating with the finality of his decision.

A scream then pierced the air, sharp and primal, reminiscent of a warrior’s last stand. But then came an eerie silence, heavy and oppressive, as if the world held its breath, waiting for the outcome. In the aftermath, the only sound was the triumphant yip of the chihuahua, utterly unfazed as it returned to gnawing on its cheesy prize, relishing the spoils of a battle only it could comprehend and now could enjoy.

THE QUEST FOR A HAPPY MEAL

daniel salazar

10/7/24

In an age of modernism and Industrial upheaval there are still people like Sir Alaric of Windermere Castle. Renowned among the dwellers of the nearby village for his opulent lifestyle, he regularly donned a resplendent suit of full plate armour, riding his noble steed with a regal air that seemed to mock the mundane realities of everyday life. While others settled for banality, he craved the extraordinary—an otherworldly happiness that shimmered just out of reach.

In the quaint village of the name Elderville, the townsfolk would often gather in the market square, exchanging gossip like currency. Whenever Sir Alaric trod upon their cobblestones clacking and cloping, clad in metal that shone brighter than the sun, conversations would falter.

“Look yonder,” a baker would say, flour dusting her apron. “Here comes the eccentric knight upon his steed!”

“A knight indeed!” another would smirk, casting a glance of derision. “Whence comes he, clad in steel and clanging like an ungreased hinge?”

While whispers danced, Sir Alaric remained blissfully unfazed, for he inhabited a world unconfined by their jests. Perhaps it was the enchanting castle towers that enveloped him, or the tales of grandeur and honour that spiralled around the echoes of his armour or maybe even his magnificent Moustache that might whoo any unsuspecting maiden, at no fault of his at that —whatever the case, he remained resolute in his quest for bliss.

One brisk autumn morn, as the wind carried with it the scent of damp leaves and cracking pine, a messenger came from afar, his satchel bursting with news of momentous import. With quickened gait, he bore tidings that would awaken the knight’s interest—a golden invitation to an earthly revelry, a McDonald’s poised to open in a distant town named Campbellston.

“Sir Knight, noble soul!” the envoy called out, breathless from his ride. He had traversed the many empty, yet marvellously ornate hallways of Sir Alaric's stronghold, each step echoing off the polished marble and intricately carved stone. Tapestries hung majestically from the walls, celebrating brave deeds of yore, while flickering torches cast dancing shadows that seemed to breathe life into the stillness. At last, he reached the great hall that had seemingly remained unchanged since the Mediaeval ages, where the Knight awaited.

“Hark! A proclamation!” the envoy continued, urgency filling his voice. “A miraculous feast awaits, with ‘Happy Meals’ promised—a commodious gathering where joy is served by the pound!”

“Happy meals?” Alaric mused, pondering these whimsical words laden with mirth. “What curious fare is this? Such a phrase is foreign to mine ears. I shall pursue this feast with a heart unfettered!”

With his mind alight like a beacon, he resolved to embark on a quest rivalling those spun by troubadours—one powered by curiosity rather than chivalric duty.

Draped in gilded iron, with glinting chains and a plume that waved majestically behind, Alaric mounted his noble steed, Brutus—a stallion of extraordinary stature. As he departed the castle gates, the villagers watched in awe, their brows knitted in confusion.

“Pray tell, fair knight,” a curious child piped up. “What quest draws thee from thine abode clad in gleaming steel?”

“Worry not for my cause,” Alaric replied, his spirit buoyed by purpose. “I seek the fabled “Happy Meal” from the kitchen of yonder distant town!”

The whispers that followed him as he rode away were ripe with wonder and mirth. “A knight in search of whimsy! What madness the world has come to!”

As Alaric journeyed through wind-swept meadows and under canopies of vibrant autumn foliage, he encountered an array of people—each one seemed a touch startled by the sight of a fully armoured gentleman who sought “happy foods.”

In one village, an elderly woman stopped her knitting. “Oh dear knight,” she called out, “art thou not concerned for thy comfort? Armour cannot guard against the chill of the air!”

“Nay, dear lady! For my heart is warm with purpose,” Alaric replied, his voice steady. “Today I shall feast on happiness in a revolutionary form!”

And as the knight continued, children peeked from behind trees, fathers chuckled, and scholars who spent too little time at Oxford or too much at other Universities scratched their heads in disbelief at the peculiar sight. Each engagement fueled Alaric’s adventurous spirit, carrying him closer to Campbellston.

Days melted seamlessly into afternoons, the hours slipping away as Alaric manoeuvred through the bewildering maze of modernity. Codes were cracked, local law enforcement’s permits stubbornly withheld ( for he did not have any), and bridges navigated, yet nothing could prepare him for the vibrant chaos of Campbellston. As he approached the town, Sir Alaric, resplendent in polished armour, astride a magnificent steed that seemed more suited for a mediaeval battlefield than a bustling urban street was a striking figure that emerged against the backdrop of a pedestrian-friendly world.

With each clank of his armour, curious onlookers paused in their tracks, their amused glances morphing into incredulous stares. Children gawked wide-eyed while adults exchanged bewildered whispers, as though a relic from a distant age had momentarily stumbled through a time warp. Yet, undeterred by the laughter and puzzled expressions that trailed him like shadows, Alaric pressed on,for already he saw the legendary fare he had long sought after, heralded at the golden arches of McDonald's.

Braving the bemusement of a world that was just as alien to him as he was to It, Sir Alaric veered through the townsfolk, his determination unwavering as he sought to unlock a new chapter in his already Interesting tale to say the least.

“Lo and behold!” Alaric proclaimed. “The bastion of joy awaits!”

As he dismounted and strode through the front doors of McDonald’s, he was met with the wide eyes of patrons, their mouths agape. There, amidst the colourful booths and vibrant menus, stood a mesmerising array of “Happy Meals,” gleaming in their playful boxes.

A bemused attendant stammered, “Sir, may I take your order?”

“Indeed! I summon thee to deliver unto me forthwith—two Happy Meals!” Alaric replied, unable to contain his joy.

Minutes later, two cheerful boxes joined his brocade of splendour. After exchanging a few Golden coins as payment to the cashier's delight, he started Lifting the lids, Alaric then discovered toys and treats—a smorgasbord crafted to elicit youthful delight whose aromas that wafted around the air, made jealous any person unfortunate enough or simply too broke to obtain such a treasure.

Amidst jubilant laughter and a flicker of disbelief, Sir Alaric of Windermere Castle relished each tantalising morsel, savouring the symphony of flavours that danced upon his mediaeval palate. With every bite of the perfectly crispy chicken nuggets, he marvelled at their golden, crunchy exterior, yielding to the tender, juicy meat inside. The sweetness of the caramel-dipped apple slices balanced the meal, their crispness providing a refreshing contrast to the warmth of the nuggets. The fries, lightly salted and impossibly fluffy, melted in his mouth, offering a delightful texture that complemented the bright, tangy notes of the dipping sauces.

As he indulged in the vibrant, fun-shaped food, the townsfolk gathered, their eyes alight with intrigue and joy. No longer viewing him as an oddity, they now saw him as a purveyor of delight, their laughter bubbling up like the fizzy drinks accompanying the meal like sweet champagne, rising above the din of everyday life.

“Such a fabled meal!” Alaric exclaimed, “It is more than just food; it brings forth joy! I declare this place a realm of happiness akin to that of my castle!”

And so it was that Sir Alaric, regarded as the whimsical eccentric of Elderville, rode into town clad in a suit of shining armour that glimmered like the morning sun. Brutus his steed, a magnificent stallion like always, was striding with a coat as dark as midnight and yet shining as if lit by many a star , pranced with an energy that matched his rider's elation. The inhabitants couldn't help but notice, as he approached, that Sir Alaric seemed even more jovial than usual; his laughter rang out like the cheerful chimes of a distant bell, infectious and uplifting.

In his hands, he carried a bounty of "Happy Meals," (he brought some for the road) whose quaint packages that held both crunchy nugget and crispy apple slices of the red variety, a nod to his playful spirit. As he rode through the cobbled streets, children waved excitedly from their doorsteps, and adults exchanged bemused glances, marvelling at the sight of the merry knight whose joy seemed to radiate from his armour, casting a warm glow that enveloped all around him. It was as if the very air sparkled with his delight, and in that moment, Elderville felt a little more alive, a little more enchanted, thanks to the unabashed whimsy of whether they liked it or not their beloved resident knight.

In his quest for happiness, Sir Alaric taught all including the one will eventually take his mantle as lord of Windermere Castle to keep the long established local tradition alive, who gazed upon his adventures that joy often lay in unexpected places—and perhaps, in the heart of an eccentric knight, one can discover a profound truth: true happiness and enlightenment is a journey worth undertaking, no matter how Queer people might see it be done.

SPOOKY SCARY SKELETON

10/17/24

daniel salazar

In the small, unassuming town of Autumnsville, October was revered not just for its Halloween festivities that it brought about but also for an unspoken darkness that crept through the streets as leaves withered and shadows stretched. Teenagers roamed the streets in ghoulish costumes, while others were content to spend their nights unravelling tales of the supernatural. Among them was Pablo Martinez, a seventeen-year-old who had been fighting a spookiness within him —one that was all too real.

Pablo had borne the burden of a peculiar affliction for years; ever since he could remember, he had been haunted by a spectre of his own making. It was his skeleton—an entity formed from his own bones—that had been constantly been trying to escape his flesh. Usually Pablo had been able to contain it, training his body to a very high degree (he's ripper than most athletes his size) to be able to handle it straining within him. However, with each and every passing scary season its power increased and Pablo could feel the skeleton within him growing more restless, more potent, and more Spooky.

The early mornings of October were particularly eerie, with the crisp air and fog curling around the lampposts. This particular morning, as the sun barely peeked over the horizon, Pablo stumbled out of bed. He didn't feel well—an emptiness clung to his bones, mixed with the anxiety that had been building over the weeks. Something was off. As he slipped out from under his covers, a realisation clawed at the edges of his mind; he could no longer keep ‘it’ contained.

In a moment of horror, his body quivered as if caught in an unseen vice, it was like, It was just as surprised as he was that as it realised for the first time in his life It had grown stronger than him. The internal struggle was desperate and fierce with Pablo clutching every powerful rock hard muscle that he had trained long and hard for, every ounce of discipline that had help him so much in the past and every drop of willpower he had been forced to, conjure since he was born to keep the spookiness within, but he could feel the skeleton bubbling to the surface, propelled by an ancient urge to be free. “No, no, no!” he gasped, clutching his abdomen. But despite his defiance, a sudden wave of weakness overtook him, and his form collapsed onto the cold, hardwood floor of his room.

In a flurry of bones and echoes, his once-flesh shield crumpled into a shapeless heap. The old skeleton, thrumming with energy, slithered out of him, rattling as if it were newly liberated from a cell. Pablo's heart raced as a wave of panic washed over him, but as he lay there, staring into nothingness, he felt an unexpected sense of relief. The force inside him had been unleashed. and even though he was probably going to die as he was, he felt comfort with the knowledge that It was free.

“Hello, Pablo,” a raspy rattly voice spoke from the shadows of his cluttered room. Pablo’s heart dropped. This was it—the moment of reckoning. There it was—his skeletal figure, all jagged edges and eerie grace, peering at him through the haze of disarray. It was old, bleached bones topped with a head that appeared to have seen centuries pass by.

“I’m Charles,” the skeleton introduced in a rattling voice, filled with a peculiar amiability that echoed against the walls. “ I'm Your roommate.”

Pablo blinked, momentarily disoriented by the absurdity of the situation. A skeleton? A roommate? It didn’t seem real. “What do you mean by ‘roommate’?” he croaked, still on the floor finding it difficult to speak without the structure his skeleton once gave him.

“I mean exactly that.” Charles leaned closer, his presence non-threatening despite the bone-chilling aura he radiated well for anyone who still have bones. “ I don't know why you are so surprised after all You’ve been hosting me for a while with us both occupying the same space, and now that I’m free, I feel incline to repay you for all the trouble I caused you by helping you with your—what do you call it— ah yes recovery.”

Pablo swallowed hard with great difficulty, wondering just how deeply this situation could spiral. “Recovery?” he asked, sceptically, but intrigued nonetheless.

“Of course! you must realise that without me you can't even walk let alone survive no matter how toned your muscles are, It’s much too inconvenient,” Charles stated matter-of-factly, the sound of his bones clattering as he shifted. “you will regrow a new skeleton with care, and then i'm sure you'll be as good as new ”

The confusion vanished as Pablo let curiosity take its place. “Why didn’t I know you were able to talk?” he asked, finally using all his strength to roll and lean against the wall to have a better point of view.

“Oh, you never thought of me as anything but an adversary to fight and keep down!” Charles rattled, a chuckle or a skeletal equivalent of it emanating from his hollow chest. “I always tried to communicate to you but you always brutally suppressed me once I gave the smallest of autonomous movement that wasn't your own because you were always so scared of the mere prospect of me leaving you ”

Pablo was stunned, torn between fear and the intrigue of this unexpected apparent friendship. With Charles around, he was free from the confines of his reality that was marked by a battle that was against an seemingly decent person allalong .

Days passed, and Pablo discovered that having a skeleton companion roaming outside his own body wasn’t so bad after all. Charles tended to him with eerie efficiency, sharing secrets of eldritch lore that he thought was just common knowledge, helping him with homework because Pablo told him that at least for time being he was incapacitated but in truth somehow paid less attention to the lessons in the classes they were both present in. The afternoons turned into late-night discussions about how they perceived each other's life thus far with Charles describing the experience within the wet bag of tissue of Pablos, being infuriating with the spookiness within compelling him to get out the prison of flesh despite his until recently, inability to.

“Remember, Pablo,” Charles said as they lounged on the floor of Pablo's cluttered room, “I was forced to be present for every embarrassing moment you had, including the one when you….” “Please I had enough Trauma as is without knowing that another person was there to actually witness it” responded Pablo with the voice of someone who desperately hoped that the other person didn't push the topic further.

As days waned on, Pablo grew stronger again, regaining not just a sense of himself but a newfound appreciation for life now he didn't constantly have to fight with the Spooky within anymore.

Ultimately, his bones began to regenerate rather quickly due to no small part of Charles feeding him nutrients that were best for skeletal reconstruction for he knew more innately what was good for regrowth since he was made of them, slowly forming a new skeleton of Pablo's own once more, one that had yet to reach Charles’s level of spookiness. It was too soon to say how this would all settle, but Pablo had a feeling that stability was around the corner now he knew that it could be reasoned with.

As the last of October’s chills subsided, and trick-or-treaters scuttled about the neighbourhood in joyful reverie, Pablo closed his eyes, and sighed. He had finally found respite in the struggle he had all his life but still when he finally lost he was forced to feel the spookiness of Charles that had grown great and doubtless will grow greater still and that prospect scared him . Nonetheless when Charles told him he was going to the graveyard Pablo warned him of a legend of the pumpkin head dancer that is said to inhabit it there, and who's spookiness was so great even the darkness of Dan Seri Dan was paled in comparison and if the myths of a century pass are to be trusted was the only time Seri Dan refused his master Vandeclesh when he was ordered to bring a calamity upon Autumnsville out of the sear fear of the possibly of invoking him but Charles said to not worry that the legend is probably false and that he'll be alright.

As Pablo watched Charles casually strut down the street towards the cemetery, a palpable aura of spookiness that had grown immensely since he escaped the confines of himself seemed to envelop him, emanating from the skeleton in waves. Trick-or-treaters, their faces painted with excitement and anticipation, suddenly froze in their tracks, instinctively recoiling from the decidedly unnerving sight of Charles. His mere presence unleashing an overwhelming sense of immense spookiness that sent shivers down their spines.

With each of Charles's casual steps, the vibrant glow of jack-o'-lanterns dimmed around him, as if the very essence of scary season greatened in his wake. The children, clad in costumes of superheroes, witches, and ghouls, felt an almost magnetic pull to run. Whispers of “Did you see that?” and “What's another skeleton doing walking around?” filled the air, their hearts pounding in unison, a panic that only intensified as they gazed up at the skeletal figure effortlessly making his way down the street. His empty eye sockets seemed to glimmer with a knowing mirth, but in the twilight, there was a trepidation that, to the innocent minds of the trick-or-treaters, seemed incalculably ominous.

The usual warmth and excitement of Halloween succumbed to an eerie stillness, as even the wind seemed to hush its howls to avoid disturbing him. The skeletal limbs, which would have been playful and humorous in any other context, appeared to loom larger than life, casting long, haunting shadows that intertwined with the children's costumes. Their imaginations, already heightened by the festive atmosphere, ran wild with visions of ghoulish tales come to life. Even the bravest of those children, the ones old enough to be told by their parents that they might be too old for trick or treating, felt the weight of sear spookiness seep into their souls, fueling their spontaneous retreat

With a final, nonchalant wave of his bony hand, Charles meandered on, seemingly unaware or perhaps deliberately indifferent to the chaos of fleeing trick-or-treaters behind him.

Pablo then couldn't help but think of how Charles never said why he was going to the Graveyard but he just figured that judging just from the aura of spookiness around the cemetery everyone always felt (it was many times greater than Charles own even outside of scary season) that if it was possible for a Skeleton to be scared then Charles will definitely be, besides what could a skeleton possible do at the Day of Spooky itself?

As the cold breath of the spooky season enveloped the town, a persistent chill settled in the air. The soft radiance of the moonlight shifted through the now yellowing boroughs of trees , casting long, ominous shadows that danced in the corners of quiet streets and open fields. though It was nothing to Charles as he continued his walk to the cemetery—a place where whispers of long-buried secrets seemingly floated with every gust of wind, to do some business he had planned to do since he escaped the confines of Pablo, since he felt a Spookiness greater than his own emanating from that graveyard like a challenge to be met .

Among the crumbling tombstones and ivy-clad mausoleums, an unspeakable thrill coursed through his bones, igniting the very spookiness that had been threatening to burst forth since he grew within Pablo and now was amplified during this Day.

However, with every confident step deeper into the cemetery, the dawning realisation of his own growing spookiness settled uneasily within him. Charles had once been a mere ectoplasmic manifestation of someone else's struggle, a lonelier shadow coiling just below the edges of Pablo’s consciousness. But now, freed from his prior restraints, he wandered with unsettling purpose, a trepidation echoing through the tombstones.

As he padded silently along the cracked cobblestone path, a lengthy figure caught his eye—the old Gravedigger, stooped low over a freshly turned plot of earth, his long white beard fluttering in the breeze like wisps of fog. The Man who was, renowned throughout the rumour spreading circles of Autumnsville for his cryptic warnings and bizarre tales (he's is credited as the only person to have actually seen the pumpkin head dancer and surviving to tell the tale), noticed Charles braving the eerie landscape and called out to him, his voice gravelly, weighed down by years of morbid wisdom evidently was no longer surprised to see a skeleton walk through his own Cemetery anymore.

"Beware, my friend, for beyond this point, you venture into the Deep Graveyard," he cautioned, his blue eyes glittering with concern. "No living soul has ever returned from that forsaken territory during scary season, not in the light of day nor under the cover of night. for the spookiness that dwells there is unmatched."

Charles, unphased by the Gravedigger’s warning, simply nodded, a mischievous smile playing on his skeletal features. "I appreciate your concern," he responded with a voice that held an otherworldly echo. "But I have business there that can't wait."

with a rattle of his bones, he pressed on, leaving the Gravedigger behind, a curious mix of fear and respect flickering in his eyes as he watched Charles disappear into the mist.

As he delved deeper into the cemetery, the air thickened with an uncanny stillness, and the landscape morphed into something surreal. Charles passed graves marked with timeworn angels and cracked headstones, their inscriptions barely readable under layers of moss. This was no ordinary cemetery; it was a shrine to the lost, a chorus of memories suspended in the haze. Intricately carved pumpkins began to emerge from the pathway with candles lit in them like fiery spirits, decorating a secluded clearing, and in the centre stood a shrine, radiating a twisted charm. The pumpkins gleamed with eerie, carved smiles, inviting and forbidding in equal measure.

Feeling a magnetic pull, Charles stepped closer, sensing a challenge within the spookiness emanating from the shrine. It acted as a mirror, reflecting his own growing aura of eeriness back at him. Suddenly, as if conjured by the very shadows that lined the grove, the Pumpkin Head Dancer appeared, his presence almost electric. Dressed in a sleek black body glove, his head a luminous orange pumpkin adorned with wild, jagged carvings, he began to dance, each movement pulsating with a spookiness so profound that it sent a shiver racing down Charles's own spine.

Yet, fueled by a desire to tolerate no spookiness greater than his own, Charles launched himself at the Pumpkin Head Dancer, hurling punches so fast they transcended the speed of sound. The crack of air following each blow echoed like thunder, but the Dancer was blissfully unfazed. With masterful fluidity, he danced effortlessly out of harm's way, his movements rhythmic and graceful, as though he were the very embodiment of the spirit of scary season.

Charles unleashed his most potent spooky attacks, each wave of Darkness more menacing than the last. Dark tendrils of his Spookiness shot forth, shimmering with an atramentous stream as beams of shadowy blackness erupted from his skeletal frame. These extensions of himself writhed menacingly, seeking to ensnare and overwhelm his foe with sheer spookiness. Yet, the Pumpkin Head Dancer seemed to glide effortlessly through Charles's assault, his movements a mesmerising dance of agility and grace. With every menacing burst of energy that Charles projected, the Dancer countered with an aura so profoundly spooky that it rendered Charles’s attacks as mere flickers against the brilliance of his own macabre charm.

The ground shook and the air shimmered as Charles struck with intensity, each blow cascading waves of eerie energy across the cemetery. The night itself paused, holding its breath as a dark symphony of horror unfolded. Yet, the Pumpkin Head Dancer merely twirled and swayed, each movement a playful negation of Charles's ferocity. The wicked grin of the Dancer's pumpkin head seem to widened as he redirected Charles's energy into a spiral of spooky elegance, turning each intimidating assault into a pirouette beneath the pale glow of the moonlight and as a show of his own unmeasured Spookiness .

Then, with a flourish, the Dancer unleashed a singular blast of spookiness that reverberated like a thunderclap through the graveyard. In an instant, it struck Charles even as he was Guarding himself with a barrier of spookiness, and it shattered right through sending him hurtling through the air as if suspended by invisible strings. He shattered through tree trunks like brittle bones and burrowed across ancient graves, scattering dirt and forgotten trinkets into the night. It was a dazzling display of power and expertise, a vivid reminder the Pumpkin Head Dancer wasn’t just a participant—he was the master

Then soon enough, Charles found himself overwhelmed by the dancer’s prowess. The Pumpkin Head Dancer’s movements were fluid and mesmerising, launching thick tendrils of dread that coiled around Charles like vines, tightening their grip. Just as despair began to seep into Charles's essence, he remembered the secret weapon he had concealed—a sheet of paper, crumpled but potent, tucked away between his femur and pelvis . Scribbled on its surface were the remnants of Pablo’s search history, an archive of curious and unsettling inquiries that had been the only reason why Charles even thought he had a chance in the first place. It was inherently spooky—a landscape of accursed horror in written form that for better or for worse had been stumbled upon by Charles when he accidentally pressed the history tab on Pablo's laptop .

With newfound resolve, Charles brandished the paper before the dancer. Even the Pumpkin Head Dancer, imbued with such an Great aura of spookiness, reeled back, shock evident in the flickering light of the candle flames that burnt behind his eyes. Seizing the opportunity, Charles lunged forward and entrapped the dancer in a grip that felt both liberating and suffocating.

As he gazed deeply into the fire of the Pumpkin Head Dancer's eyes, a fusion of beings unfolded. Spooked yet exhilarated, Charles absorbed the spookiness radiating from the pumpkin figure. He felt an unimaginable transformation rippling through him; his bones, once white and relatively brittle, darkened to a pitch black—imbued now with an authenticity so transcendent that mere spookiness cant begin to describe it.

at that moment Pablo stirred in the depths of his slumber that he begun barely an hour before, a groan escaping his lips as he wrestled with the remnants of his dreams. The world around him felt both familiar and foreign, a surreal blend of shadows and whispers that danced at the edges of his awareness. In that disorienting moment, an unsettling wave of spookiness washed over him, sending an icy shiver through his very core, as if the skeleton within him had awakened from its slumber like it hadn't until that point understood the true meaning of spooky. The veil between reality and the echoes of the unseen throbbed with a palpable energy, dark and tangling like ivy around his thoughts. Was he truly okay? The unsettling presence emanating from Charles pulsed through the air like a chilling melody, disrupting the fragile peace of Pablo's once serene existence, drawing him deeper into a realm where comfort seemed a distant memory, and he wasn't the only one.

Charles, exultant but contemplative, stepped away from the remnants of the battle, leaving behind the melting figure of the Pumpkin Head Dancer as he was absorbed into his bones. He had entered the cemetery as an uncertain silhouette—a ghost of someone else’s thirst for freedom—but emerged transformed, fortified by the very essence of spooky.

With one final glance at the shrine glimmering through veils of mist, Charles walked out of the graveyard, releasing a spiral of spookiness into the atmosphere that whispered secrets of the uncanny through the world and beyond. He had confronted the spookiness greater than his own and embraced the dance of fear and fascination, and with every step he took into the dusk of scary season, it became abundantly clear that he would not just be wandering the earthly realm anymore. No, he was destined to roam freely as a beacon of enigmatic spookiness, a legend born from the very marrow of the Day of Spooky, and he would become even more so with each and every passing one.

SKELETAL AFFAIRS

Daniel salazar

11/3/24

In a land where the sun kissed the earth with radiant golden rays and the castle walls loomed like ancient sentinels guarding timeless secrets, two brothers, Gerald and Timothy, found solace in the heart of their dominion. They sat in the sun-drenched courtyard of a castle that they had painstakingly constructed with their own hands—every stone laid infused with their unwavering dedication and love for mediaeval history. The grand structure, a remarkable blend of weathered stone and vibrant imagination, towered majestically above them, its turrets piercing the azure sky and its banners fluttering proudly in the gentle breeze.

Clad in shining suits of armour that gleamed with each movement, their swords resting by their sides, Gerald and Timothy embodied the true spirit of knighthood. The metal plates reflected the sunlight, casting brilliant reflections that danced across the cobblestones. Before them lay a long oak table, lavishly adorned with a sumptuous spread of roasted meats, succulent fruits, and aromatic loaves of bread, their crusts golden-brown and warm from the oven. Goblets brimming with freshly pressed cider and richly aged Scotch whisky stood ready, the sweet and smoky aromas mingling in the warm air, while laughter and spirited conversation echoed like music through the courtyard.

As the brothers reveled in the joyful banter of their lively girlfriends, Marissa and Elara, the atmosphere pulsed with an infectious energy. Marissa, her hair cascading like a waterfall of autumn leaves, shared tales of adventure that sparkled in her eyes, while Elara, with her melodious laughter, rebutted with stories of her own daring escapades. The courtyard, alive with the sounds of joy, felt like a sanctuary, a carefully crafted moment of bliss in their otherwise tumultuous lives.

Yet, beneath this veneer of festivity lay a shadowy secret that gnawed at Gerald's heart—a burden he had kept hidden from his beloved brother. The weight of this deception loomed large, casting a pall over the evening’s revelry and creating an unspoken tension that curled in the corners of his mind. Unbeknownst to his brothers, the revelation of this secret would soon escalate into a tempest, threatening to unravel the very fabric of their fraternal bond and shatter the idyllic world they had painstakingly built. As the laughter rang out and the sun dipped lower in the sky, Gerald grappled with the reality that their shared happiness might soon come crashing down, casting a long shadow over the castle's golden walls.

Years earlier, in a desperate quest to find a cure for his affliction, Gerald had obtained a skeletal extractor from Bootleg Pete, a dubious character known for his dealings in black market and consequently the arcane as well. This extractor allowed him to rid himself of the bones of his long-despised skeleton, Gregory, which had grown in an unnatural manner (almost like that of a gorilla) that inflicted constant pain upon Gerald. To him, Gregory was nothing more than a nuisance that needed to be disposed of. Thus, Gerald abandoned Gregory, leaving the remnants of his spookiness behind as merely a flicker of what it would eventually become, cast away to navigate his existence in the shadows of the unknown realms.

An ominous breeze swept through the castle courtyard, carrying with it the remnants of joyous laughter that echoed against the stone walls, now eerily silent. As if the very air had thickened with foreboding, the ancient wooden gates creaked open—Gerald had carelessly neglected to secure them after the day's revelry.

With a sharp gust, the once-welcoming entrance revealed Gregory, now a fully animated skeleton whose ghastly presence radiated an unsettling chill. Shadows seemed to writhe around him, as if drawn by the Spookiness animating his bones. Clad in tattered remnants of a decayed cloak that fluttered like ghostly tendrils, he gripped a bow fashioned from what appeared to be the gnarled remnants of cursed wood. From his skeletal fingers dangled a quiver of arrows, each enamelled with eerie, pitch black flames of spookiness that seem to glimmer ominously in the fading light.

Before Gerald and his brother could fully comprehend the malevolent figure before them, Gregory released a barrage of arrows in a swift, fluid motion. The projectiles sliced through the air with a haunting whistle, imbued with dark energy, as they sought their targets with unnerving accuracy. Marissa and Elara, caught off guard and unarmed, were struck down before they could utter a single cry for help. The sharp thud of each arrow sinking into the soft ground was drowned out by the heavy silence that followed, leaving only the echo of Gregory's chilling cackle reverberating in the night, plunging the castle into a suffocating atmosphere of despair.

In an instant, the vibrant joy that had filled the air was shattered, replaced by a chilling wave of horror. Gerald sprang to his feet, his heart pounding and rage boiling within him like a tempest unleashed. Timothy, his literal brother in arms, was hot on his heels, eyes wide with disbelief but fueled by a fierce determination. “Gregory!” Gerald bellowed, his voice a thunderous roar that reverberated against the stone walls, a glint of steel reflecting in the fading light of dusk.

This confrontation was not a spur of the moment—no, it was the culmination of years steeped in bitterness, regret, and a thirst for vengeance. With furious intent, Gerald swung his sword in a fluid blur, every muscle in his body coiling with the force of his attack aimed at the elusive figure of Gregory, who loomed like a phantom in the twilight.

But Gregory was no mere shadow; he possessed a surprising agility and strength that defied his spectral form. With a swift, calculated movement, he sidestepped Gerald’s lethal strike, his silhouette dancing through the dimness. In one fluid motion, he propelled himself into the air, weightless and fierce, before delivering a brutal dropkick directly to Gerald’s face. The impact was like a clap of thunder, sending Gerald sprawling across the cobblestones of the courtyard, the world around him blurring as he fought to regain his footing, bloodied but resolute. The confrontation had truly begun, a clash born from the deepest scars of the past.

but Gregory fled as fast as he came leaving the Brothers in shock and grief and the weight of their dead.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting an eerie glow over the freshly turned earth as Timothy and Gerald knelt before the graves of their beloved brothels,. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the sounds of distant crows, mourning with them as they carved their sorrow into the soil.

Timothy's hands trembled as he gently placed a cluster of wildflowers atop the crude wooden markers they'd fashioned in their grief. "They deserved so much more than this," he murmured, blinking back tears that threatened to spill over. Beside him, Gerald's jaw tightened, his eyes dark and stormy as he stared at the ground, lost in a whirlwind of emotions.

"Gregory won’t get away with this," Gerald finally said, his voice low and heavy with resolve. His older brother had always been the pillar of strength, but now, even he could feel the cracks beginning to show beneath the weight of their loss.

Timothy looked up, meeting Gerald's gaze with a fierce determination. "We will make him pay, Ger. We will find him and make him regret the day he thought he could take them from us." His voice was firm but held an edge of trembling vulnerability, a reminder of the fear still lingering in his heart.

Gerald's expression softened for a moment, and a faint flicker of hope ignited in his eyes. "How? He’s already disappeared into the shadows, like a ghost. Who knows where he is now?"

"Then we’ll become shadows," Timothy said, his tone growing steady, the fire of vengeance igniting within him. "We’ll search every corner, ask every question. If it takes years, we’ll do it. Brothers don’t abandon each other—even if it’s for something that seems impossible. We owe it to them. They believed in us, Ger. We can’t let their memory fade into nothing."

As the sun sank lower, Timothy's words hung in the air, a promise solemn and true. With a renewed sense of purpose fueling their grief, he reached over and clasped Gerald’s hand tightly. “We’ll get our revenge, together. I swear it.”

For a moment, they were just two brothers, mourning their loves, yet united by a bond forged in sorrow and vengeance. As darkness began to envelop them, Timothy and Gerald sat in silence, each lost in their thoughts, yet comforted by the quiet understanding that whatever lay ahead, they would face it side by side—united by blood, grief, and an unrelenting quest for justice.

Their journey unfolded like an intricate tapestry, intricately woven with mist and mystery, drawing them ever deeper into a world shrouded in enchantment and enigma. As they ventured into the fog-infested woodlands, the trees towered like ancient sentinels, their gnarled branches twisting and intertwining overhead, creating a canopy that obscured the pale light of the sun. Eerie shadows flickered and danced across the forest floor, playing tricks on their eyes as the whispers of the unseen echoed around them.

The air was heady with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a fragrant reminder of the passage of time and the cycle of life unfolding within the forest. Each breath they took felt heavy with the weight of the atmosphere, laden with secrets long forgotten. The brothers, armed only with their fierce determination and unyielding courage, navigated treacherous paths that seemed to shift and change, as if the forest itself were alive and conspired to test their resolve.

They scaled rugged mountains, where the biting wind howled with a ferocious intensity, twisting around craggy peaks and sending chills through their weary bones. The ground beneath their feet was unstable, crumbling into sheer drops that threatened to send them tumbling into the abyss below. Each ascent was a daunting challenge, testing not only their physical strength but also their mental fortitude. Yet, it was within these moments of hardship and uncertainty that the true essence of their brotherhood shone brightest—each supportive word whispered against the raging wind and every shared glance, rich with understanding and solidarity, reinforced the unbreakable bond that connected their hearts.

As they navigated the treacherous ravines, a dizzying chasm loomed large before them, its depths shrouded in an enigmatic haze of swirling mists that seemed to swallow the very light around it. The air was thick with tension, the scent of damp earth and moss mingling with the unmistakable tang of fear. The brothers worked in perfect harmony, their movements fluid as they secured ropes to jagged outcrops, gauntleted hands calloused and strong from years of training and sparring with each other Each careful step was taken with the utmost precision as they sought out stable footholds and tested the ground beneath them, their trust in each other as solid as the granite cliffs surrounding them.

Each day brought new miseries, a relentless barrage of tribulations that wore at their resolve. Savage storms rumbled across the landscape, dark clouds blotting out the sun and unleashing torrents of rain that threatened to sweep them away into the abyss below. The icy wind howled like a vengeful spirit, buffeting against their weary bodies and forcing them to huddle together for warmth when their campfires were blown out . Yet they pressed on, determined to conquer the elements.

Unseen creatures of the night skulked just out of sight, their eyes glimmering like malevolent stars in the gloom, watching for any sign of weakness. The brothers could feel the weight of those unseen predators, a palpable presence lurking in the shadows, raising the hairs on the back of their necks. Every crack of a branch or rustle of leaves sent a shiver down their spines, but with each murmured word of encouragement, they found the strength to continue.

Yet through every trial and tribulation, the warmth of laughter and the echo of shared stories from their carefree childhood enveloped them like a protective cloak. Memories of lazy afternoons spent climbing trees, with the sun filtering through the leaves and laughter ringing out like a sweet melody, transformed their fear into an unyielding fortitude. They exchanged knowing glances, silently acknowledging the bond that bound them together, a connection forged in love and resilience, a promise to protect one another no matter the odds.

Despite the harrowing dangers that lay ahead, they clung tightly to their purpose, always reminding themselves of the mission that had driven them forth. With determination in their hearts, they pressed on, hearts united in the pursuit of a goal that transcended their own fears—one that held the promise of vengeance and retribution waiting just beyond the horizon.

After what felt like an eternity, they finally stood before a dark fortress—a long-forgotten stronghold nestled between craggy cliffs, shrouded in shadows and draped in a veil of foreboding. The fortress loomed ominously against the twilight sky, its mighty walls black as night and covered in creeping vines, a testament to the passage of time. The eerie silence was occasionally broken by the chilling clinks of bones, sending shivers down their spines. Within its crumbling walls roamed skeletons, their hollow eye sockets gleaming in its hallways. These skeletal figures were remnants of a world that had long abandoned them and now they made the fortress their home.

As they drew near the entrance, the air thickened with an oppressive weight, and two skeletal guards emerged from the shadows, animated by some spooky force. Their eye sockets seem to glow with a faint light, and their bony hands clutched weapons that shimmered ominously in the dim light—a pair of gleaming swords, more fearsome than even their condition belies. Each guard's hollow gaze bore into the brothers like a silent decree: no one shall pass these gates without their consent.

Gerald and Timothy exchanged a brief but knowing glance, a bond of brotherhood evident in their resolute expressions. The moment hung between them, charged with anticipation before exploding into action. Just as one of the skeletal sentinels opened its jaw to emit a bone-chilling warning, they surged forward, a whirlwind of ferocity and desperate purpose.

Gerald led the charge, his blade glinting with determination as it sliced through the air towards the closest guard. He dodged to the left at the last moment, narrowly avoiding a retaliatory swing that would have wounded him even taking in account of his Armour. Then with a fluid motion, he spun around and struck with precision, his sword finding the fragile joint of the skeleton’s arm, sending shards of bone flying.

Timothy, always the more analytical of the duo, anticipated the movements of the other guard. He feinted to the right, baiting the guard into a lunge that left it vulnerable. With the agility even greater than its own, Timothy pivoted and slashed upward with his blade, severing the skeletal hand that gripped its sword. The weapon clattered to the ground, but the guard, seemingly fueled by a sense of duty, picked it up with its other and continued to advance with unrelenting ferocity.

The fight unfolded like a deadly dance, each brother complementing the other’s movements with instinctive grace. Gerald kept the first guard occupied, luring it into overextending attacks while dodging its very powerful but wild swings. The crunch of bones echoed through the eerie silence as Gerald exploited the gaps in its defences, landing precise strikes that chipped away at its form.

Meanwhile, Timothy engaged the second guard, his heart racing as he quickly calculated his next move. He ducked beneath a high arc of the guard's sword, and in one smooth motion, he rolled to the side, springing up with a fierce thrust aimed at its ribcage with enough force to easily go through multiple feet of hardened steel. The strong bone fractured as the tip of the stronger blade pierced through, sending a shower of dust into the air, but the guard retaliated furiously. It lunged forward, only to be met with Timothy’s practised parry, a clash of metal against bone resonating like a death knell.

The ambient aura in the guards’ Spookiness that would have been great enough to ensnare a town at the beginning of the fight, started to flicker haphazardly as the brothers intensified their attacks. With each swing, with each calculated manoeuvre, Gerald and Timothy became an unstoppable force, their bond of blood manifesting into a whirlwind of unyielding fury. They executed a series of well-timed feints and counter-attacks, forcing the guards into one devastating wombo combo after another .

Finally, with a synchronised thrust, they struck at the same moment—Gerald's blade aimed for the skull as Timothy’s own sought to sever the spine of the remaining guard. The resulting crack of bone and the rush of spookiness surging into the air echoed like the tolling of a bell, signalling their victory.

As the last echoes of clattering bones faded into the stillness of the night, the brothers stood victorious, their hearts still racing from the fierce battle with the skeletal Guardians. The moon hung low in the sky, casting an eerie glow over the remnants of the conflict, illuminating the fractured forms of their enemies scattered across the ground. and without a moment to lose they charged triumphantly through the gates, then with nothing else other than the blowing wind one of the shattered skeletons, its ribs cracked and limbs splintered, struggled to crawl toward its fallen comrade, dragging itself along the dirt with a single, defiant arm.

Each agonising movement seemed to unleash a chorus of soft chimes, the sound of brittle bones scraping against the ground resonating like a mournful requiem. and with its skull twisted and its eye sockets dim, it finally reached its companion’s lifeless form. Gripped with a melancholy that transcended death, it leaned precariously close, the remnants of its eerie existence flickering like a dying candle.

With every ounce of strength its fledgling spookiness could muster, the fractured skeleton gasped its final words, a fragile whisper that lingered in the chilling air: "I... I'm sorry, Brother."

Just as the whisper was spoken The last spark of spookiness that tethered it to this world flickered and waned, the fractured soul finally succumbing to the pull of the afterlife. With a gentle sigh that reverberated through the night, the broken skeleton crumbled into floor sending dust into the wind, leaving only silence in its wake.

Steel glinted ominously in the dim light of the dank, shadowy corridors, where ancient relics of lost origins whispered secrets of the past. As the brothers tightened their grips on their weapons, the air pulsed with an electric charge, an ominous prelude to the chaos that was about to unfold. They unleashed a relentless onslaught against the skeletal remains that dared to rise against them, their foes' hollow eyes gleaming with surprise or unnatural malice both of which were the same to them.

With each swing of their blades, a devastating ballet of precision and power erupted—a blur of motion that eclipsed even the swiftness of arrows and bullets. The blades sang as they sliced through the air, meeting forged armour and bones with a satisfying crunch. Their strength was masterful, as they struck with a rhythmic ferocity, turning the corridor into a grotesque dance floor where the only music was the soft rustle of clattering skeletons and the chilling echoes of battle.

A massive, skeletal warrior lunged at them, wielding a battle axe as it cut through the air, but the brothers remained unfazed. In a fluid motion, they spun away from its ghastly assault, their bodies moving in perfect synchrony. Timothy ducked low, narrowly avoiding the swing of the ax that threatened to cleave right through his Armour, while Gerald pivoted gracefully, his blade carving through the air like a scythe in a field of wheat. With a swift flourish, he brought his weapon down upon the creature's femur, shattering it into splinters, sending the skeletal brute crashing to the ground in a clatter of fragmented bone.

Amidst the melee, pulses of pure Spookiness erupted from their opponents. The brothers had learned to anticipate these ethereal attacks by now, the experience from Gregory's incursion into their castle on that fateful day being more than enough. As a wave of Spookiness surged towards them, they evaded with uncanny agility. With the younger Timothy rolling forward, his shoulder barely grazing the floor, and the older Gerald soaring above him in a graceful arch. The macabre energy whooshed beneath them, leaving only a faint, chill tingle in the air where it had passed, like a phantom's breath. before it knocked down a pillar behind them with a Loud crash.

With blades gleaming, the brothers retaliated. Gerald having amassed enough adrenaline fueled Battle Luster summoned a burst of focused energy into his sword, its edge glowing with a fierce light. He lunged forward, his blade meeting the assaults of spookiness head-on. The collisions sent shock waves rippling through the corridor, bursting forth in a dazzling display of sparks and spectral remnants that spiralled into the air before falling to the cold floor.

Their weapons cleaved through stone pillars effortlessly, causing dust and fragments to explode into the air as if they were mere twigs caught in an unyielding storm. The brothers fought as one, weaving through the thick mists of Spookiness released by their foes. As one brother distracted the enemies with a flurry of attacks forcing them to focus all of their Spookiness in barriers just to keep him back, the other would slip unseen into the shadows, emerging behind their opponents to strike with lethal precision.

The floor beneath them transformed into a grisly tapestry, painted with the vivid remnants of their foes. Shattered bones lay scattered like brittle leaves caught in a wild autumn gale, while the eerie clatter of skulls echoed hauntingly through the corridor—a stark reminder of the fallen warriors who had until recently roamed these haunted halls. Yet, even in the face of such chilling desolation, the brothers fought on with unwavering resolve. Their combined prowess rendered the Spookiness of their opponents nothing more than a transient illusion, fading before the brilliance of their unyielding spirits.

At last, they arrived at the inner keep, an ancient structure that loomed before them like a sentinel of obsidian, its weathered stones whispering secrets of battles long past. Standing at the entrance was the imposing figure of Gregory, an unnervingly regal skeletal king, his hollow eye sockets glinting with a mix of sorrow and defiance. Upon his brow rested a crown of gold, tarnished but still majestic, catching the dim light and casting reflections that danced eerily against the cold stone walls.

“Welcome, brothers,” he began, his voice resonating through the air like the mournful chime of a funeral bell, each word heavy with the weight of grief and loss. “You come seeking revenge, but do you understand the burden we carry? We sought refuge here not as conquerors, but as exiles yearning for a place to call home.” he had one bony hand on the pommel of his lordly sword but with the other he gestured towards the black as night walls, a poignant reminder of the lives shattered by violence. “Yet you came with swords drawn, slaughtering my people without a second thought. They were innocent, just trying to live.”

Timothy stood frozen in place, his heart pounding in his chest as a storm of conflict brewed within him. He took a moment to absorb the truth in Gregory's words, realising that behind the facade of the skeletal king lay a story of loss and desperation. Perhaps there was a history he had overlooked, a perspective that might shift the very foundation of his rage. Deep down, he began to wonder if revenge was truly the path they should tread.

But beside him, Gerald was a tempest of fury, consumed by the grief of his own losses. His features twisted into a sneer as he stepped forward, the edge of his sword glinting ominously in the faint light. “That’s what you get for killing the one I Loved!” he yelled, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. In his blind rage, he raised his blade, the air heavy with the threat of impending violence, oblivious to the pain that surrounded them all.

As the tension in the room thickened, Timothy fought to steady his breath, caught between the tempest of Gerald’s wrath and the haunting sorrow in Gregory’s hollow gaze. Would he find the courage to stand against his friend’s fury, or would the cycle of vengeance continue to spiral into darkness? but at last it was fated to be not his decision to make

The battle erupted with an intensity that echoed throughout the chamber, a cacophony of clashing metal and the cries of combatants filling the air. Gerald and Timothy were resolute, their determination burning fiercely as they faced the ominous figure of Gregory. Yet, to their dismay, they quickly discovered that Gregory was no ordinary skeleton; he was a master swordsman, his skills far surpassing their own.

As Timothy charged forward, swinging his sword with all his might, he aimed a decisive blow at Gregory. In a shocking display of speed, Gregory effortlessly blocked the attack with the bony forearm of his radius and ulna, causing Timothy’s blade to shatter into fragments that glittered like shards of ice on the stone floor. The instant Timothy faltered, Gregory seized the opportunity, retaliating with a swift and powerful strike of his own. The impact was devastating; his weapon crashed against Timothy's helm, shattering it and sending the young knight reeling backward. He collided with a massive stone pillar, the force of the impact reverberating through the hall, before he crumpled to the floor in front of the forbidding entrance to the inner keep.

Seizing the moment, Gerald charged at Gregory in a desperate bid to avenge his brother. He swung his sword fiercely, but Gregory was quick and calculated; with fluid grace, he parried the blow, sending Gerald's weapon skittering across the ground. Without missing a beat, Gregory closed in, his intentions lethal. In a shocking display of brute strength, he plunged his fist through Gerald’s chest armour, the bones of his hand cracking through the metal as if it were parchment. Gerald felt the brutal force of the blow propel him across the chamber, landing harshly on the cold stone floor beside Timothy, both brothers now sprawled in defeat, their earlier bravery fading into helplessness.

Just as despair threatened to engulf them, a sudden commotion erupted at the entrance of the hall, shattering the oppressive atmosphere like glass. With all the fanfare of a knight steeling his resolve, Leroy Jenkins IV, the eldest living descendant to inherit the name of the still living Jenkins and their older brother, burst through the door. His heavy armour clanked loudly as he charged forward, brandishing a sword that glinted ominously, a fierce determination lighting his eyes. His appearance was a beacon of hope, igniting a new resolve within Gerald and Timothy, as they looked up to see the tides of fate shift in their favour. The battle was far from over, and with Leroy's arrival, a glimmer of hope flickered in the darkness.

Without hesitation, Gregory unleashed a black orb, swirling with tendrils of darkness, aimed directly at Leroy. However, Leroy stood firm, a confident smirk playing at the corners of his mouth just below his visor. With a fluid motion, he summoned a swirling barrier of his own spookiness, which shimmered with an eerie glow as it absorbed Gregory’s malevolent energy. “You think you can take us down so easily?” Leroy called out, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"what? how do you have Spookiness of your own? That should be impossible!" asked Gregory with alarm. Leroy chuckled “To truly harness the spookiness within,” he explained, his voice commanding attention amidst the chaos, “I had to learn to cooperate with my skeleton. Thaniel doesn't just follow my commands; we share our strengths. I began to understand his essence, his very bones resonating with every intention I project. When we combine our powers, it’s like weaving strands of a spectral tapestry, creating something far more potent together than we could ever achieve apart.”

As he spoke, Leroy moved, a blur of determined motion that was difficult for Gregory to comprehend. With the swiftness of a shadow, he dashed forward, his sword gleaming with a wicked enchantment. He struck with precision, delivering a crushing blow that sent Gregory crashing through a stone pillar, shattering the air with a resonating crash and enveloping the Chamber in dust and chaos—a moment of chaotic triumph that displayed the strength of Leroy’s philosophy.

But Gregory was not yet vanquished. For a fleeting moment, the battlefield was shrouded in eerie silence, interrupted only by the crackling energy that spiralled around him. His eyes glinted with malicious determination as he summoned every ounce of his dark energy, crafting a beam of pure Spookiness—an ominous pulse of shadowy tendrils that writhed and flickered like the whisper of lost souls. The air thickened with malevolence, and the ruins of the fortress trembled under the ominous weight of his power. He unleashed the beam toward Leroy, confident that this would be the final blow.

However, Leroy stood firm, his spirit unyielding amidst the encroaching darkness. Fueled by compassion for his brothers and a heart heavy with the memory of lives lost too soon, he gathered his resolve. Raising two fingers in front of him he called upon the energy of Thaniel as well as his own. The vibrant spookiness surged within him, illuminating his armoured form with an ethereal glow as he unleashed a counter-beam of his own.

The beams collided with a cataclysmic force, lighting up the desolate fortress like a storm igniting the night sky. A violent dance unfolded between them, a clash of titans caught in a primal struggle of light against dark, hope against despair. Despite Gregory's initial onslaught, Leroy's beam burgeoned forth, radiant and resolute.

With a fierce intensity, Leroy's energy surged, breaking the shackles of Gregory’s dark power. Like a determined tide sweeping away the remnants of a storm, his counter-beam burst into brilliant life, overpowering the inky shadows of Gregory's attack. Tendrils of light spiraled outward, gaining momentum until they erupted in a burst of illuminating brilliance like white Air Jordan's.

The explosion illuminated the ruins, casting long shadows that flickered and danced, as Gregory’s form began to unravel. The skeletal king, for all his malice, could only watch as his essence was vaporised into nothingness—dissolving into a shimmering cascade of light and shadow, each fragment whispering echoes of his defeat. In that moment, Leroy became an impossible beacon of light and spookiness —a radiant warrior standing triumphantly amidst the ashes of despair,

The fortress trembled violently, the ancient stones resonating with the echoes of their ferocious battle. Dust spiralled into the air as fragments of mortar rained down, at once a testament to the fierce struggle that had unfolded within its once-mighty walls. Cracks snaked across the surfaces, widening perilously as the foundations quaked under the relentless assault. The brothers, adrenaline coursing through their veins, surged forward, desperation fueling their movements as they raced toward the massive wooden doors, now splintered and barely hanging on their hinges.

Bursting into the daylight, they stumbled onto the sun-drenched hillside, their breaths rapid and heavy, hearts pounding from both exertion and the adrenaline of survival. The sun, a golden orb breaking free from the horizon, cast a warm glow over the battered landscape, illuminating the remnants of the conflict and offering a stark contrast to the darkness they had just escaped.

Leroy, the eldest, steadied himself, turning to face his younger siblings. His eyes, though wearied by the ordeal, shone with quiet resolve and wisdom beyond his years. “If there is to be peace,” he intoned, his voice calm yet firm, “one must learn to work with their skeleton rather than fight against them.” His words carved their way through the air, settling like a gentle fog around them. The brothers, still catching their breath, began to soak in the meaning behind his profound statement. An understanding bloomed within them, a fragile seed of realisation that in their struggles they held the potential to find balance, rather than succumbing to the chaos of conflict. In that moment, beneath the warm embrace of the rising sun, they began to grasp that overcoming their inner demons was a journey worth pursuing, one that would ultimately lead them to the peace they so desperately sought or very much needed.

With heavy hearts yet a newfound awareness and the knowledge that their quest is now complete, the brothers walked toward the setting sun, the shadows of their past slowly fading. They had faced death and darkness, but in doing so, they had found something precious—a bond forged in the fires of conflict and understanding. Together, they stepped into the twilight, ready to embrace the promise of peace and unity in a world that often seemed haunted by shadows.

The surviving skeletons of the massacre began their forlorn journey away from the remnants of the crumbling fortress, each step echoing the heavy silence of their solitude. As they advanced, they bore the immense weight of their fallen comrades, whose memories lingered like shadows, haunting their hollow chests. These fractured souls, twisted by grief and loss, sought a purpose amidst the desolation that had consumed their former lives.

Traversing the uneven, debris-strewn path leading from the unyielding secondary gate, the skeletal figures moved with a hesitant determination. Their bony fingers brushed against the cold stone walls, remnants of a once-mighty bastion now draped in the melancholy of defeat. Just as the oppressive stillness threatened to swallow them whole, they encountered Charles, a solitary figure exuding an air of strange vitality. He was puffing contentedly on a cigar, the smoke curling upward in ghostly wisps that mingled with the mist shrouding the ruins, momentarily blurring the line between past and present.

“Follow me, brothers,” Charles proclaimed, his voice a gravelly echo that resonated with confidence and an unyielding spirit. The raw, magnetic charisma in his words seemed, for a fleeting moment, to dull the sharp pain of their collective loss. “I will lead you to a new home.” His invitation lingered in the air like an unbreakable spell, hanging in the damp atmosphere, melding with the ethereal mists swirling around them.

The skeletal figures, their weary forms cloaked in the grim residue of battle, paused in their relentless march. They hesitated, caught between the allure of hope and the weight of despair, their hollow eyes reflecting a swirling mix of curiosity and caution. In that tenuous moment, they grappled with the specter of their grief, contemplating whether to plunge into the unknown alongside this enigmatic leader, or to remain shackled to the ruins of their past.

In this moment, Charles became something more than just a reanimated skeleton; His invitation pierced through the gloom, igniting a flicker of hope in their hollow rib cages. With his darkened bones and ambient aura, they knew his Spookiness was greater than their old king

As the host of reluctant skeletons hesitantly trailed after Charles, their journey morphed into a solemn procession, steeped in an air of quiet reverence. With each slow step, they navigated crumbling pathways that had long been reclaimed by nature, the once-proud stones now half-buried beneath a tapestry of vibrant green weeds and tangled roots. Their bony fingers reached out toward the remnants of a world that echoed with lost stories, a gentle reminder of the lives they once led.

They passed under corroded archways, remnants of a grand era now draped in rust and decay, where sunlight struggled to pierce the heavy canopy of dark, twisting branches overhead. The faint glow of the dying day filtered through, casting intricate patterns of light and shadow onto the ground, illuminating the path forward yet leaving the edges steeped in mystery.

As they traversed through ghostly glades, an ethereal stillness enveloped them, interrupted only by the soft whisper of the wind, which seemed to carry with it whispers of long-forgotten memories. Shadows danced at the periphery of their vision, elusive and playful, as if taunting them with glimpses of the vibrant lives they once inhabited.

With each passing moment, the sun dipped lower on the horizon, its final rays painting the sky in brilliant hues of orange and deep purple, as if the heavens themselves mourned the passage of time. Charles, undeterred by the haunting presence of the skeletons around him, led them resolutely over the undulating hills, forging a path towards the promise of a new existence. Each step was a cautious embrace of the uncertain future that awaited them, a silent vow to seek redemption and rediscovery, as they moved forward into the twilight of possibility.

THE AFTERMATH

Daniel Salazar

8/14/24

After the cataclysmic Battle of Dankest Deep, the Multiverse, once teetering on the brink of almost constant chaos, had finally found stability, something It lost long ago . The veterans, an all to small band of warriors and Free lancers of every description who had endured unimaginable horrors of the Great Battle, returned to their ravaged Homelands and civilizations in the wake of the sheer destructive clashes of the conflict to rebuild not as symbols of triumph, but as guardians of a hard-won peace.

With the corruption of the societies before having been drawn in and banished to oblivion at Dankest Deep, the veterans carried within their hearts the heavy burden of what they had witnessed. They had fought valiantly for whatever reason they saw fit to do so, sacrificing much in the fighting to achieve whatever goals they sought to do in the Battle that put the Multiverse at risk with just the presence of beings such as GanGar/ Vandeclesh with the entirety of the Harbingers of Calamity/ Bootleg Pete/ Rodhachi the vassal of Purest Destruction (unwillingly)/ and the One and Only. But even in victory, their spirits were tinged with a sombre understanding that the battle had taken a toll far greater than the loss of life.

One of the most significant casualties was the last pair of Brilliant White Air Jordans, revered artefacts that had ignited countless conflicts in the past. Its destruction during the Battle had once and for all extinguished the bloodshed and strife that had long defined their existence and precious Radiance Forevermore.

As the now at peace veterans laid down on the ground and embraced their families on some tranquil shore or another, still haunted by the memory of the fallen. The sacrifices that would never be forgotten, and the knowledge that they had played a part in securing their current future for better or for worse, brought a bittersweet sense of purpose.

Among the veterans the Madlads, once driven by a reckless courage that bordered on insanity. Which now had evolved into a quiet determination. Had almost Impossibly witnessed the fragility of their reality and understood the importance of vigilance. They along with the florida men would continue to be known for their antics of course but now they fully appreciate the value of their and others lives .

And finally, there were the various Knights, once apart of many powerful Orders militant , they now carried a new duty: to help maintain the Long Watch over the Infinite Causeway under the vigilance of Gerome the Great who now wears the Armour of Golden Legend and wields the legendary Greatsword of Gestier, for that ethereal realm connects all of existence. They knew that the path ahead would be fraught with challenges, but their resolve will forever be unwavering.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the veterans and their families, they shared a moment of tranquil remembrance. They had lived through the darkness, had risked everything in the Greatest all or nothing that was Dankest Deep. And now, as the echoes of battle faded into the distant past, they looked towards a future filled with hope.

For they knew that as long as the one who donned the Armour of Golden Legend and the Knights who followed him remained true to their duty, the peace would be forever safeguarded. The battle had ended, but the vigilance would continue, ensuring that the hard-won peace would endure for all time.

DOG OF WAR

4/19/24

The Dog of War

A Bane to any foe and Rival Armies in the field of battle whose warriors would be glad for a painless death when they find their necks in the fatal Embrace of its Jaws

With Its bite vicious

And its intent clear

Rip apart its enemies

And make its allies glad

That among their rank,s

They don't count as one of its Adversaries

A great beast in its

Own right, so strong

Is its form, so powerful

Is its might, it could never be controlled by a power finite

And Only by recommendation from one of its most respected Cohort might it be convinced to bear its jaws towards or away from an unfortunate soul.

-Fredrick Thatcher (Dog shelter worker)