(I went a different route with this one compared to my usual stuff I think, bit more raw, sorry)

“I’m sorry.”

“For?”

My stomach twists into knots and in that moment I truly hate her. I want to hit her, to lash out, to leave the room. How ugly of me. It’s just an apology.

But its not. It’s not just, I’m sorry. Not with her. With her, it’s an admittance of defeat. It’s a licking of the boots, it’s the promise that I will give in to her lie, to her version of the story. It is not a mending of fences and hearts, it’s a punishment, a final blow. It is a reminder that she holds the power. She can hurt me, threaten me, insult me, and i will still end up here. With an apology. And maybe its because she is my mother that I feel such guilt for not wanting to say it.

“I’m sorry I was rude,” I say, and I mean ‘I’m sorry I let you see my negative emotions’

“You were tired and had a hard day at work,” I say, and I mean ‘I’m sorry that I failed to accommodate your foul mood.’

“Thank you,” she says, and another piece of me breaks. Because to the eyes of an observer, this is a normal exchange between a mother and child. To the eyes of my father, home from work late, arriving at the tail end of the fight. This is simply an apology. From a stubborn girl to her mother. This is how I will come to think of it. This is how it will always go.

And it won’t be until I am older, that I will understand, she was meant to say it back

Soon, the darkness shrouded us, hiding us from the hungry gazes of our predators. But sight is only one of the senses. My mother held me close and covered my mouth, forcing my to breath through my nose, quieting my tired breaths. By this time I knew enough to trust my mother, and when she removed her hand I kept my mouth closed and my breathing controlled.

They were nearby. My mother had pulled us into a crevice, squeezed between too large rocks. We simply needed to wait them out. But, even in the darkness, I could see their lurking figures. How their bodies twitched and moved in the dim starlight, ragged remains of clothes hanging from their limbs. They kept sound rumbling in their chests as they searched, most half frantic, likely half starved. Seeing them sleeping before, I had thought they were human. But whatever drove their bodies forward now was not that.

It wasn’t sound, but smell that almost gave us away. The figures appeared to be moving away, and my mother and I relaxed. She took my hand in hers and rubbed her thumb against the back of it. And then the smelled reached us. It crawled my nose and back to my tongue and I tasted blood and filth and decay. Again, my mothers hand flew to my mouth, stopping me from gagging, and a figure came into view beside us. Maybe a yard away. Its steps were heavy. Slow. Every breath I took, I could taste him. Even when he had left, even when my mother and I had crawled out of the rocks, even as we made camp for the night. The memory of that empty creature lingered on my tongue

Every year that passes, I forget a bit more. Faces, names, tiny details in fading memories. I can barely remember my grandfather. I remember what it felt like to hold his hand. The dry creases of his palm, the cool band of his wedding ring, his long fingers capturing mine. The warmth. When I was young, and we went for walks around the property, I would cling to his hand like a lifeline. I thought that if I let go, we’d be separated and I would get lost. So he let me cling to him, his hand, his arm, the coarseness of his jacket sleeve. Or he’d hoist me up onto his shoulders and I’d put my chin on the top of his head, and his hair would tickle my cheeks as he walked and I would smell campfire on his scalp. But that must have been when I was very small, when he was still strong. As I got older, his hands became smaller. Still wrinkled and warm, but also bony, like if I squeezed too hard his fingers would break. By then I knew to be gentle. And it was me leading him by the hand, helping him to the stiff leather of his favorite arm chair. We sat together, and he read me stories. I can’t remember which ones. Only the gravelly baritone that was his voice and soft corners and cracked spine of the storybook. He had a beard then, I remember that too. How it felt against my cheek whenever I hugged him goodbye. Almost like the fuzzy side of Velcro. White and wiry.

He was the first person I knew that died. I was nearing the end of elementary school, and had a hard time understanding. I knew he was getting older, slower, thinner. His hands had more creases in them with each visit, and he didn’t smell like campfire anymore. But then he was just gone. I knew what death was, in theory, but I figured we would be there, at his bedside, as he slowly drifted off. Instead, it was abrupt. For me, my grandpa was alive when the phone rang and dead when my mother hung up and delivered the news.

He didn’t want a coffin or a viewing. He wanted to be cremated, and his ashes spread. We each took a handful, my mother and father and I, after the service. I thought they would be like the ashes left over at a campsite. Soft, pure black, almost fluffy. His were gray and rough, like a handful of sand. And when bits stuck to my hand and in the creases of my fingers I began to cry, because I didn’t like how it felt, couldn’t understand how this could be him. I didn’t know if washing it off would destroy him, if I was supposed to let a part of him remain on my skin. And then my father knelt down and brushed my palms with his. Helping the rest of his ashes come loose and drift away in the wind.

No one ever came down during the day anymore. Her part of the library was buried in the basement, away from harsh sunlight and wandering children. Madeline could hear their steps on the floor above her, the freaks of the aged wood. They made inquiries, booked appointments after hours, but no one ever came in to browse. It just wasn’t that sort of library. The books were far too rare for passers by to thumb through. Some were too old, some too rare, and all too expensive. So, Madeline’s days at work were always quiet. And she liked it that way.

Of course, she still had to be careful. The books were valuable, and a few teenagers had been creating a bit of mischief for her recently. So far, no damage had come to the books, but just this morning she had found graffiti on the stairwell door, in charcoal of all things. She had no trouble washing it off, and the door was still locked, but after taking off her coat and checking the night log, Madeline went to make sure each book was in its place. She usually waited till after lunch to do this, because it relaxed her. She knew them by spine alone, red cracked one here, brown leather there. Each day she checked, each day they were in their place, which was why it was odd when she came down the third aisle and encountered one she didn’t recognize. Between short forest green and wide dusty brown, a blue. Madeline frowned. She reached for it, and then remembered herself. Gloves. You always wore gloves when handling these books.

Madeline scurried back to her desk, chewing the side of her cheek. They hadn’t told her of any new acquisitions. And no book should be shelved without being appropriately catalogued first. But it had to be new. Madeline checked the books every day, every day for a year. Short forest green and wide dusty brown were always next to each other. Always. She sighed, shaking her head and grabbing the cloth gloves. Perhaps someone had put it down here by mistake. Somehow.

The blue was still there when she returned to the aisle, bright and strong. No title on the spine, but that was the case with many of these books. Madeline slipped on her gloves and carefully removed the blue from the shelf, turning it over in her hands. No title. Just a thin circle stamped on the front in gold leaf. She should do this at a desk, but there was still the possibility it had made its way down here in error. And it didn’t look all that old. So Madeline opened it.

The pages crackled and separated for her, breathing out a cloud of age that didn’t match the pure blue of the cover. The ink was faded and spelled out words in a language she wasn’t familiar with, with symbols in shorthand intermixed. Even the diagrams were foreign, the tiny arrows and starred bits meaning nothing to her eyes. Madeline eased the book shut. Whatever it was, it belonged here. So it needed to be catalogued.

“Oh. What a happy coincidence,” a voice said, causing Madeline to jump. She must not have heard the stairwell door open.

A tall man stood at the far end of the aisle, well dressed and in an overcoat. He smiled and took a step towards her.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, “but you have exactly the book I was looking for.”

Madeline looked down at her hands and back at the man. “This?”

He nodded.

“I’m sorry, sir, but you need to make an appointment to view any of the books in this section.”

The man chuckled and rubbed his chin, taking another step towards Madeline. This time she took a step back.

“You misunderstand. I’m not here for a viewing.”

“I can’t just give it to you,” Madeline said, sounding firmer in her words than she felt. She brought the book closer to her person. “These are rare books, they aren’t lent out. If you’d like to schedule a viewing...”

Her voice faded as the shelves began to shake and the shadows cast by them began to darken and grow. The smile the man had displayed before was gone. He took another step towards her, slowly, as if he was approaching a frightened rabbit about to bolt.

“Madeline, give me the book. No one needs to get hurt.”

Madeline ran.

I’d never thought about how they would look different from up here. I suppose I just figured they’d look like fireworks. And they do, there’s no mistaking them, but it’s not the same. I almost think it’s better. When the first one launches, it looks like it’s headed straight for us. A missile locked on to our secret location. My knuckles turn white gripping the railing of the airship, certain we are too close, that these are my last moments. I hold my breath.

Vibrant purple explodes into the sky beneath us, twinkling and twirling as it falls back down to earth. The boom radiates through my skeleton and I am thankful I was made to wear earplugs. Two more are sent up, bursting into red and gold and rocking the ship but I am not scared anymore, I lean against the railing so I can feel the flashes of heat on my cheeks with each moment of color. The metal of the railing vibrates along with me, a reminder that I am here, I am alive. And it’s only the beginning of the show. Soon the rockets are sent up in clusters, three at a time, in quick succession. I can’t see them coming as well anymore. The sky beneath us has become dusted with smoke. But the colors, they break through it all, each one brighter than the last. Some fade into twinkles while others spit out one last burst of sparkles.

My body has become so used to the thunder that when it stops my chest trembles. Was that it? Was that the finale? I peer even farther over the railing and a hand takes my shoulder, pulls me back. A kind stranger shakes his head at me, then motions for me to wait. A second passes. Then a flash brighter than all the others rocks the ship. There’s hardly a moment to process the brilliance of the pure white before the colors join it, all of the colors, and I am at the railing again, my ears ringing despite the earplugs. Flash after flash after flash, there is no room to see the space below, everywhere I look there is some exploding red or green. Just when I am beginning to think it is becoming too much, it ends. The smoke rises around us and my skin is left buzzing. I imagine there are cheers down below, even all around me up here, from the other spectators. I can’t hear them. People begin to move back inside the ship. The stranger from before nods a goodbye. I lower myself to the metal floor of the viewing deck. I know I should go back inside, get away from the smoke and out of the cold. But I swear, in gray of the night sky beneath us, I still see echoes of the fireworks. Noiseless and muted in color, but still beautiful to behold.

She had really wanted to like him. She really did. Harper knew that Cath had a hard time with relationships. Ever since they were teens, Cath would go after all the wrong types. Emotionally unavailable, immature, unfaithful. Jumping into relationships that were doomed from the start. So after all these years, when Cath told her about her newest man, how she wanted them to meet, Harper did her best to push aside any preconceived assumptions about the boyfriend. She wanted to give him a fighting chance. Because Cath seemed happy. And then. “This is Ty, my boyfriend. Ty, this is—“ “Harper, yeah! I think we had some classes together, before I transferred. Freshman year, right?” Tyler grinned down at her before he pull a chair over and sat down in the little outdoor cafe. Harper took in a small breath and forced a smile. “Yeah. Long time no see.” “You two know each other?” Cath asked, breaking into a smile. “What a small world!” Harper offered a small “mmhmm” and sipped her coffee. She didn’t know what to say. She had hoped she would never encounter Tyler again. Hadn’t even thought of him in over a year. He had been a blip, an unpleasant wrinkle in her freshman year. He seemed nice enough, at first, in class. Maybe a little douche-y. He took things in stride, made friends easily. Sometimes he would make jokes, or murmur a small comment to her in class, things that made her a bit uncomfortable then. But she was young, didn’t know enough to draw the line. To disengage. The table had fallen silent, Cath looking between the two of them, Harper swirling her remaining coffee with the thin wooden stirring stick. It had been years ago. He probably didn’t even remember. Probably was such a small thing to him. She should give him a chance. For Cath’s sake. “So,” Harper said, “how did you two meet?” Cath visibly relaxed and her hand found Ty’s and squeezed. “You wanna tell it, hon?” “I’d just moved to the area, about a month ago, for work.” Ty smiled and turned to look at Cath as he continued. “I was trying out a new gym and was having a bit of trouble finding the entrance.” “It’s sort of confusing if you haven’t been before,” Cath broke in, “and he was yanking on the side door, looking all lost and cute.” “She showed me the way in, and we got to talking, and now we’re here.” They smiled at each other, and Ty leaned over to place a small kiss on Cath’s lips. Harper swallowed down a grimace and focused on her coffee cup. He had not been so gentle at the party. His lips had been rough, his mouth had tasted like booze and cigarettes, and his hands were everywhere. Sloppy, fumbling, ignoring her shy and fearful protests. Something had come over her, a jolt of terror or bravery, that stopped it from going any further. Harper had managed to pull herself out of his grasp, managed to tell him to “fuck off” without flinching. Tyler had steadied himself against the wall, clearly out of it, but that was no excuse. “Relax,” he had said. “You’re such a fucking tease.” When he transferred the following semester, she was relieved. And now he was here, years later. As if it never happened. Kissing her best friend.

Trickles of people begin flowing in from between the trees. They are in patchwork clothes, scraps stitched back to life with caring hands. Most of the women wear long skirts or dresses, the rest sporting trousers with tiny embroidered flowers speckling them. The men wear much of the same; loose material adorned with nature imagery, the odd patching in places only adding to its charm. I feel underdressed. A change of clothes wasn’t an option, of course. Not for me. I’m not one of them. Which is fine. I prefer my ragged layers and pants with pockets to their delicate garb. Do they wear this all the time, or is it just for special occasions? Some smile at me as they pass, others only glance. A few prouder ones ignore me entirely. It’s hard to tell if I’m a guest of honor or an outsider. They form a semi circle behind me, facing the stream. The children come out last, giggling and hurrying into place, and I bite the inside of my cheek. Stay calm. Then they begin. Their bodies sway slowly, twitching to a silent beat. The beginnings of a song I don’t recognize weave between them, no words, hardly a melody, but somehow they remain in time with each other. Even the children keep pace, their eyes closed in concentration. A year ago, I would have bolted by now. Placed as much distance between them and me as possible. A community this put together, this in sync after the end times, it would be a dangerous one. It doesn’t matter how much they smile, how pretty they dress. Doesn’t matter that they don’t have guns. There are dozens of them, and one of me. And I’m the only one not singing along. A swell in volume pulls me out of my head. The adults have started to thump their feet into the ground and they are gradually increasing the tempo. I keep my eyes forward. I can’t run. I have to know. I have to know for sure, or else I’ll always wonder. A figure moves in the brush just past the stream. A woman. She steps from the green with flowers in her wild blonde hair, only a thin white dress covering her figure, I’m guessing crafted from a bed sheet. Strange, but still captivating. She steps into the stream, the water wetting the edges of her gown. She’s my age, maybe 20 by now. But I still recognize her eyes when they capture mine, the smile that hides in the corner of her mouth. The music behind me stops as she exits the stream. The quiet that replaces it feels so much louder. The woman reaches a hand out to me. I realize my own are balled into fists. She is searching my face. There are murmurs behind me. I steady myself, then take a step towards her, closing the gap. Her fingers brush my hand, my arm, the side of my face. “Effie?” I ask. “Oh, Ness,” she says as she pulls me into an embrace. “It really is you.”

Franklin inhaled sharply and looked around. It was dark, of course, it usually was whenever this sort of thing happened, and quiet. Didn’t smell like much of anything either, though he supposed that was a smell in and of itself, the absence of one. Not chemically clean but not stale and musty. Just plain, flat, room temperature air. And peanuts. Oh, that was his breath. He had been enjoying a snack moments before. But if he could smell his breath, he was probably facing a wall. Franklin shuffled his feet, carefully turning himself in place. That was a bit better. He could make out more of the room now. It was still dark, but there was a door, and that door let in just enough light through the crack beneath it for Franklin to make out the shapes of shelves and boxes, and the shapes of spray bottles and paper towels on top of these shelves and boxes, and what he would guess as a sink in the back corner. It fit perfectly into his idea of a cleaning supply closet, only short of a yellow rolling bucket and mop, so that was where he supposed he was. He took a few careful steps forward and placed his hand on the door knob. Then, remembering himself, he withdrew that hand and used it to brush his shirt free of any crumbs that may have accompanied him on his abrupt journey. He ran his tongue along his teeth for the same reason, and wiped the corners of his mouth before at last returning his fingers to the knob and turning. Franklin breathed out a sigh of thanks as the door clicked open without any locks protesting, and stepped out into the evening light of an empty hallway. Might as well stretch his legs, he thought. The soft tumps of his argyle socks padding against the floor were comforting to him as he walked. He never seemed to be fully ready before these sudden journeys, but he was thankful that he was only without his shoes this time round. When it first started happening, he had been entirely unprepared. The first was on the train, innocent enough, more shocking than anything, but the two times after that he was in the middle of a shave. After he found himself backstage of a play with wet hair only a towel, he began to take it more seriously. Still, he could never predict when one would come upon him, so slip ups did still happen from time to time. The hallway split in front of him; one path continued forward while the other turned to the right. Right seemed more interesting than forward, he thought, and so he continued on. He tried to enjoy his trips. Most times, his entrance went unnoticed and any strange attire was ignored. At the worst, he would apologize and ask for a change of clothes or directions back home. He often wondered if this sort of thing happened to anyone else, but he never asked. Franklin didn’t like to make waves, didn’t go out much. The few friends he had were not the kind he could risk scaring off with such strange questions. He doubted it was anything genetic, his mother was never very good at keeping secrets, and his father just didn’t seem like the type. With no siblings to compare notes with, and Google searches coming up dry, Franklin figured it would be best to leave that line of query alone for the time being. At the end of the hallway to the right was a door, and through the door a large room with a domed ceiling. Lovely pieces of art were on display all around, each lit up with their own source of light, but none with any admiring viewers. Franklin ventured among them, his socks tumping gently along the smooth wood floor, taking small steps to ensure that he didn’t slip and topple into any of the displays. A clang echoed into the space and Franklin turned, seeing a stunned custodian gripping the handle of his mop very tightly. Beside him was the yellow rolling bucket that had been missing before. “How did you get in here? How did you possibly get passed security?” Franklin offered a soft smile. “I couldn’t possibly tell you... I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

We thought we were making a dent, chipping away at their numbers just enough to keep them down, keep them at bay. The smaller ones were retreating, and the commander ordered us to refocus our fire on the largest of them. It was formidable, had taken out dozens of us already, some of the bodies still skewered on its long metal legs. I didn’t hesitate to empty my blaster into the thing. I don’t think anyone did. I kept going until the barrel was too hot for me to take, and then... Nothing. The creature stood still, the lights that lined its body falling dark. There was a moment of stillness. Someone in the back let out a holler. Another laughed. The cheers grew hesitantly, and even Griffin broke into a smile. He grabbed my shoulder and squeezed it. “It’s over, Enno. We fucking got them.” But I kept my eyes on the creature. Something was wrong. Beneath the chatter and cheers, a hum. My feet heard it first, then my chest, finally my ears. A low thrum building and building upon itself, until it was so loud it drowned out my pounding heart. The lights along its body once lit yellow came back to life, glowing red. Its legs jerked back to life and twisted into the cracked earth, the few bodies still stuck driven into the dirt. More orders were shouted, but I couldn’t hear them. I couldn’t pull my eyes away. Its mouth twisted and expanded, the red glow blossoming in its throat. Blasts of blue began to pepper its face, we were firing again, I was firing, it was doing nothing, and the hum was so loud now I could feel it n my skin through the mech suit. Griffin grabbed my elbow, yanked me back form the front lines. He was shouting something over the com, still not loud enough to break through the hum, but I understood. My legs were brought back to life then and we both ran as the crackling red expanded in the creatures mouth, the hum rising to a climax as useless blasters beat against it. Griffin and I pushed past advancing soldiers, against people I was beginning to grow close to, my friends. Fearlessly charging back into danger. I watched them join the rest on the front line, just as all the noise cut out and the creature glowed brightest. But I looked away when it fired.