After sixteen years, it should have been easy. Coco nudges her hand alerting her to the change in her heartbeat. It should be easy, so Cleo acts as if it is. She calls to her mom in the other aisle, who comes running. Her mom has never been good at acting, her fear was as clear as the sky outside. Cleo sits on the ground as her mother dials 911.

Cleo never knows exactly when it happens but she dies. Her heart stops, she stops breathing, and her life balances with her body’s ability to correct it and her mom’s little medical knowledge.

“Good morning Ms. Carrier.” a voice of stardust greets.

Death looks like you expect him to. He is a skeleton, with a black cloak and all. The cloak is strange though, it looks as if it was made out of the night sky, with small lights that flicker. Death’s eyes are like dying flames, but they hold no malice. If he has a scythe Cloe has never seen it. The only thing she has ever seen him with is an old-looking compass that always seems trained on her.

Cloe’s memory of a mouth smiles, “Good Morning Death.”

The little silver compass disappears into little white lights and Death glances around them as if noticing the store for the first time. Cloe keeps her eyes locked on the god, she doesn't want to see her mom. Death looks down though, his idea of an expression not changing.

“I wish-” Cloe starts her voice failing her. Death's full attention falls over her like a freezing rain, “-this would stop happening. My mom is always stressed, and…”

“I'm sorry.” Death says. “I can’t-”

“I know!” Cloe snaps.

Death doesn't yell back, all that follows is a shallow silence as everything around them seems to slow. Time was funny like that when Cloe was in this in-between place.

The god has been the only constant in Cloe’s life. She had no friends, her mom had dragged her all over the country trying to find someone who could fix her heart. The only certainty she has had is the company of Death.

Death struggles with something, the lights of his eyes dimming for a moment. “Would you like to go with me to see my sister?”

“What?” Cloe asks.

“My sister, Life, she is expecting me. She lives in a beautiful garden, would you like to go with me?” Death says. “Your soul will return here when your body is ready, distance will not affect that.”

Cloe hesitates, “Why?”

Death looks back at Cloe’s body, “Humans live for such a short time Cloe. I see so many of you, I care for all of you, but once in a while one of you looks at me and isn't afraid. You have a whole life ahead of you, you should be afraid to see me, even if the fear is that it will be the final time.”

Death offers his hand, made of human bone, it could be no else. There are small scars that litter the bones, Cloe can only imagine how angry some people are to meet Death.

Cole takes his hand, “Isn’t interfering against the rules?”

Death tilts his head to one side, “I am Death, the only rules I must follow are the ones reality enforces. Reality rarely notices what I do with spirits, and rarely notices what Life does with the living.”

There is no light or noise to mark them moving to different places. It just happens, one moment they are in the store and the next they stand in a field.

“This isn’t my domain, stay close, it is harder for me to keep you from drifting here.” Death says quietly.

The garden is beautiful beyond what Cloe’s mortal mind can understand. There are flowers she has never seen before, trees taller than skyscrapers, and the greenest grass she has ever seen.

A woman leaning over a bed of small yellow flowers stands and turns to Death with a huge smile. Her skin is a dark tan, her hair is bleached from the sun and her clothes are dusty from working with planets. She looked human, besides the golden eyes Cloe is certain she would think the God was just another woman.

“You brought a human here?” Life asks.

She looks down at Cloe with a smile that could blind her. Death's voice is filled with stardust and something like fondness, “Cloe is visiting me for a bit, she has a bit of a difficult case.”

Life looks at her brother and chuckles, “Gown attached to this one then?” she asks

There is a moment when Cloe isn't sure Death will answer. Then when he does it is in a strange language. She understands it, in a backward way. It isn't a language of words but rather feelings and ideas. What Death says is the idea of Cloe’s soul and their first meeting. Death had been a constant in Cloe’s life, in return Death watched her grow up.

Life blinks and looks at Cloe, “You don't get to see the middle parts often do you?” she says to Death.

“No.” Death answers, “Her soul is linked to her illness, I can not heal it, and you won't be able to heal her body.”

Life hums, her voice sounding a bit more distant, “But if the doctors found the cause…”

Their voices grow distant like the wind is carrying them a great distance and just like before Cloe doesn't know when it happens, she just opens her eyes. Her mom is looking at her with tears in her eyes, “They know what it is.” she says.

After a while it becomes easy. Step forward before the guard can knock into the dirt. Hold your head high, and for the love of whatever flavor of being you believe in do not be afraid. To feel fear meant you let mortality seep into your bones, and you could not enjoy the complexity of that crisis now. Sultan was lucky really. He might be smaller than the creatures he is thrown at, but he has a barely sharp sword and the illusion of godhood.

Each battle ends with cheers, and Sultan smiles and plays up the victory for the crowd. Something tells him that the his biggest battle will be keeping those cheers loud. Even if he is exhausted he doesn’t drop to the ground in relief like he once did. There, the sound of the metal door sliding up, and he turns to it. They are chanting something, Sultan is almost happy he can’t understand them.

After two years of the same thing Sultan thought he knew what to expect. Creatures slain, aliens murdered, all while he slowly lost bits of his humanity. Nowadays it felt like sand slipping through his fingers. It was when he came face to face with another human he felt the last grain fall.

He is young, with tan skin and terrified eyes. The sword in his grasp is held all wrong and he is talking to him. It isn’t English, and he can’t understand him, and it makes it easier. He lunges forward and knocks the child onto his back.

Being mortal meant you had to live by a certain set of morals. Being a god gave you a new set. Sultan didn’t like to think about it, but he knows gods only feel pity for humans. The small creatures that break easier than glass and fall to pieces more beautifully than any pottery could. The better gods (he was certainly not one of them) feel pity for the small things and show them mercy.

After so long it has become easy to forget. The red blood dripping off his sword distantly reminds Sultan of something. A part of him, that one with a fluttering heart and unsure swings.

There are no cheers, and his handlers tree something before another gate opens and monster steps into the arena. There is no humanity behind its eyes, and for a moment it reminds Sultan that there is none behind his and it is not because he is god. No, he has a feeling that whatever look was in his eyes it was only akin to the creature’s in front of him.

I will be your fall you know? You and I are enemies by blood. It will be my sword to cut your silver tongue. My sword that will leave a trail of red snow. You aren’t as naive as you let on bud. Behind your kindness you play jury and judge.

All I asked was to be left alone. All you asked was to be my friend. But I saw the pawns you own. And what your masked words intend.

Silence was a priceless gift. The only thing I ever asked for. Yet you crawled your way into my mind. Made my friends’ view shift. I know it is my wit you adore. So it is what I use to leve you blind.

You twisted me into the villain. You fancy yourself a hero. That is fine by me. Villains have a low moral compass as a given. I will drag down your confidence to zero. Playing the villain is fine by me.

Will it be you or I who falls first? Your silence will be worth all I have versed.

The knock sounded muffled. Avery wasn’t confident if it was because of the hood of her jacket or the snow that caused it. Her face burned from the piercing wind that blew past. The door swings open, and she has to crane her head up to look at the man behind it. He looked young, but his eyes, as blue as silver, told a different story. His hair was ginger and almost as long as hers; he had it pulled into a bun. They stared at each other for what felt like forever.

“You shouldn’t be here.” he finally says.

“I was hiking and lost the trail,” Avery explains. “Can I come in? The temperature has been dropping.”

The man sighs, “Hiking?” He holds the door open, and Avery doesn't hesitate to step inside. “I need to call the Admiral and report you. Go to the hearth and warm up.”

“Report me!” she asks. “Is this government land or something? I wouldn't have trespassed if I knew where I was!”

“You will not be in any trouble; they will bring you home.” the man says, closing the door.

She walks further into the house and found every wall to have a bookshelf. It looked more like a library than a home. “Is this some research center?” she ventures to ask.

“No.” the man answers almost unkindly. “This is my home; I like books.”

A fire flickers in the middle of the room she finds herself in. A small couch and TV were the only other objects in the room. There were no pictures on the walls or anything which showed this was a home. Stalking over to the fire, she pulled off her gloves and tried to bring back some feeling to her hands. Avery hears the man mumble something, so she turns toward him.

“Pardon?” she asks.

He points to a pile of clothes that we're now on the couch. “These should fit you; change out of your wet clothes. I am going to call the Admiral.”

“Wait!” she calls. He stops and looks at her, “My name is Avery. What is yours?”

The man gives her a sad smile, “You can call me Isaac.”

Then he was gone. Avery listened for his steps to and waited until she could hear him on the phone before quickly pulling off her clothes. It felt strange changing out in the open, but it was better than freezing to death. With dry clothes that fit her almost perfectly, she sat in front of the fire.

Isaac returned soon after knocking in the doorway, not yet looking in. “Are you clothed?” he calls awkwardly.

“I am, and feeling much better. Thank you, Isaac.” Avery answers.

He enters the room, and the fire flickers, “They will be here in an hour,”

“Why did you call the military if this is your home?” Avery asks.

Isaac sits on the couch, looking at her, “Classified, my dear.”

She was entranced by his eyes—silver and as cold as snow. “That is unnerving.”

Isaac hums, “Your government hides a lot from you, I am afraid. Telling you would do no good, I assure you.” His eyes move past her and to the flames in the hearth, “Rest; you have had a long day.”

Avery would like to say every horror story of strange men in the middle of nowhere kept her from getting too comfortable. But the fire was impossibly warm, and Isaac didn't move from where he sat. His eyes were on the flames, watching them as if they were something living to be observed. Sleep took her swiftly without her knowing

A heavy knock on the door woke her. Isaac was up and putting her clothes in a bag.

“Come,” he beckons.

Avery gets to her feet and takes the bag from him. A gentle hand is placed on her back, and they walk to the door. Isaac sighs before opening it. They take a few steps out into a cold that didn't seem to reach them. Then a spotlight was on them. There were soldiers everywhere, all holding a firearm pointed at them. Avery felt the need to run, to grab Isaac’s hand and pull him back inside.

“It's alright; they won't hurt you,” Isaac says quietly.

Avery was about to tell him he was insane until she realized the guns weren't pointed at them. They were all pointed at Isaac. His hand fell away from her back, and she turned to look at him.

“Miss!” a voice yells. She turns back to the army, “Walk to us.”

Isaac takes another step away, and all the firearms shift to follow him. “Go back inside, Wilhelm.” one of them orders.

Avery turns and watches Isaac walk back to his door. One of the soldiers grabs her by the arm and leads her to a vehicle. We were tired of twisting in their grasp to see Isaac, but they pushed her into the car and sped away.

There might be memories fondly seen, though time fades the smiles. Memory does wonders to nightmares, they grow to be worst than caffeine. There will be memories farther than miles, that never fade, that we beg to forget in prayers

There is a path through the woods that few travel. It is hidden by the leaves of autumns pass. Orange, reds, and browns crunch under your feet as you walk. The trees that overhang the path are great old oaks and young birch trees. They cast just enough shade so that during the day, you stay cool. They also allow just enough moonlight to make the path simple to transverse during the latest hours of the night.

As you walk along the path, the birds sing the story of travelers much like you. All of who took the hidden path Through the woods. The path twists at points and makes you trip over logs as you have. The robins, Cardinals, and all the other small creatures will sing your song soon too.

As you settle down for camp long after the stars have shown their face, the crickets with sing you a lullaby. A soft and distant song of the sound of crunching leaves and a tired traveler. They will sing as you lay next to the gentle warmth of your fire, and drift off to sleep.

If only I could hold on a little longer. Yet blood loss blurs the world. Oh my dear, I have never been a hugger. Maybe it was because kindness I was free of If only I hadn’t waited till my world swirled, To tell you I love You

My teacher used to say that if you always worry about the worst-case scenario, it will come to pass. I feared becoming like my father, a soldier fighting a war meant for the dead. I was obsessed with avoiding that ledge, but it was no Use. The ground opened up beneath my feet and swallowed me whole.

People celebrate the only soldier to come home from war. They don’t mourn for those killed because they were pawns. Breathing weapons handed a Gun as mere children. I sit at the sidelines, waiting for blood to spill. Mothers guide children away from me, and older men can't meet my eyes. So I sit with the knowledge that the worst has come and gone. I am the enemy, the man they hang at the Center Square. Like my father, my child or someone else will come along and destroy this rusted sword.

In theory, Jayson Eliott, a resident of the small city of Westwood, should not exist. He should be neither alive nor dead because his father slipped between reality and never lived. Jay can only guess what happened to his dad; maybe someone tried time travel on for size and messed with the wrong thing in the future. Or maybe, much like him, his dad was an anomaly, a glitch in the grand scheme of things that shouldn't have caused much trouble. Yet one glitch left behind another, one far less ignorable, a living, breathing child. Who could tap into why he should not exist, time and its flow and ticks. As well as see the imperfections in reality and through the fog that. The same fog that hid the bizarre caused very few people to notice how things seemed to bend around Jay.

How the blond was in one place than a moment gone. Or how sometimes a picture in an old newspaper they find in their grandmom's keepsake box looks uncannily like their classmate. All of it simply leaves the impression that something odd was being confronted, but why bother with it? Even If Jay disappeared in front of a crowd, all they would be left with was a vague thought of someone standing on the stage, and that thought would quickly be replaced as they stood to leave, believing the show was over, whatever that show had been. This left Jay in a gray area, was he real or a simple glitch? Though you might find Jay had the unique ability to thrive in this gray area. If people forget you when they stop thinking about you for a moment, then why try to act normal? Why couldn’t he skip over the Paris for crepes? Or give an artist slowly losing himself a bit of company? No one could stop him, well, except one obstacle. Caleb Eliot.

Caleb was the brother everyone wanted. He took in his younger brother when everyone else turned their back and, in doing so, never got to live his dream of becoming a doctor. Yet he smiled and always gave Jay the kindness a parent should have offered. Jay loved him dearly, except when the other blond debated with him over his adventures. He was the only one who ever cared about his safety; others, if they did notice him, usually say something like, ‘you're a monster! ‘A demon!’ Jay yet again took this in stride. They usually backed off, or he got out of their way, but once awhile, they called upon their god and ran at him.

On the other hand, when Caleb noticed him in out-date clothes or acting strange, he always asked if everything was okay. No one else was like that except Nick, but Jay was almost sure the guy couldn’t hate a serial killer. They had been friends since middle school, and anyone who spends that much time around him begins to see the cracks; he never freaked, though. Though his bizarre ideas of going back and begging Shakespeare to let them act for him or how he insists Jay’s power needs to be more flashy. Either way, all Jay cared for was in the town of Westwood; sure, there were others in faraway places and times. However, they were either dead, like him, or yet to be born. Caleb and Nick were the only‘normal’ people he had in his corner. When someone noticed him, he scampered off, or they ran off screaming, so he had no reason to try to play some part as an average person. Then a knock came on his door

It didn’t take long for her to realize sometimes, the only way to forget everything was to go to sleep. When she was still in elementary Alicia learned that people were cruel. They stole and cheated. By middle school, she realized that her only job was to protect her sister. At the start of high school, Alicia knew she had to keep going forward. One foot in front of the other. Nothing else mattered. Keep her sister and friends safe, and do as her mother asks. It became a checklist. Go to school, come home, wait for their sister to be picked up to go out with her boyfriend, and sit alone in the house. Clean the kitchen, rewash the floors, and do her homework. Go to bed before her parents got home. She sleeps late enough on the weekdays that they are already off to work and goes to sleep before they get home. By Junior year, Alica understood.

Sleep. Her parents’ arguments couldn't reach her ears when she slept. Nor could her sister’s constant reminders that she could take care of herself. No. Just the strangely crafted dreams of impossible amazments. We're there people who need her mothering and others who are by her side instead of off down the road. Two lives. One where she could keep up with whatever was thrown at her. Another she fell and was left to pick up pieces.