When you’re at war, you barely have any idea of what a dead man is. And you certainly don’t know what to do with one. They’re everywhere—seen, smelled, and heard. Some you might know. You might think about stopping, taking his hand, or reassuring him. You might want to dig a grave, carve a headstone, and make sure everyone knows there’s a dead man there.

But in war, you all look alike. You stare at a dead man in the mirror, shake his hand, watch his back. The sun is a dead man. So is the gun you carry and the food you eat. Dead men kill dead men.

And what do we do with all these bodies?

You can carry one for a while, but eventually, you’ll tire. You’ll set him down, reach into the dead sky, grab a dead cloud, and place it under his dead head. He’ll be cold, but he’ll sleep well. Dead men need sleep, right?

When will you rest? You keep moving, carrying these dead men, killing them, crying for them. Are your tears dead, too? Little dead men rolling down the battlefield of your cheeks?

You hate dead men. Why are they still here? Go away! You’re dead already, let the rest of us die now.

You envy them, then you pity them. Can’t make up your mind, can you? Can we all stop dying already? Can’t it just stop? Why do dead men keep killing, especially each other? You’d think, at some point, they’d look at each other, take back their bullets, and apologize.

Do you apologize to a dead man? Do you think it matters?

Just to see, you say “my apologies” to every dead man you pass.

The flames devour the fields, boiling the stew of clouds and debris. I can feel the burn on my legs and in my bleeding heart. A blade of glory and one of failure; I cry in pain.

"You're killing me.” a shaken voice utters, the words shattered.

"You stabbed me first." My voice, burnt by the fire, turns to ash.

We fall to our knees in unison. The flames huddle around us, consuming everything but us. "Don't die on me, Soldier." I find myself saying through saliva and blood. Though our friendship was broken, trust never was. "Pull the sword out."

His hands are fused together with the hilt. "If I do that, you die."

I let go of the sword sticking out of his hip and set my hands on the blade of his sword. "Kill me, soldier." His face darkens with disbelief. "I trust that you will do the right thing. You will live."

The flames have now left only a small circle around us, barely enough space to breathe in. I let out another painful cry. "Pull the sword out!"

And he does. I can feel the gaping hole where my heart was, now connected to the sword. I fall flat on my back, and my face is eaten by the fire. I die within milliseconds, but it feels like hours.

Some people count sheep to stay relaxed, I count my kills. It is the only thing that can keep my mind focused. I don’t want to start daydreaming in the middle of a job. That would be disastrous on so many levels.

I was about halfway through my list as I watch my target pulls up to her house in her van. She just dropped her kids off at school, the perfect time to make my move.

I was just about to begin when her youngest child steps out of the car along with her. She tightened her ponytail before picking him up in one arm and grabbing her purse with the other. He must have been sick or something, I’m not sure. But I knew I couldn’t give him lifelong emotional scars, I knew firsthand how they could mess you up forever.

I would continue to wait until the perfect time to strike, the perfect time to take out the boss of one of the biggest drugs rings in the state.

Dawn jerks awake with a strangled scream caught in her throat. Her muscles tense, unable to move, as her eyes dart around trying to search her surroundings for danger.

Every shadow seems like an unseen danger before her eyes land on a familiar form less than 3 feet to her right. Oz, her brother, sleeps soundly, undisturbed by her sudden thrashing and ragged breathing.

He always did sleep like a rock and it usually worried her because of how dangerous that was in their world but right now she was grateful for it.

She takes a deep shaky breath as the memories of where she is come slowly back to her. That’s right. She’s no longer kept in those cells. Her and Oz are free. They managed to find shelter in a church for the night.

She looks around, reacquainting herself with the place now that she remembers where she is.

Her eyes are drawn to the stained glass windows that are illuminated by the moonlight. Reds, blues, and yellows form pictures of a story that Dawn is unfamiliar with but give her something to focus on while she gets her breathing under control.

Her muscles relax bit by bit and she lets her eyes fall closed. The cool night air chills her wet hairline and neck.

As control returns to her body and the shaking lessens, her thoughts drift back to the nightmare that woke her in the first place and the words that have plagued her since she heard them.

“Because we are also what we have lost”

That was one of the last things Dante had said to Dawn before the life left his eyes.

It was said tauntingly like he knew he had won in some way despite the fact that Dawn was now free and he was gone. And at first it was easy to brush it away and chalk it up to Dante’s hubris and delusion, but as the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months, Dawn couldn’t help but feel like he was right.

She was free and yet she didn’t feel free at all. She felt shackled to those pits she’d been forced to fight in. No matter how far she went her past still followed her with every waking hour. Even her dreams offered no reprieve from the memories.

Dawn was starting to believe that this was all that she was - a bitter, empty husk due to all that she had lost, completely devoid of goodness and happiness. But she persevered for her brother, Oz.

He was so hopeful and excited to see the world in spite of how barren it was. She was glad that at the very least her loss had made it so that he had been able to keep his wonder. That was what she tried to remind herself of on her worst days. Some days it works, but others… she’d rather not think about those days.

Those days are the worst. When she can’t keep the overwhelming anger, sadness, and pure emptiness that she feels contained and nothing is safe. On those days she’s just a vessel for destruction and everything is in the blast radius. This is when the survivor who championed the pits comes out. The cruel and brutal beast that is a permanent part of her now, a part of her that she fears may be who she truly is.

Maybe the part of her that hates hurting people and wants to help is the front, the mask the beast hides behind. Dawn isn’t sure and she doesn’t know if she wants an answer.

That beast is what filled the holes of what she had lost. Maybe that was what Dante meant. That the brutality that she showed in the pits and to him was what she was now because of what she had lost. So in a way he had won. He had succeeded in killing her because the person she was now was incongruent with the person she was before. The person she was before was dead and the beast was all that was left.

Maybe Dawn’s just being dramatic, blowing things out of proportion, but she’s alone with her thoughts right now and she tends to spiral when that happens. Well, actually she tends to spiral all the time no matter the circumstances, but it’s especially bad when she has no distractions.

Dawn looks over at the window. It’s still dark out. It probably will be for the next few hours. Well there goes doing anything that could be even somewhat productive.

She then looks over to Oz. He’s sleeping peacefully. His face is so relaxed and she can’t help a spike of jealousy from shooting through her. How can he be so at peace in this hellish world? She knows she shouldn’t be jealous, she should be glad. If anyone deserves rest it’s Oz. He’s the one who keeps them going. Dawn’s just the one who does the dirty work. If she was alone she would have given up a long time ago.

In this moment though Dawn is struck with how young Oz looks. He is young, but this life ages people and they very rarely retain their youth. And another pang hits her. One filled with jealousy, but also sadness, anger, and an aching, painful type of relief. She’s succeeded in protecting the one thing that matters most.

The ache is what finally gets her to move. She sits up very slowly, wincing while she does it. Dawn lifts her shirt to inspect the bandage making sure she hasn’t reopened her wound. The bandage is clean, well as clean as it can be, with no signs of blood. Dawn sighs in relief. The last thing they need is for her to reopen the wound or for it to get infected.

She quietly finishes getting up and takes one last glance over at Oz before heading over to the door to the building. The sun still wasn’t up, but at this point she didn’t care. She was going to do a perimeter check or anything productive to take her mind off of everything.

Would there ever be peace for her? Is there any way that she could get back, even just partially, all that she had lost? Or would the beast always remain? Dawn didn’t know, but she did know that the hope Oz held onto all those months wasn’t unfounded.

Project Babylon existed. What her and Oz had been searching for was actually out there. So maybe, just maybe, there would actually be a future. Maybe she would learn to hope again and maybe for the first time since the pits once again not be what she had lost.

And with that final thought she pushed the door open and slipped out into the darkness.

Don’t become the kite that never flies, Get caught in the gentle summer breeze, Or fly through the hurricane, If you’re strong enough, If you’re brave enough, If you’re willing to risk it, Let go, Use your magic, Use your brains, Fly with the airplanes in the sky, Be unafraid to tread new waters, Love when you’ve never before, Whatever you do, DON’T MARRY THE BAKER’S SON, ENCHANTERS ARE OBVIOUSLY BETTER, Duh.

He was standing over the Lord with a knife to his head.

“You need to leave,” directed Satan. “Leave now or face my wrath.”

“And if I don’t?” asked the Lord.

“I’ll do the world a favor and kill you.”

Defiant, God stood upright with arms folded in front of His chest, and looked towards the horizon. A few seconds later, Satan reached out to provide evidence that his threat wasn’t a bluff. He pressed the sharpened blade against God’s throat hard enough for a sliver of crimson to surface. It caught God’s attention, who redirected His focus to the matter at hand. He looked Satan in the eyes and replied with a smile.

Slicing deeper, Satan advised, “At some point, you’re going to realize my will is greater than yours.”

God shook His head from side to side with disagreement. Upon doing so, the severity of the neck wound worsened. The knife widened the fleshy chasm, cutting closer to the jugular vein. Several crooked lines of blood dripped down God’s neck until it reached the collar of His concert t-shirt, which absorbed as much as it could. He made no effort to restrict the flow of blood. Refusing to leave, God remained firm in His stance, insistent to smile at anything offered by His nemesis.

Satan flashed a demonic grin and licked his lips with delight. This wasn’t the first time the two had squared off against one another but he hoped it was the last. Every time he believed God was dead, the Almighty found a way to resurrect Himself. If a cat had nine lives, Satan hoped God’s ability to return was also limited.

“The end is near,” Satan warned. “Your reign will soon be over.”

“Martyrdom elevates loyalty,” God replied with a smile.

Overpowered by bloodlust, Satan retracted his hand and stabbed God in the heart, knocking Him to the ground. God floundered as He struggled to return to His feet. He only found enough strength to kneel before Satan. He lifted His head a final time and smiled once more.

“Wouldn’t it have been better if you just left when I told you to?” Satan asked.

“And turn my back on you?”

(Source: Sentence taken from “The Stranger In The Lifeboat”)

Later, I would’ve told myself it was a panicked fantasy, a delusion that gripped me in a moment of terror and shock.

  No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was real.  I kept telling myself every possible explanation, but it still didn’t change the fact  that I was still standing here covered from head to toe in blood with no memory of what happened. 
    Who’s blood is this ? I’m not sure. Why am I standing in the middle of a field with no recollection of how I got here? Your guess is as good as mine. 
 I’m not quite sure I can explain my way out of this one. I call the agency and explain my situation to which they respond with they’ll be here in ten minutes. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to call them for help. They cleaned up the last two incidents and wiped my slate clean, but this time I feel might be the last straw. 
  I think they might keep me off the good stuff for awhile as punishment and lock me up so this won’t happen again. I know they’ll come and help me because let’s be honest, they can’t risk one of their vampires being exposed.

(We go home without talking, though the little girl hums strange songs to herself all the while.) You drive because I can’t, but I think you’d still be driving even if I could. I try to make a list of things that only I can do, only I can offer, but can’t come up with anything. I resort to my childhood methods of passing time during a car ride, watching the inspection decal on the windshield slice by trees and imagining the hypothetical stumps left behind, watching the white painted slivers of road disappear under the dashboard and willing them to pass by to the tempo of the unrecognizable tune the little girl is still murmuring. I glance in the rear view mirror. She’s sitting stiffly in the backseat, eyes closed, fingers folded neatly between her knees.

I close my eyes too. I keep them closed as you exit off the highway, as the roads narrow and wind, as you pull into the dim garage, as you flip up the visor and it snaps loudly. You’re not being aggressive. It always shuts violently of its own accord, and I always flinch anyway. The little girl’s eyes are open now. She’s stopped humming, but she’s almost imperceptibly nodding her head as if she’s still keeping time.

Inside, I make myself a cup of tea and swallow the impulse to offer you some too. You do not like tea. I think it’s one of the only things I could make you, so I ponder the implications of this minor tragedy while I drink. The little girl curls up in silence on the cool floor of the pantry. You go upstairs. I sit at the counter, unable to move long after I’ve drained my cup.

(Line from Whereabouts by Jhumpa Lahiri)

The two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow moonlit lane. Walking toward the house. Not knowing who they are, nor what they want I ran out the back door. With all the young witches that have gone missing in just this week alone. We are all terrifed. What if we’re next? They wont stop till they find you. I have been on the run for weeks, they somehow keep finding me. I'm getting tired of running, but I'm trying to figure out where they keep taking these girls.

“Good morning.” Sam said with a tired smile. He took the night shift so we could get some rest last night. “I hope the dreams have subsided and you got some sleep last night.”

“I can’t believe they found us again. We can’t keep doing this. We need to find away to figure out who they are and what they want. Then come up with a plan to stop them.” Rose exclaimed

“Well from what we know at this moment in time they are after us because we are witches. They seem to be the only ones in town that have been going missing. The real question is; how did they find out that they were witches? None of us use our magic in front of anyone else and are very careful when abs where we practice.” I said things have been so strange. We can’t keep running away when they show up we have to try to do something. Finding these missing witches is our biggest priority at the moment. “Let’s go into town today and see if anyone else had some uninvited guests last night” I finally said after a few minutes of silence.

“Let me come with you. You might need some back up.” Said Sam

“You need to get done rest before you’ll do much good my love. You can’t protect me if you are overly tired. You need your rest as well. We will be ok it is daylight and the town will be swamped with people. Don’t worry about us. I’ll wake you when we get home and let you know if we found anything.” Rose and I started to get ready. It’s just a short walk into town but we still only go in 2 days a week. Usually have many other things going on. “Are you all ready to go rose. We should get into town before the sun is fully up so we don’t m miss the ten gossip.” I laughed as he grumbled at me. I could see he wanted to argue with me, but he decided against it and went inside to sleep.

“Of course Tay let’s head out.”

He could have had love but instead he chose onions. Sassy reds, sensual walla wallas, and coy yellow onions lolled on his granite countertop. Long and hard, his Wusthof was slick with sweet onion juice as Chris sliced. Stefany, with the pouty lips and the annoying voice that always sounded as if every sentence was a question, texted. Again. He let his phone vibrate with her pent up frustrations. The open pickling jars awaited. Chairman Meow rubbed his silky head on Chris’ pant legs. Peppercorns and cloves of garlic were added to the onions and the brine. His phone rang. It was Cameron, his buddy. Chris remembered Cameron’s party scheduled that night, a night to slam beers at Cam’s place till you had a good buzz then pub crawl until somebody—usually Philly—throws up. Chris let it ring as he sealed his lids tight. Once his fridge was loaded with pickled delights, Chris headed out to his patio with a crisp Riesling and a seed catalog. The Chairman dozed by the sliding glass doors and Chris lay back spent and elated considering going another round with pert slender carrots and satin smooth peppers.