At the request of several of my long term readers, I recently completed a re-write of one of my original stories, 'The Nuclear Family'. I loved writing this, as the main character is based around someone I know, the story has betrayal, romance, action, fight scene's and in my view, even a little humor.

At 210,000 words, its over double the size of my original and I have even done a Q&A from my readers about why I wrote things the way I have.

You can view the story page at: https://www.patreon.com/JohnOther/posts/story-page-129656178

Now I am just an indie author, I put anything I make into coffee to keep me writing (i'm also saving for a new writing laptop + a second screen).

So I hope everyone enjoys :)

https://www.wattpad.com/1654887626?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

What if the most important moment of your life already happened — and you didn't notice? THE WEIGHT OF MOMENTS is now live. A book about the calls we ignore, the trains we miss, and the moments that define us.

CHAPTER 1

The Last Phone Call

—

Martin Okafor was the kind of man who always meant to call back.

Not because he didn’t care — he cared deeply, in that buried, inarticulate way that certain men carry love like a stone in their chest, heavy and unspoken. But life had a way of filling every hour with something urgent, and the calls he meant to return kept sliding to tomorrow, then next week, then soon.
His father’s name in his phone was simply: Dad. No last name. No descriptor. Just Dad — as though the word itself was enough to contain everything the man had ever been to him.
The last time the name lit up his screen, Martin was in a meeting. A quarterly review. Numbers on a screen, someone pointing at a graph, the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, glanced down, saw the name, and made the decision that would take him years to forgive himself for.
I’ll call him back in an hour.
He didn’t call back in an hour. By the time the meeting ended and the coffee went cold and the parking lot emptied and Martin finally sat in his car in the silence of a Tuesday evening — his brother was already trying to reach him.

❖

The funeral was small. His father had been a quiet man who lived a quiet life in a small town in Ohio, and the people who came were the people who had always been there — neighbors with casseroles, old friends from the church his father had attended every Sunday for forty years.
Martin stood at the grave and felt nothing at first. That is how grief sometimes arrives — not as a wave but as an absence. A strange, hollow stillness where feeling should be.
It was only later, much later, sitting in his father’s kitchen while his sister sorted through old papers, that it hit him. On the kitchen table was his father’s phone. Old. Cracked screen. The kind of phone a man keeps long after everyone tells him to upgrade because it still works and he sees no reason to fix what isn’t broken.
Martin picked it up. The last thing his father had done — the very last thing, before whatever happened happened — was leave a voicemail. Martin’s hands were not steady when he pressed play.
“Hey, son. It’s Dad. I know you’re probably busy. I just — I wanted to hear your voice. Nothing important. I made that chili you used to like, and I don’t know why, but it made me think of you. Give me a call when you get a chance. No rush. I love you, Martin. Okay. Bye.”
Forty-three seconds. That was all. A man’s entire heart, compressed into forty-three seconds, left on a voicemail that would never be answered.

❖

Martin kept the voicemail for three years. He listened to it more times than he could count — on bad days, on good days, on the kind of ordinary days when grief ambushes you in the cereal aisle of a grocery store because you see the brand your father used to buy.
He never deleted it. He was terrified of the silence that would follow if he did.
What he came to understand, slowly and painfully, the way all real understanding comes — is that his father had not called because something was wrong. His father had called because he was thinking of him. Because chili on a Tuesday had conjured the face of his son. Because love, in its most unguarded form, doesn’t wait for a reason.
It just reaches out. And sometimes, on the other end of that reach, there is a meeting. A graph. A fluorescent light. A man who means to call back.

❖

There is a conversation that Martin now has with every person who will listen — at dinner tables, in quiet moments with friends, in the pauses between the busy and the urgent.
“Call them. Not when you have something to say. Call them because they crossed your mind. Call them because you made chili and it reminded you of something. Call them for no reason at all.”
“The call you keep meaning to make is the one that matters most.”

❖  THE LESSON

We live under the quiet illusion that time is renewable — that there will always be another chance, another evening, another hour after the meeting ends. But love does not operate on our schedule. It arrives in small, ordinary moments, and it asks only one thing of us: to show up before the moment passes.

The weight of an unanswered call is not the call itself. It is everything the call carried — and everything we will spend the rest of our lives wishing we had said.

Don’t let the urgent steal from the important. Pick up the phone.

❖  A MOMENT TO REFLECT

Think of someone whose name you have been meaning to reach out to. Not for any particular reason. Just because.

What is stopping you?

https://a.co/d/07h1cs6s #LiteraryFiction #ShortStories #MustRead

Btw, the grammar and spelling might suck so just bear with me.

Somewhere downtown in Florida, a man by the name of Robert Kimmel was a worker at a Regional building that dealt with selling windows. His job is boring but loves the moments when he gets to enjoy time with his family. Robert’s boss, Jim Steward, is planning to give Robert a promotion, which will increase the activities he does in the building and increase his pay. Robert isn’t very liked by most of the coworkers except for his one friend that works next to him named Michael Brown, Michael is well liked by everyone. Robert and Michael talk about Robert’s promotion and how excited Michael is for Robert. One day Jim Steward, holds a meeting with every coworker. He meets with Robert and tells him that he will be getting his promotion on Friday (Today is Monday). Robert out of excitement plans a reservation on Saturday with his fiancé and tells Michael about it, Michael is happy for Robert and tells him if he wants to go out with a couple of friends at a Seafood place, Robert says yes. The next day they go there and all have fun and drinking, Michael starts up a conversation talking about favorite chocolates and everyone says Milk Chocolate but Robert says he prefers white chocolate and says “Black is wack, White is good” referring to liking white chocolate more than Milk chocolate. The next day he comes in late after sleeping in, everyone that he passes looks at him weirdly with a look of disgust. He thinks it’s normal since no one really likes him and sits down next to Michael. Robert as a normal conversation and says how everyone is looking at him weirdly today and Michael says he doesn’t know what he means. The day goes bad, his coworkers treat him bad and don’t help when he asks for help. The next day he comes into work and the same thing is happening, he sits at his seat a talks with Michael for a sec until Jim tells him to meet in his office. Jim tells him how he knows that Robert is a racist and has to fire him. Robert is super shocked and starts defending himself and saying how he isn’t a racist and has made and racist remarks ever, before Robert could finish, Jim plays a recording of him saying “Black is wack and white is good” Robert freezes and tries to explain himself but is fired. He gets home and his wife hears about it and ends up breaking up with Robert (Shes mixed and most of her family is black). Robert is astonished by the events that have happened and sits in his room crying, breaking stuff, and hitting himself. The next day he wakes up with crusty eyes and feels horrible and depressed. He decides to kill himself so, he grabs up all of his earnings and goes to a gun-store to buy a gun (a pistol) and since he has no more use for his money, he decides to buy as many bullets as he can. He goes home and prepares to end it but struggles with the thought of killing himself so much that he shoots at his wall. After houses of sitting on his bed he thinks about all the times he was mistreated for no reason at his job, so he decides he wants to get revenge (kill everyone), But decides to do it tomorrow. The next day as he’s up early and getting ready he gets a call from work, it’s Jim telling him to meet him at the office. He brings his gum and puts it into the glove compartment. He enters the office and into his bosses room and he tells him he decided to give him back his job but demotes him, Robert is happy and decided to not hurt anyone until Jim tells him how Michael decided to rehire him. Robert becomes confused about how he was able to even hire him in the first place, Michael walks in, in a nice suit and wearing a bag saying “Manager”. Robert’s eyes widen as he realizes it was Michael all along and he felt betrayed and angry. He shakes Michael’s hand and thanks him for the job. Michael shows him where he will be seated (it’s a cramped part of the office). Robert sits down and gets comfortable, he looks up at Michael and tells him that he has something he needs to get from his car. He goes into his car and grabs his gun. As he enters the office again he starts firing at the closest people to him, he kills all of them with a shot to the head. He kills everyone in the main office area and then enters Jims room where he shoots him 5 times in the chest. He moves through the office and into another room and kills more people, there is a door inside of that room that leads to Michael’s office, he walks in and sees Michael on the ground with his hands up begging Robert to not kill him and how sorry he is, he tells how he never did anything wrong and always loved having Robert as a best friend. Robert stares at him and screams about how much he looked up to him and how much he wish he was like him and how he betrayed him and destroyed his life. As Michael is telling how great of a friend Robert is, he empties his mag into Michael’s chest. After he is dead Robert sits down in the seat that should’ve been his. He sits back with his feet on the table until he points the gun to his head and fires. Everything goes black and turns into nothing, all of a sudden Robert jerks awake in his office chair wearing the same suit as Michael with a badge on his chest saying “Manager” he steps out of his office where everyone looks at him and stands up and begin applauding. The End.

I started serializing my latest novel on Substack (link at the bottom) and am getting no attention. Thought I'd try to do it here as well.

The studio always went quiet in the twenty minutes after a segment wrapped and before Trevor started picking at the transcript, a lull neither of them ever named directly and both of them recognized on contact. Trevor had the headphones off and a legal pad in front of him, working through a list of questions for a guest three days out, and Marcus was doing what he always did during the lull, which was nothing that looked like anything until you asked him what he was thinking about and found out he'd already solved four small problems while pretending to check audio levels.

His phone buzzed against the mixing board. He glanced at the screen, saw the name, and picked up on the second ring in a voice that had dropped a full register from the one he used with Trevor an hour earlier.

"Hey. What time's the thing."

Trevor kept his eyes on the legal pad, giving the call the specific kind of privacy a small room allowed, but he could hear enough of it anyway. Marcus, mostly. A younger voice on the other end, fast and a little panicked, words running together the way they did when somebody had been rehearsing a sentence in the mirror for an hour and it still came out wrong the first time they said it out loud.

"Danny. Danny, slow down." Marcus leaned back in his chair, the wheels complaining against the floor. "You're not going to blow it by pausing before you answer. You're going to blow it by answering before you've heard the whole question. That's the actual thing that gets people. Not silence. Guessing."

A pause on the other end. Something that might have been a nervous laugh.

"No, I'm serious. Count to two in your head before you say anything. Nobody in that room is going to think less of you for taking two seconds. They will think less of you if you answer the question you assumed they asked instead of the one they actually asked." Marcus rolled a pen between two fingers, not looking at anything, the specific stillness of a man giving something his full attention without needing his hands or eyes to prove it. "What's the first one they always ask? Tell me about yourself."

Another pause, and then Marcus went quiet in a different way, listening.

"That's fine. That's a real answer. Cut the part where you apologize for not having the exact degree they want, though. You don't owe them an apology for your own resume. Just say what you did and let them decide if it's enough." A beat. "Because they already decided that when they called you in. Nobody schedules an interview to turn somebody down for a piece of paper they don't have. Say it once, plain, and move on before you talk yourself out of the job you already half got."

Trevor let his pen stop moving on the legal pad somewhere in the middle of that, not because he needed to hear more, but because there was something in Marcus's voice he didn't often catch directed at anyone else. Steadier than the version aimed at Trevor most days, less shorthand in it, more patience for a kind of nervousness Marcus clearly didn't consider worth teasing anyone over.

"You're going to be fine. Call me after, doesn't matter what time." A pause. "I mean it. I don't care if it's midnight, I'm not going to be asleep anyway." He listened another second. "Love you too. Go eat something first, don't do this on an empty stomach."

He hung up and set the phone face down on the board like it had never rung at all, and reached for the fader he'd been about to adjust before the call came in, picking the moment back up exactly where he'd left it.

"Danny's got an interview," Trevor said, not quite a question.

"Yeah. Warehouse management thing. Good company, decent pay, he's wanted off the loading floor for two years." Marcus said it lightly, the way he said most things about his own life around Trevor, information offered without invitation to dig further. "He gets in his head about this stuff. Always has."

"You're good at that part."

"What part."

"Talking somebody down who isn't me." Trevor meant it as half a joke and heard, once it was out, that it wasn't entirely one.

Marcus considered that the way he considered most things Trevor floated past him, without much urgency, and shrugged. "Different problem, same shape. He thinks silence makes him look stupid. You think stepping on your own line makes you look unprepared. Neither one of you is right, and neither one of you believes me when I say so, so I've stopped trying to convince either of you and started just fixing it in the moment instead." He went back to the board. "Cheaper than therapy for both of you."

Trevor let that sit, filing it away the way he filed most things Marcus said that sounded offhand and weren't, and went back to his questions for the guest three days out. It was another twenty minutes before he thought to ask the other thing, the thing that had been sitting under the first question the whole time.

"You've got what, two weeks banked? Three?"

Marcus didn't look up from the board. "Something like that."

"You said in March you were going to use some of it. Go see your mom's side of the family, the ones out near the coast."

"I said a lot of things in March." Marcus adjusted a fader half a decibel, the kind of adjustment that didn't need making, the kind a person made with their hands when they wanted their hands to be doing something other than answering a question directly. "It'll keep."

"It's been keeping since March."

"So it's good at it." Marcus said it with enough of his usual rhythm that it almost worked as deflection, and for another man in another room it might have. Trevor let it go anyway, not because he believed it, but because pushing on Marcus in front of a guest booking three days out wasn't the hill worth choosing today, and some part of him filed the exchange next to the phone call, both of them small, both of them the kind of detail that didn't mean anything until it did.

"Alright," Trevor said, and picked his pen back up. "Guest number four. Tell me if this question's too soft."

Marcus turned back to the board and read it, and for the next hour neither of them mentioned Danny or the coast again, and the room went back to being the kind of quiet that didn't need naming, two people doing the specific work of making something sound effortless that had never once been effortless to build.

(link to substack - [https://denegospes811121.substack.com/\](https://denegospes811121.substack.com/))

I am starting a series where you can name two characters from a show, game, etc. and then I'll tell you how they're related. I will say either a blood or in-law connection. BTW, one of the characters can also be a character most people or everyone hates (e.g. Bimo), a character from a lost media show (e.g. Audrey, Stan or Meena from "Audrey and Friends"), a character from an entirely different continent (e.g. one of the characters from Jalebi Street, which is a show from India, an Asian country), etc.

ALSO REMEMBER THAT THE ANSWER (THE RELATIONSHIP) WILL BE FROM MY AU

From the Morbid and moronic referential Code of life and society.

YES! The last part to my short story my wowza readers!! Whooo!! Enjoy! Let me know how the story was! Thank you!

Part 5 “The Endgame”

Everyone did so. The boys and girls kept themselves in their separate group. The young teens were confused to see that the double sun was now gone again. “Ah. Well, this solar system isn’t like ours. These planets don’t need the sun as much as we do. Every 48 hours, the double sun appears to glow onto the rocky planets, then hide behind a black sun. Yes, you heard me right, there are black suns out here. Anyways, think of this as an eternal eclipse.” The young teens muttered amongst each other for a moment before they went silent again. They eagerly waited for Ru to inform them who was the winner. “Heh. You all did well. I had a blast just watching you duke it out, work together and even take down one of the cosmic creatures from our Universe. Impressive. I do hope you thanked your bonds. If it wasn’t for them, none of this would be possible.” He pauses before speaking again. “Look down and watch as the winner becomes apparent.” Ru states as he stretches his arms out towards the solar system below. The young teens watch as the solar system, now transformed into a dust cloud of magenta and teal, stretched across with the dominating colors fighting to be the majority. It was a close one, a paper-thin line, but in the end, the teal was the winner. Wyatt, Tashunka and Omar all cheered (while Bol stayed silent). The girls weren’t impressed, especially Saba and Zainab, but in the end, they even clapped for the boys. They all had to admit, it was one hell of a time to participate in. “Now then, come back so we can go over what you thought of the game!”

Back in the building…

Giiisa welcomes the group back with great anticipation. He had several other Guted beings with him all ready to jot down notes. Tamarock is there as well. She stands close by Ru’s side. The young teens and their bonds were now separated, but the Co-Zopods either sat on their heads, shoulder or sat next to their bonds. “Alright then! I wanna know what you thought of this game!? Tell me your praises, your upsets, something to make this game go smoothly. Everyone will speak up about it. We’ll start with the girls, because it is ladies first.” He said as he elbowed Tamarock lightly. She grabs for his arm to hold him close.

Omar laughs. “It should be the boys first since we are the winners!” Zainab sighs loudly.

Wyatt shrugs. “Just let them go first man. It’s all good.”

Noor was the first to speak. “I enjoyed my time with Webster. It felt like we’ve been separated for a long time, and it was a nice reunion. The powers we were able to use was just incredible! I even managed to get a few hits on my brother!” The young teens laughed, even Omar. “It was like a dream. Thank you for this opportunity. And thank you Webster for helping me.”

Webster speaks. “It was a pleasure. I will be keeping my name as Webster in honor of you.” Webster was on Noor head when he spoke. Next to talk was Saba.

“My cutie! We did so much cool things! Sparkle dust! Beating up the boys and blowing up planets! So cool!” Saba cheered.

“I’m happy you enjoyed yourself.” Cutie said while it sat on her shoulder.

Zainab was next. “Yeah, I guess it was fun and all. I got nothing to complain about, other than how short the game was. It felt like I was in a VR headset. Niihkóó was annoying…but, thanks. For letting me in space and all.” She muttered.

Niihkóó chuckles. It was sitting next to her. “It was my pleasure, Zainab. You have quite the spirit to keep fighting the good fight. Just work on your manners.”

Saba giggled as Zainab tried to stomp on Niihkóó. It was easily dodging her foot. Lastly for the girls was Mani. “I…I’m sad. I wanted to not only spend more time out in space, in ACTUAL space, but also, I felt very close to my bond.” She turns to face Majestic on the floor. “I know it’s a feeling humans wont truly understand, but when we bonded, it felt like I was waiting all my life for you. I hate to keep bringing up about how my life is, but it is hard. And this was such a great positive replacement, even if it was just for a few hours. You’re like the best friend who guides me to becoming a stronger version of me.” Mani holds back light tears. Ru half smiles. Giiisa was trying hard not to cry. Majestic climbs up her leg and rests on her shoulder.

“Mani, you should know, the potential for you to becoming a stronger version of yourself is always there. It’s you that has to realize that.” Majestic said as it taps her nose with one of its leg. “We will always be best friends. Take this opportunity to making your life a better one. I believe in you. Remember to believe in yourself.”  Majestic said. Mani nods as a few tears fell from her eyes. Majestic rubs its body against her face.

“Look at that. Do you all recall when you thought the Co-Zopods were gross and terrifying? Heh. Beautifull.” Ru said. “Now for the boys! Go on Wyatt my boy.”

Wyatt rubs the back of his head, feeling pretty embarrassed that everyone was looking at him. “Ehhhh…I really don’t like being in the spotlight. It was fine. Nothing needing to really be redone or worked on. I guess I agree with everyone else when they said it was fun and wanting it to go on for longer. Oh…my bond…yeah, Niiwo. We didn’t really talk much, sorry about that.”

Niiwo was sitting next to Wyatt. “Not to worry Wyatt. Our species take on the feelings and personality of our host. So, I didn’t feel like you were ignoring me. That’s just how you are. It was entertaining though.”

Wyatt chuckles. “Yeah, like when I almost got eaten by that serpent looking thing?” The young teens gave out a light chuckle.

Tashunka nods to Ru. “TARS! Tars were and is amazing! I’ve enjoyed my time flying around and destroying planets! I just wanted it to go on for a little while longer!” He exclaimed. “This really helped with me being more positive. Heh. I’m usually, actually scratch that, I’m NEVER like this. I guess the game and my bond really helped with having me be more open. I would love to participate in future events if anything transpires!” Tars speak while sitting next to Tashunka’s feet. “Ah, it was fun Tashunka. That positive energy you thought was never there was always there. I encourage to be more outgoing and talkative; it does help you along the way.” Tashunka gives his bond a thumbs up. Bol was up next.

Bol sighs deeply. “I hate doing this kind of stuff. The game wasn’t boring. Lots of obstacles were in our way, but I suppose it was part of the game. Can’t make it too easy, right? I would recommend the players who get defeated by an opponent should be eliminated for a few moments. Like 10 seconds or something. It’ll make you work with others more.” Bol said. His words caught a few of the young teens by surprise. Naatohko speaks. “Well said, Bol.” Bol eyes down at his bond, then crosses his arms. “Your voice was like fingernails on a chalkboard, but you did guide me to take down something from space. That was…kinda cool.” He mutters. Naatohko chuckles lightly. “Glad to have helped.”

Omar was up next. He had quite the stern look on his face, before a smile quickly ward off any worries. “Ah. I really don’t have anything bad or to criticize on the game. I thought we had enough time to play. Spending time with the Co-Zopods was excellent. The fact they can bond with you on a deeper level of spiritual connection is still pretty difficult to grasp. Honestly, I do feel a bit sore for giving my bond a reckless name. Forgive me, Destroyer.” Destroyer speaks while it sat on Omar’s left shoulder. “Think nothing of it. I enjoy the name.” Omar laughs. “Noor, it was fun, ya? Now I know you’re stronger, that means I won’t be so easy on you during our sparring matches!” Omar stated. Noor nods proudly. “Thank you, Ru, and everyone else. For everything.”

Ru smiles widely. “No, thank you all for taking the time to participate. It sounds like the game was a success and the bonding was even more successful. That was my mission for you all; to see within you to show who you really are. With the Co-Zopods, they are able to dig deeper within us then any therapist or best friend can even relate to. It’s how they described it several times with each of you: they are you as you are them. Heh. I can only hope that this has changed your outlook. As I said before, you have the freewill to change your journey of life by taking a new path. It’ll be all on you from here on out.” He concluded while taking the time to look into each individual in-front of him.

Bol had a half-smile on his face. “I knew you were hiding something. So, this was like a life lesson for us?”

Ru shrugs. “I guess so, ha-ha! Forgive my devious way! If I were to tell you this upfront, I doubt anyone of you would be onboard.” The young teens muttered in agreeance.  

“Oh, by the way…was there any prize for us for winning?” Wyatt asked after a moment of silence. The young teens, especially the boys, fixed on Ru to hear what he had to say. Ru places his hands on his hips before he proudly states:

“Nope! Thanks for playing!”

The End

Chapter V

Her room wasn’t that hard to locate. On the second floor, there was a door that had a paper sign with “Nevra’s Lab” scribbled on it. I pushed the door open and walked inside. Nevra’s room was very chaotic.
Extremely chaotic.
Unlike other teenagers’ rooms, hers wasn’t littered with chip bags or dirty laundry. Instead, I saw countless papers with equations on them, some crossed out, some stacked in piles. Sprawled out on her bed were sketches of a strange machine.
The Time Device.
On top of the drawings lay a single photo of a Persian woman. I picked up the photo and analyzed it like it was my clue (which it was). The woman in the photo was very beautiful, and she looked very familiar. She had wavy long dark hair, golden-brown skin, and striking green eyes. I noticed Nevra’s long mirror lying against the wall. I walked up to the mirror and saw the same features. I glanced from the photo in my hands to my reflection in the mirror.
Could this be her mother?
I flipped the photo over. In Nevra’s scribble, it wrote:
“Miss you mom. 1951–1985.”
I suddenly felt a wave of empathy. So she was Nevra’s mother. I wondered how Nevra overcame her grief. I turned the photo back over and studied her face once more. She had only died a year ago. I placed the photo on her desk and set her butterfly mask beside it. That’s when I decided to inspect her desk.
On the corner was a simple desk light. Pinned underneath was a stack of complicated sketches with footnotes on them. They explained how the device could theoretically distort time and create a microscopic bridge between two points.
So she was building a time machine.
Nevra was astronomically smart. I mean, building a time machine at 14?
I looked up above her desk. Nevra had placed a bulletin board above it. More equations and sketches were pinned on it, with a Kellogg’s Back to the Future card pinned in the center.
Someone was a little too serious.
After I finished investigating the board, I looked at the other side of her desk. There sat another ancient computer, though not as nice-looking as the Macintosh. Beside the computer was a thick journal. Penny had mentioned a diary. My curiosity couldn’t resist, so I grabbed Nevra’s diary and began to flip through the entries.

Bananas. Yellow, and delicious. But they don't last forever. You need to buy more if you want to taste the bananalicious flavor. So you do that. But what if you buy too many? Well, two things would happen. One, the store would run out, and two, there would be math problems made about you. But every story, every tale, has a dark side. You have too many bananas. You can't eat them fast enough. You can't give them away fast enough. Then they start to go bad. But after months, there's still fresh ones coming in. Too many. How is this possible? You dig deeper. There's an organism in there. Not a plant, but not an animal. Shaped like a tree trunk, but it has a yellow, slug-like exterior with multiple tennis ball sized holes. Those holes are where the bananas come from. You give scientists ownership of your home, and move away. Five months later, you look at the news. The organism ate one of the scientists. They've decided that they're done with research. It's bananover. They burn the place down. The organism is gone. A month later, and you are awarded for discovering the thing, while the living scientists are awarded for researching and destroying it. One thing's for sure. You now fear bananas.

Angela didn't quite realize how it had come to this.

One thing simply led to another.

Dorothy called him a fake.

Yes, that was the perfect word for him.

And then she suggested teaching him a lesson.

With a guard right outside the door?

Dorothy was convinced that pulling off her plan would be a piece of cake.

"He’s scheduled for a chest X-ray this evening. Bobby’s going to escort him downstairs. There won’t be anyone in the room. I’ve already got what we need," she says, showing Angela a Baby Tender Love doll. "Borrowed it from the maternity ward. Just for the evening. Soft vinyl. Feel it—it’s just like a real baby. Only cold. Imagine having a dead infant in your bed."

Angela touches the doll’s hand, barely tolerating it. For the first time, the doll looks creepy to her.

"It’s less than half a metre long," she says uncertainly. "His sister can’t be an infant..."

"That’s not the point! It’s the hint that matters. We know what you did—and after that, you can clear off to your private ward with your private nurses."

That makes sense.

"Come on. Don't be so wet." Dorothy glances around, making sure no one is eavesdropping. "We don't have time. He’s being transferred tomorrow. After that, we probably won't see him again at all... We’ll ask the nurse on duty to let us know when they leave..."

They’re moving him... we won’t see him... yeah, we need to teach him a lesson. After all, what they’ve got planned is such a harmless prank—it’s almost insulting how trivial it is. It doesn’t even come close to what he’s accused of.

Angela nods.

Scare him with a harmless toy. And that two-faced phony, with all his posturing, will act like a total fool.

That evening, everything goes like clockwork. Mary is on duty—good-natured and not particularly bright; she didn’t even ask why they needed to know when Smith and his guard would be heading down to the basement for a chest X-ray.

Angela and Dorothy enter the empty room. The window faces the blank wall of the adjacent building; the room is dim even during the day, and doubly so in the evening. It smells different from the rest of the hospital. Expensive cologne? Expensive food? Expensive cigarettes? The smell of money.

Dorothy stumbles over a stack of books and kicks them under the bed. "Clever dick."

They tuck the doll under the covers.

"Not that side," Angela commands. "He usually lies there."

The hospital bed is only ninety centimetres wide. On such a narrow cot, the doll takes up quite a bit of space. A dead child.

"The main thing he mustn't notice anything beforehand."

"Don't worry. He won't. He’s a bit groggy from the medicine."

Then they climb into the linen cupboard. Fortunately, it’s empty. They remove the shelves and squeeze inside together, tight to each other.

How will they get out of here? At what moment? They haven't quite figured that out. When the guard leaves—Mary will have to call him over after the incident, maybe ask for help with something or just create a distraction so he looks away for a minute—they’ll slip out of the room. Smith will see them, of course, but to hell with him. They'll say he'd imagined it. A criminal’s word against theirs.

"The crucial bit is not to forget the doll," Angela whispers.

Both press their index fingers to their lips and shush each other, but they can’t seem to settle down, continuing to jostle in the cramped space until they hear footsteps in the hallway.

The police officer practically drags Smith into the room and shoves him toward the bed. Smith sits down—or rather, collapses onto the edge, losing his balance. He is already handcuffed. Without a word, the officer unfastens one cuff—this time the left—and secures it to a horizontal bar of the iron bed frame, leaving Smith unable to lower his hand onto the mattress; then the officer leaves without saying anything, and Smith remains seated, leaning against the bed rail to which he is tethered.

Angela is growing impatient. It is stuffy inside the cupboard, and Dorothy is tickling her with her hair.

Finally, he slides down, trying to lie back, but the cuff leaves him half-reclined. The doll remains untouched beneath the covers.

He cannot get comfortable, and—though Angela doesn’t quite see it from inside the cupboard—his hand eventually brushes against that sinister, cold vinyl. Whether out of fright or mere reflex, he jerks his hand away and recoils from the doll with his whole body.

He doesn’t scream; he falls.

Giggles overtake both her and Dorothy as he slides sideways off the high hospital bed and onto the floor, accompanied by the clatter of metal. The handcuff chain pulls taut, leaving him dangling by his outstretched arm and letting out a stifled groan.

The laughter catches in Angela’s throat.

He clings to the bed frame with his free hand, unable to lower himself onto the floor or get back onto the bed.

Angela shoves Dorothy out of the cupboard and runs toward him.

A police officer bursts into the ward: "What the hell?"

Angela supports him, trying only to ease the strain on his wrist, to spare him some of the pain. "Uncuff him! Just uncuff him!"

His breathing comes in short, convulsive gasps.

She holds him with both hands, sitting on the floor, while the police officer fumbles with the handcuff lock. Then she lays him back on the bed.

The officer seems to have no idea what to do.

There is no sign of Dorothy.

Angela shifts the bandages to feel for a pulse in his injured arm. She can’t find one. She squeezes his fingers. "Mr. Smith, can you feel this? Do you feel anything?"

He doesn’t answer. His forehead is slick with cold sweat. He stares at her with unseeing eyes.

She cautiously touches his elbow through the sleeve of his pajamas, then his shoulder. He lets out a shuddering breath.

Mr. Abernathy, from the casualty department, rushes into the room. Dorothy follows him.

"Left arm," Angela hears, as if from underwater.

Mr. Abernathy pushes her away from the bed.

A fictional reconstruction from the Regina v Smith story, told from perspective of Student Nurse Angela Hayward.

The full illustrated version of SACRED VIOLENCE is available here:

SACRED VIOLENCE - by Franz Engel - Franz's Substack

https://www.wattpad.com/1654489157?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

MR BY-ENDS

So I saw that quickly after they left the Fair, they overtook one who was ahead of them, whose name was By-ends. They said to him, "What country are you from, Sir—and how far do you intend to go this way?"

He told them, that he came from the town of Fair-speech, and he was going to the Celestial City—but, he did not tell them his name.

"From Fair-speech!" Christian exclaimed. "Are there any godly people living there?"

"Yes," said By-ends, "I certainly hope so!"

"Please, Sir—what may I call you?" Christian said.

BY-ENDS: "I am a stranger to you—and you to me. If you are going this way—I shall be glad to have your company; but if not, I must be content to travel alone."

"This town of Fair-speech," Christian said, "I have heard of. As I remember, they say that it is a wealthy place."

BY-ENDS: "Yes, I will assure you that it is—and I have many very rich kindred there!"

CHRISTIAN: "Who are your kindred there—if I may be so bold to ask."

BY-ENDS: "Almost the whole town! In particular, my Lord Turn-about, my Lord Time-server, my Lord Fair-speech—from whose ancestors that town first took its name—also Mr. Smooth-man, Mr. Facing-both-ways, and Mr. Any-thing. The parson of our parish, Mr. Two-tongues, is my mother's own brother! To tell you the truth, I have become a gentleman of good quality. My great grandfather was but a water-man — looking one way and rowing another; and I got most of my estate by the same occupation."

CHRISTIAN: "Are you a married man?"

BY-ENDS: "Yes, my wife is a very virtuous woman—and the daughter of a virtuous woman. She was my Lady Feigning's daughter—therefore she came from a very honorable family. She has arrived to such a height of good breeding, that she knows how to behave towards all kinds of people—whether prince or peasant.

"It is true that we somewhat differ in religion from those of the stricter sort, but only in two small points:

First, we never strive against wind and tide;

Secondly, we are always most zealous when religion goes in silver slippers. We love to walk with religion in the street—if the sun shines, and the people applaud it."

Then Christian stepped a little aside to his fellow Hopeful, saying, "I am thinking that this is Mr. By-ends from the town of Fair-speech—and if so, we have as bad a knave in our company, as dwells in all these parts."

Then Hopeful replied, "Ask him again—I think he should not be ashamed of his own name."

So Christian came up to By-ends again, and said, "Sir, you talk as if one could serve both God and Mammon at the same time. I think I know who you are—is not your name Mr. By-ends, of the town of Fair-speech?"

BY-ENDS: "This is not my name—but indeed it is a nickname that is given to me by some who do not like me. I must be content to bear it as a reproach, as other good men have borne reproach before me."

CHRISTIAN: "But did you ever give an occasion for men to call you by this name?"

BY-ENDS: "Never, never! The worst that I ever did, was that I always had the wisdom to go along with the current ways of the times, whatever they were. I was always lucky enough to prosper thereby. But if the malicious cast such reproachful names upon me—then let me count them a blessing."

CHRISTIAN: "I thought, indeed, that you were the By-ends that I have heard of—and I think that this name belongs more properly to you, than you are willing to admit."

BY-ENDS: "Well, if you thus think so—I cannot help that. I am sure that you shall find me to be a good companion, if you agree to take me along with you."

CHRISTIAN: "If you will come with us, then you must go against the wind and tide—which, I perceive, is against your desires. You must also own religion when in his rags—as well as when in his silver slippers. You must stand with him, too, when he is bound in iron chains—as well as when he walks the streets with applause."

BY-ENDS: "You will not be my judge—nor impose your views upon me! Allow me to do as I think best—and let me go with you."

CHRISTIAN: "You shall not go a step further with us—unless you intend to do as we proposed!"

Then By-ends retorted, "I shall never desert my old principles—since they are both harmless and profitable! If I may not go with you, then I must do as I did before you caught up with me—travel by myself, until I meet with someone who will be glad for my company."

Now I saw in my dream, that Christian and Hopeful forsook Mr. By-ends, and kept their distance ahead of him. Looking back, they saw three men following him. As they came up to him, he made a very low bow as he greeted them—and they gave him a compliment.

The men's names were Mr. Hold-the-world, Mr. Money-love, and Mr. Save-all. They all were men that Mr. By-ends had formerly been acquainted with—for in their youth they were school-fellows, and were taught by one Mr. Gripeman, a school-master in Love-gain, which is a market town in the county of Coveting, in the north. This schoolmaster taught them the art of prospering, either by violence, deceit, flattery, lying—or by putting on a pretense of religion. These four gentlemen had attained much of the art of their master, so that each of them could have run such a school themselves.

**The yirara, tarrkarr, yarrabin, wilai, tali and tinti.**

Chapter One — When the Anangu Changed

For hundreds of thousands of years, the Kanyini pulsed beneath the earth like a great, breathing memory. They were the first caretakers, the first storytellers, the first vibration of life itself. The Anangu lived beside them, not as masters or servants, but as kin. Every step the Anangu took resonated through the ground, and the Kanyini answered with warmth, guidance, and song.

The old Anangu could feel the Kanyini in their bones. They spoke to the yirara, tarrkarr, yarrabin, wilai, tali, tinti, djirda, jilgir, yaguhy, bilihny, juluhngay, gabul, bandjim, waringihn, bayahr, yirimbahm, jarahny and jihbur as easily as they spoke to one another. Every creature, every spirit, every whisper of wind was part of the same great conversation.

But then a different kind of Anangu arrived.

They looked like the old ones, walked like them, built shelters like them — yet something essential was missing. They could not hear the Kanyini. They could not feel the pulse of the land. They moved through the world as though it were silent, empty, and theirs to carve.

And carve they did.

The kukurr and kallara fell beneath their tools, each cut a scream the new Anangu could not hear. The Kanyini cried out, their voices rippling through the soil, but the new Anangu were deaf to everything except their own intentions. Homes shattered. Connections severed. The yirara, tarrkarr, yarrabin, wilai, tali, tinti, djirda, jilgir, yaguhy, bilihny, juluhngay, gabul, bandjim, waringihn, bayahr, yirimbahm, jarahny and jihbur watched helplessly as the world they had known for millennia was torn apart.

Still, they tried to speak. They gathered at the edges of the clearing, calling out in their ancient voices, hoping the new Anangu would pause, listen, understand. But the new ones heard nothing. They saw only shadows, pests, intruders.

Then something unexpected happened.

The new Anangu began assembling the fallen kukurr/kallara into new structures — strange, angular homes unlike anything the old Anangu had ever built. The forest beings watched with cautious hope. Perhaps these new Anangu were not deaf after all. Perhaps they were rebuilding, reshaping, creating a place where all could live again.

One by one, the yirara, tarrkarr, yarrabin, wilai, tali, tinti, djirda, jilgir, yaguhy, bilihny, juluhngay, gabul, bandjim, waringihn, bayahr, yirimbahm, jarahny and jihbur crept into the new homes. They stayed small, quiet, respectful — determined not to disturb the new inhabitants. They only wanted shelter, safety, a chance to reconnect.

But the new Anangu noticed.

And they did not understand.

They chased the beings out with shouts and blows. They crushed them underfoot. They poisoned the corners of their homes. They killed without knowing what they were killing — without knowing what threads of the Kanyini they were severing with every act.

Something broke.

The Kanyini withdrew.

Their voices, once warm and ever-present, fell silent. The old Anangu — those who still remembered the songs — cried out in grief. They pressed their palms to the earth, begging for the familiar hum, the comforting vibration, the ancient companionship. But the Kanyini no longer answered.

The land changed.
The air changed.
The vibrations changed.

And the Anangu changed with them.

Sickness crept through their bodies, subtle at first — a heaviness in the limbs, a fog in the mind, a disconnection from everything that once made life whole. They called out to the great Kanyini, pleading for healing, for forgiveness, for anything at all.

But the Kanyini remained silent.

The world had shifted, and nothing would ever be the same again.

**Chapter Two — The Quieting**

The silence did not come all at once.
It crept.

At first, the old Anangu thought the Kanyini were simply resting. The land had been wounded, after all — torn open, reshaped, confused. Even the strongest spirit needed time to breathe. So the elders waited, sitting in circles beneath the kukurr/kallara that still stood, pressing their palms to the soil, whispering the old songs.

But the earth no longer answered.

The yirara, tarrkarr, yarrabin, wilai, tali and tinti felt it first. They were the closest to the ground, the most sensitive to the vibrations that once guided every step of their lives. Their movements grew hesitant. Their calls softened. They wandered the forest edges with restless unease, sensing a change they could not name.

The elders watched them with growing dread.

The yirara no longer danced in the morning light.
The tarrkarr no longer sang at dusk.
The wilai no longer curled safely beneath the roots of the kallara.

Something was wrong.

The sickness among the Anangu spread quietly. It began with small things — a cough that lingered, a heaviness in the joints, a strange ringing in the ears. The healers tried everything they knew: herbs, smoke, water blessed by the old rituals. But nothing eased the symptoms. Nothing restored the connection.

The young ones grew frightened.
The old ones grew hollow.

And the new Anangu… they did not notice at all.

They continued building their strange homes, stacking the kukurr/kallara into rigid shapes that blocked the wind and confused the spirits. They walked through the forest without seeing the yirara or tinti watching from the shadows. They slept without hearing the cries of the land beneath them.

The forest beings kept their distance now.
They had learned what happened when they approached.

Still, they watched.

They watched the new Anangu grow stronger while the old Anangu weakened. They watched the elders press their foreheads to the soil, begging for the familiar hum of the Kanyini. They watched the children ask why the earth felt “cold” now, why the wind no longer carried stories, why the night seemed heavier.

The Kanyini remained silent.

One evening, as the sun bled into the horizon, the yarrabin gathered at the edge of the clearing. Their eyes glowed with a soft, mournful light. The elders approached them cautiously, sensing that something was different.

The yarrabin did not speak — not in words the Anangu could hear.
But the elders felt the message all the same.

The Kanyini were withdrawing deeper.
Retreating into the oldest layers of the earth.
Hiding from the harm they could no longer bear.

The elders fell to their knees.

The forest dimmed.
The air thickened.
The world exhaled a long, sorrowful breath.

And in that moment, the Anangu understood:
This was not a pause.
This was not a rest.
This was the beginning of a separation that might never be undone.

The yirara, tarrkarr, yarrabin, wilai, tali and tinti watched the elders weep. They felt the grief ripple through the clearing, a grief older than any of them. A grief born from losing something that had always been there — like waking one morning to find the sky gone.

Night fell.

The Kanyini did not return.

And the world, once alive with song, settled into a silence so deep it felt like the end of an era.

Chapter Three — The Fading Paths

The silence of the Kanyini settled over the land like a heavy mist. Days passed without a single tremor of their presence. Nights stretched long and hollow, the stars dimmer than they had ever been. The old Anangu tried to keep the rituals alive, but each chant felt thinner, each gesture weaker, as though the air itself resisted remembering.

The forest beings felt the change more sharply than anyone.

The djirda stopped wandering the riverbanks.
The jilgir no longer perched in the branches of the kallara.
The yaguhy, once playful and bright, moved with slow, uncertain steps.

Even the bilihny, who had always been resilient, began to lose their shine.

The world was dimming.

The elders gathered beneath the largest kallara still standing — a towering tree whose roots curled deep into the ancient layers of the earth. It had always been the strongest conduit to the Kanyini. If any place could still hold their voice, it would be here.

But when the elders pressed their hands to the bark, they felt nothing.

No hum.
No warmth.
No memory.

Only stillness.

The youngest elder, Jarrah, bowed his head. “They are slipping away,” he whispered. “Not just hiding. Fading.”

The others did not argue. They could feel it too — the thinning of the world, the unraveling of the threads that once bound every living thing together.

The sickness among the Anangu worsened. Some grew feverish. Others lost their sense of direction, wandering aimlessly as though the land no longer recognized them. A few collapsed without warning, their bodies unable to adjust to the absence of the vibrations that had sustained their ancestors for countless generations.

The new Anangu noticed only the symptoms, not the cause. They blamed the forest, the soil, the weather — anything except themselves. They built more structures, cut down more kukurr/kallara, and sealed themselves inside their rigid homes, believing safety came from walls rather than connection.

The forest beings watched from the shadows, their hearts aching.

One night, as the moon rose pale and thin, the juluhngay gathered near the clearing. Their bodies shimmered faintly, as though lit from within by a dying ember. They called softly to the other beings, and soon the gabul, bandjim, waringihn, bayahr, yirimbahm, jarahny and jihbur joined them.

A council of the forgotten.

They spoke in vibrations too subtle for the new Anangu to hear, but the old Anangu felt the tremors beneath their feet. The elders approached cautiously, knowing they were witnessing something sacred — perhaps the last gathering of the forest beings before the world changed forever.

The juluhngay stepped forward, their glow flickering.
“We cannot stay,” they said, their voices trembling through the soil.
“The Kanyini are withdrawing beyond reach. Without them, our forms weaken.”

The elders felt the truth of it like a blow.

The bandjim added, “The land is losing its memory. The paths between us grow thin.”

The waringihn bowed their head. “We will fade if we remain.”

The elders’ grief spilled into the clearing, raw and unrestrained. “Where will you go?” Jarrah asked, though he already feared the answer.

The jihbur answered softly, “Where the Kanyini go. Into the deep places. Into the layers beneath time.”

A silence followed — not the empty silence of the Kanyini’s absence, but a heavy, sacred pause.

Then the yirimbahm stepped forward. “We will leave at dawn.”

The elders fell to their knees.

The forest beings bowed in return — a gesture of respect, of farewell, of a bond that had lasted longer than any written history. Then they turned and began to move, their forms flickering like candlelight in the wind.

The old Anangu watched them go, knowing they were witnessing the end of an age.

When dawn came, the clearing was empty.

The beings were gone.
The Kanyini were silent.
The land felt hollow.

And the Anangu, both old and new, stood on the edge of a world they no longer understood.

https://www.wattpad.com/1654250795?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

https://worthingflash.blogspot.com/2026/08/no-greater-love.html by Conor Lynch

We see the pain a woman goes through while becoming a mother and respect her for it. But have we ever thought about the pain she goes through simply for being a woman?

In a war there is blood. For her the battle begins with blood itself.

Periods are not something to feel ashamed of. They are not untouchability. They are a natural part of a woman’s life and one of the processes through which life itself becomes possible.

Childbirth may happen once, but the pain that comes before the possibility of giving birth returns every month.

Those five days can bring pain, irritation, mood swings, weakness, discomfort and so many emotions, yet she continues with her everyday life as if everything is normal.

Being born a girl can be a struggle. Growing up can be a struggle. Living in society can be a struggle. And many of the battles she faces are not even ones she chose.

She has the strength to create life, and she also has the strength to face the pain that comes with it every month.

During those days, she doesn't always need big words or dramatic gestures. Sometimes she simply needs understanding, a little love and the comfort of knowing that someone is there for her.

Blood is not impure. The same blood that society sometimes treats with shame is connected to the beginning of a new life.

If becoming a mother is a blessing, being born a woman is a blessing too.

Don't make her feel ashamed of her pain. Don't make her feel alone because of something completely natural.

Love her with understanding. Stand beside her when she is hurting. Make her feel that she doesn't have to fight every battle alone.

Because sometimes the greatest form of love isn't taking away her pain. It's simply holding her hand and saying:

“You don't have to go through this alone. I'm here.”

I used to run activities at a nursing home and I’d occasionally read aloud to the seniors. For some reason, I kept choosing horror stories, i.e. The Lottery, The Yellow Wallpaper, The Cask of Amontillado.

As far as I could tell, there were no complaints but they’re not exactly a captive audience either. Maybe only half were listening and only half of that were comprehending. Sorry to say, but that’s just how it is in those places sometimes.

I also read them Rip Van Winkle which was kind of a snoozer, and I also tried a few stories from this “activities material” website the facility paid for, but they were laughably condescending — like zero conflict and written in the most patronizing tone.

I don’t work there anymore, but I’m wondering what other short fiction would be appropriate to rear to this type of crowd. What would you pick if it were your job?

https://www.wattpad.com/1654009965?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

The History of Planet Apis

For centuries, the world of Apis was home to three great civilizations of insects: the Bee Kingdom, the Hornet Kingdom, and the Wasp Kingdom. Though their cultures were vastly different, they existed in a fragile harmony.

The Bee Kingdom was a civilization of industry, creativity, and community. Its great hive cities were built from magnificent honeycomb structures, with bustling markets, workshops, gardens, laboratories, and golden towers.

The Hornet Kingdom was a proud warrior civilization. Its enormous fortresses dominated the skies and mountains, and its warriors were renowned for their discipline, courage, and mastery of aerial combat.

The Wasps were different. They valued independence, secrecy, and isolation. Their settlements were scattered throughout remote regions, often hidden underground or deep within forests. They rarely involved themselves in the affairs of the other kingdoms.

For generations, this arrangement worked.

Then the resources began to disappear.

Territories once considered plentiful became contested. The populations of the kingdoms expanded, while food, nesting grounds, and valuable resources became increasingly scarce. Arguments between the Bees and Hornets became increasingly hostile.

Eventually, diplomacy failed.

The First War

The conflict became known as the First War.

What began as border disputes quickly became a devastating struggle between the Bee and Hornet Kingdoms. Armies filled the skies, while entire territories became battlefields.

The Bees initially fought as a united civilization, defending their cities and territories against the relentless Hornet armies. But the war gradually exhausted them.

The Hornets, driven by conquest and convinced that victory was within reach, launched assault after assault against Bee territory.

The Wasps watched from the edges of the conflict.

Rather than joining either side, they used the chaos to establish new settlements and expand their own territory. While Bee and Hornet soldiers fought, Wasp engineers constructed hidden cities in places neither kingdom had previously controlled.

Eventually, the First War consumed both civilizations.

The once-glorious Hive City, jewel of the Bee Kingdom, fell beneath the Hornet assault. Its golden towers collapsed, its great honeycomb districts were destroyed, and countless Bees were killed.

The Hornet armies suffered enormous losses as well.

Neither side could achieve complete victory.

Eventually, the war ended in a brutal stalemate.

The surviving Bees withdrew to the ruins of Rose Field City, while the remaining Hornet forces established themselves within the ruins of Orchid Isles City.

The Bee and Hornet civilizations were shadows of what they had once been.

And yet, history was about to change again.

The Dragon Empire

Far away from the devastated mainland, in the middle of the ocean, an entirely different civilization had been growing.

The inhabitants of a massive island were Dragonflies.

They called themselves the Dragon Empire.

The Dragonflies had emerged as a civilization around the time the First War began. Because their homeland was separated from the mainland by a vast ocean, the other kingdoms knew almost nothing about them.

While Bees and Hornets destroyed one another, the Dragon Empire watched.

And prepared.

Its engineers constructed enormous fortifications. Its armies trained. Its scientists studied their warfare and strategies.

The Dragon Empire had no intention of remaining isolated forever, but it intended to expand.

With the devastation presenting the perfect opportunity.

The Dragon War

The Dragon Empire eventually crossed the ocean and attacked the weakened Bee Kingdom.

The Bees were in no condition to fight another major war. Their population had been devastated by the First War, and their military strength was extremely limited.

Not waisting the opportunity Dragonflies rapidly advanced.

The Hornets celebrated the attack to the Bees.

Their enemies were finally being destroyed even if it was by someone else.

But everything changed at the last Bee stronghold.

During the fighting, a Hornet soldier was attacked by Dragonfly forces.

The Hornets had expected the Dragon Empire to destroy the Bees, but they had not expected the Dragonflies to turn against them.

The surviving Hornet narrowly escaped and returned to his kingdom, warning its leaders:

The Dragon Empire was not an ally to anyone. It intended to conquer everything.

The Hornets immediately declared war on the Dragon Empire out of fear of what would happen if the Empire won.

The Wasps soon followed when the Dragon Empire made its greatest strategic mistake: it attacked the Wasp Kingdom.

For the first time in history, Bees, Hornets, and Wasps found themselves fighting on the same side.

They named their alliance the Hymalliance.

The Hymalliance Counteroffensive

The Dragon Empire initially appeared unstoppable.

Its forces had superior numbers, powerful technology, and the advantage of having spent decades preparing for the invasion.

The Bee Kingdom quickly realized that it could not sustain a prolonged military campaign.

The Bees therefore stepped back from the main fighting due to the rapid losses, they could not afford another war of just to be annihilated.

Instead, the Hornets and Wasps became the primary military forces of the Hymalliance.

The Hornets dominated open aerial combat. Their powerful warriors engaged Dragonfly formations directly, while their advanced martial techniques struck enemies down.

The Wasps operated differently, on the other hand.

They infiltrated new Dragon territory, disrupted supply routes, gathered intelligence, and launched carefully planned attacks against strategic targets.

Slowly, the Dragon Empire began losing ground. The Hymalliance pushed the Dragonflies backward. Then backward again.

Eventually, driving the Empire's forces all the way to the ocean.

The war had become a struggle for the Dragon Empire's survival. The Hymalliance crossed the sea and invaded the Dragonflies' homeland knowing that if they stop the Empire will come back stronger.

The Dragon Empire appeared to soon be defeated, but the Dragonflies had one final reserve.

The Second Wind

The Dragon Empire launched a massive counterattack. Fresh troops emerged from fortified positions.

Dragonfly squadrons that had been held in reserve suddenly flooded the battlefields.

The exhausted Hymalliance forces were caught off guard as the tide turned.

The Dragonflies began driving the Hymalliance backward.

Shattering Hornet and Wasps formations.

Forcing the Wasps and Hornet to retreat.

The Hymalliance armies were pushed dangerously close to complete defeat.

The Dragon Empire was on the verge of reversing the entire war.

Then, from behind the Dragon forces, came the Bee. The kingdom everyone had considered too weak to matter had returned to the battlefield.

The Bees had spent their time away from the front lines preparing one final operation.

They sent a single bee to attack the Dragon Empire. The Empire being assured of their victory left one opening the back of their territory, never expecting an attack from there, especially not a single bee.

A single Bee could not flank an entire army but that Bee had an even more important target.

The Dragon Emperor him self.

The Bee penetrated the Dragon command center unnoticed while the Hornets and Wasps continued fighting outside.

Then Dragon Emperor was finally located.

The event that followed became one of the most important moments in the history of Apis.

The Dragon Emperor fell.

With their leader dead, the Dragon Empire's army collapsed and the Dragon War was over.

The Great Bee Hero

Although the victory belonged to the entire Hymalliance, history remembered the Bee's final action above all else.

The Bee who delivered the decisive blow against the Dragon Emperor became known as the Great Bee Hero. Their name became legendary, Children learned the story in schools, Statues were built throughout the Bee Kingdom, and Paintings depicted the moment the Bee forces descended upon the Dragon command center.

Every anniversary of the Dragon War included a retelling of the story. The legend became more than a military victory. To the Bees, it represented something much deeper.

A solitary soldier from what was thought to be the weakest kingdom had saved everyone.

The civilization that had been nearly destroyed first during the Dragon War had returned when the others needed it most.

The Great Bee Hero became the ultimate symbol of Bee resilience.

The Golden Age

The end of the Dragon War ushered in an unprecedented period of peace, The Hymalliance remained intact, The Bees, Hornets, and Wasps began rebuilding together, Trade routes reopened, Destroyed cities were reconstructed, and New technologies spread between the kingdoms.

The Bees became famous for their architecture, agriculture, sciences, navigation skills, and honey-based industries.

The Hornets became leaders in Security, and other more physically demanding fields.

The Wasps became renowned for engineering, exploration technology, surveillance, underground construction.

Through joint efforts former battlefields became gardens. Old fortresses were converted over to universities and museums.

This period became known as the Golden Age of Apis and at the center of the new political order stood Apis Tower.

Apis Tower was the greatest diplomatic building in the world. It was where the Queens of the kingdoms gathered to debate laws, settle disputes, establish treaties, and determine the future of their civilizations.

Peace rained over all the lands.

But eventually, the scholars of Apis began looking upward wandering about the Outer Sky.

The Outer Sky

For generations, the inhabitants of Apis had looked toward the mysterious space above the known sky.

They called it the Outer Sky.

Nobody knew what existed there. Some believed it was an endless void. Others believed there was a border keeping everything inside. Some ancient Bee writings even speculated what the lights in the night sky might be.

For years, these ideas remained speculation.

Then came the 350th Anniversary of the end of the Dragon War. Scientists, engineers, explorers, and scholars from the Bee, Wasp, and Hornet Kingdoms gathered inside Apis Tower.

For three days and three nights, the greatest minds of the three civilizations worked together.

They studied atmospheric phenomena. They examined ancient records. They developed entirely new theories of propulsion. They argued, experimented, failed many many times. But then, finally, they discovered a way to reach the Outer Sky.

The announcement shook the whole of Apis. For the first time in history, their civilization would explore what lays beyond the sky.

The Sky Piercers

The three kingdoms immediately began construction of the greatest vehicles ever created.

They were called the Sky Piercers.

The Bee engineers focused on energy efficiency, navigation, life-support systems, and structural design. Hornet engineers developed propulsion, high-speed flight systems, and structural technology. Wasp engineers created communications equipment, sensors, and emergency systems.

No single kingdom could have built the Sky Piercer alone. It was the ultimate product of the Golden Age. Each kingdom would send three representatives: The greatest scientist, engineer, and pilots.

Those Nine individuals would become the first beings from Apis to enter the Outer Sky. The launch became the largest exploration event in recorded history.

Millions gathered to watch from all kingdoms even though outside of the Hymalliance. As the Sky Piercers rose above Apis Tower, Bee, Wasp, and Hornet flags flew together.

The vessels climbed higher than any creature had ever traveled. Past the clouds, the highest atmosphere, the known sky.

And then—

They surpassed the sky and broke into the Outer Sky.

Planet Apis

The explorers saw things that no living being from their world had ever witnessed.

Their discovery changed everything.

The inhabitants of Apis realized that their world was not the infinite expanse but a sphere of blue, green, yellow, and white.

It was a planet

The word Apis, which had once simply referred to their entire world, no longer seemed appropriate. Their home was officially given a new Title: Planet Apis.

The name marked the beginning of a new chapter. The First War had shown them the destruction caused by division, the Dragon War had shown them the power of unity, the Golden Age had shown them what cooperation could accomplish, and now the Outer Sky offered something even greater:

A universe to explore.

The Bees, Hornets, and Wasps had once fought over territories measured in fields and forests. Now their descendants looked toward new possibilities. The age of kingdoms was replaced by unity.

And somewhere beyond the newly named Planet Apis, some speculate about countless unknown civilizations, worlds, and mysteries waited in the darkness.

This was but the beginning of the greatest that would come.

The mid-day sun burned relentlessly on the dusty town below, casting it in a haze. Anat's short legs could not keep up with the goat. Fifteen years old and still almost a head shorter than her peers. And now her body and its refusal to grow was silently mocking her. The goat, that little shit, ate her mother's coriander.

"Anat, you foolish girl!" her mother had yelled. "Go after it!" So here she was, weaving amongst the crowd. Trying to catch that wretched creature before she was forced to eat flavorless porridge until the next harvest.

Why did the Romans have to execute that preacher today of all days? And on Pesach of all times! The goat could hide in the bustle of gawkers and pilgrims. The shouts and cries could muffle the bleats. She couldn't see anything between the throngs of people.

"Excuse me. Sorry. Anyone see where the goat went?" The only responses were grunts and shoves and the endless press of the shifting crowd. But she kept on pushing. Pushing until she accidentally pushed against metal armor. A Roman, looking sweaty and bored and irritated that a local urchin was wasting his precious time.

"Girl!" the Roman said, "You need to step back. Run along!"

Anat stepped back, head held low and fingers worrying at the hem of her tunic. "I'm so sorry! Have you seen a goat run through here?"

The soldier scoffed. "There's a thousand goats in this blasted desert, girl. I think I saw one run by there." He gestured vaguely down a hill. "Now, off with you!"

Anat followed his gesture down the hill to a cluster of buildings. And a goat's bleat. Her legs were moving before her mind.

The cluster was a warren of old homes and narrow streets barely big enough for her to squeeze through. But the bleating echoed off the walls and she was finally able to corner it in a small dead end. She lunged and it wriggled, but she was able to hold it down. She wrenched its mouth open but it was far too late. The bastard had swallowed it all. Anat sighed, a long, deep, and very vocal sigh.

Once the goat stopped trying to kick, she led it back to old Simeon's house on a hill by the outskirts, ready to give the old goatherd an earful about keeping his livestock in check.

She banged on his door. The old man answered, his face was weathered and sour. "What do you want with- Oh! Anat, child. How lovely to see you. How's your mother doing?" His lined face broke out a great big smile.

Anat scoffed. "Simeon! I got your little troublemaker right here. You need to keep better track of your goats. This one ate Mother's coriander. Our garden is ruined thanks to your negligence!"

Old Simeon chuckled lightly, raising his arms. "Peace, child! I am sorry that happened. And thankful you brought my lost goat back to me. Good deeds ought to be rewarded."

He disappeared into his home for a minute and came back with a large handful of dates in his arms. "For your trouble. Share them with your mother, you hear? And tell her I said thanks." He handed the dates to Anat, who held them between her arms and the fold of her tunic.

"You're lucky I love dates. Just make sure it doesn't happen again!"

Simeon chuckled. "Of course. Of course. I'll start reinforcing my fence right away."

Anat rolled her eyes, but didn’t press the point. She simply thanked him and went on her way, the dates beginning to make her tunic sticky.

On her way home, Anat passed by a woman sitting on an upturned crate by an olive press, weeping, eyes puffy, tears and snot tracking through the dust on her lined face. That poor preacher's mother, her mind supplied. She looked at the dates in her arms. She had more than enough.

"Excuse me," she said, gesturing at the bounty wrapped in her own tunic, "it seems I have too many dates to continue to carry. Would you like a few?"

The woman looked up at her. She wiped her tears with her sleeve. "I'm sorry. I must look like a mess. Thank you." she reached for the dates, her hand hesitating. "Are you sure it's alright?"

Anat nodded. "You look like you need them more than me. I hope... well... stay strong, alright?"

The woman nodded, grabbing a few.

Anat went home to face her mother's scolding and hoped the remaining dates would be enough to appease her.

She kicked the wooden door open with her heel, her arms cradling the sticky cluster of dates against her dust-caked tunic.

"Well? Do we have seasoning for the pot, or am I boiling grass tonight?" Her mother didn't even look up from scrubbing the mortar stone, her elbows moving in aggressive, practiced rhythm.

"The goat ate it," Anat said, bracing herself against the doorframe. "All of it. Swallowed the stems and everything."

Her mother slammed the stone down against the table. "I knew it! That senile old fool Simeon couldn't keep track of a wall, let alone a beast. I'm going down there to wring his- what are those?"

"Simeon gave them to me," Anat said hastily, holding out her arms. "To make up for the garden."

Her mother snorted, stepping over to examine the bundle. "Dates don't put dinner in the bowl, girl." Still, her sharp eyes swept over the fruit, instantly tallying the yield. "Wait. Simeon’s a miser, but he’s not cheap enough to hand over a half-filled palm. Where’s the rest of 'em? Did you gorge yourself on the way back?"

"No! I... I gave a few away."

Her mother’s eyebrows shot up, her mouth twisting into a scowl. "Gave them away? To whom? Since when can we afford to run a charity out of our kitchen?"

"To a woman sitting by the olive press," Anat muttered, looking down at her dirt-streaked sandals. "She was weeping. I think... I think she was that preacher's mother. The one from the execution."

Her mother’s hands went still. The sharp, impatient reprimand died on her lips, her jaw setting tightly. She wiped her thumb hard against her apron and let out a long, gravelly sigh that sounded less like a lament and more like a growl against the world.

"Poor Maryam," her mother grunted, her voice dropping into a thick, rough murmur. "What a horrible way to lose a son."

She snatched two of the dates from Anat’s bundle, splitting them with a quick flick of her thumbnail, and shoved the larger piece into Anat’s hand.

"Sit down before you collapse. You look like a dragged rag." Her mother turned back to the hearth, thrusting an iron poker into the embers with unnecessary force. "Plain porridge it is, then. And don't you dare let me hear a peep of complaining about the taste. If a few dates can buy that poor woman an hour of quiet, we can swallow bland grain for one night."

Three months later

The smell of fresh flatbread and toasted sesame filled the small room, competing with the sharp tang of olive oil burning in the Shabbat lamps. Tamar adjusted the hem of her head-covering, her rough hands smoothing the fabric with rare care. When the knock came at the door, it was faint, less a demand and more the hesitant tap of someone half-hoping no one was home.

Anat opened it. Maryam stood on the threshold, wrapped in a faded blue shawl, looking far smaller than Anat remembered from the press at the olive oil courtyard. Her skin had the dry pallor of perpetual sleeplessness, and her eyes were hollowed out by a grief that had clearly never been allowed to set into quiet memory.

"Come in, come in," Tamar grunted, barking the instruction from the hearth before Maryam could even cross the step. "Close the door, Anat, the drafts in this street could freeze a goat."

Maryam stepped inside, lowering herself onto the bench with a long, trembling breath. Her hands sank into her lap, immediately knotting together as if bracing for an interrogation. "Tamar," she whispered, her voice like dry leaves. "Thank you. I... I wasn't sure if I should come."

"Nonsense," Tamar said, setting down a bowl of stewed lentils with a heavy thud. She poured warm water over Maryam's hands into a basin, washing away the dust of the road with rough, efficient movements. "A woman can't live on her own sorrow, no matter how vast it is. And you look like you haven't swallowed a full meal since the feast of Weeks."

Maryam closed her eyes as the water ran over her knuckles. "It isn't the hunger," she murmured softly. "It's the callers. Every day... three, four men at my door. Strangers from Galilee, scholars from the upper city, men with burning eyes. 'What were his last words?' 'Did he whisper to you?' 'What did he mean when he spoke of the kingdom?'" She shuddered, pressing her palms together. "They treat his death like a riddle to solve. My grief is their puzzle, my heart their tool."

Tamar stopped washing, her eyes flashing with a sudden, fierce heat. She grabbed a clean rag and wiped Maryam's hands dry with firm tenderness.

"Men," Tamar spat, her voice thick with disgust. "Always looking for a sermon in a mother's tears. Well, there are no zealots here tonight, Maryam. No questions, no scholars, and no bloody prophecies. In this house, you can just be Maryam."

Anat quietly set a warm piece of bread and a small dish of dates near Maryam’s place.

Maryam looked at the fruit, a faint, ghost-like smile breaking through the shadows on her face. She turned to Anat. "Thank you for that day, Anat."

"Oh! It was nothing. Old Simeon was just apologizing for his goat is all. You know how he is."

Maryam chuckled. "Well, his goat gave an old woman a moment of small pleasure. You have a kind soul, Anat. Don't ever let the world grind it down."

As Tamar lit the Shabbat lamp and murmured the ancient blessing, Maryam rested her back against the plaster wall, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply. “He hated coriander. Did you know that? He never touched a bowl of porridge I seasoned with it. I remember when he was six. He said ‘Ima, it tastes like borit!’” She let out a wet, choking laugh.

Anat snorted, desperately trying to hold her face still and failing. “Anat!” Tamar scolded, “It’s not funny!”

Maryam’s laugh deepened, genuine mirth piercing through the wet sobs. “Tamar, it is funny. All these scholarly men demanding answers from me and none ever asked if my son enjoyed coriander.” Her laugh tapered off with a sigh. She wiped the tears from her eyes and grabbed a date.

WEASEL’S PAWNED GOODS

THE BRONX, NEW YORK

Anna looked up at the sign on the door that said ‘OPEN’ and nervously pushed it with both hands. The sound of the bell on the main entrance caused Jack “Weasel” Hammer, the proprietor of the shop, to pull his boots off the counter and hastily tuck away the copy of the Daily Bugle that had Spider-Man flashed across the front page. Weasel jumped eagerly out of the office chair he kept behind the counter, thankful to have his first customer of the day. She was far from the usual kind of person who came to browse his wares; he noticed that right away.

She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five or so, and seemed far too well-dressed to live in this particular neighborhood. Nevertheless, Weasel greeted her with enthusiastic gusto. “Good afternoon, miss! What brings you into my humble spot?”

The young woman looked up nervously at him, like a skittish alley cat. Weasel immediately worried that his Wonkaesque business persona had scared her off. She glanced back at the door and around the shop, seemingly making sure they were quite alone before facing him again. It was then that Weasel finally noticed from her eyes that she had more than likely spent the trip over here crying. “I had seen online…well, on Reddit. I know it sounds stupid, but–” the young woman cut herself off, trying not to burst into tears for the umpteenth time that day again.

A note of realization washed over Weasel’s face quickly. “Whoa there, miss. Relax and try to take a deep breath. I know exactly why you’re here. Just one second.” 

Anna watched him as he knelt down and rummaged beneath the counter for a moment. She wiped the tears from her eyes once he stood up again, giving her a genuine, friendly smile that he hoped eased her anxiety. He set a clipboard with a blank piece of notebook paper and a pen on one side of the counter in front of her. On the opposite side, he slid a black box that had an opening cut out at the top next to the clipboard.

“Please write down your issue and put it in the box. Be sure to be as detailed as possible.” 

Weasel smiled at her and waited patiently. Anna was slightly wary, but after a moment of uncertainty, snatched up the clipboard and pen. Weasel watched her scribble across the piece of paper, filling it front and back before signing it and stuffing it into the box. Anna watched him take the clipboard and box and put them away once more. He interlocked his fingers and gave her another warm smile.

“Your issue will be solved promptly. I appreciate you stopping by.” Weasel gave her a friendly nod before walking through a set of curtains behind the counter and out of sight.

Not sure of what would come next, Anna hurried out of the store faster than she had entered.

Dr. Joseph Owsley entered his brownstone, leading his wife by the hand. They were both rather drunk from the vintage wine they’d had for their anniversary dinner. His mind was so focused on breaking open the Japanese whiskey one of his professional wrestler patients had gifted him for Christmas as a nightcap, that he hadn’t realized the alarm system didn’t greet him when he unlocked the back door.

As his wife took off her mink coat and tossed it onto the dining room table, Dr. Owsley made his way towards the bar he kept in the living room. He barely stifled the scream he wanted to let out when he saw the intimidating, bearded man dressed in mostly black save for his gloves, boots, the belt around his waist, and the eerie skull on his chest. The man pointed a pistol with a silencer square at Owsley's head, and he smirked when he saw how much the doctor was trembling in fear.

“You didn’t scream. Smart man. I would like things to avoid getting messy.” The Punisher told Doctor Owsley with a sneer.

“Honey, who is that–” Owsley instantly covered his wife’s mouth before she could make the mistake he didn’t when she saw the armed intruder in their home.

“Baby, its going to be okay? Just, don’t say a word and let’s find out what he wants, okay?” Dr. Owlsey slowly lowered his hand from her mouth and faced the intruder, both his hands in the air. Mrs. Owsley didn’t dare make a move or a sound, instead just staring in abject fear at the situation they’d walked into.

“Both of you, take your phones and toss them across the room. We need to have a conversation.” The Punisher lowered his pistol once they did as they were instructed. “Go on and have a seat, get comfortable. This is your home, after all.” 

The Owsleys uneasily followed his instructions. They walked slowly over to the couch and sat down, both of them clutching each other tightly. The Punisher took a seat on the other side of the glass coffee table in the living room, staring into the eyes of Dr. Owsley from the lounge chair that he guessed the pompous man probably favored when he was in this room.

“I can pay you whatever you want. There’s a safe in the bedroom closet–”

“You know what? That’s the problem with people like you, doc. That’s something I don’t get. I mean I been walking around this place for hours. You got a family, a hell of a career. I mean, did I see a photo of you and KAT in the hallway?” The Punisher chuckled dryly, even though he was sure the Owsleys didn’t find anything very funny at the moment. “But you think all of that buys you power over people with less. You like to wield that to get even more. To take from others. And that’s why I’m here ruining your anniversary celebration.

Dr. Owsley somehow looked even more crestfallen once the Punisher finished chewing him out. His face turned sour as he felt his wife, Kaylah, staring at him in confusion. The Punisher sneered when he saw the expressions on both of their faces.

“I think I’ve got a clearer picture now. Help me paint it here, doc.” The Punisher leaned forward, studying Dr. Owsley for a moment. He turned his stone-cold gaze towards Ms. Owsley, who flinched in response. “He takes care of you so well, you don’t much pay attention to what he’s doing when he’s not around, do you, Ms. Owsley?” Frank smirked, a flavorless expression since nothing was amusing, as the color drained from Kaylah’s face. “Nah, I get it, you’re old school. I grew up with an Italian mother just like you. He’s the breadwinner so you turn a blind eye, but you know in the back of your mind there’s little things you’ve noticed that don’t always add up.”

“Please, sir. My wife has nothing to–”

Frank snapped his head in Dr. Owsley’s direction. A menacing glare was on his face as he stared him directly in the eyes. “You shut your mouth, or I’ll put one in each kneecap and watch you writhe on the floor while I finish having a conversation with your wife.”

Dr. Owsley immediately shut down and sank back into the couch. Kaylah looked nervously at the Punisher, whose expression softened slightly. “I get you turning your back on what you don’t wanna know. Look at this place; he keeps you around the finer things. The only problem with that, Ms. Owsley, is you’ve turned a blind eye to the suffering he causes others. And that’s why I’m here.”

Kaylah looked slowly at her husband, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her eyes were bloodshot red as she spoke, “What did you do, Joe?”

Dr. Owsley opened his mouth to try and explain, but a glance across the room at the Punisher reminded him of the threat from moments ago and he closed his mouth quickly. The Punisher’s sneer was gone, and what had replaced it was the furious glare that he kept locked on to the cowering doctor. “Your husband has been coering, blackmailing, and all out harassing young nurses and medical aides, men and women at the hospital where he’s a resident. Turning these people into his personal toys for whatever he wants. If they don’t cooperate, he threatens their jobs and ruins their reputations. Some of them haven’t been able to find work since refusing his advances.”

Kaylah stared at her husband, completely mortified. Dr. Owsley whimpered, then looked absolutely terrified as the Punisher stood up and walked around the glass table until he was standing directly over him. He yanked Owsley to his feet by the collar of his Ralph Lauren shirt. Kaylah stared up at her husband as the Punisher held him tightly. Any sympathy for him was lost on her face.

“Tomorrow, you’re going to resign from your residency and never work as a surgeon again. If I find out this isn’t done, I will find you. If you try to run and pull this bullshit elsewhere, I will find you. Have I made myself clear?” Dr. Owsley nodded quickly. “Good. Now I got one more question for ya? Which hand are you playing grab ass with around the hospital?”

Dr. Owsley reluctantly raised his right one. The Punisher nodded in understanding, then promptly whipped around and smashed the doctor’s face through the glass table. As the unconscious doctor bled from the face and was clearly unconscious, the Punisher dislocated his arm. He looked at Mrs. Owsley next, who was staring at her husband’s prone body in a mix of shock and utter hatred. “He’ll be alright, though I suggest you call him an ambulance. And don’t worry, I shredded every copy he had of the prenup. I’ll be visiting his lawyer to get the original after I leave here. You have a good evening, ma’am.”

The Punisher stomped out of the living room in his size 13 combat boots, USMC standard edition. Kaylah stared at her husband’s limp body hanging halfway through the frame of the shattered table. She decided to wait a few more minutes before calling an ambulance to tend to his injuries.

Karen Page hopped off the subway, still trying to decide if she was happy or melancholy to be back in New York. Her assignment working the White House beat for the Daily Bugle rather abruptly, much to her disappointment. Mr. Jameson had notably told her she had been “getting too liberal” in some of her pieces and on-air assignments. Karen lit herself a cigarette while walking out of the subway tunnel. The tobacco soothed the stress her job had been putting her under.

She spotted Monk’s Cafe just halfway up the block from where she’d gotten off the F train on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. She hurried into the cafe after crossing the busy street, where the hostess welcomed her first with a congenial smile. “I’m actually meeting a friend in that booth over there.” Karen pointed across the restaurant at the thin-haired man in the shabby suit and thick glasses. The thin, spectacle-wearing man waved casually at Karen while he enjoyed his coffee.

“Don’t let me keep you.” The hostess told her before handing her one of the menus. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Just a coffee, please and thank you.” Karen told her before crossing through the crowded cafe towards where her colleague had been waiting for her. 

She slid into the booth across from him, and the decorated reporter who led the beat she would be joining now that she was back greeted her with a friendly smile. It had been a few months since they last had the moment to get together and chit-chat about their work for the bugle. Though of course, that conversation was much different than the one they were about to have. For starters, that one had taken place at a diner near Capitol Hill. And at that point, Karen wasn’t a reporter who would be under his division.

“I was afraid I was going to have to order without you.” He told her after a sip of his black coffee.

“I’m still getting acclimated to getting around the city again. It’s been a while, give a woman some grace, Ben.” She teased him after explaining her tardiness.

Ben Urich adjusted his glasses, giving his colleague a knowing smirk. “Robbie says you weren’t too pleased about the spiel Jameson gave you for yanking ya off the beat.”

Karen shrugged, trying not to wear her emotions on her sleeve. More importantly, she didn’t want anyone to know Jameson’s well-known abrasive attitude had gotten to her. Even if he never got wind of it in the slightest, she couldn’t stand the thought of giving him the satisfaction.

“Is anyone ever pleased when he gets in one of his moods?” Karen replied with the question she had answered herself. “No, we just adjust accordingly, and that’s what I’m doing.”

“Atta girl. Roll with the punches.” The waitress came over with Karen’s coffee, who thanked her once again. After telling them both she’d give Karen a few to look over the menu, Ben returned to their discussion. “You had a chance to do any digging like we discussed and see what you want to tackle first?”

“Actually, yes.” Ben’s eyes widened in surprise as Karen rummaged through her purse for a notepad she kept handy. She set it on the table between them, flipping through the pages until she found the notes she wanted to show him. “I stumbled down this rabbit hole on Reddit, of all places. A bunch of people were complaining about dealing with some really horrible crimes happening to them and just getting nowhere with the police. I mean a lot of its street crime but it goes as high as executive-level blackmail in some of these posts.”

“Not exactly the most trustworthy source,” Ben replied, looking down at her notes with skepticism.

“I know, I know, but bear with me. I’ve tried to cross-reference some of these instances as best I can, at least the ones that ended up getting resolved.

“What? Did the cops end up coming through or something and it went under the radar? I didn’t think puff pieces like that were your kind of bag, Page.”

Karen shook her head quickly, dismissing her assumption. “No, they are too busy harassing fare jumpers and homeless people. A lot of these people went through something called ‘The Punisher Service’.” Karen looked surprised as Ben’s face went pale with fear. He nervously sipped his coffee and looked away from her gaze and down at the menu instead, feigning to be more interested in it than their conversation. Karen, however, was far too sharp and knew Ben Urich far too well to fall for the act he was putting on. “What is it you’re trying to avoid telling me, Ben?”

Ben looked up at her wearily. He was thankful when the waitress returned to get their orders into the kitchen. He hurried and ordered his New York strip with sunnyside-up eggs. Karen opted for an omelette with turkey bacon and sausage, though she wasn’t very hungry all of a sudden as she eyed Ben across the table. Ben sighed, realizing Karen was still waiting for an answer to her question.

“Listen to me, and I’m only telling you this once because I don’t have the strength or the brains to go twelve rounds with you on this one.” He leaned across the table, keeping firm eye contact with her. “Let this one go. I’m honestly begging you to. There’s plenty going on in the city for you to tackle. And things a hell of a lot safer, too. Try looking into Spider-Man or getting an interview with Professor Xavier since he’s in his second semester up at LU.”

Karen, however, is like a pitbull with its jaw locked. She looked through her pages of notes before giving Ben her attention again. “What do you know about all this, Ben?”

Ben sighed and shook his head. “Look, you want to chase this? You do it of your own volition. I’m not going to be a part of you walking into something that could get you killed.” Ben shook his head and took a sip of his coffee. Karen sat back in her side of the booth, deciding to relent on the topic with him for now. But she surely wouldn’t be dropping the story at all now; she was secretly elated inside to have seemingly found something with some meat to sink her teeth into now that she was back in the city.

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN

An all-black van, with charcoal-tinted windows on every side and floodlights mounted on top, pulled up to the shutters of a seemingly abandoned shipping warehouse. A scanner washed a red UV light over the license plates of the van as the Punisher waited somewhat impatiently behind the wheel. The scanner confirmed the vehicle’s driver and triggered the shutters to clatter open so the van could rumble underneath them. 

Inside the warehouse sat clear on the opposite side where the van parked as the shutters closed behind it. In front of him were no less than a half dozen computer monitors, each with its own individual terminals but controlled by the lone keyboard and mouse in front of him. The pudgy man with a thick, unkempt beard and wearing a New York Liberty sweatsuit swiveled around in his chair to greet his friend. The Punisher hopped out of the van and slammed the door shut behind him. Micro could already tell he was in a fouler mood than usual, hard as that was to believe.

“You look like you could use some coffee.” The Punisher nodded at Micro’s assumption. “There’s a fresh pot on in the kitchen, help yourself.” He trudged past Micro’s impressive, hi-tech set-up and into the dusty kitchenette area he’d improvised inside the warehouse.

“Tell me Weasel’s got something for me.” He grunted while pouring himself a cup of coffee into the thermos he kept there. Micro shivered in mild disgust as he watched The Punisher smack his lips after enjoying a sip of straight black coffee, not helping himself to the cream or sugar next to the pot.

“All the action you been pulling, Frank, I figured you were here to relax for once,” Micro replied, which drew an annoyed side-eye from Frank Castle in between sips from his thermos. He topped off the coffee container, then screwed the lid back onto his thermos before walking back over to Micro.

“Does it look like I need to relax?” Frank muttered the question while observing the different images Micro had across his various computer screens. Micro thought it best not to reply with the obvious answer and instead relay to Frank the latest request sent over by Weasel.

Micro swiveled back around in his chair, turning his back to Frank as his chubby fingers fell onto the keyboard. He pulled up a rap sheet on a young, Italian-American man in his early twenties. His list of priors was longer than some guys twice his age. “What’s this guy’s deal?” Frank asked gruffly between sips of coffee.

“He’s your latest target. Weasel had a grieving mother come in a couple days ago, said her daughter has been missing over a week. NYPD has been dragging their feet on the search due to the young lady being involved romantically with this regular piece of shit.” Micro explained, gesturing towards the screen. “Ralphy Bianchi, he’s a runner for the Road Doggs gang.”

Frank grunted in response to the information. He stared at the screen, memorizing Bianchi’s features. “The Road Doggs. They hang out at Josie’s from time to time, right? I’ve heard of em’.” Franked glanced down at Micro impatiently. 

“Based on what this kid wrote down in his submission, Bianchi’s been dating his sister the last few months. And during this torrid courtship he’s been using these big, ugly rings he likes to wear to smack her around something silly. That was, until he got himself a Harley and decided he wanted to raise himself up in the world.” Micro raised his eyebrows twice as he looked at Frank before spinning back around to his terminals. “That’s where things take a turn for the worse, if you can imagine.”

“Spit it out.” Frank replied before taking another swig of hot coffee. The caffeine was the exact kind of rush he needed at the moment.

“I guess the poor kid hasn’t seen his sister in over a week. NYPD is dragging their feet like their stuck in cement blocks on account of who she was known to be seen with.” Frank listened to the rest of Micro’s story, the cogs in his brain turning as he processed the information and decided how to proceed. 

“Alright. I’ll let you know what I find out.” Frank turned around and stomped back over towards his van, hopping inside. He gave Micro a gruff nod, which was the only way he usually said goodbye, before slamming the door shut. The van rolled out of the warehouse moments later, Micro could hear the powerful engine that didn’t suit the model rollicking in the distance.

Angela doesn’t go to see him at lunch.

She brings him up in conversation with Jenny at reception—not exactly a friend, but a good source of information.

"What's got you interested in him?" Jenny asks, though she doesn't press for an answer. "At least four people have already come to me with questions about him. He's practically the celebrity patient."

"I just wasn't on duty when they brought him in."

"Oh, on Monday? Yeah, he was rolled straight into intensive care from court, under guard."

"Is that really his name?"

"Jeremy Smith? That’s what the paperwork says. No other names."

"It’s strange, though. I mean, Smiths don't dress like that... or talk like that."

"You hit the nail on the head there, my dear. He was brought in wearing rags. But then his solicitor showed up on Tuesday, and the floodgates opened. They started bringing him one thing after another. Turns out, he’s a Golden Boy."

"Something doesn't add up."

"That’s what I think, too. But we won't be left wondering for long. On Wednesday, some consultant from Harley Street came in to examine him and filed a report saying our rooms were terribly unsuitable for the precious Mr. Smith. Apparently, the 'climate' in this wing isn’t right." Jenny speaks with such sarcasm that it’s clear she’s stung by it. "Arrangements had been made to transfer him as a private patient."

"When?"

"Saturday."

"This Saturday already?"

"Yes, money talks."

"Gossiping?" Another nurse—Dorothy—comes up behind them.

She gives Angela a start.

"I had a word with Mrs. Higgins," she announces. "We had tea last night. Aren't I clever?"

Mrs. Higgins is a cleaner. She's everywhere, hears everything, and nobody notices her. Angela should have thought to approach someone like that.

"And what does Mrs. Higgins know?"

"Well, she told me something interesting. The only people who come to see him are from the firm—shoving their business cards—*Talbot-Cavendish*—in everyone’s faces. But where’s the sobbing mother? Where’s the distraught father? Funny, isn’t it? No family."

"You mean they paid for his solicitors but don't want to see him?"

“And would you want that? If your son... did something to your daughter?” Dorothy falls silent, as if frightened by her own words. " They allowed this to happen... Maybe all the rest of it is guilt."

"So, is it true? Did he... you know... do that to his sister?"

"Looks like it."

"He is a degenerate," Jenny says indignantly.

Angela feels sick at the thought that she smoked his cigarettes and ate his food.

"And here’s something else I’ll tell you girls. Mrs. Higgins heard with her own ears Sister Thorpe talking to Dr. Trevelyan about how Smith was in such a condition... Sister Thorpe as good as came right out and called him suicidal. Smitty wouldn't take a single bite until his family sent that solicitor in.”

“He brought himself to this state?” Angela answers.

“It’s a proper emotional blackmail,” Jenny says.

“Absolutely,” Dorothy agrees. “But now they’re spinning a yarn about how he couldn't eat because of the stress of the arrest,” she continues. “You see? Smitty lies every time he opens his mouth."

"Why would they do that?"

"What do you mean, 'why'? He’ll be released on bail—that’s plain as day. With the kind of money he has. And a suicide attempt is basically like an escape attempt. I know for a fact. I asked Freddie; he’s clued up on this sort of thing. Bottom line: they don’t want that. Use your head."

"He did something so vile, and yet he’ll walk free..."

"Only until the trial. But then, just see how they’ll try to get him off the hook..."

"Imagine being his mother," Jenny says quietly.

Angela tries to picture what his mother is going through.

And yet, she feels drawn to his room. It is no longer just curiosity, but something more.

The emaciated boy holding out a packet of Benson & Hedges—he has a musician’s hands, he reads in French, he...

It would have been better if he really had killed someone.

She decides to go see him at ten o’clock and bring the Ampicillin, Codeine, and Mogadon.

A different police officer is on duty at the door—not the one who lectured her earlier that morning. This one is older and somewhat heavy-set; he greets her kindly.

The light in the room is already off. She reaches for the switch but thinks better of it.

“Miss Hayward?”

How does he guess it is her?

"I hope your day was better than mine."

Then she hears a strange sound—metal against metal.

He is lying on his side with his right arm stretched unnaturally toward the headboard; one cuff is locked over the bandages around his wrist, while the other cuff is fastened to the bed rail. The handcuffs look huge and heavy on him. And he’s right-handed...

"I brought you your pills," Angela says; her voice won't quite obey her.

"Thank you."

Her gaze lingers on his scraped cheekbone—a spot she had previously preferred not to look at. In the light from the hallway, it appears as a dark wound against his pale skin. Now she realizes: he is a prisoner. He is a criminal.

She leaves the pills for him. The nightstand is close enough; he’ll be able to reach them.

"Good night."

Nobody has mentioned handcuffs before.

"Why do you do that?" she can't help but ask the moment she steps out of the room.

At first, the police officer doesn't understand—or pretends not to—what she is talking about.

"The handcuffs."

"Ah, that’s just the procedure, love."

"That’s barbaric."

“You do feel sorry for him, don't you?”

"No!" Angela replies—too categorically, too loudly.

A fictional reconstruction from the Regina v Smith story, told from perspective of Student Nurse Angela Hayward.

The full illustrated version of SACRED VIOLENCE is available here:

SACRED VIOLENCE - by Franz Engel - Franz's Substack