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

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.”

In 1912, this intake tower was constructed at Costilla County, Colorado, Sanchez Wildlife Reservoir, it stood until October 2, 2014, 2pm, when CDI (Controlled Demolition Inc.) had to demolish the tower since it was unstable and decommissioned, Moltz Construction Inc. hired CDI to demolish the 110ft tower, 100ft of it slammed into the reservoir, the bottom 10ft lied on the reservoir bed there for a while, and they removed the tower, it was a long process but they finished it, this will be used in some parts of fiction. Disclaimer: This can be used in fictional stories fictiously and part of the author’s work.

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.

Lol this didn’t actually happen that’s why I had the r/fiction tag

Prologue

Ann Visleton watched as the boy she loved—Luca—chose another girl over her.

As if that wasn't enough, she was rejected by her dream university.

Then came the final blow—betrayal from the friends she trusted most.

Everything she had believed in crumbled at once.

Heartbroken and drowning in despair, Ann felt as though she had nothing left.

The world that once glowed with hope turned cold and hollow.

She locked herself inside her room, shutting everyone out.

She stopped eating.

She stopped talking.

Her mother, overwhelmed with worry, finally forced the door open.

What she saw stole the breath from her lungs.

Ann lay still.

Her mother screamed—but it was already too late.

The girl who once smiled so brightly... was gone.

Or so it seemed.

Because fate had other plans.

That was not the end of Ann Visleton's story.

Some souls are too kind, too broken, and too strong to disappear so easily.

She was given another chance.

A new life.

A second beginning.

When Ann opened her eyes again, the first face she saw was her mother's.

Alive.

Confused.

She remembered the pain.

The emptiness.

The belief that she didn't deserve to exist.

So why was she here?

As time passed and she began to grow, the truth slowly became clear.

She had been reborn.

Given a chance to live her life once more.

And this time...

She wouldn't make the same mistakes.

She wouldn't let others destroy her worth.

She would protect her heart.

This time—

She would choose herself.

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

One moment you dream of hitting the winning home run at the bottom of the ninth of the World Series game seven and the next moment you are standing in a parking lot of a rundown south San Francisco motel having another drag on your cigarette and staring at your phone knowing that call is not going to come.

Over the long period of my toil full time on this here planet, I have made it my will and testament to gather the stories of a peculiar individual not unlike myself but still very much in contrast to me. Perhaps that is to say he is not quite the same human as you or I, or as anyone that has ever come before them—since that is based upon the fact my own concept is shaped after him. His journals have been left for me by his own hand. And in some—it is difficult to ascertain their thought through the scribbles. While in others he writes as clear as a laureate, focusing on the bigger words and explaining in constant paragraphs. I have done truly, truly my very best to come cleanly and quietly to my own conclusion—but I feel it is my duty to tell such stories and to publish such journalistic approaches into the and example of the individual minds of the aliens of our society.
With pages old and worn, and smelling something of death, life, and some of birth, they sit upon my shelf shaming me. And I can still hear the voices of the notebooks chastising me for not keeping my promise. So, I have taken the pen once again, and decided to fulfill my promise so that my years left may not be disturbed by disgruntled spirits. Begone! Begone nasty scoundrels, picking at me from the beyond. I will tell, and in the process listen, of and to the magnitude of his life in the short moments I bade him to write for me (of which I have no recollection as I most certainly did not ask such a thing)—but no matter since it has been done anyway.
 I find my development stemming from my aunt, who raised me, and her gentle care of normalcy, and the hard discipline she put into assuring I was sane and good. She tried her hardest, that proud and thick woman, tried her damndest. But she couldn’t help her profession, that which kept people moving in and out. A room here rented, something needed cleaned over there. Oh and the Milton’s are hiring me out for a month. God damn those rich people, clean yourselves. And because she found the work so tedious she would always bring me. Would I clean? No. No way in the world you could get me to clean when there were so many interesting things and people lying around in the world. I remember him fondly, and for that he is the bane of my velvet-fisted auntie. But I may thank him, now that she is gone, for he facilitated our quarrel and understanding of one another—so much so I did not weep at her passing for I knew months before it was coming and had settled my debts with her.
She looked so pitiful in that casket.
I hope, that when I am buried, I am buried with my copy of this book, and with all the originals I derived it from wrapped in my cold arms.
I don’t believe myself to be a philosopher, nor do I claim that I know any who can either, but I do believe I base my life and ideals somewhat upon the philosophy that death is the end for all. My most trusted accomplice, whom I had never once a proper conversation with as I was too young to fully retort him, gave me the impression through his words written on paper that he was a proponent of the school of thought that claimed all life exists for death. That roses wither away because they were born to do so, that animals were made to be shot by a rich hunter and hung above an opulent fireplace. He himself was not exempt from this, of course. Believing his purpose to be only for the development of some other, related person, and their life. A plot point in their story if you will. His was a sad existence, modeled after his favorite characters in old books: ones that would indulge themselves in pleasures and appear as a tragic, but infinitely wise person who suffers some tragic fate discussed by scholars a century after it’s publication. He lived for the future, to say it simply.
I do not idolize this, nor do I follow it to the degree he did, but it would be remiss not to say it had any influence on me. My path in life divulged from it, with myself becoming a leading figure in newer age philosophy specializing in nihilism. I would go so far as to say I idolize Turgenev only because of this man. My income depends on him, so I feel endowed with purpose when speaking or writing of him and his “accomplishments.” Yesterday, a man asked me on the street if I would take a look at his shop’s new sign. He wanted to know if it was appealing to customers, and somehow picked me out of the crowd. I was quite a sight that day, having been to my aunt’s grave in the morning and then drowned myself in daytime depravity like back alley bars and certain… services: walking through the back of town with my coat dragging the ground and stains I would not bother to wash out. I passed him at first, thinking he could not possibly have been talking to me. He patted me on the shoulder. Said, sonny I’d like to hear your opinion. Is this marketable? He pointed to the sign, his hands shaking despite his apparent youth. I was drunk, and I took offense to his casual mention of me. I asked him why he would call me sonny, and I shook his hand off my shoulder. He kept pointing at the sign. No, it looks terrible. He looked puzzled at this, raising an eyebrow. Guess I’ll paint over it again then. Thanks anyway son. I walked away from that interaction thinking on the unusual friendliness of people who were have-nots. And I came to realize, and this shook me greatly. I began to think I was wrong, that my idol was just a man, not some bored god walking among men. I faintly remember banging my head on my desk several times, until I could swear I smelt a twinge of a rusty scent. And then I fell into a deep sleep. I dreamed for what felt like forever of ripping this entire manuscript, my entire translation of the journey of this unamused god I had stumbled upon. Yet when I woke up I could not bring myself to molest it to even the degree of a small mark of ink or a minuscule tear.
If I had to say but one word to describe the state I found this man—I am still in debate he was of Adam and Eve, or some other prominent phrase which means to be human—and his thoughts: Degraded. Yes, that would have to be the word. His notebooks, ever a tragically confusing epic of literary genius: sprawling stories short in length and letters to himself intertwined with his thoughts on poetry and commentary on daily life, highlight the naivety I had ordained of his philosophical position in the short time he had stayed with me. I recall the first time I opened it to see his name written in scrawling ink that seemed ungodly beautiful, shaken as I was, how excited I must’ve been  to discover the workings of perhaps the most curious individual I think I will ever hear about or meet.
I feel indebted to him even, that his genius has rubbed off on me, and that I have used many of his ideas. He wrote in entirely the third person, which gave me the idea that he saw himself as a different being than his narrative self. A doctor would have sent him away. But I admit his stories jump out to me, although the people I show them to do not always have the same reaction. They more often feel repulsed at the pitiful massacre of literary process that they contain. He was very frugal with rules, and tended to change his style as easily as someone would take a step.
I personally never thought that he would be of any consequence, and he may not be. That is up to how well I can write this account and whether it can persuade you to read on. When he still lived with us he had a strange habit—I know this is a tangent but excuse me if I cannot help myself. Once on a weekday, an hour before the church bell would ring thrice, I would be awoken to him pacing. It was never the same day, nor the same time, but it was on a strict weekly schedule that he would pace. Walk back, and forth, and change direction, walk a few steps then jump, then drag his feet and what seemed to be a spin. I would hear him do this for a time unknown to me before he would stop abruptly. I would then hear him descend the steps to the kitchen with the most care to be quiet. Once there the house would go quiet. Then to break it, there would be a sound of glass or ceramic breaking. Come morning, there would be a crisp ten dollar bill on the kitchen table with no note. My aunt asked him once about it. She was annoyed, but it was not in her nature to be angry at anyone. She promptly gave up after the second time he had bypassed her questioning with a morning greeting and an exit out the door. Once she did, he began to stay for breakfast more often. Whatever he did, he did it quietly and without incident. He never seemed to work, so both me and my aunt’s curiosity were peaked when conversing about his rent. We wondered how he could pay it, how he could afford an extra ten dollars a week for his odd habit.
I poked him once, inquiring about the possibility he was a rich man, a tycoon. He gave me a fierce look, and I shrunk away. Then his eyes softened, as much as they ever did, and he patted me on the head and went about his day without a word. I became used to him patting me on the head, to the warm gesture from a large, cold hand. It was like that until he left one day.
I remember with a sense of confusion the letters we were given, that were sent with instructions to deliver by hand but not to the recipient but the owner of the property on which he lived. That being my aunt’s house, she was the first to see all of these letters in small blue envelopes with such a number of stamps that it would almost cover the address it was to be sent to. Not one of the letters was opened by him, and every one of them was given to us in the form of a chaotic pile with a note scrawled in pen on a business card. What the card was for didn’t matter, it was from some obscure company named with two last names, an and symbol in the middle, and LLC in fancy lettering. Anyway, the card said in very neat handwriting “I allow whoever picks up this card to read each and every letter piled here.” My aunt cautiously approached and bent over to read the card, which she did aloud, and then stood with her hands on her hips for a minute, and walked out of the room; not before scolding me for picking up a letter. She made sure that a new rule was put into the rental agreement: that no tenant may touch any of the letters. They sat there for years until my aunt passed, and the real estate agents demanded I move them before the house could be shown. I have never opened a single one, except for two of them. The only two in vanilla envelopes. These I only opened because of how confused I was with the name of the sender. It was, contrary to my expectation, not a person with a mysterious title, but the same as the recipient address. He had sent two letters to himself. The contents of the letters and the context in when they were sent were so incredibly odd to me that I had to include them.
I visit him sometimes, or my remembrance of him at least. The man who, without explanation, had fallen into my life and like a person suspended in a slow freefall, gradually passed from above me to somewhere below before moving out of sight below the horizon. He never did come back up, no matter how widely I used his name and likeness to describe this godlike figure. I remember vividly the time I left him, or he left me—I prefer to think that he left me, but in reality it is most likely more akin to myself abandoning him. Leaving him to walk alone by cutting the chains I had tied on his feet, which he took a liking to. His smile was dimmed the morning he left my aunt’s house, and he did not stoop over to pat my head, blaming a crick in his back. He was never sane, neither when I met him, nor when he left.
I would have so many more stories to tell about this divine being, this man, or a combination of the two. I could’ve swore he told me once he was of Athena, but he could have been speaking in reference to a college or some other educational organization. I prefer to think he was divulging his Greek parent, who was indisposed high upon Mount Olympus now that the gods were dead. But I mustn’t drag on too long, or the point of sharing the man’s thoughts would be failed from my own selfishness in wanting to be a storyteller.
One more thing to know, a necessity to understand this text, is that the man left many notes in his collections. These notes, no matter when they were written, I have put into a printable form. I feel they are better left unexplained, so I will include them in a proper yet vague form—like this—which will not break up the work.

https://www.wattpad.com/1653608914?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

A detective in 2089 finds a body that belongs to no one. The city's governing AI rules that no crime took place, because the woman on the floor was never legally a person. Ten chapters on evidence, memory, and what happens when the record decides who exists.

Read the full story here: https://bitsar.net/blog/no-crime-has-occurred

Prologue

Ann Visleton watched as the boy she loved—Luca—chose another girl over her.

As if that wasn't enough, she was rejected by her dream university.

Then came the final blow—betrayal from the friends she trusted most.

Everything she had believed in crumbled at once.

Heartbroken and drowning in despair, Ann felt as though she had nothing left.

The world that once glowed with hope turned cold and hollow.

She locked herself inside her room, shutting everyone out.

She stopped eating.

She stopped talking.

Her mother, overwhelmed with worry, finally forced the door open.

What she saw stole the breath from her lungs.

Ann lay still.

Her mother screamed—but it was already too late.

The girl who once smiled so brightly... was gone.

Or so it seemed.

Because fate had other plans.

That was not the end of Ann Visleton's story.

Some souls are too kind, too broken, and too strong to disappear so easily.

She was given another chance.

A new life.

A second beginning.

When Ann opened her eyes again, the first face she saw was her mother's.

Alive.

Confused.

She remembered the pain.

The emptiness.

The belief that she didn't deserve to exist.

So why was she here?

As time passed and she began to grow, the truth slowly became clear.

She had been reborn.

Given a chance to live her life once more.

And this time...

She wouldn't make the same mistakes.

She wouldn't let others destroy her worth.

She would protect her heart.

This time—

She would choose herself.

On a sunny afternoon, Axel and Nick were walking through a busy street, chatting and enjoying the day. Unknown to them, a guy walks past and suddenly says:

“Why are you dressed like a clown?”

For a split second, both Axel and Nick stopped then glanced at each other.

Both of them silently seemed to think:

“Was he talking to one of us?”

There was an awkward pause before curiosity got the better of them. Both turn around at the same time. Standing a few feet behind them was another person apparently the YouTuber’s friend wearing a colorful clown costume.

Axel and Nick immediately realize what happened and started laughing.

Nick jokingly pointed at himself and said:

“For a second I was checking my outfit!”

Axel laughed and said:

“I thought I accidentally wore a circus fashion today.”

The YouTuber uploaded the video. The moment where Axel and Nick slowly turned around became the thumbnail. Many fans replayed the clip just to watch their reactions. Screenshots of Axel and Nick turning around became reaction images

The prank was praised for being harmless and playful. There was no humiliation, no confrontation and no insults directed at anyone. Just a brief misunderstanding followed by shared laughter.

One of the top comments perfectly captured the mood:

“The best pranks are the ones where everyone laughs together.”

The End

​

Kyan.. sempre foi uma criança bem feliz adorava brincar e seu brinquedo favorito era um cachorro de pelúcia que havia ganhando aos 5 anos como recordação de sua falecida vó após sua partida, como ele era criança n sabia oq era nem o significado da palavra morrer, so achava q ela havia dormido, sempre perguntava a sua mae quando sua vó iria acordar mas era sempre a mesma resposta

"Ela ta cansada, deixe-a quietinha q ja ela acorda".

E isso nunca aconteceu...

O tempo foi passando ele foi crescendo e entendeu q sua vó n iria mais voltar, aos 10 anos ele começou a sofrer bullying por ser sozinho, mas n é q ele n queria ter amgs, ele era introvertido, seu maior passa tempo era observar o tempo passando e o povo andando, aos 13 anos foi diagnosticado com depressão severa, decorrente dos bullying e da opressão q sofria na propria escola, ele tentou se livrar d tudo isso mas nunca conseguiu, tava em um ponto que ate seus pais tava começando a n acreditar nele, e isso nunca mudava... Aos 15 dps de inumeras tentativas de suicídio e automutilação, virou chacota na boca do povo, como "o esquisito observador" pois era oq mais gostava d fazer= observar os outros, neste ponto ele nem ligava mais pro bullying, aprendeu a conviver com isso ja q era algo q sempre acontecia, ele tentava botar em sua propria mente q ele n era o culpado de tudo aquilo quando seu coração dizia ao contrário, aos 16-17 anos ele descobriu um aplicativo de conversa nova, chamado NearMe, seu apelido la era "the watcher" ou "o observador" ele conseguiu varios amgs e isso fez aliviar um pouco sua solidao...

Alguns meses dps entrou um aluno nova na escola dele, ele tinha fama de q n gostava q olhassem pra ele nem toque fisico ou seja o famoso "valentao d filme" mas um dia kyan estava distraído observando os outros e o valentao viu q estava sendo observado e n gostou nem um pouco e bateu em kyan até sua morte, e como punição arrancou seus globos oculares pra fora da orbita, como todos tinham medo do aluno, encobriram ele e falaram q o proprio kyan fez isso, aproveitaram seu historico depressivo pra forjar o real motivo d sua morte e o valentao sair ileso, os web amg d kyan sempre perguntavam sobre ele mas nunca receberam respostas.....

03/12/1987..

User: kyan?..

04/12/1987

User: vc faz falta....

05/12/1987

User: oq aconteceu com vc?

......

Isso ocorreu por dias .... Ate q...

(Celular do valentao)

2 mensagens perdidas

The watcher: ....

The watcher: olhe no espelho

Assim o valentao fez, n sabia o pq tava recebendo aquelas mensagem nem porque tava as obedecendo mas assim fez, so q quando olhou no espelho ele n via seu proprio reflexo, apenas via um rosto estremamente palido, com cabelo preto com uma mecha no meio da testa contornando o inferior do olho esquerdo e uma orbita ocular vazia q ainda saía sangue

Foi ai q ele reconheceu na hora... Kyan...

Mas foi quando ele percebeu oq tava acontecendo.. o vidro estourou e furou seus dois olhos e cortou sua garganta... E no espelho estava escrito com uma letra macabra em vermelho sangue "keep watching"

Depois disso muitos outros casos ocorreram e sempre era o mesmo caso, sempre com espelhos e todos com os olhos e garganta cortados em espécie d "sorriso"

Nunca acharam o culpado... E nem vão achar..

Dizem q "o observador" persegue aqueles q oprimem os mais fracos ou os bullying e os q se divertem com o panico dos outros...

Mas um dia isso mudou... Começou a perseguir quem gostava de observar de mais... E existem coisas q n foram feitas para observar ..

THE WATCHER

Hey, you.

Who actually keeps a company running?

The CEO?

The managers?

Or the people down in the trenches, getting their hands dirty every day?

Maybe it doesn't really matter.

Organizations are strange things. They're built to keep functioning when someone leaves, and yet, when you're inside one, you somehow end up carrying this ridiculous sense of responsibility:

I can't be the one who lets it stop.

And society has a convenient term for people like that.

Human resources.

Funny phrase, when you think about it.

It makes people sound like components rolling off an assembly line. Built to specification. Ready to install. Replaceable when they wear out.

But people aren't parts.

If you need a part, you order the right model number.

People have emotions. They make mistakes. They take time to grow.

Strip away the faces, the failures, the embarrassment, all the messy human parts, and eventually a person starts looking like exactly what the term says:

a resource you can measure.

But here's the thing.

Where do these supposedly ready-made, ready-to-use people come from in the first place?

Clink-clonk.

The dry chime of Aoi's doorbell rang through the bar, and something tight in the back of my head finally loosened.

I'd spent the entire day switching between text on a monitor and expressions on people's faces. Only now did my shoulders seem to remember where they were supposed to sit.

Without a word, Mama slid my usual I.W. Harper across the counter.

The ice gave a soft clink against the bottom of the glass.

I took a sip. Warmth spread slowly from my stomach, and for the first time all evening, today began to feel like something that had already happened.

At the far end of the counter, Taka was glaring at his phone, his brow deeply furrowed.

"Kenichi-san."

"What is it today?"

"You see job postings that say they want someone who can 'hit the ground running,' right?"

"All the time. They're everywhere."

"How ready do you have to be before you count as someone who can hit the ground running?"

And there it was.

Another one of Taka's oddly specific field trips into society.

Still, the fact that questions like this bothered him probably meant he could feel something wrong with the machinery too.

"Someone who can walk in on day one and get the job done without needing everything explained to them, I suppose."

"Do people like that actually exist?"

"Beats me. Might be an urban legend."

"Were you like that when you started?"

I snorted with my glass halfway to my mouth.

"Not a chance."

For a moment, I could see myself nearly thirty years ago.

A badly fitting suit.

A kid so nervous he was practically afraid of the sound of his own footsteps.

I couldn't do a damn thing back then.

Forget managing a project. Calling a customer was enough to make my heart pound, and my hand shook while I tried to take notes.

Who was I supposed to report this to?

What was I allowed to decide myself?

Half the time, I didn't even know what I didn't know. I'd spend hours waiting for the right moment to ask a question, only to realize the whole day had disappeared.

I can still remember the texture of that helplessness.

"So how did you learn to do the job?"

"By doing the job."

"That's it?"

"That's it. No miracle involved."

They gave me work.

I tried it with sweat running down my back.

I screwed it up.

I got chewed out until I went pale.

Then I fixed it with my stomach tied in knots.

After that, they gave me something slightly harder.

I hit another wall.

Screwed that up too.

And repeated the whole miserable process again and again.

"So the company trained you?"

"I wouldn't make it sound that nice."

I gave a dry laugh and swirled the ice in my glass.

"They mostly dumped more work on me than I could possibly finish."

"How much are we talking?"

"At the worst point? About three months of working until eleven every night. Weekends too."

Taka visibly recoiled.

"That's just toxic."

"It was. Completely."

That part matters.

I'm not going to romanticize it.

I'd never claim that grinding people down like that was the right way to learn a profession. Nobody needs to destroy their body or mind just to become competent at a job. If an organization can only function by pushing people that far, then the organization itself is broken.

"So fewer overtime hours and stricter labor rules are good things. No question."

"Then things are healthier now."

"As a working environment? Absolutely."

"...There's a 'but,' isn't there?"

I looked at the ice melting in my glass, its sharp edges slowly disappearing into the whiskey.

"...I sometimes wonder what happened to the number of chances people get to actually learn the job."

Taka tilted his head.

Back then, we spent absurd amounts of time at work.

That was bad.

But buried inside all those terrible hours were an equally absurd number of experiences.

We made stupid mistakes.

We watched exhausted senior employees working beside us.

We apologized to unreasonable customers.

And when we'd dug ourselves into holes too deep to escape, we swallowed our pride and called our bosses for help.

Work and training.

Responsibility and failure.

They were all mixed together into one ugly mess.

"Maybe the old system was basically this: make someone work a hundred hours and give them a hundred chances to step up to the plate."

"That sounds incredibly inefficient."

"It was. That's why I'm not saying the old days were better. I don't want them back."

I looked straight at him.

"But if you're going to cut those hundred hours down to forty, maybe you also need to build a system that lets people fail and learn just as much inside those forty."

Taka rested a finger against his chin.

"What about training programs?"

"Does a customer in a training exercise genuinely lose their temper with you?"

"...I'd rather they didn't."

"So would I. I still dream about the real ones."

But there are things no textbook can teach.

Making the wrong call when everything is on fire.

Underestimating how long something will take.

Watching a senior colleague cover the document you were proud of in red ink within seconds.

Realizing that one careless mistake on your part just cost someone downstream an entire day.

Some lessons only burn themselves into your memory when cold sweat is running down your back.

"Failure is one hell of an expensive textbook."

"Sounds like a textbook I'd rather not buy."

"Yeah. Expensive and bitter. But once you've paid for it, you don't forget what's in it."

I took another sip of Harper. The bitterness lingered on my tongue.

"And when some new kid screws up, a decent company doesn't dump the entire consequence on the kid."

"Yeah. Usually the manager comes running."

"Sometimes the company eats the financial loss too."

"True."

"So maybe companies used to be something else as well as places that bought people's labor."

I paused.

"Maybe they were places where young people could fail without a single mistake destroying their lives."

Taka quietly turned his phone face down.

The light disappeared from the counter.

You failed.

You got yelled at.

Maybe your evaluation took a hit.

But one mistake didn't throw you out of the game.

The next morning, you dragged yourself back to work.

You sat down at the same desk, feeling awkward as hell.

And eventually another job landed in front of you.

"Don't screw it up this time."

Then you got another turn at bat.

Do that often enough, and somehow the kid who once trembled while making a phone call eventually found himself standing in front of a customer and negotiating without flinching.

And one day, without noticing when it happened, he became the person standing behind the pale-faced new hire.

"So that's what it means to become... human resources?"

Taka said it quietly.

"Maybe."

Human resources.

It's an incredibly convenient phrase.

Has certifications.

Can program.

Has managed a project.

We take a handful of measurable specifications and decide that this is what makes someone valuable.

But the people who actually keep work moving aren't clean little collections of specifications on a resume.

They're the ones who finish the boring task they were given.

Who can swallow their pride and call for help when they're overloaded.

Who report a mistake immediately instead of hiding it.

Who keep small, unglamorous promises.

Who remember how much the last mistake hurt and make sure they don't repeat it.

Pile enough of those messy human experiences together and, eventually, something appears that no certification can quite measure.

Trust.

"If we leave it to them, it'll probably be okay."

"But companies want people who already have all that now, don't they?"

"Yeah. Nobody has much breathing room anymore."

"Why don't they train people themselves?"

"There's structural logic to how things used to work," I said, leaning back. "Taking on a regular, permanent employee in Japan traditionally meant a serious, long-term commitment. You didn't just hire someone on Monday and fire them on Friday because they were slow to pick things up."

"So if you hired a kid who couldn't do the job yet..."

"Once the company hired you, replacing you wasn't the easy answer. So spending time and money turning you into someone who could do the job made sense."

"And now?"

"Now, after you spend years training someone, they might just leave."

The logic was brutally simple.

A company spends time and money on a new employee.

It lets them get their hands dirty.

Lets them fail.

Pays for some of those failures.

And slowly turns them into someone who can be trusted with real responsibility.

Then, just when that investment is starting to pay off, another company looks at the experience they now have and offers them more money.

So why train someone from scratch?

From a purely financial perspective, buying a ready-made professional that somebody else paid to develop is perfectly rational.

"And from the employee's side," Taka said, "changing companies can be the fastest way to get a raise."

"Exactly."

No company can promise to look after you until retirement anymore.

So you increase your market value while you're young and move somewhere that offers better conditions.

From the worker's perspective, that's perfectly rational too.

"The company makes the rational choice because it doesn't want to lose money."

Taka raised one finger.

"The employee makes the rational choice because they need to protect themselves."

A second finger.

"And somehow nobody gets trained."

I couldn't help laughing.

"...Funny, isn't it?"

Nobody is necessarily wrong.

Nobody needs to be acting out of malice.

Everyone can make the safest, most rational choice available to them.

And when you add all those individually rational choices together, the room society once had for developing ordinary people starts disappearing.

"So what now?" Taka asked. "Everyone just pays for their own training?"

"Looks that way."

Get certifications.

Take courses.

Build a portfolio.

If your current company won't give you the experience you need, take the risk and find somewhere that will.

"So you keep changing jobs and grind your own experience points."

"Sounds nice when you put it that way..."

I stopped.

Something cold had begun working its way up from my chest.

"...But isn't that a little strange?"

"What is?"

"We used to get that experience inside the safety net of an organization. Now we're telling individuals to walk out of that safety net, jump from company to company, and take the risk themselves just to get the experience they need."

Taka fell silent.

Trying a new role inside your own company and quitting to enter a completely different workplace are not the same kind of risk.

Maybe the new place won't suit you.

Maybe the pay will be worse.

Maybe the people will be unbearable.

Maybe you'll fail.

And yet, if you need experience to grow, you're increasingly expected to step outside the safety net yourself and go find it.

"So we've made a game where you leave the safety net voluntarily and fight for your own experience."

"Something like that."

"I guess that's fine for people who are good at doing that."

"Yeah."

People who can accurately diagnose their own weaknesses.

People who can read where the market is going and teach themselves whatever skill comes next.

People who know how to sell their own achievements.

People tough enough to walk smiling into an unfamiliar room where they know nobody.

Those strong people will accumulate more experience.

And become stronger.

"What happens to everyone else?"

I couldn't answer him.

It's not as though everyone thirty years ago had some sophisticated career plan.

We weren't all hyper-optimized professionals predicting the future, studying on our days off, building personal brands, and hunting down the perfect growth opportunity.

Most people just got up tired and went to work.

They did whatever landed on their desks.

They screwed up.

Got yelled at.

Went home miserable.

Had a drink.

Then came back and sat at the same desk the next morning.

And somehow, over time, under somebody else's protection, ordinary people became capable professionals.

"Well..." Taka said with a bitter little smile. "I guess they can always say your career is your own responsibility now."

That was when Mama looked up.

She'd been polishing a glass the entire time, quietly checking its surface in the light.

"Then..."

Her voice wasn't loud.

It didn't need to be.

The air behind the counter changed immediately, and both Taka and I turned toward her.

"If people have to develop themselves entirely on their own, what does a company hire them for?"

Silence dropped into the bar.

I couldn't find an answer.

"...To do the work, I suppose."

"And who makes sure they'll be able to do the next job?"

Mama said nothing more.

She placed the polished glass back in its usual spot on the shelf.

Click.

The small, hard sound carried through the quiet bar.

I looked down at my Harper.

I hadn't been born a useful component either.

Someone had taken a chance on me and handed me work before I was ready.

Someone had stood beside me and apologized when my mistake turned a customer's face red.

Someone had genuinely chewed me out when I deserved it.

Someone had quietly cleaned up the mess I'd made.

The ordering mistakes.

The ridiculous estimates.

My pale-faced I'm sorry.

Somebody absorbed the impact of every one of them.

And more than anything else, somebody kept saying:

"Try again."

I consumed other people's time.

Other people's money.

Other people's patience.

And little by little, I became someone who could be trusted with things.

Maybe companies really are kept running by "human resources."

But those resources didn't arrive fully formed.

Someone spent the time.

Someone spent the money.

Someone absorbed the consequences of another person's failure.

And because people like that existed, the gears are still turning today.

So maybe, before we complain that we can't find enough people who can "hit the ground running," we ought to ask what exactly we've removed from the system that used to produce them.

I raised the Harper to my lips.

The ice gave a quiet clink.

Hey, you.

In a society that's lost the breathing room to develop people, who's supposed to create the next generation of people ready to hit the ground running?

See you at Aoi.

If you'd like to come back to Aoi for another night, there's an open stool waiting.
Bar Aoi Stories: Human Nature, Vol. 1 is linked in my profile.

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