It took me a little while to recognize my fatal flaw, as a reader. It's not a question of extremes, as much as underlying interest. Undoubtedly, some enthusiasts immerse themselves in environment too much, or not deeply enough; or sink into plots, and become entangled in the knots of artificial problems or trip over allegory altogether; some identify empathilessly, or delve into infatuancies, with heroes and antiheros. That's not me.

What I didn't realize until early teens, junior high, or high school the latest, maybe, was that I was maintaining extended conversations with the authors. Made up of course, extensions on the basis of what was given in text, or interview elsewhere. Nothing fascinated me as much--- the rest of the story being "words on paper."

I guess, like a vampiread, I wanted the Life behind or within the story line. I wanted to understand, why the devil did so and so feel it necessary to carry-in to existence this work, this body? I suppose I hoped to see for a moment through the eyes of the wordsmith, and perceive what effect he or she was trying, hoping, to achieve, in the mind of others, through the manuscript as laid out, long or short.

In my own search for meaning, I must have made the (ghasted! I know) assumption that there is a Purpose behind all things. Note the capital, as denouncement of something grand: that accident in art is minimized by a closer analysis of impact, and a penultimate point of acceptance or rejection of it, before final publicization (form/media determining in large part the arena of distribution, as print, gallery, screen). In short, that the writer had something to say, beneath the tip of the berg of what now appeared in our glare of vision.

Not necessarily something new. Something personal. Vital.

It must have been in the early teen-years that I first revealed, and sighted, my flaw--these quirks being unjudged internally until someone else balks and stops you in your everyday stride. Discussing a book, I was subsequently met with indignant tonguelash. I can't remember what book or what I said, but I remember distinctively the response. That I was wasting my time.

Writing isn't like that. Words speak for themselves. It's about characters. The work takes on a life of its own. It belongs to the audience. A typographical orphan. Beyond control. The search for meaning as in our own lives is futile... The author like a God is long gone mentally and busy, anyway nobody is expositioning themselves. Book closed.

To my fellow student-writers, majoring in nothing at the time, it was as if personally offensive. Yet irrational. A barrier put up by the readers themselves in their minds, Private Property/ No Trespassing. It puzzled me that our teachers nodded along, though we routinely pursue potential acts of major and minor characters in our imagination in literary assignments. Character study we call it.

To be sure I don't like chained link or barbed wire, and would avoid these as well, still I conclude that unnecessarily imposed fences, especially intellectual ones should be scaled, down to size. In defense of the antagonists, the only thing I could think of was the fear of Writer's Block. If we spent too much time pondering over Purpose, we would create nothing at all. Maybe.

Yet I am inclined to the idea that understanding intent is within the Reader's purview, as much as it is part of the Writer's prerogative. As a reader, I give much respect to the Author, and freedom to take us wherever inspiration in the moment or future will lead us. I can't ask for it back, but I can pay it forward, when I myself scrawl something down, with that invisible prefix "Dear Reader..."

It's Sunday... But, here's some new blood.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RrIdrZLAE3Y

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

"No thank you, I'm full." Is a gunshot in the air.

My ears ring, tongue licking lips to clear them of the gunpowder.

The duellists beneath this yellow lighting- a ninety-one year old immigrant grandmother, and a thirty-something girlfriend.

I watch, my eyelids peeled against my will (my torturer; the grip of familial penchant for drama).

My grandmother grins. All rates-ratus (grab a pipe, or a glass of wine)

"Ai-th-ee, please see this whorish-mule of a woman out."

She says to my brother; the boyfriend.

Shotgun shells litter the floor as she pushes her chair back, and disappears to pray.

Many people hate me. I realized this with a starting horror today as I sifted through my old photos. Nearly- no, every single person is either a glancing face or someone who detests me now.

Faces I have smiled beside. People I have spent more than half my life with.

It must be fair- it has to be. Bad things don't come in spades- they come in fucking decks. This is not coincidence. I am not absolved of guilt. I was horrible. I was evil, even.

I did not care for anyone but myself. I drained people until they were husks simply because I couldn't create my own joy, my own purpose, my own love.

So I stole all of theirs, and that of their families until I felt full, though I was a beast with a bottomless pit for a stomach so it took years for them to feel truly and completely bereft of life due to how methodical I was. Pepper them with love until they felt assuaged, then take and take and...

I am 22 in four days. And I am hated with the ferocity of what I amassed as a teenager. I am now facing the brunt of it all, as I see those same friends interact with each other and celebrate their accomplishments. As they leave me now behind. I stand still, surrounded by crumbling towers and displaced bricks in the form of the pressure I strapped to the shoulders of guileless children who were responsible for my life, weighed down until now.

I deserve to be hated. I was sick, though it is no excuse. My mind waged war on itself and I selfishly fought to survive. But I cannot fix what I have done. I carry the same scars of my old friends, though they think it was my careless wrist that sunk the blade and not one missed as I tried to gut myself. My other self. The evil that lurked since I was still chubby-fisted and wobbly in my movements.

Why do I suffer for pain I caused, because of the pain I received when I was too young to spell my own name?

I awoke with a pounding heart and screaming in my ear. Sitting up in bed I stared into the darkness of my room. There were no sounds, no movements, not one discernible hint that anything in the world was wrong, but the fear that griped me made me choke. The fear of dread spread over me like a slowly filling bathtub. The feeling came up from the floor, passed over the bed, over my legs, up my stomach to my chest, filling the room with a sense of loss and death and a hopelessness that I have never felt before. When the sense of dread reached my nose, unable to contain myself any longer, I through my head back and screamed for my life. I screamed for my neighbors, I screamed for the passing of an entire world.

As the sun rose, the glint of light through the windows of the white washed brick house cut crystal rainbows through the air, shimmering as they flung themselves on little objects, corners, sifting dust. The house was quiet and still. The was no hint of the terror of the night. I opened my eyes and let the stillness of the world fill me, this void of a mind that was numb from a dreamless night. The quietness filled me, the rainbows of sunlight glided across the room imperceptibly slow, and I took that in as well. I felt the blanket’s softness on my toes, the soft weight of it on me. I smelled the coffee that was cooked in the kitchen, set on a timer before bed of course. I felt my heart beat and blood pulse through me, from my heart to my arms and cause the slight tension in my body. The feeling of warm light, soft blanket, cozy heart beat, made me feel at home and safe and peaceful.

Now that I was awake I looked towards my coffee cup from the night before, grabbed and walked steadily over the hardwood floors to the kitchen where the fresh coffee was waiting. The smell grew strong, my mouth watered, when I reached out towards the coffee pot I saw my reflection and the reflection of darkness, of terror, of fear behind me. I froze while I stared at the reality of the reflection behind me, hovering. I sidestepped and turned in one motion, but there was only the kitchen island looking towards the living room and the fireplace opposite the couch. The peace of the morning was not shattered, it was a shield. The light streaming through the window caught on the dust in the air, laid across the floor and the walls and flooded the entire room, every crevice was filled with it’s beauty and brightness, searching for a darkness to destroy.

Gathering the courage to turn back to my coffee, I caught a glimpse of something out the window. There in the scene of golden sunlight crashing down on a white dew field, strung with diamonds, four dark shapes flickered like black candles of evil intent. I did not freeze. I was not afraid. Awe struck me. These four dark, flickering objects, sparkled and shimmered, flitting like a wisp of smoke. They caught the light coming down and cast no shadow, but instead reflected the light in a cascading rainbow of dark purples, deep reds, and many violent colors that had not been named. Slowly the drifted closer to one-another. The slowness was painstaking and I had lost all interest in my coffee. From my safeness inside my house, I felt an exposure I could not explain, as though those things out in the field knew I was watching them. As the clock on the wall clicked the seconds by, minutes turned to hours, the shadows cast by the trees shortened, the dew burned off the field in lazy streams of steam, a cotton cloud formed above us and drifted off on it’s own path. Still, the four objects flitted and covered the ground with glittering light that I had never witnessed. They drifted so slowly towards one-another that the sun moved across the sky before they had met. All day long, I waited and watched, from breakfast to lunch to dinner, no matter what happened in the day I was the sentinel for a world about to change, and my duty was to watch and wait. The thought never crossed my mind to record them during the day. When they neared each other, I thought to record them, but surely they would disappear, surely some outside proxy would tell me I am insane, that my world was a lie. I forwent recording those ghastly images, too horrific to accept into this beautiful reality, but far too realistic to deny. I wanted them to be real. I wanted those dark figures that struggled against the universe to come together to exist, to see their climax of effort, and the resounding question in my mind to be answered, What is happening?

With a thunder clap and bright blue jets of lightning the wreaths joined, and disappeared. The grass bent in a wave spreading away from the point, trees swayed, the birds in the trees flew away. The sun was setting, and no trace of their existence was left behind but for a smoldering stain in the field where the four had come together after a long and grueling day.

I did not go to sleep that night. Instead I heated up my coffee, grabbed my computer, and curled up on the couch for a very long night ahead. After some time, I grew chilly and decided to start the fire. The comfort one receives from such an experience is difficult to come by in other ways. The fire in my fireplace crackled with a mix of oak and cherry wood. I never used it to heat the house, only for that solitary comfort when my mind delves into the flames and looses itself their within the flickering, ambient light.

Not much had happened while the sun had been up, but I could not shake the feeling that those things, whatever they were, had been attempting something, and that they had failed. The time and energy involved in what had happened, their existing, must have truly been immeasurable. When the explosion happened, I was thought perhaps their would be much destruction, maybe my windows would explode, but the radius around them had been limited in destruction. I would not be brave enough to venture over to inspect that location for some time, for perhaps their return would be the death of me.

Staring into the light of the flames, I recognized the waspish flicker of light as a brighter version of those creatures. The flickering was the same as my fire here, but the shimmering was other worldly, as though the flames that made up the creatures were metallic and yet, also made of some material I’ve never dreamed of.

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Snow flitted down on the window sill. A small robin flew up to the window and inquisitively gave a small tap. Upon noticing there was not an entrance it flew away. I stood there for a moment on the inside, looking out at my snow covered yard and the white world beyond. The snow began to fall heavier and a slight wind picked up. Do birds get cold? The poor little thing, I can imagine it huddled up in some wood hollow, fluffy and warm. Maybe they do not normally. The kettle was beginning to whistle more and more loudly. Turning around brought my attention to the fireplace where a shadow seemed to move. My heart jumped into my throat. Why would something be in my fireplace? What could it have been. I stood and stared, waiting for something to move, but there was nothing. Turning off the burner, I walked over to the fireplace with the kettle of boiling water poised as a weapon, but there was no intruder. I went back to the kitchen and poured the water for my tea. Filling the cup had that nice rustle of noise that comes when filling a tea cup. I stirred in some sugar and clinked my spoon on purpose to hear it clink. That shrill little bell, I summoned the taste of summer.

Oh how I longed for a summer day again, a full and sunny day full of bright blue skies and fluffy white clouds and green rustling trees. The golden fields covered in golden rod are my favorite. Today is the first full day of winter, but it has been cold for ages and ages now. The snow has been light all week, but the forecast on the news predicted heavier than usual snow.

After my tea, I put on my boots, grabbed my big coat and went out to the wood pile under the shed. Trudging through the snow, I made a path. It had been some time since I needed to get fire wood, but with the storm coming, extra wood in the house was always a nice way to stay warm on the cold cold nights. Momentarily I looked up, the sun was covered in a billion flickering rainbows and I was blinded by a trillion diamonds all around me. I decided to stand there for a moment to feel the frozen sun’s last kiss on my nose. “Farewell,” I whispered, as it faded behind the dark, heavy gray clouds. A freezing wind kicked up and I rushed to the shed to get out of the way. Midwinter had come slightly earlier than normal it seemed. In the protection of the shed I filled up my wheel barrel, more pine this time than I would have liked, but at least it wasn’t frozen.

When I turned toward the house my breath caught, someone was staring at me from under the tree beside my truck. He had a dark hat on and a thick jacket and tall boots. I could barely make him out, but there was no mistaking that someone was staring at me from under the tree.

I screamed at him, “Who are you and what are you doing here?!”

The stranger stood there, waiting, watching. Furious, I grabbed my ax I use for chopping the wood. In the freezing wind and blowing snow I made my way toward the tree and the stranger. The closer I got the more terrified I became, and the more angry I was.

“What on Earth do you think you are doing here at my house?!” I screamed again at the man, but the stranger did not move or say anything or hint at moving. He simply stared at me. When I reached the tree I swung my ax as hard as I could. I missed the man as he dodged the ax, grabbed at the handle and tried to punch me. The ax sank deep into the tree where I couldn’t easily get it out. My poor tree is all I could think. I loved this tree, and now I may have killed it. The man hit me so hard in the face that I fell to the ground. The white that I saw became red. He was on top of me for a moment and I need him in the groin, as he grabbed himself I sunk my teeth into his cheek, ripping out whatever had been there. The sudden taste of blood was vomit inducing and I threw up on him immediately.

Enraged, his face bleeding profusely, but unable to stand, the man tried to grab the ax from the tree, but I had struck the tree so hard that even he couldn’t remove the ax. Seeing that he was incapacitated, I attempted to get up, my eyes unable to focus. I grabbed the ax handle first, ignoring the sticking frost that froze my hand to handle, wrenched it from the tree and swung with all my might. I didn’t not hear him scream. I did not hear the thud of the ax smashing his face. It was much like splitting wood really, and with that I had killed a man. I could not look away from him, the ax protruding from his destroyed face, the foam and steam being blown away in the wind. I left him there for his body to freeze. I stumbled back to the shed and grabbed my wheel barrel. Making my way back to the house I stumbled and spilled the wood. I had to pile it back quickly as the storm was becoming ferocious, and threatened to freeze me outside with the man. Hurriedly, I piled the wood into the wheel barrel, dumped it all onto the porch and flung myself inside.

Leaning against the closed door, I slid into a seated position. I could not stop the tears nor the blood that was all over me, frozen in some places, oozing in others. I cried so hard I thought I would vomit again. I crawled over the floor to the bathroom, coughing and shaking, locked the bathroom door and drug myself up to the mirror to see the damage. My hair and blouse was covered in mud, wet from the snow, a large red and swollen mark on my face, was badly split open from his fist. There was his blood mixed with mine. I could not stop crying, that man’s life was gone, and perhaps my tree would die now. I loved that tree.

I screamed into the mirror, cursing him for what I did, cursing him for what he did to me. Why would he be here, why would he have come to my house, how did he come all this way, and from where. I did not recognize him, so he could not have been from town. Then, where did he come from?

As soon as I could stand without shaking and crying I went to unlock the door, but my hand froze to the doorknob. It was not cold in the house, but I could not take my hand away. I could not turn the lock, what if he was on the other side of the door, half his face hanging from the other half, handing me my ax…

How crazy! I turned the lock, wrenched open the door, stepped through into the hallway as fast and forcefully as I could, fully expecting him to be in the doorway without a face and holding out my ax as though I had forgotten it. But the room was warm, quiet, and my messy retreat into the house was fully visible. The rug was scattered, mud and melting snow everywhere, and some of the blood also lay splattered in the doorway. I looked out the door. There was nothing to see, except a blanket of white more solid than the ice sheets of 13,000 B.C.

Chapter 1 Mystery

A team of collage age people get together and form a club to explore their surroundings in their free time.

The group eventually stumble upon several mysterious groupings of structures which lead them to believe something is hidden nearby, but difficult to get to.

One of the team members dies trying to find the entrance alone after the team abandons the prospect of finding it.

The team member that died found the entrance, but couldn’t get in.

The other members regroup after some years, as older adults with more resources and skills, to try once more and honor their friend.

The team reach the entrance and open the vault. They are presented with a long tunnel that can be lit with a torch. There is a torch and flint and magnesium lighter at the entrance. After playing with the object for a few seconds, the team member pushes the button, making sparks and then she ignites the torch. The hall is very long without any slop, digging straight into the heart of the mountain. After a long way, there begin to be shown replica’s of all the famous cave paintings from around the world, by series of age. They walk along the tunnel, the art progresses through the millennium depicting the history of the human species and documenting the rise of humanity.

The tunnel ends at the Gate of Civilization. There is a laser engraved image of a person carrying the torch, putting the torch down into a small hole in the wall and walking through the gate, at the end of this small series there is a polished, reflective object in the wall surface that is a mirror showing themselves holding the torch.

The person on the team put the torch down into the hole, and they all walked through the Gate of Civilization.

After walking through the gate, deep in the mountain, the hall opens up into a large chamber. The light from the torch illuminates the chamber by reflecting the lit torch light along a series of polished tubes which open into holes in the ceiling revealing the constellations, projecting their spectrum's with prisms built into the small tunnels.

Thus the chamber is illuminated. The group walk in and stare at t he ceiling for some time before noting a block about waist high with an image laser engraved of someone looking up at the room with a small mirror to the left, showing the group looking at the ceiling. Then there is an arrow pointing left.

The group gather that humanity was far older than they had ever guessed and someone had left this place for them. They vowed to return there after a few days prepared for studying the chamber and what else may exist deep in the mountain.

The group leave, take the torch with them, and exit the tunnel. Unsure how to extinguish the torch they set it down inside the entrance and make their way back out of the cave.

Chapter 2 Aristotle’s Adventure

The group reconvened four days later with enough supplies to spend about a week studying the cave and chamber. They made camp at the cave entrance. They would prepare each day to go into the cave, explore during the day, and share their finding in the evenings over dinner.

When they reached the tunnel entrance they found the torch unlit and feared the fire would not come back. After playing with the torch again for a few seconds, one of them got the torch re-lit and they carried on down the hall as they did on their first visit. Eager, one of the crew decided to begin the study with the cave painting replicas and would catch up with the others when they returned. He lit his own gas torch from his pack, and set it down on the floor of the hall. The rest of the team carried on joyful and exited as they walked quickly to the chamber gateway. They stared in awe at the paintings and engravings quickly rushing by them. They would have ran if the hall had not been so utterly dark ahead of them.

Just as before, they reached the gate, set the torch in the hole, and walked through the gate. The ceiling was set ablaze with bright light of exaggerated starlight illuminating the chamber. There were reds and greens, purples and golds, bright blue and white, and the constellations were reborn.

But they were different than the ones the group knew, and a few very large stars they did not know.

This time they followed the arrow to the left. A team member said they would study the light source and constellations. The rest carried on. Following the arrow to the left directed them toward a wall with lines engraved they neither understood nor recognized. About chest height was a line of inscription that encircled the entire chamber. There was the same arrow as on the pedestal pointing from the left to the right as they faced the wall. Never having seen writing before, they stared at the engravings, touching them gently and wondering what it could mean. The single line was embossed with a line above and a line below the inscription in white with a black background and white lettering. The letter was blocky and full of hard lines. There seemed to be many circles and curves, dots accompanied some of the shapes, but not many. Two of the group said they would study this art as it seemed much more significant to the progress of this strange path. The other’s agreed and turned to look around the rest of the chamber.

The other three team members broke off to explore at random. There were many pedestals, not all the pedestals were the same shape or size. Some were tall and then, others were short and broad, no pedestal was larger than a medium sized table neither smaller than a chair. The pedestals were organized into geometric shapes of increasing complexity: a circle, triangle, square, pentagram, hexagram, etc. up to a dodecahedron. They formed an arc away from the gate. On the floor of the chamber were many intersecting lines with many curving symbols. The three immediately recognized the solar chart from the position of the sun and moon, they traced the orbital path through the year. At the very center of the floor was an analema.

The chamber was irregularly shaped, with a domed ceiling. In one particular corner about a quarter way around the chamber the engraving the two team members studying pictures were joined by pictograms. While the two could not figure out the meaning of the engraving, the pictograms were much clearer.

They beckoned the others to join them. The engraving began to tell a story. The story showed men and women and children, old and young, in large buildings, great fields of food and animals, the sea was full of vessels and the sky and stars were full as well. One picture showed the Earth. More followed, and there were happy faces, but also sad faces. Suddenly the pictures became scary. There were no more pictures of old people or happy people. There were pictures of dry lakes and grey skies. The people had weapons of some kind and many dead animals. The cities were broken with pictures of people crying. There were several pictures in series of red scenes and what looked like storms. After a short sequence of the same picture, the pictures changed to trees and full lakes and rivers with many fish. There were a group of people entering a cave, the Gate of Civilization, and several chambers. At the end of the story there was a depiction of the sun and moon, but also many other objects that the group did not recognize.

Having returned to the gate, the group was stunned into silence. They looked at each other, and looked around the room in awe and wonder. They realized all at once that approximately ten feet from the floor up to the “sky” there were pictograms with a corresponding engraving underneath each. It seemed that every conceivable object or idea was encoded there inside that chamber for them to learn from, to be retaught. Amazed, awed into silence, the team decided to retire for the day.

On the second day, the member who had been studying the entrance paintings joined them. He stood in the middle of the room for about an hour not speaking, and barely even breathing.

By midday, the group had teased out that the string of engravings in the first half of the line surrounding the room were first letters and then groupings of letters that corresponded to the sounds of those letters. It was not only a story, but a way to read the story and then speak and hear the language the story had been written in. Bu inspecting the pictograms one could understand that the bushy thing with a tall brown stalk was a ‘tree’ and the round blue and brown object was ‘earth’ while other ideas like ‘love’ and ‘family’ and ‘war’ were shown by more complex pictograms. The detail was so rich within the pictograms, that one could see the emotion of ‘love’ or ‘jealousy’ or ‘rage’ on the faces of those people depicted.

By the end of the day, the team had translated about a quarter of the engraving and about 200 of the symbols along the wall. During their study of the engraving, they noticed the wall was oddly smooth, but not reflective, all the way up to the ten foot mark before the cipher began. This was the case encircling the entire chamber, oddly smooth, but not reflective. In a room brimming and nearly overflowing with knowledge, this seemed an oddity to have so much usable surface area with nothing on it. Was it for future knowledge to add to the chamber? Was the chamber unfinished? So far, there had been no clues as to what the space between the engraving and what the group had determined was a dictionary could possibly be for.

As they studied the engraving, the members quickly realized the pictures were just a summary of the story, and the story itself was far more detailed. Not only had there been a civilization near the mountain, the civilization had spanned the entire planet. It even extended to the sun and moon.

During one of the longer breaks, after a particularly difficult part of the passage, one of the team members were inspecting the beginning of the story absentmindedly while eating, admiring the detail and wondering about those who made it. After some time, the member noticed she could combine the words that were spaced out every so often to make new words. She was intrigued and thought that perhaps exhaustion had scrambled her brain. She jotted down a few new combinations of words and went off to see if she could find them in the dictionary. Sure enough, near the gate entrance, a little too high, there was the new word. She exclaimed in a high pitched squeal that was immediately embarrassing, but not unwarranted. She ran back to the engraving, jotted down a few more words and went back to the dictionary. Having caught everyone’s attention, they began staring as she rushed back and forth between the dictionary and the engraving.

After a few times of this, the curiosity over came the group and they began to question what she had discovered. She exclaimed that here was more to the story, much more. There were at least two layers to the engraving, and possibly more. Wide eyed, and infused with a rush of adrenaline, everyone got back to translating the engravings. By the end of the day, they had fully translated the entire passage and discovered another recombination of the engraving bringing the total to at least three lines. The most intriguing thing about the passage, one team member noted, was the increasing complexity of the language being used. The farther to the right and the more layers deep they went, the more specific and complex the story became, as though they were being guided to do something.

Ch 3 Lessons from the past

The third day was a grind. At the end of the day they sat around the fire at camp to discuss the what they had so far and the plan for the rest of the expedition, knowing they would need to come back for further exploration of what could be several more chambers by the looks of the first line in the pictogram.

Like the path, each and every part of the chamber grew in complexity, and there were instructions throughout on how to use the chamber, but they were not always so explicit. Indeed the longer the team was in the chamber the more vague the “lessons” became. However, they were most certainly being instructed in lessons of some sort.

The fourth day began to yield serious results. The message on the wall had a total of five layers, and by late morning on the fourth day the team understood what had happened to the civilization in the story. After reaching a technological prowess unmatched by humanity until that time, humans had broken the rhythms of the Earth. Out of rhythm, the Earth’s ecosystems descended into chaos. The civilization crumbled rapidly and humanity nearly went extinct. After about a thousand years of varying degrees of decent, some abrupt, some gradual, a large group of people could see the demise of the civilization and so began to create a civilization seed with the hopes that one day someone, or a group of someones, could discover the seed and restart civilization if we had not gone extinct.

Armed with their new knowledge of the depth and complexity of the chamber, the group set about to decipher the pedestals. Which, up until then, they had largely ignored as they recognized the room followed a pattern that should be followed and nothing could be learned without first understanding the previous information. Each successive layer built on the previous layer. They could also use the new layers to decipher more complex bits hidden within the beginning layers.

At first, they decided to divide themselves between the pedestals like they had with the engraving, but quickly realized the triangle and circle pedestal groups were so complex they may never understand them, let alone the other ten. The circle pedestal group had eight pedestals arranged in a circle with lines carved in to the floor between them. All were connected with lines between each. Each pedestal was slightly taller than the previous, to create a sort of staircase. However, one could not use this staircase to go anywhere, as it was only from was high to chin height. These pedestals were completely covered in new engravings. These symbols were an entirely new language.

One of the members had been stooped over the shortest pedestal and saw two hand shapes. He placed his hands on the shapes and understood that each symbol above his fingers were numbers for counting. Next to the hands were a small column of symbols, these were followed by a larger combination of symbols. He explained to the others this pedestal told them how to add, subtract, divide, and multiply in the new language. The circle was teaching them rudimentary math. The second pedestal had square roots. The third pedestal had degrees. The fourth had fractals. The fifth had sets. The sixth had matrices. The seventh had imaginary numbers. The eighth and final pedestal had formulas from every prominent scientist of the Age of Science. Having understood that not only did they have math, but that they had another dictionary for using highly complex math, they could now move on to the triangle formation.

The second group in the arc, the triangle formation consisted of three head height pedestals with conical shapes, but with a flat top about the size of a large hand. There were no markings on the floor this time, possibly insinuating the ideas on the pedestals were linked, but not as strongly as the math previously. Upon inspection, there were a lot of circles and lines on these three pedestals. There did not seem to be any clear pattern to the engravings and there did not seem to be a starting point. Each of the team members took up a different strategy. One laid down on the floor in the center of the triangle, in case this puzzle needed a different perspective or perhaps to take a nap. Another team member decided to look at a few inscriptions and see if there were any correlation with the writing on the wall. One member chose to see if they could use the circle formation to decipher the triangle. Still another thought maybe the answer lied in the star graph carved into the floor. Each member chose their own way, and none of them could understand what the triangle formation was about, covered in circles and lines, with little notations carved in between all of the symbols.

After a long time, a few of the team members noticed that the notations were words without definitions written down. Was the chamber incomplete? Was this a dead end or the meaning of the blank space between the floor and the dictionary? The notations carried sound information, they were certain of that, because the writing on the wall corresponded to the pronounced sounds of the language. There did seem to be numbers after awhile, but no numbers were written down. The numbers came out in patterns, and after some time, some of the patterns could be understood to be in an order of sorts, spiraled around one of the pillars, but only in sections. A spiral would appear, and then disappear, there would be staggered symbols and then several lines. On one occasion, a very very bored and distracted team member decided to get up on the circle pedestal steps. Amused, he walked to the top and then down and back up again. When he was on the tallest pedestal he looked out across the room, studying it. Then looked down at the triangle, on the tops of the pillars there were unconnected lines forming a larger triangle. Perhaps this was the key to the formation? He looked up at the ceiling and there were three stars that correlated in position with the pillars. He asked the others if they would follow the point of the lines to the walls of the chamber. Three positions revealed immediate results. One pointed toward the symbol of ‘man’. One pointed to the symbol of ‘body’. One pointed to the symbol for ‘soul’.

"I would like to request a wellness visit for my neighbors."

The officer appeared tired and skeptical as he looked away from the computer he had been typing on to glance at the speaker. "And you are?"

“Angelica Austin.”

"Ms. Austin –"

"Mrs."

"Mrs. Austin, who are the neighbors in question?"

“Gaby and Vince Kaplan."

He grabbed a pen and piece a paper to write down the names. “What makes you think they require a wellness visit?"

“I must say, first, we don’t socialize with our neighbors. We are very private people. But I pride myself on staying aware and informed, so I felt compelled to come forward.”

“Gaby and Vince…?”

“We live in the corner house, right behind the police station. You can see it from the front steps,” she said, pointing. “We just moved in four years ago. A day or two after we moved in, Gaby and Vince stopped by bearing cookies and garden tomatoes. We thanked them, but I didn’t let them in. I’m not a fan of strangers walking around my home. Within a week, I put up very artfully designed, 36x36 inch “No Trespassing” signs by the front and side doors. I’m sure you’ve seen them.”

“Yes, ma'am, we all have.”

“That kept the pseudo-friendly neighbors from coming around. MYOB, I always say.”

The officer nodded and took a deep breath.

“In addition to the signs, we installed motion sensor lights, alarms, and video cameras as part of our top-of-the-line security system. We designed the system ourselves, Jared, my husband, and I. And we did all the installation. We didn’t want strangers crawling around and getting access to our home.”

The officer raised his eyebrows. “Ma’am, I’m going to need to record your statement so it can be typed up later.”

“Certainly.”

He pressed record. “Continue, ma’am.”

“Since the house was built for a family of five or more, we have room to spare for the two of us. We combined two and created our own security room. We blacked out the windows to ensure privacy – you can never be too careful. We have ten screens on two walls showing the views from the cameras placed strategically around the exterior of the house. Three additional screens show interior views from the three entrances. All the footage saves on two different servers. We have a generator in the basement, just in case. You never know.”

“The Kaplans, Ms. Austin...?”

“We have two to three cameras on each side of the house. There are three on the side facing Gaby and Vince’s home. The GabyVince cameras, as I like to call them, face their kitchen, dining room, master bedroom and bathroom. Although the cameras are meant to keep an eye out for intruders, I have the ability to zoom. I also have sound sensors that I can magnify to hear ants crawl. Which sensors allowed me to hear Gaby and Vince.”

“You do realize that is illegal, ma’am?”

“Protecting your home is illegal?”

“Spying on your neighbors.”

“I wasn’t spying." She paused. "Per se.”

The officer shook his head but didn’t say anything.

“The first time I listened to them talking, I wondered if they knew they had an audience. They were so nice to each other. I was convinced they knew, somehow. But every time I reviewed the recordings, they were always the same. Most people drop their masks at the door and let their monsters out when they’re alone. Family gets to see the ugly more than anyone. Not these two. They hugged constantly, for Chrissake. Or kissed. When they were both home, they said “I love you” a million times a day. I don’t remember the last time I said I love you to Jared. Or him to me for that matter. We just know. Who needs to say it all the time? Do you?”

“Ma’am…”

“They were an anomaly to me. They cleaned and folded laundry together. I have a cleaning service. Of course, I follow them around when they come to make sure they do a good job. Plus, I don’t trust them. They don’t even speak English. No matter how loud I say it, they rarely understand me. Anyway, if one cooked, the other washed the dishes. We don’t cook; I love my state-of-the-art kitchen exactly as it is. Shiny and new. Looks the same as it did in the showroom. No, we order take out. Only from the best restaurants. I order, Jared picks up. No delivery. For obvious reasons. You understand.”

“Yes, ma’am. The Kaplans…?”

“Gaby and Vince have an adult son. He visits every once in a while, and I counted 30 candles on his last birthday cake - must have been a fire hazard and I wanted to warn them, but Jared convinced me it was not the best idea - so I knew they had been together a while. Long enough for the honeymoon to be way over. Like normal people. But I could see them dancing in the kitchen. And I could hear them going at it in the shower, and the bedroom and occasionally see them on the kitchen counter. They were embarrassing.”

“Definitely, illegal, ma’am.”

“I tried to stop watching but I had to keep an eye out for intruders. You never know when that car parked too long out front is a thief or a killer rather than an innocent visitor to a neighbor.

“That’s how I know.”

“Know what, ma’am?"

"That someone needs to check on them."

The officer perked up as Angelica finally seemed to reach the point of her visit to the police station.

"Did you see a crime committed against the Kaplans, Mrs. Austin?"

"No."

He sighed. "What did you see that brought you here today?"

"It’s more what I haven't seen."

He lifted an eyebrow.

"There’s no movement in the house."

He sighed again. "Might they be on vacation?"

"No. No one has left the house in at least two weeks. I noticed a while ago that Vince wasn’t going out. Maybe six months ago? Gaby was only going out to shop, looked like, then she was back home cooking, cleaning by herself. I only saw rare glimpses of Vince. No, dancing, or going at it like rabbits. A lot of are you okay? Do you need anything? I could see her helping him to the table in the kitchen or to the bathroom. About a month ago, I’d say, he stopped leaving the bedroom.

“Then maybe two weeks ago, I stopped seeing Gaby as well. She didn’t leave the house, so they are both in there. I’m worried. I don’t know what happened, but something is wrong. You need to go make sure they are alright.”

“Two weeks, you say?”

“Yes, Officer.”

“I’ll send a patrol car over right now, ma'am.”

“Thank you so much,” Angelica said, turning to leave.

“I will also be sending one to survey your security set-up.” Angelica stopped and turned back to the police officer. “What you have described is not only illegal, but also criminal.”

“But I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just trying to be a good neighbor!”

“Have a seat Mrs. Austin. As long as you don’t have any recordings of Mr. and Mrs. Kaplan engaged in private activities, you probably have nothing to worry about.”

Her eyes swallowed her face as she whispered, “Oh.”

“Welcome to the crew!” The words continued to ring in Mot’s ears. He still could not believe that his Uncle had signed him up for this kind of work. His Mom had been so excited for him. She was quite glad that he now had a job, and looked forward to him working on later getting his own place. Sure she was okay with having her second born child at home, but a mother needed some privacy~ ya know. Mot had noticed how his Mom, and Mr. Grid had been spending so much time together lately. He later found out from one of the older ladies from down the street that sometimes when Mot was out with his friends, or went on a long weekend getaway/vacation, Mr. Grid would stay, get comfy, even carry some stuff over at Mot’s home, and stay over not only during the day, but overnight, too (as the senior buddy of his put it). This kind of worried Mot he told his close friend, Roti, about it, and Roti burst out laughing. He had told Mot to start preparing to call Mr. Grid, ‘‘Papa.’’ At that remark Mot squinted his eyes, and glared at Roti. Not that he didn’t like Mr. Grid, he just did not want to see his Mom get hurt again. The others guys she had been only wanted to use her, and they did not care if they broke her in the process of using her. Now maybe if he worked hard at his job, he would be able to take care of his Mom, and she would not have to be with Mr. Grid. Mot knew his Mom needed help with a lot of bills, but he did not want Mr. Grid to be the one to help with that. His older sibling was traveling, and was somewhere in another galaxy. Mot would have to be the one to try to save his Mom, and be her knight in shining armor. Now he just had to concentrate on his work. Not stared at the piles, and heaps of creatures lying on the mahogany floor. Their boss had been at it again. This time most of the bones of these beastlings had been shattered. Mot felt shivers go down his spine. He definitely did not want to ever be caught in a room alone with the one, and only Daemon Queen. She looked kinda human, but everyone at work even the transients knew not to mess around with Sasha.

#SHATTER ©️ 04.11.2023 Sat’rday

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=uOi_qHmKSK8

Spooky season really brings out the talent.

I had a metric buttload of entries this month, and it was lovely. I had a tough time deciding who would come away with this month's HUGE JACKPOT OF BIGTIME MONEYCASH, but in the end, I went with some new talent here on theprose-dot-com.

Bursting in on the scene with an honorable mention is @CatOnTheCob with an uplifting little tale of family love. https://www.theprose.com/post/771379/my-mothers-funeral

@Ethereality killed it with a tale that made me laugh out loud. https://www.theprose.com/post/771293/the-hole

@FarrellTimlake has been on Prose for a minute, but he got my ANT-tention with https://www.theprose.com/post/770684/the-night-march

THE WINNER, YOU ASK?!? @TaraRoberts impressed me with her culinary delights in https://www.theprose.com/post/772648/the-harvest

Okay. So let's review. I, twenty-two years old, cripplingly broke and bitter went to the bank. Okay, normal. And why? No, I was not going to rob a bank Mar!

I had gotten a job and, was going to deposit my first paycheck safe and secure in my back pocket of skinny jeans.

There's some stupid backlog on today of all days. A Thursday at two in the afternoon. Lucky for me my boss was easygoing. Way too nice to deal with my sharp, salty tongue brimming with lovely sarcasm and barely concealed envy of his sleek desk and gorgeous wife and adorable kids all loving and smiley on his framed pics.

But none of that would really help me. Humanizing? Sure, okay. Of any importance to keep me alive in a savage, greedy, and completely spazzing soon-to-be bride's arms? No.

I'd barely been close enough to see the asshat who'd cut the line. And too in my own world to care, staring down with the clients today being execs I'd have to assume from such polished, fine looking suits, shined shoes, and Blackberries.

And then the Phaser appeared, raining down smoke bombs with a noxious paralytic.

In pure instinct I dropped like a sack same as everyone else.

Waited for one pair of boots to pass me by before I raised my head, arm, outward shielding my face to keep that fact covert. Yeah, my world is a comic book. And I had a fairly mundane, unexceptional power of being immune to poison.

What I hadn't expected, was for their getaway to have a bird's eye view of the place, helped along by a Feather mutation and his dominant power being X-Ray.

I had gone to the bank on Thursday morning. And never had cashed in my check since a ringleader wearing the honey blond curls and jutting, angular features of my sister Marilyn had scooped me up in her arms.

"I do apologize doll," she simpered, though her smile was too slick and knife-like at the edges. "Business and all. Busy, busy, oh you won't be harmed."

I'd not stopped glaring at her.

"Yeah I'm sure I won't Mars Bar," I huffed, past the rushing air current.

"I could drop you," she warned.

"And have Mom on your butt for the rest of eternity. Please," I sneered, "she may be blind to how prissy and moody you often get, but she is still a psychic user."

My first sign that I may have made a dumber than usual mistake.

The flash of confusion to this deeply personal and pertinent lore drop.

"You and-- me, don't get on do we?"

"Oh no, I'd say we get on just fine," I hummed. "I simply love, love, love how you always have to have the upper hand or make all your snide jabs at me. Lovingly dismissing me as a failure when I had to drop out-- of-- ?"

"Stop talking," she said, holding me close against her chest. "Don't. Look."