#reality

I have never been as happy as I was on my eighth birthday. My mother handed me a heavily wrapped present containing my very first gameboy and a mint Pokémon Gold edition.

I was just finishing up an essay at midnight when somebody knocked on my door. My face twisted with confusion as I wondered why somebody would knock on my door instead of using the doorbell. Plus, it was MIDNIGHT. I stood up slowly and heard another knock on the door. Annoyed, I ran downstairs. Another knock. It was rhythmic, like the beat on a drum. KNOCK-KNOCK… KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. Feeling my dinner crawl up my esophagus, I opened the door. “Dude, it’s midnight. What are you d-”

At the outset, I should tell you I’m a thief. Not a classless “smash and grab” guy or a lowly pickpocket. Those require no planning or strategy beyond “move quickly and be ready to run.” I’m a fourth-generation cat burglar. I’m very good at my job. If everything goes right, you don’t notice I’ve been there for weeks. If ever.

To start off, the name’s Jay, and honestly, I never really wanted to tell this story. For years, I buried it deep, locked it away like a nightmare too awful to face. But now as I sit down and write this, I realize I owe it to the children who didn’t survive and to ones like me who still carry the scars. Looking back, I wish I had just relied on E3 and other events or just never went to anything Nintendo-themed at all.

"Vincent, I got a job for you!" someone shouted from the other side of the bathroom door. "For me!? Can't you give it to someone else!?" "They asked for you, it seems to be one of your clients!" "Damn it, I want to go on vacation for once." His colleagues started to laugh. "That's the downside of being famous in the business" yelled one of them over the showers noise.

Editor's note: The following pages were found on the laptop of Elena K., a doctoral student at the Art History Institute in Zurich, who has been missing since March 14th. Her advisor passed the file on to us with the request to publish it — maybe someone recognizes something, maybe someone comes forward. We have changed nothing in the text. The image related to her notes is shown above. Please look at it while you read, for better understanding. Aside from this file, only one other thing was…

I used to believe that the worst thing that could happen at a restaurant was getting food poisoning. I was wrong. My name is Emily Carter, and what happened to me three years ago is something I still cannot explain without feeling like I am going to be sick. I have never told the entire story to anyone. Not my friends, not the police, and certainly not my father. Maybe writing it down is the only way I can finally get it out of my head.

In the heart of the city stands an abandoned bakery. It is a high, sprawling complex of brick and granite, and its great smokestack still stands watch over the loading bays where fleets of gleaming trucks once began their journeys to supermarkets across New England.

“Can I tell you a story Boss?”

Mike yawned. He wasn't use to the late nights yet. It was only his second night shift, as far as I'm aware, and by the time he had crossed the room to grab his sixth or seventh drink of coffee from the machine just outside the office door, I was started to get irritated by him. He was a lot younger than me, about 20 years old, and the age gap annoyed me since he acted like a child most of the time. My usual co-worker for the night shift was on a vacation with our boss, since the two knew each…

I was awakened by the sound of screeching car tyres and muffled dance music playing in the distance, I climbed out of my warm, comfy bed and headed to my window, the glass had frosted over, as I wiped the frost away I was greeted by the blizzard just outside my window and the glare of the headlights as a car came speeding by my house and into the night, as the unmistakable sound of DFG's latest CD, faded away. As I looked out through the thick snow, I could see what looked like a person laying…

Part I

I was always told to stay out of the old garden behind the house. My parents kept saying it was unsafe, overgrown, and full of thorns. I believed them, as children believe their parents. When I grew up and moved back into the family home after they passed away, I decided to clear out that forgotten space. I wanted to reclaim it, make it mine.

I usually don’t write my experiences down in journals like this. Typically, I’d prefer to just keep my unsavory memories in my head to let them rot away over time, which makes the pain easier to cope with. However, with everything that has happened to me recently, I’d feel guilty if I just let all those traumatic experiences simply be forgotten about, especially since they involve friends and people so dear to me… So, I shall tell the story of that godforsaken Airbnb and how it led me down a…

MYSTICISM. Mandala of the Seasons the Cycles of Life. Arising In the Mind with Jnana Yoga Way of Savant Knowledge and simultaneous Siddha Yoga of Esoteric and Occult Effects. Savage through the Ages with Mountain Lion nicknamed Shambala Familiar to be savage growing Mystically with the same Mountain Lion Familiar.

“You’re gonna give me a hundred dollars to sit inside this cardboard box for two minutes?” I asked, feeling the booze slosh around my brain. “It’s that simple,” the street performer said with a cocksure grin. “You last two minutes inside the box, you get a hundred dollars.” “What if I don’t make it two minutes?” “You don’t get a hundred dollars.” “What’s inside the box?” The street performer opened the top of the large refrigerator box and, true to his word, it was empty.

I actually liked Albany. Sure, the town was far from Georgia’s finest. Far from having any recognizable achievements other than rampant poverty and an exaggerated crime rate. But hey, it beat Bainbridge. At least, there was shit to do here, you know. And Alicia and I were never bored.

Once upon a time, back to when I was young. I played and laughed with the shadows of my room. A fall night, she came. late into the night, in her violet dress and veil; she spoked softly to me. "Little one, why still wide wake?" she asked. I didn't reply, I didn't speak. I stared at her.

Sarah rolled over, glancing at the digital clock resting on her nightstand. She groaned when she saw the green numbers read 2:59 am. As she started to roll over again, a flash of lightning lit up her room and she froze. Her eyes darted to her bedroom window where she thought she had seen a dark figure climbing in, until another flash of lightning proves there’s nothing there. Sarah sighed and rolled over, mumbling to herself. She closed her eyes, drifting back into peaceful slumber.

We all make mistakes. It just takes one, little mistake, and everything will be over. I won’t let that happen this time.