FICTION and Poemette

Published November 13, 2025 by Nan Mykel

INTERLUDE

The voices were back. The old man glanced around nervously, then turned and hobbled through the tall weeds toward the house, Prince at his heels. In his haste he stumbled against a loose board on the dilapidated back steps, and once inside stood with his back against the door, panting. Gradually his breath returned, but still he did not move, willing the voices away. He had learned years ago that they were not real, so he usually ignored them, but now he remained listening. Prince licked the old man’s hand, but getting no response he turned around twice and lay down on the cold linoleum at his master’s feet.

It was getting dark; a chill blast of air rattled the remaining window panes. The old house shuddered and creaked like a floundering ship. Still he stood and listened.

A soft thumping sound finally registered. Prince’s tail. “Good boy.” His voice was gravelly. “Let’s get to bed.” They each took a drink from a covered water bucket, then made their way through the darkened interior of the house, stopping before a closed door.

The old man drew a key from his good pocket and inserted it, revealing a small windowless bathroom which they both entered.

After locking the door behind them the old man sighed, carefully bent to remove his shoes and pat the dog again before stepping into the dry tub and nestling beneath a pile of tattered blankets.

After he settled, Prince jumped in and curled into the remaining empty spaces. . They slept, safe for another night from the wind, rats, trespassers and voices..

A snowstorm struck during the night and the next morning they rose to find a drift of snow accumulating in front of a broken window in the old living room. He stood staring, lost in thought at the faded red and blue remnants of Mama’s carpet. Mama was gone and Papa too, and the royal blue and red of the carpet threads was present only in memory. He sighed and reached for his walking stick. “Let’s go find us some vittels.”

Carefully man and dog picked their way through the rapidly deepening snow and across the fields dotted with relics of weeds from only yesterday. The man bent into the wind, holding his buttonless coat tightly around him with one folded arm while using his walking stick to remain upright. As the two neared the corner grocery a sudden blast nearly toppled him. The voices started taunting him again when he had to leave Prince outside, but they faded quickly. Within minutes the old man reappeared, and after only a few steps Prince wagged his tail in anticipation and was not disappointed when the old man opened his parcel to share cold cuts with the dog. Stamps wouldn’t buy dog food.

Perhaps it was a dog in heat, he would never know, but late that afternoon Prince scratched to get out, then bolted and failed to return. After what seemed like several hours the old man wrapped up and once again staggered back across the field. “Prince!” His call blew back in his face. Another blast of wind brought him to his knees, and he was briefly disoriented. The chorus of bantering voices began again. Bastard! Son of a bitch! He swayed but staggered on. The voices were not new. He used to think they were outside, menacing him and his sainted mother, but now he knew better. They came from inside his own head, not out there. That meant he didn’t have to fight with others so much. It also meant he carried them with him.

“Prince!” Son of a bitch! “Here, boy!” Bastard!

The wind was now becoming a blizzard, especially fierce at the crest of the slope. Was that a dog’s bark? He took another step forward, unsure of his footing. The wind made shouting useless, but still he tried. “Prince, Prince old boy, come home.”

Suddenly his foot slipped and he fell, landing on his hip. The momentum of the fall tumbled him down the bank towards the creek. He landed in an unnatural, sprawled position, and was still.

Darkness shrouded the old man’s body. A decline in the hill where he lay blocked the view of neighbors or passersby. The snow continued piling up on his gray hair and beard. Hands sprawled open in the snow and he retreated as cold gentled into numbness.

At the edge of himself he sensed–but distrusted–movement. There it was again. Prince licked his master’s face, whined, tried to nudge him with his nose, whined again, then ran off.

Minutes later lights and voices approached. “He looks bad. Better call an ambulance.” Time passed.

An impersonal comfortable clatter and tinkle rose around him. The sound of nylons swishing softly, the rustle of starched clothing and perfume. He sighed deeply.

“Don’t let him get too warm too fast.”

He was aware of large areas of pain: his hands, his ears, a numbness below the waist. “His hip.”

Was that a needle? He sensed pressure; a man’s voice now, deep and authoritative. More movement. He was prodded purposefully and the pain submerged him again. The old man was up in a corner of the room looking down on his body when there was a sudden flurry of activity down below. “He’s in hypothermic shock.” More movement. “I can’t get a pulse. No respiration….He’s gone.”

Almost immediately he became aware of a voice speaking to him Iin his ear. “Wait. It’s not your time yet. It isn’t your time.” Was that voice inside his head or outside? It repeated “Don’ worry. It’s not your time.”

Without effort the old man floated through passages of consciousness and surfaced gently at his mother’s knee. She embraced him and said softly, “We’ve been waiting for you. Your father is here, too.”

Eons away, a guide was grinning to himself, thankful for the flexibility of the system.

__________________

POEMETTE

The children love cops and robbers,

also cowboys and indians. What

recreation will take their fancy

as they mature?

Ah yes–the video war games.

Cops and Robbers,

Cowboys and Indians

practicing to be men

through video games.

Competition

Inhibition

recognition

long division

malnutrition

prohibition

fission

prison.

Nan

ANOTHER ERA

Published October 29, 2025 by Nan Mykel

THIS IS NOT a political rant, just a stroll down memory lane in perhaps a kinder world. I took the liberty of encroaching on some family memories and at the same time protecting the early privacy of our brood. So, know that the events are true but the names are not:

DAILY CHORES

Papa was always an early riser. Winter and summer he got up at 5 o’clock. Long before light we would hear him shaving off a few splinters of lightwood to kindle a fire in our bedroom heater. From there he went to grandpa’s room, made a fire in the fireplace, then carried a shovel of coals to the old kitchen in the yard. He brought two buckets from the spring, whistling as he went. This was only the beginning of Papa’s morning chores. He fed the horses and and hogs and milked and fed the cows before returning to the house for breakfast.

In the meantime the women had their chores. Aunt Sallie cooked breakfast. There were hot biscuits with bacon, sausage or other meat or eggs, fried apples, coffee, the last brought to the dining room table in china pitchers, one for buttermilk and one for sweet milk. In our early childhood the coffee was roasted in our oven and ground fresh for each meal.

Mother made a fire in the sitting room stove and set the table for breakfast, making sure that there was plenty of butter, honey, preserves and sorghum molasses in the center of the table. She also made the beds and helped us children get ready for school. Alice’s hair was sometimes short and had a little curl, but mine was very long and straight and had to be combed and braided by Mother.

Aunt Pokie helped prepare grandma and grandpa for breakfast. Grandma was an invalid and was served her meals in her room from the time she broke her hip when I was seven years old. Grandpa was very deaf, but usually had good health until the last year or two of his life.

After breakfast everybody had other duties. Papa began whatever farm work was in season, overseeing hired help, caring for farm animals, tools, machinery, harness, etc. Mother raised chickens, cared for the milk and butter with help from Aunt Sallie, Alice and me, helped with the house work with caring for Grandma and Grandpa, supervised the garden and did much of the tending and gathering of vegetables. She sold surplus chickens, eggs, butter and milk and, occasionally vegetables to help with family expenses and to put away savings to send her children to high school and college.

Aunt Pokie took the responsibility of caring for Grandma and Grandpa, but was helped by Mother and other members of the family as needed. She also supervised the house-cleaning downstairs and raised beautiful flowers. I remember, especially, her violets, roses, August lilies and chrysanthemums. Aunt Sallie did most of the cooking. This was done in the old kitchen in the back yard until 1918. Food was brought hot to the table for breakfast and dinner….Too-dry cake was served with a sauce. Many ways were found to use left-overs….

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Forwarded this email? Subscribe here for more From Every Trans Suicide Is A Murder By Those In Power: News came this week that transgender athlete and student Lia Smith took her life at just 21 years of age.

” to call her death merely a suicide misses the larger truth—no suicide happens in a vacuum. ”The policies that targeted Lia make life harder—and shorter—for transgender people. In a time when we can’t predict what fresh cruelty might come next, as the president signs one anti-trans order after another, as elite universities quietly comply with his demands to discriminate even in blue states, and as the movement against us widens its sights to target transgender people of every age, we have to name what’s happening plainly. These policies carry blood on their hands. Transgender advocates have warned for years that the relentless criminalization and isolation of our community would lead to deaths. Policies designed to make life unlivable for transgender people bear responsibility too; every trans suicide is a murder by those in power.”

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Short Fiction

Published August 4, 2025 by Nan Mykel

TARGETS

My folks were unable to accompany me to the meeting with my rapist, since they had retired to Costa Rica. The Restorative Justice people made an exception and allowed a friend to join me in the session, for emotional support. They didn’t realize that Mitzi had also been raped by hairy Harry Findley, the perp.

I’m Allison, another survivor. I first met Mitzi in my living room, when she attended a small women’s consciousness raising group composed of women survivors of sexual assault who were slowly learning not to think of themselves as victims, but as survivors.

We waited for Hairy in the prison psychologist’s office at Newcom State Prison. The phone had been pulled to avoid interruption, and Mitzi and I had to wait ten minutes, alone, in the office. An effort had been made to bring a little cheer into the office: a cacti arrangement and a large Vermeer print. A one-way mirror across the room offered reassurance of safety. I remember wondering at the time who the reassurance was for; him or me, since although my rage had cooled during the last year, I knew it was capable of swift re-ignition. For all my moxie, I was conscious of a dry mouth and banging heartbeat.

Mitzi and I both wore loose shirts, loose jeans, and tennies, presenting as asexual as possible for the session. The stated purpose of Restorative Justice was to heal, not dissuade reoffending, but my purpose was the latter. I’ll admit, however, that the motivation for the meeting was (I thought “confrontation” was a tad murky–I wanted to look my attacker in the eye.

We heard a small click, the doornob turned and a corrections officer ushered Harry in, handcuffed, and sat him in a chair opposite us, across a table. He was anything but appealing as he sat slouched in his bright orange prison suit that revealed long black hairs that covered his arms and the back of his hands. A five o’clock shadow had apparently sprouted in the past hour or two, but his head was shaved. The officer left us alone, hopefully behind the one-way mirror.

Although I assumed his presence was due to the hope of making an impression on the parole board someday, I said, “Thanks for coming.”

He dropped his head in acknowledgement, without making eye contact. My ears started ringing and I had to briefly shut my eyes and get centered. I said, “Why are you here?”

“Here? Do you mean in prison or in this room?”

I silently gritted my teeth. “I know why you’re in prison, believe me. But why are you in this room with me?”

He paused. “Curiosity.”

“What do you want to know?”

He was silent.

“Do you regret the sexual attack?”

“I regret prison.”

“But not causing the physical and psychologcal harm you did to me?”

He did not answer.

“Have you ever been raped? I hear that sometimes happens in prison.”

He rolled his shoulders and snarled, “Not likely.”

“Were you mad at me? Did you want to hurt me?”

“Yes. Yes, I wanted to hurt you and all women that play so hard to get. I belong to Intel, and women won’t have anything to do with us. We can’t get any!”

“Any–love? Tenderness? Friendship?”

“Pussy!”

I had read about this group of men who clustered on an internet blog, and that their activities have been referred to as “weaponized misogyny.” Mitzi, beside me, was squirming uncomfortably as he ranted.

“It’s true,” I said in an aside to MItzi. “Evolution scripts females to be attracted to males with the most regular features.”

Hairy’s face turned red and he emitted a subdued roar when he heard me speaking to Mitzi. “It isn’t fair.”

“Nor is it fair to rape and destroy a woman’s healthy sense of self for a life structure she’s a victim of herself!” I frowned. regretting have used the victim word myself.

Hairy didn’t respond immediately, but began fingering his fly, whereupon I rapped sharply on the one way mirror. I was glad ro note that Hairy wore a puzzled expression on his face as he was led out to rejoin the prison population. Mitzi sighed. I squeezed her hand and sighed, myself.

By Nan

___________________

HORIZON

The train doesn’t stop here anymore,

but tonight it did, and the conductor

was impatient for me to board.

The ride was free but the destination

unknown. Goodbye, my dears.

Flash Fiction:

Published June 9, 2025 by Nan Mykel

THE VISITOR

Late night thunder rattled the window pane, almost drowning out the insistent ringing of the doorbell. Beth turned on the light and grunted when she saw the time. eleven-fifteen. In the twin bed next to hers Jessica remained asleep. Beth grumbled all the way to the front door, but was struck silent after unlocking it to see the waif of a woman dripping rainwater and staring, as though mesmerized by the thunder overhead. The woman was a stranger, and Beth immediately looked down the front path for others. Seeing none, she reluctantly stood back to allow the woman to step inside the small duplex to get out of the rain.

Jessica, awake now, appeared at the bedroom door and was the first to speak. “Hello? Who are you?”

The woman gave a choked laugh. “Your landlord,” and dropped her faded green rain jacket to the floor as she fell onto the sofa, uninvited.

After a moment Beth gulped and asked hesitantly, “Which side of the duplex do you own?”

The woman sighed deeply and murmured, “Right here.” The sisters both blinked and after Beth re-locked the front door, they returned to their own beds. It was then Beth sat up briefly and whispered to herself, “If she’s the landlady, why doesn’t she have a key?”

When the sisters woke the next morning they found their “landlord,” or “landlady” still asleep. Beth shrugged her shoulders, still puzzled. Jessica began a big batch of oatmeal while Beth reached for the telephone. She would see what their landlord Terry Fonte had to say. In response, a staccato lifeless voice informed her that “this is no longer a working number.”

Beth repeated the message and began the coffee. Both sisters sighed. Jessica said, “Maybe the locked room is hers.”

Beth snorted. “Yes, and maybe she lost both keys.”

“Is she still in the living room?”

Beth looked. “Yes.”

“Maybe we should give her some oatmeal and coffee.”

Their “landlord” in the Livingroom stirred. “Did someone say coffee?”

Jessica quipped back, “Did somebody say landlord?”

Rather than answer immediately, the woman began drinking. “How much do you pay me a month?”

The sisters exchanged puzzled looks. Beth ventured, “You don’t know?”

The woman sighed. “My name is Gypsy Goggin. I’ve been doing a year in the Idaho hoosegow for drug possession. My so-called boyfriend offered to keep this place rented except for ‘our room’. Barf.”

Beth whispered, “the locked room is hers!”

Tight-lipped, Jessica answered, “Three hundred a month for this small duplex with only one usable bedroom.”

“…And I get only one hundred a month out of that, in my own account.”

“And now he’s disappeared?”

“If he knows what’s good for him, he has.”

As Gypsy was finishing her oatmeal, Jessica asked, “Do you still do drugs?”

Their landlady snorted. “Never did. That was Tony. He has a record and would spend years away if convicted, so I suckered up to it for a year.”

Jessica fumed. “That no goodnik!”

Gypsy nodded. “Ain’t that a man for you,” she grinned.

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TO THE WISE – “A competitive man and a competitive man will compete.” (Put that in your pipe and smoke it.)

Fiction by Nan

Published April 21, 2025 by Nan Mykel

SALVATION

*Who’s Cremeans?” asked 10-year old Johnny, coming into the kitchen from play.

Up to her elbows pummeling dough, his mother Elizabeth blew the hair out of her eyes and replied, “I give up. Who is he?”

“Running for president, the sky says.”

“Whatever are you talking about?” She noticed his muddy hands and said, “Come to the sink and wash up.”

Johnny, tall for is age, was wearing a striped tee shirt and jeans. Red-headed like his mother, he did as he was told, then dried his hands and said, “Cremeans. Who is he?”

“Mr. Cremeans was my high school primcipal. Why?”

“He’s running for president, is all. Come look.”

Elizabeth stepped out the back door to humor her son, dough still clinging to her hands. Johnny pointed up to the sky, where a line of disintegrating letters proclaimed, Cremeans for President.

“Good question, Johnny. Never heard of him. President of what?” Johnny shrugged his shoulders and watched as the small plane flew out of sight.

Elizabeth was standing behind Johnny, and also watched as the plane disappeared. “I wonder which party he’s running for…or she.” Elizabeth returned to pummeling the dough while Johnny returned to searching the banks of their backyard creek for anything; mica, arrowheads, quartzite…

Come suppertime, the delicious fragrance of fresh baked bread wafted about the small family. James, husband and father at the head of the table, reported the day’s news after giving the blessing.

“They say a well-heeled dark horse has entered the race for President. No one’s heard of him before, but he’s kicking up a storm.”

“What party?” Elizabeth asked.

“A new Salvation party. Evidently it’s been in the works for a long

time, undercover. All legal, t’s crossed.”

“Salvation! Elizabeth laughed. “We could use it!”

“Where’s Cremeans from,” Johnny wanted to know. He might be Mom’s high school principal.”

James threw up his hands. “The news people haven’t determined that yet–mystery man, mystery candidate, mystery funding.”

Elizabeth buttered her toasty slice o bread. “I like the name of the party,” she said. “We registered again after we moved, didn’t we?”

“You bet.” The conversation then turned to other topics–the Braves, the most recent mass shooting and the new movie playing at the local theater.

The deadline for filing came and went, and Cremeans was scheduled to make his first in the next candidate debate. The stadium was packed and a crush came over the whole crowd in anticipation of the first entrant. Applause greeted each one as they took their place on the stage, dressed to the nines, and each wearing a silk necktie. There were no duplicate ties, nor near duplicates. Their secretaries must have conspired together.

Each candidate was introduced with applause as they walked onstage, but the silence of a staring curiosity greeted Cremeans when, as the last of the candidates, walked onstage, dressed in working man’s clothes. He was tall, rugged, middle-aged, bearded and sported a navy blue hooded duck quilted jacket, work jeans and journeyman’s bootgs. His hair was iron gray and his blue eyes twinkled. Despite his blue eyes, Cremeans projected an Abraham Lincoln aura. He did not remain for the debate, but briefly addressed the audience:

“Who here have their roots in England?” Many hands waved. “Asia? China? Africa? South or mid America?” He paused before adding “North America?” A small smattering of hands raised from the very few who resembled Native Americans. He said, “If you elect me to be your president I swear to serve you with truth, compassion, and justice.” With those words Cremeans strode off the stage to tumultuous applause, catching a number of those cheering off guard, surprised by their own response.

Conspiracy theorists who had been asleep before Cremeans’ appearance woke with joie de vivre. Everyone, in fact, had a story. He was Lincoln’s incarnation, maybe the Holy Spirit come to forgive sinners and set them on the straight path. That deteriorated into an argument about what the Hold Ghost really amounted to, followed by the suggestion that Cremeans was really God incarnate. From whence had he sprung and where did the contents of his heavy coffers come from? Perhaps them golden streets, it was rumored.

Some swore they saw an aura/halo around his great head, and let themselves be mesmerized by Cremeans’ penetrating glance. That he displayed strong compassion was beyond dispute. But who would he select for a running mate? It appeared he has a son.

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No president ever proposed anything so unhinged as Donald Trump’s brutal fantasy of evicting some 2.3 million Palestinians from Gaza and turning it into a massive real estate deal. (Orlando Sentinel Editorial.)

__________

Halting Hundreds of Regulations: It seems every day He comes up with something more despicable than the last. Has anyone taken a good look at his plan? He’s aiming to bring the USA to its knees to 1) get even with some and 2} either to let us be taken over by another political system or simply to be the richest King ever, perhaps getting even with Musk.

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LADY IN WAITING — Part 1 of 2 — short story

Published May 6, 2016 by Nan Mykel

The joy of early retirement and the glory of the bright June day fill my mind as I slow my van to turn into the driveway. Glancing at my front entrance deck I pause. A figure in white waits on my stoop, her gauzy dress and coat echoing her veil. She stands erect, chin up, hands clasped in front of her. Despite her dramatic appearance, she looks somehow insubstantial, a wraith-like figure. I blink and peer again. My glasses have been bothering me. She still waits. As I draw abreast of the house she turns toward me, and a chill of foreboding descends. My joy has instantly soured, and the word death is assaulting me. Death?

Without further ado I step on the gas and pass by my house, leaving the patient figure waiting. I know that my fear response is totally irrational, but my stomach has tightened with dread. I am beginning to doubt my senses. I slow my van and turn around. Maybe an optical illusion? I head back toward my house again. Although my grandmother was prone to see things that weren’t there, I am not. I peer through the windshield and see the woman still waiting, showing no sign of impatience. I am not ready to meet my Maker, or the other Guy either, for that matter.

Poetic lines come to me. Surely I’m not wrong to want to avoid death? Death is but a sleep….” but how about “Rage against the dying of the light?” My van seems to be thinking clearer than I am, for it deposits me around the corner at my friend Harvey’s house. I turn off the engine and remain inside the van for several minutes, picturing the conversation to follow. I can’t share this with anyone, not even Harvey. Before I can restart the van a figure emerges from the side of the house. Harvey. He waves and approaches the van, grinning and wiping is hands on an old rag. Harvey is the local librarian during the week. Weekends he putters in his garage.

“Jane! Good to see you! I’ve been thinking about you, and you appear! Spooky!”

I can hear my voice falter. “What thoughts about me?”

“Oh, just wondering what you were up to, how you were doing.” He leans against the van’s door and wipes his brow with the rag.

I clear my throat. “Harvey, I’m having a little crisis here. Would you help me out?”

“Sure.” He cocks his head, concerned. “What can I do?”

“Climb in.” I open the door on the passenger side and he gets in. “Harvey, we’re going to drive by my place and I want you to look at the front of the house and tell me what you see.”

He looks questioningly at me and nods. “No prob.”

My heart thumps away in my chest as we turn the corner and approach my house. She is still there. I glance at Harvey. He stares at the figure in white, who is still in the same position and in the same spot. He speaks softly. “Who is she?”

He sees her! At least I’m not hallucinating!

We drive on by. I stammer, hesitate. I am unable to blurt out the cold bare facts. Instead I say, “I think she is someone who means me harm.”

“Have you talked to her? Who is she? What does she say?”

“I’ve been too afraid to approach her.”

He makes an impatient motion. “Turn around. I’ll talk to her.”

I hesitate again. I don’t want to be anywhere around when he does meet her. I pull into his driveway. “Let me wait here while you talk to her.”

Harvey gives me a quizzical look, but when I get out at his place he slides over into the driver’s seat and with a wave backs out of the driveway.

Seating myself on Harvey’s front stoop, I hold my stomach, feeling equally fearful and foolish. I shoo away a gnat that is buzzing me. My mouth is dry. The shades of deceased friends and family rise up before me. How I ran from them, too. Too fearful to say goodbye when I left them. Goodbye for good? Goodbye? The crunch of tires on gravel rescues me from my mournful memories. It is Harvey’s partner Duane driving his gleaming 1952 Plymouth. Duane, who teaches sociology at the university, is another old friend. It is obvious he has been playing tennis, and already sports a golden tan even though summer has just begun.

“Janie! How goes it?” He reaches down and gives me a hug, to which I respond with intensity.

He draws back. “You okay?”

I nod yes, then shake my head. “I’m feeling a little confused right now,” I manage.

“Well come right in and let Uncle Duane whip you up something tall and cool to drink.”

I manage a grin and shake my head. “Something short and hot.”

Tea cups clatter as he speaks over his shoulder. “We can manage that.”

I look around the familiar kitchen, with its built-in breakfast nook and blue and white checkered curtains. It’s utterly comfortable and reassuring. Duane passes me a cup of of hot herbal spiced tea and sets down a plateful of macaroons. “Enjoy.” He sits across the table from me, waiting for me to begin.

“I went for a routine mammogram today, and when I drove up to my house I saw a woman all in white waiting for me, and the thought hit me that she represented my death. I drove on by, scared out of my wits. Harvey has gone to see who she is and what she wants.”

He reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze. “It was scary having the mammogram, huh.”

I shake my head. “Not so you’d notice. I have it done every year, no problems.”

He stares into his tea, stirring it. “What was different about this year, other than you retiring?”

I ball my fist and gently tap the formica table top, ignoring his question. I look up at him. “Is it a sign?”

“What would it be a sign of?”

The kitchen door swings open and Harvey strides in…. (See separate post for the balance of this short story which is by Nan Mykel) May 2016

SHATTERED BOUNDARIES

Published March 2, 2016 by Nan Mykel

$fractal-136113_1280 design in passionate colors, Pixabay, Public Domain$

A 21ST CENTURY WOMAN LEAVES HER BODY BEHIND

This fictionized novel builds upon centuries of beliefs of Hinduism and the Kabbalah to the effect that one’s spirit form can leave the body and travel, more recently referred to as OOBES (out-of-body-experiences). The ability to leave her body follows a near-death experience, after having been struck by lightning. She reads the literature on the phenomenon, and learns that it is dangerous to stay away from the corporeal body for too long a time. However, she has become involved in situations that demanded her (invisible) participation, and when she finally returns to her home, she finds that her funeral is in progress.

AN EXCERPT:

Night sounds grow fainter and she becomes aware that she is flying–or being flown–once more, and that she is surrounded by all manner of shapes and forms. Of course that is the question: Are they life forms or death forms? Living or dead? They extend to the horizon, in all directions, but there is space between them. Some of the beings are entering or leaving what appear to be vast portals…Wherever this may be, there is no welcoming committee.