Mad Red Monthly

Issue #2

Cogito, ergo sum

Publisher/Editor: Joshua Dana

Cover Illustration: Nia Carreno

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Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of each individual author’s imagination.

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First edition November 2025.

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All Rights Reserved.

Table of Contents

1. The Roses by J. Hernandez

8. The Princess of Mekhara by Joseph McConnachie

14. One More Minute by Abby Woodland

15. Faith by Carson Adams

24. Audio Commercial Script by Valerie J Runyan

25. Astrology Report by Nicole Calix Coy

The Roses
By J. Hernandez

Talon took a step onto the hard, dry ground. She tried to get her bearings, but there was not much of note as far as she could see. She took another step. Crunch. And another. Crunch. The ground was so dry, she could hear it crying out with dehydration, something she would do soon if she couldn’t find water. I guess I better pick a direction to go in, she thought to herself. She knew making the wrong choice would spell out her damnation.

Talon took another look around, taking it all in. She could barely make out the faint outline of what looked like mountains, far off into the south. Mountains that seemed to resemble the lower jaw of an animal rather than a natural formation. In every other direction, the ground was flat, dry, and sunbaked. Nothing of interest, nor anything that would possibly give her a way out. So, it was decided then, she would head south.

            She kept going in a mostly southern direction, although sometimes she wandered off course. She wouldn’t admit it, but she was not great when it came to directions. She stumbled across what looked like the same oasis three separate times, but she could not be sure if they were all the same. Another she passed by disappeared as she tried to approach it. She drank as much water as she could every time she stopped by one and spent some time trying to relax.

            This place was odd, she thought. The ground was sunbaked, but the air around her was much cooler than it had any reason to be. When she approached an oasis, she noticed the air got so humid, she could almost drink it. Even the disappearing oasis had the same effect on the air around it. She was sure that was not a normal thing.

            She never came across another oasis, disappearing or otherwise. She had been walking south for what felt like weeks, and the mountains never seemed to get closer. She walked during the day and tried sleeping at night, although there never seemed to be a cycle for night and day. It was almost as if it was random. It was impossible to follow a set cycle if night and day never happened when they should. There was no real way to tell time where she was. There was no moon nor sun for her to count on, either. I don’t like this one bit, she thought to herself.

            This was an odd place, for sure. She took another look around her; she knew she was mostly going in the same southerly direction. Something is missing, she tried to say, but could only hear it in her head. What is missing?

            The mountains! They had disappeared from where she had always seen them. She panicked and swung her head in every direction, trying to find them again. The mountains were gone. Now I know this is definitely not normal, she said. Where could the mountains have gone? It’s not like they can just get up and walk away. She thought about what she said, then thought some more. If this place can have disappearing oases that still turn the air humid, it sure can have mountains that can walk, or even ground that can move and breathe. Were the mountains just my imagination? She asked herself, looking around cautiously. Now might be a good time to take a rest and attempt to get some sleep.
            As soon as she sat down on the ground, it turned to night. Not even the remains of a sunset to color the sky could be seen. This place must want me to rest, she thought. Might as well do what it wants. She tried to get comfortable, and noticed that the ground she was sitting on was much softer than she had noticed before. This is interesting, she said. I might finally have the best sleep I’ve had in years. She laid down, and slowly drifted off to sleep.

***

            Talon was in her old house, yet it wasn’t quite how she remembered it. The walls were off-center and connected at non-Euclidean angles. She saw the old yellow wallpaper that she always hated, with the faded roses on it. She started walking towards the door in front of her. Her room; she knew it was hers because of the ripped off wallpaper around the door frame. It looked as if the wallpaper was starting to grow back. She breathed in, grabbed the handle, and turned…

            She was in another hallway. This time it was her house as she remembered it, but everything was covered in that ugly yellow wallpaper; walls, doors, and windows. The angles here were just as she remembered, normal. Again, she came across her old room. This time, the wallpaper was around the entire door, and the roses themselves covered the door. The roses were moving as if they were alive and aware. She breathed in, reached for the handle, and turned…

            Another hallway. The ugly yellow wallpaper was everywhere, including the ceiling and floors. The roses were growing out of the wallpaper all along the hallway, and in some places they grew so dense, there were entire rose bushes coming out of the wall. She started walking down the hallway, to where her door should be, but abruptly stopped. Her door was gone. In its place was a dead rosebush, coming through the ugly yellow wallpaper. She looked behind her, and noticed there weren’t any doors or windows in this hallway at all. It should have been dark, yet she could still somehow see. Light had to be coming from somewhere.

            “Talon,” she heard a cold voice say. There was no one else around, she was sure of it.

            “Talon,” the voice said again. She realized this time it was coming from the dead roses, yet she could hear it inside of her head. “Talon,” they said again. Every time the roses spoke, a shiver crept up her spine, as if death itself was talking to her.

            “Wh-what do you want?” she asked, her voice trembling.
            “Talon,” they said again. “Come, join usssss,” they hissed.
            “I never liked this yellow wallpaper,” she said to them. “Especially with the faded roses. It was always so ugly to me. You don’t scare me, whatever you are.”
            “We’re not trying to ssscare you,” they hissed. “We can’t ssscare you if you already are, Talon. You should know that better than anyone. Remember, Talon, remember.”
            “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Remember what?”
            “Remember usssss, Talon. Remember who we are. Remember what you did to usssss!”

            “I don’t know what you mean. Who are you?” she asked, her breath shaky. Her eyes darted around, looking for a way out. She could not see anything. To make her situation worse, the hallway seemed to be getting smaller. The walls were more abstract, and met at impossible angles. The roses had overtaken the wallpaper, which could barely be seen behind them.

            “We are one, Talon,” she heard the voice all around her, coming from every direction. The roses spoke as one living being, one entity. She noticed the roses had crept closer to her, threatening to strangle her where she stood.
            “I need to get out of here,” she said, even though she knew no one would be receptive to her words. “I need to find a way out.”
            “There’s no way out. You can’t leave usssss. You are part of usss.”

The dead rose bush that used to be her door broke free from the wall, a wriggling mass of vines, stems, and roots. It slithered closer and closer, until she could feel thorns all around her.

“Join usss,” they said. “Come Talon, be one with usss.” Closer and closer they came, until she felt warmth on her arms and legs. The thorns pierced her skin, ripping into her muscles. Fire shot through her body, her nerves catching up with the pain. She was surrounded on all sides. Roses all around her, threatening to tear her apart. Threatening to end it all.

***

            Talon woke with a start. Gathering her bearings, she looked around, panting. She was in the desert again, the ground hard as she remembered it before she slept. She looked over herself, but saw no wounds on her body. She tried to regulate her breathing, slowing it down as best as she could. That was the first time she had dreamed since she was in this desert place, the first time she dreamed since…

            No, she told herself she would never think about it again. She got up from where she slept, and realized that she could see the mountain range again, and it loomed closer than ever.

            Something was off about it again. It seemed to be turned around, as if she had somehow walked right past it without noticing. That wasn’t possible of course, but she had doubts about that. Nothing seemed quite impossible here, wherever here was. Too many odd things had happened since she found herself in this desert, and the mountains moving seemed to be the least odd of them all. The mountains had moved, she reminded herself. She definitely remembered they disappeared right before she slept, before that nightmare. Maybe the mountains can walk out here, she said. She realized that her ability to speak outside of her head was gone again. Something I can only do in a dream, it seems, she mused. Well, I best start walking again, towards those mountains. There’s no telling what more will happen if I stay here.
            As she started off again, she looked up and noticed something she had not seen since finding herself in the desert. Stars. In the sky. Spread about like spilled marbles, going in every direction. Whether it was night or day, she could not tell; it seemed like the stars gave off too much light, yet not enough. Better than the nothingness of before, she thought to herself. I’ll take stars over no sun or moon. Even if they seem more ominous than they should.

            Talon walked and slept and walked, the cycle continuously repeating. Again the mountains seemed no closer than before. She remembered vaguely that people were supposed to eat to survive, and would die without food or water. She had not come across a source of water since the last oasis, before the mountains disappeared. She had not had any food to her knowledge since she first came into the desert. Yet, she did not feel hunger, or thirst. She knew she should, or at least thought she should. She couldn’t quite remember anymore. How long had she been in the desert for? A month? A year? It was impossible for her to tell.

            Time. Had Talon even walked for weeks on end? Had she gone for months or years without food or water? Is this what death felt like?

            Talon realized she was completely alone. She was alone before she found herself here, but this was a different type of loneliness, one that seeped into her very being. She almost missed the roses in her nightmare. The creeping, dead roses from the wallpaper, that threatened to destroy her. She knew it wasn’t wise to think like that, but she had a hard time dealing with this. How will I ever find my way out? She asked herself. Will I ever get back to where I belong, to where I won’t be this lonely?
            For the first time in the desert, Talon broke down and cried. She cried and cried, but her tears dried before they escaped her eyes. She was no longer sure if she had made the right decision to head towards the mountains. There could have been something she missed before, There should have been something. She would not believe that these mountains that moved on their own were the only things left out here. Was this even real? This must be another nightmare, she said. That’s the only explanation I can think of. She didn’t believe it when she said it; this felt much too real to only be a nightmare. But so did the thorns, the thorns that she could almost still feel.

            She looked down and noticed she was bleeding. Not her blood though, this wasn’t her blood. She blinked and she was on her knees, her sister on the ground in front of her. Dead. Blood pooling around her body from her neck. Claire, she said, what have I done to you? This wasn’t supposed to happen. Blood on her hands, her sister’s blood. Knife still in her sister’s throat, like a dam, stopping the floodgates from bursting. Her beautiful sister. Talon was supposed to protect her. They were all each other had. After their mother…
            No, she still refused to think about it. She could not think about it, would not think about it. It was still too much. They were just children, Talon and her little sister Claire. Just children when her mother killed her father in a fit of rage, and then gutted herself. Children shouldn’t have to deal with that. She was supposed to protect Claire. How did things go so wrong?
            Not long after their parents had died, Talon remembered they were taken to an orphanage, reportedly the best one in the land. Talon, along with Claire, were promised the best life they could possibly have, given their circumstances. They had lied to them. Not long after they had arrived, Claire died. Talon had stabbed her own sister in the neck. She watched her bleed out on the ground in front of her. She panicked and put the knife back in the wound, hoping it would reverse the damage that had been done.

            She didn’t want to remember what she had done, what she had tried forgetting. She regretted what happened, what she did. She loved Claire, and not even their parents could tear them apart. Her mother hadn’t been the one to kill father, she knew that. Their parents were getting divorced, and were going to split them up. She could not live with that. The night before the divorce was finalized, she grabbed a knife and killed father. She then went to her mother, and gutted her while she was sleeping, and put the knife in her hand. Her mother would be blamed for it, she knew. Talon and her sister would stay together.

            Talon blinked and she was in the desert again. Was it a desert? She looked around her, taking it all in. She saw that the ground was no longer dry or sunbaked. Up above her, there seemed to be only clouds, no sky could be seen. If this was a desert, it was one she did not know much about. White as far as she could see. Was this snow? She had heard of it before, but had never seen it, let alone set foot on it. Snow is supposed to be cold, no? She said inside her head. She found she could not move her mouth and could not speak. What was going on? This didn’t happen in the other desert.

***

            “Glad to see you’re awake, Miss Rose,” a voice said. She tried to look around, but could not move her head. She growled, trying to speak. An old, disheveled hand reached down and removed a mask of some sort from her face.
            “Where the fuck am I?” she asked, her tone biting.
            “Don’t you remember?” the voice asked.
            Talon shook her head. “Of course not. Last thing I remember, I was in a desert, and I was walking. For God knows how long. And then I woke up here. So, I ask again. Where the fuck am I?”
            “Remember Talon, we don’t use those words here. They make our other guests uncomfortable. You wouldn’t wa-”
            “Fuck them. And fuck you if you won’t tell me where I am.”
            “You really don’t remember? Very well. We’ll start with who I am. I am Dr. Jefferson. You are in the Rue Institute for the Criminally Insane. You killed your parents, Talon.  And your poor little sister Claire. You killed your father and your mother was gutted by your own hand. You then proceeded to stab your poor sister in the neck, and watch her bleed out. You were sent he-”
            “No, my mother killed father. I did not do anything. My sister died in an accident, just a fucking accident. I did not do anything. It was all a fucking accident.”
            “No Talon, this was not an accident,” Dr. Jefferson said, using his hands as emphasis. “You deliberately killed your parents and your sister on the same night, because of some illusion or vision you had. You wrote a confession after you killed all three of them, saying the roses made you do it. I have your confession here, if you’d like to hear it.”
            Talon nodded. Dr. Jefferson began to read.
            “I, Talon Rose, hereby confess to the killing of my mother and my father, and my poor little sister Claire. I stabbed my father and gutted my mother like a fish. I killed Claire, and watched as the blood and life slowly drained from her body. I did all this because the Roses told me to. They made me do it, I had no choice. The Roses were going to kill me if I did not. I’m not sorry that I killed my mother and father, but I am sorry that I killed Claire. The Roses. I must escape the Roses. And this was the only way.”
            “I-I don’t believe that.”
            Dr. Jefferson looked at her, contemplating what to say next. It was clear to him that her mind was too far gone.
            “Remember Talon, the Roses never forget.”

END?

The Princess of Mekhara

by Joseph McConnachie

In the Long Night, the stars no longer glimmered in the firmament. It was the Hours of Naroth, when his Darkness spread over the world, whirling from within his Cloak of Night. The frail lights that Ailoth had shaped were no match for the all-consuming Pit. Scheherazade enjoyed the six or so hours when the last vestiges of the Great Light faded and even the stars, mere mirrors of that blinding might, were banished by Pure Night. Her dark hair fluttered gently in the wind as she stood at the balcony overlooking the city of Nakhandan, jewel of the East, and heart of Mekhara. And more important than any of that, home. But not for much longer. The defeat they had suffered at the hands of King Lucaneus of Lotheran had forced her father, Khanat Mithauvara al’Khetehek, to sue for peace in the old way; by oath and blood. That oath had damned her. Scheherazade al’Khetehek, second-born daughter of the Khanat (though favored above even her three brothers), High Priestess of the Night Coil Temple, and in her mind, heir to the Onyx Throne, would be forced to marry the son of Lucaneus, Hadrius of Lotheran. Come morning, she would begin the long journey West, to all that was green and lively. She wanted nothing more than to cast herself from the balcony, to be taken into Naroth’s Nothingness. But that was not to be her fate.

With a weary sigh, the Princess turned from the balcony, a whirl of vibrant silk against the Pure Night as she returned to her chambers. With a thought, the glass doors that had been flung open slammed behind her, the lock whirring and clicking gently under the influence of her power. Without missing a beat, she stepped in front of the polished silver mirror, a gift from a Jazanari warlord that had sworn fealty to her father before the Battle on the White Sands. She absently wondered where he was now, rotting on the field of battle or returned to his homeland in shame. “No matter,” she said aloud, her voice low and deep for one as beautiful as her. Or so her eldest brother, Xshayarshan, said. She scoffed softly, idly tracing a finger down the side of her face as she examined her features. Her rich sepia skin was dusted with gold she had forgotten to remove after a night of festivity, a farewell ceremony she had been forced to attend. Her eyes were unusual for a child blessed by the Night, like starlight cast into silver, peerless and without a flaw. Brighteyes, her siblings mocked her in whispers she was always able to hear. She smiled, tilting her head to admire herself, her cascading hair, black as the night coiling over her right shoulder and trailing down past her hips.

“I did not think you prone to vanity, Sister.” The voice was no more than a whisper, one near to her ear. Her blood stilled, eyes widening a fraction as she stared at her own reflection, noticing there was none but her own. She spun around, biting down on a curse as she peered at the porcelain skinned man standing as still as stone. He was clad humbly in a pitch-black robe which concealed most of his form. His red hair was short and along his neck was delicate black script, seeming to swirl from the neat puncture wounds at his throat. It was not often the son of Vashaloth rose from the Caverns of Stillness, or so she heard in court. But she had seen him all her life. Out of the corner of her eye, in high windows, in the streets, at the foot of her bed on the rarest of occasions. Always he watched, an aspect of the fathomless void peering into her very soul. “Whisperer. An Honor, Child of the Fathomless Night,” she said lowering into a deep bow, her head nearly grazing the floor. The Whisperer’s unblinking stare never left her, though his lips did curl in the corner and in that black gaze, amusement flickered like dying starlight. “Spare me the theatrics, Sister. I have a gift for you, before your departure to the lands of the thrice-cursed Light-Lord.” He was a blur of movement, appearing before her alchemical table and caressing the bottled reagents there with slim fingers. “It must be a mighty gift, Whisperer.”

Shadows curled forth from the walls, dark spools like threads of night whirling in his palm. When the darkness receded, a small vial had taken its place, filled with a deep red viscous liquid that seemed to writhe against the glass container. Scheherazade watched all this with unmoving features, extending her hand out towards him. “And what is it you have crafted for me?” she inquired. He placed the vial at the center of her palm, his clawed fingers brushing against her flesh, a chill tickling down her spine. “It is my greatest work. A poison you shall administer to the newly crowned King. It will take a great many hours to course through him, to blacken his veins and wilt his organs into dust. But it shall be worth the wait, nonetheless.” Scheherazade scoffed. “And how shall I accomplish that? It is not as though I can simply journey down to the cellars and administer the poison myself.”

“Of course not, child. You shall offer the wine. A gift from your magnanimous father to the King. A token of peace that will be his end. You shall drink this tainted brew too. But fret not, Sister. I have the antidote. But do not tarry in taking it, or you will fall into Nothingness alongside the King.” Scheherazade examined the liquid within the vial with a squint. “I see… Is there anything more?” The Whisperer seemed to ponder for a moment, his index finger brushing back and forth across his smooth chin. “Yes. There are tales of a Guardian, one that dwells within the Sacred Temple of the Cursed Light. See the veracity of such tales. You will have access to the King’s famed Stairs of Heaven. Make use of them. As for your escape from Lotheran, I shall have arrangements made.”

Scheherazade felt the beginnings of a smile forming on her face, her fingers tightening a fraction around the vial. “Is Father aware of your plan, Whisperer?” she asked, moving at a leisurely pace towards her bed and sprawling across it with a soft yawn. “The Khanat waits with bated breath for the end of Lotheran’s King. As do all who worship the Lord of Fathomless Night.”

“It will be my honor to unmake the seed of Light found in their Kings. And then, perhaps, the Death of the Day will not be a dream but a coming reality.”

“Trust in Naroth, Sister. In his Nothingness, truth is the only light one needs.”

“I shall, Whisperer. I only-” The Princess turned to where he stood at her alchemical table, her jaw clamping shut when she realized he had vanished. She let out a breathy sigh, carefully peeling the silk robe from her form before crawling beneath the covers of her plush bed to sleep.

—

Scheherazade’s departure was one of few words. The royal family gathered to see her off with her small contingent of Ekhenti, the Khanat’s sacred honor guard, four of whom had been raised alongside her and sworn to protect her unto death; Sanat, Nefera, Zamas, and Thariti. They journeyed by ship with her, across the Night Sea, through Dawn’s Bay which the second King of Lotheran, Junareus, took from Mekhara centuries ago. It was a week’s long journey of relative quiet, Scheherazade often locked away in her cabin, caressing the carved casing containing the tainted wine. She uttered prayers in the Old Tongue night and day, to keep the living poison dormant. When the port city of Ai’Nalav was in view, the Princess waited upon the deck for what she assumed would be a royal escort.

While the ship docked, sailors tossing thick corded ropes to those who waited at the port, Scheherazade took in the land beyond the horizon, squinting against the afternoon light. It was an assault of green in all directions, shimmering grassy fields, roiling hills with the occasional copse and beyond that, a grand forest that went on beyond even her sight. Her features remained stoic as the gangplank was put into place. With her first steps towards it, the Ekhenti made a protective circle around her, their hands hovering over the hilts of their curved blades. Disappointment flickered over her face as she was met by a gaunt man in a black cloak, his white-and-gold tunic emblazoned with the Black Sun of the Lotheran Inquisition. His eyes were almost familiar, the near-black of the those blessed by the Night. And he looked as though he was born in Mekhara, his ochre skin not uncommon in her land. “I was expecting the King. And yet he sends his servant,” she said coldly in accented Lother, her hands folded neatly before her. Though this Inquisitor was several inches taller than her, she seemed to look down upon him as she straightened and tilted her head to the side. “The King sends his deepest apologies, Princess Scheherazade al’Khetehek. But since his ascension to the throne, the transition from Prince to King has taken much of his time,”  the man soothed in perfect Mekharan, her guards arching their brows in surprise.

“I see,” Scheherazade mused, slipping easily back into her homeland’s tongue. The guards at the Inquisitor’s back looked on wearily, clearly unused to hearing that tongue spoken lest they were in battle.  “Well, I should like to see my husband-to-be. Let us not dally. If you are to accompany me, I would like to know your name and title, servant.”

The Inquisitor paused briefly before he spoke. “Lord-Inquisitor Aron Hek, Princess.”

Scheherazade did not allow her surprise to show, nodding wordlessly and moving forward without another word, Aron and the contingent of six guards in burnished golden armor trailing behind them. The carriage that awaited was gargantuan, gilded in gold and silver, depicting scenes from the Age of Myth that both peoples, East and West, knew of from their ancient traditions. The birth of the Light amidst the Fathomless Night, the spawning of Ailoth and Naroth, the banishment of Naroth into the depths of the Well of Night. The craftsmanship was exquisite, even she could not deny that. Perhaps there is hope for this savage land yet. It was many long hours before they reached Ai’Tilir, the City of the Dawn, set against the side of Saindor, the great mountain where the Sacred Temple was said to dwell. There was no idle chatter in the carriage, the Lotherani and the Mekheri keeping to themselves in the vast plush interior. There were a great many questions she wished to ask of Aron, a man she now knew was a distant blood relative of her own, from the exiled Hek Clan that had once ruled Mekhara before her thrice-great-grandfather had overthrown them.

She was jolted from her thoughts when the carriage suddenly jerked to a halt, Aron rising nearly soundlessly with a squint. Whatever it was, it was an unexpected delay. He rapped a gloved knuckle against the door. After a moment, it opened, and Aron descended the ramp, the guards filing out after him. Once they had exited, Sanat and Thariti went out first, Zamas and Nefera remaining by her side as she stepped out onto the paved street, a line as far as the eye could see of carriages and caravans winding up the road to the glimmering palace in the distance. She lifted her gaze to take in the city of wood and stone. Her first thought was that the city was unusually tight, buildings built nearly atop one another and none of them particularly pleasing to the eye. Her lips curled at the stench of humanity that seemed to linger in the air, raking her silvery gaze over the crowd that had gathered to look upon her. Their Queen-to-be, she thought with a mocking smile, tapping her index finger against her bottom lip. “It seems delegates from across Ailor have chosen this day to darken our doorstep. Unfortunate. It seems we will have to return for your luggage, Princess,” Aron said coolly, turning to the Princess whose gaze continued to rove. “I thought you had no wish to dally, Princess,” Aron muttered, meeting the glower of Zamas. “Remember your place, Ekhenti,” he said with a mocking smile, as Scheherazade let out a musical laugh. “Oh, you grow increasingly interesting, Aron of the Hek Clan. Lead the way then,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. Aron delivered orders curtly to the guards behind him; three would remain with the carriage, and three would accompany them. His face remained carved of stone, still and cold as he moved through the crowd, the three guards that accompanied him dispersing the gathered people with relative ease. She heard a few slyly muttered curses, most of them slurs she had come to expect. Whore of the Sands seemed the most common among them, though the occasional Bitch of Naroth struck her ears. She had to stifle a laugh seeing her guards red in the face with rage. “Think nothing of it, Ekhenti. They are ignorant savages,” she soothed, lightly brushing her fingers over their shoulders. Their eyes were still hardened with hate, but the tension loosened from their strong limbs.

For much of their trek towards the palace, the way was cleared with relative ease. But the closer they came to the looming walls that encircled Dawn’s Bastion, the more unruly the crowds grew. They no longer merely muttered their curses but hurled them at the Princess’ retinue as they passed. “The Bitch of Naroth!” They roared. Scheherazade did not allow her discomfort to show, that would be beneath her station, but the press of bodies was beginning to push closer. The Inquisitor’s guards drew their swords but that was no deterrent to the ravenous crowd; groups of four or five dragged them down and began to beat them with wooden clubs. Aron withdrew to the Princess and her retinue as the mob closed in, encircling them. The Ekhenti’s blades screeched as they withdrew from their ornate scabbards, the four of them forming a protective circle with their bodies. The mob seemed to hesitate, seeing the glimmering golden steel of the Mekharan retinue. “Peasants,” Aron sniffed with some disdain, Scheherazade’s laugh sounding almost manic as she stumbled closer to him. “Should we die, blood-of-my-blood, I am glad to die with one of my kin, exile though you may be,” the Princess said in a low voice, Aron’s brow arching.

“I cannot say I share your sentiment, Princess. But you are not at all what I expected,” he said, still calm even in the face of death. Scheherazade could admire that. Suddenly, the mob ceased its forward push at the sound of distant thunder, hooves upon stone. From the direction of the palace came thirty or more horseman, all in burnished armor, and at their head was a man with a circlet of gold upon his brow. He wore crimson brocaded silk with golden embroidery, the seven-pointed star of Ailoth stitched upon his chest. His cape whirled behind him as he rode towards them, golden hair haloing his youthful face. He was sickly pale and even the kingly raiment he wore could not conceal the dark bags beneath his eyes, nor the weariness that dragged his features down. Even still, his gold-flecked gaze seemed to glow in the morning light. So, this is the boy King, she mused. Aron folded his hands behind his back as the crowd scattered, the armored riders creating a wall to prevent any further incursions. “To heel,” Scheherazade said sharply. Sanat and Thariti obeyed instantly, as Nefera begrudgingly sheathed hers with narrowed eyes. Zamas was the last to sheath his blade, muttering curses under his breath.

Scheherazade turned to Hadrius, folding her hands together with a guarded smile. “Your timing is impeccable, my King,” she said, lowering into a deep bow. When she rose, Hadrius had lowered from his horse, a guard approaching to take the reins. The King scowled and gripped ahold of the man’s armored breastplate to shake him. “The wounded, Barrett,” he said sternly, ignoring the muttered apologies as he stepped towards Scheherazade. His face was smooth and unblemished, not a scar visible to the naked eye. “When I heard you were in the city, I had all the petitioners driven out of the palace so that I could come to you. I had hoped my people would be more… civilized. You must forgive my absence. Much has happened in the wake of my Father’s death,” he said, a bone-weary sigh escaping through his lips. Scheherazade had not known what to expect, only that Lotheran and its King were her enemy. She had not expected sincerity. Nor for him to be so young. He cannot be much older than Tirdata, and he is only twenty-four. “You need not explain yourself to me, my King. I am at your service,” Scheherazade said with the faintest of seductive lilts.

Hadrius seemed briefly taken aback, a mortified expression flickering before his features smoothed over. “I would have you comfortable. My servants have worked tirelessly preparing your chambers. I hope it is to your liking. And your Ekhenti also.” With a warm smile, he extended both hands out in front of him, palms up, fingers curled slightly as though beckoning. Scheherazade felt her mask slip away suddenly, eyes widening. He had taken time from his duties to study their culture and ways. She responded as custom demanded, placing her hands atop his, lightly pulling them apart. It is no matter. Today or tomorrow, the King of Lotheran will die.

One More Minute

by Abby Woodland

Is a minute too much to ask for?
For a small piece of time to see you?
To hug you, to laugh with you,
To hear your voice, to love you?
All I’m asking for is one more minute.

I want to see joy in your eyes,
And hear your jokes again.
I want to learn at your feet,
Not see your life end.
All I’m asking for is one more minute.

They say life isn’t fair, but that’s not true.
Death is the unjust one,
Because it took you.
All I’m asking for is one more minute.

Can’t you stay a bit longer?
Just long enough for us to come with you?
Years will pass into forever
Before we see you again.
All I’m asking for is one more minute.

Eternity can wait for you.
I don’t want to lose my best friend.
I can’t let you go without me.
All I’m asking for is one more minute.

Can the angels spare us some time?
Can they hold off on taking you home?
They get to keep you,
Locked behind pearly gates forever.
All I’m asking for is one more minute.

I’m begging, please,
One more minute.

Faith

By Carson Adams

Act One

The man’s blood had a metallic sweetness to it, like copper pennies left in the rain. Himari could smell it even through the black cloth mask covering her nose and mouth—thick and warm in the stale air of the apartment. She stood perfectly still, watching him crawl. His legs left dark streaks across the cheap laminate flooring, making whimpering animal sounds as he dragged himself forward. Ten feet. That’s how far he made it before his body gave up on him, rolling onto his back with a wet thump.

He looked at her across the room. His mouth opened.

“Ju—”

The knife left her hand before the syllable finished. It buried itself in his throat with a sound like a fist punching through wet cardboard. His eyes went wide, then dim, then empty. Himari walked over slowly, footsteps silent despite the blood. She’d practiced that—the walking. Hours of moving across creaking floors until she could float like smoke. She stood over him, one boot on either side of his torso, and gripped his head. The knife came out easier than it went in. Blood fountained up, painting her black clothes a wet, glistening red-on-black. She held him there for a second, counting her breaths, then let go. His head hit the floor, sounding like a dropped melon.

She surveyed the room. A 1LDK apartment—minimal, the kind of place a man lives when he’s hiding. Her knife was still in her hand, dripping. She pulled out a cloth—white silk with interlocking crosses stitched in gold thread. She wiped the blade clean methodically, working from hilt to tip, then folded the cloth into a tight square.

From her other pocket came a small pouch, no bigger than her palm. She placed the bloodied cloth inside and pressed the seal. There was a soft hiss and the pouch contracted, vacuum-sealing the fabric until the whole thing was the size of a coin. She dropped it back in her pocket.

His wallet sat on the kitchen counter, brown leather worn soft at the edges. She moved to it, her body making no sound, displacing no air. Inside were bills—several thousand yen—and a photo of a woman and two children. She took all the cash. Then, without looking, threw it behind her. It landed perfectly on her kill’s chest.

Himari reached up and touched the necklace at her throat. The knife clicked into place against the cross-shaped pendant with a satisfying magnetic snap. The weight of it settled against her sternum, familiar and grounding.

She contemplated for a moment, critiquing her work. Then something occurred to her—a practical consideration that made her shoulders sag slightly. Her clothes. They were drenched in his blood, and she still had to leave the building. She’d been careless. Again.

She stripped down to her undergarments. The blood-soaked clothing went into another specialized pouch, sealed and reduced to pocket size. She retrieved a third coin-sized package from her hip bag.

“What would I do without these,” she said. Her voice came out dry, almost deadpan. The way it always did when she was alone.

She cracked the seal and fresh clothes expanded in her hands—black pants, black shirt, black jacket. Identical to what she’d been wearing. She dressed quickly, her movements automatic, and stood there in the middle of someone’s death looking like she’d just arrived.

The apartment was silent except for the sound of her breathing behind the mask.

Himari walked to the door, checked the peephole, and slipped out into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind her, and she was already thinking about the next stop. The handler. The book. The ritual that would close this transaction and open the door to the next one.

Twelve disciples.

She was faithful. That’s what she told herself. That’s what she told him.

As she walked down the hallway and outside to the stairwell, the weight of the cross against her chest felt heavier than usual, and she found herself thinking about warmth. About soft hands. About a voice that wasn’t her own—didn’t have that disconnected quality that made her feel like she was narrating her own life from a distance.

She thought about Cindy.

A cigarette also crossed her mind—a need to remember what it felt like to want something that wasn’t death or devotion.

Himari descended the stairs slowly, her hand trailing along the railing. Through the gaps in the stairwell, Tokyo Tower glowed orange and white against the purple sky—a monument to permanence, or the illusion of it.

She reached the street and pulled a cigarette from her pocket, and lit it while staring at the tower. It blinked at her, indifferent, the way gods were supposed to be.

The handler could wait ten more minutes.

Act Two

The apartment building was identical to the one she’d just left—same cracked concrete, same flickering lights, same smell of cooking oil and mildew. Himari climbed to the third floor and stopped in front of door 304. She knocked in a specific rhythm: three quick, two slow, one sharp.

The door opened a crack, chain bolt still latched. A voice came through, male and measured.

“Do you need something, child?”

“Forgiveness.”

The door shut. She heard the chain slide free, and when it opened again, a man stood in the center of the room. Black robes, face covered except for his eyes. The apartment was empty except for a bookcase and a single lamp casting long shadows across the walls.

Himari stepped inside and closed the door behind her. They stood on opposite sides of the bookcase, looking at each other through the shelves. Two books sat between them—one open to page twelve, one closed.

“You have it?”

She pulled the coin-sized pouch from her pocket and placed it in the open book. The blood-soaked rag, compressed and sealed. Evidence of faith. He closed the book slowly, then motioned to the other one.

“Your mammon.”

She took the other book and started to leave.

“Twelve pages,” he said. “Twelve lives. Twelve disciples. How do you plan to continue?”

She stopped at the door, not turning to look at him.

“Faithfully.”

His chuckle followed her into the hallway. “A chosen favorite.”

The book was heavy in her pocket. She took the back streets and stopped at a vending machine, buying a coffee to hold more than drink. She thought about what was in the book.

Money. It’s always money.

Her thoughts floated back to Cindy.

Cindy, who counted cash with the intensity of someone performing surgery. Who worked as a hostess in Roppongi, pouring drinks and laughing at jokes that weren’t funny, wearing loan dresses that cost more than Himari’s rent. Cindy had told her one night, after Himari asked where the money went. Not kept—went. Cindy’s apartment was as bare as Himari’s own.

“I send it home,” she’d said. “My brother. He’s sick.”

Over time, pieces had emerged. A younger brother in Michigan. Cancer, the type that ate through savings and hope at the same rate. Their parents thought Cindy was gaining culture while getting her master’s in psychology. They didn’t know she’d dropped out. That she spent her nights perfecting the art of making lonely men feel less lonely for the price of champagne.

“I made up a charity,” Cindy had laughed, but there was no humor in it. “They think they’re beneficiaries of this generous organization funding experimental treatments. In reality, I’m the organization.”

Himari had asked why she didn’t tell them the truth.

“Because they’d make me stop. They’d rather he die than have me do this.”

And then, quieter: “Faith isn’t enough for me. I’m doing it because I’d feel guilty otherwise.”

Himari crushed the coffee can and dropped it in a recycling bin. She understood guilt. Understood doing something because it was the only thing that made the weight bearable, even if it didn’t make it lighter.

They were both liars. Both giving themselves with no questions asked. Pretending their sacrifices changed something.

The difference was Cindy admitted her lack of faith.

Himari still hung on to hers.

The apartment building came into view, a squat concrete structure wedged between a convenience store and a shuttered pachinko parlor. Himari climbed the exterior stairs, boots echoing in the stairwell. Fourth floor. Last door on the left.

Cindy was sitting outside her apartment, back against the door, knees pulled to her chest. She was still in her work clothes—a black dress that shimmered under the hallway’s fluorescent lights, heels kicked off beside her. She looked up when Himari reached the landing.

Their eyes met.

Relief, warm and immediate, flooded through Himari’s chest. Cindy’s expression mirrored it—the tension in her shoulders releasing, something soft entering her face.

“Hey,” Cindy said.

“Hey,” Himari said back.

Act Three

Cindy unlocked the door and they stepped inside. The apartment was as bare as Himari remembered—small table, a single lamp, a kitchenette with nothing on the counters.

Himari reached into her jacket and pulled out a wad of cash. She held it out. Cindy stared at it for a moment before taking it, her fingers closing around the bills with visible reluctance. She never counted it.

“Mind if I get comfy?” Cindy asked.

Himari shook her head.

Cindy walked toward the back of the apartment where her bedroom was. Himari followed some steps behind, watching the way Cindy’s shoulders carried the weight of the evening—the performance of the club still clinging to her like perfume. At the bedroom door, Cindy paused and turned.

“I’ll let you in when I’m finished changing,” she said. “No peeking.”

She tapped Himari’s nose playfully, and something flickered in Himari’s chest. The door shut.

Himari waited in the hallway. She could hear fabric rustling, clothes being removed and replaced. The intimate sounds made her aware of her own breathing.

A few minutes passed. The door opened.

Cindy stood there in grey sweatpants and a faded University of Michigan sweater, her face scrubbed clean of makeup. She looked softer like this. Her whole demeanor had shifted—no longer a professional smile, but something genuine.

“Come on in,” she said, grabbing Himari by the wrist.

Cindy led her into the bedroom. Five candles scattered around the small space cast soft light across the walls. The futon was laid out with a single pillow. The room smelled like vanilla and something floral.

Cindy guided her to the futon and sat down, patting the space beside her. Himari sat close enough that their knees touched.

“Do you want to lay your head on my lap?” Cindy asked softly.

Himari nodded and settled her head against Cindy’s thighs. Cindy’s hands found her hair, fingers threading through with practiced tenderness. The touch was rhythmic, almost hypnotic. Himari closed her eyes.

“Rough day?” Cindy’s voice was barely above a whisper.

Himari nodded without opening her eyes.

“Sorry to hear.” Cindy’s fingers continued their slow path through her hair, nails lightly scratching against her scalp. “Wanna talk about it?”

Himari shook her head.

Cindy’s hand paused for just a moment—a flicker of frustration or concern, Himari couldn’t tell—before resuming its gentle motion. The candlelight danced across the ceiling. Himari focused on the warmth of Cindy’s lap, on the feeling of being touched without expectation or violence.

This was what she came for. This moment where nothing was asked of her except to exist.

They sat like that for a while before Cindy spoke again.

“We do this every time, you know. You don’t want to take advantage of my psych degree? I know I’d like to use it.”

Himari opened her eyes and turned her head to look up at Cindy, still resting in her lap.

“You know I don’t like to talk about it,” she said. “I just want to be here and not think. It’s what I’m paying for.”

“And I’ve told you we’re friends. You don’t have to pay for this.” Cindy’s voice was gentle but there was an edge underneath. “I take the money to respect your wishes, but I’m just concerned about you.”

“You barely know me.”

 Cindy’s expression shifted. It wasn’t the first time Himari had done this. “I know you enough to care about your wellbeing. You sit around with no job, a sick mother who didn’t care about you before or after she got sick, wallowing in guilt. Following this, so-called great god you speak of.”

“Don’t.” The word came out sharp. Himari’s eyes flashed with anger.

Cindy stopped, realizing she’d crossed a line. She exhaled slowly and returned to the gentle rhythm of stroking Himari’s hair. They sat in silence for a full minute, the candles flickering, neither speaking. Then Cindy reached over to her bag and pulled out a playing card. She held it out.

“Could you do the thing?”

Himari took the card and sat up slightly. She lined up her shot, then flicked her wrist. The card flew across the room with dart-like precision and struck the farthest candle. The flame went out.

Himari laid her head back down and closed her eyes.

Cindy stared at the extinguished candle, something like wonder in her face. “I’ll never get sick of that.”

They settled back into silence, Cindy’s fingers resuming their gentle path through Himari’s hair. Minutes passed—or maybe just seconds, Himari had lost track. Then Cindy’s voice broke through the quiet.

“What does your god think of me?”

Himari kept her eyes closed. “What are you asking?”

“Like, what does your god think of my decisions in life?” Cindy’s fingers never stopped moving. “I know your faith is about minimalism and living within your means, so he might hate me, right?”

“It’s not a he or she or they,” Himari said. Her voice was calm now. “It’s an idea.”

“An idea,” Cindy repeated.

“My faith isn’t judgment-based. There’s no rule against consumerist ideals, it’s about the strength to restrict those actions.” Himari settled deeper into Cindy’s lap. “There’s no eternal damnation for being a hostess. We all go where we go in the end.”

Cindy was quiet for a moment, absorbing this. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. “Then why follow it? Why not live your life to your heart’s desire? Why torture your mortal body with such limited time?”

Himari opened her eyes and turned her head to look up at Cindy. Their eyes met. Cindy’s fingers continued their rhythm through her hair, patient, waiting.

Himari sat up and took Cindy’s hands in hers, holding them tightly. She stared at Cindy, deciding whether to be honest.

“Evil walks among us,” she said softly. “Not one we can see, but one we feel. Every day we wake up and wonder if today will be our last, and if it is, then what was the point?” She paused, her grip tightening. “I follow my faith because it asks of me what I cannot ask of myself.”

“And what is that?” Cindy asked.

“Love.” The word came out almost like a confession. “A love not found from my fellow man, but a love in myself. A belief that I can rid the world of evil by just existing at the same time as it. By refusing to let it cohabitate, I make a stand against that evil.”

Himari’s voice dropped even lower, barely above a whisper now.

“My body is a tool by which the universe will deliver swift judgment. My reward for that is greater than anything purchased. That stance against the invisible hand that guides our waking hours—it lets me love myself more than I’ve ever been able to. I feel love from my faith, a love that I thought I’d never feel.”

She looked directly into Cindy’s eyes.

“It comforts me to know I no longer hate myself.”

A tear slipped down Himari’s cheek. Just one, but it carried the weight of everything unsaid—all the violence, justifications, nights spent alone convinced she was doing something righteous. Cindy stared at her, seeing her fully for the first time, and reached up to wipe the tear away with her thumb.

“I understand,” Cindy said.

Himari was surprised. She’d expected questions or pity. But Cindy’s face held only recognition.

The faintest smile crossed Himari’s lips.

“I understand what it’s like to hate yourself,” Cindy said quietly.

The words hit Himari like a physical entity. Cindy—her source of light, her refuge—hated herself?

“Cindy… I—”

Before she could finish, Cindy pulled her into a tight embrace, arms wrapped around her with desperate strength. Tears streamed down her face, hot against Himari’s neck.

“You don’t have to say anymore tonight,” Cindy whispered, voice thick and breaking. “Let’s just enjoy each other’s company silently.”

Himari sat frozen, shocked her honesty had been received not with judgment but recognition. Then she felt something inside crack open, some carefully built wall.

She wrapped her arms around Cindy just as tightly.

The warmth that flooded through her was unlike anything she’d felt before. It was faith, yes, but not the kind she’d known. Not the solitary love she’d cultivated in herself through discipline and devotion. This was different. Messier. More fragile.

This was love from another person. Love from her fellow man.

Cindy held her like she was something worth saving, and Himari held back like she was afraid to let go. They stayed like that, wrapped in each other, both crying now—not from sadness but from the relief of being seen. Of being known.

They stayed wrapped together as the candles burned lower, their breathing slowly syncing in the quiet. Himari could feel Cindy’s heartbeat against her own chest, steady and real.

Outside, somewhere in the Tokyo night, the city continued—indifferent and enormous. But here, in this small room with its bare walls and flickering light, something else existed. Something that couldn’t be touched, but was real all the same.

Grace, maybe. Or just two people refusing to let go.

Himari closed her eyes and let herself believe, just for tonight, that this was enough. That she was enough.

The evil she spoke of didn’t exist here.

AUDIO COMMERCIAL SCRIPT

Valerie J Runyan

SCRIPT TITLE: LAS VEGAS BOOK FAIR

SCRIPT WRITER: VALERIE J RUNYAN

VOICE ACTOR: MALE ANNOUNCER (NEUTRAL MID-WEST DICTION)

SFX: OUTDOOR FESTIVAL/CARNIVAL

                         ANNOUNCER

Come one, come all to the greatest show on earth- at least in Las Vegas, Nevada.

Ladies and gentlemen I present to you, the annual LAS VEGAS BOOK FAIR.

You’ll see all manner and kind of books, people and booths.

There’ll be tents of diverse panel discussions, anchored by an auditorium for fairly up close and curated personal interviews, with literary luminaries.

You won’t want to miss this once-a-year opportunity, to hob-nob with real-live authors out of their natural solitary habitat, and into the wild of community.

So bring your family, friends and nosy neighbors where children and pets are optional, but bring harnesses for both.

And who knows, with all the people you’ll meet, you may not leave with the same party you arrived with.

You too can experience this Fall/Summer extravaganza, for the exorbitant price of FREE!

*Event Sponsor Disclaimer- NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR HOW YOU GET HERE

END

Water Signs at Work: Emotional Intelligence & Empathy in Action

How Cancer, Scorpio, and Pisces bring depth and compassion to teams.

November is “Scorpio Time” and as such I would like to dedicate this first article to Water Signs at Work.

In every workplace, emotional intelligence and empathy are the quiet forces that shape collaboration, trust, and success. In astrology, the water signs; Cancer, Scorpio, and Pisces bring forth these characteristics which are not seen – not in front of us.  These folks are connected in a different way.  They are sensitive, intuitive, and connected to the unseen dynamics of a team.  Overall, water signs remind us that people, not just processes, drive results.

However, their depth can also make them vulnerable to stress, burnout, or emotional overwhelm if not balanced.

Water signs are often the healers, listeners, and nurturers of the workplace. They sense what others feel before it is spoken and create environments where trust can thrive. While each of the three water signs brings unique strengths, together they form the backbone of emotional resilience and team connection.

Let’s dive into how Cancer, Scorpio, and Pisces show up as employees and as leaders.

Cancer at Work: The Nurturing Creator (June 21 – July 22)

Cancers thrive when they feel secure and supported, and they extend that same care to others. They are the ones checking in on their coworkers, making sure everyone feels comfortable and included. This nurturing quality makes them incredible team players and loyal colleagues. But their sensitivity can also make them retreat when faced with criticism or conflict. Encouraging open communication and giving them space to recharge is what all Cancers need to boost their confidence.

As an Employee:
Cancers bring quiet strength and creativity to their work. While they may appear reserved—often retreating into their “shell” when emotions run high—they are some of the most dependable and innovative employees you will find. Whether in nonprofit management, creative projects, or detail-oriented tasks like data entry, Cancer employees thrive when given the space to work independently while knowing they are respected and valued.

As a Leader:
Cancer leaders excel by leading with their heart. They are hands-on mentors who meet employees where they are, offering guidance and camaraderie. Their teaching style earns respect quickly, and their natural nurturing instincts create workplace cultures that feel more like families. Sensitive to their teams’ needs, Cancer leaders are in tune not only to what gets done, but how people feel along the way.

Scorpio at Work: The Resilient Powerhouse (October 23 – November 21)

Scorpios bring intensity and determination to everything they do. They are not just looking at the surface, they dive deep into the details, uncovering truths, and crafting strategies others may miss. Their loyalty and commitment to a cause or project is unmatched, making them a force in leadership and problem-solving roles. However, their intensity can sometimes come across as intimidating. When balanced, they’re the powerhouse every workplace needs.

As an Employee:
Scorpios are the marathon runners of the workplace. Loyal, hardworking, and fiercely determined, they thrive in high-pressure environments where resilience is tested. Their ability to juggle multiple projects, endure setbacks, and still deliver makes them invaluable during times of crisis. With a Phoenix-like ability to rise from challenges, Scorpios excel in careers that demand perseverance, such as counseling or crisis management.

As a Leader:
Scorpio leaders are empaths with iron wills. Deeply loyal to their organizations, many dedicate decades of service to one company. They inspire through mentorship, ambition, and a willingness to shoulder responsibility. While their intensity can sometimes be seen as controlling, their resilience, dedication, and emotional depth make them powerful protectors of their teams. In challenging times, Scorpio leaders are the anchors who hold everything together.

Pisces at Work: The Visionary Dreamer (February 19 – March 20)

Pisces are the imaginative folks who bring creativity and big-picture thinking into the workplace. They can easily empathize with others and often sense the emotional climate of a room before anyone says a word. This ability allows them to adapt and connect across diverse groups. Sometimes Pisces may struggle with boundaries or feel overwhelmed in highly structured or critical environments. Encouraging their creativity while providing clear expectations helps them shine as the dreamers who can turn inspiration into reality.

As an Employee:
Pisces employees bring charm, creativity, and positivity to the workplace. They are the co-workers with secret handshakes or inside jokes that lift morale on tough days. Their intuition and sensitivity help them sense conflicts and emotional undercurrents, though they often internalize rather than express these feelings outwardly. To flourish, Pisces need flexible, supportive environments where their creativity can shine.

As a Leader:
Pisces leaders are compassionate visionaries. They lead with empathy, inspiring teams with imaginative solutions and innovative thinking. Known for prioritizing the well-being of employees, they create trusting, supportive environments where people feel truly valued. Their generosity and sensitivity provide for natural respect, though they may need to guard against being taken advantage of. A Pisces leader’s ability to blend vision with compassion can transform workplaces into communities of trust and inspiration.

Why We Need Water Signs on Our Teams

When water signs are present, workplaces become more compassionate, more supportive, and more human. Their ability to listen, connect, and care ensures that collaboration is deeper, conflicts are softened, and success is shared.

Water signs remind us that emotional intelligence is not just a soft skill—it’s a workplace superpower. Cancer nurtures, Scorpio transforms, and Pisces inspires. Together, they encourage teams to go beyond logic and productivity, tapping into intuition, creativity, and human connection. By understanding the gifts of water signs, we can create more supportive and collaborative work environments where everyone thrives.

About the Author
Nicole Calix Coy is a certified astrologer and author of Astrology at Work: Navigate Workplace Dynamics with Astrological Insight. Nicole has over 20 years of experience as a human resources professional and more than a decade in social work. She holds advanced degrees in psychology, counseling, education, and legal studies, making her uniquely qualified to bridge the gap between people, workplace dynamics, and astrology.

She has a gift for making astrology practical, relatable, and easy to apply in the workplace—helping professionals build stronger connections, improve collaboration, and bring more clarity to their careers.