As a child, I would hide in the coat closet, taking advantage of the door that wouldn’t close, as I watched my mother command the items around the house to do her bidding with the smallest gesture. The moment she heard a sound, the items would set themselves down as if they hadn’t been acting of their own accord just moments earlier. My father would come home and rant and rave about more and more witches being discovered in town. My mother would nod her head politely in agreement, but I knew her secret. Whenever the ladies in town would enviously gossip about how my mother managed to get so much done in a day, I would smile knowingly to myself. I knew better than to boast that my mother was a witch, for some reason, being a witch was a bad thing. When I was twelve, I could make my room clean itself. I was always careful to hide this, of course. The moment I heard the creak of the floor, or the door swing open, everything went to looking perfectly normal, perfectly un-magical. This went on for a few months, and I remained aware of every sound in the house. I even heard the cat padding by outside one day and quickly dropped the broom I had been controlling with my mind. I didn’t hear my mother’s footsteps one day though, and I can still hear the gasp of horror when she swung my bedroom door open. I can remember the look of terror on her face as it dawned on her that even being married to the pastor of the local church didn’t protect her from a cursed daughter. The memories blur together after that point. I remember my father didn’t come home after a hunting trip. My mother told me it was a bear, I knew better. We moved shortly afterward, the tone of gossip shifting from envy to suspicion. The new town was smaller, it would mind its own business as long as you mind yours. We settled in a small two-bedroom house for six months before we moved again. The worry lines on my mother’s face seemed to grow deeper with each late-night knock at the door. One rule was made clear to me, I was not to use my magic under any circumstances. One house after the other, one town after the other, we never stayed in one place for too long. On my eighteenth birthday, my mother sat me down. She looked older than she was. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen her face at peace. She explained to me what we were. She viewed it as a curse, I was never sure why. She explained why we couldn’t practice and what the world thought of us. She explained how she’d gotten too comfortable, and how it wouldn’t happen again; how I couldn’t let it happen to me. I stayed with my mother for a few years after that. We finally found a small cottage on the edge of a town that didn’t ask too many questions. It welcomed us as a widow and her grown daughter, which, I suppose we were. I got a little too comfortable once we’d been there for a year. I would go down to the creek and make little whirlpools in the deeper areas of water. Sometimes I would pull pretty rocks up from deep below the almost dry creek bed, even though I knew better. Something about that creek made it impossible to stay away.I was always careful not to be seen, I would go before the roosters would crow in town, far before anyone would be down by the creek. On my regular walk home after a few months of doing this, I heard little footsteps crunching through the leaves. I could tell the little footsteps were running, and I knew then that we were damned. By the time I got back to the edge of the town where our little cottage sat, there was a group of people with torches and pitchforks surrounding the house. I never imagined I would see a mob quite like this one. It felt almost fake, like a scene from a storybook. As the thatch roof of our house went up in flames, I could hear my mother’s voice, telling me that I should’ve known better.Part of me wanted to turn and run, but I was still unseen behind an old oak tree. I wanted answers, something I knew I was never going to get. I cursed myself as my mother’s words played over and over in my head. We weren’t supposed to be found. Still, it was done. I knew nothing could be done for my mother. Even I, the one who killed us both, would at the very least be damned to a half-life of running. So, thinking quickly, I chose to do the only thing I knew would solve my problem.The thing about angry mobs is that they’re incredibly unobservant. They have very little forethought. If they had, they wouldn’t have decided to burn a witch in late fall, during the worst drought the town had seen in twenty years. All it took was the snap of a finger to make an ember fall just right on the overgrown, dry grass that we called our yard. The entire perimeter of our property was engulfed, enclosing the angry group of people along with our house. Another snap and embers landed on roofs in town, causing the fire to spread hungrily from rooftop to rooftop. I stayed and watched, ensuring the only living things spared were the innocent animals.

[ Warning ⚠️ ]This story contains themes or mentions of sexual violence.I was 10 years old, legs buried under sand shaped into a mermaid tail. Instead of thinking myself a magical, mythical creature, I thought I must look so huge. To my horror, my dad was already running back to our beach shelter to grab the camera to permanently capture my monstrous figure. I wiggled my legs until they broke through the packed sand grains, and when I saw my father standing there with the camera, out of breath, disappointed, I was filled with regret. And I regret how long my self-loathing survived, following me like a shadow, and how vulnerable it made me.Vulnerability made me the perfect prey for a predator. Pity for me that I met you in first grade, defenses down, all innocent, not realizing you were the predator, disguised as a friend. You hid my toys from me in elementary school, asking if there’d be a reward if they were found, and then they’d magically turn up. You threatened to flush my things down the toilet if I sat with your second grade arch nemesis. Then in middle school, you’d tell me to wear my hair a certain way and bring me clothes, jewelry, and makeup to put on in the bathroom. I remember breaking down to my mother– this was when she still was a hairdresser– when she refused to braid my hair one morning, telling her what good it was that she went to beauty school and if she wouldn’t do her own daughter’s hair. I was so terrified of your wrath, of what would happen if I wasn’t good enough. And then in eighth grade, when you began ditching our friend group to be with more popular kids, only to beg for forgiveness later. That was the first time I realized you could wiggle your way into any friend group, into someone’s mind. You seduced my sister’s boyfriend in the same breath as you comforted her when she suspected he was cheating. Taught me how to count calories and keep a food journal, comparing our weight and how our clothes fit. Eighth grade, what an impressionable age. In high school, you became more ambitious. Still wiggling your way into the popular kids. Seducing more friends, more crushes. But now you’re turning people against each other. Spreading gossip and rumors. Then, I thought you were a social chameleon. Now I know you were a master manipulator. Moving people around like chess pieces to achieve whatever you wanted that week. I remember being thankful that I knew you for so many years, knowing you’d never betray me. Staying on your good side was the only way to survive. But you did betray me. How naive was I, to think you wouldn’t. Sophomore year of high school. You started the sleepover by telling our friend group– the same tight knit group from grade school, the four of us, the one you ditched every now and then for more popular people– how you wished you could fool around with your friends. A casual friend with benefits. I see it all the time on Tumblr, you said.I exchanged uneasy glances with my friends. Realizing we were being asked something unsaid. And then I began to put together the pieces. I remember when all four of us had talked about thinking we may be bisexual at cheer practice. It was hush hush in grade school– we went to a Catholic school from Kindergarten to eighth grade– and no one had ever talked about it before. But we all felt safe confiding in each other, even if we couldn’t admit it to ourselves. I remember when you told us you masturbated with your younger sister’s electric toothbrush.I remember when you made us all watch porn because we didn’t know what it was. I remember ignoring your hand under the blanket, glad you kept it to yourself. Pretending I didn’t exist.I remember seeing pictures of your camera roll of you on the scale.I couldn’t understand it then, but I do now. You wanted control. Over your weight, friend group, popularity, peoples’ perceptions, sexuality. We all shot down your idea as soon as you suggested it, saying there was no way we’d be on board with that. I remember being nervous, you don’t like not getting your way. But all three of us pushed back, and you seemed to laugh it off. Like it was just a joke. You then pulled out your parents' vodka, pinnacle birthday cake. We all took sips. I had never drank alcohol before, but I couldn’t say no again.You disappeared upstairs with my sister to make mac n cheese, while I nervously sipped half the bottle. I didn’t find out until later that you tried to kiss my sister.When you came back down, I was flushed, drunk. Let’s get more alcohol, you slurred your words, and I followed you in the back room of your basement. I knew what was going to happen in that room before I walked in. I think I knew all along, all those years ago when I befriended you, it would end this way. This was inevitable.

It was approaching 2am when Lexi made the discovery that would fracture the world. She skulled the rest of her black coffee and sat the paper cup down on the smooth, white table. She was at the university working on her PhD thesis. The research involved creating controlled, miniature black holes in a Vacuity Machine and then testing its potential for hyper-space travel. It was mostly hypothetical research.Lexi ran the formulas through the Vacuity Machine over and over again. She was analysing the results of her most recent trial, bleary-eyed from a lack of sleep, when a chill ran from her tail bone to her shoulders."Holy mother of God," she said to the air. She took a moment to catch her breath.Lexi had found evidence that no god existed.No god, gods or any divine creators of life.None. Nothing.And it was all discovered by accident, as an unexpected side effect of her research.The proof was irrefutable. Undeniable. It was flashing on the screen of this machine in an insignificant laboratory at an unimportant university on an irrelevant planet.Her proposal wasn’t intended to yield any definitive conclusions but black holes are a mystery and when you continuously prod the unknown, something unintentional is bound to occur.I need to call Steve. She thought.Forty-five minutes later and her supervisor-turned-lover, Steve, burst through the door of the lab."Where?" he asked. Lexi pointed to the screen."I'm certain I interpreted the data correctly but I need another pair of eyes,” she said.Steve hurried over to the screen, eyes focused on the target like a predator on its prey. A silence stretched on for the next hour as Steve filtered through the results. Lexi watched the screen over his shoulder, trying to find a flaw in the formula, a discrepancy in the data. She was overwhelmed by the potential power she held. Finally, Steve turned around to face her. He took off his glasses and looked at her with an unnatural glow in his eyes."It's watertight, Lex,” he said. “There’s no doubt about it.”He made a sound that was somewhere between and laugh and a cry."We're officially godless." *A few hours passed as they retested the hypothesis. The results came out the same every time. They left the lab as the sun rose and Steve offered to drive Lexi home. She refused, preferring to walk home in the crisp morning air. She needed to process the impact of her discovery. Steve understood, gave her a quick peck on the lips and sped back home in his Subaru.Lexi walked home on the path that followed the beachfront. She breathed in salt and leaves and coffee from a nearby van where a man was selling hot beverages to morning walkers. She bought a black coffee, exchanging a polite smile with the barista, and sat on a bench overlooking the calm ocean. The discovery did not threaten Lexi’s identity. She had never truly been religious. “Agnostic,” she’d say if the topic ever arose but she had never based her life on these beliefs. Still, as she sipped her bitter coffee and watched the amber sky give way to blue, she felt as if some mystery or some sort of magic had departed the earth. She watched the passers-by. The runner with a pram, the women laughing and gossiping on their power walk, a dog playing fetch with its owner in the shallows of the ocean.Lexi could already feel the foundations of society buckling under the weight of her discovery. Society was mostly secular these days but she understood the importance and the need for purpose even if it was an illusion.And here I am... one person who rendered everything meaningless.The realisation pierced her conscience like a nail through skin. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t take responsibility for it.I need to call Steve. She thought for the second time that morning. She pulled out her phone and touched Steve’s name. There was barely any time for a ring before Steve picked up."Lexi!" his face appeared on her phone screen.“Steve, listen to me. We can’t release the results to the public.”“What are you talking about? Why not?” he demanded.Tears began to gather around the lids of her eyes.“I can’t do it. It’s not ethical.”His tone changed, became softer and more reassuring."Oh darling, don't be worried. This is a good thing. Trust me.”He paused for a moment.“This… is the right thing, Lex.”“You can't know that,” she countered.“I know that it might stop some oppressive regimes and wars. It’ll shut up those bigoted zealots for a start.”"Steve, we’re not doing it. We’re just not.” Her voice was surer now, more adamant.Steve took a deep breath in and pushed the air back out with a long sigh."Look, Lex. This is an amazing thing you've discovered. Don't hide it. The world should know.”“I’m not so- “He interjected, “even without religion, people will still find something to believe in."There was silence between them for a few seconds.

The infamous Illuminati secret society has remained the focus of so-called “conspiracy theorists” for hundreds of years. They have been called the puppet masters who secretly pull the strings of the world’s events from elections to revolutions, and from business monopolies to stock market crashes. A significant number of researchers and ordinary citizens have varying degrees of suspicion that somehow, somewhere, a secret agenda is continuously lurking behind the scenes. When unexpected events occur in the world, these people don’t see them as a random occurrence, but as the work of an unseen hand which has orchestrated or encouraged these events to happen for the personal, professional, or financial gain of certain individuals. Often such speculation is given the label of a “conspiracy theory” and dismissed as imaginative thinking. Yet many of the world’s events don’t make complete sense, even to the so-called experts who study them. Something is missing from a solid explanation. There is more to the story than meets the eye, but these supposed experts are often afraid to speculate on what that missing piece of the puzzle is. People look at catastrophic events like the attacks on the World Trade Center on 9/11 and wonder how such a thing could happen without law enforcement and intelligence agencies knowing about it. People look at the mortgage collapse of 2008 and the following economic repercussions of bank failures and government bailouts and wonder how such a thing could happen. People see their standard of living going down and a two income household barely able to get by and wonder how can this be? People hear on the news that child molesters and rapists get out of prison after only a few years, yet others are locked up for decades after getting busted with some marijuana. So people turn to the television to keep their mind off such things. With the push of a button their mind is relaxed with the soothing images of watching beautiful contestants compete to be this season’s American Idol, or they get an adrenaline rush as their favorite football team scores a winning touchdown with just seconds left on the clock. These things make sense to them, and it’s whatothers will talk about the next day at work and if they want to feel connected with others then they had better participate in these pointless activities. The fact of the matter is that when you step back and take a closer look at the world that we are living in and at what really matters, at the sources of information we habitually rely on, and assemble various pieces of this mysterious puzzle called life, a different picture begins to emerge. What should be the top story on the evening news is mitigated to a small and unsuspecting article in the back half of the paper and is completely omitted from broadcast news. What should be contained in celebrity gossip magazines is found as the top story on the major TV networks. Why does this happen? When one discovers the very concrete reality of secret societies and their influence and power, one begins to see things much differently. When one discovers, as in recent years, the growing credible information about these secret societies, their membership, goals and accomplishments, one sees a gaping hole in the legitimacy and accuracy of mainstream media and general knowledge. Any talk about a “conspiracy” or secret agenda being carried out by an organization of rich and powerful men is almost always countered with laughter by the average Joe who mindlessly follows the herd. Is it that hard to believe an organization of powerful men has made a pact with each other to secretly further their agendas? Is it that hard to design a self- perpetuating structure that would allow such an organization to continuously function regardless of who specifically occupies any one position at any given time? Is it far-fetched to think that these individuals would purchase and control the mainstream media and use this powerful tool to further their goals? One of the first reality shows ever created was called Survivor, which began airing in May of 2000. The show featured sixteen people who were put on a secluded island and competed for one million dollars as each week a contestant was voted off the show by their fellow castaways. As the show went on, several people on the island would secretly make an agreement to help each other out at the expense of others who were not part of their agreement.