Flurakus

Golden Star Mall opens at 9, closes at 9. By day, it buzzes with awkward pop music, discounted shoes, and the smell of fried sugar.

But after hours, it empties out. And that’s when she arrives.

Every night. Never late.

She walks the tiled halls in a wide pink blouse, a dark green skirt, and clean white sneakers — as if she got ready for a night out in 2009 and never made it home. Her hair hangs low over her face, but not enough to hide her eyes. Especially not from the cameras.

Because she looks straight at them.

They told us the park was closing for renovations. “A few weeks, maybe a month,” management said, smiling like always — too wide, too shiny. I was the guy who sold cotton candy near the Ferris wheel. Twelve years, rain or shine, I spun sugar clouds for sticky fingers and screaming kids.

Then one day, everyone just left. No official memo, no goodbye party. Gates locked. Power off. Just… silence.

An essay by Earl Tumbleweather

Well, I’ll tell you plain: I ain’t never seen a pumpkin like that before.

Been farmin’ near all my life. Planted more seeds than I’ve had hot dinners. Pumpkins come up like they always do — quiet, heavy, sittin’ still, waitin’ for harvest like honest produce oughta. But this one? This one’s different.

Long ago, when gods still played chess with planets and mortals believed in omens written in goat intestines, there was Her. The Oracle. A woman of marble skin, eternal youth, and the kind of gaze that made emperors weep into their wine.

She had The Secret. A truth so powerful it could end wars, cure greed, and possibly convince people to stop talking loudly on public transport.

But she never told.