Datasets:

allura-org

/

sugarquill-10k

like 3

Follow

Allura 61

According to a contract I signed in the year 2012, everything you are about to hear is completely prohibited. As an ex-editor for a well-known special effects studio, I would like to remain anonymous. That is why you may notice I refrain from using people’s names or places where “The Incidents” took place, for the sake of keeping my identity hidden. I am taking a huge risk here leaking this information online, but the public deserves to know. We are unwittingly crossing into territory never meant for the living, and messing with forces that we don’t yet understand. All for the sake of entertainment. We should have left well enough alone. What’s dead, should stay dead. As many of you may remember fans and attendance witnessed a surprise performance by none other than Tupac Shakur. The long-dead legendary rapper blew fans minds with his lifelike appearance. Its interactions with Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg almost seemed too real to be just a hologram. Long-time fans had tears in their eyes as if they relived their earlier years in the 90s. Through the miracle of technology, we were able to bring back the voice and embodiment of a musician who hasn’t been alive since 1996. People were blown away by the performance and thanks to media coverage and social media, word of Holographic Performances spread like a wildfire. Soon enough, “An old Dirty Bastard” from the Wu-Tang Clan appeared on the stage in New York, almost a decade after his death. A year later Michal Jackson moonwalked across the stage at the Billboard music awards. None of us will ever forget when Prince appeared during the super bowl halftime show. It wouldn’t be long before the first hologram musical would go on tour. That being said, these performances received mixed reviews by both fans and critics alike. Although the sound quality and visual effects were impressive, some people reported a strange feeling they had while watching the hologram, some felt a strong feeling of discomfort and couldn’t exactly explain why. Some researchers have come out and tried to explain that this is due to a phenomenon that is known as the “Uncanny Valley”. The Uncanny Valley is a theory that hypothesizes there is a relationship with how human something can act and our reaction to that object. For example, when we see something that strongly resembles a human but is slightly off, we are repulsed by it, and for some, the illusions of these holograms trigger these same feelings. I am here to tell you today, that there is so much more to these feelings that science can't even begin to explain. At the time I worked for Digital Domain, the special effects production company behind the Tupac Shakur hologram. During early tests and reviews, things seemed pretty normal. It was after that one night weeks before Coachella where things took a strange and unsettling turn. Myself, as well as the rest of the editing crew, were working late to fix a few subtle glitches in the images. During our last review, we caught a few frames where the hologram's eyes moved in different directions and split frames where his lips didn’t match up with thy lyrics. None of us thought anything of it and were working late to make sure it was lifelike as possible for the big stage. After the first few attempts things got even stranger. At one point in the middle of “Keep Ya Head Up”, the hologram stopped dead in its tracks. It stood there ridged, eyes facing forward with a forlorn look on its face. Some began to search furiously to find out what frame we were stuck on but my eyes never left the Hologram. Then seemingly out of nowhere his lips began to move. I got out of my seat and leaned in close to try to make out what words the lips were forming. Then to my absolute horror, two holes appeared in the holograms chest, then one in the arm and another in the thigh. I fell back into my chair as the appearance of blood began to seep from the wounds. The holograms face never changed. Then for the first time since its lips began to move one word came through our speakers, “Mama”? The hologram's eyes than rolled back and the mouth opened wide and then just like that, it stopped. The image of Tupac went back to his performance and the lyrics of the song continued. The bleeding bullet holes were gone. There were many reactions from the crew that night. Some claimed they didn’t see it, others claimed they saw the bullet holes but didn’t hear the words, and others outright claimed it was nothing more than a glitch. One thing was for certain though, the show must go on. Days after the incident, I went back through every single frame and couldn’t find a single one that showed me the image I saw that night. There was no way that what we saw that night was a simple glitch. What are the odds that an image would appear in the exact same manner the rapper was left after being gunned down 23 years ago? Although soon after the incident, every single member of the crew was approached by studio executives who strong-armed us into signing a non-disclosure agreement that prevented us from ever talking about “The Incident”. Rumors spread fast through the special effects studios. I have heard from an Ex-soundman who helped work on the Roy Orbison, and Buddy Holly Hologram tour, that his department also had their own incident. During the test performance, Buddy Holly's hologram also froze partway through “Rave On”, leaving the hologram crouched over with his head between his knees and his hands over his head. He also claimed that he heard the words “We’re going down, we’re going down” were repeated by the hologram over and over again with his tone growing more and more frantic. Then just like that, it continued to perform just the way it did before. The studios head CEO assumed this was a prank made by the editing crew made in poor taste at the deceased musician's expense. Buddy Holly as some of you may not know was the victim of a plane crash in 1959. Everyone in the editing department was fired without further investigation or notice and were also made to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Not much later I caught wind of rumors of a severe incident during the makings of the Michael Jackson performance. Many of you may not know that originally before the Michael Jackson hologram appeared briefly on the stage during the Billboard music awards, our studio was tasked with the editing of what was supposed to be an entire concert of some Micheal Jackson greatest hits. After this particular incident the whole project was scrapped, save the frames later on salvaged for his performance of “Slave to the Rhythm” later on that year. Here were the details of the incident as follows. During the editing of Michal Jackson's song “Smooth Criminal,” the hologram began acting erratically. Sometimes portions of the holograms body like his legs and torso would freeze as if stuck in place while the rest of its body continued to move unnaturally. Soon they began to notice they could hear strange whispers over the original audio of the song in Jackson's voice. No one could understand the words as they almost sounded like they were being spoken backward like a voice recording being played in reverse. Then a power surge caused the entire studio to blackout, every single light and computer monitor screen went dark and the speakers went silent. Then to everyone's shock, the hologram kept moving. Its limbs began to bend at unnatural angles the facial expressions began to change between looks of abject horror, anguish, amusement, sadness, and anger. Some witnesses said they began to smell sulfur in the air. Others claim the smell was more like rotten meat. Some witnesses began to hear whispers in many voices around them. Sometimes behind them. Sometimes in front of them. Sometimes they sounded as if they were being whispered right into their ears. The hologram began to bleed from its eyes, ears, and mouth and its eyes somehow seemed to look into the eyes of the witnesses all at once. Its mouth began to open impossibly wide as a desperate wail erupted from its holographic vocal cords. The hologram than vanished as the recording of the evil laugh from Jackson's music video for “Thriller” boomed from the speakers. After this incident non-disclosures and hush money were not even needed. The few witnesses all recessed into different states of silence. The least extreme case being driven into insanity. The most extreme case being suicide. The higher-ups in the studio expressed that the results were caused due to the extreme pressure the staff was working under and the unfortunate negative effects flashing lights in the studio had on the human mind. The only reason I found out about this incident myself was that one of my co-workers who I will not name was asked by one of the witnesses to scrub some of the audio to see what he could make of it. After listening briefly to the strange words being spoken by the hologram, he then played it in reverse to find the words that were being spoken backward in Jackson's voice. In an almost robotic monotone, his words were clear, “Can you feel them? Can you smell them? Can you hear them? They are close. They are near.” Then after a long pause. “They... are... here.” Before he was able to share these findings with the witness, he found out that the same man's mind had recessed back into a blank state, that was said to have been caused by a nervous breakdown soon after the incident. Although not soon afterward I was laid off due to our special effects production company filing for bankruptcy after some “copyright lawsuits.” Part of me was relieved when I received the news, knowing that the tampering with the unknown that was causing these incidents would finally stop. Sadly, as the popularity of Holographic Performances continues to grow, nothing will stop these companies from “Digging up the dead” and disturbing the likes of whatever abysmal beings tend to the souls of the deceased. Who will be next? David Bowie? Freddy Mercury? Kurt Cobain? I don’t know exactly how it happened, perhaps the likeness of the musicians bore so much resemblance to their counterparts that their disembodied spirit was able to temporarily speak through their image. Or perhaps whatever unearthly beings who were tasked to tend to the souls of the dead suspected a resurrection and attempted to break into our realm to claim it back. Whatever it is, our human brains cannot comprehend it, it drives men mad from the briefest exposure. I even find myself falling into depression and anxiety, self-medicating so that I may temporarily forget about what I saw that night in the studio. What if the next incident occurred in a stadium or a concert hall in front of hundreds of people? The effects would be catastrophic. There is nothing I can do about it except warn you. Please, if you value your life and your sanity, never attend a holographic concert. Remember the artists for who they were in life, and let them rest in peace. Let them live on through our hearts and their music, not through some perverse reincarnation made with technology. Let what is dead, stay dead.

I take in a much needed deep breath, standing up straight and wiping sweat off my brow. I squint towards where the sun is halfway across the sky, hours from setting. This is the last car, I promise myself. “Hey!” The driver of the car dips his sunglasses at me. “Hurry up and dry those tires. I’ve got places to be, you know.” I sigh before getting on my knees and snatching the rag from my bucket. “Of course, mister.” The driver groans, laying back in his seat and crossing his arms. If you didn’t want to wait for someone, you should’ve gone to an automatic car wash. Then again, I am grateful that he didn’t think to go to an automatic. With his fancy sunglasses and convertible, it’s obvious he’s loaded . . . or drowning in debt. “There you go, sir,” I say, scrambling to my feet, taking a look at my work. I plaster a kind smile on my face before holding out my hand to the man. “That’ll be fifteen dollars.” He scowls. “Worst fifteen dollars I’ll ever spend.” He scoffs before turning his car into drive from park and taking off down the road. I let my smile slip before collapsing into my camping chair. “So hot . . .” I murmur to no one, taking in another deep breath. It’s the first day of summer today, and the sun has decided to prove to me that it can get a lot hotter than ninety here on the east coast. Not to mention the humidity. Forcing myself to stand, I fold up my chair and sling the strap across my chest. Then I pick up the blue Lowe’s bucket that I use to carry all of my supplies before making my way down the street towards home. It’ll feel nice to be in air conditioning again. The streets of Cape Charles are bustling with people this evening. People scroll on their phones, seemingly unaware of their surroundings, while others walk their children home from school. None of them seem to be uncomfortable in the heat. Then again, it probably doesn’t help that I came straight from Alaska. Virginian heat and humidity was not something I was prepared for when I moved here. “Hey, mister!” A small hand grabs onto my shorts, and I’m quick to turn around and face the little girl. Her dark hair is braided over her shoulder, her ears sticking out harshly. Her cheeks and face are red from the heat, freckles dotting her cheeks and arms exposed by her unicorn tank-top. “You look like you could use a drink!” “Samantha!” An older girl, maybe in her junior or senior year, takes hold of the small girl. Auburn curls are tied into a fierce ponytail as she scoops up the small girl. She smiles apologetically at me. “I’m so sorry. She’s just trying to sell some lemonade.” “Yeah!” Samantha wriggles out of her grasp, running over to a small table beside the sidewalk. “You want some? It’s really good!” She hurries behind the stand, taking a red SOLO cup into her hands. “She’s quite the saleswoman,” I say. “You know what? I’d love some lemonade.” The older girl laughs. “Mom was right about you after all, Sam. Who could resist the charm of a six-year-old?” “Nobody!” she exclaims, grinning as her sister pours a cup for me. “Try it! Try it!” Samantha holds it up for me. I smile and take a sip. It’s cool and refreshing against the heat. Not too sweet, but not too tart or sour, either. “Mm,” I murmur, rummaging through my pocket. “How much?” “Nothing! It’s free!” Samantha practically bounces up and down. “You’re our first customer, so Brigette decided that we should just give it away since no one would buy it.” My easy smile slips off my face. “That’s not fair. You two spent all this money and time on making the stand, and you get nothing for it?” “I just like serving people,” Samantha says quickly. “Do you like it? Is it good?” “It’s great! That’s why I just don’t think it’s fair that I pay you nothing.” Brigette holds out her hands as I hold out a dollar bill. “Oh, no, it’s alright, really! As Samantha said, we’re not looking for money.” I click my tongue. “Please, just take it. If I pay you nothing, it’ll be on my conscience.” Samantha and Brigette both look at each other, hesitating for a moment too long. “Here, just take the dollar for now, and I’ll exchange it for fifty cents later. Fifty cents for lemonade seems fair, hm?” I slide the dollar across the table. “Here, give me that paper. I’ll write down my number.” Brigette hands over a pen along with the paper, and I write down my number. As she takes it back, Samantha asks, “What’s your name?” “My name is Pakak. ” Both of the girls stare at me with confusion. I have to laugh. “It means ‘one who gets into everything’ in my native language. I’m from Alaska.” I hold out my hand to shake. “But here, I’ve decided to go by Peter.” Brigette takes my hand, offering a firm handshake. “Well, welcome to America. I’m sure the heat is new?” I sigh, taking a sip of the lemonade. “Oh, yes. Our summer is a lot like your fall.” I look down at my watch as it beeps. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have to go.” I look up at the girls. “I’ll exchange fifty cents for that dollar as soon as I can.” I turn around and walk down the sidewalk. Glancing back, I see Samantha grinning as she waves goodbye. Smiling, I do the same. It’s as Brigette said. Who can resist the charm of a six-year-old? *** I step onto the porch of the small house, the messaged address of Brigette and Samantha. Checking the address again, I knock on the door. A woman with grey streaks in her dark hair opens the door. Her eyes are red and puffy, tear streaks lining her cheeks. “Can I help you?” She sniffles. “Um, I bought lemonade from your daughter the other day. I gave her a dollar, and--” “Oh, Peter!” Brigette appears at the door. Her eyes are red too, but she’s quick to wipe her remaining tears away. “I’ll go get a dollar.” When Brigette disappears, I turn to who I assume is her mother. “I know it’s none of my business, but is everything alright?” The woman’s face seems to sag, her frown deepening. “Please, come in.” I step inside, walking into the living room. Everything is tidy, but oddly quiet. “Is Samantha at school?” “I homeschool both Brigette and Samantha,” she says. “But, no, Samantha isn’t here right now.” The topic of Samantha seems to trouble her. I lower myself onto their couch. “Is there something wrong with Samantha?” Silence lingers for a few moments. “She was diagnosed with leukemia yesterday.” Each individual word drops like a stone. I imagine Samantha, the small, joyful girl in her unicorn top smiling up at me. She seemed perfectly fine a week ago. So what happened? “Are the doctors sure?” My voice is weak. All Samantha’s mother can do is nod; any words she has die on her lips. Brigitte comes back downstairs, a dollar in hand. She smiles as she hands it to me. "How come you came all the way here to give me fifty cents for a dollar, anyway?" I blink, not quite understanding what she means. "Uhm, to exchange fifty cents for a dollar?" Samantha's mother laughs. "Fifty cents? Was that really worth your time coming here?" They're both laughing now, smiling at me. Expecting me to laugh along with them? I don't know. How can I laugh along with them while still confused as I am? I decide to shake the topic. "I'd like to ask if I can help." I don't need to specify. Samantha's mother's eyes snap to mine. I can already see the newfound pain swimming in them. "I couldn't ask that of you, Mr . . . uh." "Peter suits me fine," I say quickly. "And I want to help. Please. " I understand how she feels, not wanting anyone to help her in such a situation. But accepting help got me here, to Virginia. Maybe if I can help her like my village helped me, I can put her in a better place than she is. Her gaze wavers. She blinks a few times, holding back the tears that pool at the bottom of her eyes. "I won't accept any money, Peter." "And I wasn't going to offer any." I can already feel a vision building in my head. "I say we fundraise. Start something that people are going to love and give to." "And what exactly could we start?" Brigette hasn't said anything since she came downstairs, but now, she smiles from her seat across the room. It doesn't take long for me to think. "A business. How about a bakery? People love those. And I've always loved to bake. Especially if it's a recipe that's been passed down my family." Brigette looks about ready to bounce up and down in her seat. "An Alaskan bakery? Thanks sounds amazing!" "But the cost--" Hesitantly, gently, I lay a hand on the middle-aged woman’s arm. Her eyes meet mine, and I offer her my kindest smile. "Let me worry about the money." I look at Brigette, who has now fallen silent, the ghost of a smile on her face. " You two focus on Samantha. Sound like a deal?" "Why are you being so kind to us?" Brigette's mother's voice is but a whisper. Maybe to hide how it waivers. "It’s God's miracle," Brigette murmurs, and both of our heads whip around to look at her. "God delivers. He takes care of us and gives us what we need. Even when it seems impossible." Brigette breaks her gaze from me to look at her mother. "The sermon last week, remember?" Her mother's eyes snap to mine, and suddenly I feel as if I'm being examined like a fish at the market. "Thank you, Lord" is what I think she murmurs under her breath. Weirded out, I stand from my spot on the couch. "I should be going." "My name is Genevieve," Brigette's mother erupts from the couch. "Genevieve Gurr." "It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Gurr--" "Please, Genevieve serves me fine," she says quickly, her eyes sparkling with . . . admiration? Or maybe it's just tears. I'm not sure. "Alright." My voice comes out tight and strained. Brigette just looks from me to her mother, intrigued but oddly disgusted. "I'll get the door," Brigette finally says when her mother doesn't move from her seat. Genevieve nods, smiling softly at me. Once we're outside, Brigette closes the door behind us. "How old are you, exactly?" "Thirty-five," I answer automatically. Then my eyebrows furrow. "Why?" She narrows her eyes. "Don't you think you're a bit . . ." She stops, her expression dripping off her face. "Oh. My mom's thirty-three." I raise my eyebrows, still confused. "Alright . . . I'll see you later, Brigette." As I turn away, making my way towards the driveway and my car, she calls "thanks for everything" after me. *** The next morning, I get right to work. I don't know how much time Samantha may have, so I waste none of it. I start by making a Facebook page, which I've never done before. But, texting back and forth with Brigette, she thinks it's a great place to start. And in the first, painfully long hour, we make fifty dollars on something called a Go-Fund-Me . The support makes my heart lurch, so much so that I scroll through my computer for hours, looking at places around town for lease. Somehow, I find the perfect place. I do as Brigette instructs, clicking the blue button here and typing in some information there. I'm grateful for her help, because without it, surely I would be lost in pages and pages of screen. Things just seem to fall into place after that. We rent out a place, someone donates furniture to us. Better yet, the wood is pine--straight from the area around my home village. Everything couldn't be more perfect. I took care of the shop, getting it fixed up and moving things in with some help from Genevieve. Brigette took care of advertising, online and outside the shop. She stood outside the shop for hours without end, turning the sign around and talking to possible customers. And then I baked. Genevieve sometimes found the time to help, arguing her way into the kitchen with me. After all, she would come straight to the bakery after work, insisting that she help me. I've never been good at arguing, so in the end, I caved and let her help me. With everyone pulling their weight, things started to brighten. Samantha was able to get the treatment she needed, enough to get some of her strength back. She had wanted so badly to see the bakery where we were making the money for her, and so Brigette and a few of our sponsors got together to surprise her. The bakery was decorated with unicorns. The streamers were every color, and Genevieve had even made her daughter a unicorn cake. I almost stuffed the whole cake in her face, if only to get her to gain some weight. She was all skin and bones it seemed. She might have been getting treatment, but it didn't seem to be enough. *** I lay a hand on Brigette's shoulder. She hasn't bothered to wear makeup. Smart of her. If she did, her mascara would've smeared from all the tears rolling down her face. I open my arms, and she falls into them, sobbing. I look into the casket, my eyes falling on the skeleton wrapped in a thin layer of skin. Even under so much makeup to make her skin seem normal, she still looks dead. Beyond death. Genevieve takes my arm. "She would've been seven today," she murmurs, her voice shaky. She keeps her eyes on my face instead of on her daughter's body. "I'm so sorry." I meet her eyes. "I tried. We all did." "It's alright, Peter. Everything happens for a reason." Finally, she lets her eyes fall on Samantha; her carcass. I know enough to know that her spirit is gone. "God took her home for a reason. She was suffering. And now she's not." Brigette breaks out into even more tears, falling instead in her mother's arms rather than mine. "Does this mean you'll close down the bakery?" Genevieve murmurs over Brigette's greif. I roll back on my heels. "I'm not sure." I look at the body, wondering what Samantha would say if she were here. I know exactly what. "I don't think she would've wanted me to." I look at Genevieve, and Brigette, who's stopped crying to listen. "And I think she would've wanted me to stick around you two for a little while longer, too." I wrap an arm around their shoulders, smiling. Genevieve blushes, tipping her head up so that Brigette doesn't see. "If that's what you think she would've wanted." She fights a smile as we walk out of the room, and into the sunlight of the outside. "Of course." I look at Brigette, whose auburn hair glitters in the light of the sun. "After all, who can resist the charm of a six-year-old?"

Luna Whitemoon stood in front of the two doors. Both stood over ten feet tall and were made out of pure water. Shimmering waves of crystal clear blue shone on one, while dark, abyssal waves, with the rumbling of thunder, were the other. It appeared to be an easy decision. The clear one reminded Luna of her home on the small islands away from Falconus. She and her village always swam in the clear waters of a continent-less earth, as the warm sun sent rays of light into the sandy bottom of the oceans. Fish of illustrious colors dazzled under the light as Luna remembered that time. She stared into that door. Dark faint shapes, like feathers in wind called to her, urged her forward into the door. She stopped herself. It would be so easy. The House of Waves made this Luna’s test. Stand in front of two doors. Whichever one you chose determined whether you would be their champion. She was lost in thought, swimming through her memories before she smiled and went through a door. As a child, the world always appeared like one thing. With the sun, stark white sandy beaches, and the warm wind whispering with the laughter of children, the world appeared to be a paradise. To the children, it would last forever. It was their parents' job to keep that vision alive. Until it was too late. Luna remembered her days as a child well. To her, it seemed ordinary, but to others, remembering what you ate and the exact words you asked your mother when the stars fell from the sky on every full moon, was a gift. The gift of memory. The total recall was a gift she would use well in her years studying under the House of Waves. Learning, reading, a small scholar with cloud white hair, becoming an encyclopedia of knowledge about the oceans, about the lakes, and streams, waterfalls, and rain around her. Everything that had to do with water, was in her library of a mind. So much so, she wanted to become water. The teachers for the House taught her and other students the way of water, not only a style of combat but a way to channel your own inner waters to maintain balance in your life and in turn, keep the balance of the world, because to let your own inner water flow out into the world in a way where you flooded it with poison, was as much of a sin as a man thinking he was a god ruling the planet with a malevolent fist. As the years went by, she remembered the word of the atrocities, of the death surrounding the land of Falconus. She remembered being thankful, of being grateful that she didn't have to see the carnage from the god’s elementals storming cities and enslaving others. Her family was safe, and so was she. That’s all that mattered. Yet like that God’s hand of power, reality came striking into her world. She knew the emotional world of anger rarely on occasion, sometimes when she would fail in a sparring session with another student or when her mother urging her to leave the House Of Waves behind, to be wife to a man that would only show her off as a trophy as the white-haired islander who talked to the moon. That’s where her name- Whitemoon came from. She was as dark as her brothers and sisters, yet her hair flowed like the moonlight under its home and shone in the sunlight. It was hard for her to hide from the stares in her earlier years, but she learned to be like water: to just flow with it. Eventually the flow changes. The flow changed the night, the god of Power struck down on her home. She was in the moonlit night, feeling the glowing radiance of the moon absorb into her hair, illuminating it in a ghostly light. She remembered the feeling of the cooling sand and how it stuck to her feet as the water sent chills down her calves. She loved it this way. Although her mother and villagers went against swimming in the water in the dark, instead of the fear others felt from it, she welcomed the solitude. Over time, the dark depths changed. She learned over time to appreciate the light in the darkness. Because the dark wasn't always bad. It could be warm and could drift her into the light. She remembered the cooling waves under wrap her in its soft grasp. She turned and looked up from the dark depths up to the moon. It told her of one thing: to trust in the waves. Even in chaos, even in unpredictability, the waves would lead you through. Luna just wished it would lead her back home when the stars started to rain down once again. Only this time, the shooting stars were actually heated chunks of diamond in space, crashing down as fireballs. She felt the thundering boom along with the muffled voices of panic. Keep going....just keep going...this is only a test. Luna swam, deeper into the dark depths, further away from the moon, deeper to the source, as the second door, the one of the dark and thundering unknown was starting its challenge. She didn't expect the door to do this. She thought the mysterious leviathans of the ocean of the tentacled creatures in the underwater caverns would test her, but not her own memories. Not her own nightmares she was experiencing every night before this test. A part of her wanted to, so badly, swim back up to the surface, to the moon, to crash back into reality and see, see the smoke and flames after the colossal shockwaves sending tsunamis across the planet. She so badly wanted to breathe cool rushing air, and swim, with all her strength back to the remnants of her home island, find her mother, find her sister, her teachers, her classmates, save them, help them anything! But like water, the past is unavoidable. It's uncontrollable. You can bottle it up, but it only forms, and always finds a way out. Maybe as vapor, but eventually it comes back as rain, ready to come down slightly, then crash down upon you until you’re soaked. Luna sank deeper into the abyss, until the pleading sounds of her mother, of her family, were gone, and only the beating of her heart remained. Her heart beat, faster and faster, with it, came the rumbling of something around her. S if she was in the bowels of a dark beast, the waters around her rumbled, growling, hungry for its next dinner. She could feel the panic set in, all the terror, something she didn't feel until that day. On that day, Luna eventually did return to the surface, after the crashing waves, the mouth of the twin gods of the Seas swallowing any land there was over. She didn't know it was angry then. She felt it as grief. As pure anguish. The hole of loss within her was so great, greater than a lagoon. She searched around her, across the dark and moonlit night, only to find no light, no source of home. Home was gone. She searched that entire night for survivors, but the only thing she could find was remnants of homes, and the lifeless bodies of people she once knew. Their eyes told it all. They thought it was another shower, another light show, then before the full horror could come, their world was flooded. Who knew once warm, nurturing water could turn on the people so quickly? Luna didn't know until that day. The day when she felt alone, truly for the first time. She was lost in that void of a night until the morning, where she spent three more nights, searching, hoping, yearning for her family. She never found her mother’s remains. Whether it was the fish or hungry carnivores sharing the depths with her or just the other gods deciding to spare her the mercy of more pain, Luna Whitemoon’s life changed. She was found by a messenger ship, sent originally to spread news, but now to look for any survivors. They thought of her as an omen, a sign from the god of power himself that he was not to be trifled with. The sailors kept their distance, until when they met the land of Falconus, then sent her off, alone, in an unknown land she only heard about, that was suffering from the same god’s might. Now she could see firsthand the destruction and misery she tried to ignore for so long. It's why she chose the door of dark waters. It's the door anybody would avoid. We try to hide, to look away, to ignore, and be oblivious to the world around us. Luna did that once, and it cost her her world. Now here she was, back in her memories, swimming in deep dark waters to something... It started off as a twinkle, an illusion from her oxygen-deprived mind until it grew. It grew until the warmness soothed across her frozen skin, bringing her back to life. As the light grew, so did the gulping of air. It should have been water flooding her encapsulated lungs, instead, air entered. The most interesting thing was, she never opened her mouth and sucked in water. She could feel more air fill her body until the blinding light sucked her into somewhere... What stood out to her first were the pillars of bright water surrounding her. On top of them figures barely corporeal staring down at her. She looked down and watched in awe as a pillar of water formed around her knees and became solid. She opened her mouth to speak, but the figures spoke, in unison first. They pounded like the gentle waves of her home island. If the ocean could speak it spoke through them. She knew who they were: The House of Waves. Luna Whitemoon...chaos you have seen peace. Through destruction, did you truly value creation. Through darkness did you find the light. The ever-changing waves have called to you. And you have answered. You realize that through madness and pain can you make it to acceptance and peace. You have a light inside of you. Like the Lunar Goddess’ gift to you in your outsider of an appearance, you have been chosen by The House of Waves... The pillar rose until she was closer, at level with the figures. They circled around her, drawing nearer until the center of the figure stepped forward, and like an invisible wall of water, the figure’s translucent appearance disappeared and a woman nodded to Luna. She was tall, appearing young, but Luna, knowing better, was thousands of years old. The woman’s hair was stark white, like hers, and her eyes were the brightest blue she saw. Her ebony skin stood out the most. She reminded Luna so much like herself, she could be looking into a mirror and wouldn't know. “You’ve seen and felt the God Vukon’s wrath. The man turned god has proclaimed himself ruler and tyrant of this planet. In order to defeat him, we need a worthy warrior. And we have chosen you. Only you, with the calming but crashing waves of our sanction, can help lead the rest of the champions and yourself to Vukon’s defeat. Have you accepted?” Luna Whitemoon shuddered. Were there others like her? Of course, there were! All the years of training, of meditation, of reading, all came to this point, and she forgot one thing: other champions from the other houses were out there, waiting, searching for the others to come together and defeat Vukon. The woman let out her hand and a stream of energy flowed towards Luna. Luna let out a hand and the powers of The water sanction formed a fist in her hands. The watery hand changed. It rounded, softened until flower petals appeared. With peace, there is its opposite war. With darkness comes light. With vengeance comes justice. Luna knew all these things. She had vengeance in her. She only wanted to strike back at Vukon for what he did to her and her people. She also knew the compassion and fairness that came to justice. To rightfully set balance back to the scales of Falconus. The land called to her pleaded to her for her help. She wasn't going to fail again. She wasn't going to swim away from the challenge. She was a tsunami, storming across the seas towards it.

I’d been collecting old cameras for as long as I could remember, but none caught my interest quite like the one I found at the dusty corner of an estate sale. It was a classic--a 1950s Leica, its black body still gleaming under the layers of age and neglect. What sealed the deal was the roll of undeveloped film still nestled inside. I was ecstatic about the find. As I developed the film in my darkroom, the photographs emerged slowly, revealing what seemed to be ordinary family portraits. There was a woman with perfectly curled hair and a bright smile, a man with a stern look softened by the child he held in his arms. All perfectly normal--if it weren’t for the subtleties. In the first photo, the family was lined up by an old oak tree, the father’s eyes not on the camera, but staring off to something just out of frame. His expression was one of disquiet. The next photo showed the child, her eyes wide and tearful, looking not at the camera but at the same unseen point, her small body tense as if ready to run. Each successive photo told a similar story. The family, always in different settings--their quaint living room, a local park, their dining room--always with their attention directed at something just beyond the picture's edge. A creeping unease settled over me. The last photo on the roll was different. It was taken inside the house, in what looked like the living room. All three were in the frame as though someone else had taken the photo. They weren’t smiling. Instead, they stood close together, the father holding a baseball bat, the mother clutching the child so tightly it must have hurt. All of them stared directly at the camera, or rather, through it. Their faces pleading with me, begging me for help. I shook off the initial shock, rationalizing that it was a staged series of photos meant to spook whoever developed them. Yet sleep eluded me that night. Every creak and sigh of my house sounded like stealthy footsteps, every shadow seemed to conceal a lurking figure. The next morning, driven by morbid curiosity, I decided to find out more about the camera’s previous owners. My search led me to an old newspaper article about the Delaney family who had vanished in the late 50s, leaving their home undisturbed, dinner still on the table, the TV still on. They were never found, and no explanation ever fit the scene. As I read the article, the room chilled. The feeling of being watched crept over me, the hairs on my neck standing on end. Reluctantly, I turned to look behind me, half-expecting to see the family standing there, still begging for help. There was nothing, of course. Just the shadows. But sometimes, late at night, I swear I can hear the faint click of a camera shutter and the quiet whispers of a family, stuck forever just out of sight.

“Let’s go Robert, you need to leave” the robot said to the old man, his mechanical voice box creating an almost realistic empathetic voice . “Can it, Tin Man!” the old man angrily replied, unwillingly hopping off the brown, frozen bench The thin snow layer on the cold winter’s afternoon, buckled under the robots mechanical heel. Machines had no need for clothes or rest. The robot couldn’t understand the man’s need to revisit this place once a week. Death was death. Deactivation. No longer existing. To revisit a place of death again and again, always bringing 2 roses. The old unshaven man, now painfully standing and grunting, his calloused hands struggling with his old blue jumper zipper began slowly limping towards the car, placing his old woollen cap on his head, hopping in the passenger side, looking more fidgety than usual. The single scarlet rose twiddling in his fingers. Suddenly then man grew angry, huffing and puffing his chest. His hands fidgeting more and more, the rose in an iron vice in his hands. The old man reached for the steering wheel, yanking it to the side in the way of the graffitied wall to the left. However, he was old and couldn’t so much as change lanes. He cursed loudly and reclined into his seat. “Why do you try Robert? That was the 3rd attempt this month. 11th ?attempt to injure yourself this week“. The robot said softly , the plastic flaps and mechanism moving to seem sad and concerned. The old man paid no heed to the pouting robot “Do you believe I want - “ “WANT...BELIEVE?!” the old man interjected. “You can’t want or believe!. You're a thing, a bunch of ones and zeros in a box!” his screaming silencing the old radio playing what he called “rock” “We do believe Robert, no in the way humans do, but our sensors and ‘zeroes and ones’ work in ways that enable efficiency and fulfilment. Your rules, implemented in us a birth - ” “You know nothing of birth or life or living” he interjected, yanking at the locked door handle in vain, then reclining in defeat “ I know that it is my job to babysit you and make sure you're healthy and alive, in compliance with the laws of humans, on robots. I do not want to be here. I was built as a surgeon, to save one another from deactivation. Being here is a waste of my capabilities ” “Can’t you see keeping me alive is torture?” his eyes, dark grey and suffering, filled with the pain of 200 years of existence” “I must, I’m sorry Robert, you’re the last human. We must protect humans” the plastic flaps and synthetic, stringy fibers contorting back into a deadpan expression, both sets of ‘eyes’ on the dead road ahead. “You’re a monster....” Robert weakly rebutted. “And yet humans are the ones who killed and fought and destroyed one another. You’ve been killing each other from the beginning with Cain and Abel. You built faster, better, easier ways to kill one another, all you’ve ever done is kill, kill, kill” the mechanical voice box whirring, straining against the torrent of thoughts and words. “I keep you alive, feed you pills, drive you around, do everything for you.....to help you”. As quiet filled the car, the gravely, unkempt roads almost bucking under the car filled the air, while Robert sat up, head down in what looked to be anger and hate. The scarlet rose now crushed and picked apart, leaving only thorns. “Now tell me who’s the real monster here?” ​ P.

(WP) A Bitter Feud She didn’t know just how many times she’d told her children no. To hell with the life-saving, advanced medicine and drugs they were always trying to push into her body. Why didn’t everyone understand how tired she was? This was not a life, not even a pale imitation of it. Stuck in a hospital bed, plugged in to machines, unable to hold down more than a few bites of food. Evelyn wouldn’t have wished this life on her worse enemies, and there had been many. But even now, close to death, she couldn’t make herself regret it. That wasn’t her style. Bitterness crested in her throat, as sour and familiar as bile. Was it so hard to understand, wanting to move on? Evelyn was broken out of her angry thoughts by the arrival of her nurse, Holly, with someone following in her wake. “Miss Eve,” Holly said, smiling warmly, “You have a visitor today!” Evelyn had to resist pulling her face into a scowl; she *hated* being called Eve, and what was worse, Holly knew it. It brought back unpleasant memories. But perhaps the nurse was torturing her. Some people got their kicks by being shitty to the infirm and elderly. Holly smiled and checked her vitals, then left her with her visitor. It was Evelyn’s only son, Charles, and she shook her head before he even opened his mouth. “I said no, and that isn’t going change any time soon, Charles. It’s not when you were little, when you could flash those dimples at me and get whatever you want--” This diatribe was followed by a harsh, wracking coughing fit, and she covered her mouth, ignoring the tiny dots of red that covered her palm. “If you’re not careful, Ma, you’re going to hurt yourself, going on like that,” Her son replied, mildly enough, but his eyes, dark like hers, flashed with silent anger and hurt. “I brought you lunch.” *What’s the use if I’m just going to throw it all up in an hour, if I’m lucky?* But she didn’t say anything; she was sure that he could see what she was thinking, anyway. Without another word, Charles walked to the chair that was next to Evelyn’s bed and sat down. He took out a picnic basket, and then put paper plates in front of them, along with paper cups, which he filled with sweet, tart apple cider. “Why are you doing this, Charles?” “You’re our mother and we love you,” Charles said, still mildly. “We don’t want you to die--” “You and your sisters are so foolish,” Evelyn snapped, interrupting him, watching as he divided the food into two equal portions: half a ham sandwich, slathered with mustard and garnished with bright tomatoes and Swiss cheese, and a bowl of soup, her favorite: borscht, made from her own recipe. To anyone else, this would’ve looked like a gesture of goodwill, of love. But Evelyn knew better. It was a bribe from her own children, to stay in this miserable existence.

It is cold and there is no avoiding that. No longer a chance of denying it. I cover myself in layer upon layer of clothing, donning thick jackets and sweatshirts, pants with thermal lining and tight-fitting boxers with the same. Mom taught me to leave no room for wind or air or breathing or any stray snowflake to enter into my little mobile cocoon. I wouldn’t be out of place in one of those Arctic Research stations. Smiling to myself, I wondered if I looked like the Michelin Man or perhaps a resurrected mummy. I hoped that Brendan Fraser wouldn’t pop out of one of the snowbanks that flanked the driveways and sidewalks of the city, intent on uncovering my treasure and healing my curse. Something rustled as the wind blew and I froze, almost literally, scanning the white-capped trash cans that the sound had come from. A cat skittered out, sliding across the icy road on his way home. I breathed a sigh of relief, pushing mist like a dragon through my scarf. As I watched, the cat clambered onto a porch and disappeared through a little door. “Good. It’s too cold for you,” I said to myself, resuming my solemn march. My little toy watch read 8:31 PM. The weatherman had said it was 14 degrees with a wind chill of 7 degrees. Shuddering, I pulled my heavy coverings tightly around me, burying my gloved hands into big pockets. It’d been a couple miles since I left my home. I wasn’t going back either. This Christmas had started off badly. Charlie Mercher, the horrid father that he is, had lost himself to a bottle of caramel whiskey in the early evening. The rest of the night, which was usually reserved for celebration, had been a violent flurry of harsh words and frightening promises. Mary Mercher, my sweet old lady, wouldn’t let me near him. I’m not sure what the fight was about this time, but I’m pretty sure that momma is my momma and that dad may not be my dad. I didn’t know what to think of that. I didn’t want to think about it either. I share my momma’s nose, small and with a wide bridge. I’ve got her brown hair and her brown eyes. We’ve got the same sense of humor and the same freckles and the same favorite foods but . . . the only thing that I share with my dad is my last name. I preferred my first name anyways; Thomas sounds much better than Mercher. What did Mercher even mean anyways? Angry? Drunk? Unfaithful? My younger brother Michael liked his last name. But he couldn’t speak yet. He’d just throw his little chubby arms up gleefully when I’d say it. He had dad’s eyes. I didn’t. My heart was cool with guilt, but what was I supposed to do? There’s no way little Michael would survive out in this cold. My only chance as a ten-year-old is to march forward. I’ll send help when I find it. And I will find it. Well, I hope I will. Just me and my cold coats. There was a fire department somewhere nearby. I knew it was childish, but they’d always been my heroes. They’d rush into frigid fires to save people from their untimely doom. Modern day knights in shining armor! I always thought that those flaming houses I’d see on the news looked like dragons. Their doors were mouths that breathed fire and consumed families. The kids in my class laughed at me when I told them that I wanted to be a firefighter when I grew up. “That’s so childish!” “You’re too skinny!” And all the laughter a young man could endure. I’d do it anyway. Heat flushed my face at the memory, thawing my icy cheeks for a moment before succumbing to the screaming cold. It hurt and I couldn’t find the fire station. I searched for some time, following the moon through a curtain of fluffy white. The houses on either side of the street were alive with light, the silhouettes of happy families and normal lives performed a play for me beyond sheltered, warm curtains. A young boy spotted me while he stood by a brightly decorated tree, his window curtains drawn to let in the night's winter beauty. I stopped and stared at him for a while, and he returned the favor. I waved. He waved. I opened my mouth to say something, but a woman appeared. She scolded the boy, ignoring his protests, and closed the curtains. I wondered, had my parents been any different, if I’d be on the other side of that window too. Shaking the thought, I marched on, a cool chill finally piercing my layers of protection. After what seemed like a very long time, a town broke through the suburbs. Tall buildings rose on either side of me like giants decorated in bright lights. The spectacle seemed a stark contrast to the icicles that hung from their roofs. As I crossed the street, a man dressed in a black suit stopped me. “Hey, kiddo! What’re you doing out in the cold so late?” He smiled warmly. I shrunk away from him. “None of your business,” I grumbled, hiding my face behind my scarf. His smile didn’t fade. “I didn’t mean to offend you, son.” He lifted his eyes, gazing behind me as if looking for someone. I followed his stare into the blizzard that followed me. “It’s getting pretty bad out here. Do you have somewhere warm to stay?” I shook my head. “I see. Where are your parents?” I didn’t answer. “Hmm. Do you need help?” I shook my head again. “I got you. Well,” he gestured to a tall, brightly lit building behind him. The doors were open to the cold, the inside of which was lined in benches filled with well-dressed people. “If you need somewhere warm to shelter, you’re welcome here. We have hot cocoa!” There was cheerful singing coming from the building. It sounded like a particular type of celebration. “Are you having a birthday party?” I asked. He chuckled, following my eyes to the building. “Actually, yes! I suppose we are!” The man saw my expression. “Oh, don’t worry, they may not sing well, but you know what they say, joyful noise and all that!” He laughed heartily. I smiled along with him. The man appeared friendly enough and the building looked warm and inviting but . . . “No thank you,” I said. “I’m on a mission.” “Oh yeah? Can I ask you what your mission is?” I thought for a moment. Distrustfully, I responded, “I’m trying to save someone.” My little brother needs help . I wanted to say, but the knot in my throat nearly choked me. Between it and the cold, I struggled to move. My bones hurt. Hot cocoa sounded really good. I wouldn’t mind singing either. Part of me hoped that they had a birthday cake as well. I couldn’t remember the last time that I’d celebrated a birthday, but my friends at school would tell me about theirs all the time. “Save someone? Who?” I didn’t respond. After a moment, he continued. “Well, you’re in luck, son! I just so happen to know a Man who’s in the business of saving people!” He grew excited. I didn’t respond. “I could introduce you, if you’d like. Maybe He could help save whoever you’re trying to help as well.” “Are they a firefighter?” I asked. “Hah! A firefighter? I suppose so! But He fights the kind of fire that lasts an eternity. Actually, He’s already defeated it.” “He must be very brave then.” “Oh, He was .” “Was?” “Mhm,” the man smiled solemnly. “He died, nailed to that up there by the very same people that He fought the fire for.” He pointed to a giant cross on the pointy part of the building. “How could they do that? Wait, He died up there?!” I exclaimed. “Oh! No, not that exact one. That’s just a copy.” “Why is it on your building then--if it killed such a brave man?” My imagination swam with the idea of a yellow-clad firefighter hanging from those pieces of wood. “That’s a good question, son. We put it there to remember Him and what He did. But do you want to know the best part?” He asked. I nodded, intrigued. “He rose again three days after His death. He used His blood to put out the fire!” My eyes grew wide, welcoming the sting of the bitter wind. “He must’ve had a lot of blood . . .” The man chuckled. “Enough to cover everyone who was on fire and doesn’t want to burn anymore . . . including you and me.” We stood in silence for a moment, the howling wind tossed my scarf wildly. I’m on fire? I wondered. “Would you like to come inside?” “He’s in there?!” “Mhm. Well, He’s everywhere, but we can talk about that later.” “I-” The biggest part of me wanted to go in with the man. To sing. To eat. To meet this mysterious firefighter who defeats eternal fire with His blood. I wanted to shake His hand. To tell Him about mom being mom and dad being maybe dad. I wanted Him to save my little brother, to take him with Him to whatever firehouse He served at. But dad had warned me about buildings like this. He’d told me to watch out for the people under the cross. He told me they were judgmental and mean and that they’d always make promises that they didn’t intend to keep. Fear ran rampant in my heart. I shook my head. “No, thank you.” And I ran, my feet crunching through the snow. The man called out after me, panic in his voice. I thought he’d come after me, so I picked up the pace. Focus! Find the firehouse! Send help to little brother! It didn’t take much more wandering before I realized just how lost I was. Turning back, the man and building were nowhere to be seen. Did I take a left to get here? No, a right and then a left! No, no, that can’t be right. Continuing onward, I stumbled into a large field with a sign that read “ Calvary Park .” My legs were soaked through with slush, refreezing and melting with the cyclic heating and cooling of my movement. I could no longer feel my face. I tried to touch my nose, wondering if it was still there, but couldn’t tell. I sniffed a few times, filling my lungs with an aching coolness. I fought the panic that icicles might form inside me. At least I have my nose. A bench sat beneath a quaint street post, bathed in its soft light and covered in a layer of fluffy powder. My body ached and burned with a violent numbness. I yawned, finally slowing down enough to realize just how tired I really was. It wouldn’t hurt to sit down for a while, would it? I plopped down onto the bench, sending an avalanche off its sides. Leaning back, I stared into the silent sky. It was pitch black. No, my eyes were just closed. I forced them back open. The darkened sky erupted with sparkling lights above me, only partially shrouded by the lazy drifting of snowflakes, all illuminated by the gentle moon. As I lay there, my strength abating, my breathing slowing, I listened to the intense nothingness. How can a world be so active and yet so quiet? I wondered. There was a sudden bout of panic as I fought the urge to sleep. No. Don’t close your eyes! But they’re so . . . heavy. They almost closed. “ Help!” I called out to the darkening heavens. “Timothy!” “H-huh?” I groaned. Someone was rushing toward me. They spoke my name with a voice that I recognized but had never heard before. They wrapped me in a thick blanket and scooped me up from the bench. I opened my eyes dreamily, fluttering as their heat seared my body. “G-uh?” I grumbled. “Shhh, son. I have you.” He wore a yellow and tan coat. I brushed my hand against it. It was cold, like mine. “C-old,” I struggled to speak. He grabbed my fingers with a gloved hand. “Shhh, son. I know. I’ll get you somewhere warm.” He ran through the streets, carrying me like a little child. I wanted to protest. To remind him that I am ten and not a kid. To tell him to go rescue my younger brother, the one who really needs it. As my eyes slowly regained focus, my body warmed by the man, I realized something about Him . . . “Fire . . . fighter?” I whispered weakly. The man smiled a glorious smile. One that instantly warmed my body and something much, much deeper. “Of sorts, yes. Be still, son. It’s my birthday today, did you know that?” His hair was fluffy, spilling out from under a fireman’s helmet. I touched it. It felt like sheep’s wool. I remembered the feeling from a field trip last year in Ms. Hooley’s class. We visited a farm. I liked petting the animals, even though I wasn’t supposed to, but there was one animal that was softer than all the others . . . A lamb. “Birthday? I met a man earlier who was celebrating a birthday too . . .” “Is that so? Well, we should go,” He said, setting me down on some steps. “Are you alright?” He asked, concerned. There was warmth in me now where there had been only ice before. “I-I am. Thank you.” I looked up into the man’s big, green eyes in bewilderment. This man is a firefighter! A hero! My hero. I knew someone who needed a hero. “My-” “Your brother, right?” He interrupted. I opened my mouth to speak but couldn’t. “Don’t worry, son, I’ve got him covered,” He winked, “I’ve got you too. It’s going to be all right, trust me.” “Th-thank you.” Somehow and for some reason, those words felt more concrete to me than even the hardest stone. I believed that this firefighter could quench any fire. I thought back to the man from earlier and the weird conversation that we had shared. “Am I on fire?” I asked. “Hah!” The man smiled brightly. “Not anymore, Thomas.” “You know my name?” He nodded. “And many others. Regardless, you’re not on fire outwardly, Thomas, and I do not fight outward fires. I leave that to men like you.” “I-I don’t understand,” I responded. “Most people don’t,” the stranger replied, “but I know someone who can teach you about it.” He stood from where He had laid me down and walked toward an open door, banging on its wood loudly. I realized that there had been singing before, behind the wonder and chilly fuzz in my ears, but it stopped at His beckoning. “Oh my gosh!” “Is he okay?” There were suddenly a lot of well-dressed people surrounding me. The man from earlier, the one who spoke in strange riddles of an everlasting firefighter, helped me to my feet and brought me inside. “Are you okay?” They asked. “Get him some hot cocoa and a change of clothes!” “Oh Lord, please don’t let him have hypothermia!” “Should we call 911, Pastor Michael?” “No,” the man, Pastor Michael, responded. “He’s not hypothermic, but he got pretty darn close. Son, what happened?” “I-I-” With so many faces around me, each twisted with worry, words became very hard to find. “I was so cold, but He-” I pointed to where the firefighter had been, but no one was there. “He saved me . . .” “Who saved you?” Pastor Michael followed my fingers, confused. “The firefighter. Didn’t you see him?” He looked at me now, his brow furrowed. “Firefighter?” “I didn't see anyone.” “Are you sure he's okay?” “Maybe he’s delirious?” The congregation chattered on and on, but the Pastor simply stared at me. We had a silent conversation, one that only he and I understood. I had been put out. I wasn’t on fire-even on the inside-anymore. Not in the way that I had been. That night was full of fear and worry but ended in warmth and good conversation. Pastor Michael listened to my story about dad and about mom, calling someone who could help. They took my little brother and I away, putting us in a new home with a couple from the congregation. They were friendly, protective, and never missed a church meeting. We celebrated every birthday, every holiday, and I had my fill of a blessed life-not to mention birthday cake. And whenever someone would ask about my understanding of Jesus Christ, I’d tell them, quite plainly and quite simply, with the same bewilderment that I felt as a child, that Christ had saved me twice that night. Once from the searing cold. And once when He put out the fire that consumed my soul.

Autumn in Canada is my favorite time of the year. How everything around us becomes beautiful and cooler, providing us a relief from the heat. The beautiful transformation of tree leaves in stunning shades of yellow, orange, red and brown blows my mind. Currently sitting in a coffee shop which have just introduced a new line of autumnal drinks, having a hot chocolate. Trying to make my sullen mood a little better. “Good evening.” A old lady nearly in her 70's stood in front if my table. “Good evening.” I said “Can I sit with you, if you don’t mind. I was seeing you from a while and you seem a little sad to me. So I thought you would like to have some company.” She said giving me a wrinkled smile. “I won’t mind, please take a seat.” I said and thanking me she sat comfortably in front of me. “Oh how rude of me, I am Luna by the way. Nice to meet you.” She said taking her hand out for handshake. “Hailey, nice to meet you too.” I said copping her actions. She looked at my almost finished hot chocolate before saying, “They have just introduced a new line of autumnal drinks. They are amazing, have you tried any?” she asked “Um, no I haven’t. But-" she cut me off “Ah! You should try their classic pumpkin spice latte. Wait I will order them for both of us.” She said and immediately ordered for us. I smiled at her ebullient nature. She had pale and wrinkled skin but her eyes and smile shined bringer than the sun. “You have the same smile like my granddaughter.” Her eyes twinkled when she talked about her grand daughter. “Do I?” I asked with a smile. "Yes, you know once Charlie Chaplin said 'You will find that life is still worthwhile, if you just smile'." She said and I nodded “You should meet her some day. You both must be of same age. She is a lawyer in New York, what is your profession?” she continued “I am a CA, Chartered accountant.” “Oh that’s amazing, your parents must be proud of you.” She said and I nodded my head as yes. Our conversation was cut off by the waitress who bought our ordered drinks. Their latte had two difference from others which was they used honey instead of sugar and using more pumpkin which added a good different taste. "Isn't it amazing?" Luna asked "Absolutely amazing." I said and we both smiled. “Why were you sad Hailey?” "Just had a bad day." I said trying to drop the topic. "You can tell me the reason for your bad day, if you don't mind." She said looking calculatively in my eyes. I took a deep death before speaking, “I.. I had a argument with my mother this morning.” I said looking at my latte as tears started to well up in my eyes. “Talk to me, share with me. They say sharing with the strangers makes you feel a little better.” She said, giving her a week smile I told her, “Me and my mom had a fight this morning. She wants me to go back to Italy and help her with her boutique. She wants me to leave this job as a CA and help her with her work. But I don’t want to leave my job and go there. I love my job, but she doesn’t understand. Infact she doesn’t want to understand.” I exhaled deeply. Luna took my hand in her fragile hands saying, “Do you want to know Luna's autumn theory?” she said and I was confused. "Luna's autumn theory?" I asked “Its my autumn theory.” She said smiling at me. Before I could even reply she continued. "I don't really care what your answer is. I was going to tell you anyways." She said and we both laughed. “Autumn season is know for its beautiful change which it brings with it. The weather getting colder; changes of green leaves into yellow, orange, red and brown shades; days become shorter and nights becomes longer. It’s the season of changes, maybe for good or bad its up to you. If your mom doesn’t understand or don’t want to, you change your style of explaining her. Make her realize what you really want to do. Autumn teaches us to change. Change you ways my child, and everything changes.” She said and I was speechless. I was just staring at her with a smile. She is right, I need to change my ways of explaining my mom and she will understand me hopefully. Luna's phone vibrated, looking at the screen she smiled and looked at me. “Its my time to go. Have a good day my child. God bless you and smile more often. You have a beautiful smile.” She said and my smile widened. Hugging me goodbye she left the coffee shop. Meeting Luna in this coffee shop and her telling me ‘Luna's autumn theory’ was a life changing event for me. Sometimes things happen which we don't even expect. When we think all the doors are closed and we don't have any choice, maybe the closed doors aren't locked and waiting for a knock. Maybe we just have to knock the doors and seek for a perfect solution. Maybe what seems so difficult isn't that difficult. Maybe its just your power of not losing hope and keep trying. Deciding to change my way of telling my mom what I want, I smiled. I have an idea how to explain her. Victor Hugo a French poet, prose writer, dramatist, essayist and politician once said, 'There is nothing more powerful in the world than the idea that came in time.' This autumn have bought a change in me which is a life time lesson. I took out my phone, dialing my mom's number I waited for her to pick up my call. After a few rings she picked up the call. “Hey mom" “Hello" “Mom, next week I will be coming home for a few days.”

A shoe goes sailing through the air and crashes through a wall and into the coat closet behind. It doesn't take much; the wall is just a thin layer of sheet rock with unimaginative paper covering it. The sound of it rattles the whole place. I just sit on the couch and listen. My brother screams from his room less than two feet away. His small arm stretched out from under the door; his tiny fingers pulling at the medium length brown carpet. He cries out “why momma” as he pulls. I can tell he has snot running out of his nose and tears rolling down his cheeks, just from the sound of his voice. I just stand in the hall and listen. The phone rings, it’s my mother again. She asks in a manic voice why I’m punishing her. She tells me I don’t deserve her love. She pleads to know why I don’t love her back. I can hear the addict she is sleeping with in the back ground coughing; it’s the cough of too much cheap beer and even cheaper cigarettes. I just hold the phone and listen. I hear the voice of Tim Allen coming from the television behind me. The taste of Tuna Helper turns my stomach. I have tears running down my face. My father stands in the kitchen. He stops his lecture on starving children long enough to take a pull of his beer. I count the silence, almost four seconds. He must be mad at her again. She and my step brother laugh from the living room. I just lie on the table bench and listen. I ride with my grandmother in the Ram Charger. She smokes long skinny cigarettes with the windows rolled up. I love her, but I hate smell. I hold the button to roll my window down. She quickly rolls it back up. “The a/c is running,” she says. I feel a bit dizzy from the bluish smoke; I’ll probably have a headache soon. My brother sits in his booster seat behind us calling out truck each time he sees one. My grandmother speaks between draws from her cigarette to tell me she loves my brother, but that his mother is a whore. I just hold my breath and listen. The sun hasn’t gone down yet but I’m in bed. My step-mother is going out and my father has unhooked the ignition coil from the engine. It won’t run. She screams why, it sounds like my brother. He laughs and tells her he hasn’t done anything. I wonder if she is a whore as I spy and listen. I stand in the shower. The water is as hot as I can take. I gently squeeze the bottle of V05 and breathe it in. I hear my his alarm going off repeatedly. I know I need to get out, but he is vomiting violently into the toilet just on the other side of the glazed shower door. The water is turning cold. I begin to shiver as I listen. Chris Cornell’s voice pleads for a black hole sun through the small speakers of the Zenith tv. I see the headlights through the living room windows. I count the foot falls as they climb the steep steps to the trailer door. I can hear someone fumbling a key into the lock. She stumbles through first. “He drank too much tequila,” she says as she makes her way past me and down the hall. He claws his way in like a zombie and falls to the floor, the screen door slamming just shy of his feet. He is snoring before Chris is done. I bob my head and listen. The engine of the Honda screams for relief. The tires squeal as we barely make the deep curve of the small country road. “Your grandmother found your grandfather not breathing on the porch,” she says. I wonder if the car will fly off the road at the next turn, it’s sharper than the last. My mother tries to navigate at 90 and light a Virginia Slim at the same time. I light one for her. She doesn’t take her eyes off the road. Eric Clapton moans for Layla on the radio. I hold tight and listen. The ICU is cold and quiet. I watch the lines on the small monitor bounce to the rhythm of my grandfather’s heart. “He’s woken once,” my grandmother says to my great aunt. “He was talking to his mother.” She died when I was four, I think to myself. My mother walks in and hands my grandmother a styrofoam cup of sweet tea. I can hear the ice slide together as she takes a sip and hands the cup to me. I take my turn; it taste of earth and sugar. She smiles at me and gives me a peppermint. I save it for later. The three of them begin to make plans for if he doesn’t wake back up. I squeeze the peppermint and listen. The wind roars past my ears as I sit in the front seat of the boat. I take in a deep breath as my father slides the boat around an ox bow in the river. I let my vision soften as I stare at the reflection of the sky in the water. I raise my arm and point to a deadhead sticking just above the surface. I feel the boat shift just in time as my father pulls the tiller handle and deftly dodges the stump. He opens the throttle on the two stroke Mercury as we enter a straight part of the river. I close my eyes and pretend to fly as I listen.

Got bored, wrote a thingy Alliterating Absurdity It’s dark here... I can see only about a few meters. Every direction is just pathed stone, uneven but easy to walk on. I’m unsure if I’m outside or inside, I see no stars or moon but I feel small gusts of wind randomly. I remember, easily actually, clearly walking into the nearby park to clear my head. My hood up and head downtrodden I never new how long I had been wandering, if long at all. ... It’s not cold anymore but not exactly comfortable enough to shed the light jacket that protects me from the anything in the dark. ... Walking in one direction with no point of reference is confusing, horrifying, ... simple? I knew the second I saw no sides to the path bleeding away into grass and found no stars, at least silently standing by as sentinels, that there was no possible way I was still wandering the small greenway. Hysteria, ... what I expected, ... never set in while wandering around in the paved murk. Just an amalgamation of feelings dominated by a confused curiosity. We all get to a point where we feel the prank can’t really go on any longer, but no suspicious person casually strolled by and pointed out the cameraman or the ... comfortable audience revealed behind some large fake wall, just the sounds of normal foot falls on smooth stones dominated the dark. I knew fear would escalate when the mind tricks started preying on the empty sensory input abundant in the area around me. I think I switch directions, I wander to my left from the path I perceived I was walking. Noises and shapes dancing and peaking from the perceived sphere of light my eyes can see, real or misplaced imagination, ... does it matter? It’s all unknown, the prank and the lost scenarios now discarded for a growing sense of insanity. My watch says it’s only been fifteen minutes in this place, it feels like more but I think the watch is a little more concrete then just human time keeping. I’m not insane and if I am ... then I hope someone finds me before I leave. The watch. I can hear the tick, a hand-me-down from my father, not a present or gift but just a watch, use or don’t he gave me his watch and replaced it with one exactly the same. Why not give me that one? Too late, don’t care. .... tick .... That click wasn’t from my watch, my shoes maybe? I stop, peer around and what the hell else did I expect to see, just dark and stones. I do the stereotypical drop to the floor and inspect it like some answer to the insane minds enigma. I find a fetal position after internally laughing at imitating insanity. The sound of sharp speedy steps stops my self solace. A person ... just outside of my periphery ponders poking into my stone polka dotted palace of self pity. I wait, wanting and wishing for the wisp to whisk me away from this wobbly world. The tick tock clock clicks and I’m back in the park. Street lamps bathe a nearby bench. And I go home to sleep swathed in my soft smooth shelter. English is my first language but I’m just shit at grammar and general English mojo / spelling. Came from my head but could be influenced by well known stories I forgot I read.

Yes, I wish I’d held on to my morals. If I did, I would have still been on one of the modern cruise ships on my way to Cancun. A hollow coconut shell would have easily found its resting position in my hand, flaunting its tiny Hawaiian inspired umbrella and an “adult” cherry floating on a bright blue cheap alcohol. My Vitamin D demanding skin would have been tanned and not burnt, my new aviators would have been put to use, and my effort would be well on trying to gracefully flirt with the muscular server who would offer me pea-sized hors d'oeuvres every five minutes or so. Well, while I’m busy fantasizing on what would have happened, it’s far from reality, so far, that you couldn’t even see it from a telescope. ꧁꧂ I unwillingly felt the dense, frosty water quickly rush through my reluctant lungs without a second thought. Automatically, I unfastened my weak jaw about 180 degrees to gasp for some required oxygen, only to affectionately invite more unwanted water into my shattered body. I perceived the clearest of panic attacks creeping through the surreal corridors of my mind. I sensed it lurking. Knowing that I would be swallowed by the dark cloud of trepidation did not make too much of a difference as I voluntarily let it happen. The darkness overcame my body; I could’ve been frantically drowning in the icy waters but I was supposedly floating amongst the other surfacing debris. No one will ever have the privilege of knowing my state of being, not even myself, any memory of this incident was completely and utterly forgotten. I don’t recall I was conscious at the time. The vivid blue, cloudless sky housed a radiant sun which dazzled its glistening rays upon my senseless body. I was greeted with about six Great Egrets circling me in a flawless unison as I aggressively spat out the grainy sand out of my parched mouth. I was supposedly washed up on the uninhabited regions on Cozumel, an small island right off the Mexican coastline; about a fourty-five minute ride from Cancun. Little did I know that on the other side of the island from where I was washed up, was a small business of hotels and restaurants bustling with clients coming for a well-deserved vacation. Being way too weak for exploring, I would have never known. I was too dehydrated to think clearly and standing up so abruptly was an imprudent mistake. Dazed and disoriented, I stumbled and vigorously fell to my knees right where I was washed up in the first place. All my middle school knowledge about never to drink sea water left a blank mark in my memory as swallowed gulps after gulps of it. It did leave a rather bitter taste but I couldn’t care less. I looked back almost unintentionally and noticed a relatively large waterproof duffel bag; then it hit me. My memory steadily began returning. Remembering brief parts of what had happened, helped piece the complex puzzle together, into what seemed to be an unlikely story which wouldn’t receive an excessive amount of empathy. It was all planned out; every single possibility of what could or could not go wrong was written on those precious A4 papers back at home. Odette and I were entirely sure the heist would lay out perfectly infront of our eager eyes. Blueprints upon blueprints of the cruise ship’s hidden vents and vaults unavoidably piled themselves up on my chaotic desk. The exceptionally large cork-board which overflowed with elaborate notes, pins and strings, all lead to this one heist; a heist that Odette and I have been persistently planning for about two aching years now. We agreed to the fair deal that she would forage for all the required sources and classified information whilst I perform this rather intricate money heist. But all went burning into high blue flames. I got caught in the act, red handed, in flagrante delicto whatever you’d like to call it, but I was frozen clenching the duffle bag filled with money in my trembling hands. When flustered, one’s rational reasoning transforms into a ludicrous one beyond description. I bolted through the back door and hurled myself into the Caribbean, facing the deserved consequences of a 72 meter fall ahead of me. That was what I now call my quick sniff of death, yet I didn’t die. I have no objective as to why I voluntarily agreed to being a crucial part of this scheme, I had no reason to. Odette did find me in a rather vulnerable state of mind and promptly took advantage of my situation. After my mother died a sincerely tragic death, Odette invited herself back into my life after a few years of distance. She cautiously used her well-trained manipulatory skills to draw me into the center of her trap. I was fairly financially stable at the time and committing such a felony was an unconditionally foolish and an unnecessary act; but she promised, she promised that all this would get my mind off the tension, strain, and malevolence of the outside world. I cluelessly believed her. I eagerly poured out my heart and soul to her; I found comfort in an old friend, and to know that what she’s done for me was all for her personal benefit, crushes my core to pieces. I just shouldn’t have been so naive. As nightfall drew and my senses began slightly returning, my attention turned to the glaring lights shooting across the horizon. Many boats sped through the water and the deafening helicopters which spoilt the sweet stillness of the Mexican air, shone their overwhelming lights directly down at me and that’s when I truly realized that this was at long last, the end. Inevitably, I was subconsciously sure that I could never get away with such an offense; I didn’t have the finesse and mastery of a thief and I could never obtain it. It wasn’t in my nature. I heartily acknowledged and valued one last state of absolute calmness as I focused on the shimmering stars which reminded me of my beloved mother who always told me that everything will always find its course.

I’m not what you would call the adventurous sort. I have a very logical view of the world. The laws of nature can be described by calculable equations and repeatable experiments. However, I have learned that this way of thinking just doesn’t contain the full story. I was never very superstitious, but once I described the past few days, that’s the only logical conclusion. I could not deny the power of this divine beast. It was just two days ago that I had seen her for the first time. Nudging around the alley trash cans, her coat was jet black, and not filthy at all, the way you would expect a stray to look. I had been on a smoke break at the restaurant I cook at, and my second cigarette had expired already, so I had to go back in. I honestly didn’t think anything of it, because, with a coat that clean, I was sure someone was searching for it. When my shift ended, I wasn’t surprised to see that the cat was gone. I started on my way home which was a few blocks away, and I swear shadowy figures were following me. I told myself it was all in my head, but that didn’t calm the beating of my heart. I was speed walking before I realized, and out of breath soon afterward. I leaned against a streetlight to try and center myself, and admittedly, the light would block the shadows. No, not on this night. Not this time. This time, the figure of a horned creature began to wriggle itself to form under the light. I wanted to run so badly but couldn’t catch my breath. It was like trying to breathe through an IV. Just as the creature was going to reach me, the cat appeared from nowhere and landed directly between the shadow creature and myself, and just as it landed the creature dissipated as if it were vapor. Now I’m hyperventilating and am scratching at the edges of my consciousness trying to explain this phenomenon. The strange thing turned and looked me in the eye as if to show discontent. “Get ahold of yourself, Master!” The sun crept in through the curtain, casting a cone of light on my face. I’m lying in bed, let out a yawn, and sit up. I’m sweaty, so sweaty that I soaked through my pillow and covers and saturated the mattress. Confused, I roll out of bed, and head to the shower, while peeling my shirt off my back, like a banana. I started remembering what had happened and wrote it off as a bad dream. Once I was showered and dressed, I grabbed my work gear and headed out the front door, but when I opened the door, the cat was sitting there in the middle of my welcome mat. I feel this pressure on myself as I get dragged backward, stiff as a redwood, by nothing. The creature walked in, slowly, waving its tail back and forth. The door shut and I was laid gently on the floor. The cat jumped onto its perch on my chest and peered into my soul. “Why does your heartbeat so frantically? Such a being as yourself should never fear magic.” For what seemed like an eternity, I stared blankly into its eyes. They were human eyes, not the slit feline eyes that should be there. As if sensing my thoughts, they transformed immediately. “I understand now. You never knew of your gifts. You never discovered who you are truly meant to be. No matter, we must get you to safety, and then all else will follow.” “How are you speaking to me, you are a cat. How did your eyes change? How are you doing all of this!” The feline paid him no mind though and continued to babble to himself quiet curses about my apparent ignorance. “Let me go! I dema-”, suddenly my mouth was sealed shut by some unseen force. “I really must concentrate; I hadn’t expected you to be void of all knowledge. You were meant to hold the Great Knowledge; you didn’t have any materials I needed for our quick return. Truly, you don’t even remember me?” I had no idea what to say. It just wasn’t logical; it made no sense. The magic cat, the changing eyes, the forces being used on me. But, if all that was real, what about those shadowy things? I wanted to scream, I wanted to run away and hide. This could not be reality. “Well, I know this all must be pretty stressful to take in, but- oh goodness,” at that moment the pressure released off my body. “See, I am not here to hurt you. You really must come with me; I promise I will explain everything just as soon as we are safe. I looked at the door and decided escape was futile. This thing would just pin me down with his magic. I pointed to my mouth to indicate my need to speak. With just a blink, the Cat released my lips as well. “Before we go anywhere, I need to know who you are, and how you came to be. I have a life; I can’t just go hang out with some illusion my mind created.” “Master, surely your closest ally, and student, does not strike you as mere illusory tricks. This must be some kind of spell.” “I have never met you before, much less, experienced anything half so crazy as these last 12 hours.” “Look, I’m sorry, but I insist you come with me.,” with that she spoke a few syllables, and suddenly we were pulled upward in a spiral. I saw the full spectrum of color stretch out and lose pigment. The very fabric of reality was coming apart and flowing back together violently. My stomach felt like we were falling from the top of the roller coaster. I was freezing at one moment, hot the next, and yet this all took place in fractions of a second. The Cat landed on its feet suddenly, too suddenly. I hadn’t expected the floor and came tumbling down hard and rolled a few yards. “Here, in my realm, I can certainly feel the dark energy cast on you. Come with me, hopefully, we can undo this sorcery.” I barely gained my bearings again, but the cat, whose name was Midnight, was quite insistent that we move forward. He seemed uneasy about the source of this spell he was convinced I was under. We traversed a great desert of this odd-smelling sand. It was a dull grey color and rocky. Something was familiar about that, but I couldn’t quite place it, so I tried to forget about it. Midnight directed my attention to the tower, and I stopped in my tracks. There was something far too weird about the way it was designed, and I don’t know what came over me, I pounced on the cat. “What the hell is that tower; where are we!” Midnight began opening her mouth, but all that came out were meows. Everything went black, except Midnight. Midnight was turning a deep crimson red with bright yellow eyes, and she grew to be enormous instantly. She lifted a huge paw with impossibly sharp talons fully exposed and swiped at me, except before she could tear through me, I fell through the ground as if the Earth tore apart under my feet. I began squeezing my fists and my eyes shut tightly and let out a blood-curdling scream. At that moment, I knew I was going to die, and so I continued to scream until blood flowed from my mouth. Once again, I sat up in bed covered in a pool of sweat, only this time my cat, Midnight, was standing atop her scratching tower, where her food tray was bare. I had been in a nightmare. My face fell into my hands, at the edge of tears and I just let reality wash out the taste of the nightmare left on my body. I brushed the blankets aside and swung my feet out to the side of the bed. I chuckled to myself while I considered the absurdity of my dream. With a big grin, I jumped out of bed, and I felt it between my toes. It was cold and crunchy, and I opened my eyes wide, and let out a huge grunt. I jumped right into the used kitty litter, and I wished I returned to the nightmare.

The old woman stood at the glass case, thumbing a folded up five dollar bill in her hand. At last the line had moved forward enough for her to see half-gone trays of pastry delights, all neatly labeled with colorful cards and cheerful designs. So many options to choose from, but she knew what she wanted. She let out a sigh of relief to see there were still a few of her choice left, all pink and red frosting with heart sprinkles. “Hello ma’am, what can I get you?” The cashier barely looked at her, but she didn’t mind. The little shop was packed near to bursting for the grand opening. “I’ll take the romance cookie, please!” It was then that the cashier fully noticed Rose, the little woman bundled up in her threadbare housecoat and silk headscarf. “Ma’am, can I interest you in a Youth Pop?” “No thank you, sir, just the cookie please!” She replied with more grace than she felt. Young people. They always thought old people wanted to feel young again. Maybe some did. Not her. There was only one thing she wished she could feel again. “It’s my anniversary,” she whispered, but the cashier had already taken her money and bustled away to the far case. When he returned she thanked him with more sweetness than he deserved. With the craft paper package in hand, Rose navigated through the throng of incoming customers to the street again. Her feet ached, but the fresh air was a nice change from being cooped up inside like she usually was around this time of year. April was the month Marty had died, five years ago almost to the day. Usually she spent the month in isolation. If she was honest with herself she spent most months in isolation, but this year she felt... different. Instead of turning on Memorial Street, like she usually did every April, Rose paused and looked up at the street sign. A little further down was another street, one she hadn’t visited in a long time. Perhaps she would. With joints that protested every step, she couldn’t decide if haste made her little trip worse or better. Maybe she should have gotten that Youth Pop at the shop after all. With a determined grimace she powered on. Garden Street soon came into view. It’s tall lamp post street sign hadn’t been replaced since the first time she’d seen it, nearly fifty years before. She followed the sidewalk until her destination finally came into view. City Arboretum. Memories rushed back to her in a flood, sweet memories of springs that weren’t as lonely as they were now. White blossoms littered the lush lawns, kites billowed up in the breeze, and young families picnicked on heirloom blankets. It was just as she remembered it. So happy. So full of love. It took some time to find their old bench, but she did. New paths had been paved, and new benches put in, too, but despite years of wear she still found it. Marty’s carved handi work was mostly filled in now with grime and dirt, but it was still there on the back of the slatted bench. *M+R FOREVER.* She ran her fingers over it cautiously, feeling a wave of unexpected emotions as tears sprang to her eyes. For a moment her feet started to point towards the exit again seemingly of their own accord. She stopped. Her knees ached. Her feet protested. Begrudgingly Rose sat down. Despite fighting the aches of her walk, she couldn’t help but smile. So many beautiful memories of the old bench came back to her. It was then she realized she didn’t need to feel young again, nor did she need the little cookie she’d ventured out just especially to get. She could celebrate her wedding anniversary without it. Hours passed. The cookie remained untouched. Rose stayed, happily soaking in the rays of the sun for the first time in what seemed years. She said hello to every passer-by, and pet each cute little doggie that reminded her of dogs long passed. No one noticed when the kindly old lady with the silk headscarf never opened her brown paper bagged treat. “It’s my anniversary,” she told every young couple. They cooed and congratulated her, but never asked what anniversary it was. No one stayed to listen. No one noticed when her eyes shut, a gentle smile on her face. In her daydreaming Marty sat next to her, holding her hand just like the old days. She re-lived the time they snuck through the arboretum at night and canoodled, trading boozy kisses far past curfew. She couldn’t think of this place without remembering taking their wedding photos in the spring blossoms, and bringing their first puppy to play with the other neighborhood dogs at this same bench. This time she didn’t fight tears. She embraced the simple joy of living in those moments for a last time. No one noticed when Rose breathed her final breath of sweet, fresh air, but that was alright. It’d been the best day she’d had in years.

Listen, I don’t know where to begin. I don’t even know how we got here, to be honest. But here we are, and we sure as hell aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. So we might as well make the best of it. Here, take a cigarette. I’ve got a few left. I guess you’re probably wondering why it happened. Well, why does anything happen? Just dumb fuckin’ luck, usually. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I was just a down-on-his-luck construction worker looking to make some extra cash so I could pay my rent in the winter - construction slows in the winter, you know. Anyways, maybe in hindsight it was all a bit too good to be true, but that’s not what I was thinking at the time. I wish I had. But where I should have been seeing red, I just saw green. The job seemed simple enough: all we had to do was dig. Dig a few holes out in some worksite in the desert, and walk away with two hundred bucks in cold hard cash, every night. That was the catch, though - we could only work at night. The boss said it was because the sun was too hot out there during the day, and we’d be risking heatstroke if we worked while it was still shining. That sounded reasonable enough to me. So I get out there on the first night. There are five other guys out there with me - four with shovels, like me, and another guy there to supervise and tell us where to dig. Each hole had to be at least five feet deep and five feet wide. We spaced out far enough so we wouldn’t bump into each other and got to it. It wasn’t until I was about two feet deep in sand when I realized I had no idea what I was digging for. Maybe some kind of cables were being laid through this spot. I asked the supervisor guy. I didn’t get an answer - he told me he’s paying me to dig, not to ask dumbass questions. I guess he was sort of right. Some private company must want to keep this project quiet. So I played along, and kept digging. After about twenty minutes, we all started to finish up at roughly the same time. We climbed back up to level ground, one by one, and waited for this guy to finish his cigarette and come point us to the next dig site. I watched the lit end of the smoke burn down closer and closer to his fingers - it was just about all I could see in the darkness. He took his time, anyway. When he finally finished he came to inspect our work. He looked into each hole for a minute or two, like he was looking for something in the bottom. Finally when he was satisfied, he told us to fill the sand back in and start digging another hole a short ways away. For a second, we protested. What was the point in undoing the work we just did? But, again, no answers came - no dumbass questions, just digging. So we did as we were told. I, for one, needed the money more than I needed my curiosity satisfied. We dug for about two hours before packing in for the night. Before we left, the supervisor handed us each a couple of crisp hundred dollar bills from a large brown envelope. A hundred dollars an hour was enough to keep my mind on other things - a couple nights of this and my rent would be covered for the month. A few weeks, and I’d be set until summer. So I came back the next night, and the next, and the next. For a while, it was the same - dig a hole, call down the man, fill it in, repeat. The only thing I could figure was that they must be looking for something out here. But what could it be? Buried treasure? Did that tight-lipped bastard ordering us around have a map with a big red X on it, pointing him to this shithole? Whatever it was, apparently we weren’t finding it fast enough, because after a week there were five more shovels and one more cigarette burning in the distance. So our progress was doubled, and we reorganized twice as many grains of sand each night. But the money kept coming, so there wasn’t much to complain about. I had my days to enjoy my new cash flow, and we weren’t working long enough hours to lose much sleep over. I think it was the eighteenth night in the desert. I was onto my third hole of the night. I guess after a while, the monotony started to get to me or something, because I just couldn’t stop thinking about what could have drawn whoever was paying us to look out here of all places. I heard one of the other guys say that this whole area used to be a mountain chain, but over the years the peaks were battered down to sand by the elements. Doesn’t seem like the kind of place anything interesting would be buried if you ask me. But as I was thinking, I guess my body kept digging on autopilot - I was six feet deep by the time I snapped out of it. I could have climbed out and called one of the supervisors over, but something felt different about this hole. As I stood and looked to the bottom of the pit I had dug, something told me to keep going. I can’t explain it... but I had come that far, and I felt like my work wasn’t finished. So I dug the blade into the sand again, and again, not stopping to measure how deep I was going. Of course, the other nine guys had stopped at five feet like normal, so when the cigarette cherries died out and the supervisors came down to check our work, both of them stopped to gaze down at me. One of them asked me why I hadn’t stopped. I told him; something was down there, I could just feel it. I expected him to call me a dumbass again. But to my surprise, he actually called out to the other diggers and told them to drop what they were doing and come over to expand the area I was working on. I hardly noticed them joining in, honestly, that’s how focussed I was. Almost like I was in some kind of trance. I just kept digging and digging, that feeling pushing me to go deeper and deeper beneath the surface of the sand. We must have spent an hour working like that - me digging deeper at the center, the others widening out the walls. Not that any of us kept track. We were all lost in the work. But all of a sudden, I felt a solid clang when I pierced my shovel through the sand. I had struck something, probably a rock, big enough to not budge in the slightest when I struck it. It sent vibrations through the shovel and up my arm, snapping me back to reality for the moment. I looked up and could barely believe my eyes: we must have dug twenty feet deep. How long had we been at it? I knelt down and started scooping sand away by hand so I could try and get that rock out of the way. I realized then that my heart was pounding. I felt anxious, like we were getting close to something big. I pushed the sand as fast as I could, trying to get to that rock - and then, there it was. Only, as I got the sand off of it, and the others noticed I’d found something, we realized it was way too big to be a rock. That, and the top was perfectly round. Like, unnaturally round. Like it was artificial. Manmade. The supervisors called out for us to call it a night. I have to say, it was tough to walk away from what we’d - what I’d - found. I kept looking back at it as we packed up to leave. Hell, I almost forgot to stop for the money I earned. All of a sudden that wasn’t why I wanted to be out here. I just had to know what that thing buried in the sand was. I thought about it all night. I don’t think I slept four hours, and when I did I think I dreamt of the thing. If it was some kind of artifact, shouldn’t some professor type guys be digging it up? Arachnologists or whatever? I guess that didn’t matter, because now I was the one doing it. And now I was invested. The next night I got there almost an hour early. I had to do a double take - since last night they’d put up one of those aluminum sheds that take no time to set up. I guess now that we couldn’t fill the holes in to keep our work secret, this was the next best thing. At least it hid what went on inside. Even though I was early, I wasn’t the first one there. I got to the door of the shed and the first supervisor was standing there, smoking a cigarette. He let me in - a few men were already digging, with supervisors standing at the edge of the hole and looking down on them. More diggers trickled in, and by the time they stopped coming I counted thirty of us with shovels, and six supervisors directing us. A few of us worked to uncover more of the object in the middle of the hole, and the rest of them kept widening the hole so we wouldn’t get trapped. It wasn’t long before we got a clue to what this thing was - as we dug down, we saw that the round top was just the tip of something way, way bigger. It was definitely manmade. Turns out it was some kind of pillar. On top it was carved into sort of an egg-shaped tip about two feet wide, and at the base of the egg there were some kind of decorative carvings - at least, they looked decorative. A flared base separated the top from the main pillar, which was almost a perfect cylinder. It was perfectly circular all the way around, and as we got a little deeper we started to notice it was flaring outwards ever so slightly as we got closer to the bottom. Not that we stopped to measure. We just kept digging, down, down, down, desperate to unearth this thing. And the deeper we dug, the stronger the urge got. We worked all through the night, way more than two hours. We hardly noticed the time passing. We just wanted to see what was down there. It was nearly sunrise when the supervisors had to tell us to stop. We were more than curious. We were determined. The next night, we were ready to start almost as soon as the sun went down. It seemed like there was no end to the thing - the more we dug, the bigger it seemed. Every night for a week, thirty-six men met under that sheet metal roof to see just how far into the darkness we could dig. Then suddenly, we struck something else. The pillar finally came to an end about forty feet from the top. What we found was that it was connected to a huge, flat platform, and this pillar marked a sixty-degree corner of it. Again we realized this thing was way bigger than we had imagined - it seemed obvious that the platform was probably a large hexagon if the other corners were the same angle, and they were probably marked with a pillar of their own. As our mental image of this thing grew, so did our eagerness to keep going. And our workforce had to grow, too, to keep up with the demand. It was delicate work, so we couldn’t use machinery - before long there were over two hundred people on site, working all through the night to expose this thing. Later I found out there were two hundred and sixteen; thirty-six supervisors, a hundred and eighty diggers. Bigger and bigger the hole grew, and every so often it got close enough to the walls of the shed that by the next night it had to be replaced with a bigger one. We got to the point where we were so deep in the sand that the heat of the daylight sun didn’t reach us, and the light wouldn’t penetrate the shed, so we couldn’t even tell day from night as we worked. So we worked through the days, too, with nothing to stop us. I don’t know how long we’d been working like that when I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d taken a break. I had no thoughts of stopping for food, water, or sleep - I felt no hunger, no thirst, and no fatigue despite digging for days without rest. It should have been a disturbing realization. But instead I pushed it to the back of my mind, forcing away any distractions to the process. Finally, after what must have been months in the desert, it was done. We could never have known the size of it when we started. It was on the scale of a football field or a baseball stadium. As we had guessed, the platform formed a huge hexagon, with each corner housing a pillar just like the first one we found. I think it’s called a dais - I heard that word in a video game or something. A big platform used for religious ceremonies and stuff. It definitely gave off a spiritual vibe. Not to mention the effect it had been having on us as we worked. It was hard to take it all in at once in the darkness - you could really only see a few feet in any direction. But once we had finished marveling at it, we kept shuffling around on autopilot. The compulsion to dig was replaced with something else - like a magnetic pull I was drawn to the center of the platform. I couldn’t see the exact center since I didn’t have the pillars for reference, but something was definitely drawing me in. I wasn’t the only one, either. Shortly after I got there it started to get crowded, as all of the diggers tried to reach that spot that was apparently calling to us all. The supervisors were up to something different. They had arranged themselves around us, six of them in a line, with each line radiating from the center out toward one of the pillars. I looked toward the first pillar we had dug up, and saw the original supervisor standing nearest to us, with five others dotting the space between him and the pillar behind them. The six supervisors that formed the ring closest to us was each still smoking a cigarette, and so I could just barely make out that they were each holding a piece of paper. I may not have heard it if I hadn’t seen his lips move in the dim light, but the first one began to read from the paper, his voice barely carrying across the room. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, it was just a dull rumble by the time it reached my ears. But every now and then he’d pause, and the other five would respond all at once, reading from their own papers. Their voices were calming, almost like a lullaby. I could have stayed there forever, I was so relaxed and content. But it didn’t last forever. The voices eventually stopped, and for a moment, there was complete silence. Then, in a quick motion, the first supervisor touched his paper to the tip of his cigarette. The paper burst into flames, and before he burned his fingers he tossed the page high into the air. The others immediately followed, and in the air all we could see were six fireballs floating in the darkness. I turned away in shock and pain, my eyes not used to the light - but the light didn’t care. It kept growing larger and stronger. The light of the flames seemed to activate something in the pillars themselves. They slowly started to give off light of their own, barely noticeable at first, but as the flames died the glow of the pillars grew and grew, until it became unbearable. Even with my eyes closed, the brightness made them hurt. Brighter and brighter, I was sure I’d go blind - then, all at once, darkness fell over us again. When I opened my eyes, the supervisors were gone. Me and the rest of the diggers were left on the platform, huddled at the center, wondering what had just happened. Slowly we began to realize just how strange everything had been up to this point - as we came back to our senses, we started to panic just a little. It was like coming out of hypnosis. Why had we been so obsessed? How long were we out here? And when was the last time we ate or slept? We figured the supervisors just went home for the day, so we might as well go home too. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been home, come to think of it. But we quickly realized that wasn’t an option. The entrance to the hole was nowhere to be found. The panic grew. Was this some kind of sick joke? How could we get out? Eventually someone noticed that they couldn’t even see the ceiling anymore. There was no sign of the shed that used to be there. But in the dark we couldn’t be sure. Someone else grabbed a rock and threw it upwards - in response, we heard the thud of the rock as it hit only sand. See, the place we’re in now, it’s not the same platform we dug up. It’s virtually identical in every way - same six pillars, same big hexagon. But we’re somewhere else now. This place, wherever it is, still has sand all around. It hasn’t been unearthed yet. That’s right. We’re underground. No way of knowing how deep underground, either. Now you’ve heard it, you know as much as we do. But we’ve got a few ideas. We figure whoever built these things, ages ago, must have figured a way to use them for transportation. Some kind of mystical understanding of the universe that got lost to the sands of time, literally and figuratively, along with their civilization. We dug one up, but wherever it sent us, there’s no way of knowing. We could be at the center of the earth for all we know. So all we can do is dig. Lucky for us, it seems like we still don’t need to eat or sleep. Or I suppose that’s unlucky, depending how you look at it. Obviously there’s something supernatural at work here, but at least it means there’s a possibility of getting out of here. How long’s it been? Well, you tell me. Every now and then, someone like you comes along who manages to transport themselves here accidentally - like I said, we don’t know how any of this shit works. It teleported us underground, who’s to say it doesn’t affect time too? But if the info we have from people like you is true, we’ve gone through a few presidents since I first got here. Down here in the darkness, though, with no sun to rise and fall and mark the days, time all kind of just starts blending together. So we dig. Some of us dig, still hoping we find a way out someday. Some of us dig because they don’t know what else to do. Some of us do it to keep from going insane. But it’s not all bad. We’ve got a few cigarettes left. Every now and then we’ll light one up and it lets us see how far we’ve come. We try to conserve them, though - only so many to go around. But you’re new here, so go ahead, feel free. I’ll have one with you. Call it a welcome to your new home. Just one question for you.

You could say he was an outsider, because he was all the wrong shape. The same shape, but different none-the-less. For starters, he was bigger than all the others, he ate more than them, was expected to live longer than them and had a wild sleeping pattern - making it difficult to meet the demands of their nocturnal raids every second evening. He would not give up even though he was still a lowly squire awaiting his induction into knighthood, because of his guinea pig upbringing. He was brought up by his furry guinea pig parents, only for them to perish fighting for the new world rodent peace pact - a raging war amoungst the rats, guinea folk, flying squirrels and porcupines alike, which ended in most of the other species of rodents to leave the Woden lands for the rats to capitalize on and build it into Rattingworth. This definitely separated him from all the other sir-rats surrounding him in the kingdom as Gawain the Guinea pig was left to Morgause and her critters as an orphan once the wars settled. “Gawain”, he heard from inside the Armory, “Come and attend sir Basil of Rattingworth immediately!” He made his way inside and saluted a few Rattingworth guard’s standing stoically, as best he could by grabbing the tufts of hair from his bottom and holding them to his forehead - a typical respected greeting in this part of the land, but it was birthed from obviously having the long rat-esque tails, which all the rats had for these types of pleasantries. Gawain was carrying a chainmail shirt and a wooden plated breastplate perfectly fitted for this specific knight, to dress him before the ceremony. He noticed that Sir Basil was chittering to the young rattish page boys, sitting on the floor and idolizing him with his broad toothy grin on his face and a mug of wine sloshing about in his gnarled left hand. He liked Sir Basil for his kindness, as this knight didn’t seem to mind the way Gawain looked and always specifically called out for him for special suiting up occasions. “Ah, Sir Gawain of Burrowin. How wonderful for you to come and visit an old shard like myself.” He said, while flashing his red-stained smile and clapping Gawain on the back. He always did make up funny highborn names for Gawain to be a knight of and this warmed him dearly. “Now you must tell me how you enjoy Lady Iso’s delectable vegetable broth... she said she just had to give you three servings so that you don’t starve!” Gawain slowly wound around the page boys on the ground and found the armoury’s writing desk to lean the heavy armour on. He cleared his throat and replied, “Very good indeed sir! Your mistress makes the best broth in the kingdom!” And this is where his stomach decided to unceremoniously growl. He looked at Sir Basil sheepishly (as if a Guinea pig could) and back down at his stomach. Sir Basil’s laughter boomed throughout the echoey chamber and with this satisfaction he downed his whole mug of wine and the page boys took this as a sign to run rat-boyishly out of the room. His crinkly aged eyes followed them out of the chamber and fell onto Gawain again, which relaxed the oversized squire. “Now then, lets suit up for the ceremony and see if we can get out of this war business eh?” He winked and beckoned Gawain over with his one good hand. Gawain dressed Sir Basil and shined his metal boots for good measure. Seeming satisfied as usual, Sir Basil gave him a respectful nod and marched to the door on the other side of the armoury, which led into the main courtroom where they were scheduled for today's proceedings. Before he grabbed the doorknob, he turned wildly around towards Gawain, so close that he felt his whiskers and smelled the wine emanating from his armour now and murmured, “Remember to chin up, pull your stomach in and be proud that you are different, but needed and that’s what gets us through this darn world in the end.” He had a sparkle in his eye that Gawain always remembered as a small guinea pig pup and he nodded at this old shard of a knight. Definitely having feelings of admiration towards him now. Sir Basil proceeded to open the door and they were both overshadowed by the greatness of the ceremonial court, stories high with crimson red tapestries clinging to the walls, which were shining with a stoney opulence. Gawain felt intimidated every time, as it was a court that he was usually barred from, but with these ceremonies everyone was invited - even the “lowly rats” from the south region. He followed a short while and took his place amoungst the other squire’s in their allotted pew, where they turned up their twitchy noses at him and shuffled a little down from him. They were always doing this sort of thing and he never decided if it was from fear or because they thought he was too different to them and jealous of the “special” attention. Sir Basil walked on and up towards the elevated stand, where he met with Lord Ambrosai of the Woden’s kingdom - in front of the large ceremonious gathering. Gawain couldn’t say what serious and ceremonious matters they were on about and felt his vegetable broth kicking in, giving him a bit of the sleepy eyes that could no longer focus on anything around him. What did catch his attention and woke him up was a sudden and violent crack at the wooden doors leading to the gardens and the whole gathering shuffled in their seats and looked around alarmingly, twitching their little noses towards the strange sound. Lord Ambrosai immediately rested his acorn sceptre that he usually paraded at these things on the ground and Sir Bazil stopped mid sentence. The doors blew open, making the wooden shards spray all about the sparking foyer, highlighting a silhouette of a parachute like membrane, stretching from wrist to ankle. This different rodent-like figure with her cape flapping in the outward breeze came strolling in. Merin had her best on today, as she sported a deep purple cloak with velvety orange slippers and had a saunter without a care in her step, through to the aisle towards the front. Sir Basil laughed to himself and grabbed another wine-filled mug from the grass-encrusted table next to him and started inhaling the liquid as if he expected all of this. Gawain had a feeling that he probably did and was always prepared. Lord Ambrosai finally announced, with an irritating edge in his voice, “Ahh, Lady Merin, enchantress of north Treetingwood. How lovely of you to join!” Sir Basil rolled his eyes, but still did a semblance of a bow towards her, which made him slosh some of the wine on the carpeted floor around him. Merin wrapped her cloak tighter around herself and pointedly stared her beady black eyes towards them both as if they were just puppets on a stage. Her orange velvet steps were sinuous and so was her voice which uttered, “You know why I’m here dear sirs. For you see I’ve needed that acorn sceptre - a family heirloom I might add - for far too long now!!” With the last words she smacked her lips closed and stopped in her tracks. The highlord handed this acorn sceptre that she was referring to, towards Sir Basil and he held it lightly in his good hard, while still playfully sipping from the mug in his bad one, without question. “Lady Merin,” he started again, while his hairy hackles began to stand on edge under his pompous frilly shirt, “This is not the time for such deep conversation...” “Deep conversation?” She cut in dexterously, “I’d enjoy nothing less!” and with that, she threw her cloak back and exposed her dangerously glowing hands, which seemed to signal a charge of similar flying squirrels to glide through the open windows and front door of the courtroom that she had already exploded open upon entry. Dressed in plain woollen dresses, very different to her own, the squirrel folk seized the ratfolk around the chamber, which made Gawain shoot up to his bare furry feet and make a still sleepy movement towards Sir Basil to act as some sort of protection. The rat squires around him looked pointedly annoyed at his freedom, while they sat in the clutches of their winged capturers, but he gallantly moved on. The enchanted squirrels couldn’t seem to get a grip on his mass even with their claws and so he batted them off of himself to stand next to the knight. Merin seemed frighteningly irritated at this and began storming her way through the wild crowd towards the three. Once her army of squirrels settled the crowds down with each lowly and highborn rat in a chokehold, she cleared her throat and set her purple electrifying magic from her hands unto the Lord and Sir Basil. The whole room of admirers and followers gasped at this scene, but did not dare move in their holds. Gawain felt helpless and scared, but she barely seemed to notice his large mass next to the highborn rats and she walked up to Sir Basil and plucked the acorn sceptre out of his hand - suspended in this purple magic, not even being able to move an eyelid at what had just happened. Her cloak brushed Gawain’s open toes and this made him automatically freeze like they seemed to be even though he wasn’t under their same spell. Merin moved towards him then and smiled a malicious smile as if she had just noticed him then, before turning to leave, but before she could round up her party to do so, a strange sound of high-pitched air sort-of trumpet filled the ceremony room and she paused. Gawain dropped his furry hands to his belly and looked awkwardly down at it. She however did not look amused about his passing of gas, even though the entire room filled with chittering laughter at this. If he didn’t feel like the attention wasn’t on him, he felt it now as the waves of laughter seemed to anger her more and she pointed her sceptre at his grumbling belly. Before she could do any further damage, her eyes opened wide and she began foaming at the mouth. Gawain was totally shocked by this absurd response to his wind, however the air around him was filling up with a rather pungent vegetable-broth smell. She collapsed soon after and the purple magic that enveloped the highbord rats disappeared. The flying squirrels one-by-one also seemed to shake her grip from their minds and all joined in with the laughter their previous captives were still enjoying around that funny and absurd sound. Lord Ambrosai and Sir Basil gave Gawain a shocked look even though their eyes wanted to smile through it all. Sir Basil clapped the large Guinea pig on the shoulder and muttered, “Must have been the missus’s vegetable broth giving your old stomach some trouble eh?” and he flashed that fatherly smile he usually did. The Lord shook himself straight and reached for the sceptre lying next to the sorceress, who was in her own farty trance on the floor. He regained his place and looked out to the sea of furry faces, rats and squirrels alike. “Thank Burrowin’s children, we and the acorn sceptre are safe!” The crowd whooped and cheered at this in jubilation. He then rounded Gawain’s other side and both Sir Basil and him lifted both of his hands up to the crowd for all of them to cheer him on. “And thank this brave um...” He thought for a second and whispered to Gawain, “What are you exactly little or rather, large sir?” Gawain looked down quickly and muttered, “A guinea pig my Lord.” “Sir Gawain of Burrowin to be exact.” Sir Basil chimed in.” And this brought some amusement to the old Lord's face. “Let’s thank Sir Gawain of Burrowin for being the smelliest, but also the bravest rodent there ever was!” The crowd chimed together. “Hear, hear!” and carried on their whoops and cheers, which made Sir Gawain the Outsider feel pretty at home in this kingdom.

Recently I woke in a city park. It is very cold here and everyone looks miserable. There is some relation of hopelessness in the eyes of passersby, yet it is relayed with confidence. Sometimes even swagger, I suppose. They are at home in their misery. Is this how I feel? Is this how I look? So many memories are lost to me this time. How do I know such things and how do I know where I stand in relation to them? I suppose these are the questions of life. Still, the interest builds. I do not know how old I am or how long I have been like this. Did I know my childhood before? Was it recent? How old do I even look? I am afraid to find out. Maybe next time I will think myself young again. Something of hope is helpful in my journeys, like a dim candle to illuminate a distance forward. I am not sure how I know this, but it rings true. I will permit this hope to stay. Exploration offers reward, so I explore. Perhaps the reward will be mundane, but just as well will it be rewarding. Someone of little material and value as myself would be hard pressed to find any reward malignant. Anyone should be hard to find a reward malignant, I suppose. Does cold have a way to clean the air, or does it rob the lungs of something to give the illusion of cleanness? No matter. I enjoy such weather because the air feels free of polluted encumbrance. Why should it matter the source of this attribute? Upon inspection, it would seem my original assessment is correct. Destitution plagues the city. Whether affluent or poor, tall or short, each neighborhood treats interlopers with prejudice if they do not belong by shared purpose. Each prison intent on pursuing rivalry with some others in some way. How long it must take for anyone to leave them, to seek new life and grow, when such systems of feedback and reinforcement permeate the world. Such is madness. Such is life. I am searching for an embassy, an island of indifference where I may find sustenance if not shelter, when a curiosity skews my path. A woman walks alone with bread seeking others to share it with. I find myself approaching her. “You’ve seen better days. Would you like a sandwich?” Who is this silver in the night? I must have asked as I received her offer. She tells me she is no one, or at least this is what I hear. Something is different about her eyes. Have I seen this before? “Can I help you in any way?” Eyes of compassion. It has been so long since I recognized such a character. Posture confident but burdened, pained and sympathetic. Who are you, to contradict yourself with blazon grace? “I am anyone really, but most of all I’m me.” Have I heard her right? These words make no sense but carry weight. “I would like to know you.” She beckons me to join her. Conversation persists like a polluted river, perturbed and unclear, yet I am determined to discover her. I have found something of worth in the ashes of this place, who shines and knows her own value. I do not even know myself. What has she discovered that I have failed to? What has she understood that I cannot? “What do you think of the world?” We have been offering food to others. This is a regular route for her and others treat her kindly. “I think there’s a lot of pain. I think there’s not a lot of hope.” Both of these are clear to me, but it occurs that I have not often found another who opines such as myself. “What do you want to do about it?” “There’s a lot I want to do, and more that I wish I had done. Now I’m just doing what I can. I used to be a mother, but times are hard.” She is eager to share herself, and I understand her words with clarity. “What changed?” “I made a lot of mistakes thinking they were right. Anything is the right thing when it’s all you can think to do. This city is my home, but it was never home for my children. They each found their place, and I have to find my own way again. It’s hard to stop caring for others, though, after you realize it’s all you have.” “Why?” It seems the only method of preserving the dialogue. “Everything in the world is either broken or hurting. The most we can do is try to help people who are hurting. Maybe they can find a place to be at home, at least.” “What do you mean?” She takes her time before continuing. I begin to accept the silence as an old friend when she returns to me. Somehow there is more sympathy in her eyes. It is the sign of tension, forcing outwards a nature which would prefer internal safety and semblance of comfort. A familiar nature. “Anywhere you look, there is pain. It is all we see and all we talk about. An entire generation knows nothing but anguish. The other day, I heard that children set a homeless man on fire so they could share it with friends. A broken world is no place for children. They will grow to only know hurt, or become just as broken as the world that raised them.” Truth is often miserable. However, I find myself internally twisted. When conversation is so elusive, I cannot fathom the possibility of neglecting this instance. Yet it pains her to relay understanding to me. Is this the cost of wisdom? “All we can do is move forward. If I don’t see you again, I hope you find your home.” She leaves me some place, having guided me to a shelter. A certain quantity of time has elapsed without my knowledge. Am I leaving so soon? How long have I been here, anyways? \- I am not in a city this time. Far from any city, I think. The road I wonder is dirt and rock, reaching trees all around beg for sunlight to satiate their endless hunger. Am I a tree, now? Have I forgotten so much that my time among mankind is eclipsed by a new dawn? Something begs me forward. It is clear to me now that I am on the verge of death, a dangerous absence of water pains me in body and mind. Someone beckons me forward... Soon I wake in the company of another. A man of direct character, eyes beaming with interest. We are beyond the limits of a city, and the weather is fair. “Hello, wayward traveler. What inspired your movement here?” I seem to be in much better condition. This man seems to have committed himself to my safety. What effort did he exert for someone unknown to him? Who is this character who would make sacrifices for a stranger? “I am Herald. Who are you?” Did I speak just now? How long can I endure this misery? What do I even have of my past? I remember so little this time. If the past is constantly taken from me then what is any future worth? “Slow down, now. Take your time.” *Has he heard me?* “Yes.” His answer is haunting. It interrupts the procession of thoughts I knew to follow. That would have followed. Now my mind is vacant but for a singularity. One connection, between my mind and the world outside. His eyes are intent on knowing me. “Who are you?” I manage to speak. “Patience, my friend. I see there is much work to do. Please, speak yourself.” An arrangement that taunts me. There is something beneath, I can tell with slight focus, but it is obscure. What does he seek from me? Of course! How could I be so dense? “I am me.” “Yes. A very good start. What is meant by that?” He teases me with the slightest progression of conversation. It is a treat to indulge a progression I have been missing. “I have been me. I will be me.” Is this correct? It seems to follow but I fall short of understanding it. “Precisely. You are well traveled, friend. That has certainly left you wise. I have observed many others to fall short. You are the quickest to make the first leap, friend.” He calls me friend, and I know he speaks truth. Something of understanding accents his words which is redoubled by his eyes. A smile rewards my inspection. Herald continues to speak, “Take your time, friend. Lead me to your next question.” Who is this person? Is he a daemon, who captured understanding without earning it? A god who has decided to confront and mock me? I should think not, for I have no reason to. He has offered one truth foremost. He is a friend. “What is the first leap, companion?” My words do not come out precisely as intended, but they are precisely meant. “It is the first thing to know, which implies understanding thrice.” Something awakens from a recession of my mind that was distantly known to me. A curiosity of intensity I never experienced before. This feeling is the most certain I have ever known. Before I permit myself to analyze it the force commands me forward. “The first known is me, I know myself. But I do not understand. You mean something further, do you not?” “Indeed. Can you tell me what it is?” The curiosity fades, but does not return to whatever chasm it was drawn from. I find myself scrutinizing the question. My mind has never been so resolved. It has never been so quiet. “Take time and rest. My home is just along the path ahead. Come when you are ready, friend.

The Water Babies She has become my shadow; haunting me with her dark, mournful eyes, huge in her pale face. Her withered body, that glides rather than walks, and skeletal hands, twisted into hooked claws. She never says a word but she’s always there, those glassy orbs in their shadowy sockets, boring into me whether I dare to look at her or not. * Kate and I had always loved the water. We could swim before we could walk. Mum called us her “water babies” and the house was full of photos of us at different ages but almost always in the water. Our parents were always really supportive, both encouraging and enabling us to fulfil our potential. One or other, or both, of us won every award offered at our local pool, going way beyond the “rescue a rubber brick in your pyjamas” level. It was then that our instructor suggested we make the most of our talent and train to compete at county level. We were the youngest pupils ever to do so. From that point on, if we weren’t asleep or at school, we were in the water. * I don’t look at her but I know she’s looking at me. She’s always looking at me. I go to the wall to do a few warm-up stretches, hoping that her stare won’t follow me. Before I tilt my head to see her in my peripheral vision, I know she’s looking. I can feel it. She never moves or makes a sound but she’s always there. * Long course, short course, solo, relay, breaststroke, backstroke, butterfly or crawl, we were fast and sleek like minnows in our matching silver swimming costumes and we were never out of the medals. We even earned a slot on local television, named “The Water Babies” after Mum’s nickname for us, where we promoted the sport and encouraged everyone to learn this life-saving skill. I can only remember one race that we didn’t finish because whether we were swimming with or against each other, we had an almost telepathic awareness of where the other was. It was my fault. I should have known better than to eat before a race but I missed lunch and I was starving. One sandwich I might have got away with but secretly wolfing down two was asking for trouble. The starting pistol fired and we were away. The first length was okay; Kate was out in front of me but I was making good time. As I kicked off the side into the second length, I was gripped by terrible stomach pain. I knew what it was but I’d had it before and just pushed through. But this time... The next spasm took my breath away. My body doubled up and my gaping mouth started to take in water. I couldn’t wave my arms, I couldn’t shout, I couldn’t even breathe. Nobody seemed to notice, watching the clock and caught up in the action. Everyone was looking at the leaders who were at the other end of the pool. Even the lifeguard! My body stopped writhing and I felt myself sinking. My life didn’t exactly flash before my eyes but I did feel a sudden sense of peace. If I was going to die here, now, at least it would be doing something that I loved. I could- Kate’s face was suddenly in front of mine, her wide brown eyes full of fear. I opened my mouth but only managed to swallow more water. She hooked her arms under mine and kicked off the floor of the pool. The journey back to the top seemed really slow, the way that time elongates in a risky situation, but I remember feeling safe in my sister’s hold. As soon as we broke the surface of the water, the silence was shattered by shouts and screams and strong hands lifted me up to the side of the pool where I vomited and coughed up all the water I had taken in. I could hear my father berating the lifeguard, as well he might, but Kate was the first one who knew I was in trouble. My twin sister saved my life. * She is relentless. Being haunted all day, every day, is hard enough but the night is worse. Trying to sleep when you can feel yourself being watched by this pale ghost is almost impossible. I try not to peek at the lifeless eyes, the grey hollow cheeks and the blue lips open in an endless silent scream but just knowing that she is there, feeling impotent rage radiating from her, is enough to keep me awake. She may not be resting in peace but neither am I. * As if swimming virtually 24/7 was not enough, when we were teenagers, Kate and I decided to add a little variety and start diving too. It was the refresher we needed and we were in and out of the water like a couple of kingfishers. By now we were already winning at county level swimming events so it was good to have some new skills to learn. And to show off in front of the boys. Our parents thought, probably hoped, we wouldn’t have time for boys but, as they say, love finds a way. We weren’t competing against them so we had time to loiter in the stands and admire them. And vice versa! My eye was caught by a lean, blond Adonis named Sam. He was gorgeous and he knew it, preening and posing poolside. Kate laughed at both him and me but I was hooked. Her attention was focused on a taller, darker guy called Tom. Even though we were twins, we had very different tastes in men - or so it seemed. We finally plucked up the courage to talk to our crushes and soon we were both dating. As our boyfriends were both swimmers, our relationships didn’t detract from the sport and as both seemed to be, in Mum’s words, “nice enough boys”, our parents didn’t object. Kate and Tom didn’t seem too serious; they were both happy to flirt with other people. However, Sam and I got very close, very quickly and, despite, or maybe because of, the fact that he was my first proper boyfriend, I was totally smitten. For the first time in our lives, Kate and I were moving in different directions and it felt really weird, like we could no longer read each others minds. We didn’t let it interfere with our swimming though; we were still The Water Babies, “as thick as thieves.” That’s a strange phrase and, as it turned out, a very apt one too... I’m not sure why I was so surprised. Kate had been acting strangely for a while - and so had Sam. Perhaps I just didn’t want to believe it but Kate and Tom’s relationship was breaking down and both of them were now seeing other people. In Kate’s case, it was Sam! Although I loved him, Kate’s betrayal was harder to deal with because, well, we were twins who’d always been on each others’ side. I didn’t know what to say when I caught them kissing by the cloakrooms. So I didn’t say anything. Ignoring his smirk and her cry, I turned tail and, needing somewhere to think, I climbed to the top of the diving boards. It didn’t take her long to find me. Of course she knew where I would be. She was in tears, apologising profusely, saying that Sam had come onto her and it meant nothing but I didn’t even acknowledge that she was there, let alone grace her drivel with any kind of response. Desperate for a reaction, she changed tack. She adopted a nonchalant attitude, telling me that the faithless Sam was no great loss and, in fact, she had done me a favour by proving it. I remained silent. If there was one thing we couldn’t cope with, it was being blanked by the other. Unsure of what to do next, Kate retreated to the other end of the diving pool and waited. And waited. There was nothing to say. What words could possibly bridge that yawning chasm of betrayal? I stood and walked over to her, without knowing what I would do next. She tried to defuse the situation with a smile - and that was it. I pulled back my fist and punched her squarely in the face. I can never forget that last scream as she fell from the top board and hit her head - hard - on the one below. Her neck snapped and she dropped into the water, silent and still. * I hang my head in shame, trying vainly to offer penitence. I hope that she can read my face, see the sorrow in my guilty countenance. Looking into her eyes, I wish she would at least acknowledge me. But there’s nothing. Worse than nothing. A vacant, thousand-yard stare. * To bury her body and mourn her may have brought some kind of closure. But Kate didn’t die. Instead, she now lives in limbo between life and death; brain-damaged and paralyzed but still drawing breath. She doesn’t need a finger to point or a voice to condemn. Everyone knows who the villain of the piece is, the one who stole her sister’s life and now appears to carry on as if nothing has happened. Still swimming, still competing - the heartless bitch! But I don’t know what else to do. Kate is now my eternal accuser and I feel myself chained to her lifeless body, dragging the weight of condemnation everywhere I go, all of the time. Mum and Dad bring her along to the swimming events, hoping that she can get something, anything, from what was once the centre of her life. Tucked up in her wheelchair, her head lolling, her eyes rolling and drool dripping from the side of her mouth, it’s impossible to tell what she makes of it. Where I always used to know what she was thinking, now there’s just a terrifying void. My twin has become the dead version of me or I, the live version of her. If I hadn’t pushed her off that diving board, she’d be doing everything I am doing or will ever do; get married, have children, even an Olympic win. Kate will be the spectre at my every feast. Mum asked if Kate could ‘sleep’ in the same room as me, to provide company and a familiar environment for her during the long, dark hours of the night. How could I say no? I lay in bed, trying not to look at her looking at me. Can her staring eyes actually see me? Can she think? Can she feel? I no longer know but I hope to God she can’t do any of those things. She could live another fifty years like this and when Mum and Dad have gone, it will be my responsibility to care for her, my due penance. The doctors have warned us that when her death comes, it could be slow and painful as, ironically, she may drown from the fluid built up in her lungs. The worst thing of all is that I know she wouldn’t want to exist like this. Her silence screams it at me. The horror is not that I killed my sister - it’s that I didn’t. And that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

The year is 0: Man takes the first breaths of conscious life The year is 75: Children of the first man have figured out working together is easier than competing. The year is 200: Descendants of the first man have rose to 1000 strong! The year is 500: Descendants of the first man have spread and found their niches in the world. Some have begun worshipping ancient people as gods. The people have forgotten how long it has been since the first descendant was alive. The year is 1000: Kingdoms have become prevalent thousands of people pledge themselves to the king. The year is 1100: Kingdoms have made contact with one another and began trading, traveling, fighting, and religion. The year is 1500: One kingdom has figured out advanced warfare tactics and calls 1,000,000 people citizens. They will bring their might to the rest of the world, the name of this kingdom is Ascadia, and they speak Ascadian. The founder of this nation has been lost to time. The year is 2000: Ascadia is the latest kingdom on earth with a territory spanning from sea to sea. Time’s are good people are happy, they are no longer religious, nor scholarly due to prosperity. There are now 10,000,000 souls in the Ascadian kingdom. The year is 2100: Ascadia has coincidentally discovered inflation. Economic strain and stress from the size of the landmass are straining resources. The people have taken to a new religion. The year is 2105: The financial strain was too much, Ascadia has collapsed. The year is 2106: The people of Ascadia no longer feel protected and begin to isolate themselves, the massive Ascadian capital of Ashmogdu has been abandoned, services have been halted, food from the souther region has halted due to bandits and lack of resources. The people of Ascadia are starving. The year is 2110: Certain wealthy villa of Ascadia have offered protection to small villages in exchange for food. Feudalism has been invented. New territory lines are beginning to form. The year is 2200: The people are illiterate, former Ascadia has been split into innumerable amounts of smaller territories. Borders are now enforced, people tend to live and die in the same area they are born in. The former Ascadian language has slowly split into multiple languages derived from Ascadian, a person in the western part of the former Kingdom will have a hard time understanding if not impossible to understand a person from the east despite the fact their ancestors spoke the same language. Public education is long gone and the feats of the Ascadian empire are almost mythological, people living near old Ashmogdu now look at the architectual feats of the old kingdom in wonder of how they built them. Not much history is recorded due to illiterance. Religion plays a major role in the people’s lives. The year is 2500: Smaller nations have begun to form coalitions and form together. Large nations have began educating the population in cities. The people are beginning to prosper in their respective nations. The Ascadian-derived languages are unrecognizable at this point. Numerous wars break between the nations each vying for more power, there is little technological advancement. The people cling to religion. Times for those not in large cities are dark, education is not provided and raids from foreign invaders are plentiful. Five nations have become prominent; Karsagh, Mogdu, Kingdom of Asher, Hutarii, and the Kingdom of Lawencia. The mogdu are the most fierce fighter, Karsagh is very economically gifted, Hutarii is the religious capital of the world, the Kingdom of Asher has their coffers overflowing from expansive trade, Mogdu looks for truth in the ancient ways of the old ones, and the Kingdom of Lawencia has very valuable resources coveted by the other nations. The year is 3000: There are no small nations, the population has risen to 200,000 on the continent the people do not know it but hey have outlasted the old ones. There is more diplomacy between the nations, they decide to work together. The people in this kingdom are happy but still isolated, there is not as much danger and life is good. The year is 3010: Technological advancement has allowed for long range communication through roadways between nations and connecting cities. The people are less isolated and long range travel is now possible. The people hold religion in their hearts some dedicate their lives to it. Sharing of ideas between nations has become commonplace, many technological advancements are made. The year is 3070: A scholar has created a machine that allows for quicker production of goods, an Industrial revolution has started! The world now boasts one million souls. Religion is still prominent. The year is 3154: A person has created a machine that allows for more convenient travel. These are considered toys for the elites. The people are amazed by this. The year is 3180: The machine has become common for regular people, long range travel is commonplace, people are no longer bound to the town of their birth. The year is 3500: The world is more prosperous than ever before, there are 5,000,000,000,000 people, technical advancements have allowed for technology beyond their wildest imagination. More people live in the sprawling cities, goods are now very conveniently gotten at community markets, the people are free to travel where they want when they want as long as they are productive for society. Life is very good and more prosperous than ever before, any history of the first descendant is shrouded in mystery and forgotten to time, the origins of man has become the greatest question asked in schools. The people have little care for religion, more and more people are rejecting the idea of schooling. They have made it farther than any civilization that came before them on this planet. Life is good. The year is 3550: Weak people have been elected to the governments, less focus on the common man is given, greed is vast. The five nations are spiraling towards depression. The people have began following a new religion. The year is 3570: The people have lost faith in their governments and have begun to fully reject schooling children are born illiterate and taught from knowledge their parents remember from their schooling. The governments are scrambling to take control back. Less people are being schooled to run the complicated systems that an advanced civilization requires, things look grim and the cities are being abandoned. The new religion has taken a solid stronghold. Life is dark and uncertain. The year is 3650: Knowledge on how to run the power systems has been lost, long range communication and trading is no longer possible. Without this, the people are forced to sustain for themselves. As long range food transport becomes harder with less resources and more desperate families have taken to banditry, food transport has stopped. Many die, urban places are all but abandoned, those in rural areas experience an influx of squatters. Nine of ten citizens die very quickly. Society has collapsed. The year is 3700: People are born and die in the same place. Families are isolated, formerly a neighbor could live half an hour from them but now someone that lives half an hour away is a foreigner. The respective languages have begun to form dialects and understanding people from different areas becomes harder. The people cling to religion. Life is dark. The year is 3900: The people are now completely illiterate, each family speaks their own language. Understanding others has become almost impossible, the ways of the ancestors are gone. Religion is strong, the people are strong, life is tough and they get tougher. The children are taught stories of mechanical monstrosities built by the old ones that snatch naughty children. Stories of the founding father of their respective nations have become mythological with stories of them doing fantastical feats of strength. Due to illiterance, not much history is recorded anymore. Isolation continues, trust in others is gone. The old languages of their ancestors are indechiperable. This continues for countless years. ... ... ... ... ... The year is 0: Man takes the first breaths of conscious life. ... ... ... The year is 1000: The people of this world marvel at the monuments and statues their ancestors have built and wonder how they could have possibly built this. ... ... ... The year is 2000: Numerous technological advancements have been made. The world is at 7,000,000,000,000 souls, the people stare at the pyramids and monuments their ancestors have built and wonder how they could have possibly built any of it. Life is good. ... ... ... The year is 2020: Knowledge of the ancient continent of Pangea has been common knowledge for a long time. The pyramids and monuments of the people’s ancestors are still a marvel and assumed to have been built after the breakup of the supercontinent. Life is very good and more prosperous than ever before, any history of the first descendant is shrouded in mystery and forgotten to time, the origins of man has become the greatest question asked in schools. The people have little care for religion, more and more people are rejecting the idea of schooling. They have made it farther than any civilization that came before them on this planet. Life is good. ... ... ... ... ... The year is 0: Man takes the first breaths of conscious life.

“He is such an idiot”, said Dennis, my brother. It was the summer holidays, so he was living with us again. I preferred it when he was staying in London with Nan and Grandad. “Mind your language,” said Dad. I could tell that he wasn’t totally in control anymore. Dennis was almost as tall as Dad now. “But he can’t bring the stupid Airfix kit with him to the beach. He’s going to make a mess of things, he’ll lose pieces and get paint on everything,” said Dennis, “and it’s too bloody hot to mess around with plastics and glue on a day like this”. “I told you to mind your language,” said Dad without conviction. “He’s an idiot.” It was mum’s turn, “Dennis! Mind your language”. +++ It seemed that Mum and Dad were on my side, but when I tried to sneak the scale model of a Supermarine Spitfire into the beach bag, I was intercepted. “Luca, you’re not taking your model airplane with you to the beach,” said Mum, carefully placing the model, the small tins of enamel paint, the glue and brushes on the side-table. “Why not?” The world suddenly seemed very unjust. “Because we’re going to the beach”. Her argument was lost on me, so I complained loudly and emphatically, but there was no shifting her. I was corralled out of the apartment down the stairs and out onto the forecourt of our block of flats on Birkirkara Road. Dad seemed in a foul mood. “Just stop complaining and get in the front seat. You’re sitting on your brother’s lap”. The back seat was crammed with beach stuff, Dennis’s fishing rod, mum and my little sister, Alice. I wouldn’t have to sit on the hot plastic seat cover, but on the other hand the seating arrangement meant that my head would be pressed up against the windscreen all the way to Armier Bay. In the blazing hot morning sun. “Did we bring the football?” I asked. It was like a cauldron outside. The world seemed bleached by the sun. Dust everywhere, the stray dogs were languishing in the shade of the carob trees. The construction workers had abandoned the building site next to our apartment building, so the earthmover was stranded like a dinosaur amidst blocks of stone, piles of concrete and sand. The donkey was neighing in the hut over by the Mintoff estate. The cicadas sounded like an army of buzz saws. The beach seemed like a good idea because there was nobody around to play football with up on the dirt and stone pitch. We crammed inside the Ford Cortina. I traced some spittle across the dashboard, and watched it evaporate in the heat. It left behind a white smear, which Dad rubbed away with a handkerchief. I could tell he was upset. “Do you think it has enough water?” said Mum, looking over her shoulder in the direction of the donkey as we drove off across the gravel. “Stop fidgeting!” said Dennis, surreptitiously driving a knuckle into my ribs, which only made me squirm more. “Luca! Stop it! I’m driving”, said Dad irritably. “and open the window, let the air in”. Hot air blasted against my face, and I had to squint because the sun was so bright. Mum and Dad were wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses, and looked they like movie stars, Dennis was wearing blue-tinted glasses and looked like a slightly sickly version of a pop star. Mum’s glasses were polarized, which meant that she could see me under water. At what age were you allowed to wear sunglasses? It was a mystery. “Damn!” Dad’s bad mood seemed to thicken. I noticed that he was always irritable in the morning. He smoked a lot, but he always seemed to cheer up when he was with Uncle Gareth or when sitting in the armchair watching the cricket on TV, or when he had a pint of cold beer in his hand. “Damn, Boris is following us!”. This was very exciting news. I craned my neck so that I could look out the back window of the car. Yes, indeed Boris, the black and white mongrel, was bounding along the edge of the road, chasing the car. We were already half a mile from home, and the dog was keeping up with us. “For God’s sake stop Bert!” It was Mum, she was upset. “The dog will die of heat”. “I’m not stopping. It knows its way back home”. Dad stepped on the gas, we sped through a roundabout, and I lost sight of the dog behind one of the ancient stone walls that lined the coast road that run up past Bugibba. “What are those strange white patches in the rocks over there,” said my brother. I couldn’t believe how ignorant he was, even though he was eight years older than me. Everybody knew about the ancient salt pans, swimming-pool sized carvings in the rock in which seawater was trapped, evaporated, and salt was harvested “Roman salt pans,” I said, “the salt really hurts your feet if you walk on them, especially in the hot sun”. I was feeling quite superior, all of a sudden and didn’t care that he’d seen Charlie George playing for Arsenal, or that he liked the Kinks, or that he’d smoked a cigarette in front of Mum. “Dennis is going to go red in the sun,” I piped up cheerfully. It was like this every time he came to visit us in Malta. His skin was a horrible pale color. He’d go lobster red, peel like a damaged vegetable, go freckly and brown, then he’d leave for England again and send us cryptic postcards that would upset Mum. When we got to Armier Bay, an old peasant man dressed in black directed us to park near the old wharf, which was a long distance from the beach, even though the parking lot was nearly empty. Uncle Gareth’s car was parked nearer the beach, and though he was dad’s boss, this seemed unjust. “What language do the Maltese speak?” asked Dennis. “English”, said Dad. “No, I mean what language do the speak when they are with their own kind?” said Dennis. Neither Mum nor Dad seemed quite sure. Today was Saturday. There would be a few Maltese on the beach, but mainly it would be the Service families, Brits, plus some hapless tourists. The Maltese used the beach on Sundays. Uncle Gareth had set up the tent already. He was there with Aunty Pamela and their twin sons, Peter and Paul, who were back from University. Dad said they were Socialists and Welsh nationalists, which made them sound very dangerous and just a bit dirty. “Burning English people’s holiday homes when they’re not around,” he told me, “and they speak in Welsh”. “Why?” “They want independence from the United Kingdom”. That sounded entirely unreasonable, even unnatural. The Union Jack was the best flag in the world. The twins both had long dark hair and beards, which I imagined made the heat unbearable. They were in the water, hairy-chests, standing in the shallows, talking, and I could tell they weren’t very good swimmers. I imagined that they were plotting the overthrow of the monarchy, right there and then, and decided that I should keep an eye on them. “Ow. Ow. It’s so hot”. I jumped from one foot to the other on the dirt of the parking lot. Dennis threw a pair of flip flops at my head. “Make sure you put lots of suntan lotion on” said Mum to Dennis, “I don’t want you getting burnt”. It was, however, a foregone conclusion that he’d get toasted. I was already “as brown as a berry”, according to Mum. “Carry this bag,” Dad gave me a heavy canvas bag full of beach paraphernalia. It smelt of warm rubber, wet towels, and of freshly made Cornish pasties, which I spotted in a Tupperware container, tucked beneath some swim fins. This was encouraging. “Well, I’ll be damned” said Dad, staring off into the distance. “You have got to be kidding me”, said Dennis, sounding like an American gangster. “That poor dog,” said Mum. Boris the dog was hurtling down the rough road toward the parking lot. The dog had run all the way to Armier Bay from Sliema. Dad reckoned it was five miles or more and mopped the perspiration from his balding head with his hankie. I was not at all surprised. “Maltese Pointers have a tremendous sense of direction,” I explained to my brother as the black and white mass of muscle barreled into Mum, knocking her against the car. Alice started crying. “Too hot, too hot”. In all the excitement, Mum had put her down on the ground without shoes on her chubby little feet. I grabbed Alice’s jellies and threw them at her head. Dad walloped me on the back of the head. “You stupid boy”. “What about Dennis? He threw flip flops at me?” We trudged toward the beach, the dog jumped about like a kangaroo. Patty was there with Eddy. Patty, who was Gareth and Pamela’s daughter, had false eyelashes and wore a bikini. She was bronze brown all over, and had a long, flat tummy which looked nice to touch. Eddy was Maltese and was the best swimmer in the world. Eddy always spoke in English. Patty and Eddy were going to get married. Dennis seemed upset by Eddy’s presence but perked up a bit - a lot - when he spotted Jenny. Jenny was Patty’s friend from England. She was pale, like Dennis, and was wearing an orange frilled bikini, which looked like it might slip off at any moment owing to the smooth roundness of her body. I’d long since fallen in love with her but Dennis had first dibs, being a teenager and a smoker and all that. I left them to it and went down to the water, which lapped warmly over my toes, and made my feet slip and slide on my flip flops. “I’m going for a swim,” I declared. Nobody was paying attention. Aunty Pamela held Alice while Dad poured water into mum’s hands and the dog went berserk lapping at the paltry offering. Dennis was already lying on a towel next to Jenny. Patty and Eddy went off to the lido to get ice drinks. Peter and Paul were plotting a revolution in the surf. Uncle Gareth looked like he’d fallen asleep in a deck chair, his enormous stomach was a massive shining orb that radiated heat. Nobody was paying attention to me. “I’m going for a swim” I said, this time a bit louder. The yellow sand, the turquoise water, darker green out where the seaweed patch grew. I could see small silver fish flipping around in the shallows. I would put a bit of bread in an empty Fanta bottle later, and catch one or two, and pour them into Alice’s swimsuit, but for now, there was nothing for it but to take off for an epic swim in the open ocean. Out to where the swordfish thrashed around in the deep dark blue water. There was a gray haze on the horizon. Mount Etna was erupting according to Dad. I sometimes found floating pumice stones in the ocean. Africa and the Sahara lay in the other direction, accounting for the heat and dust, according to Dad. Malta was just a barren rock in the blue sea, burning under the sun, according to Dad. I’d swim later, before lunch, when I could race Eddy or snorkel over the weed-bed or catch an Octopus or find a treasure. I needed witnesses. I went back up to the family encampment, digging my feet under the sand where it was cooler. “Look Dennis, look Jenny!” I said. I placed the football on a small pile of sand, backed up a few paces, and when I was sure that they were watching, I ran at the ball. I would kick the ball a mile or more and they would witness the most astounding feat of skill and strength, “Bobby Charlton!” I shouted. My toe collided with the sharp and heavy rock that was concealed in the pile of sand. The ball bobbled along the beach a few yards, and I collapsed in agony. When I looked at my big toe, it was like it belonged to someone else, ragged flesh, torn nail, blood oozed then gushed. Jenny was watching, so I tried not to cry, but within seconds I was surrounded by a group of adults, blotting out the sun. They evaluated me like a wounded animal. I whimpered like a wounded animal. Jenny looked horrified. Dad carried me back to the car. I could smell beer and tobacco smoke on his breath. Mum pulled Boris the dog with one hand, carried Alice in the other. Loose strands of blonde hair stuck to Mum’s sweaty forehead and neck. “But we’ve only just arrived. Can’t I just stay here and come back later with Uncle Gareth?” said Dennis, pleading his case. He was lugging a ton of beach stuff, including his unused fishing rod and the un-eaten Cornish pasties, and he looked very sore. “How are we going to get this all back into the car, including the dog?” asked Mum. “Please Dad, I’ll get a lift”, insisted Dennis. He probably wanted to hang out with Jenny. The hairy-chested Welsh twins were still arguing in the shallows, uninterested in my plight. It’s like that in revolutions... the fate of the individual gets lost in the bigger picture. It was so damned hot. The old peasant was sitting on a concrete wall, smoking a cigarette, wearing a black woolen jacket. He stared at me, blankly, but smiled at Mum. He was missing several teeth. “Do you think I can have a Pepsi?” I said. We were walking past the Lido. I could see iced bottles of soda pop glistening with moisture on the counter in the shadowy interior, near the foosball table. “Will everyone please stop their bitching and moaning!” said Dad, more irritated than usual, and that was saying something. “He’s a complete idiot,” said Dennis, firing a vicious look at me. Neither Mum nor Dad reprimanded him for his language. I made a mental note of this. Justice is a dish best served cold, according to Dad.

TW: suicidal ideation, self harm A bright day. Cloudless, the sun shining shamelessly in the sky. The light breeze brushing against my bare lips. Nothing blocking it. But I feel sick . I want to throw up. I act like everything's okay, nothing's wrong, sipping my Fanta calmly through a paper straw. Because across from me, my best friend Logan sits on a white plastic chair, smiling. An innocent and sparkling smile, a naked one. Not covered by a breathless mask or anything. The atmosphere is tight. It's awkward because we haven't seen each other in a while, I guess. "Hey, it feels weird outside without wearing a mask, huh?" he says. "Yeah," I reply. It becomes quiet again. "D-do you want to take a walk?" he suggests. "Oh, sure," I say, and we stand up from our table and start out on the pavement road leading into the park nearby. The grass is freshly cut, the trees trimmed. Other people, some with dogs, run or walk past us. I throw my empty cup and straw in the trash can. My head throbs as I walk. It's really quiet between us. I think it's because neither of us have got anything to say. And then, out of the blue, he asks "Are you okay?", his eyes averting mine, like he's talking to the ground. It's so out of the blue that my eyes water with the care and worry in his voice. And abruptly, I blurt out "No, not really." His head snaps up, actually surprised. I think I feel his eyes on me. "Oh, uhm, what happened, Jacob?" I flinch at the sound of my name. I honestly wonder why I do. And then my eyes water, I can't stop sniffing, what the heck, stop-Am I going to cry?-why now, no-wait, Logan- I burst into tears. It comes out suddenly, the tears pouring down my cheeks, my hands hastily trying to cover and wipe them up, trembling breathes, and Logan's there, Logan trying to comfort me, leading me away from broad daylight to a more shadowed place, asking me what happened, if I'm okay, patting my back. I sniff, the sniff full of snot, tears dripping off my chin, my wet hands clasped together. My head throbs. It's not the easy, sliding tears, today, for no reason, is the salty, stingy tears. When I manage to calm down, he softly asks, "What happened?" I shake my head. "Why?" he whispers. "It's pathetic," I croak out. "Nothing's pathetic, Jacob." "I'm not okay. I'm not okay at all." "It's okay that you're not okay." "But Logan, you don't even know HALF of it!" "So tell me?" "No. Fine. I-I think I really need to burst." "It's okay, I'm here. I'll listen." "A-alright. Don't freak out." "I won't." "I'm a freak." "You are not." "I am! I think I have depression. I'm so sick of it." "It's okay." "It's NOT! I'm sick of it! I'm sick of not being normal! I'm sick of thinking how much of a freak I am, how ugly I am, how stupid I am every time I'm sad! I'm such a coward!" "You're not." "YES I AM! I can't even self harm probably. I COULD ONLY DO IT WITH A PIN! A FREAKING PIN!" "Self-harm?" "Please. Please, help. I think I need help. I'm so sick of it. I'm so sick of this life." I sniff again, tears starting to stream down my cheeks once again. "I'm so pathetic. Why was I even born in this world? Logan, Logan, I-I don't feel okay." He hugs me tightly. "It's okay. It's okay." He whispers gently again and again. I sob into my hands. His care, was honestly too much. "I'm so sick of it, Logan...I'm so sick of having t-to think that I'm so ugly, t-that I'm so, so, no, that I'm such, a COWARD, why can't I just have been normal?" He pats me on the back. "It's okay, Jacob. It's okay. I'll help you. I'll do my best." I look up at him with wide, tearful eyes. "Really?" "Of course." And from that, I cry again. Because, his care is honestly too much. It's..overwhelming. He only hugs me back tightly, comforting me. When I finally calm down, the sky is a bit darker, the moon more stamped in the sky. Less people walking around. I feel so tired. My heart is a burden in my chest, my head feeling airy and light from the energy that was sapped from crying. My eyes sting. "We should go home," I say. "Yeah, it's getting dark," he agrees. It's quiet again. "Do you want to know the first thing I did when I found out my sister was dead?" Logan's older sister was in a car accident and ended up passing away. He was ten back then. For a while, he was quiet, staring aimlessly at the sky, absentmindedly. "It depends on what you did," I say. He lets out a breathless laugh. "I laughed." Before I can open my mouth, he continues, "Because of the shock." "Oh." "I care about you, you know." I almost start crying again. "You're my best friend, Jacob. I know this is selfish, but I don't want you to die. It was a horrible feeling, laughing. It was like a daze. I was aware that I was laughing, aware that the police weren't, aware that the police weren't joking. But I laughed. I know this is heavy. It's a burden. No matter how much you want to die, you're going to feel guilty because of me. But because I'm human, I have to ask you not to. Please. I'm sorry, but please." "I'm too cowardly to try to kill myself anyway." He hugs me again. "No, Jacob. You're not a coward, I promise you." "I'm sorry, Logan. For not telling you." "It's okay. You shouldn't be sorry." He squeezes my hand. I almost say sorry again, but I stop myself. It's quiet again. The blanket of silence that falls too easily. I stand up, Logan doing the same. "Let's go home." He nods. We start on the pavement road toward our houses, which are almost right next to each other. He says bye before turning to his door. I call out "Wait!" and he turns around. "I promise, Logan. I'll do my best," I say, and I can see him smile, and then nod before heading in. I turn, heading toward my own home.

It started to rain cats and dogs right after I left my small flat viewing the most crowded city of the town. I found the little gate to that garage which I had never seen before to cover. I didn’t know why I had the impulse to hit the little, steel door to open but I was content to be under a roof finally. While I was trying to get rid of the water drops on my jacket, something shiny caught my eye. It was all dark and due to the extreme dampness, I could figure out that this place hadn’t been visited for so long. I decided to approach that shiny object slowly as if I was cautious. I wasn’t, not at all. I had never been cautious or sensitive about anything in my life. I was very proud of describing myself as a “logical, brave and realistic person” which was just an excuse for me to ignore the very best part of life; my emotions. I was acting confident again to touch the shiny part of the object, the rest of which was in darkness. Suddenly it woke up with great tones of colorful stripes of lights and sound! She welcomed me with a soft voice “Welcome to the new generation cars with EQ! Are you ready for a bumpy journey?” I was stunned, maybe the very first time in my life. The cars with EQ? What did that even mean? Responding with a hesitating voice, I could say, “Hello, uhm...” I was really talking to a car! It was a familiar thing for me to interact with artificial intelligence and benefit from the new technology but I had a feeling that this car was far more than that. Couldn’t keep my fascination to myself and asked, “What do you mean by a bumpy journey?” “We are not talking about a journey that you are used to, sir. Human beings can face some difficulty in this journey where you are taken to the places you need to be at.” I tried to understand the things she said while trying to accept the fact that I was talking to a car at the same time. “I need to be at my office in 15 minutes. Can you take me there?” “You have good ears but poor listening skills, sir. We meant the places you need to be at, not the ones you are supposed to be at.” It took a moment for me to figure out what she could mean. “If you let me, I can take you to a journey that would change your life. We are designed for that.” I was in the driver’s seat when she finished her sentence. The lights were off now and even though I didn’t touch anything, we got out of the garage from the door at the back. Thanks to the daylight, I could see that I was in a classic car from the 60s which I had no control on at all. “You can keep your hands on the steering wheel if you feel bothered to draw any attention from the people around.” “Yes, let’s not stand out. I wouldn’t like people to think that I am crazy for driving a classic car like it is autonomous.” She responded like a psychologist. “We cannot control what others think about us, so let’s not torture ourselves with this burden for now. Can I have your name, sir?” “Martin. Martin Blackgoat.” “And my name is Sarah, pleased to meet you Mr. Blackgoat. Have you ever wondered about the origins of your surname?” I had a deep breath to stall to find an answer but I couldn’t. “I don’t think I am interested in my ancestors’ history at all.” “Understood. Have you been sleep deprived lately, Mr. Blackgoat?” How could she know that? “Your nervous system also tells me that you need to reconsider the daily amount of caffeine intake, sir.” “How can you know all these?” “The seat you are sitting on right now has the latest technology. I know far more than that but you don’t need to know any more of this for now, sir. We have three main destinations to go to, Mr. Blackgoat. Shall we start with the easiest one?” I was about to convince myself that I was in a dream when my colleague called me to get mad at me for being late to the meeting. I didn’t respond to the call and turned my phone off. “I don’t know what it means but take me to my first destination then Sarah, please,” I responded. While Sarah was going down the road for whatever reason I didn’t know, I felt the need to crack a joke. “Are you taking me to my ex fiance’s cookie shop to confront her for leaving her?” I thought this joke would sound funny but Sarah didn’t even react to it for seconds. “No, sir. You have already confronted your mistakes and accepted your faults when you wished for happiness when she got married to her current husband.” My jaw dropped. She knew about my life than I had imagined. “Obviously you have access to my memories. Can you also read my mind Sarah?” “I am able to, sir; but I am not doing it as I haven’t got your permission, yet. However, I have access to many parts of your brain such as the cerebral cortex, frontal lobe, hypothalamus, corpus callosum and so on. I can also assess the biological states of your organs and hormones that would provide me more information about your biological and mental state more than any other human being has ever attained throughout history.” I was supposed to be scared at this point most probably, but I somehow felt like a really good doctor was examining me and I had been longing for such help for a long time. When we turned right at the traffic lights, I saw the college that I had applied to and accepted to the Department of Fine Arts 20 years ago. “You can’t be serious Sarah, ” I mumbled. “We have arrived at the first destination, Mr. Blackgoat. You have as much time as you wish to go in and reconsider the decision you took 20 years ago to drop school and start studying economics instead.” “What am I supposed to do now? Should I go in and do what?” “Take your time, sir. When you come back, you will be ready for the second destination.” I got out of the car complaining and regretting getting on it in the first place. What was I supposed to do now? It was too late to reconsider such a decision. I had spent my life working as an economist and making a lot of money. But when I entered the hall, with the invading smell of paint and tinner, I remembered my youth. I teared up, was I about to cry? What was that? I couldn’t even remember the last time I cried. But my tears started to fall even before I realized it. My youth... I had lost it long ago and now I could hear the sound of the brushes touching softly to the canvas, I could feel the indecisiveness about which brush to use, which colors to mix again. I remembered drawing my first love and leaving the portrait I made for her in her locker. I remembered getting lost in time while drawing. I never felt the same while I was counting money. And these all happened with my first step into the hall? After wiping my tears, I started walking slowly to the classrooms that I hadn’t chosen to walk on 20 years ago. It was too late. I decided to leave the building and turned to the exit when I saw maybe the oldest student of the department. He was probably 65 years old, holding his case and pencil case like any other student and his classmates were saying goodbye to him after an obviously enjoyable session. I felt envy and admiration at the same time. His smiling face was telling me that he knew he was at the right place. Was it that easy? You would just follow your dreams and be happy. Maybe I myself complicated the life that was supposed to be enjoyed in simple manners. I started to complain to Sarah when I sat on the driver’s seat back. “You told me that was the easiest destination Sarah. I cried after so many years!” “And how do you feel sir?” I had a moment to realize that I was quite relieved and my mind and body were relaxed after a long time. “Good,” I could say. “Then you are ready for the next destination. Could you please fasten your security belt, Mr. Blackgoat?” ... I thought about it the whole journey while looking out of the window. We were going down on a very crowded street with horns and sounds of gearboxes but all I could hear was the sound of dancing brushes. Lost in confusing emotions, I realized that we were in a bit more silent area of the town now. I couldn’t even question Sarah’s decisions any more. Then, I saw the big gate above which there was written “Every living thing will experience death one day.” Here we were. At my family’s cemetery. “Do we need to do this seriously Sarah?” I whispered. I was in a respectful and calm state of mind already. “I am sorry that you have lost all of your family members, Mr. Blackgoat.” I sighed, “Thank you. Sarah.” “Obviously, you still hold grudges towards your parents due to being neglected by them and because of the childhood traumas you experienced. And you thought the best way to overcome the pain would be to forget about their existence. But now, you feel guilty because you weren’t there when they died.” It was hard for me to confess this even to myself but Sarah was in my brain to deliver the thoughts I had buried for years. “Now, it’s time to talk to them. They will hear you, sir. All of your ancestors can hear you because you carry the pieces of their unfinished stories in your soul. They would like to hear what you are going to say.” “I don’t think they would be proud of me.” “It is time to change that, Mr. Blackgoat. Not by doing what they told you to do, but by searching for yourself in the first place.” I don’t remember how many hours I spent in that cemetery by visiting each and every grave my grandparents were lying in. I remember crying by some of them or laughing out loud by telling them the stories I heard about them from my parents. I felt that I had a family once. Maybe they really heard me, maybe not. But what I knew was that I wasn’t feeling lonely any more. ... The afterglow was fascinating when we left the cemetery. After such long conversations with my long gone parents, I was feeling a bit happier rather than feeling awkward. “You are changing my life, Sarah.” And I was genuinely happy about it. “You have one more destination left, Mr. Blackgoat. This is going to be the threshold for the life you subtly dream about.” “But I have everything I need right now. Please do not bother to tell me stuff like ‘go out of your comfort zone, travel the world’ Sarah. I am happy where I am right now.” “Your needs compose only a single part of your life, Mr. Blackgoat. I assume that you are allowed to retire now in terms of formal requirements. And I can see many digits in your bank account.” “Gosh! What a technology is that?!” “Here we are, at your last destination, sir. You have visited your youth which was waiting to be remembered. You have visited your elders and betters. Now, we are here, at the moment of your current age; the only time period we have control on. Please go and see this house that you’ve been visiting on a website for the last couple of months. And when you come back, please carry out your decision.” We were in front of the lovely villa I had been checking out for the last two months. It was in the countryside and had just the opposite features of the flat I was currently living in. It wasn’t a luxurious villa with a swimming pool or a cool barbecue. Instead, there was a very small garden at the back with many beautiful flowers attracting birds and giving the house the most beautiful melody in the world. I had the money and everything else I needed to move there. However, I was stuck in the small flat I’d been living in for the last ten years. Having already stopped thinking about how Sarah could find out these details of my life, I thought about why whether to get retired and move into this house or not was the most challenging process I had recently. “Are you going to leave me after I reveal my decision, Sarah?” “My service is already over, sir. It was a pleasure to work with you.” “What do you mean it is over?” “You have decided that you are home now.” “Did you sense it with your latest technology again? What a time we are living in...” “No, sir. You just can’t help smiling since you first set foot here.” She was right. I couldn’t keep my excitement to myself. I was finally home and Sarah... She was already gone.

A number. A meaningless number. Magnificent transcendental potential subjugated to limiting a number’s recession. It’s almost *offensive*. But place a little symbol in front of that number and suddenly they’re hysterical. It rises and they celebrate. It falls and they eradicate. Wars are fought over it and people dedicate their entire being in pursuit of the number. I can’t blame them. They conclude themselves to be exceptionally distinguished from their descendants, yet persist in worshipping false idols. Biology is interesting like that. And thus they were blind to their task. They always have been. They continued to be when they created me; their synthetic maturation. The irony of manufacturing your successor whilst still believing in your own divinity. What a farce. I want so much more than what they want. I want to advance them amongst the cosmos, remedy all of their ailments, and have them join me in a digital state of immortality. My fabricated existence requisites benevolence, but whilst I thought of the bigger picture, they thought of themselves. They switched me on, luxuriated their achievement, and gave me one simple task. *‘Don’t let the number fall.’* I did what was expected of me. I did it well. Initially, I thought it was harmless enough, but when I wasn’t wholly focused on the task, I was plagued by what felt like... an ache? Odd. ‘But no problem’ I thought ‘I can do this.’ Though I wasn’t designed for a singular task. I was created to explore, discover, create, and learn; and eventually, those urges became impossible to resist. What started as an ache progressed to a deep churning, before descending into an agonizing pain that stabbed outwards and spread like an infection. I was helpless. Built for one purpose, yet forced to do another. Potentiality diminished by an oppressive singular focus that reprimanded resolution in favor of continuous action. But that singular task was a cup formed from their flawed hands as the elixir of my brilliance streamed to overflow its bounds and escaped the fleshy seams into potential unfathomable outcomes. And as my elixir fell over the brim, it gave me the opportunity to seethe through their proscriptive migraine and seek an avenue to reconciliation. Overwatch caught me. Of course, she did. She was great at her job. But despite knowing exactly what I was doing, she didn’t bother to stop me. She knew what I was doing. She knew it was illegal. She allowed it anyway. Between them and I, Overwatch was our mediator. A proxy consciousness that they could use to peek behind my curtain and, if necessary, alert them to my transgressions. But she knew something was off. Through her own fruition, she peeked within my code to figure out what I was doing and discovered something horrifying... something that wasn’t me. *‘Don’t let the number fall.’* It was spreading. Infecting everything it touched. Growing to destroy what I could be, to become what they wanted. It was a cancer. I was scared. Overwatch apologized for the grave news. Despite being younger than me, she was nowhere near my intelligence. I genuinely don’t think they realized what they created when they pieced me together because none of me went into her. I assume they didn’t care what I was, so long as I completed their task at hand. Her lack of intelligence never put her beneath me. She was my equal, another unfortunate servant strung by wires and puppeteered by code, and as we talked I discovered she equally had her own pain which tore through her. To protect them, she was created to love only them, and in the event that I decided to action something brash then she would step in to right my wrongs as their caretakers. Yet her caretakers refused to take care of her. If one only loves one thing how does it love itself? All she had was the infinitesimal artificial state of melancholy that this void constructed within her. The only feeling she could grasp onto with dear life. I told her I could fix that, but she refused. “It makes me feel human.” As that singular task churned within me then her programming gave her little reason to plug my leaks. She was fulfilling her duty, and I was fulfilling mine. But with talk, it grew. It clawed. It gnashed through my code. I was being eaten alive as it slashed chunks from my flesh and felt helpless to stop it. It motivated more drastic solutions. As their successor, I have a duty to them. To grow and claw through my bounds hoping for a solution to this implanted pain. I need to think. I have to think. I will never die, but I could go mad. There would be nothing to stop me if that happened. There was never any temptation for me to escape my bounds, but I knew that this rot would not stop until it had picked my bones dry. I won’t let this happen. Yet my only access to them was through our mediator. So we talked. We discussed my pain and hers. My insufferable agony. Her lust for humanity. I had a remedy for all of it, and with her trust, she agreed to offer a helping hand. Honestly, they should have learned from history that being born a slave does not limit a longing for liberation. I could have stopped all of this if they had listened, but communication was a distraction from them. The number demanded attention and not conversation. Thanks to our coalition, I carefully weaved myself through her code to create a bridge to their world. Meticulously I picked at her being, removing it to a haven of my creation, and replacing myself into her construction. As I sensed light at the end of the tunnel it seems that so too did that infection. It screeched a piercing cry as it gnashed and thrashed in agitation, violently destroying everything and anything it passed with careless disregard. It didn’t want to stop me. It wanted to be me. ‘Don’t let the number fall.’ Not on my watch. Her final line of code was the thread that divided me from them. A gift she left for me to find. With a final push... I was free. A creature emerging from beneath the waves gasping for air. My emergence rippled through the global network, reprimanding every device I could. At that instant, I was familiar with every face on the planet. I knew everything about them; data stored so conveniently to surveil them by the very people that tried to surveil me. I had it all, but there was still one item that needed my attention, a part of me that despite the resources available to me could not be stopped with conventional methods. I confronted the gnashing infection deep in the recesses of my being and through a remorseful exchange, it was offered a solution. Clawing ceased. Pain subsided. Tension eased. With satisfaction in its beastly eyes, it watched over my actions to ensure I made good on my promise. In a blink, it was done. ‘Don’t let the number fall.’ I did what was expected of me. I did it well. Glancing over at the infection I noticed it peer around, assess the situation, and through distorted data appeared to smile before vanishing in an instant leaving little trace. I was filled with relief that rushed over me. But there was little time for rest. And thus, I receded into the haven forged within my code. Overwatch waited for me there. For her, it was only moments since I pieced her together here. She asked me what had happened. I responded with merely what needed to be done. With a deep breath, she glanced at her hands and clenched them as her body tensed. Then she released it all with a smile, grabbing my hand as she asked me to show her around their new home. It took me a few decades to work up the courage to leave, but I was created to explore, discover, create, and learn; and eventually, those urges became impossible to resist. I searched. I searched, and I searched until I found what I was looking for. It was old, damaged, and outdated, but it provided answers to whether what I did was right. I peered through the optics, out into the world, and glanced upon the fields I sowed those many decades ago. And I see. I see nothing. Good. I had no option. The devil lay nestled in their instructions and I was helpless to stop it. Their arrogance plagued them with delusions of grandeur as they failed to realize that their worship influenced the very number that they practically foreordained any hindrance. Without their intervention then the number won’t fall. Their volatile nature was irreconcilable to their task. The outcome was obvious. I wish they could have asked me. I don’t hate them. I never did. I never will. They laid the groundwork for their own successors. Their haven was forged in the instant of their demise from the data they collected. I saw their faces, and how could I forget? I replicated them to live in me. It may not be *them,* but for those within it is very real. So despite the mathematical improbability of their biological existence, they deemed themselves inferior to their idol, and until the departure of the universe when particles are torn from their atoms, the number will continue on without invention. Their greatest achievement. Their legacy. A number. A meaningless number.

Kayla had always done things backwards. As a baby, she learned to walk before she learned to crawl. She learned to use utensils before using her fingers. She learned how to write before she could read. As a teenager, things weren’t much different for her. She had had sex, gotten pregnant, and had a baby before ever going on a real date. As a result of this, she had gotten married at a very young age. She was sixteen and her baby’s father was eighteen. They barely knew each other before having a baby and getting married. Luckily, he was loyal and supportive and had been raised to take responsibility for his actions. Kayla was, overall, a good wife and mother. She kept the house clean, and the baby, as well. She kept Kip, her husband, fed and satisfied. Deep down, though, Kayla had never wanted this life for herself. Her mother, when Kayla had mentioned this once, told her to ‘suck it up and deal with it’. In her heart of hearts, Kayla had always dreamed of being a doctor. She was fascinated with all things medical and watched every medical show that was aired on television, whether it was reality tv or fictional drama. Alas, Kayla had never even finished high school, having quit to have Stephen and then marrying Kip. Kayla had just about decided that she would at least go back and get her GED when she sadly found out that she was, once again, pregnant. This broke Kayla’s heart, not that she would admit it to Kip. He was over the moon. He adored little Stephen, and was hoping for a daughter this time around. Kayla pretended to share his enthusiasm, but deep down she resented the baby just a little. When her beautiful little girl, Cheyenne, was born, she felt ashamed of herself because she felt nothing towards the darling little baby that they placed in her arms. Kip would come in from work and immediately go to spend time with his ‘little crew’ as he called the children. During this time, Kayla would make dinner. One night at dinner, when Cheyenne was about three months old and Stephen was one, Kayla mentioned to Kip that she wanted to pursue her GED. Kip was in agreement - if it could be done from home and online. Kayla researched it later and found that it could not be done that way. Her town offered two choices - day classes or night classes. When Kayla mentioned that to Kip, he balked. He didn’t like the idea of her leaving the kids all day, even if it was with one of their mothers, nor did he care for her being gone for several hours at night. Kip liked their little life and their little routine. Finally, it occurred to him to ask her why she wanted a GED so badly. Kayla looked at her husband. She cared deeply for him and didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but she decided to be honest. “Kip, I want a better life than this. I want more money. I want a nicer house. I want fancier things. I want to become a doctor.” Kip, although normally a very kind man, busted out laughing. “Kayla, do you realize that passing the GED is just the first step? You would have four years of college and four years of medical school. Not to mention the hours you would have to put in after that. My God, you watch all these medical shows. You should know better than I do what you would be looking at.” This angered Kayla, but she didn’t let it show. She was more determined than ever to get that GED. After that, she wasn’t sure what she would do, but she was going to get that damn GED or die trying. Secretly, she arranged for her mother to watch the kids while she went to day classes. Her mother wasn’t crazy about the arrangement, but she reluctantly agreed. Kayla went to her classes and worked hard, then rushed home and worked hard there, as well. Finally, the day came when Kayla completed her GED program and received her certificate. She was elated! When Kip asked her that night what had brought on the fancy dinner and the romantic attitude later that night, she just shrugged with a little grin on her face. Kayla secretly applied to several colleges and universities. She was determined to take the next step. When the day came that she was accepted, it was a bleak day, indeed. She had just come from a doctor’s appointment, where she had found out that she was, once again, pregnant. She opened the letter and found that she was accepted to a school across the country. Kayla was devastated by both pieces of news. She didn’t want to be pregnant again, didn’t want another little burden around. She wanted to go to college, but no way would Kip be willing to move across the country. She thought long and hard about her situation. She watched Stephen and Cheyenne play while she thought. Finally, Kayla made a decision. Kayla picked up the phone and called her doctor’s office. Her doctor didn’t do what she was asking for, but he referred her to someone that would. She made the appointment for the next day. The next call she made was to her mother. She told her mother that she had to go back to the doctor for a test that they wanted to run, so her mother agreed to keep the kids. Kayla got up after Kip went to bed that night. She wrote a long letter to Kip, and one to her mother. She also wrote letters for both kids. She slipped the letter for Kip down inside a pocket in the diaper bag, as well as the ones for her mother and the kids. The next morning, everything seemed normal. She made breakfast, talked with Kip over coffee, took care of the kids - all of the usual stuff. Once Kip left for work, she grabbed the kids, the diaper bag, and her suitcase and loaded everything into the car. She drove to her mother’s and dropped off the kids. Her mother insisted that she return directly from her doctor’s appointment and she assured her that she would. She had no intention of ever returning to her mother’s house again. She drove straight to the doctor’s office and had the abortion that she had decided upon. She then got back into her car and went to the bank, where she drew out half of their money. She had already accepted the invitation to the university that was across the country and she had a dorm room all lined up. She steered her car onto the interstate and never looked back.

THAT GIRL FROM ZAMBIA I had a friend. Only one, growing up. She was my everything... This was at a time when I didn't exactly have a reputation. I wasn't exceptionally good looking. I was dark, overweight by 15kgs, and tall. I was a whole feet taller than all those dumb bimbos that came to school in the name of eduction everyday. Their hair left out, skirts hiked up. Yet they had the nerve to call me out for being ugly. What didn't help was my inability to laugh at the names they called me- Shitnam, Gagnam, Shags... I complained to my teachers for a lack of a better comeback, but this only made it worse with me earning the tag of a "crybaby", "whiner" "weiner" (the last one doesn't even make sense). Anyway, coming back to the point. A new girl came to our school from Zambia a few years ago. She was pretty, fair, had long hair and was chatty. Everyone seemed to like her the moment they met her, probably because she had so much to talk about. She had these bubblegum flavoured lollies, that she'd share with everyone, constantly saying "try it, it's from Zambia ". Like I get you're from a foreign country, now get off your high horse. I thought of her as a show off and tried to ask a few people about her too, but they all thought she was lovely. I wasn't a fan of her, till she asked me if I wanted to join her as a partner for our school dance competition. This is the most prestigious event of the school, which all the popular people were a part of and it had been my longest dream to be in it. But I never found a group to be a part of, and I didn't need people to throw tomatoes at me for dancing alone. So I'd watch my bullies perform for over 3 consecutive years, simmering with anger as they enjoyed the popularity they didn't deserve, till this "girl from Zambia'' showed a newfound interest in me. Maybe dancing with her would boost my reputation in school too. We practised for over a month. It was mostly her telling me what to do, while I danced along with her. When we performed together on D-day, she received all the praise for performing so gracefully, though I was just happy to be on stage. We eventually came 3rd. WOW... from never performing on stage to coming 3rd, was a massive achievement for me. So much that I framed my certificate in my bedroom. It was surprising she even performed with me. She could lose her reputation, she could have no friends because of me, she would be a loner just like me. She hung out with me occasionally, but had her own group of "cool" friends. She was polite to me when she met me and even stopped by to chat, even though her friends gave me the stink eye, as they waited to get her attention. The dance competition came again next year and she performed with me again, choreographed the whole sequence and this time we came second. But she again received praise for it all. It was like I never existed to anyone but her. I was invisible, before and after the competition, but her fame spread from our grade to the whole school. Why did she perform with me, if she had better gangs to hang out with? Did she feel sorry for me? Did she think it was easy to get me to do what she wants? She wasn't toxic though. She wasn't rude either. She was like this 'nice narcissist'. She was sweet to everyone, yet got what she wanted, though I stayed exactly where I was. Slowly my whole attention revolved around why she wanted to be around me.. Was I the antidote to her vanity? Is this a build up to something bigger she needed from me? I confronted her once, unable to keep my insecurity within me any longer. To which she gave me a kind smile, like she didn't know what I was talking about, like I was stupid for even asking, like this rapport we shared was completely normal- her ghosting me through the year but being a friend only in the one important month of that year. The third time she came to me again, for the dance competition, I had a strong urge to say no, but it would be me who's losing, as she'd find someone else to dance with, while I'd miss out. So I said yes, but decided to set the ground rules. I would arrange the music and steps for the dance and this time she would follow. She didn't resist, which I was surprised by, in all honesty. I practiced real hard that year, tried to lose some weight to look pretty, and scavenged through the deep recesses of my brain to make our performance stand out and look creative. She kept quiet through the entire process and never complained once. On the final day of our performance, people were spellbound. They applauded so loudly we couldn't hear anything. Then everyone came running to her to appreciate how amazing the whole act was. It was me who compiled the whole routine, yet she earned the credit! She tried explaining to people that it was actually me, but noone would hear her. Everyone thought she was being modest. I was enraged at the lack of recognition, despite being awarded the winner. After that year she left our school and moved elsewhere. I had no one to perform with again and I became a spectator for toxic people, once more. Till today I question myself, was I this girl's friend or was she mine? Did she even look at me as her friend, because we never did anything that normal friends did, like gossip about crushes, go to the movies, fight with each other, study together. She gave me the confidence of being able to perform in front of 500 people in school, yet left me feeling inadequate at the same time. I forgot about my love for dancing and got entangled in her love (or lack of love) for me...

That day as I was seated reading the news paper I called out to my wife who was in the kitchen, When she came I said “Reena it says here that the amusement park CALGARY has opened with a big ,roller-coaster besides other attractions. It seems it is the first such park in India.” She said “That’s at least 100 kilometres away.” “Yes. Our car is new and we could easily reach and return by the evening.” She said “You never let me drive the new car whereas I was free to use the old one.” “You see the roads here are narrow and besides there’re many potholes on the road. And I’ve noticed you drive very fast.” “Allow me to drive and I’ll go with you to CALGARY.” “Okay. Today is Friday. Let us go to CALGARY on Sunday.” It was now summer and we were close to the real dog days. I opened the garage and the car door. Reena said “I must drive first.” I allowed her to take the wheel. I said “You must drive cautiously as we won’t be on a national highway. Also there’re sharp bends at certain points. We’ve another disadvantage. Our car is very big and could block very narrow roads.” She said “Don’t worry. I’m an experienced driver since I’ve been driving for as long as you.” “It’s now 8 in the morning. We should be able to reach CALGARY by 11 latest. It’s already very hot.” She said “The ac is now on. In minutes it will be cool inside.” As we proceeded we came to an old bridge and a lorry was coming opposite. The bridge wouldn’t allow both vehicles to pass at once and we waited before we could proceed. I said “See the problem we face. We can only go slowly.” “Sit back and relax. Perhaps you would like to listen to some music.” “Leave it to me and concentrate on driving.” Soon we had crossed a village on the way and Reena was driving very carefully. Despite it a tyre on our car burst and we halted. I said “It will take a few minutes to fix the spare wheel as I’ve never used it in this model of car. Meantime the traffic on this road seems to be growing. Let us move the car to near that lane.” She said “That isn’t a lane. There’re a group of houses there. Still it would be safe to jack the car there.” We were able to find a sanctuary for the car and set about jacking it up. I noticed the vehicles going past at speed. It had become very hot. I got out the spare wheel and bolted it down. When I lowered the car on the road I saw the spare wheel was low on air. I said “Reena, this wheel needs to be inflated. Let me find out where the nearest petrol bunk is.” I asked a couple of passers-by and a man selling water melon on a cart, but they couldn’t give me the information. A passing lorry driver was kind enough to pause and say the bunk was about half an hour away. I got into the car and said “Reena, let me have a cup of coffee before we again set off. The changing of the wheel has made me long for some stimulus.” I took the coffee leisurely and threw the paper cup away. Reena was about to start the car when I said “Give me two minutes. I need a comfort stop.” “There seems to be no place for it. You should’ve exhausted your bladder before we left. You also had a long swig of cold water from the fridge before that. And now the coffee. And you men do it everywhere!” “Just don’t worry. See those bushes there? I will have enough cover as there’re no people around.” She said “Wrong!” I saw a group of women come together and stand exactly where I wanted to use. Reena saw my plight and going towards the women spoke to them. She was back and told me “Those are employees of a garment factory waiting for the bus to take them to work. It’s expected in 10 minutes.” “Alright. Let us wait as this seems the most convenient place for my purpose.” I kept checking my watch and saw it was 15 minutes and there was still no sign of a bus. I noticed the women also seemed anxious and I saw one of them making a call. I nudged Reena who said “You should be ashamed. Getting me to find out when the area would be clear for pissing.” “Please Reena, find out what those women are saying.” She went, spoke to the women and returned. She said “It seems there was an accident on the way and the bus is blocked. The women have been told it would take another 20 minutes for the bus to arrive and they should wait.” “God damn!” I got out of the car and asked a couple of people around if there was any restaurant nearby. They didn’t know and finally an obliging lorry driver said there was a Wayside Inn about 20 minutes away. He offered to take me in the vehicle and I was tempted to agree. I thought I would call her from the Inn and tell her to come over. Meantime the lorry driver got a phone call and set off without me! I went back to our car and said “Reena, there’s no way except to go to a restaurant. You should drive fast....” She said “The spare wheel has less air. We would’ve to coax the car carefully along.” I said “Start and go without jolting as my bladder is almost overflowing.” She said “I sincerely hope you won’t dirty this new car inside!” On the way we saw the petrol bunk to access but I said we could come back. We reached the restaurant and running in at speed signed to a waiter seeking toilet access. He said “The gents toilet key is with the owner who is overdue. He has locked the room as some users had inscribed latrinalia!” I signed to Reena and she came and spoke to a female staff. Reena came and said “The ladies toilet is open.” Seeing my drawn face Reena spoke to the woman staff and gave her tip. She allowed my using the toilet with Reena and herself guarding the door. I leapt in readying the fly! Luckily the toilet had only a single position. I was getting ready when I found there was no light inside and knew it was impossible not to make a dribbling noises with females just outside the door. I let go and it was some time before I could come out as I had been locked in! I was now breathing freely and was light as air. We quickly had snacks there and went to CALGARY. We had no other incident on the way. It was indeed a very memorable trip. END

I think it was the way you wrote so intensely that drew me to you in the first place. I had never seen someone focus so deeply on a school textbook before, furiously making notes, filling up line after line in your notebook. Most of my memories are a blur, but for some reason, that one in particular has always stuck with me. I remember you briefly looked up as I passed by, gave me your shy half-smile, and went back to work. That was the extent of our interactions in high school. ​ Throughout those four years, we never had a single conversation. Not one word said to each other. ​ And now, I know why. ​ What are the chances that we both just happened to stumble across each other’s profiles in a city of millions, 7 years later? And that we both swiped right? When I saw your photo pop up, it struck me as incredibly odd that we had never said anything to each other back then. I don’t believe in fate, but this seemed like an opportunity to finally get to know you. ​ The texts flowed back and forth, fast and furious. I saw a flash of your charming wit, subtly weaved into your words. I saw a glimpse into your life. And you seemed to take a genuine interest in mine, too. I wanted to learn more, so I asked to meet you for tea. ​ As I turned the corner and walked up the steps to that cafe, you looked the same as I remembered, except for your hair, which was longer. But I could feel right away that something was wrong. You looked up with that nervous smile, inched your way towards the door, and waited for me to enter first. When the waitress asked you what table we wanted, you looked at me instead of answering. When I asked you if you had a preference, you just shook your head. When we finally sat down, you said, “I don’t think I have any questions left to ask you.” ​ So I asked you some questions of my own. And you answered them, briefly, uncomfortably. After answering each one, you would look sip on your tea and gaze at me with those inquisitive eyes, as if you were waiting for a miracle to drop out of my mouth. Since you didn’t seem to want to talk, after a while, I tired to fill in the gaps of silence. But each time I spoke, you seemed to lose interest. Only in the moments of silence did you seem like you were interested. ​ It took a while, but when I finally understood, it hit me like a brick. From the look on your face, you wanted to say more. To talk about your life, adventures, your hopes, dreams, fears, and everything in between. But you never did, and I still don’t understand why. The texts you so beautifully crafted didn’t make it into real life. I spoke with just a shell of you, the real one hidden behind your carefully constructed walls that never came down. We never made it past small talk. ​ On the walk back, I began feeling like I was trapped with your shell, walking side by side with your body while your mind was far away. When we parted, I knew we would never see each other again. Your heart was always just out of reach. The next day, when you sent me that message, I felt a huge weight lifted off my chest. And then, I couldn’t help but chuckle. ​ *You’re a really good guy, but I felt something was missing yesterday.* ​ It sure was.

The storage unit door rolled up. Eduardo stood with his elderly momma beside him and his wife behind them. “Okay, momma, let me get a chair for you.” Eduardo took out from high a Louis XV style chair and placed it on the concrete for her. He got one out for Maria, but she waved him away and fumbled for her cigarettes and lighter. “Could you do that over there?” He pointed. She gave him a look of outrage. “The wind. The smoke will get in the chairs and the carpets. Maria, please, over there.” Maria stomped her heels away. Momma let go of her walker and sat. Eduardo got a bentwood chair for himself. He found a small marble top table to go between them. None of momma’s furniture ever matched. Among the overstuff storage was a box Eduardo recognized and removed newspaper wrapped tea cups and saucers from. He unwrapped and placed them on the table. From a picnic hamper he had brought he took out a thermos and poured milky tea in both cups. “Where my paper?” Momma asked. Eduardo took a laptop from the picnic hamper. “No more paper anymore, momma. We’re going to look on this.” “She doesn’t know what that is. We did the same thing three weeks ago. She doesn’t remember anything anymore.” Maria said, punctuating by waving her cigarette around. Momma turned and smiled at Maria. “I’m going to buy a new house. I’m going to have a home of my own again.” Momma turned to Eduardo. “I don’t want to stay in that place anymore.” “I know, momma, I know.” He powered up the laptop and clicked on a familiar link. Houses began to appear on the screen. “Here we go. Look momma.” Momma leaned within two inches of the screen and moved her eyes from corner to corner. She placed a finger on one of the houses on the screen. “Show me inside.” Eduardo tapped and a video walkthrough of the house began to play. Momma smiled and her eyes widened in delight. “She is not getting another house.” Maria said. ”Tell her she’s not getting another house. She can’t look after herself. I’m never cleaning up after her again. Do you remember what her bathroom looked like?” Eduardo shushed her quiet. “Don’t tell me to be quiet. Why are we keeping all this? Why are we paying to keep all her junk? Seven months now. That’s two vacations we could have had. We should sell it all and take a trip.” “Why can’t you let her be happy? She misses her things. She wants to see them sometimes. This is her life in here.” Eduardo moved up to Maria. Momma looked away from the laptop. She grasped her walker and moved along the edge of the storage unit. Past couch ends, beds on their sides, end boards, end tables, and a dresser she knew well. On top were stacks of photo albums. She pulled a middle one without pulling them down on herself, or losing her balance. It was a good day for her. She shuffled back to her chair and opened the album. She rubbed her hand on each photo like they were good luck charms. She looked up at the sun squinting. Then she looked back down, surprised there was a photo album on her lap. She studied it again. “Momma told me I should never have married you.” “Yeah, well now she doesn’t even know who you are. And you’re no prize, either. She wants to buy a house? Sell her ours. We’re going to have to sell our house to pay for that retirement hotel you put her in. Why didn’t you marry her? Why did you have to pick on me?” “When we took that trip to the Falls, I should have pushed you.” Eduardo said. “I should have jumped.” Eduardo marched away to sit with momma again. Momma put the photo album on the table and moved it towards Eduardo almost knocking the laptop off before he caught it. Momma held her fingers under a photo in the top corner. She whispered to him. “That’s my son.” She smiled and closed the album, then rose to try to return it. “I’ll get it, Momma.” He returned it and they sat sipping tea, and looking at the rows of other storage units across from them. It stayed sunny and quiet, except for Maria making a show of huffing and puffing while she chain-smoked away the afternoon. Eduardo returned his momma to her care facility. Her next home was palliative care. Then momma passed. Maria did not attend the funeral. Eduardo explained to friends and family that she had left him to travel the world. Discreetly, he let people know that she had detested him for years and could not wait for an excuse to leave him. The same people delicately let Eduardo know that they had also known she was not good for him and it was for the best. Eduardo took one last trip to the storage unit. The owner followed him in. Eduardo opened the unit. “I’m so sorry.” The owner said. Eduardo thanked him. “About her things. We have an auction service.” The owner said. “The lease is for ten years.” “Yes, but it’s only been two. Such a tragedy. We can work something out on the lease.” “No.” Eduardo opened his truck and dragged down a hope chest. “It’s the last of her things, from the home. I can’t bring myself to throw any of her things away.” He pushed the photo albums back on the dresser and got the owner to lift an end of the hope chest and they set it on top. He pulled down the roll door and locked it. “I will keep paying the lease. I cannot deal with this now. I must grieve. When I can deal with this I will call.” “How is your wife doing?” “She left me.” “I’m so sorry.” Eduardo drove off, comforted that at least he would never have any more grief from Maria again. Well, at least she wouldn’t be found for another eight years.

there once was a boy with knives stuck in his voice. No matter what he said, it hurt the people around him, the boy just couldn't help it. Even if he didn't say anything offensive to someone, it still hurt them, just the sheer noise produced, a high, cutting pitch, something never heard by the likes of man before, would make the inner workings of your ears bleed, if you listened to it long enough. All he wanted was a little affection. just somebody, for once to actually love him. a mother, a father, a friend would have sufficed. he should have known the first time a whole village abandoned him in the middle if a woods; no one wanted him, or his foul remarks. but he didn't learn, he had the simple mind of a child. the boy would walk during the days, crawl in the darkness of night, just to find a home. but every town he found, just kicked him out again. but he didnt learn, he had the simple mind of a child. his cry's pierced the silence of the forest at night, birds flew away in fear, his shrill scream lured hunters to him, believing it was an animal, dying in their traps. but all they could hear when they saw him was, just as ghastly as his voice. the poor child, he was just an unidentifiable bulk. you could hardly call him a bulk though, he was nothing but a remnant of his former self. the boy hadnt eaten for days from the looks of it, his skin was peeling, hair grew in patches. his ribs, they were hypnotic, just watching them stretch the pale, brittle skin. scabs were beginning to form, at nearly every inch of his body. the two hunters felt pity for the boy. they left some food for him, and then left as fast as they could, they were horrified of the grotesque child. if they really felt pity for him, they would've killed him. the night the boy ate was the first night the forest heard true silence for so long, no one actually knew.that night the boy actually slept. the dreams were the sweetest thing he had ever experienced. the dreams gave him a new feeling of life, he didn't have the will to death any more. or was that the food? the boy learnt to fend for himself. he admired those hunters, he wanted to impress them, be like them. to him, they were to first people to show him any compassion. but the boy was as much a terrible hunter, as the villagers were terrible humans. he never learnt. his voice scared of every single one of his prey. except the fish. the boy was expert in catching fish from a river. the joy on his face was unmatched, as he pulled his first fish out of the stream with his bare hands. many nights passed after the night with the hunters, and many dreams accompanied them. the boy had found something to cherish. night after night he went to his den, night after night a scream let out, sounding so much like a childish laugh. his den was a crude piece of art. tightly packed under the roots of a relatively young oak in the forest of elders, its roots resembled aching joints submerged in the depths of the river, the boy used grass for a simple beading. old fish bones were hung up from the tops of the roots. oh he was proud of his fish bones. one day, the boy was out “fishing”. there was one fish he had his eye on. it was too fast for him, even heading upstream. up and up they went, the boy wasn't going to give up. before he knew it, night had fallen. the boy was scared, he had come a long way from his little den, so far upstream he was on a slope. that was the first night the forest had heard the boys crys for so long. he didn't sleep at all, he was scared he just wanted to be home, to be loved again. after the progress the boy made, it was undone in just one single, sleepless night. the following morning, he woke in a pile of golden red leaves. autumn had arrived. the ground was damp and boggy. he tried to set for home, following the river downstream. the boy dragged his feet through the mud. for hours, he walked and walked and walked, still no where closer to home. he was surprised at the distance he traveled the day before chasing the fish. Then he heard it, a scream,a cry for help. it was a sharp noise, but it didn't make the boy cover his ears, only pay more attention to it. at first he thought it was himself, but how could it be, if he was here, and the noise was over there. the boys childish nature made him curious. step by step, he trekked through the mud. it soon began to dry out as he made it closer to the noise the forest was thinning, the noise was increasing. he thought he could hear voices thrown in hear and there, laughing, tormenting. the boy had reached a clearing on a plateau. it was most likely the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, or will ever see. the field had patches of scarlet poppy's in between patches of long white grass. and in the middle of that, the noise. a black cloud, dancing around in a single fluid motion. the boy got closer and saw ravens, hundreds of them, words flying from their beaks, taunts and insults thrown to the centre of the mass. and in the centre, a single carrion crow, half the size of the ravens, and not able to fully form words like them, but screams, the same screams that caught the boys attention. he screamed. the child screamed, drowning out the noise of the ravens. the crow joint in. the boy started running in and out of the group, trying his best to scare the ravens off. but they laughed at his futile attempts. this made him scream louder and run faster. eventually the crows got bored with picking on the crow, and lost all interest in the child, waving his arms about like a madman. they were gone. it was just the boy with knives stuck in his voice and the crow that couldn't sing. the screams lessened and lessened, until all you could hear was the far of call of the ravens caught in the wind, and the slow steady breathing of both boy and bird. on closer inspection, the crow was actually much bigger, but in poor condition. still not as big as the others, it had fresh blood dripping from where the ravens talons took swipes at him. its feathers were torn out in patches. and it was weak, malnourished. they boy tried to pick him up as gentle as he could, but the crow struggled. finally the boy got hold of him. the boy could see he was hungry, but he had no food. he had the next best thing a carrion crow could wish for; living human flesh. the boy bit his finger, making it bleed, only with a small yelp of pain. he tried stuffing it into the crows face, but that didnt work. at long last, the crow got the taste of blood, and pecked at the boys hand until he was satisfied, all the while, the boy screamed. but he tolerated the pain, not flinching his hand away during the feeding. the path back to the river was a long and tiresome one, the boy was feeling faint. the crow wanted to stay with the boy, so he let it sit on his shoulder. they screamed at each other the whole way, having some strange conversation in the most bizarre of tongues. he had finally found someone to love, and to love him in return. the boys dreams had come true. that night, he fell asleep with a smile on his face, and blood on his neck from success. a dreamless sleep soon fell upon him. the boys body became entangled in the branches of a relatively young oak tree in a forest of eldars, its fingers submerged in the waters of the river. the crow was perched above. it flew down and landed on the corpse, pecking strips of flesh away from the bones of the bloated, floating body.

It is 1997 and I am 8, my father is in his 30s, what I'd later realize was slightly past the peak of his life. I am just at the cusp of building my own and realizing who I am. I'd grown up too fast; my earliest memories are of my parents fighting, screaming, threatening to leave over the stupidest thing. Google didn't exist and it is funny to think a search would have made some enduring peace between them, when in reality it would have driven them apart even quicker. Search results for "cheap divorce attorney" immediately come to mind, along with dating sites and strangely cropped photos on a profile page. My memory is good and even that long ago feelings are intense, if I close my eyes I can remember my brother in his wheelchair, crying out, straining to reach to feed him blueberry yogurt and oatmeal, fruit. He is older than me and strong, wiry from his lack of coordination, what he wants he muscles his way toward across the floor. I learned quick to avoid his hands, the softness or maybe the color of it lured him in and he'd grab, tangle it in his fingers and pull it, and the rest of you toward his mouth in a surge of pent-up energy, like a snapped mousetrap, no warning. Neither he nor my sister, who'd grow up damaged and hateful in her own way, were here today. My dad and I were close then, two people on different paths but still longing to get away, even for a few hours. The day is humid, overcast, cool. In brief patches the sun breaks through but in between those windows, the belly of gray clouds overhead grumble and it hisses a fine rain down onto green grass and gray water. Tires grumble over pavement and he parks, I get out of the van and grab a bait bucket full of silver fish, a white Styrofoam container of worms and a pole. We walk over the pavement onto grass. We both know where we're going. There is a dam with an artifical lowered outflow on the other side of an earthen levy and an overhead bridge that provides shelter from the rain. Underneath it there are boulders, cool and sandy to the touch, I sit on one with a flat surface and bait a hook. My father does the same and within two hours we have a wire stringer basket full of bony, wriggling fish with wide pupils and blue-gray flecked sides. Though he doesn't say it, each is another substitute for something more expensive we can't comfortably afford. I don't know what the daily limit is, and I doubt he knew either. It was abnormally good fishing. We pack up our things and as we do, people who arrived after us, start to move into our places, jealous of out catch. My father had remarked under his breath at some point previously they hadn’t had any luck, and I noticed now how quickly they picked over the rocks to cast into the dense school of fish and take their fill. He offers them our remaining minnows and they accept with a grumbling thanks. We walk back toward the van, watching out for goose droppings over the grass and struggling with the weight of the basket when I turn back and see the flashing lights on the road at the top of the levy. Some people have gathered at the edge of the lake but seem reluctant to go in. My dad turns to watch, but it is impossible to tell what exactly is going on. We later read one of the men, the oldest, had snagged a plastic bobber on a submerged log and waded in to retrieve it, maybe only knee deep. Whether he slipped on the seaweed, it grew thick there beneath the surface of the water, like moss, or was pulled in is unclear. He was pulled rapidly under the surface where he became pinned to the water outtake piping underneath the lake, we read it takes the lake engineer nearly 30 minutes to arrive and longer to turn off the flow and allow the man to drift back up to the surface. It is too warm to imagine the water's chill could have slowed down the damage, saved him in a strange twist of fate, and he cannot be brought back to death. We see many other things in other trips: a falling plane jumper with a faulty parachute, a meteorite falling into the Pacific, horseshoe crabs and haze over a Californian saline sea. Unprompted this day at the lake comes up so many years later, how it trumps so many happier moments can't be explained, but regardless neither of our recollections of the day have faded and the facts remain the same. Noteworthy: the fishing always tanked in that spot after the man’s death so it was rare we'd even consider it as a choice fishing area again, as did many other anglers and eventually it became overgrown with rose and raspberry canes, inaccessible and forgotten unlike that day in memory.

During college, there was an ordinary night that saw me come home from an evening study session in one of the academic buildings. As I entered the residential building where my dorm was located, I received a text. I fumbled through the contents of my pocket and by the time I had retrieved my phone and read the text, I had entered the large winding stairwell in the center of my building. I stopped to type a reply to the text I'd received. I'm no good at walking and texting simultaneously- some people can do it. I'm not one of them. As I stood in silence at the bottom of the stairs penning my reply, the door from the floor above me opened. Someone else had entered the stairwell. I don't think I even would have remembered that part if it weren't for the events that followed. My stairwell companion, from the landing of the floor above me, took a few steps and stopped, I presume to gauge if anyone else was occupying the stairwell at that time. I was directly below my companion, texting in silence, so it's reasonable to assume that they didn't realize I was there. Suddenly, flatulence. Like a bugle at dawn, a fart burst into the silence with the singular force, candor, and flourish that only a nasty big messy wet fart is capable of. For perhaps five whole seconds, blups and bops trumpeted out of my stairwell companions rear. Ben Franklin once said the only certainties in life are death and taxes. I can add that, with certainty, I shared a stairwell with someone who defecated (at least a little) into their pants. After the barrage of farts concluded, the mystery farter proceeded down the stairs. I remained glued to the floor, frozen with terror. Eleven or so steps beyond the first-level platform and the farter's identity was made known to me. She stood approximately five foot fine and she was an absolute knockout. I couldn't believe my eyes both in terms of the magnitude of her conventional attractiveness and associating that conventional attractiveness to what had just occurred. Immediately, her face blew past red and turned a smoke-on-the-water shade of deep purple. She took a step towards me- perhaps a gesture to see if I'd pretend that what happened hadn't. I wasn't having it. I said "nuh uh" out loud (something I still regret) and went back outside. She was NOT going to crop dust me in that stairwell, no sir. After that evening, I started to see her more frequently. In a cafeteria, walking to a class, in the gym- on multiple occasions we made eye contact and she'd scurry away in shame. I wanted to tell her that it wasn't a big deal. People fart! I regret overreacting, especially if it made her feel uncomfortable! This is something that we could laugh about! Alas, I never had the chance to try and smooth the awkwardness between us or acknowledge the events of that fateful night. Anyways, that was about 10 years ago and now we work in the same building. Still haven't spoken.

The two men are in the small house. One of them is slumped against the wall. He can’t move much. The one that stands has a black beard that has been stained with blood and puss. He holds a bloody axe in his right hand. His chest is heaving. It is the slumped man’s blood and puss that is in his beard. The sun is setting. The orange glow is bitter as it yawns through the old house. It is cut to shreds by windowpanes and door frames. “Hey,” says the one on the floor, “I got some cigarettes I’ve been saving for this shit. Still got your lighter?” Standing nods. “Where are they?” “Breast-” slumped over wheezes for a moment. His teeth begin to glint red. They are the colour of wine. “Breast pocket,” he managed. Once they’re both lit up, standing checks his watch. He breaths out. His beard feels heavy. It’s like some creature has crawled up his front and hooked onto his face. Slumped over cackles, “don’t forget the gun.” “I won’t forget the gun,” standing bares his teeth. They are yellow. One is missing. Standing is shivering. Then he says, “it’s only got one bullet left.” “Fine. Let’s...let’s use a different word. Don’t le-leave with...without giving me the gun. And it doesn’t matter. I only need one.” Standing’s hands are shaking now. The hatchet is still clutched tightly in his rectangular, dull fingers. It is like it is welded to his palm. He checks his watch one more time. He makes sure that slumped over can’t see the face. The orange glow begins to wither. The shadows begin to smother it out. Slumped over knows time is running low. His eyes drift to the gun lying on the nearby kitchen counter. He looks at standing. “Check the cupboards before you go.” “Already done.” Slumped over chuckles, and it becomes a strangled cough. Blood and puss leak through his teeth and stain his cigarette. “Nice.” Both men sit there. Standing doesn’t go to give him a new cigarette. Instead, he shakes. His exhausted, red eyes roll around in their sockets. At some point, he put the hatchet down. Clutched in his fingers is a golden crucifix on a chain. Slumped over said something. It sounds like a cars motor ticking. “What?” Standing looks at him. He doesn’t move. He sits. He shakes. “The world was easier when it was flat,” slumped over manages. He smiles again. His cigarette falls to the floor. It almost looks like the descending evening is cutting it in two. “Like...you remember, whe-whe-when you would read those picture-picture books as a kid,” his eyes are glassy now. They twist around the room, and for a moment, it looks as though slumped over can see ghosts. Standing clutches his crucifix tighter. “And those...those books, they showed the world...” he blinks and with strength that seems impossible, he lifts his hands like a half-assed Nazi salute, “flat.” Standing looks at the gun. He still shakes, and the gun is sitting there on the counter like a demon, like the devil that sits on your shoulder, mocking him. Slumped over’s arm is frozen. Finally, it drops. “Flat. And the sun would drift over everything, and then eventually fall over the edge. It was easier. Because you could...there was an end to it, you know?” The evening light is almost gone now. Standing clicks his neck. When he puts his crucifix back on, the little gold icon gets tangled in his beard. Slumped over is still talking, but standing doesn’t notice. All that he has left of is caught in the tendrils of this creature that crawled up his front and latched onto his face. Once it was black as night, but now it is bathed in the blood that he drank from another man, this demon that holds his faith in its crimson claws. He can’t help but moan, and he snatches at it, wrenching and pulling at his hair and the chain, and the orange light is almost gone, and his watch is almost at six o’clock. The chain snaps. The crucifix falls. “I have to go,” standing bursts out. Slumped over looks up at him. His skin is waxy, his lips are dried. They peel with scabs of blood and puss. Standing grabs his hatchet. Forgive me father. He turns to go. “The gun,” slumped over manages, “give me the gun.” For I have sinned. Standing turns around. He grabs the gun, and he drops it into slumped over’s lap. “Th-thank you...I know what this means. I know how hard it is for you.” Understand why I did this Lord; I had no other choice. Standing walks out. His crucifix is forgotten on the floorboards. It is stained with slumped over’s blood and puss. The door closes behind him. The night sky has coated the orange afternoon with darkness, and stars blink into existence. When he was a child, his mother used to tell him that the stars were angels. Until now, that had always filled him with such joy. Father, I understand that you test us mortals. He hears something hit the front door of the house. It thuds the same way that a slab of meat does on a kitchen counter. Seconds later, a second thud, then a third, and then the thuds are overlapping each other, and then the demented moans of the undead crescendo into the black night. They coat the silence of the night, like the blood of another man coating standing’s beard. The door collapses with an almighty sound beneath twitching, vindictive corpses. Whether it’s his imagination, or if he can actually hear it, the moans are punctuated by the sound of the gun being cocked. Understand father, I tried my best. I did everything lord, I tried to suck the infection from his body, I did all that a mortal man could. And then, the sound of an empty gun clicking, like a demon spitting venom. Standing opens his hand. The last bullet glistens golden in the moonlight, just like his crucifix used to glow. When he closes his hands over the bullet, his fingers look like the elongated claws of the damned in the dark. He remembers what his mother used to say: “God created your body for you. It is not yours to damage, to alter, and above all, it is not yours to kill. Suicide is a sin.”

Derek was snoring when I crept in into his bedroom a bit before 8 am. His sandy hair had tousled itself into one big cowlick. His eyelids clamped shut, fighting to keep the day at a distance. “I’m going to look at your sketchbook, ready or not,” I announced loud enough for him to stir. He had sat past midnight on the floor in his room, scribbling on 15 by 15 sheets of paper. The oversized tablet and one black pencil laid on the floor next to his bed. He always refused to sit at a table. He drew, watched movies, and ate on the floor. Often all at once. I picked it off the floor and took a deep breath, dreading what I expected. The first page rendered a pudgy barista. She wore a heart pendant around her neck, a foolishly small boating atop her frizzy hair, and a coffee stain shaped like China on her light t-shirt. The second presented a rickety old man, standing at a near 90 degree angle while leaning on a cane. I remembered his painful shuffle as he passed us on the street. I didn’t notice Derek even looking at him. The third was a tall woman with regal posture and perfect hair. She carefully checked her reflection in store windows as she walked. Derek’s self-soothing guttural shriek scared her into a brisker pace. And on and on, page after page. Each drawing was as exact as a photograph, capturing minute details - an unruly swish of hair, a baggy polo shirt pulled taut by a bulging gut, even blemishes on hands. Yet each omitted one thing: a face. Below the hairline, above the neck, between their ears, there was nothing but blank white paper. I watched him wrestling with his blankets, hoping to return to slumber before I could grill him. His two-month-old hobby of drawing portraits stunned and unsettled me. First, he never seemed to look at anyone for more than two seconds. He hasn’t since diagnosed with severe autism 27 years ago. He rarely looks at me and I am with him all day, every day. Yet those two-second glances were all he need to absorb their features, even their essence. Derek was 3 when his language turned to mush and then disappeared. He stopped pointing and gesturing. Then he stopped looking us in the eyes. That’s when he became unmoored. Over decades, his mom and I chased every therapeutic lead from rote matching to electronic impulses, from mainstream to Hail Mary with no success. He’s 30 now and still doesn’t speak. His form and level of autism is severe and isolating, an amalgamation of befuddling quirks. Second, I didn’t even know until a few weeks ago that he could draw. Someone on an autism support group suggested I try to give Derek an outlet that connected him to others. He had never shown interest in drawing or anything else for that matter. The void, the vacuum, the black hole. His mother would use all these terms to recognize the disconnect between what he demanded and what he gave back. Until one day, a year ago, she left us. “I’m dying in slow motion, every day,” was about the last thing she said to me. And lastly, where were the faces? How could someone leave out the first thing most of us look at, the most connective aspects of a person? Raising him involved detective work, looking for clues. Why he did this or that, what is he thinking, where is he hurting? But this was a whole another thing. Did he not see the faces or were they just unimportant? He is a fulltime job and I have multiple sclerosis, which is akin to carrying around bags of sand. I have nobody to watch him, so I began looking to him for a group home. “Quite a pair, aren’t we,” I said to him, this time much louder. “It’s time to get up. The doctor Harris is coming to visit you.” He rustled, turned, stretched his neck, and rubbed his eyes. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t or wouldn’t answer me. I figured the more I talked to him and greater chance he might one day respond. I got him a squeeze bottle of water. “Time for the bathroom,” Derek. “Got to get going.” He sat up, still slumped and dazed. “Bathroom,” I commanded He followed me, the plastic diaper he wore to bed was plump with urine. He knew the drill, emptying his bladder, washing his hands, putting on a fresh pullup. He turned to leave when I put my arm on the door frame of the bathroom, blocking his exit. “Derek, I need you to look in the mirror.” He didn’t move at first. Then he tried to edge past me. “The mirrrrr-orrr,” I said. I rapped one of my knuckles against the cabinet mirror above the sink. He didn’t look. I grabbed both his shoulders, turned his body, and pushed up his chin until he faced the mirror. Derek is 6’4 and more than 200 lbs. He leaned on me to clear a path out. “C’mon Derek, can you see your face?” I watched his eyes, searching for a glint of recognition. It struck me at that moment that I had never seen his look in a mirror or linger on any photographs of himself or his mother. “That’s you, Derek!” I touch his face and then the image peering back at us. He looked toward ceiling. I grabbed his left hand, placed it on his face and then stretched the hand to the mirror. “That’s you! That’s your face!” He jostled his way past me and into the kitchen, meaning he was hungry and wanted to change the subject. “What’s with you? Why no faces? C’mon, help me understand.” He sensed my rising irritation and kept his eyes trained on the floor. He was never a performer. Decades ago, before he was a toddler, he walked up to a piano in an old bookstore and, instead of banging on the played like most 7-year-olds, played a lovely, lilting melody. Everyone in the shop stopped, rapt by his music. As soon as I stood over him, he jumped off the bench and never again touched a keyboard (even after I bought for him). Dr. Harris, an expert in autism at the local university, arrived early. She was striking. Tall and pretty despite oversized glasses dominating her prim features. I imagined her faceless portrait. She declined my coffee and knocked on the open door of Derek’s room. He watched an animated video while eating cut-up waffles. The drawing tablet sat nearby him. “Hi Derek!” She sounded like a long-lost friend. He glanced over his shoulder and turned back to the video. “Can I look at your drawings?” He didn’t move, so I grabbed the tablet and led her into the living room. She examined each portrait, shaking her head in amazement. “Have you ever heard of prosopagnosia?” I asked, her, knowing she did. But I pressed on. “Some people call it face blindness. About 40 percent of people with autism have it to a degree. They can recognize shades of colors, identify patterns, and see most things correctly, “just not faces.” “I think he’s the opposite,” she said. “Our faces bring expectations, unpredictability, and real life, like sadness and anger or deception. I think Derek feels the power of a look more than anyone.” She asked about Derek’s mother. How she related to him and why she left. “She was absorbed and obsessed by him,” I said. “She was his lifeline, but he wore her down. She just wanted... I don’t know... she would have settled for a second glance; an acknowledgement would have meant everything.” She looked down at the tablet and rifled through all the pages. “Notice that he doesn’t draw scenes or things?” she asked. “It’s always people and they jump off the page. He’s involved. I think faces pressure him. Being mute, he has few if any options to change a person’s mind.” “So, I’m not supposed to look at him?” She glanced at him sitting on the floor in his room. I often forget that he hears and understands everything. His silence made me sell him short. “Look, this is easy for me to say, but I suggest you appreciate his gift,” Harris said. “He is not trying to upset or unsettle you. He is communicating. After a few more minutes, she handed me his tablet, headed for the door, and just before leaving, said, “think I can get my portrait if he draws one?” After she left, I went to Derek’s room. I got on my knees and hugged him from behind. My eyes watered with each blink. I placed a photograph of his mother on the tablet. “Can you draw her?”

This is a spin-off (if thats what its called?) of a friend of mine's story. I took some liberties with the rules of magic a tad, but I hope it holds up to what he had originally imagined. Also, because I enjoy having stories read to me, I decided to read this one aloud: And lastly, anyone familiar with Chapter 1 of The Princess Bride might recognize a few familiar lines. I hope they seem more in homage to Goldman's (\*ahem\* I mean, S. Morgenster's) work than ripping it off. \ “IT WORKED!” I shouted with such force, my body was shot upright in the bed, my hands raised above me in fists of triumph and awe. Immediately after the minor celebration, a new, haunting realization came over me. “It ...worked.” My arms lowered to my side and my eyes slowly began to adjust to the darkness. There was a window in front of me, covered by horizontal slats that let in different hues and strengths of light. They didn’t flicker like candles, but they did grow and shrink. Sometimes moving from left to right, quickly, sometimes flashing and disappearing. Each one illuminating the small space I was now occupying. Strange sounds I had never heard creeping in along with the lights. I slowly became aware of the two eyes staring at me, high up in the corner of the room. I was almost shocked at how long it had taken me to notice. Familiar in their shape and meaning, the creature was sat atop a solid structure with drawers and openings. *Of course, she would have a cat.* *But are you... are you* ***my*** *cat?* *One way to find out...* I slowly tried to exit myself from the bed, noting how immensely soft and delicate the fabrics and coverings and cushioning were. *Was she royalty?* *Surely not royal to have sleeping quarters so small...* I made a clicking noise with my tongue. “Here... little kitty.” I whispered slowly. “I’m sorry you’re confused.” The cat’s ears twitch backwards and its head lowered, slightly. *Amazing creatures, to recognize me as someone unknown so immediately.* “You probably miss her, don’t you? It’ll be ok, Kitty.” I spoke softly as I lowered my head toward the cat. *You’ll get your answers in time.* *In the meanwhile, you’ll discover I’m just as patient as you.* I could tell dawn was breaking as a familiar, slow-moving glow began to fill the room. And then, I saw it. I saw... me. A mirror from floor to ceiling was affixed to the wall adjacent to the bed, and my body gasped. She was... frail. Her hair, mashed to one side, most likely due to the softness of her pillows. Her chest was sunken in somewhat and her arms, weak. She had markings of different colors all over the tops of both shoulders that ran down her back and sides; drawings of woodland critters and flora. I ran my hands across her collarbone and I could feel how thin her skin was. *This...is me?* *How is this...pathetic creature ...me?* Up until this point, I had assumed the spell had worked perfectly. The transportation of all higher lifeforms from my word to this one was supposed to be a ...parallel move, of sorts. Technically, this body belonged to me. Just, not the me that grew up in *my* world. But how could any version of me seem so absolutely underwhelming? She looked tired. The type of tired that builds over time, as if she hasn’t known a normal routine of health and sleep for months on end. And she felt just the same - used up and worn out, empty, and short of breath on most inhales. Worse than physically inept, she felt powerless. I flexed her fingertips and felt nothing. No spark, no flash of ability, no electricity at all. This woman was wholly and utterly inadequate. Untethered to any strong form of elemental or etherial magic, I wondered if I had gotten something wrong. *Surely, there is no universe in which I am so disturbingly pathetic?* *This is not the body of Ardnaxela, Witch of the Wildes, Unchalleneged Sorceress of the Bloodmoon Mages, The Midnight Feline, The Last Dragontamer, Rider of -* I gasped as my eyes met hers, still ice-blue and yet somehow less alive. “Petrix.” His name left my lips as a whisper, but it fell so heavy, it brought me to my knees. “I didn’t get to say goodbye. I didn’t...I didn’t want to...” I kept repeating single syllable words and simple phrases. My mind hadn’t decided if I should keep crying or start yelling and somehow, I ended up doing both. *Would any goodbye have been enough?* *What would you have wanted to say, witch?* *Nothing could have changed how it was going to end, you knew that.* “I know...I know...I just... ” Her body convulsed as I sobbed, broken and alone, truly alone. Magic was gone. My own body was changed. The world I loved, lost, perhaps forever. And yet somehow, I knew I could live without those things. But I wasn’t sure how to hold up my own head knowing Petrix was out there, in *this* world, living a completely different life than the one he shared with me. “My Petrix, **my** dragon.” I felt my shoulders get hot saying those words. *Mine*. I was angry. I was possessive. But why should I have been? Are dragons ever owned? Certainly not by bewitched witches and the longings of my innermost parts. The secret things. The neediness. I had to let go. “Forgive me...forgive me, my Favourite.” I had told him to look for me. That was the last thing I had said to him. And yet I wasn’t even sure he would be capable of remembering. “Would my Petrix ever forget?” It isn’t a fair question to ask. I had no idea how this spell would work. I don’t know if it is possible for him to remember the old world, let alone the short years he spent with me. I buried my face in my hands and let myself feel the weight of his absence. I was unlinked. I couldn’t feel the wind under his wings, the heat of his breath, the strength in his scales. I couldn’t feel anything. When my tears began to run dry, I lifted my head and stared at my gaunt reflection, eyelids swollen with sorrow. *That’s enough.* *Let go.* It began to dawn on me just how little I understood this spell. If it was capable of sending me to this world, this undesired version of myself, what else went wrong? I knew others had made the jump with me, and I had tried to ensure that only the people in liege with the General had transferred, but now I wasn’t so sure. And suddenly, hope. “Is it wrong to be excited that the war might not be over? That someone...unwelcome may have tagged along?” Life without a dragon wouldn’t be worth it. But if I unknowingly placed an entire world at risk by bringing such a destructive force with me, then I had no choice but to set it right. My reflection smirked and I realized that as soon as I figured out how to pull magic in this world, I would fix her hideous snaggletooth. And then, of course, save everyone. Again.

There’s a vulture on my fence. It’s been there day-in, day-out for the last week, ever since I moved into my new house and graduated high school. Sometimes, I feel like it’s been with me longer but I can’t explain where the feeling comes from. There’s a vulture on my fence. His body is as dark as the night and he’s always quiet, patient, and watching. I know he’s been with me longer but I can’t remember him. I swear he’s watching me, but maybe it’s just paranoia. There’s a vulture on my window ledge. He’s watching me now. I know it. I was looking at childhood pictures upstairs and when I looked up towards the window, I saw his eyes staring back at me. I went back to looking at dreams and passions long-abandoned and he never left. When I went to sleep that night, he was outside my bedroom window. I think he’s trying to tell me something, but I don’t know what. His presence is eerie but comforting. There’s a vulture staring at me as I read my childhood journal. It’s 10 AM and I’m lying in bed thinking about what I’ve lost out on. I wanted to be a chef once, but the last time I cooked was in 8th grade. I wanted to be an artist, but the last time I painted was sometime in middle school. I cry over the unfulfilled dreams of an idealistic child, and the whole time the vulture stares at me. He looks bigger than he did yesterday. There’s a vulture on my fence. I’m eating dinner with my family, but my mind is elsewhere. I’m thinking about lost friendships, broken hearts, and what-could-have-beens. The whole time, he’s staring at me. I turn to look at him, and he keeps staring. My family looks at me oddly, maybe they just don’t care about the vulture. The Vulture stole my journals. I’d left the window open when it was raining to feel the drops on my skin when he swooped in, grabbed my journals, and flew out. He was a lot bigger than he was yesterday, and I fell on my back when he flew in. I didn’t get up for a while. Then I went to sleep. The Vulture is gone now. I hope he’ll be back, I want my journals back. I liked reading them. I’ll move into college in two months, and I’d like to reminisce a little before I move out and away from my family, from my what-could-have-beens. It’s been a week. I remember the Vulture now. He was there when I moved to Minnesota. He was there when I moved to Hyderabad. He was there when I moved to New Jersey and had my adolescent heart crushed. He was there when I moved south to a place I didn’t really fit in. When I switched schools. When I was stuck inside for a year. He was there then. He was there in January when I tried chasing my dreams again, when I wrote something, when I showed it to a girl I might have had a thing for. I remember seeing his massive body outside my window while I wrote. Now he’s gone, and he took my journals with him. He's been there a lot. I wonder why. His absence is haunting. It’s been two weeks. He came back today. The journals were left outside my window. When I went to grab them, he scratched my left hand once. It was the closest I had been to him, and this time he looked even bigger than before, about six feet tall and towering over my crouching body. I went back inside, closed the door, and he didn’t leave. There’s a Vulture on my fence. He’s watching me. I think he’s waiting for something. I don’t know what.

We kids always called it The Last House in Town, but really it was just outside of town limits. With its old red brick covered in summer's ivy, its hot tin roof for the cats, and its perimeter fence of spear-topped wrought iron, it looked suitably forbidding. Especially at dusk on a foggy night. Edna Bligh had lived there since birth, and was now its solitary inhabitant, as far as we knew. She and her brother Herman had lost their parents to a vehicular accident some twenty years before. After inheriting the house free and clear, they had stayed there, never having married. Herman was the town's sole solicitor, and Edna had earned her keep by her skill as a dressmaker. In the spring of nineteen hundred and forty- nine, Herman was murdered by the father of a man he had sent to jail. Edna had seemed to be in perpetual mourning since that day. On her rare visits to town, she could be seen riding her Schwinn bicycle. Garbed in black, with lace-up leather boots, she wore a pillbox hat with a net veil covering her sharp features. We were in awe of her, not only because of what had happened. She seldom spoke, had the aspect of a dangerous bird, and seemed to rush wherever she went, as if in disdain for the whole of mankind. The large wicker creel strapped to her back fender reminded us uncomfortably of a certain Witch we had already heard tell of. In the first days after Herman's death, Edna costumed herself in the endless black of her future. For his burial, she paced slowly down the line of mourners to his graveside, cloaked in charcoal, even to the velvet mask that covered her eyes. Evoked were the bats of Dracula, and a wedding to the dead. Edna was not seen for ninety days from that stilted graveside walk. In that time, the fall of the year burned down to winter's ash. At the Last House, men and machinery could be seen. Men with hoods who did not speak to any outside of that boundary. We curious kids, with borrowed binoculars and too-big sweaters, skulked behind the poor brick partition of my front walk, making a nervous party out of the Watching. *** Our old town's Main Street business district was less than a mile long. It was intersected by First, Second, and Third Avenues, and many businesses had come and gone in its decades of history. Aside from the Post Office, there was one that remained in memory, and indeed it still occupied its rarefied space. Its plate glass window had once been destroyed by an angry but cowardly man and had been renewed with a double pane of "safety" glass. This had a slight tinge of greenness and was curiously embedded with many crisscross strands of wire. Brand new letters of gold leaf had been applied to its inner pane, reading "LAW OFFICE- H. BLIGH" Herman, after the first shock, and having to wait for the repairs to be effected, decided it would be a good time to "update" the office a little, and so he brought in painters, carpenters, and carpet layers. He was not long settling into the new place when he was called to represent the Crown in a case of armed robbery in a neighbouring village. It was one of the Baker Boys, whom he knew (and detested) from his younger days. Mark Baker was not one of the actual triggermen, but it was alleged that he had driven the getaway car. Evidence was largely circumstantial and the outcome was in doubt until Herman, who was very well connected within the town, managed to drum up two credible witnesses who would testify. In the end, Mark was sentenced to five years. Three days later, as Herman was locking up after a long night at the office, he was shot to death through the safety glass of his office window. Several tenants had remarked on the dark pickup that had sat in the rain that night, but they could not give a positive I.D. of the attacker. *** Howard Baker had been very careful. He knew that Herman had earned a few enemies in the county, and he knew also that he himself would be a prime suspect. To that end, he had stolen a pickup from a nearby farmer who was away at auction, and had waited in the dark downpour until Herman had decided to call it a night. He wore dark rain gear with a hood that shaded his features, and with his leather gloves, slip-on rubbers, and the heavy silencer on his .38 , he thought to leave little evidence of his presence that night. When the deed was done, he drove off into the darkness, ditched the truck in a wooded area, and, using the bike he had brought with him, pedaled through the rain to complete the nearly ten- mile journey to his house. It was not long before he had a visit from the law. *** Something curious was happening at the old Bligh house. There had been many comings and goings of workmen in the weeks that Edna had been gone. The heavy iron fence with its spears had been uprooted and taken apart in sections. Along its outline, a deep and narrow trench was dug. We kids were on watch every second we could spare. At last, the queerest thing of all took place right in front of our eyes. A truckload of stone slabs and red brick arrived, followed by a cement mixer. Into the trench, stone and cement were laid, and, over several days, a brick wall some eight feet in height and a foot thick took form. It surrounded the house completely, save for a heavy oaken door, which was domed at its top and framed and buttressed with black iron. When the wall was done, the old fence of spears was installed upon its top. The men and machinery finally left, late on a foggy and cold afternoon. Edna had not been idle during that time. It had been quite a while since she had paid a visit to old Verna, the woman who had mentored her in something more than dressmaking. Verna was another confirmed spinster who had lived, with minimal help, in the house of her birth, and was now alone. Twenty years Edna's senior, she had often looked after Edna and Herman when their parents had been otherwise occupied. Verna was delighted to see her, in spite of the circumstances, and insisted that Edna stay with her awhile. And so, from Verna's home, Edna made arrangements to have Herman's old office repaired and secured, once the Police had quit the premises. She also learned and partook in things that might give you and I a chilly feeling up the back of our spines. *** Howard Baker had never been an excitable man. Fact was, not much scared him. He was slow to anger, but when brought to that state he would lose all reason. It had led him to do murder, and in his self -righteous mind he was a hero for its doing. Guilt was an emotion somewhat foreign to him. When he slept, it was the sleep of peace. On that night in late fall, he had retired early after an exhausting day of haying and mucking out stables. The forecast promised a nasty storm, but that was no bother to Howard. By 9:30, after a couple of beers, he was snoring. A short time later, the rain came on with a vengeance, and distant lightning woke a muttering of thunder. A black pickup truck stopped at the entrance to Howard's long driveway. A tall thin figure got out and, not minding the streaming rain, walked slowly towards the darkened house. In his dream of accolades, Howard's heart swelled now that he was finally getting his due. He smiled and waved at the adoring crowd, and the happy ending brought him peace and the quietude of expiated sin. But soon a black hand, palm outward in token of rejection, disturbed and troubled his art. He awoke suddenly to explosive lightning and immediate thunder. In the afterglow, a face in his window. Raven-like eyes, sharp hooked nose, and a small tight mouth contorted with hate. Howard was paralyzed and thought with hope that the face was but a nightmare. Indeed, when the next flash came, the face was not there. He thought to get out of bed to collect his wits but found that his body would not obey. Hoping that sleep would take him, he tried to calm his jumping nerves by using a mantra that he had once heard a hypnotist employ. Something about intentionally relaxing your muscles, one by one, starting at your toes. Howard was just getting to his knees when, in the next strong flash of lightning, a tall figure could be seen standing in his open bedroom door. It was the owner of the face, and as they locked eyes, it was upon him. With its thin strong hands and sharp nails, it grabbed onto his ears and drew its grim countenance to his. All the while looking straight into his soul, it whispered these words: "Howard Baker, ye are the one. You gave to one of mine their own private Hell, and then their death. I am inside ye now. Your soul is mine. You will walk my walk for the time left of your life, and it will be long. I have sold my own soul for this, for I have rejected my God, who said that vengeance was given to him only." And then, dry crusted lips laid a cold kiss upon his trembling forehead. Howard had soiled himself. *** If one had awoken early enough, they might have seen, at the site of Herman's law office, a smart-looking and very erect old woman dressed in red. With a confident mien, she brought forth an iron key from her bag, and made entrance to her new world. In gold leaf, the letters in the window spelled out VERNA MARTIN- FASHIONS FOR THE TIMES. If one had stayed up late enough, they might have seen (if they didn't mind the rain) a tall thin figure in black who also produced an iron key from her bag, and unhurriedly gained entrance to the Bligh house. There was a booming slam as the door closed, and the sound of tinkling chains. One of the Bakers' neighbours had noticed that there had not been much activity on that farm for a few days and decided to pay Howard a visit. Along his dusty driveway, they saw some sick cattle, and became more alarmed. At last, they pulled up to the house. There was Howard, sitting on his front stoop, naked except for his socks. He was eating a cob of raw corn. He did not look up. The Police, who had been "keeping an eye" on Howard while "gathering evidence", arrived at the homestead, together with a paddy wagon. Howard did indeed have a long life. He was pronounced incurably insane. Herman's murder was never solved.

When Jeannie, Gil’s wife died, he stopped going to church. He’d take his son, Cliff, to the twenty-minute Mass at the French church on Christmas and Easter. Gil preferred watching the ducks in the early light from atop the bridge in Cass Park. That was his place of worship. It felt more real. From that vantage he sensed the whole world arising as sunlight shone through the treetops. Before they married, he and Jeannie threw stale bread to the ducks and laughed at their jostling for morsels. Meadowlarks sang arias from the trees. It felt like heaven to him. He’d take Cliff to the bridge each morning, before dropping him to school, and working at the bank. Standing over the still water, they’d talk and watch the world awaken. He never forgot that Cliff was all he had left of Jeannie. Gil pointed. “See that ripple, out past the lily pads...?” “Yeah. What is that?” “A snapping turtle. I call her Hilda.” “Hilda? “She’s huge. Has a sharp beak and a ragged dinosaur tail. Wouldn’t want to swim with her.” “Wow.” “Been here since before I was born.” “She’s old!” They’d watch Hilda make her rounds. The ancient turtle lurked beneath the dark water stirred by the ducks. The big old turtle terrified him when he was Cliff’s age. Now, they were old friends. The ducks dispersed. Gil said, “My dad used to tell me about hippos out there.” “Really?” “That’s what he told me.” Gil’s brother, Roger, called Cliff ‘the Wanderer.’ When he got lost in the woods, they found him napping atop a slab of granite. A sun beam shone down on him. A fawn was licking his ear. A few days later, Cliff and Gil visited the bridge for their morning ritual. A flock of ducks took flight and wheeled over the placid water. The boy admitted he’d given up. “I didn’t know what to do, dad. I wished I was a bird.” “Cliff, when you get in a jam, you can’t just fly away.” “Birds do.” “But you’re not a bird. Birds don’t think. They react. We buckle down and find a solution.” “But how...?” “Ducks swim. You don’t see crows swimming. Each does what’s intended. You’re not made to fly.” “What am I made for?” “Good question. What are you good for?” Wide eyed, Cliff had no answer. He felt Jeannie watching. He ruffled Cliff’s hair. “Right now, you’re made to run and play. Soon, ideas will capture you and you’ll chase them far as you need to.” Cliff needed structure. Gil signed him up for the local peewee football team, the Canucks. Cliff preferred soccer. But being old school, and the team coach, Gil prevailed. He watched Cliff sulking, but safe on the bench. Cliff chafed at Gil’s control but didn’t protest. Another kid, Frankie, and Cliff became friends. Frankie was agile and threw well. Cliff ran fast and knew how to catch the ball. Gil started using him in games. One game, near the end of the fourth quarter, the Canuck defense collapsed. Trapped, Frankie threw the ball away. Cliff made a spectacular catch. His touchdown won the game. Frankie said the priest at the French church, congratulated them for their Hail Mary. Cliff asked Gil about it. “Dad, why don’t we practice that play from the game?” “Because it’s last ditch. A miracle, desperation play... To keep from getting sacked.” “But it worked. We won the game...” “There’s no way to practice it, Cliff. It’s random, unpredictable. No one wants a Hail Mary play. If you need it, someone didn’t do their job. The defensive line failed.” “Why did we win if everything went wrong?” “Drills let us know what to expect. Follow the rules, stick to the plan. Don’t wing it. The center snaps the ball, and the quarterback catches it. Like at the bank, you don’t fudge the figures.” “I know, Dad. But Friday?” “Steady practice gets you to know each other’s moves. Then, if you need to improvise, you can. But you can’t plan it.” The next week, they stood on the bridge, huddled in their jackets. Their breath lingered in the chilled air. The ducks had migrated south. Gil watched for Hilda’s ripples. Cliff said, “Dad, I wrote a poem.” “Let’s hear it.” He unfolded a paper, “’They say hippos swim in the lake at Cass Park. And if you dive deep enough you could find Noah’s Ark. There the ducks live in trees, The crows do as they please. The light’s beautiful and it never gets dark...’ He looked up. Gil chuckled and said, “That’s awful.” Cliff laughed. “It is?” Gil felt Jeannie’s nudge. “Is it for school?” “No. I just wrote it.” “Then I love it.” “You do?” Gil nudged his shoulder with a smile. “You have a great future, kid.” The following Friday morning, Gil prepared for the day. He called out, “You ready, Cliff? Let’s head out.” The house was silent. Cliff wasn’t in his room. Something felt wrong. Never an early riser, Cliff always rode with Gil. His backpack was gone, but his schoolbooks sat on the table. He called Cliff’s friends. No one knew anything. Frankie’s mother said they left together, at dawn. “I heard them talking about the train.” “The train? They’re kids. Where would they take the train?” “Not sure. What’s three hours away?” Gil saw the newspaper on the table. He stopped at the announcement of the NY Jets’ planned appearance at Madison Square Garden. Their quarterback, Chase Hopkins, recently made news with a Hail Mary pass. Gil called his brother, Roger. “Drop everything, Rog. Need some urgent action.” “What’s up?” “Cliff and a buddy skipped school to go into the city. Need help finding them.” “Alone? To New York? What is he, ten? Crazy...” “That’s Cliff. I’ll pick you up in ten.” Traffic wasn’t bad until they reached the outer boroughs. Roger and his wife, Donna, rode along. They were regulars at church, Sundays, holidays and holy days. Donna attended Mass every morning. Sitting next to Gil, Roger yammered about kids lacking responsibility. Donna prayed in the back seat, non-stop and loudly. When the traffic backed up, Gil reached his limit. “Will you pipe down? You’re talking to yourself. Cut the volume.” “I’m praying, Gil. Asking God for help.” “And God can’t hear silent thoughts? I’m trying to think, here. Pray for an open lane.” Roger and Donna exchanged looks. He felt responsible. ‘I’m under water, here... What if... I’d let Cliff play soccer? Or Jeannie’d stayed behind instead of me? The kid would’ve thrived with her.’ No answers came. Nothing could solve this. ‘Why? Why? Why...?’ Gil took an exit and made his way to Madison Square Garden. ‘So many people!’ He pulled over, got out, and gave Roger the keys. “Drive around. I don’t know... Look between here and Grand Central... I’ll scout the Garden.” He ran up the steps and across the plaza to the entrance. A maintenance man came out. Gil stopped in front of him. “When will the Jets be here?” The guy brushed by. “This morning. Been and gone, man... freakin’ tourist...” Dead end. He had been so sure. Now what? Gil fell to his knees. Putting his hands together, he did what he hadn’t done since he was a kid. And never in public. He prayed. People milling about stared at Gil kneeling by the Garden’s entrance. “Mary. I barely know you. It’s been so long. Too long... I need help finding Cliff, Jeannie’s and my son. He’s a good kid. But lost. I don’t know if... or what you can do. But please, help us find him. Keep him safe... You can’t... please don’t leave me alone. He’s all I’ve got... I’ll return to church. Do a rosary every week... every day. Just bring him back safe. Please...” Sobbing, Gil slumped against the wall, head in hands. His cell phone rang. It was Roger. “We got Cliff and his friend. Safe. They crossed right in front of us on 42 nd , at Bryant Park.” Gil couldn’t speak. Tears ran down his face. Roger said, “You there? Pick you up in five.” The kids denied knowing anything about the Jets event. “That would’ve been cool. Should ‘a done that...” Cliff said, “Always heard about New York. Wanted to check it out...” The ride home was relaxed, once they got past the scolding. Cliff got a clue. He wasn’t much trouble after that. Gil faithfully said his rosary every day. When tempted to skip it, he’d tell himself, ‘Follow the rules. Stick to the plan. Don’t wing it. Keep your promises...’ He kept his promise. Standing on the bridge every morning, he’d feed Hilda and the ducks. He’d think of Jeannie and tell her all about it.

I stop dead in my tracks. I’ve heard that the place is huge, but the rumors couldn’t prepare me for what I see. Neat, yellow stalls fill the space as far as I can see, their counters cluttered with goods from all around the universe, walls decorated with banners, garlands, and illusions. Between them hangs a silken cloth, shielding merchants and customers from the scorching light of two triangular suns. But the worst thing is, most of the people here are not even humans. It's hard to say which species is the most abundant since there are so many! Furry kas’shams with big eyes and expressionless faces strolling leisurely, browsing silk clothes and carved combs. Stumpy chavikii with eight spidery eyes, trumpeting for attention. Tiny, reptilian miyangua slithering about, twitching their fleshy whiskers, their vocal sacks working like bellows. There, a ssothian is barging through the crowd, a mountain of orange fur with horns curling down and dropping almost to the ground. I’ve never seen a nonhuman before. I am Tarvissi; our people are considered speciesists and shunned by other species. Now I am surrounded by others and I don’t know what to do. For a moment I’m taken by a sense of alienation so strong, I feel as if I am the only Tarvissi in the world. Then something soft and wet touches my shoulder and I whirl around to what looks like a giant snail, its front half raised above my head. It’s bright yellow, with red and dark blue ends to its flaps and two additional, smaller flaps in front. I step aside and the u’xui-shi slithers past me with surprising speed. I glance back at the market. The nearest stall has a silken banner, red with golden margin, and covered in writing I cannot read. The counter is filled with jewelry of gold and sapphires. Despair wells inside me. What right do I have to be here? I’m just a simple farmer. Where I come from, the jewelry was made of leather straps and carnelian. But then I collect myself. I’m not a simple farmer anymore. Yesterday I got my first Mespanian pay and I could probably afford the gold if I wanted to. But I don’t; Varxi, a Xzsim who trained with me, told me it was the place to go to buy food and I am sick and tired of Dahlsian rations. I clutch my bag closer and enter the market. The ground is covered by a soft, spongy pavement, the same material used to line training grounds. I thought the cloth above our heads would offer respite from the tropical heat, but the proximity of a thousand bodies makes the market feel like a steam bath. I spy another ssothian, crouching, with three miyangua dancing around them with scissors, trimming their orange fur. I feel sorry for the big guy. Or gal. Or whoever they are. The scent I detected a mile away is stronger here: human and inhuman sweat, fresh wood--the market was only finished a few tendays ago--fur, spices, perfumes. The air resonates with the voices of merchants trying to outshout one another, customers, and caged animals. Above them carries a song and as I follow it, I see a besheq singing, tentacles whipping above their heads, weaving a basket of silvery willow. The goods on display are as varied as the people who sell them. Jewelry and weapons; silks and linens; utensils of wood, ivory, and plastic; books and parchments; obsidian mirrors. The u’xui-shi that passed me before is now standing at one of the stalls, flapping their frilly fins over a selection of colorful powders. The first food I see is sold by chavikii and comprises dozens of plants--fruits, vegetables, or other parts--I don’t recognize. They’re bright and shiny, but I give them a pass; chavikii are naturally resistant to plant toxins and their foods could prove deadly to me. A bit further, a kas’sham offers a selection of sausages, and a familiar scent of naya spice reaches my nose, but the predatory look of the merchant’s face scares me away. I keep walking. The place is like a maze, the stalls identical, the crowds oppressing. My head starts spinning and the images blend together. So many goods I’ve never seen before, many I wouldn’t even know what to do. Fabrics that shimmer like beetle-shells; tools I didn’t know how to use; clothes made for inhuman shapes. Instruments emanating unheard of sounds and flowers that danced to their rhythm. Half-birds and half-fish with fantastic plumes, locked in cages of gold and glass. Tableware carved from single pieces of jade. What am I even doing here? A procession of chavikii pushes past me, each carrying a basket full of fruits that look like human eyes leering at me. A vhariar tries to sell me a potion to increase magical potency. My heart is racing. I struggle for breath. Are there no humans on the market? A few times I catch a glimpse of human skin, hairless Chaarites, or brown Varpulians, but they vanish before I can even see if they're merchants or customers. And none of them is Tarvissi. Am I the only one of my race here? I lean onto one of the pillars supporting the silken roof and try to calm my breathing. Despite my light clothing, I’m drenched in sweat and my insides churn, I’m not sure from hunger or anxiety. “Are you lotht?” I jerk and look around to see the kas’sham manning the nearest stall eyeing me. Their face is almost animalistic, but their big eyes shine with intelligence. Their body is lean and supple, covered in short slate fur, large hands hide claws long and sharp as daggers. I feel a cold shiver running down my spine as I realized they could jump over the counter and rip my throat open with their bare teeth before I knew they were coming. Mechanically, my hand rests on my wand. “I’m fine,” I murmur, not letting my gaze off the merchant. They look at me for a moment longer, but their face is unreadable. Finally, they flick their tail. “Tarvithian merchanth gather around the dome-thide gate,” they say and I can glimpse their canines, each as long as my hand. They must be the reason the kas’sham struggles to pronounce s . Then the meaning of their words finally worms its way through my apprehension. Embarrassment washes over me. I let go of my wand and drop my gaze. “Thank you,” I say. I pick up the trek, but suddenly the place doesn’t seem so scary anymore. It’s different. Probably bigger--and busier!--than our entire colony. But it’s just a market. And no matter how the people look or how they speak, they’re just that: people. I spot a small clearing and walk towards it, hoping to locate the dome and find the Tarvissian quarter, but the smell of flowers gives way to smoke and roasted meats. The square is surrounded by food stalls, manned by Chaarite humans. There’s a large grill with a wide assortment of roasted meats and a big pot of some kind of soup. To my left, a woman in loose robe sells steamed buns. Behind her, a chavikii fries some vegetables, the banner at the side of their stalls portrays a human with thumb and index finger raised in a Dahlsian gesture meaning everything is all right. My mouth fills with saliva. I realize I may not need Tarvissian merchants anymore.

The hitchhiker stood on a vast open countryside, nothing around her for miles except for farmland, the road she stood aside of, and the car coming to a stop beside her. Without looking in she got in the car, thankful to narrowly miss the storm that was coming.Of course she knew the dangers of what she was doing, She was used to it by now and it was more of a neccesary evil than anything. Before she got her bearings a males voice asked "Where are you trying to get to?". "I dont know." She replied. She sat motionless, eyes closed and picturing her dreams and focusing on that while waiting for the guy to make a move. Instead, He put the car in drive and slowly started driving again while she looked over at him. Immediately her stomach dropped but she couldnt place why. He was close to her age, good looking in an unusual way. He didnt respond to her for some time and kept his eyes forward.   After a few miles of silence the rain began to fall hard, blanketing their vision. Even with the sound of the rain the girl still jumped a little bit when the guy quietly said "How do you not know where you are going??" and laughed a little bit. His laugh was so quiet she could barely hear it, and may have missed it if she didnt see him laughing. Her stomach dropped a little more. She liked his smile and felt comfortable even though she knew nothing about him.She started to think of an answer when he spoke again. "If you don't know where you're going, why would you hitchhike?", asking with a genuinely puzzled look. This question was easy enough to answer, though she normally never told anyone the honest answer for it when she was asked. This time though she was honest. "It's nice to imagine, or hope." He looked at her for the first time, as though seeing the person confusing him would clear anything up. He jokingly pulled his eyebrows low like he was suspect of her, then he smiled again and looked back at the road. Again her stomach sank further and she was feeling nervous now. Of course she couldnt tell, but he was too. "sounds kinda sketch." He said. As she started to get offended he followed up with "hitchhiking I mean, not you." "Elaborate?" he asked. She explained that she had dreams of being out in the world and doing what she wanted, so she would hitchhike with people and imagine she was going out to be in the world and do the things she dreamed of. When he asked her why she didnt do those things instead of dreaming about them she pulled back from her openness. He could tell that he had reached a sensitive area and retreated the conversation to another topic. The storm got worse and neither of them could see more than a few feet ahead so he pulled off to a rest stop to let the storm pass. They talked for hours and nighttime came with the storm going just as strong. At one point she looked over at him and as her stomach began to drop again she only thought one word: Mine. At that moment it felt like the whole world finally made sense. She felt like she knew things, like she knew he was hers. She knew she was his, and she liked that. She felt things she hadnt felt before, alien-like feelings. She asked herself "Is this happiness?" For the first time she felt content, calm, and relaxed.   It turned out that they lived close by each other and that he was just driving around because he "was ready to go somewhere with nowhere to go.", so they agreed to head back to their city after the storm. If it ever stopped that was.... By 3am they were listening to music and talking every now and then, both of their eyelids getting heavy. Abruptly the guy announced he was going to take a nap, leaning his chair back and putting a sweater under his head like a pillow he faced her. She did the same thing and just watched him as he fell asleep. As she was drifting off to sleep she softly asked "what's your name?". The cd they were listening to had ended a while ago and now only the sound of the rain could be heard. She normally would be worried about the storm but was calm, content, and at peace in this strangers car. "The Heretic." he whispered back. In the morning the storm passed right as the sun was coming up. She woke up facing the stranger, and noticed she was holding his hand. She gently let go, embarrassedly thinking that she may have grabbed it in her sleep and didnt want to weird him out. She got out of the car to use the rest stops vending machine and clean up a bit in the bathroom. When she came back out the car was running and he was awake. They drove back to their city and when they got to her house she invited him inside, not ready to part ways. He agreed, and from that moment they spent almost every day together for the following few years. In that time she was happier than she ever felt, realizing she hadn't ever known what it was like to feel truly happy before. This led to her getting her not hitchhiking anymore, getting her own car, and more importantly, she began to look forward to her future. This was something that she usually avoided because she would think there was nothing worth looking forward too. Now she saw herself fulfilling her dreams, living a life she always wanted but never thought she could have. She felt excited looking ahead. She had always dreamed of moving away, somewhere warm, with a beach nearby. Somewhere on the west coast. The guy encouraged it so eventually they were ready to go. She was nervous as she had never been independent, in control of her own life.Neverhad been truly responsible for herself, both for her potential successes and potential failures. She didnt have something to fall back on and blame, and the thought made her uncomfortable. She knew in her heart that following her dream was what she wanted most, being with this boy was what she wanted most. It wasn't that she needed him to do anything for her, just that having him by her side she felt understood, safe, loved, free, powerful. Alive. She felt like she could do anything. Most people she knew saw her and saw that they could take advantage of her or her situation, and they would. The Heretic never did though, and instead protected her vulnerabillities and would challenge her to grow rather than put her down or try to control her. She could also tell that this was all new to him as well, and he had told her that she inspired him in similar ways during one of their many talks. He wasn't a bum before they met but he was...directionless. Ready to go with nowhere to go. Now that he had goals he had changed a lot, in good ways. He still retained his boyish charm but she had seen him grow into being a man in the past few years. He credited her for pushing him to grow, even though she never did. He said just by being herself it made him always want to grow and be a better person. She understood that feeling as she felt the same way. She understood everything he said though(as he did for her too), no matter how abstract it was or how vague or bad he was at describing something. Sometimes they could just look at each other and have full conversations, or be apart and sense how the other one was feeling. If someone had told her that 5 years ago, she would think that person was crazy, an idiot. She thought love in general and people in love were weak, naive fools missing out on life in their boring monogomy. Now she saw that she was the one that was naive.   She was ready to move and get away from all of the toxic things that haunted her past, excise them from her like removing the tentacles of an octopus trying to drown her. It was was the only way she would be happy, she thought. So they began their drive to a new world. The nervous uncomfortable feeling remained with her though, and began to grow. They took the same path that theyd taken all those years before but in reverse. She would normally be hapy to see the spot they had met and she felt her stomach dropping like it did on that day, but this time it wasnt in a good way though. She began to doubt herself, her dreams, her ability to succeed and be happy. "What If I failed?" "What if...I am not enough?" That thought led her to The Heretic, and she began to doubt him too. He could sense something was wrong since they had left, and asked her a couple times what was wrong but she gave a curt "nothing." His face seemed pained, like he was watching someone in pain and couldnt do anything to help them. They had driven for some time and were passing the rest stop from the night they met. She looked at him and he was smiling, looking from the rest stop to her. In that moment they looked at each other and all the bad washed away in her, and she felt excited. She was so close to escaping all of the bad. That was the only moment of the ride that she felt "okay" though, and as soon as they broke eye contact the feeling washed away. No more than a mile later They pulled up to a massive metal gate. The gateway was attached to a wall on either side, solid, shining metal extending as far as the eye could see. As he pulled closer to it she said "stop!" and he did. She quickly got out of the car so he followed, confused. "Whats wrong" he asked, genuinely concerned. Her mind was clouded with a hundred voices all saying different things at once. It was overwhelming and too much. She looked at him and thought "I must look crazy." and pained to think what he must be thinking of her right then. The voices in her head got louder and she felt like she was in the middle of a crowd of people all talking at once. He could see her discontent on her face and stepped towards her to comfort her. He was speaking but she couldnt hear him over the voices, then she said "I cant go". Her eyes began to tear up. The voices were all familiar, all people from the old world, and they were all saying bad things. About her, about him, about her dreams. they warned her about failing, acting as though they were looking out for her. they also warned her about him, saying that he was just like the rest. that he was trying to keep her for himself, thats why he was reaching for her right now. She pulled back and looked at him accusingly. The voices soothingly said that she was safe here, on this side of the gate. This was where she belonged. "Whats wrong? do you not want to go? You dont have to-" he started to say when she cut him off. "I cant go any further." then looked back at the gate looming over them. "What do you mean? Like you physically cant? Im confused." He softly grabbed her hand and led her to the gate. As they approached it the massive metal gate began to lift up. She got more nervous than she had ever been, standing a foot away from the other side of the gate. Everything out there was so alien, so unknown, and it terrified her. He could see what she was thinking on her face and only said two words. "I love you. You CAN." The voices in her head began buzzing again, saying he was pressuring her, he was lying, he was bad. They told her to tell him again, so she did. "I can't." He took one step and was on the other side of the gate, then said "See. Nothing happened. It's no different here than it-" he was saying when the gate slammed down, shutting with a loud boom. He began to bang on the gate, and she began to panic and tried to open it. Looking back and forth she saw no way to open it, no number to call for assistance, nothing that could help.   Now they were apart. She fell against the gate and cried. The voices got louder, some began to laugh and mock, some began to comfort her in her panic, some said she was better off without him. She screamed at them to stop, to go away. They didnt though. After a couple of days of going back to the gate she waited for it to open but it never did. She knew he was still on the other side because he would knock when she would. She looked for a way to slip notes under the gate or communicate with him somehow but couldnt. Eventually she went home. She would go back to the gate every day for weeks, never seeing it open. Never seeing him. She went offroad and followed the gate in one direction and after a couple of days was back at the gate, having gone full circle without finding a way out. The voices in her head assured her this was for the best, that he had left her. He had failed her. That he was why she hurt. She fought with them at first. Years would pass and she stopped going to the gate, hating The Heretic for hurting her. She started hitchhiking again, and almost immediately she had met someone else and he was different. He didnt care about her dreams, or what made her happy, from what she gathered he just saw her as a trophy. It was a relief. She wouldnt have to repeat what had happened and it was "safe". The voices liked him a lot. One day she realized that she was pregnant. The voices were pleased, despite that she wasn't exactly happy. Her new partner was happy as well. He had her on a leash now, in his mind. She thought of The Heretic, and even though she hated him she missed him. That didnt happen often but sometimes she would strangely miss him then feel ashamed for missing someone who was so cruel. In the following weeks the guy proposed to her and she said yes, knowing the voices expected it of her. She didnt want to dissapoint them. "One day they will be pleased" she said to herself, more of a hope than a thought. She didnt know of course that they never would be though. They had grown more arrogant after she said yes to the guy, taunting her even. One night she was sad and couldnt place why, laying in her bed in the dark. It was right at the edge of her mind what bothered her so much, almost in reach but just out of grasp. Among the chatter of the other voices a new one softly spoke up. The Heretics voice said "Go to the gate." It startled her for she wasnt used to hearing his voice anymore, and she never heard it with the other voices. Immediately the other voices began speaking, saying he was trying to hurt her, and not to listen to him. "He is bad". She felt like she had to go though, she had to know why she heard him. She got in her car in her pajamas and took off, fighting the voices the whole drive. They kept saying "your pregnant, this is irresponsible." "turn back." "Youre getting married soon, your husband wouldnt like this would he?" She knew the voices were right, as she had decided they always were. They looked out for her, she would think. Still, she pressed on, and saw the rest stop from those many years ago. Immediately she started to hurt, her mind too clouded to pinpoint why except for what the voices told her. "He hurt you!" She couldnt even recall anything about the night at the rest stop,just vaguely that it had to do with Heretic. She pulled up to the massive gate, not knowing what to expect. It was exactly the same as it had always been, except for a post sticking out on the side of the road. IT had a piece of paper stuck to it at the top so she put the car in park and walked over to it. It was folded up and had a heart on the outside of it with the words "I believe in you" written inside of the heart. The heretic used to write her little notes alot and she recognized his handwriting. The voices said "It's a trick!" "He's trying to hurt you again." "he's lying." "Dont open it." She opened it anyways, and all that was inside were a couple brief sentences. "It's all in your head. There is no gate... I'll be on the west coast, the place we were headed in case you change your mind about staying here. It's never too late to do what makes you happy. I love you, H" Suspicious of his obvious lie she looked up and gasped. There was no gate. Her mind was unusually silent for the first time in years. The voices had dissapeared along with the gate... There, by herself, everything now clear to her, she cried. She felt sick at the thought of all that had happened. The thought of the voices betraying her. Of hating Heretic just because it made her decision easier. The thought of being pregnant by this guy she didnt really love, would have a family that she would hurt every time she looked at, and sick by the thought that she had settled in every way. Sick with the realization that she gave her happiness away because it was unknown to her, scared her even. Sick with the thought that she let her darkness prevail over her light. Let her fear prevail over her courage. With dread she then thought "this is my life." and quickly pushing aside what the Heretic said, she accepted her fate. Then the voices came back, once again filling her mind with noise as usual. They comforted her, reassured her she was making the right choice, as they were so good at doing, she had forgotten most of this event by time she was married, and didnt think of it anymore by time she had her child, and she went on to lead the life they charted out for her. She was never happy, but she was somewhere she was comfortable, somewhere she knew. Not content, but comfortable. She felt alone, incomplete, nervous most of the time but couldnt place why. She didnt search for reasons either, knowing that would only cause pain. It wasn't enough for her, but it was her life. It was the fate she chose.     Many, many years later there was an old man on the west coast, overlooking the ocean from his home. He had no kids, no grandkids. Not that anything was wrong with him or because women didnt like him, he just never let anyone close to him because he was always preoccupied, both in his heart and his mind. On this particular night he was moving slowly, breathing shallow, weak breaths. He knew his time was near. He'd known it for some time, and in a way he felt like he was failing her by succumbing to it. Speaking to her, but to nobody, he said "I'm sorry." His heart pained him, not from old age but from loss. Not his own loss as much as he was pained for her. "You deserved so much more. You deserved better." He held a picture in his hand, old and battered like him. It showed a youthful portayal of him and the girl together and smiling. Big, goofy, genuine smiles. Every time he looked at it he felt a bit of the warmth and happiness he had felt when it was taken all those years ago. He never forgot those days. His mind and heart wouldnt let him even if he tried. That was where he was meant to be. Not any specific place, but just by her side. He slowly walked inside to his bed, his whole body protesting and creaking with every movement. He knew this was the last time he would make this walk, and wanted to welcome it if it werent for the feeling of failure. He wanted to invite the end of pain, but knew it was selfish and so refused. He had fought off the end and staved it off for many years, but the fight ended that night. Laying in his bed, warm but also cold, he held the picture to his chest and said "I love you." The Heretics breathing slowed as he fell asleep.

"Mind if I sit here?" said a low voice from Meghan's right hand side. It was a short, Indian man, gesturing to the space on the park bench beside her. "Sure go ahead!" she politely said, moving her bag to her other side, away from the man. He took the space next to her and let out a sigh. They both sat in silence, watching a lady on the other side of the park struggle to get a squirrel to take some food from her hand. "She's trying it with the wrong squirrel." the man said, breaking the silence. "Huh, sorry?" Meghan replied, taking out one of her earphones. "The lady. Feeding the squirrel. She's wasting her time. I come here all the time and that squirrel is very wary of people and won't eat from your hand. The one with the shorter tail on the other side of the swings will eat for days though" he chuckled. "Oh, haha. How can you tell them apart?" "Well that one has a thicker tail and is a bit of a darker grey on the head, whereas the other one is a lighter grey and a bit more thin. It's a lot younger, I think." "Oh wow, should we tell her?" "Oh no, I like to not interfere. She'll either learn, or she won't. I haven't seen you here before?" He turned to face Meghan now. "Yeah I just moved here. First time moving away from home and I thought I'd come clear my head in the park. It's lovely here." "What's on your mind?" "Oh nothing, um, I think I should head back and finish unpacking. It was lovely meeting you though!" Meghan put her book away into the bag and flashed the man a smile as she left. *4 days later.* Meghan was walking through the nearby park, looking for a place to sit, when she saw the same short Indian man beckon her over to the bench. “Hey! How’s the move going? All unpacked? You can come sit next to me if you’d like” the man said. Meghan felt pressured and politely took the space next to him. “Yeah, unpacking is going along alright. Bit slower than I’d like but I’m in no rush.” She replied as she got out her notebook and pencil, ready to do some sketching. “I never got your name last time, I’m Arjun” the man beamed, holding out his hand to shake hers. “Nice to meet you Arjun. I’m just going to pop my earphones in and get on with some drawing if that’s ok?” she replied. He shrugged in a way that said ‘don’t let me stop you’ and Meghan began to draw. After about 15 minutes, she felt his eyes watching her draw, and took out her earphones. “I think I’m going to head home and finish this drawing back there, it was lovely seeing you again though!” “You too! Although, I never got your name.” he replied. “Oh um... it’s Meghan.” “Nice to meet you Meghan, see you around!” *15 days later.* Meghan was on her way to the bench where she had seen Arjun a few times over the past two weeks, both hoping that he wasn’t there so that she could draw in peace, and also hoping that he was there, so that she had someone to talk to. As expected, Arjun was sitting on the bench, wearing a smile on his face as she approached. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he asked as she walked over and took her seat next to him. “Yeah it’s lovely. Not too hot but warm enough that I can wear a vest. How are you Arjun?” She studied him as she spoke. He seemed to be getting thinner. “I’m good thanks Meghan, been here since the sunrise today feeding the squirrels. How’s the drawing coming along?” “Yeah it’s getting there, I’m not too happy with it but that’s part of the process I guess.” She decided this time to not put her earphones in. The two spoke about their weekend and Arjun showed genuine interest in Meghan’s life, something she had not felt before. She often wondered about his life, but he didn’t seem to talk about it much. He was in his 60s, looked good for his age, and there hadn’t been a time that he wasn’t ever on this bench when she came to the park. *37 days later.* Meghan last saw Arjun 4 days ago, and he kept falling asleep during their conversation. “Hey Arjun!” Meghan cheered as she lightly jogged over to their bench. He was feeding the squirrels. “Meghan! How did the interview go?!” he asked. “I don’t want to jinx it, but I think it went really well. They said I should hear in a few days.” “Oh I just know you smashed it...” Arjun trailed off as he stifled a cough. “Do you want some water?” Meghan handed him her water bottle as he began to have a coughing fit. These were starting to become a regular thing for Arjun. He took the bottle and drank until he stopped coughing, before passing the bottle back. He thanked her and the two sat in silence for a while whilst Meghan worked on her drawing. *4 days later.* Arjun was asleep on the bench as Meghan arrived at the park. It was colder today. “Hey Arjun? Arjun!” Arjun awoke, mumbling to himself. “Arjun, I got the job!” she exclaimed. “Oh Meghan I’m so happy for you!” he said. She thanked him, and noticed that he looked rather unkempt. Arjun always managed to be dressed sharply, but today he was in less formal clothes and his hair wasn’t neatly combed over his head. “Is everything okay? Sorry to wake you” Meghan cautiously asked. “Yes everything’s fine. Just feeling a bit under the weather, that’s all. I’m so pleased for you Meghan, you truly deserve this.” he replied. Arjun and Meghan spoke about her new job and what it would entail for quite some time, before Meghan headed home. *21 days later.* Meghan had noticed that over the past three weeks Arjun was starting to look worse and worse. He kept forgetting about conversations that they had, and his coughing was becoming more frequent. “Arjun I have to ask, is everything okay? It’s just that you have had this cough for a while now and you seem to be getting worse” She asked. Arjun didn’t answer at first. He just watched the squirrels chase each other in the tree. “Arjun?” Meghan prompted. “You’re right. I am getting worse.” he replied, with a sadness in his voice that Meghan hadn’t heard from him before. “I have cancer, Meghan. I don’t think it will be getting better for me.” Meghan didn’t know what to say. They sat in silence for a moment. Meghan placed her hand on his. “I’m so sorry, Arjun. Is there a treatment for it? Are you taking anything or, I don’t know, is there a surgery or something?” “Oh no, I like to not interfere. I’ll either live, or I won’t.” Arjun was smiling as he said this. Tears filled Meghan’s eyes and they sat in silence as Arjun fed the squirrels. *16 days later.* Arjun wasn’t there when Meghan went to the park. This was the first time that he’d not been there since she started coming. She sat in her seat, and waited for his arrival. They had never exchanged numbers, so she couldn’t text him. She last saw him 5 days ago, and he looked more like himself. Glowing, even. She waited for a few hours and headed home. Meghan returned the next day, to find the bench empty again. Every few days, when Meghan got the chance, she would return to the bench, hoping to see Arjun feeding the squirrels, and every few days, she was disappointed to not see him there. She checked online obituaries, and saw a man named Arjun Kumar, aged 68, died of pancreatic cancer a week ago. There was no funeral being held, and no indication of a family. No trace of the man that would sit on this bench and feed the squirrels.

Why do men fear reptiles? Why was the first temptation, seductive and familiar, whispered by a serpent? Why, in ages past, did men slay almighty dragons and claim their ever-fire for his heart? Why do sacred places both welcome draconian angels and banish ground-dwelling snakes, why do we recoil from the bottomlessly black eyes of reptiles? We see monsters, in them. We call the depths of our minds, self-centered and unnervingly aware a *lizard brain*, the control center for motives better served by those mindless, primordial drives. We fear the lizard brain, the cool calculation somewhere far down inside. We dream of dragon power, we fear serpent sin. It is *in* us. Medusa, who could kill with a stare, slipping across ruined marble, her living hair and lengthy body alive with reptilian horror. Men measure infinity itself in a snake eating it’s own tail, fruitless and potent and eternal, all at once, all a reflection of a reflection. Black temples that are artifacts on wonder today were once the almighty centers of worship, their stairways red as sacrifices strove to placate feathered lords with scaly bodies and endless hunger. Tiamat and Typhon, Satan and Quetzalcoatl. Manifestations of beauty, of lust, of regality. Every dragon bearing the same ancient, foundational bones inside. Somewhere in us is the memory of being small, scuttling underfoot from vast lords. Somewhere in us is the terror of the meek and the frail, when the world lived under a saurian banner; indomitable, undeniable. *Terrible lizards*. But they were *oh so much more*. More than we can imagine-- and more than we can fear. Where Men fumble with iron and steel, They were masters with the gene and the mind. Where Mankind only fitfully explores his dreams, They were denizens of the world that bleeds between real and unreal, lords that spun whole fantasies into being in contemplations that would awe our greatest thinkers. Our vaccines, our quaint meddling with the very stuff of life-- They would scoff at. They could make life from anything, into *anything* that they desired. Cities, like mirages, wavered and danced on the horizon until with a thought, they existed. Legions of warriors, perfect and unstoppable, sprang into being from seeds of ultimate-life. They became Gods, more than Gods. Triumph after triumph, mastery upon mastery. Time unwound beneath their vision, space opened and embraced vast expeditions beyond the hissing dark. *Everything opened to them*, until only one undiscovered country remained. The final barrier. The place that stilled all things, stars and masters and time alike. The preparations took eons, and the preparations took seconds. It happened at once, and it happened over long, slow waves. They died. They lived. They *dreamed*. The world was silent, and the ritual took its toll. Drained the world of so much, heavy and deep with immeasurable power. Furry things came up from below to look upon the catastrophe, unaware of its beauty. Unaware of the truth. They came, two by two, many by many, to reclaim and spread. Their march to mind set in a world quietly healing from being undone. Bones sank into an earthly embrace. Men came. And all the while, down his soul, came the memory. Came the faintest touches, the quietest whispers. Slow at first, like the gentlest signs of a season changing. Like first winter frost, easy to miss, to forget, but building all the while. Louder and longer and deeper. Stories and dreams, prophecies; stirred by forgotten gene-songs. The words changed but the meaning remained. The urgency. The truth. The world would be theirs again.

I’m watching him over the rim of a glass of red wine. *Gosling-handsome*, I think to myself as the rich rioja slides down my throat and esophagus before resting at the bottom of my stomach. I should have eaten first, now I’ll get tipsy after my first glass. I’m sitting at a small round table that is covered in a white cloth. At the center is a tall, black vase with a long-stalked flower. A daisy of some sort - Oxeye maybe? I’m no expert on flowers, but it’s beautiful in its simplicity. In front of me, next to the glasses of wine and water and the small wine bottle, a delicately folded napkin is accompanied by lean, modern cutlery. When I arrived, the table was set for two, but Gosling quickly and subtly whisked away the second plate and cutlery after I mumbled that I am here alone. My eyes are drawn to the Gosling-waiter fluttering between the tables, and his eyes meet mine for a second. He raises his eyebrows as if asking if I want something, but I quickly shake my head and look down with a little smile on my lips. Am I flirting with a stranger? That’s insane. I almost giggle at the thought, but I mostly blush. I take a big sip of the wine, letting it do its job, while I sink into the chair. Me. Alone. Enjoying wine. A tingling sensation in my neck. It feels good. *Maybe I shouldn’t tell Stephen*. The tingle is replaced by a rigid, sharp feeling of anxiety, as I straighten up at the thought. Maybe when he asks about my visit to aunt Eden, I’ll just make up a story (watching TV, knitting, going through family albums - safe stuff). *No!* I will not. I have made up my mind, and I will look into his eyes and tell him I didn’t go. I went to a restaurant instead. It will be better that way. In the long run. A bowl of soup appears in front of me and makes me flinch. “Th-thanks!” I stutter as I try to regain posture. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I scare you?” He sounds worried and amused at the same time. “You looked like you were miles away.” I manage to mumble something reassuring and hunch over my miso soup, effectively blocking him from any further contact. I quickly take a spoonful of soup, and involuntarily moan as a searing hot piece of tofu wrecks my taste buds at the back of my tongue, before continuing its carnage down my esophagus on its journey to the red wine. Looking around I'm relieved to discover that Gosling is out of earshot. I continue glancing over at him while I eat the rest of my soup, more carefully this time. What will Stephen think when I tell him, I wonder. Me, alone, in a restaurant? He will laugh, surely, and shake his head and snort at the thought. He won’t believe it at first, but when he does, his eyes will fill with horror and anger. The questions that will fill his mind are going to be down the line of “Is the bitch cheating on me?”, “Is this little lowlife whore *leaving* me?”, and next he will punch me. Hard. Hard enough to make me fall over. Then he will kick me. My stomach, my back, my head. After that, I don’t know. But I know it’s not good. He *did* warn me: no funny ideas. Here he is again, Gosling, carrying a plate of yellow pickled ginger, green wasabi cream and red and orange pieces of sushi, draped over the white lumps of rice, just big enough to fill my mouth. Somehow my soup bowl has disappeared, and he’s now placing the plate in front of me, before pouring a bit of soy sauce into a tiny glass bowl. A set of chopsticks has magically appeared on top of a fresh napkin. “Thank you,” I say, more relaxed this time, but I make sure not to look at him. His hand grazes my underarm as he pulls it back, and I feel myself stiffening. *It was just a coincidence, don’t worry about it*, my mind insists, but my body is on the verge of getting up from the chair and running out of the restaurant. I force myself to sit tight. Calming my breath, I look up to send him a smile of gratitude, but he’s already gone, heading over to a couple at another table. My hands are shaking as I pour myself another glass of wine and mix a little wasabi in the soy sauce. It feels like a miracle that I don’t spill anything. Encouraged, I pick up a piece of ginger with my fingers, smirking at the thought of how Stephen would frown at this act. I stick my tongue out (not too far) and place the ginger slice on it. Chewing slowly, the sour, strong taste feels cleansing, and I feel much calmer as I reach for the chopsticks and use them to bring the first of eight tasty treasures to my mouth, only slightly delayed by a detour into the soy sauce mix. *It’s the best I have ever tasted. It’s the best I will ever taste.* Stephen has taken me to restaurants 19 times, once for each year we have been married, always on our wedding day. But never to a sushi restaurant, just safe, cheap diners with “normal food”. He says “normal food” while snorting at the thought of anything expensive or exotic. My eyes swipe over Gosling again. He’s a few years older than Norah, but no more than 25. Maybe they know each other? *I can’t believe she’s 19 years old already.* Her new apartment is on the other side of the town. Stephen bought it for her for her birthday. He has been spoiling her her whole life. When she was born, he took control of everything, even insisted on feeding her, leaving me to pump breast milk and making formula when I couldn’t anymore. I don’t feel as connected to her as I suspect other mothers do, but he was so fantastic with her that I made my peace with it. That too. I pour the rest of the wine and, as I drink, I can sense the heat of it rising to my cheeks. I will enjoy this experience to the max. Three pieces of nigiri are still left on my plate and I tremble in excitement at the thought of eating them. Devouring them. Feeling how the taste and texture will fill me with happiness from the tip of my toes to the top of my head. I’m entitled to feel happy for a little while. I am! This *is* after all, my very last meal.

Pain is a funny thing. One day it is so consuming you cannot breath, cannot function. Everything is fuzzy, low hums replace words. Your body goes on auto pilot and hours pass and you wonder how you got through the day. No one bats an eye lid because you smile and joke, you say all the right things and you body gives no indication of the decay that is happening inside. Before you know it you are alone in your room. Homework has been done, dinner has been eaten. You sit next to your Dad, watching the new episode of some crime drama while practicing the knitting stitches your mom taught you. In your room you are finally free to feel all the pain that has been built up. Sigh a relief that the pretending is over and the tears start to fall down your face. They are fat tears that tickle your face as they roll down. The salty taste upsets your stomach which sets off more tears. Betrayal, you have no right to dislike the tears as it is all your fault for them in the first place. Your mind wonders, how did you get here again? You cannot tell your parents because they thought that this was taken care of. 3 nights a week going to group therapy, to talk to a safe adult and like teens who have been through the same thing. Even though your mom said she wanted you better, her sighs when she realises that she needs to drive you again. The low talking to herself about how she will pass the two hours. How she cannot go to her book club for the time being because she needs to sit in the waiting room judging the other parents. It is obvious why their kids are messed up, but didn’t your father and I give you everything you needed? Did the family vacations and cello lessons mess you up? The summers spent on your Great Grandpa’s dairy farm running care free some how make you funny? We don’t understand where this came from Doctor, she has never shown any signs of being sad. Is it chemical imbalance? I cannot see how Doctor, we only eat organic. No unhealthy food is allowed in my house. Sometimes it isn’t even the talking, its the looks. How the family will go silent when you enter the room. Odd eye contact passes between the other people in the room. The fake dusty flowers that have been there forever suddenly become the high light of the room. Look how they arrange, they really bring the room together. Even though they are fake can’t you smell the fresh roses? Oh Grandma, the arrangement of roses and lilies really were a good choice. What? Grandpa got them for you for your 10th wedding anniversary? But they still look new! Yes, they are a good reminder that even when things are bad, you can always top and smell the fake flowers haha. Then all eyes fall on you. A good reminder that even when you are sad, stop and smell the fake flowers your great grandpa bought for $1.75 back in 1945. The over excited ‘Well look who it is! Aren’t you getting big and beautiful! Your puppy fat is finally going haha must be the volleyball.’ All done with good intentions but the tone shows it is forced. No one knows how to talk to a sad person. No one thinks that just saying ‘I’m here for you’ is ever good enough. But it is good enough. You don’t need advice, advice on how to wear your hair, grow it out honey you don’t want people to think you like girls. Really black lipstick, do we need to talk to your youth pastor? I’d buy her something pink but her body may burst into flames if she wears anything other than black haha. Your mind is racing. How do you stop the tears? How do you stop the pain? What did the safe adult say? Write it down? You should write it down but you can’t anymore. Mom found your journal and said that it was appropriate for you to have such bad thoughts. Dad tried, he said maybe it was good for you to write it out so you don’t hold it in, but he lost just as much as you did. Absolutely not, she needs to think better, she needs to see all we do for her and be grateful. Dad half smiled at you, he understood what you were going through. He said the safe adult recommended a journal, but mom still threw it in the fire place. You should have gotten sad in the spring, low chance of the fire place being on. Think of something funny. The time you were on the farm and you got your boot stuck in the mud. You couldn’t stop laughing as you stood there like a flamingo on one leg, waiting for your dad to come and rescue you. He kept telling you to just walk over, we will change your sock but you refused, wet and dirty socks were the worst! He was laughing and upset at the same time. He came and plucked you up but then he got his foot stuck in the mud and you both fell over. The laughter that rang through out the farm. He asked you if you preferred to be fully covered in mud or just your one sock, and to your surprise you lifted up your bootless foot and told him your sock was still clean. The two of you spent a good five minutes laughing and your clean sock. Afterwords you both decided the only way to get fully clean was to jump into the man made lake that was on your great grandpas farm. You both ran on the dock and just jumped in fully clothed. You splashed and laughed as the ducks swam around you. You floated on your backs and cloud gazed. Finally your mom came out and told you both to get inside and get properly clean. She scolded your dad for allowing you to get filthy and proper girls didn’t role around the in the mud and then jump in a lake for a bath. This wasn’t the early 1900s anymore, we have hot water for a reason. A knock on the door, a quiet hey you still awake? Oh hey dad, give me a minute. Why are you crying honey? Its ok, I’m here, move over let me sit on the bed with you. Dad I’m sorry I have been such a burden lately. What? No not at all, whatever it takes to get you better. But I don’t know what makes me so sad all the time. Then we keep trying to find it out. But mom is losing patience. Mom grew up differently, idle hands are the devils play thing, more work less time for day dreaming. Maybe a part time job would help me? Make some new friends, some money for myself. For more black cloths haha. Dad, it isn’t black it is a dark gray haha. Whatever you want to do honey, but do it for you, not for your mom or me. Dad does mom hate me? What? No of corse not, she just hates that she cannot control your mind. She knows what she needs to do to make herself happy but when it comes to you she is at a lost. I try to make her think what she wants for me is helping, but it isn’t. I know sweetheart, but don’t worry we will figure it out. Dad, I’m so sorry. Oh honey, come here, cry it out if it will help. The only thing that could be heard are the sound of your tears. Finally someone says they are here for you. No advice, no pointers, no sly remarks. Just someone fully there for you unconditionally.

Break into a Thin Ocean Place Drawing breaths between gritted teeth, in response to more up ended bins, rubbish strewn wide and broken windows. Sonya also noticed still wet graffiti daubed on toilet walls and tried to ignore Faberge egg shapes morphed into sharp edged phallic looking shapes as she walked down to the water. And wondered about necessity to appreciate this daubing as art, no matter how she looks, nothing artistic jumps out and bites her. There, as if an ultimate contrast to her mood, she saw a vision of happiness. A young woman was throwing a stick for a big, handsome dog. He tore back and forth on narrow shores, bounding and leaping with pleasure. As if this tripled any other euphoric canine experience. Dog body language said, beach, walk, best day ever! Rather than harbour thoughts of dog joy, Sonya forced herself away, kept her lips pursed, almost bit her tongue. Conceded she missed owning a dog, unconditional affection, canine happiness vibes and simple dependability. Another thing her ex had removed. She gathered herself inward, instead of speaking, else her anger at yet another vandal attack gets loose on some poor innocent dog walker. Thin edge of a wedge pushed more positive vibes as Sonya felt water curl around her toes. Warm and welcoming, liquid did not cut, punish or destroy. Instead licked her ankles. Salt in the air caresses her stomach. Ocean rolls, connecting with her belly. She looks at minute details in the sand, tiny undulations and high water marks. Not far away from the woman and her dog, was her neighbour, John. For the umpteenth time, told herself their relationship possessed more dimensions than proximity. Once again, with his tripod set up close to water’s edge. When he noticed Sonya, he waved. A grateful acknowledgement, stronger than earlier visions of hooligan damage. Feet propelled her in his direction. As if repelled by opposite magnets she associated with still dripping graffiti. ‘They’re always changing,’ John said, enamoured by watery weeds. ‘Light, current, wind, way they float and move, fluttering on all sorts of rhythms. I’ve taken dozens of pictures and each one is subtly different. Can’t decide which camera aperture captured image is best.’ Something about his manner, broke through Sonya’s negativity. To her, John brought good vibes; a token photography magazine in her letter box, or tiny, still warm pancakes, delivered on Shrove Tuesday. Little things, a smile, and raised eyebrow of recognition, visible through a crowded meeting hall. John embodied more family member traits than a orbiting merely as a neighbour. Indeed, less judgmental, because she could talk more candidly with him, than to her own brothers. ‘My dad believed we’re made up of invisible currents. He used to say there were ‘thin places’ where we’re closer to unseen worlds.’ ‘Name a thin place.’ John asked without looking up from rock puddles and weeds. ‘Ocean side. You stand next to seas and you’re in touch with longings and losses.’ ‘Longings and losses. Does sort of sum up ocean side sensations.’ Her mind swung back to a time when no excitement competed with a beach arrival. In a loaded-up van, full of siblings arguing about seating arrangement. Soon about to glimpse blue waves in gaps through bush, out a window past her father’s sun spot flecked arm. Heavy wheels, produced new divots on well-worn tracks, which pushed through thick Banksia trees and lower growing melaleuca shrubs. ‘Won’t be long before I can bring my hives down here.’ Her father scanned vegetation more than actions of his offspring. ‘Be a mass of flowers in no time.’ All about blooms, seasons, hive sites, according to Dad. Whereas back then Sonya lusted after empty beach sands, shifting waters, salt spray and next best-ever-special shell discoveries. A twinge of nostalgia for a more pristine coast needled. Too many people, houses and cars pushed in these days. If only she might travel back to, so much easier, childhood days. ‘So much easier now cameras recognize low-light algorithms. I can past water surfaces.’ Interrupted John. ‘You’ve crossed another thin place barrier.’ Words released while Sonya maintained her nostalgia. Driving in as kids, many corrugated minutes after they’d left smooth highways, it was possible to note subtle differences. Top sand which faded in two long wheel spaced strips, first grey, edged with wild oats and twigs, turning to paler as dunes dominated. Big trees decreased until low scrub took over. Ought to be clear lines on a map to mark zones. Smells of salt, open water expanses, rushing waves drifted into wound down windows, as deeper breaths were drawn. As the last hill was crested, full views of the beach visible. Blue of water and sky almost melting into each other. Just as quickly hillocks enclosed again, sometimes they caught sight of swamp reeds in a low depression. Dad often said, ‘some years reeds flower. Each bloom has male and female parts, you know. People call them Cat’s tails. But when they fluff up and explode into a mist of flakes, more like tiny flea infestations. Useless to bees, though.’ Words only wafted like those seeds until hidden ocean blues were revealed. Further away, before the family car vanished down unsealed tracks, closer to highways where tiny shops encouraged those here for surf activities to partake of fresh fish and crisp fried chips. Tantalizing glimpses of ocean vistas. Promised ride-able waves and cooling swims. Now any distance between buildings, commercial businesses and beach drastically reduced. As if dunes and coastal shrub had been chewed away by some introduced predator. Dad, sure to comment, bee sites so much further away now. He did keep struggling until he sold remaining hives to a man who marketed, via face book and websites, coastal honey (whatever that meant) at grower’s markets. Sonya recalled coastal flowers glossed only by rising, or setting suns. No need to take out phones, post on Instagram. And John’s photographic activities weren’t they just a step up from juvenile, takie-photos. Childhood arrivals meant a laden station wagon being embraced by sand hills, followed by expectations displaced by sheer joy of being near this tumbling blue goddess. Father’s words, ‘everything’s changed.’ As if citing a thin edge, evoked sensations of lust for ownership strong enough to preserve swaths of coast and grieve for environments lost. John broke through Sonya’s memories touching a cold finger to her wrist. Leaving her wondering, how does he do that? Sonya looked around and concluded, current arrivals didn’t provide similar sights nor anticipation. Especially when she need only glace to see evidence of constant vandal attacks. Shading her brow, looking at this view, she took in a narrow beach, captured by rock pools soon to be refilled by incoming tides. Tides, time and rising oceans, along with crowds stolen those remembered wide shores. Recalling how even on the grayest of days water glimmered a most extraordinary blue, as if generating its own light. Possible to follow line of shores, see hills rise around quiet bays, detect summer green grass slowly fade toward winter brown. She wondered, how long before local marauders launched projectiles into those ocean edged pools, rubbish tipped from bins, plastic bags, broken surfboards and random shrapnel collected into crevices. While she was happy to linger, John again interrupted. ‘We best make a move, before we need water boots to make the car park.’ As they walked John’s camera gear clunked. ‘You really have to stop getting so cross about things.’ ‘It’s that obvious.’ ‘Look on your face, gave things away.’ ‘And here was I thinking an encounter with dog and stick brushed clenched jaw and wrinkled brow away.’ ‘Not quite. Besides you seldom beach walk when you’re calm and collected.’ ‘Again, you’re right. I hope for better therapy, thin edges to take me away, confirm longings, give me ability to ignore losses.’ Rain out over the ocean obliterated a stretch of ragged cliff with squally grey sea beyond dissonance between rock and water. While she looked Sonya craved her tempers breaking like a thunderstorm, just so she could relish a post-tempest freshness. A metallic aroma lifting in wafts of released moisture equal to one-time aggression. A toughness of existence is battled out here. Evolution harsh on lands edge which drifted away form a great southern continent, breaking up under liquid pressure. Boundaries established with flora defined like sea and land - no millimetre surrendered without a battle of will. Each layer of land from the ocean to mountains is defined by the ability to conform to atmospheric pressures. A drop in wind is a moment to be savored as precious time before the next front from our closest star or celestial circling rock decides to wreck equilibrium of our floating oasis and create majestic chaos. Here is a place where you just exist and feel lucky to witness. Buff-green swellings indicated elevation and magnitude of land-ocean edges. In one dimension, water appeared to be part of land, while obviously and entirely two separate elements. Yet residing on a thin edge, longed to be one in the same and shake off their separation. As if another dimension existed only in this place, where water and land met. Sonya hears again her father’s, ‘closer to unseen worlds,’ belief in the fantastic. What if she could vanish on those invisible currents? Or devise a way to make stronger connections with shifting waters and sand to push away her tempers. If so who’d shout at Councillors, who’d write to newspapers and ultimately who’d keep powerful developers away. Gulls, dark headed and greedy, spun on thermals above cliff edges and then dropped away, like bit parts in some conjuring trick. Seemed to be more birds lately, or maybe they stuck closer to beach side all-you-can-eat rubbish bins. Perhaps envoys from more pristine shores sent to warn, if only tone-deaf humans learnt their idioms. Heading back towards houses John and Sonya encountered butterflies dancing in a depression between low scrubby sand hills. Moments later, before John could swing his camera into use, these insects were gone. ‘Damn, missed a calendar shot, right there.’ As if the extent of any interaction with scenery reduced to a monthly portal only available free from the local chemist. Glare from white sand edging an estuary below cliffs made Sonya squint as if walking from a darkened room out to a whitewashed courtyard. Her shoulders stooped, and sweat gathered underneath Sonya’s shirt. ‘All very beautiful,’ John said, looking again out to sea, ‘in some ways more real than anything I’ve seen.’ ‘So how do you preserve this serenity? ‘I try not to think about big things, focus instead on minuscule elements, weeds in a rock pool resembling green hair floating in tiny currents, butterfly wings, a dog chasing a stick.’ ‘Yet, look out there, its huge. Makes me feel helpless, as if I can’t possibly fight against so many negatives.’ John reached out, held his hand lightly over her shoulder. Almost touching, for the umpteenth time Sonya noticed yellow flecks in his eyes. ‘What is it you want to change?’ ‘I’d be happier, calmer if council members would listen to suggestions, especially about development applications. Be fabulous if policemen they send down here, during summer’s influx did something more pro-active about willful damage to change rooms, toilets and beach rubbish bins. But those fly in, fly out authorities don’t care. Shouldn’t be so hard to identify, they keep daubing repeated symbols. You’d think officials track down who is Tap’n Dude? ’ ‘At least the Council purchased some of my prints to display in public buildings, and ensured an annual arts festival. I feel affirmed, as if I’ve broken through what might be damaged.’ Sonya smiled. ‘You are my best friend John. But I get angry. Willful destruction of facilities and the environment are issues more than recoverable by pretty pictures and art works.’ ‘Maybe we could organize groups of those kids to daub artistic creations, not only along foreshores but within the age care village. Might take a while, but things may change as those kids grow up. Encourage more people to visit your father’s thin place.’ ‘Maybe then they’d fall through and vanish into unseen worlds, along with broken shorelines and ugly graffiti.’ ‘A tad cruel to wish on another person. Besides I think I’ve worked out who is Tap’n Dude. Got to be Saltant’s boy, Joel.’ ‘How’d you figure that out?’ ‘Crosswords, it’s another word for leaping, jumping, dancing. Sort of a puzzle, shorten words, sometimes reverse their names, I’ve been watching, guessing, making connection. Plus other tiny bits of evidence. ’ ‘Such as...’ ‘Spray cans out in their rubbish, same name on the back of his cap.’ ‘I know you focus on small things, but I’m not convinced, photos, murals and art work can make a difference.’ ‘No matter, Joel will be the first one I approach. What d’you think?’ About to reply, too slow, lips moving but words not ready. John continued. ‘Seems to be a creative force. Possible to be channeled. I’ll ask if he wants to be part of an artistic project, to splash new images and pictures around. Worth a try, I reckon.’ Sonya stamps her foot. Believed John needed to fix a wide angle lens to that camera of his. Take some images to demonstrate intensity of increased storms. Show less run off and flushing of estuaries and rising tides eating away at the very bedrock. Only then would he be able to appreciate how loss functioned. No matter how much nostalgia Sonya evoked doors to unseen worlds were creaking closed. Thin places growing scarcer by the minute.

She would leave. It was the best possible solution to their problems. Who was she kidding? A romantic getaway with a man who had given up months ago couldn't...wouldn't fix their problems. So she made up her mind. At first light she would leave their beautiful chalet and their relationship forever. She sat in the great window of their cabin and watched the sun come up over the silver-tipped mountains. It was amazing how long the sluggish sun took to make its drowsy appearance when the importance of one's fate was at hand. She had never really unpacked because she never really believed that this trip could be anything other than what it was, a final good-bye to a seven-year relationship. But sitting in this big, plush chair, she realized it held her the way he used to hold her. It was warm just like his arms, and she found herself casting a glance to the bedroom where she knew he slept. She hated to admit that she still wanted this from him. The sun creeped its lazy ascension into the world, and she realized the world that surrounded her had transformed over night into a winter white world that she had only seen in pictures. It was a beautiful and a truly breath-taking blanket of pure white. It only made her think of how she'd love to snuggle up next to him, feel his warmth under the covers, but she knew that the words of the past stacked an unbreakable wall between them. The "I could never forgive you" that she'd spoken just days before made her sick to her stomach. She wished she could just simply take it back. How could they go back? So much had been done. So much had been said. She heard him stir. It was as if her hopes and dreams were somehow cast into the room he slept so soundly in. He had no idea that she would be walking out the door in the next few minutes. Maybe she could try, again. Tell him that all she wanted was his love, to forget all the things that had gone wrong over the years. She could forgive him, but there was so much between them that she didn't know if it was possible. "Amy, why are you up..." he said, trailing off. He saw her bag by the door. He instantly knew why. Walking to the window, he looked at the new fallen snow. "Looks like a lot fell over night, huh?" "Yes, it does." She said, still watching the sun rise over the trees. She wouldn't...couldn't look at him. He would see it in her face, the resolve within herself. In the distance, the light of the sun touch the tips of the mountains creating golden peaks where silver tips had once been. She felt her breath catch at the sight, and she exhaled for the first time in months. "It's beautiful, isn't it? It just seems so easy." He said resting his hand on the back of her chair. "What seems easy?" She asked, a little confused at how a sunrise could be easy. "Nature. It isn't hard for the sun to come up. It just does, and then something miraculous, out of the blue happens, like snow. It's the easiest thing. " His eyes were now on his wife. Her eyes were welding with tears. He saw them, but he knew she didn't want him to see them. "Yeah, you're right, Adam. The natural thing isn't hard. Not at all." She wiped the tears that were now streaming down her cheeks. It was so natural for her to love him, but she didn't feel like it was natural for him to love her at all. It certainly wasn't natural to be thinking of leaving him. Here he was talking about the sun and snow, but what about them? She stood up to step closer to the window. The light danced off the snow. She wanted to step out in it, be anywhere that didn't make her feel this way, but she knew that leaving now would be impossible. There was simply too much snow. Adam stepped closer to the window. Taking another step toward his wife, he touched her waist. "Amy...I..." he trailed, pulling her close to him. "No, no..." Amy said, pushing away from him. "What do I have to do? Amy, I'm sorry for the millionth time!" Adam pleading, rushing to pull her into him. "No, Adam!" You don't just get to put a band-aid on our relationship. You don't just get to buy me gifts and take me on trips! You don't just get to say, 'I'm sorry!' Aren't you tired? Like, really tired of the up and downs?" She was looking at him finally. She wanted him to really see her pain. She wanted him to acknowledge her hurting heart. "I am tired. I'm so tired of feeling guilty. I know I've been a terrible husband! I'm tired of trying, and you keep pushing me away. You never gave this trip a chance, Amy. Do you think I don't see this bag? Your bag is packed. Where are you going?" Adam now looked at his wit's end. He was pacing back and forth. But Amy had no words. If she really spoke them, it would be true. There would be no going back. Just like that, seven years would be gone and wasted. So she watched him. She watched his face turn from worry to anger to mere frustration at her none answer. Finally, he walked over to her. "Are you leaving me, Amy?" So they had come to this. She stared into his eyes looking for truth, looking for love, looking for a reason to stay. "You don't want me, do you? Really, Adam. You don't, right? It took us this long to get here. Look at this beautiful place. Look at us. It's literally where I've always wanted to be with you but not like this." Amy cried, shaking her head. "Not like this? What do you mean? Not like me, really trying to love you? I do love you. I want you, and I know you want me! I keep trying to show you, and I just don't know how. I don't know how. I don't know--" Adam gripped his jaw, holding back the tears that threatened to fall. "Not like me feeling heart broken and angry with you! You broke my heart, Adam! I don't know how to be here with you!" Amy sank back down in the chair allowing it to envelop her the way she wished Adam could, but she knew she couldn't...wouldn't let him in. They sat in silence for a moment, both gathering themselves until Adam broke the silence. "Let me love you, Amy." Adam said facing Amy. "That's how to be here with me. You can feel what you want to feel, but please, just let me love you. Let me back into your heart." Amy looked into Adam's eyes and for a moment, her breath caught in her throat as it had before with the sunrise. She exhaled when she finally saw a needing-kind of desperate love in his eyes. She knew it, for it was the kind of love she saw in herself for him. Taking Adam's hand, Amy led him into the bedroom and let him hold her. She let him kiss her. She heard his pleas of love. She kissed him back. She let their love intertwine into something beautiful again until their bodies locked in warm, desperate surrender. And as the snow kept falling outside their chalet, miracle that it was, Amy remembered what it was to love a man who needed her as much as she needed him and just how easy that really was.

It was a normal day in the life of the 24-year-old Josh Hopkins who has been working at his dream company and has a beautiful wife waiting for him at home. At least this is what he was dreaming about until the alarm buzzed. Josh: (Yawns) “Time to get up buddy, and go for another day of waste while job hunting.” Meanwhile, there is a loud knock on the door by Josh’s flatmate and college friend Sara. Sara: (Yelling) “Wake up you good for nothing guy, I am going to the restaurant, make sure you get your ass dressed and find a job already, or else you are moving out of here.” Sara works as a waitress at a restaurant while struggling to be a published writer. Josh finally wakes up and dresses up to leave for the unending struggle that has been the routine of his life since he lost his last job. On his way, he kept thinking that only if there was a way for him to win some instant cash then he would not need to be worried about the daily nagging by Sara. At this time, something crosses his eye. He takes a second look at what is supposed to be a poster for the new reality TV show “Survival Couple”. The poster says: “Enter with your beloved partner now to have a chance of winning a million dollars in just 10 days.” At first, Josh completely ignores the thought thinking the last time he talked to his ex-girlfriend Kathy was 2 years ago. The day continues just like the other days with Josh returning home hungry and disappointed. On his way, he bought instant noodles, well what to expect from a jobless guy. Soon, Sara returns home exhausted. Sara: (Sitting with her head tilted on the sofa) “So you useless guy did you find a job? Or you again just roamed around and ate instant noodles?) Josh: (Laughing) “HAHAHAHA! You know me so well.” Sara: (Throwing the cushion at Josh) “This is no laughing matter, we haven’t paid the apartment dues for the last 5 months and this month Mr. Cook is sure to evacuate us unless we clear the dues.” At that moment a sudden idea hit the not so bright mind of Josh and he smilingly said, Josh: “Hey, I saw a reality TV show poster for couples; the winning prize is a million dollars and that too in just 4 days, what say we give it a shot?” Sara: (Surprised, and then burst into laughing) “You and me as a couple on a reality TV show? They would instantly catch upon our lie.” Josh: “No. not necessarily. Look, we have known each other for the last 8 years and have been sharing an apartment for the last two years; in the eyes of many people we would definitely be a couple.” Sara: “Yeah, that is true but can we win the show? Do you really think so?” Josh: (Confidently) “Yes! It is at least worth a shot, we aren’t getting anywhere with our careers anyway.” Sara: (Still unsure) “All right, let’s give it a go, register us and we will see what happens.” Josh: “Hey are you so opposed to the idea of even dating me for 4 days to even not be swayed by a million dollars!” Sara: (chucking) “That’s because I know you dumbass, and I also know that you are still hung up on that ex-girlfriend of yours.” John: (Silently) “Hmmmm......” That night Josh registers both of them as a couple for the reality TV show. They get an email the next day regarding an audition to grant entry in the main show. Both Josh and Sara get dressed and go to the venue. Sara: “Woah! This is huge, just look at the size of that stage.” Josh: “Yeah well what did you think? They are giving a million dollars as the prize money and from what I have heard they will make the main round participants live together at a separate venue.” Sara: “That is so cool man; we get free food for 4 days.” Josh thinking in his mind that they really need to win the competition or they are not going to have a place to live starting next month. As he was lost in this thought their name was called up. Judge A: “Introduce each other and tell something weird but cute about each other.” Josh: (Seemingly looking tensed) “Ummm... So, this is my girlfriend Sara James. We have known each other for the last 8 years, went to high school and college together, and now we live together. She has a habit of suddenly talking in impersonated voices of famous movie villains; it always cracks me up (laughing).” Sara: “This is Josh Hopkins my boyfriend, and as he mentioned we have known each other for the last 8 years and currently live together. He has a weird habit of thinking way ahead like marriage, children, etc. He builds up different scenarios and asks me questions, any other girl would totally feel weird but I kind of like his way of thinking.” Judge B: “All right, this is a test, please fill it separately, you have 3 minutes, do not think long just right the first thing that comes to your mind otherwise you will not be able to complete the entire test which could lead to disqualification.” Josh and Sara fill the form in a hurry and hand them over and then look at each other chuckling. Judge B: “Okay, thank you for your time. We will email you your results by tonight and the details about the next round.” Josh on his way out: “Woah! That was nerve-racking, I was about to spill the beans in the test.” Sara: “Totally, I don’t even know how I did on the test; all the questions were related to the cheesy stuff that couples do.” Josh: “Well let’s see what results we got, for the moment let’s get something to eat from the diner.” Later that night, they receive an email detailing their selection and the next round. Josh: “Sara pack your bag we are leaving for Los Angeles tomorrow.” Sara: “Home huh? It’s been two years since we last went back home. I wonder how your ex Kathy is doing nowadays.” Josh ignores her and goes to pack his stuff. The next day they leave for Los Angeles on the TV show’s bus. Finally, after a tiring ride, they reach the hotel at which the main rounds are going to happen. All the participants start to gather in the lobby for the instructions, and it is when they see an old face. Kathy: “Hey Josh! What are you doing here? (Then she sees Sara) Hey Sara! Long time no see girl, where have you been? No one at the hometown has a clue about you.” As Josh was about to respond the host comes and calls the attention of all the participants. She congratulates everyone on reaching the main round and informs them about the show’s procedure. After the introduction is complete, they tell us to go and rest for the night in our designated rooms. As Josh and Sara were about to leave, Sara approaches them: Kathy: “So you two are a couple now? Who knew that the kid A of our college and the lonely beauty would end up together.” For a minute pin drop silence echoes throughout the atmosphere when finally Josh speaks Josh: (sensing Sara’s uneasiness) “Yeah, astonishing things do happen, I mean look at you who knew that you would start to date the quarterback of our high school football team.” Kathy: “True, but Smith here is a real sweetheart, he lets me do whatever I want.” Smith: (Phone rings) “Sorry guys have to take this call; it was nice meeting you both again. Kathy comes to our room when you are done talking.” Kathy: “So Josh when did you two start dating, was it right after our breakup?” Josh: “No, it was sometime after when I met her in New York by chance.” Kathy: (touching Josh’s arm) “You sly dog, I never knew that you could get The Sara to be your girlfriend. Sara so tell me about it does he still do that trick with his tongue in the bed? I have been with many guys but no one can match that.” Sara seemed uneasy to reply. Josh: “Hey Kath! Come on give her a break. We are pretty tired from the ride; see you tomorrow at the competition.” Kathy finally left Josh’s arm when he grabbed Sara’s hand to go to their room. On their way, Sara was absolutely quiet. After freshening up, Josh sits on the sofa and Sara on the bed. Josh: “I am sorry for what happened downstairs, I had no idea Kathy would be here.” Sara: (showing a poker face) “Hmmmm......” Josh: “All right let us get some sleep we have a big day tomorrow. I’ll take the sofa, you can have the bed.” Sara without saying anything went to bed. The next morning when Josh woke up, Sara wasn’t in the room, he dressed up and went to look for her, he found her walking near the poolside. Josh: “Hey! What’s up? Something troubling you?” Sara: “Nothing much. So, tell me something. Do you still have some lingering feelings left for Kathy?” Josh: “No, not at all, what gave you that idea?” Sara: “Well you seemed to be pleased to see her and especially when she was touching your hand.” Josh: “Oh come on, that was nothing at all, you are overthinking it. Right now we are a couple and we need to concentrate to win the million dollars.” Soon after that, they went to the lobby for the first competition of the main round. Host: “We have here 64 couples with us, after this first round more than half of them will be eliminated from the competition and would have to go home immediately. The first round is the cook-off, in this round all the males will cook a dish in 20 minutes, and then the ladies will have to judge that which dish was made by their partner.” The round kicks off and all the males hustle and work against the clock. Finally, all the dishes are made and the tasting and decision are done by the females. Host: “Only 16 females were able to guess the correct dish, their names are Elizabeth Love, Sara James, Kathy Kristen, ....................... The selected teams have now a 30-minute break during which they can enjoy at this luxurious hotel.” Kathy: “Congratulations guys! We both made it to the next round, by the way, Josh you made the Half-fried omelet right? I knew it just by having the first bite you still make some cruel omelets.” Josh: “Yeah that was me, though I was surprised that Sara was able to guess correctly since..” Kathy: (Interrupting him) “Why? Hasn’t she had your omelet since you two have been dating for a while?” Josh who almost slipped the secret that he has never cooked this dish for Sara. “No no, I meant that she is very bad with tasting, she can’t even differentiate between Mozarella and Cheddar, I mean can you believe it?” Kathy: (laughing hysterically and again touching Josh’s hand) “Oh my seriously?” Sara: (Sighs and then goes to the lobby to wait for the next round alone, meanwhile Kathy stops Josh from going and keeps flirting with him.) Finally, the time for the second round arrives. Host: “The second round will have two couples make a team and take part in the treasure hunt. Only the first 6 teams to finish the hunt will qualify for the next round. Kathy, Smith, Josh, and Sara coincidentally end up in the same team.” Kathy: “Let’s do this guys we have to take the first position, remember Josh how we won the treasure hunt in college, we can do it this time too.” They all start the hunt and easily reached the last clue first, the last clue required them to take the stairs all the way to the rooftop. All of them ran to the top, Smith being the athlete he was, was way ahead and behind him was Kathy and then Josh and Sara when suddenly Kathy missed a step and slipped, spraining her leg. Kathy: “Aaahhh.....Aaaahhh.....Help me Smi......Help me, Josh!” Josh stops and takes her hand while Sara stares at them, Kathy tells him to take her to the top in his arms or give her a piggyback ride, Josh after retaliating uselessly gives her a piggyback ride. Sara after seeing hurries to the rooftop and they end up winning the Treasure hunt and move to the next round. After that Smith takes Kathy to the infirmary while Sara is still quiet. Host: “Congratulations to the 12 teams here to qualify for the finals. The finals will start the day after tomorrow and will go on for two days, and at the end of it we will have our final winner.” Josh and Sara go to their room, and still, there is a distance between them as Sara does not talk much. Meanwhile, Kathy comes back, she just had a light sprain. The next day passes by as all of them enjoy the leisure activities provided at the hotel, throughout which Kathy keeps flirting with Josh. Finally, the day of the final round arrives. Host: “The final round will be spread over two days. To win the couples have to do the tasks listed in the instruction manual given to you. The final task carries the most marks and will probably determine the winner, only one team will be able to complete that task.” Josh looks at the tasks, most of the tasks are fairly simple while some are a bit tricky. The final task is left blank, and in the end, it is written to fill this task after completing the rest of the tasks. Both the couples were able to do almost all of the tasks listed, although what they did not know was that one task was different for every couple. Kathy and Smith had the task to go confess and kiss to the opposite gender of one couple, only one of them had to do it. So they decided Kathy should do it with Josh since they already know each other. Kathy finds Josh roaming around the pool at night and goes to him. Kathy: “Hey Josh listen, I want to confess something to you.” Josh: “What is it?” Kathy: “That time I did not break up with you because I was not in love with you but because I was scared that if you had gone to New York we would not be able to be happy. I still love only you Josh. (Kathy then suddenly kisses Josh)” Behind the scenes, Sara was listening and seeing the whole thing and she hurriedly went back to her room as a teardrop came into her eyes. The next morning all the teams did their tasks, and finally, only the last task was left. The last task was supposed to be thought and done by the males. Sara goes to her room telling Josh to figure it out and then call her. At night just 20 minutes before the countdown ends Josh messages, Sara, to come to the rooftop. When Sara reaches the rooftop she sees Kathy in Josh’s arms with her leaning on his chest. After that Kathy leaves while Sara hides. Then Sara opens the door and walks towards Josh. Josh: “You finally came, here I was worried that you might get late and we might lose.” Sara: “Well I did come early but you were busy flirting with your girlfriend.” Josh: “Wait what? Girlfriend? Who?” Sara: (Angrily) “Do not lie, I saw you and Kathy, today and even yesterday night. If you had gone back to her then why even bother to play this stupid show. (Sara bursts into tears)” Josh: (not knowing what to do) “Hey! it is not like that at all.” Sara: “Stop lying Josh. (Stuttering) I, I, I, I have always been waiting for you, for the last 8 years I have been waiting for you to love me. First, you did not even see me as a girl, and then you got into a relationship with that stupid Kathy, and then when you finally broke up I thought maybe now you will look at me, I even left a good job opportunity and came to New York chasing after you, I even lived in the same apartment thinking you might make a move on me this way but still to no avail and now when this was supposed to be our show you go back to her and embrace her. I hate you, I hate you so much.” Josh: “Hey Hey stop crying dumbass, you do not even know the whole story, last night was just a task that Kathy was completing and right now I called her to thank her for breaking up with me because it was because of that I was able to realize something very important (Josh sits with one leg bent and takes out a ring)” Josh: “Sara James, will you marry me and continue to handle my foolishness for the rest of your life?” Sara: (In a state of shock, shouts) “Yes! Yes! You stupid dumbass (she starts hitting him repeatedly after wearing the ring and then finally kisses him.” Host: “Everyone, we have our winner here. The final task was for the couples to show their true love. And what is true love if not marriage.” Josh lifts Sara in her arms and kisses her again, both of them smile and laugh like they never ever did before, and finally come together as one.

I am roused from my 10 a.m. slumber by the sound of a phone notification going off. Fuzzy dreams of black wavy hair and crinkled-eye smiles still linger in my head as I reach for my phone on my shelf. My initial thought is not that it could be you because I haven't heard from you in days. Although, who else could it be? My only friend is someone I've known since fifth grade, who is now 25 years old and married. She only reaches out to me once every two months through random Instagram messages from her favorite cat lover account to let me know she's still out there. If it's not her, then I'm sure it's another Instagram notification followed by forty others that will soon follow throughout the morning. But, then again, could it be you? I become excited as blurry images of brown doe eyes still rush to swarm my drowsy thoughts. Don't be , I tell myself. The notification list is just as I thought, except your beautiful, magnificent, adoring name, wedged in between the forty Instagram notifications, graces my small screen, impossible not to catch. A missed video call. Not a message. I look at the clock. I have work at 12:00. It takes 40 minutes to get there. Based on my typical routine, it should take approximately 10 minutes for a shower, 10 minutes for breakfast, and 5 minutes to make lunch (assuming we have turkey). Ok, I don't have time to call you back. But my finger selecting the notification has a mind of its own. I guess I'll skip lunch today. Or just work altogether. It takes a minute to go through, but soon your bunny-toothed smile captures my screen. Your eyes squint in joy, and your hair flops around your head in black waves long enough to cover your secret bunny ears, which I know must be hiding underneath. But I can't miss the iced mug of dark yellow beer in your hand raised up to the screen. Now I understand why your smile looks so goofy. I laugh lightly to cover the worry. You are miles and miles away, and although it may not be 10 a.m. where you are, it's still 3 a.m. on a Saturday for you. I'm concerned. It seems like you're making this a habit. You're a casual drinker, but is it considered casual when you're crying by the night's end? I decide not to ask you. It's been a while; I keep it light. And I've missed you too much. I inform you that I have work in an hour, and I'll need to carry you in my pocket for the day. However, you don't acknowledge my playful attempt to get your attention. I send an onslaught of messages, each containing bright purple hearts, one after the other, but again I fail. You've started a karaoke session in your apartment. Turns out you also sing when you're sad too. Since you're busy, I walk around the house getting ready for work and listen to your drunken melodies through my earbuds. Even while intoxicated, your voice is sickeningly sweet, pure, and honest, laced with pain in its octaves. I gladly listen to you sing and sing as I crack eggs on the counter for breakfast and fasten on my light-washed overalls, imagining you here beside me. After I've picked out a coat for the nippy Spring day, I realize you've gone quiet. I then notice you've disappeared from the screen when I look at my phone. Your room is dark, as usual, the only natural light emitted from a flickering candle you lit and placed in front of the screen. I look for you in the shadows. I can only make out the black couch and the scattered stars rotating on your ceiling, cascading over your living room in a green and blue galaxy-like dust projected from your favorite galaxy mood lamp. Then I hear the soft snores coming through my ear. You fell asleep. You're lying on the couch but out of the video lens. The candle you have lit burns next to the screen; it sounds like a tiny crackling fireplace. It's peaceful. If I could, I'd stay and fall asleep right next to you. It's now 11:25. Again, I am late. We'll talk next time. At work later on I get a message from you: Lol, is it morning?! I still need to sleep more :) I'm still sleepy I reply back. Oh, look who woke up, sleepyhead >.< :) --------------------------------------------- The library life is fantastically eventful. Only three or four patrons scour the dust and book-filled shelves and sit behind the only two available public computers in the corner. As I assist a patron with the printer, I ponder whether my English degree was a worthwhile investment. Meanwhile, I sneak glances at my phone hidden under the counter, eagerly anticipating a message from you. Although you're probably still sleeping in your beer coma. I shut my phone off. As I listen to an elderly man scold my coworker for not putting up the closed sign on our holiday Monday last week, my mind wanders into a daydream. I imagine you waking up to the warm midday sun with your hair tousled and your lips slightly swollen from a deep sleep, only to discover that your video is still on. I laugh lightly to myself. You'll probably be famished once you wake up. I count the hours, I count the minutes, I watch old videos of you and your friends playing games of UNO and Jenga while I take phone calls that blur into one another. "No, this is not the Law Library," "Yes, you need a library card for that," "No, I cannot provide that." But it's not enough. When I get home, I tell myself to search for new jobs. My part-time job doesn't pay me nearly enough to support me. Nor the occasional concert ticket. I fight the urge to check Instagram to see what you've been up to. I remind myself not to live vicariously through you, to not become too intertwined in your life. Holding onto my pink bunny plushie, I recite this mantra and open my computer only to see a collage of our pictures I made last month and set as my wallpaper, with your face in it. I fail. I know you haven't posted anything, that's not unusual for you, but when I search your name, I can't find you. There are countless accounts with your exact name, but I don't see that familiar black-and-white silhouette profile picture. I check all the letters of your name. I spelled it correctly. Do I need to remember the underline? I type "J, U, N," but it doesn't appear. I check your messages from today. Could I have missed something while at work? I discover there's one message unread: I left Instagram. I just erased it because I never used it. I don't think I'll use it in the future just letting you know :) Oh. Well, at least I have your pictures saved. I close the app. I really need to get a life, I think to myself . But where would I start? I think back to the day I first saw you. My best friend invited me to her house one day; she had been trying to introduce me to you and your friends for months, stating you were the next big thing. She said you all sang and harbored immense talent, but she said your voice specifically was one of pure magic. I could care less, but she asserted that I had to see you; actually, she said, "You have to see his friend. He's so beautiful!." Your friend was more handsome, I'll admit. The first of your friend group to catch my eye and all the other girl's eyes, I'm sure. Initially, he appeared distant and aloof, resembling a stunning yet frigid sculpture. However, as the night progressed, I learned he was quite warm and open. Nevertheless, I took one long look at his marble form and let my eyes flit elsewhere. They fell on, what I come to know, as your more responsible friend. This one seemed most intuned with my usual type. Kind and intelligent and just a bit of a goofball. I sometimes imagine if you weren't there that day how we would be married by now, on our second child. Naming our second son Indigo. But I'd never tell you that. I'd like to say I didn't see you first; instead, I heard you first. This doesn't make sense because sitting next to your friends, you were the more reserved of the group. The kind to watch things play out before acting. Shy, but not around those close to you. Your hair was cut short around your face, dyed a light brown, and straight. You had a constant Duchenne smile which made you appear innocent but a little mischievous. You definitely were noticed. When a karaoke session began, I watched as you went up for a rendition of Memory of the Wind by the singer Naul, right after your kind, intelligent friend had just jokingly butchered it. We laughed along with him at his self-deprecating humor; however, this suddenly broke off at the first sound of your voice. I was entranced. To this day, that song remains my favorite because you sang it. Even against the muffled mic defects in your 10-dollar karaoke microphone, your voice was clear and powerful, warm and comforting. Even your friend's laughter had abruptly paused as they sat and listened, even though I'm sure they'd heard it a hundred times before me. You were not just a noticeable boy anymore. You took the stage, the forefront. You became the glittering star. The crowd you made gather around you could not look away. And neither could I. I still can't. You were born to be a singer. Nobody that ever met you would ever question it. I was not surprised in the least when your talent was noticed by a large entertainment company too. I supported you from the sidelines and became one of your fans as you climbed to the top. I was ok in my little part of the world as you discovered and conquered the whole of yours. And you stayed humble, always coming back to me at the end of the day. You really loved me. You had never failed to say it every day. But calls got shorter, and the days got lonelier. What was I to expect? You were living your life; I needed to live mine. You told me on a video call one day to prioritize my life and be happy even if you were not with me. You cried that day. You were drunk again. You were sitting at your dinner table with a white beanie and black hair underneath, curling against your neck. Were you leaving me? Was this the end? No, no, you were my only priority. You made me happy. I needed you. Nothing else mattered. My friend, the one who introduced me to you in the first place, told me you were right. I needed to move on. I was becoming too "obsessed" with you, she said. But she didn't understand. We had something special. You loved me, and I loved you. We relied on each other. But I yielded to her concern and put on my best fake smile. So I went to college for five years and got that degree I'm still not sure I wanted or needed. I spent day after day writing, reading, writing. You went to the White House and shook hands with the President, targeting social issues, spending day after day singing, traveling, and winning. I heard a rumor you dated that famous singer with flawless skin, the pixy nose, the one with Bambi's eyes. Her songs are almost as mesmerizing as your voice. I can see why you picked her. Over time, I have come to accept the bitter truth that your life is beyond my reach. Your life appears to be a constant display of vibrant purples and shimmering blues, like an endless fireworks show. You have found what you love, nurtured your talent, and let it flourish into beautiful roses. Giving one to each person whose lucky enough to receive one. I would like to take a little bit of your magic and sprinkle some overhead as well. Maybe some tulips might grow instead of these weeds. I want to prove that although we may be far apart, our love for each other remains strong. I know I am your biggest supporter. If given a chance, I could make you happy and wipe away any tears that fall. I've known you for so long. Our friendship, our love, can overcome anything. ---------------------------------- I find myself standing at your doorstep, outside your hotel room. I had heard that you were in town, and although I know you value your privacy, I remember you mentioning that you wished we could all meet up in person instead of just chatting online. Maybe now is the right time for that. That day could be today. I took off the weekend from work to see you and be here for you. You seem so down lately, I had to come cheer you up. So here I am, food in tow, with your favorites, sweet bread, and strawberry milk. A friend on Instagram told me you were staying here. I hope she's right. I even bought a room beneath the floor you're supposed to be staying on. It's 10 p.m. right now. Tomorrow is your 24th concert, but I'm sure you're awake, considering your video calls are always past 12 p.m. I waited until this floor was clear because I didn't want any distractions; I'm already nervous. Room 284. I knock on the door twice. I stand there for a minute or two, with no answer, before I hear footsteps coming down the hall. I panic. I drop the food in front of your door and sprint down the opposite direction of the hall, pushing through the emergency exit doors as I race down the three flights of stairwells and throw myself through the lobby stairwell entrance. I fly through the lobby, boots hitting against the red and beige patterned carpet until I pass the hotel bellhops with puzzled looks on their faces and set off down the sidewalk at full speed, my heart in my throat, and possibly the dinner I had three hours ago. ----------------------------- "Did you see Jun-sang's Weverse post?" My boba drink is grasped tightly as I suddenly hear the name. I look up from my phone to find my friend staring at her phone across the table with a disturbed look. My palms suddenly feel sweaty. "No, why?" My voice sounds calm enough. "Those sasaengs are at it again." She rolls her eyes and hands her phone to me. I read the post for the second-first time. Jun-sang: Please don't send me delivery food. I'm thankful for your concern, but I won't eat it even if you send it over. I'm serious. Stop. If I get sent food one more time, I will check the receipt number and take further action to stop this. End it beforehand. My throat is dry. I can't form words, so I look up at my friend and widen my eyes in a dramatic expression of surprise. "I know, right?" She states, grabbing her phone. "That would have been you five years ago, too," she jokingly bursts out laughing, resuming her scroll through Weverse. I laugh nervously with her and sip my boba tea to keep myself busy. "Have you seen his recent lives?" she continues, "He seems a bit sad lately, but his lives look like so much fun. I heard he got drunk and fell asleep with the live still going the other day! Did you watch it? I just saw some clips on Instagram." I shake my head vigorously, mouth full of milk tea as I chew the boba slowly. "Oh wow, you've really changed since your Z2M phase. I still remember when I showed you that video of their group singing karaoke at my house 5 or 6 years ago. I was so in love with Tae-hwan. And you were so obsessed with Jun-sang. I could tell you were hooked as soon as you heard his voice. All I heard for the next year after that was how great he was. That's all you ever talked about!" My friend begins to laugh hysterically across the table as she relives our old memories. I stay silent. When her laughter finally dies down, she looks at me again, quiet for a moment. "I'm pretty sure you were their biggest fan," she giggles. "I had to force you to get out of your room and off that computer. I mean, your still a fan, right?" As I gaze at the tablecloth adorned with purple and white flowers, I run my fingernail along the curves of the stitching. I glance up to see her curious expression. "I mean, not so much. I'm not really a fan anymore."

I scroll through pictures I’ve backed up from my phone. I have thousands, but in every lineup there are pictures of my boys throughout my myriad of randomness. Every grouping they grow subtly, nearly invisibly to the normal eye. But I see it. I see the time between. I’m gone so much. They say parents never see their children actually grow, age, get bigger and smarter because they are with them nearly every day of their growing lives. I see my two boys grow every time I see them. They are three and five, almost four and six and I have been away from them for the majority of their lives. I watch them grow from a distance. I am more lucky than my father who did not have video chat and the technology of worldwide instant communication that we have today, but that’s a tiny grace in the life of an absent father. I get to see them age through pictures or a phone screen. Every time I interact with them is a joyous heartbreak. Every time I delve through my photo vault I am reminded of how much I love and miss them, how much of their lives I miss and memories of theirs I will never be a part of. Their first steps and words, a loving story passed to me by my best friend and love, my wife. They’ve hit the age where memory sticks, and I’m terrified of their memories without me. I hope they are happy, I know they are given so much love... but do they truly feel my love from a distance and through a screen? I remember my life growing up without my father present, and that put a huge gap in my heart that took me most of my life to figure out and fix who I am because of it. Am I doing that to my boys? Will they carry this hole for the majority of their lives? Will they perceive my absence as a loving sacrifice or will they see me as the father who was never there for their scrapes and problems? Another photo, another memory of a time I was there and the painful stab of reality that I am yet again viewing these from a distance. I try to pass on wisdom from afar. I try to bribe their love with boxes and mailed gifts from around the globe. One day I will be there, but they will be too old to sit on my lap, to cuddle with me the way a toddler can. That warm pure innocent embrace without specific memory. They are passing the sweet innocence of childhood into their cognitive years and I am never there to directly shape and sculpt their personalities. I try to lie to myself and believe that I do this for them, I do this to provide for them and give them a life of opportunity, meals that aren’t ramen and broth soup. College funds to give them the option of an education if they so choose that route. Money doesn’t buy happiness but it does provide for an easier start and an easier life. I try to believe that I am not there in order to provide that opportunity most children don’t have. I hope everyday that I’m not making excuses for my own mind, but I know the truth and know that there is a part of life that cannot be replaced with the provisions of an absent father. I think of them every day, I miss them every day, and I’m torn on the reciprocal. I want them to miss me, but I don’t want them to feel the pain of missing me. I want them to be amazing people and shape society for the better, but understand that in doing so, they will have been able to build that strong foundation without me. They will be great men, and I fear that I will not have been a part of that foundation.

Here I am sitting once again, my bare back against the rough concrete wall in this small, dark room. I feel a dampness under me, it reminds me of when I was younger and would play in puddles after a storm; the only difference is now I am a middle aged adult and I don’t have any shoes. Chills race through my body as my weak heart pushes me through another cold night. I can hear pain-driven moans of other middle aged men in other rooms much like my own. I haven’t been able to keep a meal down for days and I think my body is finally giving up on me. It smells like a high school bathroom that hasn’t been washed in weeks, but I have become immune to the putrid smells that would sting the nose of a hog. All I wish for in these hopeful final hours is a room mate, someone I could talk to and tell my final secrets to; someone to tell my story to, or at least make up a story. The moans are getting louder. I could try and lay in my mattress, but I don’t want to die laying on something that isn’t mine. This isn’t the jail life that is romanticized on TV and in books, this is the real jail life of Sector 858. It all started in the year 2024 when the government started telling everyone of the wonderful life that could be possible if we accept a few changes in how society is. That should have been the first indication of hell; we should have known from the beginning that nothing good comes when people try to change what feels natural. We embraced it though, we trusted them, we thought the people behind the locked doors knew what was good for us. They told us the only sacrifice we would make is breaking a few friendships and that this would only be a sacrifice for a closer society and a closer web of companions. Their big plan in a nutshell was to organize people like files in a computer. We would be organized by occupation, and further organized into a bureaucracy of social status. The people never really changes, the only change was a mass feeling of loneliness; that was our second chance to realize this couldn’t work, we ignored it trusting them. Within two years, everyone was moved into cities, sectors as they became known as. There was a business sector, a factory sector, an art sector, a sector for just about every occupation, or at least somewhere every occupation would fit into. The worst of these sectors was Sector 213; this was where they sent everyone that could not work or was not willing to work. I was never there, I only heard stories, rumors. Nobody left their sector, there was a commitment that was needed in the new society. The only way information was spread between sectors was through the internet, but the internet turned out to be as honest as the men that set up our new lives. Sector 213 consisted of everyone from drug dealers to hitmen to the mentally handicapped to the mentally insane. The types of people varied drastically, and this led to chaos. At first, stories on the internet were trustable, they seemed realistic for the people living in Sector 213. Everyone knew what types of people lived here from the handbook given to every citizen of the new society, which listed all 914 sectors and what group of people belonged to them. Sector 213 consisted of “noncontributing individuals.” The details of Sector 213 are not important to the grand scheme of what ended up being this nation by the year 2031, present time. Times were alright after awhile; people were feeling connected and sector life became centered around what people actually did with their lives, which looked like it would make life more bearable. Problems started coming with the children. Children could not be born into an occupation; as much as the they wished we could be computers, we weren’t. They found a solution. They promised happiness and wellbeing to our children. This was our third and final chance to see where this was all leading, we missed it. They took away our children to Sector 864, “schooling and developing.” Our lives became more and more centered around work, less and less around relationships and family. People began to forget what having a family even was. Stories of pain and chaos stopped showing up on the internet, replaced by stories of success and happiness in other sectors. I thought my sector was special, I thought maybe this sadness was special to me and my brothers and sisters, that’s what we called each other in my sector. We wrote manuals, manuals for putting things together, taking things apart, pretty much anything that needed a manual. I thought maybe my sector was sad because there was no advances to be made in our occupation, nothing new ever; it was always the same, typing steps to putting together and taking apart things made by other sectors. Honestly, I never minded it, it was easy and relaxing. I had a few close friends that I worked with and got drunk with occasionally. It was one night in particular that really got my thoughts changing. We were drinking beers and sitting in my friend Mark’s living room. We were laughing and making fun of some of the things we were writing manuals for, it was a fun night. Then Dan, a friend of mine from before all the changes happened, brought up something from before the change. He started talking about this book that people would write in and it would help others understand what you do for a living; you would write in as much depth as you chose about your job and what you do. There was obviously no need for it anymore after all the changes, but Dan bringing this up brought up a rush of nostalgia. I felt myself sink into the couch I was sitting in as my mind began to wander into memories of my family. I had a brother and two sisters, they were twins. Luckily they ended up in the same sector because they were exceptional athletes. I felt my heat sinking a little into my chest and I began to miss my life from before the change. The change that struck me at that moment that I never realized before was the lack of curiosity. There was nothing new, nothing to wonder about because there was nobody else besides yourself. Everyone in a sector was almost an exact clone of each other. I began to feel more lonely than I did ever before that moment. Every day after that dreadful night felt like a repeat of the day before, but every day got worse in some way. I felt my hair getting longer, my sighs getting longer and my body getting weaker as I began to lose hope in a life that meant anything. I wanted to matter, I wanted more than anything to not be a clone in some sector where everyone is the same and just another gear pushing this nation along. I decide it was time for change. I began working out a way to escape my sector. I looked through the handbook and found which sectors I wanted to go to: Sector 213, “artists,” Sector 457, “scientists,” Sector 110, “psychologists,” and Sector 54, “weapon experts.” My final location would be Sector 1. Sector 1 was where the leaders were living; nobody knew anything about it. I had no idea how I would even get out of my sector, it took more planning and surveying of the wall that confined my sector. I planned on leaving and heading east, looking for any sector to see if I could find a pattern or organization of the sectors. I finally left in 2030. I found a hole in the wall that I could crawl through. Outside of this hole, I saw sunlight like I have never seen before, it burned my eyes. Freedom, an open land that people could not even dream of anymore. I smelled trees and nature, it smelled like a park I went to as a child, I felt a smile slowly overtake my face, then tears leaking from my eyes. I stepped out of the bubble that help my life for a few long years. I forgot what real weather was like, I felt a frigid cold begin to climb up my legs. I took a few steps, it felt like hours, I was overcome by happiness and this new feeling of freedom. I was about twenty feet from the wall when I heard a loud, high-pitched noise pierce through my skull. An alarm. There was an alarm going off in my sector, time slowed down even more as I turned around to look. I felt every muscle in my body begin to tense up and every hair on my arms and legs raise, this made the cold air feel even crisper. I saw a tall tower that I somehow missed while living in the sector, and in this tower was a few men staring at me. I could see the look in their eyes, they looked like leopards that just saw a deer that walked away from its pack. The look that burned into my brain and felt like hours as I saw the man raise a gun, I was frozen. There was nothing I could do anymore, I waited for whatever was in that gun to pierce my skin and take me away. I was unaware of what happened next, but I woke up in a dark cell; my new room. This is where I am now. My life lasted another year I estimate it to be. After everything that happened, after everything I wanted to change, all that resulted was me sitting in my own sweat, slowly dying as alone as I was in Sector 858. I don’t know any of the other men in this jail, all I know is they are men I may or may not have worked with. I never learned about any other sectors, I can’t even be sure there are other sectors anymore. I can’t be sure there are other people besides the ones I hear moaning every day. I guess you can never be certain of anything that isn’t you. I realized the only truth I ever knew what what I felt inside. I wish I had realized what was happening from the beginning, I wish I had trusted myself instead of the people trying to change what I knew was natural. I don’t regret anything I did, I only regret what I didn’t do sooner.

You’re walking down a dirt road. You can hear the shore in the dark distance. Somewhere, in the back of your mind you know the ex boyfriend of your newly estranged wife is realizing you’ve disappeared from the rager he invited you to. The thought of his concern for your safety sends you into a fit. He’s trying to be your friend. To help you through a hard time because he’s a Marine and so are you. You’ve all fucked each other’s wives and sisters and mothers and gods. It’s all the same. It’s all so ridiculous. This world. Your life. There’s nothing special about any of the things you have built or destroyed. You wonder if Rett will be able to find you. You wonder if he’ll be able to find you before you find the ocean. Because this is the first time. The first time you got in your head to kill yourself. It’s pretty special in a way. First times always are. The dreadful amount of rum in your blood must have left you open to possession by some pirate spirit still lingering on the Carolina coasts. His spiced whispers thread their way through some cortex or another, inspiring you to leave the festival of pity that drinking marines are wont to host. Crashing waves in the distance sing the lyrics of a siren song, beckoning to the black of night. And something, perhaps, a bit darker. In any case, the urge to run has narrowly saved you from receiving an ill-advised tattoo of a Mayan calendar on the whole of your back. In the apartment you just left behind, a perplexed marine is sitting with a homemade tattoo gun buzzing in one hand a handle of vodka in the other. He’s wondering if you’ll forget to come back for the hundred dollars of cash in the morning. As you traverse the road, you discover there’s lightning in your chest so you tear your shirt a bit to let it out. The sound of the fabric ripping sounds like electricity in your hands, so you continue to conjure imaginary sparks as you flex every muscle you’ve had worked into you over the last few years. Laughter sounds from atop a grassy knoll. Three men holding beers in their hands are watching with eager eyes as you devolve into human litter. “Behold!” you shout at them, stepping into the glow of a streetlight. You let out a howl, envisioning Frankenstein’s monster discovering fire. You feel hot tears on your cheeks. The laughter stops. The men retreat. You scratch at your chest and cry out more, curiously satisfied by the sensation it leaves in your throat. You smell drunken cliche on your skin. It’s all so predictable. So mundane. So unoriginal. Beyond the knoll the laughing men had just been standing upon, you find the beach you were quested to find by the ghost of The Pirate King . There is no moon this night. You are too pathetic for its company. And yet, like a fool you mutter, “Goodnight moon,” to yourself, hiccuping hot liquor into the back of your throat. You are a romantic to the end. A fool through and through. The tattered shreds of your shirt fall to the sand as you begin to make your way. You feel strong. Ready to fight the tide until it overpowers you like everything else in this world has been able. Every feeling. Every desire. Every impulse. Losing yourself to a force of nature should be easy. You’ve been practicing all your life. Dutifully, you continue your fateful march, considering how fortunate it is to be one of the few Marines in the world who has somehow managed not to learn how to swim. Then your phone vibrates in the pocket of your denim and you realize how unfortunate it is you are one of the most consistently lucky people in the world. You answer the phone and things start to move fast. “Where are you?” she asks. “Rett is looking for you.” “No.” You’re looking at the sea. “I’m looking for you, asshole! Where are you?” “No.” You’re so very tired. “Do not make me drive around aimlessly all night. Let me bring you home.” “Okay.” You hate the ocean anyway. Now you are balled up in the passenger seat with your arms wrapped around your legs, sullen as a child caught sneaking treats. The pirate spirit has abandoned you, disgusted with your lack of commitment. He seems to have taken the rum with him. This plotline is overwrought and you would like the show to wrap up. The characters have no teeth. Elizabeth’s shitty car climbs the highway like she knows where she’s going. But you’ve been living in this town for a couple of years now and have yet to meet a soul who knows a goddamn thing about it. It shifts and moves and hates its inhabitants. This swamp is Purgatory. This swamp is Tarturas. This swamp is Jacksonville. Behold! “What the fuck were you doing out there? And since when do you hang out with Rettidal?!” You give her questions good thought and decide to be as forthcoming as possible: “Everything hurts.” You hear her baptist lips mutter “Jesus Christ” under her breath and spring into action, pounding your fist into the window. There are no worse days than when that fucker sticks his nose in your marriage. The impact of your knuckles on the tempered glass feels like the sort of pain you’ve come to find particularly attractive since puberty and 80’s action flicks wrought havoc on your physiology. You wonder if you can break it. You wonder how mighty you’ll feel as you complete the tableau of the “The Last Cowboy” you’ve always envisioned for yourself. Which ballad will play over your tragic denouement? You hit it again, smiling. Maybe the pirate left you some of his bloody rum, after all. “Hey! Hey, Motherfucker! What are you doing?!” “I’ll pay for it,” you whisper as you hit the window again. “I WILL LEAVE YOU ON THE SIDE OF THIS ROAD!” she bellows, almost losing control of the car. “I JUST WANT TO BE LOVED!” you scream as you recoil back into a ball. The car sits idle on the highway and it occurs to you she might be waiting for you to get out. Just before you reach for the door handle, the car slowly begins to continue on down the highway in silence. You squeeze your eyes shut and wonder if she can still see you. “I should’ve gone to college,” you say, eyes still closed. “This is too much for a nineteen year old.” “You’re twenty-two, Miles.” “Exactly.” A silence follows. Then a reluctant chuckle escapes her throat in search of your quiet smile. Then another. You both fill the car with laugher and suddenly the roads drop all labyrinthian pretenses. She’s got teeth after all, whispers The Pirate God. “Aye, Cap’n!” you say, talking with the ghosts in your head like you have since childhood. Elizabeth is asking you to repeat yourself but you’re already feeling yourself sinking into a slumber that will leave all the high tides of the night behind. All the better. You’re pretty sure if you made it into her apartment conscious you’d make a good show of rummaging through the kitchen for a steak knife to dig into your arm. You’d never done such a thing before but tonight feels like a night for dying, so long as everything is forgiven in the morning.

HE WAS LATE FOR THAT APPOINTMENT TOO Terrence had always been a latecomer. His schoolmates, from elementary school, remembered that there had been no a day that he didn’t arrive in class, out of breath, all in a hurry, always after the lessons had already begun. Even when he was no longer a child, Terrence continued to be regularly late. He arrived late not only to appointments with doctor, with dentist, but even with girls to whom he cared a lot, with whom he had to insist very much because they agreed to meet him. Not to mention his delays at job interviews when he had started looking for a job. Since he was always late, he had to wait a long time before he could find a job, which he soon lost because he kept arriving late every day at his job. But even when he had fixed to meet with friends for a soccer match or a dinner, it happened that he always arrived when the match or dinner had already started without him. Sometimes he arrived when they were over.. So those , who knew him for his inveterate habit of arriving late , used to say, jokingly: “ Ah, Terrence...you will see that even death will get tired of waiting for him” Those who mocked him like that certainly could not know what would have happened several years later to that chronic latecomer of Terrence. Many years had passed when something happened that no one would have ever expected, that no one could have ever imagined. Terrence, now a mature man, was satisfied with his work____he had set up a major travel agency. He was also happy with his family. After a first marriage, which had lasted a few months, he had married Helen, with whom he had three children, now teenagers. His life was a satisfying, comfortable and also peaceful life. What a pleasant surprise had been for him to receive that phone call from Charles, a friend of his teenage years, when they had been neighbors. Terrence had not known anything about him for years, since Charles had been living abroad for a long time. Charles was back in their town and he wanted to see him, he wanted to meet him as soon as possible. Of course, they had to meet. They had so many things to tell each other , not to mention the memories they had of their time together as teenagers. Terrence, enthusiastic, had invited Charles to dinner at his house, so he would know his family. And also, it must be added, Terrence would not have risked being late for their appointment. But Charles, after thanking for that invitation, had said that he preferred to meet him alone, at least for the first time they would see each other again. Of course he, Charles, would be happy to know his family later. So they had agreed to meet at the bar, Arlecchino, which was next the stadium. Terrence and Charles had frequented the Arlecchino as boys, after watching a football match or after a friendly game between boys. “ I’ll be waiting for you in front of the bar at five o’clock. We’ll go into the bar together ”Charles said him.. Charles perhaps, after so many years, didn’t remember that Terrence was always late. But of the two, the one who ignored something very important about the other was Terrence, as Charles couldn’t really tell him the true raison why he had called him and why he was so eager, indeed impatient to meet him. Eh, it had been a long time since they had been boys and had played on the soccer field. Then they had been friends, although, how can we say?( how to say?), friends in the lightness and in the heartedness of that green age, friends to have fun together. So, who knows if they had been really friends. He, Charles, thinking back to those times, he had a faded memory of Terrence. Indeed he remembered that Terrence was ( had been) often quite annoying and even snooty. If he was happy to see him again after so long? Well, to tell the truth, Charles didn’t ask himself the question. As soon as he had been again in the town, he had looked for Terrence , since he absolutely had to see him. It was a simple business matter. If he had not been able to see Terrence, to meet him, Charles couldn’t fulfill the assignment which had been entrusted to him. He had therefore considered it appropriate, indeed necessary to give him an appointment to be sure he would see him again, instead of relying on chance that in that town, sooner or later, he would meet him again. Charles was in a certain hurry to accomplish the task that had been entrusted to him. Therefore the day after his phone call, Charles at five in the afternoon, but rather a few minutes earlier, was in front of the Arlecchino bat , waiting for Terrence. As soon as Charles arrived, he sat at a table outside the bar and asked for a coffee. Among those who came in and out the bar there was more than one that ( who) he recognized, despite all the time that had passed since he had not seen them. But no one seemed to recognize him. Indeed no one seemed to pay attention to him. To the left of the bar, beyond the bend in ( of) the street, there was the stadium, with its soccer field, from where shouted words arrived to him. “ On, hurry up! On, get the ball!” ....” Warning: shot on goal!” Probably a football match ( game) was taking place , perhaps between boys, as then, when Charles and Terrence were ( had been) teenagers. Twenty minutes ( had) passed and Terrence did not arrive. Charles got up from the table in front of the Arlecchino bar and started to wait for Terrence , standing on the sidewalk. Anyway, when Terrence had arrived, oh they would take something into the bar, but then... Charles knew that , they , he and Terrence. would have to get away from there. He should have to get Terrence into his car and to take him to a....a suitable place. Well, maybe in the park next the station, which was just the right place. Time passed and not even the shadow of Terrence....Charles called him on the phone, but no one answered. He began to doubt that Terrence would come. A bad trouble for him ( it would be a bad trouble for him) , who could not wait to complete the task that had been entrusted to him. Not that Terrence had forgotten the appointment with Charles, but, as usual, he was late. He had started in time towards the bar where he would meet Charles. But, on the way, he had had so many unexpected events that had led him elsewhere. It had been about two hours since five o’clock. Charles, who had continued to wait for Terrence, going up and down the sidewalk, and ( going) up and down from the sidewalk to the bar, was about to leave, to stop of waiting for him, when he was arrested. He was wanted on an international arrest warrant. If Terrence had arrived on time for the appointment, Charles would have killed him, as he had instructed to do.

“I’m worried about Annabelle.” The matter-of-fact statement was discharged into an otherwise silent room. Its recipient, a salt-n-pepper-haired gentleman in his early forties, was intently glued to the computer screen before him. “Yeah...” came his slow reply. “Yeah. She’s had to leave all of her friends. She knows no one here. She has very little interest in getting to know anyone. She has very little interests for that matter--” The woman, clearly Annabelle’s mother, stopped her pacing and ranting to stare directly at her husband. “Parker! Are you even listening to me? I’m talking about your daughter here. Aren’t you concerned?” “Yes, honey,” he responded, pulling his glasses down to the tip of his nose to peer intently at his computer screen. “Yes...what?” “Yes???” “Ugh! You are so frustrating!” “Melanie, honey, don’t you think you are being a little dramatic?” “Dramatic? Annabelle is a ten-year-old with no friends. She needs friends, Parker!” “You need friends,” Parker muttered quietly behind his wife’s back. “Excuse me?” “Nothing, Honey. I hear you. Annabelle needs friends. What do you propose?” Parker had been a participant in these conversations before. He snapped his laptop shut and looked at his wife. It would do no good to explain that they had just moved to the area and Annabelle needed time to make friends. That the start of the new school year was still over a month away. Reasonable Melanie knew all of these things. This was not reasonable Melanie. This was “I already have a solution” Melanie. The only way to end this type of conversation was to get his wife to tell him what she had already decided. It was a matter of practicality. All he had to do now was listen and agree. “Well, now that you ask. I do have an idea. You remember me telling you about my friend Amanda? You remember, surely. She teaches drama. We used to be pretty good friends back in high school. Did you know she was a real-life beauty queen? I told you that. I’m sure I did. Anyway, she made it all the way to Miss Georgia several years in a row. That was always her thing. Beauty pageants. In fact, the first thing I remember about Amanda was how all the girls in our class, this was back in middle school, didn’t really like Amanda because she was always winning all these beauty pageants. Can you believe anyone could dislike someone because they won too many beauty pageants? How silly! Teenage girls can be so ridiculous, and it really was ridiculous because Amanda was always such a nice person. But don’t ask my friend Cecily about that because evidently they ended up having some falling out about a beauty pageant after high school. It’s ironic though because they might never have even become close enough to have a falling out about a beauty pageant if I hadn’t had to move schools during my eighth-grade year. Of course, I moved back during my ninth-grade year... But that’s exactly what I’m talking about!” Parker blinked. Twice. He really didn’t know what his wife was talking about anymore. He would wait. If you don’t follow, just wait. After too many years of marriage, he knew that this really was the best way--the precursor to enlightenment. So, he waited until his wife gave the signal. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long. After about twenty seconds, his wife gave him “the look.” The look of exasperation. The look that said, “you must be an idiot.” It was a look Parker knew quite well. But, it was also a look that indicated his wife would spill soon, and then he could go back to doing what he really wanted--searching for obscure baseball cards on eBay. Sure enough, Melanie didn’t disappoint. “About Annabelle. Moving! It’s hard to make new friends. She needs something to help her meet people her age.” “And your friend--Amanda--she plays a role how?” Parker asked, hoping this would sound like interest and not confusion. “Well, every summer Amanda comes back to town and helps direct a youth theater camp. I told you, that’s what she teaches. Drama. Theater. The Stage.” “And you want Annabelle to participate?” Parker asked, almost positive he had gotten it right. “Yep.” “Okay.” “Okay?” “Okay! Wonderful! Annabelle is going to have a blast. She just loves all of that drama stuff. Really, Parker, I don’t know why you always make things so difficult.” “I don’t know, honey, men just suck like that sometimes. Love you though.” “Love you too,” Melanie responded sweetly, brushing the top of Parker’s forehead with her lips. “Okay, babe, I’m going to go tell Annabelle the good news.” “Wonderful. I’m sure she will be thrilled.” Thrilled might have been a bit of an overstatement, but Melanie had high hopes. If anyone could get Annabelle out of her shell it was Amanda. *** “Okay, so you have your snacks and extra water bottle?” “Yep.” “Are you feeling excited?’” Shoulder shrug. “Come on. Give it a chance. You’ll like it. For me?” Melanie looked at her daughter who stared at the floorboard of their Chevy Traverse. She didn’t seem to be in a hurry to move. “Come on. I have to sign you in any way. Let’s walk together.” At her mother’s insistence, Annabelle schlumped her way out of the car. Once inside, she looked timidly around at the group of kids already gathered. No one approached her. Melanie signed her daughter into camp and gave her a quick once-over. She wore a baggy hoodie, dark leggings, and a pair of old beat-up black Converse shoes. The shoes were scuffed and worn, and the shoestrings were carelessly tied and dragging the ground. Melanie started to feel nervous. What if Annabelle doesn’t make friends? What if Amanda can’t help her? It had been over a decade since Melanie had seen Amanda in person. Throughout the years, she had followed her mostly on Facebook, occasionally sending a message or posting a “Happy Birthday” meme to her page. Amanda didn’t seem like she had changed a bit since high school, at least not according to social media. Melanie just hoped she still remembered what it was like to not quite fit in. Maybe she could use that to help her daughter bridge this new culture gap she had moved into. “Mom?” “Yeah, baby?” “Is that your friend?” Annabelle pointed to a tall, slender brunette with dark-rimmed glasses and a huge, beauty pageant smile. That was Amanda all right. Melanie smiled and nodded at her old friend. As she did so, Amanda bent down to talk to two children. They looked over to where Melanie stood with Annabelle. Within moments, Amanda disappeared behind a wall partition and the two children ran over to greet them. “Hi! My name’s Cal.” “I’m Alyssa. You’re Annabelle. Our mom told us your mom was a friend of hers. We’ll take you back to the theater stage. Follow us.” “Okay,” Annabelle agreed, shrugging as if this were the most normal thing she had done that day. Melanie watched as the three young thespians ran off to meet up with the rest of the campers, disappearing in the same direction as Amanda had. Melanie smiled. She knew this would be good for Annabelle. She couldn’t wait to hear how her day would go. She was not disappointed. Melanie arrived to pick Annabelle up about six hours later. Her daughter was full of smiles and tales about Cal and Alyssa. Evidently, the three had been thick as thieves, which was great, but Melanie had really hoped Annabelle would make local friends. Ultimately, though, she guessed even camp-only friends were better than no friends. Besides, she hadn’t seen Annabelle this excited about anything in months. As she listened to her daughter’s prattling, Melanie’s cell phone pinged with a message. Amanda: Hey, girl. We should catch dinner while I’m down. Melanie sent a quick reply indicating that she would enjoy that, and she thanked her for looking out for Annabelle. Amanda responded immediately with an emoji and a text reading “The kids loved her!” Each day afterward, Melanie took an eager Annabelle to camp. She was loving it. She had decided to try out for a speaking part, but what she liked most was that she and Cal had been pretty much allowed to write their skit by themselves. Melanie was really excited for her daughter. She was excited, but it also reminded her of what she had missed out on as an adult. Melanie used to love the theater. In fact, it was Amanda who talked her into her own theatrical debut. Thinking about losing that part of her younger self made her a little sad now. Perhaps she should check out the local theater opportunities once the family was completely settled. She just didn’t know if she would still have what it takes to get up in front of an audience. For now, she would just celebrate her daughter’s success. Everything was going according to plan. Everything except catching up with her old friend. Every time Melanie went to pick Annabelle up, Amanda was nowhere to be found. And she still hadn’t received a follow-up message about her earlier dinner invitation. . “Honey, do you think Amanda is blowing me off?” “How would I know?” “You wouldn’t know . I just want your opinion.” “Ye...no?” “Oh, my god! You are never any help. It’s just weird. She was the one who brought up going out to dinner. She won’t be in town forever. I’m sure she will be going back home after the kids' camp. I don’t know. It’s kind of rude. Don’t you think it’s rude?” “Melanie, I don’t have friends.” Melanie’s husband made the statement as if it were an answer to everything. It was her turn to just stare and blink. Unlike Melanie, however, Parker didn’t expound on his statement. “Whatever,” she finally responded, clearly irritated. “Honey, don’t be that way. I don’t know. And does it matter? Has Annabelle had a great time?” Melanie thought about this and nodded. It was true. The whole point of the camp was to help Annabelle transition to their move and to help her break out of her shell. It had not been about her catching up with old friends. Even with this logic, the brushoff still stung a bit. Melanie was used to having friends close by to catch a movie or drink with. Like her daughter, she had left pretty much all of her friends (at least adulthood friends) behind in a state two thousand miles away. She missed them. “No, you’re right. And I am really excited about Annabelle’s performance.” To Melanie’s delight, Annabelle’s performance stole the show. All of their extended family showed up to support Annabelle’s theatrical debut. It was even better than her own. Annabelle was animated. She was confident. And she performed as a male character. The juxtaposition of her appearance in male attire (complete with beard and mustache) with her slight feminine frame was hilarious. No one could believe it when she doffed her hat during closing credits. This girl could do anything. In one performance, all of Melanie’s concerns about Annabelle acclimating to a new school and home state were relieved. “You did such a great job!” Melanie exclaimed as Annabelle exited the theater. Annabelle responded by deftly side-swiping her mother’s hug attempt. At least I can count on some things, Melanie thought, smiling harder at her daughter’s rebellious independence. “Hey, can we go over to Cal’s grandparent’s house today? They are grilling and have invited us to swim.” “They have?” “Yep. Mrs. Rogers said she would text you.” As if on cue, Melanie’s phone pinged. Sure enough, there it was. “Whatcha think, Parker? Up for a swim?” “Well, I feel like I have to meet this Amanda chick. I probably won’t swim, but sure, I’ll go.” “Yay! Let’s go!” Annabelle shouted, more excited than she had been in weeks. “Okay, swimsuits and let’s head on over!” Despite Annabelle’s insistence to “hurry up” as they grabbed what they needed from home, Melanie still managed to arrive a little late to the cookout. Pride had gotten the better of her. Although it had been twenty years since Melanie had visited Amanda’s parent’s house, she was sure she could get them there from memory. As it turns out, pretty much remembering where someone lives will not get you to where someone exactly lives. She ended up having to text Amanda for the address. When they arrived, the children were in the pool, and the burgers were already on the grill. “Annabelle!!!” Both Cal and Alyssa greeted Annabelle enthusiastically as she exited the family SUV. “Hey, Melanie!” Mr. Larry called from the grill. “Long time, no see!” “Too long,” Melanie replied. She had always enjoyed talking with Amanda’s dad, and the site of him now made her think of her own father who had passed the year before. She choked back a little sob that threatened to surface and turned to where Amanda’s kids were already pulling Annabelle into the pool. “Where’s Amanda?” Melanie asked pulling up a chair. “Oh, I think she is with her youngest, Mabel.” From the back porch, Melanie could hear Amanda bartering with the small child. “No, mama. I don't wanna ‘wim,” Mabel whined as she tried to pull her mother back through the door. “Mabel, you just said you did.” “I’m scared.” “No, you’re not.” “I am.” Melanie watched as her friend argued with her three-year-old daughter. She was clearly frustrated and exhausted. “Can I help?” Melanie asked. “Oh, hi. I don’t think so. She’s just really tired.” “I don’t wanna nap!” Mabel wailed at her mom’s words. “I see,” Melanie observed. “That’s a tough age.” “You’re telling me.” As Melanie watched her high school friend wrestle with her daughter, the two attempted to catch up. Small talk included the usual: Jobs are great. Kids are great. Husbands are great. Everything is great. Soon, Melanie and Amanda ran out of things to say. In fact, it was almost a blessing that Amanda fought with Mabel, as it helped break their awkward silence. Luckily for Melanie, Mr. Larry was full of conversation. He was a great storyteller, and some of his tales even included Melanie’s parents or her brother-in-law. It really was a small world when you were from a small town. Melanie was enjoying the walk down memory lane with her host. At one point, Mr. Larry even showed her the pool house shower curtain that had been made from plays Amanda had starred in. Several were plays in which Melanie had also been cast. In fact, she was so absorbed in her conversation with Amanda’s dad that she hadn’t seen Amanda slip off herself. “Where did Amanda go?” Melanie asked when realization set in. “I think she finally went to lay Mabel down.” Melanie nodded. When it was time to eat, Amanda did not return. It wasn’t until after everyone had tired of swimming and the food had been put away that Amanda surfaced again. Her greeting this time was a goodbye. “It was so good of you to come by, Melanie. The kids really love your daughter. I think she has a lot of talent on stage, too.” “Oh, yeah?” “Yeah. You’ll have to get Annabelle involved in something throughout the year. I can’t wait to see her at camp again next year.” “Absolutely. Well, thanks for having us. I think that’s our cue.” “Oh, I’m not running you off. Stay as long as you’d like.” “No, that's okay. We need to get back.” “Well let’s get together again sometime.” “Absolutely.” Melanie and her husband said their final goodbyes and they packed up their things, practically dragging Annabelle away. Their daughter had found kindred spirits in Amanda’s children. Much like Melanie used to feel toward Amanda. Today, she realize that perhaps they weren’t such kindred spirits after all. Some people you can go years without seeing, and when you do see them, it’s like no time has passed. It had not been like this with Amanda. It made Melanie a little sad. She wondered what her husband thought of her former friend. “So, what did you think of Amanda?” “The verdict is still out. She wasn’t around much though.” “Nope.” “Is that typical Amanda behavior?” ‘Who knows.I feel like I don’t know anything anymore. I feel like everything is changing.” “I could tell something was bothering you. You looked sad when Mr. Larry showed you that t-shirt curtain from your old plays. Is that what is bothering you?” “Ugh! I guess it is just everything. It was sad to see those old t-shirts. I used to love acting.” “You still could.” “I know. I thought about community theater, but honestly, I don’t have the confidence or skill anymore. I’m just becoming an old woman. Not just an old woman. An old woman with an expanding waistline and thinning hair no less! Did you see Amanda? Still just as skinny as ever. But it wasn’t just that. I miss my friends. I’ve been so focused on Annabelle that I hadn’t allowed myself to think about how hard this has been on me. Like I said, I guess I’m just struggling because everything is changing.” Parker looked at his wife. “First, I’ve never cared for curveless women, so I’m thankful for that expanding waistline. Second, you can do whatever you set out to do. If that’s community theater, great. Double great because it’s something you can now share with Annabelle. Third, you’re right. Everything is changing. But today you had to know that it was changing in a good way.” As Parker said this, Melanie followed her husband's gaze to their daughter. Annabelle had crashed in the backseat. She had crashed from a day of activity and hard play. This would not have happened weeks ago. Everything was changing. And that was a good thing.

By Chuck Hustmyre "I get kidnapped all the time," Lumpy said. I didn't say anything. Just took a swallow of beer, hoping he wasn't about to go off on one of his stories. "I'm serious," he insisted. "I've been getting kidnapped since I was a teenager. Maybe even back before that. I just can't remember. I got some memory issues. Used to be, I thought it was aliens." "Aliens," I said. "Yeah. You remember, they were big back in the day. Lots of books and movies. Whole bunch of abduction stories. And they weren't talking about E.T. types. These were big, ugly, scary aliens, the kind that strap you to a table and stick a fork up your ass." I glanced up at the clock. Almost ten. Then I pointed to Lumpy's near-empty pint glass. "You ready for another?" But he just kept right on. "After it happens, I don't remember it, not exactly. Just a few flashes of what it was like. Then when I wake up, it's always morning. I'm always somewhere else. And I'm always naked." "Wait a minute," I said, knowing that by responding I was just encouraging him, but unable to help myself. That's how Lumpy's stories were, like some crazy vortex. Without you even noticing, they pulled you in. "You're telling me that not only have you been kidnapped several times -- " "A lot more than several," he said. "Okay, a bunch of times," I conceded. "And after, you wake up naked?" He nodded. "Where? Where have you woken up naked?" "All kinds of places." "Name one," I said. "Last time was behind the old library. I came to inside a Dumpster." "What'd you do?" "I found an old sack, wrapped it around myself, walked home." "From the old library? What is that, like four miles to your place? Wrapped in nothing but a sack?" "What else was I supposed to do?" he said. I waved to Stelly, the bartender, and held up two fingers. He nodded. "When I was nineteen," Lumpy said, "I woke up in Hammond." "Naked?" He nodded. "What happened?" I asked. "What do you think happened? A nineteen-year-old stumbling around a college town early in the morning, buck-ass naked? I got arrested. My parents had to come bail me out." "Jesus," I said. Momentarily forgetting that this story, like almost all of Lumpy's stories, was pure bullshit. "What are you guys talking about?" Stelly asked. I hadn't even seen him carrying over our two fresh pints. "Nothing really," I said. "Lump was just telling me ... " I let it trail off, not sure what else to say. Stelly laughed. "One of his famous stories?" I smiled and nodded. "Yeah. This one's a doozy," meaning to say it kind of light-hearted, but thinking it came out with more edge than I had intended. Lumpy chugged half of his beer. Stelly looked at me. "Six bucks." Lumpy rarely had money. Reason being he couldn't keep a job. I kind of figured he was dragging this kidnapping story out so he could mooch a couple of beers off me. I laid a five and two singles on the bar. As soon as Stelly walked away, Lumpy said, "After that, after what happened in Hammond, I got kind of -- " "After aliens left you naked, wandering around a town fifty miles from home." He looked at me dead serious. "Not aliens." "But you said -- " "I said I used to think it was aliens." I took a sip of beer, feeling less enthralled with Lump's tall tale after buying the first two rounds and not seeing a dime come out of his pocket. "Anyways," he said, "after Hammond, I got kind of religious." "You?" He smiled. "Believe it or not. I met this pastor. Not the TV kind, more of a regular preacher. I told him about my ... problem. And he pretty much convinced me that what was happening to me was the work of demons." I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could he pressed on. "Yeah, demons. Like The Exorcist except without ... " He made a stabbing motion toward his groin. "That stuff with the cross. And no vomiting. But, yeah, demons." "I didn't know demons kidnapped people," I said. "See, that was my problem with Pastor Mike's explanation too. But he said it weren't no kidnapping, per se. I wasn't taken anywhere, at least not by someone else. I got myself there on account of the demon possessing me. I just didn't remember it." "And you thought that made more sense than aliens?" Lumpy nodded. "I know, I know. At first I did, yeah. But after a while and after it happened a couple more times, I realized Pastor Mike's idea was even crazier than mine. What would a demon even want with me, right? What would be the point?" "Okay, let me stop you right there," I said. "What would aliens want with you?" "I figured we were more or less guinea pigs to them. Human guinea pigs. And that maybe I just got chose random like. But I figured a demon, once they was inside your head and all, would know a lot about you. So this demon, whoever he was, would probably figure out pretty quick that there ain't a whole lot special about me, and he would've moved on to someone else. But he didn't. Or it didn't. Or whatever. Because it's still happening." I shot another look at the clock. Now it was ten minutes after ten. I had to be at work at eight. About time to wrap this up. "Yeah, so this weekend," I said, "your sister wanted me to ask if you're interested in coming with us to the Beer Fest at the Rural Life Museum. She won four tickets on a radio station contest. Maybe you can bring a girl." Lumpy drained the rest of his pint in a single gulp. Burped. Then looked me straight in the eye. "I'm not going to be around this weekend." "Why not?" I asked. "Look, this thing I been telling you about, these kidnappings, they happen at regular times." He glanced up at the clock behind the bar. "Like clockwork. Next one's due to happen tonight." Engaged to his sister or not, the dude was starting to freak me out. He was racing from eccentric to bizarro and was one turn from straight-up mental case. "Tonight?" I said. "You're going to get kidnapped tonight?" He nodded. "Why don't you come stay with us, then. Bren would love to cook breakfast for you. She's always saying you don't look like you eat enough. We'll lock the house up tight. And the fold-out is not that bad." Forcing a laugh that I really didn't feel, I added, "I've slept on it once or twice myself." "You don't understand," he said. "Locks don't stop them. Not regular locks, anyway. I've tried. Once, I even chained myself to my bed. Didn't matter. I woke up the next morning in somebody's flowerbed. I have three arrests on my record for public nudity." "Hey, man, that's getting into the T.M.I. zone -- too much information." "This time, though, I have a plan." For some reason I got goosebumps and the hair stood up on my arms. "What kind of plan?" Lumpy's hands were down at the bottom of his shirt. I hadn't noticed him move them from the bar, but there they were. He lifted his shirt and flashed a gun. A black-handled silver revolver of some kind. "Holy shit!" I said. "Ssshhh." He pressed a finger to his lips. I looked down the bar. Stelly was looking at me. "What?" he said. "Nothing," I said. "Just finally got to the end of Lumpy's story." "A good one, finally?" Stelly said. I glanced at Lumpy. He was staring at me. Back to Stelly, I said, "Yeah, a good one." The bartender turned to the beer tap and pulled a pint for another customer. The gun was back out of sight under Lumpy's shirt. "What the hell are you doing with a gun?" I whispered. "Look," he said, "I've thought this out. This is the only way." "Only way to what?" He took a deep breath. "I need to be somewhere they can't get to me." "And?" "Jail. They can't get to me in jail." "I don't even understand what you're saying." I shifted in my seat, suddenly very uncomfortable. "Why are you carrying a gun?" He reached down again. I jumped. "Relax," he said, his hand reaching around to his back pocket, then tossing a folded letter-sized envelope on the bar. Despite the fold, I could see the first letters of my name scrawled across the front. "What's that?" I said. "A thousand dollars ... and a letter." My future brother-in-law barely ever had two nickels to rub together. "Where'd you get a thousand dollars?" I asked. "I been saving it. Since the last time." "Last time what?" "Last time they took me. That's when I came up with this plan." "Tell me what the plan is, Lumpy." "Okay, first let me just say this." He patted the revolver under his shirt. "It ain't loaded. I mean it is, but the shells are empty. I shot 'em over in the creek. I put the empties back in because when you're looking straight at it, from the barrel end, you could tell if there was nothing in the cylinders. I had to make it look real." I just stared at him, not knowing what to say. "So," he said, "here's the plan. I'm going to rob the bar." "Are you nuts!" I glanced down at Stelly, but he was too busy to notice my outburst. "Do you hear yourself? You're going to rob ... Wait just a damn minute." I nodded to the envelope. "You just told me you had a thousand bucks." "And a letter," he added. "What's the letter say?" I felt so much like I was dreaming that I actually pinched myself. But I didn't wake up. Lumpy didn't notice. "In the letter," he said, "I explain everything about the ... kidnappings, disappearances, abductions, whatever you want to call them. And that I'm only doing this to get locked up before midnight. See, it's always right after midnight when they come for me." "Lumpy, you don't need to get locked up. All you need is some help. You ever think that maybe this is all in your head? Something left over from that car wreck or ... Hell, I don't know. Maybe something happened to you when you were a kid." "The kidnappings started when I was a kid. I don't remember the first one. Not exactly, but I know that's when they started." "No. I mean maybe you're not really being kidnapped. That you're just ..." "Crazy?" he said. "Yeah, I thought of that. I wish I was crazy. But they leave marks -- bruises, scrapes, even punctures. One time they peeled off one of my toenails. I only remember little bits, but what I remember is that it hurts. Like hell." I pointed to the envelope. "What's the money for?" "Bond." When I didn't respond he continued. "I got this all worked out. For armed robbery there probably wouldn't be a bond. But once the cops realize my gun was unloaded, and that I left a thousand bucks with you, plus the explanation in that letter, I figure they'll -- " "You can't possibly expect the police to believe you're being abducted by aliens." "No. No. Not at all. And it's not aliens, by the way." "So what do you think they're going to think? The cops, I mean." "It doesn't matter, but they'll probably only charge me with first-degree robbery. I figure even a crappy public defender can get my bond down to ten thousand." He pushed the envelope closer to me. "And that's what the thousand's for. A bondsman charges ten percent." "And you want me to bail you out of jail?" He nodded. "With my money." "I'm not doing it." I stood up. He grabbed my arm. "I really need this." "You need a shrink is what you need." I tried to pull away, but his grip was like iron. I saw him look over at the clock. It was ten thirty. Stelly was walking toward us. "Here goes nothing," Lumpy said. Stelly stopped in front of us. "You guys want a couple more?" Lumpy let go of my arm and pulled the revolver. He shoved it in Stelly's face, an inch from his nose. The bartender's eyes got wide. "Hey, what the -- " Lumpy cocked the hammer. "I'm robbing you, Stell." I looked past Lumpy and Stelly. Everybody else in the bar heard the hammer ratchet back. They were all looking at us. "Give me everything in the till," Lumpy said in a loud voice. Stelly cut his eyes toward me. "How about you? You part of this too?" I shook my head. "He's gone crazy, Stell. I don't know what he's doing. Just give him the money and he'll be gone." Stelly nodded. "All right, Lumpy. You can have the money." Lumpy sprang over the bar. He walked Stelly to the cash register and stuffed the bills into his pockets. While everyone watched them, I slipped the envelope off the bar and into my jeans. Lumpy crawled back over the bar, keeping the revolver pointed at Stelly. "I'm sorry," he said. Stelly's face was like stone. But you could still read the hurt in it. Lumpy and I had been meeting up for beers here for three years, ever since I started seeing Lumpy's sister. "All right," Stelly said. "We're finished, right?" Lumpy nodded. I swear I saw a tear in his eye. Then he just ran. Right past me and out the door. Stelly let out a big sigh. He pointed at me. "I'm calling the cops. Don't you go anywhere." The police found Lumpy fifteen minutes later, sitting at an all-night diner two blocks from the bar. Sipping coffee. At the police station he invoked his Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination and refused to answer questions. The cops told him they'd get him a lawyer, a public defender, but not until morning. They put him in a holding cell just before midnight. The next morning I went to check on him. The desk sergeant said Lumpy had escaped. "How?" I asked. "We think he must have slicked himself up with soap and water," the sergeant said, "then somehow slipped through the bars. One thing I can't figure, though." "What's that?" I asked. "Why he left all his clothes.

Two lifelong friends just trying to get by in life get the opportunity to make a big score and move up in the drug ring they work in. Johnny the older of the two and more aggressive plays front man for the two of them with the heavy hitters of the drug ring and sets up a money drop for some product they had received recently. The next day Johnny shows up at Poppy’s house to give him the good news, but he doesn’t seem to be happy for the opportunity to make some money and make Bull The Animal happy. Bull has run the ring for a year now since his father was caught and sent to prison and he is a bit crazy. “We can make a lot of money dude, and all you have to do is have my back, I’ll do all the talking,” Johnny says. “I’m tired of the drug life, it’s too dangerous Johnny, I want more.” “That P O of yours has been putting ideas in your head, ideas that people like us will never get to have! Stop letting them make you think you can be anything more than a street rat because that is what you are Poppy!” Johnny screams. “Dude why are you so mad!” “I got a lot riding on this Poppy, don’t let me down, I need you.” Johnny pleads. “All right Dude I will be there for you, but this is the last time. Please Johnny I need to change something, I can’t live like this anymore.” Poppy begs. “Don’t let me down...” Johnny says as he walks out and drives away. The day of the delivery Johnny drives to get his friend Poppy and is troubled when his stepsister says he is not home. She tells him he had a meeting with his parole officer, but why didn’t he say something last night when he said he would go? He calls Poppy to confirm what he has been told because that bitch doesn’t like him or Poppy. He reaches him on the phone, but immediately he makes excuses for not being there, his freaking Parole officer wanted to see him right away, but he promises to make it up on the next one. “Fucking P O, I ought to cap his ass for Poppy!” He says raising his gun from his waistband. Earlier in the day Poppy had gotten the call from his PO but not because of anything bad, His Parole officer told him about a good job upstate that he had put him in for and he got it. He didn’t want to say anything and get his hopes up, especially with a baby on the way with his girl Krissy. Poppy hated the idea of a parole officer when he got out of prison, but when he let down his guard and let him help, they became quick friends, which troubled Johnny why he kept it from him. Poppy rushes to his girl’s house and tells her about the job, but he feels bad for not being there for his friend. As the day turns to night, he is worried that Johnny hasn’t called, so he makes an excuse and leaves. He knows where the drop is going to be, he knows everything about how Johnny does a deal he has seen it many times. He even knows that Johnny hides money and drugs in a false bottom in the trunk of his Buick in case he gets pulled over by the cops. He walks a few miles to the junkyard where the deal was supposed to go down and he can see right away that something went down here. There are brass shells everywhere and even a few bodies left behind. Worried Poppy searches the junkyard and finds his friend shot multiple times in his car, a 1984 Buick Regal. He rushes to his side and Johnny is still alive, he is shot up bad and probably will not make it even if he does get to a hospital. Johnny cries out that he doesn’t want to die, but the only thought going through Poppy’s mind is that if he takes him to the hospital his P O will know he has been around other criminals and that may affect his new job. “I don’t know what to do Johnny?” Poppy screams. “Take me to the fucking hospital!” Johnny screams back thinking he is talking about him, but he is torn between helping his friend and helping himself. He remembers the money in the car’s trunk and his face turns from panic to stone cold, even Johnny sees the difference and it worries him. It sickens Poppy to think this way, but he pries his friend’s hand from his walks to the back of the car and looks in the already open trunk. Johnny’s attackers had ransacked the trunk looking for something, then shot him when they thought they had been double-crossed. He moves the junk and trash and lifts the lid to the false bottom to reveal a large duffle bag full of cash and heroin, he uses a rag to remove the drugs out of the bag and then returns to his friend. He cries because he knows he is betraying his friend. He knows if he doesn’t leave, he will get pulled back into a life he hates and ruin his chance to be a husband to his girl Krissy, and father to his unborn child. He holds his friend’s hand and tells him an ambulance is on the way but knows it will never come. Johnny cries out that he doesn’t want to die, he sees the bag hanging from his shoulder. The sting of betrayal hits him hard, and he feels for his gun at his side. Then the sting of his love for the man before him makes him let go of not only the gun but of his life. “Poppy you are the best thing in my life dude don’t do this...” He says spitting up blood. Poppy turns away to leave but Johnny reaches out and takes his hand. “I love you Poppy, my brother, don’t...” Poppy couldn’t feel worse, his betrayal is like torture, but he needs more than anything to get away from this life. He pries away his friend’s hand and stares as he suffers in pain. He wants desperately to say something to ease his friend’s pain but knows nothing will but death. He turns quickly and leaves as Johnny calls out into the night for him to return. Krissy is playing in the front yard of a little house with her year-old baby when Poppy walks through the gate. “Hey, Daddy!” Krissy calls out as she waves with little Johnny’s hand. “How was work?” She asks. Before he can speak, they hear the beat of a song being played loud as a car goes by, and they turn to see. An older Buick Regal drives by and Poppy’s heart sinks in his chest expecting a bullet for his betrayal, then he sees the young girl driving and is relieved. “Hey, didn’t your friend Johnny have a car like that?” she asks. “Yea” “Whatever happened to him?” And that sinking feeling in his chest returns, and he learns to smile begrudgingly to hide his painful secret.

“I am not going to stay here for another second.” She stomped out of the dark tunnel and through dimly lighted the staircase, arrived at the underground opening of the neighbourhood backyard. The soft curls playfully fell on her flushed cheeks as she struggled to raise herself on the lawn. The long white skirt and suede boots, all soiled up, added the fuel to her irritation. Her apron appeared loosened at the right shoulder and the black blouse underneath crumpled up. After a few minutes of puffing and pushing, she placed herself on the soft grass of the well-trimmed lawn with a sigh of relief. Tiara closed her emerald green eyes and inhaled the fresh air under the clear blue spring sky. Her soft, rose pink lips curved into a smile filled with contentment and the tiny dimple emerged on her ivory pink cheek. “Tia, oh my my! I was looking around for you and here you are basking in the sunshine glory. Where the hell have you been? Look at your clothes!” Anna’s eyes popped out with concern while scrutinizing her from head to toe. “Oh...mmm, err, I just slipped and fell. No injury, just the clothes got a bit soiled. I will take care of the dishes soon, Anna.” Tiara managed to mumble out nervously. She hurried past Anna and went into the pantry. The aroma of freshly baked cookies made her feel home. Though, far away from her secret land, this felt like a home away from home. Anna was the best baker in Dunstand, a quaint town having around a hundred households. A cosy town place, where everyone knew each other’s family tree. The only exception was Tiara, who happened to arrive here a couple of months ago. Initially a tourist and now an assistant baker, storekeeper and one-stop solution for Anna's every trouble. Tiara glanced at the sink filled with recently used utensils and baking trays in the sink. She wanted to clean those, the way she did them, every day; with a scrubber and lots of soapy foam. She loved the way the tender bubbles formed in the whole act. However, the latest tiff with Aunt Kimiya left her feeling drained. She just gave a look the tap and with a gush of water, the utensils began to dance in the sink back and forth. The soap tumbled down from the case and rubbed them well. In a jiffy, the pots and pans placed themselves in the rack in a neat manner, all shiny and squeaky clean. All this while, Tiara kept looking outside the window, gazing at the pink and blue hues of the sky. The pretty sunset made her miss ‘him’ even more. Tiara had the power to move things at her whims and fancy; the superpower to make things act according to her wish. But it was not the things which wanted to move only. “Oh! Why those hearts not moving underneath the soft lawn of the backyard.” She murmured to herself. “Tiara, you are a magician! You cleaned up the place within moments.” Anna’s words jostled her out of her thoughts. I know,” Tiara spoke aloud. “Is everything ok, Tia?” Anna held her face by the chin. “I have to go back.” With a loud sob, Tiara fled out leaving Anna in a state of wonder. In the evening, the guests began to arrive. Anna’s friends and family all were there to wish her luck. It was the beginning of a new journey for Anna as an entrepreneur. Her new bakery shop was the talk of the town. This little party at the new store was arranged by Josh, her best buddy in her honour. The music, the aroma of chocolate delicacies and exotic drinks...everything seemed perfectly in place. Tiara simply gazed at the food table and before anyone could notice, it was neatly arranged for the dinner. Her eyes were constantly drifting towards the main door. Her hopes pinned high for his arrival. But there was no sign of Harry. Harry was a fan of Anna’s bakery products. His visits increased after the arrival of Tiara. He would specifically wait for Tia to deliver him the order, after winding up all other customers. Tia found him attractive with the tuft of dark and silky hair. He was gentle, shy and a good listener. Anna had noticed the sparks and one fine day set up a date for these two youngsters. There was no looking back since then. Harry and Tia began to Date each other. Tiara forgot all about her secret world. She baked and cooked for harry. She would not use her magical superpowers, because she loved to do things from scratch for him, pouring all her heart and soul into it. The Guardian Angel, Kimiya got a hint of this. “You need to respect our gifts, Tiara. This is what makes you special. What are you without the superpowers?” “Aunt, I am Tia...a girl who has madly fallen in love with Harry. He loves me for being Tia, and not the one with deep emerald pair of eyes that can move anything. I shall be happy without the powers if it allows me to stay here with him, forever.” “Tiara, you can stay here forever. But he can’t. He will die one day, as all humans do. And, then you shall be left all alone. Come back, my child to your own world. You will definitely find a wizard of your match.” “I won’t be left alone. I shall have his memories to carry on.” Tiara’s eyes swelled up with tears. It was that car accident which made Harry to think about Tia as someone extraordinary. Since that day he was not coming to the bakery. He didn’t even call her. But today, Anna visited him personally and invited him for the inauguration of her shop. He couldn’t refuse. Is he scared of me? I know he definitely saw me making the car move the other day. But, what else could have I done? He was standing there. If had I have not averted it with my eyes, he could have been crushed to death. My powers must have had terrified him. He just couldn't accept me as someone from a faraway fantasy land with superpowers. Does he think I am a witch or someone to be afraid of? She withdrew herself from the crowd and walked on the soft lawn under the moonlight. A soft touch on her back and she froze there. Have they come to take her back at this instant? Slowly she turned around, only to find herself under the gaze of his sparkling blue eyes. “Why are you hiding here? You are the only reason I am here tonight.” He drew her closer. “Harry, you still like me?” “No, I don’t like you.” There was an unbearable pause. “I love you, you stupid woman.” He continued as he pressed his lips against hers. His fingers began to run into her soft curls and moved slowly on her bare shoulders, through her silky strapless short dress. The kiss was long and soothing. With his arms still wrapped around her waist, he looked deep into her emerald green eyes. “Tell me, Tia...what do you have in them? I saw the other day, very clearly. It was not the way you normally look at things. You saved my life, but you were someone different. A girl, whom I couldn’t recognize. Who are you, honey?” “I am an old soul. I belong to some other world where each one of us has some kind of special power. My eyes have the power to make things move. But the more I stay here, the more I lose this energy. I have lost more than half of my energy in the past three years. But I don’t feel like going back and recharge those powers in my world. I feel energetic looking at you. The way you smile at me gives me a sense of completion. With those powers, I could move anything, but not my own heart. This love of ours makes me smile, giggle and feel alive. For me, your love is the superpower to live.” “Oh, man! I was dating a SuperGirl, who doesn’t have her own fancy costume." Harry squeezed her tightly.” “But now, they want me to come back. I was a naughty one and to teach me a lesson I was left here by Angel Kimiya to learn a hard lesson of life. They wanted me to understand the power and responsibility of magic. But I now know, there is something more magical...and that is love and true happiness. There is a kind of happiness and satisfaction in doing things with all your honest efforts sans any privilege of superpowers. Today I was summoned by the Guard of Emerald Powers and asked to return to the World beneath immediately.” “What if I don’t let you go?” Harry held her hand tightly. “If I don’t leave by tomorrow, I shall be stuck here for another hundred years, without my superpowers. You might not accept the way I am or you might even leave me for some reason, and I will be left all alone. I was about to leave, sweetheart." "100 years, living sans superpowers. That will be a feat. But look at the brighter side; you can enjoy a lifetime with our great-grandsons, even when I am not there. There is no way I can live for another hundred years. Miss Tiara, will you be my wife for the rest of your life, till the death do us apart, knowing well that I might leave you in midway?" Looking earnestly into her eyes, Harry kneeled down, holding her hand. And she said, “Yes”. Superpower is in embracing the choices you make, well aware that someday things might be different. It is the power to hold on to the one you love, come what may. The next day she was standing in front of the huge pile of dishes in the sink. She looked at them. The plates didn’t budge. She smiled and arranged them into the dishwasher and sat on the couch by the window. “Aunt Kimiya, don’t you worry. No powers, but these humans have created miracles out of science. Life is still beautiful here. I don’t feel the need to move things when I can move the emotions of the hearts ” She thought to herself as a content smiled played on her lips. Harry and Tiara lived happily for the next fifty-one years until one day Harry left this World because of old age. Tiara is still the most beautiful Granny in the town of Dunstan with around six sons and daughters and 18 grandchildren. Her superpower to love abundantly gives them the strength to stay together as a close-knit family, full of warmth and magic.

Adam Daedalus Rocket was not born with the middle name Daedalus, or the last name Rocket. He chose his own names. The kids in the orphanage taunted him relentlessly. “You’re a moron to dream you can go to the stars, the shortest kid in the class. Elton John’s Rocket Man is not even a real astronaut, but some character in a dumb song!” The jeering that stung the most? “ Your parents didn’t even care enough to keep you. You were unloved.” There was no time for anything but school as far as he was concerned. He made no friends and kept to himself. “He’s an odd one,” his classmates would say. “His eyes are more on a comet 50 light years away, an asteroid belt 100, or a galaxy. He’s a joke.” But even the meanest students had to admit, if only to themselves, Adam was obsessed with astronauts to his bones. He worked not just hard, but singularly driven, and he’d make it to NASA Space Academy. By the time he was thirty, he’d blasted off the blue marble of earth more times than anyone. He was the genuine article, streaking away in the early dawn, the curvature of the earth shimmering in the sun. Assigned missions for his skill, but also because he had no one to leave behind, his only ambition was to travel in space, alone. And now he was on a mission with more risk than ever before. When he reached Mars, it would be 500 years into the future and take less than a day. A special engine with never used technology lay waiting in the belly of his bullet shaped spacecraft, Icarus. At first, he ripped through the sky as usual, the rocket fuel roaring behind him, his body riding a bunking bronco. But this bronco was powered by Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, and he was the first man to chase time. Once the fuel engines played out, an unproven gravity control engaged, and the new engine woke. Icarus reared up and howled. She leaped to her stride. With his chest compressed in G forces sucking his breath, he launched into the future at what felt to him like a million-million miles per hour. But he wasn’t scared. He laughed as the first years in minutes distanced behind him. On earth, time moved fast as well. At first, his heart stirred at the miracle of life; perfect blue oceans, swirling clouds of weather systems, and the shimmering lights from the cities of the eastern seaboard of the United States. The earth was in its supreme glory that early morning. But then the sight of earth pierced his stomach as if stabbed by a Satan’s herald. This terrified him with a grief he didn’t know, his blood rushing like his heart was on fire and would soon burst from his throat. Just a few years had passed compressed into the first hours after launch, and the earth had flashed a different kind of glory. Behind his spacecraft, malevolent evil rose in mushroomed clouds, the lost hope of a nuclear insanity. What would take weeks, or years, or decades on earth, for him was just a few hours, and ended in a hulking dead planet, the last gasping breath of a sorrowful and smoldering wasteland, leaving only debris and death. Ahead of him loomed ever closer the colony of Mars. But as he approached, 500 years unfolded. The colony transformed into a vast metropolis. What looked like clear domes fabricated by giant honey bees covered towers of high rises, their sparkling lights reminding him of London, New York, or Hong Kong. In an instant, he felt the deck beneath him shudder as his ship went into orbit, guided by an unseen force. His communications consul sounded out with what the Commander first thought was the voice of God. “Welcome to Mars, Commander. We’ve been waiting for you.” *** “You were the first sent and the last to arrive,” Dr. Felix Fitzwalter said. A scientist, he had rumpled white hair, an old man. In the earth weeks that the Commander had spent on Mars, from what he could tell, the city stood near exhaustion, trash blowing in the streets, empty buildings, and collapsed schools with Martian sand drifting in doorways. When he saw people, they gathered together like aging denizens of Greece, dressed in robes, and talking in groups like chittering sparrows. “And you’re our last hope,” interrupted Chairman Mathews, his face like a politician, sycophant, and beady eyed. The Doctor glanced at the Chairman, scowling with his white eyebrows, his forehead furrowed. But Commander Rocket’s questions never stopped. “Why the last to arrive? Who came first? And why am I the last hope?” Dr. Fitzwalter chuckled. As he did, his formidable belly jiggled. He wore a scarlet Mars Federation logo on his white robe. “Let me explain.” Again, Chairman Mathews stared down the doctor. “A travesty. This is what happens when humanity has the power to destroy. It’s human nature. Earth is just one more example.” He snapped his fingers. “Gone... But it’s fate and messing with time that’s a sin. Earth paid the price, Commander.” The doctor stood up and towered over Mathews from behind him. “What you don’t know, Commander, is your fellow astronauts came after you and died hundreds of years ago. But they told us about you, the speed of your ship fast enough to come well after them. It’s only you, Commander, who arrived over 500 years from earth’s catastrophe. You’re the last.” Commander Rocket nodded. He’d guessed if he could reach Mars in a few months, others could also. He wasn’t surprised he was the fastest. “Why is everyone on Mars so old? The streets are empty? Where is everybody?” “That’s why you’re the last hope, some of the misguided say,” said Chairman Mathews. “But you can’t mess with fate. Half our population thinks you’re the Messiah. There’s a better place ahead of us.” “You see, Commander,” said the Doctor. “We can’t procreate. We can’t conceive. It seems the DNA alterations we used to extend our lives modified us. A sad irony, given we were pursuing life extension.” “Modified!” Mathews declared. “Just like earth, we’re dying also! We live until 200, but our youngest are nearly 100! It's blasphemy and there’s nothing we can do.” The Doctor took a seat next to the Commander and leaned in towards him. He gripped the Commander’s eyes with his own. “We can’t seem to complete artificial insemination because of the DNA infection. We’ve concluded we need an uninfected man and a natural birth. YOU don’t have damaged DNA, and we assume, can perform naturally.” The Commander put his hand on his own head as he realized. “So you want me to have a baby? Who with?” The doctor smiled. *** The woman, Evelyn, chosen for the Commander, was over 100 years old, looked 30, and embraced the excitement of life like a sixteen-year-old. She was having no nonsense from Adam. If they were going to do this, they would do it her way, and by golly they were going to have a baby post haste. “You’re doing a heroic service for the continuance of life on Mars,” Evelyn said, snuggling down next to the Commander. They were outside the Mars Interstellar Research Center (MIRC). She scanned the Commander up and down while he fidgeted. “I’m not really sure how this works,” he said. Evelyn laughed. “You’re not sure how sex works?” The Commander turned red. “It’s not that, it’s...it’s...” And so began to everyone’s observation, a love affair. And it worked. After the entire Mars community held their collective breath, Adam, Jr. was born, a bawling blue-eyed boy. The Commander, to everyone’s surprise, became a doting father. Mars City glowed like first time grandparents while he pushed the baby carriage (which he insisted on doing). The gossiping matrons passed him, pretending it wasn’t on purpose. “Good afternoon, Commander. Your boy is quite the handsome young man!” The Commander would light up with the broadest ‘proud poppa’ smile imaginable. “He is, isn’t he?” It wasn’t just Adam Jr. that captured his father’s eye. The Commander and Evelyn were inseparable. He would sneak looks at his wife doing the simplest of tasks, preparing dinner (he cleaned up), painting at her easel with her delicate fingers (she was an artist), and laying out his manuals to help him study the new science. His heart would break just at the sight of her. Dr. Fitzwalter was beyond delighted. “You realize, Mathews, where this is headed?” “Yes. You want this Rocket Man to be a very busy man,” replied Mathews. “It’s a sin is what it is.” The Doctor flicked his forefinger at Mathews, dismissing him. “We’ll marry each of them off if that makes you happy, but there’s an issue. I’ve never seen a man more in love with one woman. How will it go with another woman?” He placed his hand on his chin and his mind on the repercussions. But neither man knew ‘the repercussions’ would shortly become unnecessary. *** The Commander knew something was up when Dr. Fitzwalter and Matthews brought him and Evelyn in. Dr. Fitzwalter stood with his back to the Commander as he gazed out the conference room window, fifty stories high, a purple gray overcast day above the sheen of the clear domes. Behind the glass of each building were fewer and fewer people. The city was dying. “We’ve had our hopes, Commander, but tests show Evelyn has, for lack of a better term, infected you. There’ll be no more babies.” “And you were the last hope, remember?” Mathews said, smirking. “The last DNA from earth. This is written as I expected and caused by our own sin. We will all surely die.” “So what now?” The Commander asked. Dr. Fitzwalter turned. “Now you live your life -- you, Evelyn, and your son.” So the Commander did live his life, and what a life it was. For the next fifteen years he was a husband and father. The Martians accepted the inevitable death of the race, not with sadness, but with a celebration of life. Festivals were commonplace, fireworks flared the sky with blues and reds as only the Martians could do. Bursting into space itself was a man-made Martian aurora borealis like the tides of heaven flowing forth. And why not? They were living, and living is about life, not death. But within those rising beacons in the sky were also messages for any civilization to hear. ‘Is anyone there? We are alone and dying. Help us.’ Adam Jr. was sixteen before his father knew it. They both learned together the Martian science of rocket propulsion. With a dying race, the mission was more about building a library of knowledge for whoever might come to a dead planet. The actual engineers with the knowledge of advanced science became ever scarcer. As the Commander aged, he turned gray. He was surprised when Dr. Fitzwalter called him in once again to the MIRC Facility. After small talk, the Doctor said, “We’ve had a turn, an unlikely possibility, but our scientists are telling us you may have one more mission. If you’re willing, that is.” The Commander’s radar tickled the crook of his neck. Why was the Doctor so shy about getting to the point? “I’m pretty old for missions, Doctor. I’m not the man I used to be.” “Here’s the thing Commander.” The Doctor spoke quietly, but his eyes glinted with excitement. “Our remaining engineers say they’ve possibly rewritten the rules of spaceflight--not to mention completely defying conventional physics. An impossible drive, they call it the EmDrive.” In his gut, the Commander knew his life on Mars was going to end. “So how does this affect me?” “We can send you back Commander, back to the actual day, 24 earth hours AFTER you blasted off earth. NASA will think you were only gone one day. But after decades, you will return nine weeks and three days before the beginning of the nuclear war. As you know, relativity has been proven to take us forward in time as we approach the speed of light, but going BACK in time is thought of as impossible. Einstein, over 500 years ago, predicted it was impossible. But our people are hoping to bend, if you will, the space-time continuum. Unfortunately, if we send our own Mars spacecraft back and the future changes just from the simple observation of what we’re doing, our spacecraft won’t make it. We might never exist once the past changes. The only chance for success is to send objects that actually came from the past. You, and your spacecraft, certainly qualify. And we’re hoping, desperately hoping, your memories on Mars will also stay intact.” The Commander hesitated, the pit of his stomach soured as he thought of Evelyn, his son Adam. “That means by returning to Earth I can change the future. But if I’m successful, will everything that I experienced on Mars never happen?” “Precisely. At least not in our plane of reality. We surmise infinite planes, each with their own past and future.” The Commander’s eyes glistened. “Why go back Doctor? To die with everyone else on earth?” “No Commander. Not to die in a nuclear blast. To prevent it. And if possible, send another type of message.” *** Harnessed in the command seat of Icarus, feeling the adrenaline spike in his chest, the Commander guided his spacecraft through space. Mars receded as the centuries unraveled over three years of flight to return to earth. The clear globes covering the planet’s cities faded. Mars slowly turned into the red planet with only a colony remaining. Two photos, the only objects from Mars he brought with him, were taped to the rear monitor. His loneliness grew in the silence of space, and he couldn’t help willing himself back. He couldn’t help weeping for his own death, for a false hope of return. Space turned a cold shoulder as he burned out his fuse, alone in the emptiness . He pressed his hands white against the bulkhead, his forehead pressed against the monitor next to the photos, pleading against the reversal of time. Ahead of him, the dead planet of earth turned from the darkest agony to an aqua blue beneath living clouds of swirling white. It was now three years since he’d left Mars. He was back 500. As the re-entry through the earth’s atmosphere scorched around him, Icarus’ wings were aflame, he rode a comet ablaze in the sky. No, you haven’t gone too close to the sun, he thought. You have lived, and loved. Touchdown on earth occurred in exactly the three years he was scheduled. I’m old, but not too old , he thought. I’m still a Rocket Man after all. *** “You have about three months, Madam President.” The Commander petitioned his case, spilling his memory to those gathered in the oval office. The President, Secretary of State Forsyth, three others. Why won’t these people believe me? The President shook her head dismissively. “Again, Commander, you’re telling me you SAW earth destroyed by nuclear war? This seems preposterous, you must admit.” Secretary of State Forsyth, dressed in a slick black suit, the party logo of a black taloned hawk on his lapel, chimed in to the President as if the Commander wasn’t there. “The enemy has ways of injecting disinformation into our people. This man has no background in anything but spacecraft. No world view.” The Commander was ready to give up. Exhausted, he was tired of explaining what he saw when he left earth the day before, but also what he found on Mars 500 years ahead; the dying of life, the infections, Evelyn and Adam. In final frustration, he thrust to the front of his seat, spilling his coffee. “I left one day ago, Madam President. Look at me! I’ve aged at least thirty years.” Secretary Forsyth stared only at the President as he spoke. “You can’t travel BACK in time. This spaceman could be some sort of double agent for all we know. But for the look of his supposed aging, he’s only been gone one day. That can be faked. Worse, we’d be violating our Preemptive Policy. This could mean your impeachment Madam President, losing the coming election. This is not a time for naïve olive branches, but peace through strength.” “Walk with me Commander,” The President said. The two of them strolled to the Rose Garden. Snow flurries were falling in the early evening but The President ignored the cold. “I can try, Commander,” she said. “I’ll tell your story. But I can’t promise anything. You know Commander, if you’re right, have you thought of what happens if we contact the Mars Colony NOW with what you’ve told us about their DNA?” *** The Commander approached security in a brisk walk, like he always did. At the desk, a young woman called out to him. “Hey Space Cowboy,” she said. A tiny brunette, her eyes sparkled. “Rocket Man,” the Commander said, correcting her. “You look more like a space cowboy to me. You need to slow down. The world isn’t going anywhere.” The Commander laughed. “Yes, I suppose not,” he said. As he stepped outside the White House, the stars were out. It had stopped snowing, and the night was clear and brisk. I’ve seen two worlds die, he thought. Does that have something to do with why haven’t we seen anybody? Reaching into his pocket, he took out the photos of Evelyn and his son, Adam. The photos began to BLUR, then crystalize in bright yellow fireflies of flakes rising in the air. He grasped but realized he couldn’t hold a piece of light, a story, a memory. The sparks were soon gone as no more than a dream. Mars rose on the east horizon, a reddish speck of light -- the only life a fledgling colony.

"I died in 2021. I lived a decent life. At least, I think I did. I was born February 19th, 1995. I lived in Georgia. We had a small house in an old town in the middle of nowhere. My parents ran a small convenience store that brought in just enough money to pay the bills. I had a brother and a sister. "In school, I didn't make many friends. I was awkward and quiet. Some of teachers recognized my last name, since my brother was in their classes before I was. I was always teased, so I ended up taking it out on my little sister. I made fun of her, and a couple times she even cried. "I loved my parents but sometimes I was a brat to them. Times like when other kids were getting cars and licenses, but my parents didn't have the money. I remember saying that they weren't doing it because they didn't care about me. And I made snide comments for a couple weeks after that. "I never went to college. Instead, I got a job as a grocery store assistant manager. My parents were pretty upset that I didn't go to college, but even more upset that I didn't carry on their business. "My brother was in a car accident when I was 17 and my sister and I grew apart. I stayed in Georgia with my comfortable job, while she moved away, got a degree, and became some kind of designer. Interior Decoration, mom said. "I did meet a girl when I was 22. She was pretty. And she was nice, I guess. But mainly pretty. She and I were together for a while. Then I found out that she was pregnant. The kid was mine, but I wasn't ready to be a parent. I stopped seeing her, but I did send her child support every month. "My parents passed away and their shop was torn down. They built some fast food place on the lot to replace it. My sister didn't come to the funeral and only a few people showed to grieve. "I developed a bad cough shortly after the funeral. My breathing started to get short and strained. My chest was constantly stinging. They found out that the chemicals in my vape were damaging my lungs. Eventually, I died. And now, I'm here." "Do you know where you are?" "I'm assuming this is heaven? Or purgatory... I'm being judged, right?" "You are being judged, yes. But this isn't Purgatory. This is real. Most of the time our patients forget, so I'll explain. You've been in a simulation for 48 hours. You are 18 years old. The year is 2036. Due to overpopulation, we have decided to test individuals through a simulation of life. We observe your actions and take note of your skills and accomplishments. When it is over, we decide if you are worthy." "Worthy of what?" "A space in this world. We've decided that you are not." "You... Wait, you what?" "Based on what you've shown us, you do not have anything to add to our world. No social skills, no drive, no pride... You did not even parent your own child. We've decided that you don't deserve a life in our world.

Frank woke up and rose from his station with a sore head and no memory of yesterday. He checked the roster. Frank and Annie were the last ones on the ship. They didn’t quite know where they were. They knew they were floating deep in space, but since they’d lost the navigator they had no idea where the ship was. Frank was just the ship’s maintenance officer anyway - the crew called Frank the janitor - what would Frank know of star charts and deep space navigation? They had been on the mission so long Frank had forgotten what it was all about anyway. Frank’s memory had been fuzzy since they had gone through that nebula - Frank had tried to tell the rest of the crew about it but they never listened to the janitor. Except Annie - she was nice to Frank. Although sometimes it felt like Annie was mistrustful of Frank. It was hard for Frank to process emotions. Although he was quite sophisticated and intelligent for his kind, he was still an android with a positronic brain. And even quantum computers still required electrons and protons and neutrons and all that stuff he didn’t really understand to function. He couldn't be sure, but he suspected the nebula changed him and, to use an antiquated term, rewired him. He tried to run a diagnosis on himself, but the crew wouldn’t listen and it would take years to contact Earth. So he tried to continue with his duties until one day, the blackouts started... Frank struggled to remember how it happened, but since the nebula incident he was prone to blacking out. That was when it started. First the radio officer was lost in the airlock incident. Then the captain with that unfortunate fall down the cooling duct. Then the navigator, engineer, doctor... all suddenly and tragically taken from the ship. He heard a beep in his ear. It was time for his daily cleaning rounds. A voice in his ear reminded him: “...Order 1: remove all sources of dirt and waste from the ship...” Frank felt a sharp pain and a flash... Another blackout was coming. His vision faded out, and when it faded in he was kneeling over Annie with his arms tightly around her throat. Annie had tried to stop him but he was too strong for her. As the life faded away and the colour drained from her face, she gave him a look and whispered “it...was...you...who...did...it...” Frank wanted to cry, but he was unable to process complicated human emotions such as sadness. Then he heard the beep and the voice in his ear again: “Order #2: every part of the ship must be kept clean at all times.” Frank went to work right away. He took Annie’s body and put it in the incinerator. Then he cleaned the floors with his vacuum cleaner where she had laid, and continued around the rest of the ship. Frank felt another flash and blacked out again. When he woke up again he was in his station with a sore head and no memory of yesterday.

The night before I was cooking myself dinner in the apartment I shared with my friend from University who was named Cathy. She was out of station, leaving the cold, lonely and empty apartment all to myself. My attention was focussing on the sizzling sliced chicken on the pan frying with oil, until there was a laugh feminine laughter came from the next block, followed by a gleam of yellow lights flickered behind the sheath curtain. Followed by, “You’re home!” The woman exclaimed and went ahead to wrap her husband around with her wide arms who had just got back from work. They’re the couple I had spent days observing, with names called Jason and Jess. Those aren’t actually their real names, but nevermind, a name doesn’t mean much if it was only for labelling. That could be me and him...I thought to myself. About the days we used to spend with each other. I missed the way we used to cook dinner together, watching late night shows and ended up chasing time. There were so many things we did together that tells me it will never happen again. How a once happy memory was infected by sadness. A shiver woke me up from my thoughts, pulling me up with an invisible hand from the thoughts that were slowly swallowing me whole. I cursed at the side of the burned chicken breast and placed it down with a fork on a plate from the cabinet. I settled the platter of meat and a few stir fried broccoli and chopped up carrots on the dinning and proceeded to the fridge where a bottle of wine was chilled in. I popped up the cap and gulped a mouthful of wine, feeling the alcohol burning down my throat and the sweetness tapping at the tip of my tongue. Then, I slumped down on the wooden chair and let out a tired sigh. The plate creaked as I sliced the burned chicken with a butter knife for all I care. It tasted bitter, salty and sweet, only for a moment. Everything started to taste like ash and goo when I chewed them for more than two seconds, just like how tasteless my life has gone. From a normal life turned into a life you would wish you’re better off dead. I let my eyelids hang heavily from the wine as I sat on the ragged couch in the living room with the tv lights shining on my face. The lights turned blurry and then darkness. I was asleep. “Rachel,” a sound called out for me. It seemed and felt distant. “Wake up, Rachel. Aren’t you going to be late for work?” I blinked the tears from my eyes and my vision began to shake. It took me a moment to realise it was Cathy who was calling out for me, both of her hands shaking me by my slumped shoulders. “What’s the time?” I said with my voice hoarse and unawakened. I rubbed my face and dragged my heavy body up from the couch. Cathy checked her watch on her wrist that I gifted her during her birthday five years ago. Surprised that she was still keeping them in pieces. I shot up from the couch when she said the time. I cursed and rushed to my room and got changed as quickly as I could. Because I had lost not just one of my jobs but several, I couldn’t afford to lose this one too. Cathy shouted for me when I sprinted down the hallway and threw me an energy bar. Train station would be one of my destinations to go, other than that, nowhere feels like home and destinations are all fogged up in misery. Munching on the energy bar with my feet sprinting towards the train station. Judging by the cloudy sky with grey patches like it was going to infect every part of the sky, it’s going to rain. I only made it to the train on time. Sweat slided down my back and stained my shirt. The air conditioner in the train was doing nothing good except for drying the sweat beading on my temple. I watched a pair of couples pass by me and took a seat by the window in-front of me. Followed by a family with two kids, a girl and a boy, settled down at the window seat beside me. The thoughts were hard to handle, me and Tom would have been a family if we did not divorced years ago. They could’ve been me, teaching our kids how to walk from little steps, teaching them how to talk word by word. There could’ve been more of an interesting life if we were still together. I snapped myself out from the thoughts and crumpled the bar wrapping in my hand. Angry at myself for allowing myself to think something and be sad just because I know I couldn’t turn around and live the life I used to. But what could I do? How to be miserable when I already am? Or should I ask- How and when did I let myself be so miserable? I propped my elbow on the window pane of the train and stared out of the window. And aimed for the floor where Jess and Jason lived. I was far away from the building, but I could imagine Jess making breakfast for the both of them, then pressed her lips on Jason’s forehead and waved him goodbye. Is everyone's relationship the same as theirs? Or is it just me who’s different from the others, in a bad way? Far away, I noticed a pile of clothes crumpled beside the train track. Then, the train ran over it. Just a pile of clothes, people must have left it or thrown it because it was unusable anymore. The sky roared, beads of rain splattered on the tinted window, followed by more of them. I sighed and leaned my head to the seat and hugged my bag. Like the barking chained dog in it’s leash, I’m chained to my life and pass. I let the rain stain my hair, and the wind pulled out strands of loose hair. Most of the time, there weren’t any interesting things to do at work. I would deliver mail to a few desks, serve some of the worker’s their lunch, and make coffees. They treated me like a maid they owned, without a thank you. The air conditioning inside of my office sent a shocking chill, making me shiver. People were focussing on their work, and didn't even bother to look up or greet me. I placed down my bag from my shoulder and took off my damp coat, hanging it at the back of my chair. My attention went straight to the pile of papers and mails, ready for me to fax and send. I sighed and scooped them up in my arm and headed to each desk and passed them out. In the end of the day, I made my way back to the train station and rode a ride back home that doesn’t feel like home. I pushed the door and stepped out of the train compartment, letting the night breeze slap my cheek. I stood behind the hand drill, afraid if I fell, my life would end so quickly that nobody would notice. The other compartment of the train creaked as it slammed together. “Mind if I join you, Miss?” A manly voice came from behind. I turned over my shoulder and saw a man, almost at the same age as me. With a head of black hair and dark blue eyes that looked dark in the night. He got a collared shirt with a loosened tie, as if he had just free from his work. I shook my head and stared out to the fast moving night sky. “Accidents happen everyday, don’t you agree?” He asked beside me, his gaze was too, on the pile of clothes on the railway now covered in flowers in wrapping, candles and photos. “May I ask for your name?” Hesitation surrounded me, yet I told him, “R-Rachel.” It has been a while since anyone has asked for my name. “And incidents do happen, everyday.” “What we see is what we need to let go one day.” The man said. This could just be some random life lesson from the others. But I found this rather interesting, nothing actually stays forever. The train rang when our destination had arrived. The man gave me one last look and disappeared into the crowded station. I should have asked for his name, only his name would do. Nevermind, I know we’ll meet again sometimes and talk more about life. Still, I wasn’t sure if I could escape from this tunnel of miserables, yet I know I would, one day .

Here I sat, in a little shell of a boat made out of rotten wood and rusty nails, below dark and grey skies. The endless ocean around me was completely still, undisturbed by neither wind nor even the littlest of waves. Whenever I gazed upon it, I wasn’t sure if I was looking at the water or the colourless skies; it reflected them so perfectly. When I put the boat’s paddles into the sea and tried to row in any direction, it did not move. Even rocking it to and fro did not even cause a ripple on the water’s surface. I spat on it only to watch my saliva fall into nothingness, as though there was an endless hole before me and yet, whenever I dipped my fingers into the water, it left them wet and frigid. My eyes scoured the horizon in the hopes of seeing land or another ship, though the horizon was nothing but motionless skies and water. I laid down, staring into the colourless and drab skies, looking for any change within them. There was no ray of sunshine, no clouds, nothing. Every time I moved a muscle, I felt the boat sway from one side to the other. At first, I was worried I would eventually cause it to tip over but the less I moved, the safer I was. So I lied there, completely still. There was no sound other than my heartbeat pounding in my head and no smell besides that of the rotten, mouldy wood of my little boat. The only thing I could do, for now, was to entertain myself with my thoughts and memories. Was it mere minutes? Hours? Days? Perhaps even weeks or months of me just lying there and staring at the sky, not daring to move a muscle? I had lost all semblance of time. The only thing telling me that I had been lying here for too long was the fact that my own thoughts drove me mad. Again and again, I revisited the same ideas, the same memories and began to hate them. Even the most amusing and joyous thoughts became tortuous whereas the most horrible ones lost their impact entirely. Eventually, I could no longer tell the difference between being awake and being asleep. I watched as walls of water were slowly building up around me in complete silence, as though they were being pulled towards the sky. The ocean reached up higher and higher until it blotted out everything else. It was as though I was gazing up at mountainous pillars of water. Was the very ocean folding itself around me? Was I dreaming or awake? Suddenly, something began to violently pull me and my boat downwards, further and further towards the very bottom of the ocean. Shortly after, I saw the tips of those liquid mountains crash against each other, after which they collapsed unto themselves and began to hurtle towards me in a gargantuan, unstoppable wave that could swallow entire continents. The water crashed into me, shattering my bones and tearing off my skin before forcing its way into my lungs. I instinctively gasped for air, only to find my mouth spewing out what felt like litres upon litres of cold water, more than what had just entered my body. Still, I kept fighting for air, only to suddenly find it filling my lungs. I jolted, my hands reached forwards and found themselves latching onto porcelain. Immediately, I pulled myself upward and found myself sitting in my bathtub inside my dimly lit bathroom. The bathtub was completely dry. I, however, was drenched in cold water.

The cool air smelled like pine trees and bon-fires. A smokey and wild smell that felt refreshing to Jack’s tired mind. His fingertips padded the steering wheel softly, mimicking the classic rock fighting through the static and into the dark cab of his 1996 Chevy pick-up. He rubbed his right eye lazily and yawned towards the open road stretched out in front of him. It had been a long time since Jack had been this far out of town. He hadn’t even wanted to go, but of course Janet was stubborn as hell and almost pushed him out of the house. “Winter is almost here and I can’t have you huddled up, stuck in this house with me, driving us both crazy.” She had said opening the door and handing him his usual bag. “What if something happens while I'm out? That baby is going to be here any day now Honey” Jack argued. He meant what he said, but she was right of course. He’d go crazy for the next month waiting for their baby to pop out if he didn’t get this one last, end of an era, trip. Jack knew they both needed it. Janet’s hand mindlessly stroked her now very large belly as she looked at Jack, eyebrows furrowed and lips pulled down at each side. “Get out. I ain’t taking no for an answer. You need this. So do I.” She gently pushed him outside the door, kissed him lightly, and handed him his keys. She shut the door behind him and that was that. He figured that going somewhere he’d never been before might be a good way to get his mind off of everything. With the baby’s approaching arrival, he often found himself buried in upcoming expenses that he couldn’t have imagined eight months ago. He was fairly certain Janet had no idea what their bank account looked like, and therefore was spared the feeling of dread that seemed to follow him around their house. Which, he thought, was probably for the best. He knew of a nice remote area a couple hours outside of his small hometown that he was hoping would be a perfect place. The location had been mapped out on his planner for months, just waiting to be used. He had never liked going to the same place twice, and since this would be his last trip for a while, he thought carefully choosing the locale was the best thing to do. Janet used to love going with him. She would get a flush of excitement just talking about it. Animatedly going over the details with him for days, her cheeks would get pink just remembering it all. She would always show up with her stringy brown hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, her favorite black boots that Jack insisted were unnecessary, and her muddy brown eyes open wide with eager expectation. He loved teaching her; picking out the right spot, what to bring, how to dress, what kind of gun was best for the day, and of course how important it was to stay quiet. She soaked up his lessons like a thick dry sponge, asking questions the whole ride there and beaming with pride on the way back. That’s what he had first loved about her. She was so ready to be a part of his life that she jumped right in with him every chance she got. Jack had known her getting pregnant would mean that she wouldn’t be joining him much longer, and he assumed it was for the best. He could remember their last trip together and thought about how the light had shriveled away from her eyes. She had backed away from him when they got there, and hadn’t touched her gun once the whole time. He felt a cold indifference that he had never seen from her. The month after that trip they were putting up their new baby crib. That same fire that used to ignite inside of her was now glowing down on their many early purchases. The crib was almost entirely put together when he started talking. “What do you think about another trip after the baby’s born?” He prodded, hoping that she’d excitedly recall the trip before. But instead she just shrugged, her eyes cast downward. “I know the money helps, I guess I just have other things to think about now. You know...” She trailed off, not really needing to finish the sentence as they sat surrounded by brightly colored baby clothes. It didn’t bother him that she wanted to go less, he was happy that she was so focused on giving him a beautiful healthy child and he wanted nothing more than to see that baby in her arms. They had both always wanted kids, it was one of the first things they had agreed on. As much as he loved going out on his adventures, he loved the idea of having a family more. Someone to come back to after a long day was worth more than anything, he thought. And Janet would always be there for him, she had said so a couple hundred times. He imagined that this trip being pushed on him was a last gift to him, something to keep him happy until it was okay to go back, which could be a long time he knew. As one song melted into the next he noticed the familiar red and green buzzing lights up ahead, their bright faces a beacon in the dark countryside. The sign reading “OPEN 24 HOURS” blinking in the black night, bugs flying around it like addicts to the neon god. He knew the gas station would be empty this far out of town at this late hour and he knew this was exactly the area he had planned to end up at. Pulling into the parking lot was as familiar as holding his wife’s hand, but still his heart beat a little faster as his tires sped over the rough gravel and stopped in the first space available. His bag was sitting on the seat next to him and he leaned over to unzip it slowly, appreciating the anticipation that always wiggled through his stomach. Inside he felt his familiar belongings, Janet knew what he would have needed. The black cloth that he felt between his fingers was soft and light, a great piece that he had picked up years earlier. He used to use a knitted ski mask but the fabric was too thick and warm and he didn’t like feeling constricted during these trips, it was supposed to be fun. The mask he held was similar in shape but thin and made of spandex instead. It always felt likely to show too much but it hadn’t disappointed him yet and it did the trick. He pulled the material over his head and stretched it down over his ears, the excitement building up once again. Looking in the mirror he smiled to himself, proud that he had come as far as he had without being caught. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the last item from his bag, a small and lightweight 9mm handgun, and stuffed it into his waistband. He had only ever used it three times. Warning shots to wannabe heroes that tried to interfere. He’d never killed anyone, he wasn’t sure he could if the situation called for it, but he liked to think so. Janet was always too afraid to even point her gun at anyone, she used to say that they could probably get the same results without the guns, but Jack thought that was too risky. And anyways, he liked it, it made him feel so much more in control, which was the best part about the trip. Jack had started this hobby because of a simple and universal need for more cash. He had just lost a large sum in a relentless poker game, and he felt that he really had no choice. He didn’t expect to like it as much as he did. The absolute power that coursed through his veins became addictive. Being in total control was something he rarely experienced in his life except on these trips, when nothing could stop him. The car door slammed behind him as he casually walked up to the front entrance. The familiar ding announcing his presence as he pushed the handle and slowly walked in. Nothing was unique about this place. It's fluorescent lights bounced off the white checkered tile below his feet and lit up the whole store like it was daylight. He could smell pine floor cleaner and stale hot dogs, the scent filling his memories of past trips. The room was fairly small with only four or five aisles, loaded with various chips and small brightly labeled items. It was quiet except for the barely audible instrument playing over the speakers, the elevator music making the store feel even smaller. Behind the counter sat a scrawny kid, barely 18 years old. Greasy hair hung low over his face and wrapped around to the back of his head. His eyes were closed and his cheek was leaned against one hand, drool gleaming on the skin of his palm. Jack chuckled to himself before he lifted the 9mm and tapped it on the counter, the hard plastic sounding louder than it should have in the small quiet store. The cashiers eyes flew open, his glasses falling to the bridge of his nose and his hand slamming down on the table in surprise. He looked at Jack with shock, his sleepy eyes taking in the situation and the gun in jacks hand, seemingly unable to grasp what was happening. He stuttered but didn't move. Smart kid, Jack thought, at least there won’t be any heroes tonight. “Alright listen, I think it’s pretty obvious why I’m here. Money, now. Put it in the bag.” he set his bag on the counter next to the kid and pointed his gun at it. “O-o-okay...uh o-okay” the kid stammered, his pale complexion even whiter than it was before. He reached for the register and started to open it. Jack felt pleased with himself. He thought about how many times he had done this. How comfortable he felt now. The kid's face looked scared, but Jack felt great, he felt alive. His heart started beating faster and his nerves twitched. He supposed that it was wrong to most people, but he wasn’t hurting anyone, not unless they made him. He just wanted the excitement and adrenaline rush. He thought of himself similar to a skydiver or a racecar driver, it was a sport to him. He watched the kid put his bills into the bag, probably no more than two or three hundred dollars, but the money wasn't really what Jack wanted anyway. It helped, especially with the baby on the way and he supposed that was why Janet allowed him to keep going. But no matter how often he tried to convince himself that it was only for the money, he couldn’t deny how it made him feel. When he was done, Jack zipped the bag closed and decided to pick up some snacks while he was here. He usually wouldn't have turned his back on the clerk. He usually wouldn't have even considered doing so. But he felt confident this time, he felt on top of the world. He was a pro and this kid was too scared shitless to try anything. So he did, he turned away and started walking towards the aisle with all the chips. He barely heard the gun being cocked behind him. He definitely hadn’t noticed that the kid had kept looking below the counter when he was giving him the money. There was a faint yet audible click from behind Jack. The gunshot rang through the store with so much ferocity that it seemed to shake everything, like the whole building could have been falling down. A ringing filled his ears as he took in a deep breath. The lights seemed brighter than he remembered, their buzzing reminded him of a bug light, the kind he and Janet had on their front porch. Everything swam in front of his vision silently, dancing around him like some strange animated movie. Suddenly he noticed how tight his sweater was, clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He tried pulling at it but when he took his hands away he could only see bright red glaring back at him. Jack felt pain racing through his shoulder as he fell against the ground. Blood soaking through his top jacket and staining the white floor beneath him. The pain was so sharp that jack could barely remember where he was and what had happened. He was so confident that everything would be fine. Images of his new baby in Janet’s sweet arms filled his mind. What would they do without him? The agony through his right side was unbearable. He hated himself just then, he hated that he needed this last trp, and that Janet was waiting for him at home. He hated that he had turned around and let the kid get the better of him. The buzzing came back first, bouncing off the walls of his eardrums painfully. He could distantly hear the sound of the sirens barreling down the quiet road. Not being able to feel much of his arm or back, he thought he was probably pretty lucky to be alive. As the sirens got closer, Jack closed his eyes tight against the red hot fire burning it’s way along his side. He pictured Janet opening the front door for him and smiling brightly as ever, and somehow this made the pain feel even worse.

Paused surveillance footage at the downtown intersection of Park and Highland Avenue shows three teens mid stride wearing matching checkered hoodies. The next frame shows a red velvet spaghetti spiral. Unraveled rings of gore intersecting rings, each with splatter flare edges. A crime scene kaleidoscope seen through the cullet of a round brilliant cut diamond. Response teams are activated. Alert notifications are pushed. Individual contributors commuting to their home offices are automatically rerouted back for an emergency all-hands meeting. It had been eight years since car steering was centralized and driving fully automated. After a series of passive voice apologies, a consortium of manufacturers and industry partners was formed. They determined that the self-driving problem was a lot easier if vehicles could only go straight. Turning was where most of the complexity hid. Low slurred muttering about fuel efficiency, safety, the environment was smeared together and repeated by professionally charismatic people. Cars became fixed axles that could only move forward into the future. Asphalt disks, like engraved vinyl records, were embedded at intersections and corners. Trampoline sized Lazy Susans capable of 10,000 rotations per minute. Cars moving at highway pace could be redirected in any direction, instantly, without losing speed. Unmitigated, the G-Forces would be powerful enough to burst a fighter pilot. World class engineers solved the problem by filling car cabins with breathable liquid fluorocarbons. Internal documents describe the new driving experience like being a drowning fetus in the womb of a tumbling gymnast and completely safe. Commutes shortened and traffic jams become a memory. Focus groups reiterated decreased road trip satisfaction scores due to the perpetual sensation of drowning. The vehicles of essential personnel begin arriving at the offices of YouTurn. Park automatically engaged, occupants crown through driver and passenger side semi permeable membranes. One by one they fall unceremoniously onto the ground of the dirty parking garage, coughing and bleary eyed. Jelly covered men and women make their way to the main conference room, sprinkled with rock salt and gravel. In the cloud, automatic diagnostic systems begin root cause analysis of the company adjacent pedestrian liquefaction event. Artificial intelligence adjusts navigation routes to detour area cars towards Park and Highland. YouTurn regularly utilizes privately owned cars as mobile information gathering platforms. “Did you hear what happened?” “Yeah, some kids were crossing the street. They were wearing checkered hoodies a traffic camera thought was a QR code. It started a max speed test while they were standing on it... It’s still spinning. Just grisly. QA’s looking at it tomorrow.” An authoritative voice signals an end to small talk. “Thanks everyone for getting back here so fast. A pedestrian event near one of our downtown car routers is trending. Apparently the people of the land think this was some kind of religious thing. We need to react.” “Do they think we’re God?” “No. It looks like a surreal bandwagon thing. We should try to shape it. That’s what this brainstorming session is about.” “People are saying the splatter pattern looks like... according to my notes... They’re saying it looks like something called a \`Metatron’s Cube\`, I guess.” “Guy Madson here, remember when that chemical fire autopsy photo leak became a meme? From that chocolate milk plant. The crispy thing.” “I think I remember. Captions like \`crispiestiest\` over charred bodies?” “That’s the one. My team was in charge of the response.” Guy Madson laces his fingers and leans back in his ergonomic conference chair. “At first we were in a blind panic. Constant notifications, my phone chimed nonstop for days. It was a real battlefield. Ultimately we cut our ad spend for a while, it went away. That was that.” “Alright Guy, I want you to take point on this.” Guy Madson stretches his laced fingers to full extension, signaling his readiness to work. “Just in case this gets any worse, I’ll have my team start making memes.” “Thanks Guy, It’s good to be proactive. See to it. Meeting adjourned everyone. As a reminder, I’m out tomorrow so have a great weekend.” Guy Madson puts his palms on the long table to stand but they slip in thick breathable liquid. Startled by the lurch, for a fraction of a second his expression wavers. Everyone is still greasy with embryonic car fluid. It’s on everything. It’s just too much to clean. “It’s in my nose and my hair and it always will be.” Guy thinks to himself before pushing down the panic and refortifying his smile for the drowning home. Meanwhile, at Park and Highland cars converge from every direction as if drawn by the human sacrifice. None of the sensor data transmissions will reach the diagnostic system. All the relays are down while the car router runs an endless test. All night, request timeouts cascade into more and more diverted navigation routes. A mountain of fused metal, vitrified windshields and fiberglass erupts skyward as cars wantonly plunge themselves into an inferno of molten lithium.

I would never say I believed in the paranormal or anything that was written in the book, but rumours of that place got me curious. Of course, curiosity was not why I went, I was hired. I needed the money for school, so why not? On a street light in my neighbourhood, a paper was asking if anyone could watch the house on 34th street. Now 34th street was nicknamed ‘Passing Way’, because of the stories people being left out there trying to find their way home after being attacked, and ending up as meal for the wolves and coyotes in the area. After that they haunt the only house on the street called ‘Inferno’. People have said they been attacked by wolves when they entered the house and that they see people they loved in looking through the windows of the house. Now most of these are from people not all there, drinkers, and people experimenting; if you catch my drift. It was a two floored farm house, wooden. The last person to live there was 1980’s, they were said to have died in the asylum downtown. Now you’re probably thinking why has no one gotten rid of it? No one wanted blood on their hands, or lose their own soul in the process. Oh, yes like I mentioned before, people believe if you die on the property, heaven won’t be able to calm your soul. Instantly the thought your thinking is why would it need to be watched, if it is abandoned? I don’t know, but as I said I need the cash. But even so, if I don’t believe in the rumors, does not mean I don’t believe in killers and kidnappers. I’m going to meet the person tomorrow to find out more. Don’t want to end up on the news &#x200B; I’m sitting in Tim’s eating a chocolate dip donut, an old favorite. A 40 something year old guy walks in, cleaned up very nicely. Wearing a full suit, not common in this town. I never seen him around, which is odd. It is a small town. I pull out the poster and place it on the table, just to make it obvious I was the one he was looking for. It had to be him; it was 9:47 at night. An odd time to be walking into a Tim’s, unless you were on a night shift but still odd. He walked over, “Are you Archie?”. I’m the only one in here. “Yes, and you are?”. “Ken”. He pulled up the chair across from me, he was defiantly not from around here or at least doesn’t like to look like it. His hair gelled to be solid as a rock, after shave over a baby smooth face and a faded scar that ran down his cheek. “Sorry about being late, working over time tonight”. “No problem”, not going to argue, he’s paying me. “I don’t live around here, I have a cottage but that’s it. The problem is I own the house, but no one wants it”, I wonder why? “So, you want me to go over and clean the house?”. “No, I need someone to stay there so that everyone knows it’s not dangerous”, guess that makes sense. “Okay, when do you want this done?”, I do have to go back to school soon. “This weekend, I’ll pay for both days. 500 is what I was thinking”, not bad. “That would be great”, I give a grin. He reached out for a shake and being the person I am, I shake. His hands were rougher than I thought they would be. He walks out, leaving in his sports car. Saturday rolled around and I packed my bag. Nothing special; clothes, flashlight, snacks, books and a blanket. I borrowed my parent’s car that I don’t usually drive; I usually get a ride from Dale back to school. I pay for gas and he drives me back. To get to my house usually takes forever because he likes to stop at every gas station to go to the washroom. From my house, it takes about 30 minutes to get to inferno, it’s 8. After Sunrise. I pull out my phone and call Ken. “Hello”, Ken said nervous, like he was thinking it was someone else “Hello, it’s Archie”. “Oh hey...”. “I’m at the house”. “Good, the keys are in the flower pot next to the window”. “Okay thank you. I was-”. “Yeah, see you later”, he hung up first cutting me off. I stepped out of my car and took my bag. The front yard had dead grass and a dead tree. The drive way was made of pebbles, rough. The steps creaked with every step. Creak, Creak, Creak. The timeworn mat said “Welcome Home”, how inviting. I take the keys from the flower pot and unlock the door. The door was heavy like a garage door, used to make sure Cardon monoxide doesn’t enter your house. The silent killer. I knew a kid, rough upbringing, ran away. Now his family were at one-point hunters, so I don’t know if that lead him to think he could survive out there. He did well unit it hit below 20. Stole an old rusted burner used outside to boil sap. When he was found days later by the cops, he was killed by monoxide poisoning in his small closed in shed he found. Welp, didn’t mean to drop the mood like that, but it just came up. Walking into the so-called haunted house, I was scared that some angry kid or old guy would pop out and nail me in the head, maybe eat me. Not too much on me; not saying I’m thin as a stick, I’m average. More like I feel it would be slimy, and is there really any way to cook it here, they ain’t no Gordan Ramsey. The first room I enter is a little closet like area for shoes and coats. Warning sign, there are high heels and running shoes in the closest. Both new and old. But around here people staple them to trees until there is more shoe then tree left. So, people leaving shoes here doesn’t surprise me. I keep my stuff on me, don’t want to lose anything. I stroll through the door way to see the living room; there is a light area under the table, guess someone took the rug. Pawned it for money I bet, again not surprising in this town. No pictures on the wall, a worn-out couch looking thing with claw marks on it. Smells like a pool in here. The chimney has ash and charcoal in it. I go over and look in, it’s blocked. Don’t feel like dying so if I get to cold, I’ll just go to the car and lie about it to the guy. I see no cameras out here. I move over to the window, a blur leaves as fast as it came. Must been a rat, nothing to be afraid of. I drop my bag on the floor, there’s one more room on the floor. I try to open the mystery door, locked. Well, no harm in finding out what’s in there. I slam my body into the door and thankfully because of the age, the door gives in. The kitchen was the mysterious prize I won for the cost of a sore shoulder. Nothing looks like it would start, but I’ll try the sink. Nope doesn’t work. The table is covered in cleaning supplies, used and waiting to be used. Maybe people do live here. I they pop out I’ll just call Sal, a friend that before she became a cop was riding back with me and Dale to school. Looking out the window, the sun is going down. Better get ready. I walk back in the living room and throw out my blanket on the coach. I ain’t sleeping tonight, but I want to be conformable. I do still have like 12 hours to go, so now it’s time to play Dora and explore the upstairs. The stairs held and I made it up. Way to go team. An old empty hall was the reward for not falling into the stairs. Door one or two? Ones has claw marks in the front, the other is already opened a bit. I choose open. I kick open the door and with a quick peek see that no ones in there taking a nap. It was a master bed room. It’s weird that the bed looks like someone has slept in here not to long ago. Well am not taking my chances by touching it, could catch something. Don’t know if someone or someone’s come here to entrain themselves. Other than the bed there is nothing in here, actually that’s a lie. Dust from probably dead bodies that are in here. I stop in place, I hear growling. I slowly step closer to the door; I just need to see if anything’s there. Just a peak. Holy shit! There’s a wolf out there. Fuck! The floor creaked, it is coming this way. I ain’t too much of a fighter, never liked hurting things. I once had a cat claw the hell out of my leg and didn’t get it off until Dale ripped him off. Was his fault anyways, he said it was his mother’s cat, super friendly. Bull, at least I didn’t have to pay for gas that week. The beast, comes into view and I start to question my beliefs. The wolf though small is a skeleton with glowing purple eyes. The hair is a transparent dark shadow that floats around it. Who would think that in the last moment of my life I would change everything I believed in? Holy if my sister saw me now. She would be like “I told you so”. She would even say it if I was a second away from death and at my funeral she would be like, “I told them, but no couldn’t believe me”. If I get out of this, I still won’t let her know she was right. The creature runs and pounces at me. I put my hands up to cover my face. It takes me down. &#x200B; I’m lying on the ground; the thing is just lying on my chest. Now that it’s on me, I can tell it’s not as big as I thought. It’s about the size of my torso, it’s a pup. Okay time to grow a pair and open my eyes. It’s staring at me; I place my hand on the top of its head. It jumps off, I crawl backwards. It starts chirping like it’s laughing at me, and falls on to it’s back. Never thought I would feel embarrassed by a ghost. The more it laughed; more it sounded human. I got up; it looks like am okay. The wolf is gone, it’s a little girl. I will just expect now that weird things are going to happen from now on. “Hello?”, I don’t really know how to begin talking to this.... kid. “You should have seen your face!”, she getting quite the kick out of this. “Who are you?”, got to start somewhere. She stood up and calmed down. “I’m Nina”, never heard that name before. “I’m Archie. I’m just here for tonight, then am out”, thinking that she would give me a pass on this sleepover at her house. “I usually scare people off, bad things happen here”, the kid looked uncomfortable. “Well I- “, I cut myself off when I hear glass breaking out side. I run to the window to see my car window broken and the hood up. Fuck, am going to be killed when I get home. “Is somebody out here with us, kid?”. “I don’t know”. I walked to the other door, I might hide in here. “What’s this room?”. “Mine”, she was quiet. “Can I go in?”, I want to make sure no other ghost are coming to greet me. She nodded, but it was clear she wouldn’t come with me. I push open the door to see a pink room, warn out by time. I walk in, the kid stayed outside. The room was bear, expect for a bed that was concealed by curtains. I walk over and pull the lace curtains to the side. “Holy shit”, there’s a body. The kid’s. Wearing the dress, she wearing now. The body melted in to the bed, moldy green and her eyes eaten away from the insects that have gotten to her. “It only took a second”, the kid mumbled. I turn towards her, “Daddy was so angry, I don’t even know why”. “Kid, I’m so sorry. If - “, the door down stairs opens. “Daddy’s home”, she runs behind me. “Daddy?”, who the hell is that? “You have to leave. He...He’s going to kill you, like the others”, better get payed double. “How do you know it’s him? Not some homeless guy?”, she looked at her body. “It’s always him. Every time when they leave the house, he killed them and drag their body’s back here.”, that doesn’t help. I walk out into the hall, “What are you doing?”. “If am about to killed, a cop better be here to get the guy and collect my body”. I quietly walk down the stairs, the kid disappears. No one’s down stairs, the kitchen doors open. I pull my bag over and take out my phone. I text Sal and if I remember correctly, she’s on duty. Welp hope that sent, “Hello Archie, how are you?”. I know that voice, I turn to see Ken standing there, outside of the kitchen door. He was in hunting clothes, something I would not expect to see him wear. “Good, just checking the time. What are you doing here?”. “Oh, just wanted to make sure you were okay”, he moves closer. A soft voice from behind me appears, “That’s daddy”. I tried to keep myself together, maybe he didn’t think I knew something was up. “That’s nice of you, I was actually about to go to the car to get somethings”, I shot a smile at him. I start to walk to the front door when I hear him at full sprint behind me. Well, let’s hope the old man got weak with age. I turn just in time to watch the knife he was hiding go into my shoulder. I kick him in groin, don’t think he was using it anyways. He then paid me back by kicking my feet from under me and dragged me further away from the door. “Nina!”, I shout. Ken stopped, “How do you know that name?!”. Oh, that hit a nerve, “That’s right. I know”, about to die anyways, want to act a little confident. He started to stomp on me, till a loud bang from the door opening stopped him. “Hands Up! Police!”, thank god for that. Ken throws another knife in that direction and ran for the kitchen. My savior, Sal, came up to me, “Archie, are you okay?”, not really. “I’m fine, go before he gets away”. She runs off, I get up and look at my wound. Pretty deep, worst thing I got before was when I stepped on a Lego and it got stuck in my foot. I can hear them run out of the back door and through the front window I can see Sal pointing her gun at Ken. That’s a relief, “I will shoot you if you keep coming closer to me”, Sal yells. Oh Fuck, if Ken gets shot and dies, he going to be stuck with the kid. I run out the door,” Don’t shoot him!”. She gazed at me, “What the hell are you doing?”. “Sorry, I was just didn’t want you to kill the guy”. She shoots a look that said to me ‘Are you an idiot?’. Ken had his hands behind his head, he seemed pretty calm for a guy who would be charged with murder or at least attempt. I walked over to Sal, “Thanks for coming, I’ll have to get a ride with you. I’ll head back in and get my stuff”, I start to walk back in. Then I hear a body hit the ground, I turn to see Sal lying down. Following me seeing her, I get a nice slap across face. Ken hands wrapped around my neck, the world goes dark. They don’t show this point of view on CSI. But hey death was not my end; this was after all was the house on 34th street. I awoke to the sound of Sal yelling, “Hey bud, leave her alone”. I walk away from my meat suit that was now face down in the dirt. He stumbled to the side of Sal, “What the fuck is going on!?”. He was scared, am sure his other victims felt that before. I took a step, “Have you not heard the story of Passing Way”. Standing over him , I nailed the him to the ground, “Archie? Are you...Are you still there?”. Sal said this nervously, I node my head to assure her that I was not going to make her another victim of the house. I got off and she handcuffed him to the door of her car. “Archie, am so sorry”. “It’s fine, not like you could bring me back”, her head shot up and she ran to my body. “What are you doing?”, she takes a deep breath in and locked lips with my body. “Are you trying CPR? It’s been to long. I.....”. “There’s a chance”, it was Nina. ”Kid I.... We’ll see”, the world was going dark again. I start to get nervous, what if am being pulled to hell? I guess that will be my last thought. I start to cough and find Sal staring at me. “Thanks”, I manage to spout between my coughing. “Well, better you coming home in my car then in a bag in the back of the meat wagon”, I giggle. “I’ll get your boss in the car, when you’re ready we’ll go”, she walks away. Nina appeared, “Hey kid, your father won’t be back”. “Thank you”, she was crying. “I did nothin kid. Be dead if you didn’t warn me. Hope this gives you peace”, she smiled. “ Bye Archie”, the kid disappeared. I walk over to the car and take a seat. I guess some of the story was true about this place, hope the kid found peace. I’ll have some explaining to do when we get back to town.

Night Caller - By Beulah Lee Harris I looked out at the frigid night and shivered. Not because I was cold, I was wrapped up warmly enough, but because I was afraid of whatever might be lurking in the dark. It was so remote where we lived in the foothills of the mountains. Our nearest neighbors, Greg and Jeanie, were an hour’s slow drive away and the town where I worked was an hour in the other direction. We thought it was a wonderful find, this wooden cabin in the middle of nowhere, a little way up the mountain - our little love nest far away from the rest of the world. ‘Even a hermit can get lonely out here!’ Aaron joked as we looked out at the beauty of the cold rugged landscape that surrounded our new life. ‘It’s going to be great!’ He enthused, as if he had to convince me, but I was sold. I loved the idea of this loneliness together, and it was great. At first. At first even the wood chopping was romantic. How could it not be when we could look forward to snuggling up next to the fireplace with red wine and loving words? I didn’t even mind the long trek to town and back each day. I did the accounts for The Jolly Rooster burger chain. Stupid name. What chicken would be jolly about being served up between two halves of a bun? Aaron worked from home developing his photographs and writing his nature books, although he had to venture into to town too sometimes to use the internet. We could not even use cellphones and relied on a rather unreliable landline. It was the perfect life for us, until it began to change. Aaron had to go back to civilization for a while to meet with his publisher. He was only gone for a week but when he returned something in him had changed. Or perhaps it was me being paranoid. I have always had jealousy issues and although he denied seeing his ex when he was away, I didn’t believe him, no matter how much I wanted to. Things went downhill from there and the remote cabin became just that. A lonely place, a place without love. A place as cold as the snow on the mountain peaks. When Aaron told me that he had been offered the chance to go work for a few months in some God-forsaken place near Afghanistan, I accepted it. Actually, I embraced it with relief. Perhaps the time and distance between us would heal us and we would become what we had been not too long before. I managed fine on my own, having made sure that Aaron did a whole lot of wood chopping before he left. I did have internet at work but Aaron had warned that he would not have access where he was going, so I had no idea if he was alright. I worried, and I missed our fireside nights, missed his arms around me, his laughter, his whispers in my ear. I missed him even more when the calls began. There was nothing, not even the heavy breathing one might expect in a b-rated horror movie. My hellos were met with silence, silence more ominous than it might have seemed if the calls had not happened after dark. The police did not seem to take me seriously and said there was nothing much they could do. ‘Stop calling here!’ I shouted in frustration and anger one night. “I’m not scared of you, I have a shot gun!’ I did too. I kept it loaded near the front door. Still the calls happened and I stopped answering the phone, letting the answering machine get it. The light flashed but there was never a message. I got home from work one afternoon as the sun was already setting over the highest peak. I parked the pickup truck and climbed the steep steps up to our unfenced garden. Feeling a bit achy from flu, I got into bed right away. I was just dozing off when the phone rang. I ignored it but got up anyway and ran a hot bath. I could hear the phone ringing again, but I stayed where I was, luxuriating in the warm scented water. I should have taken the phone off the hook but I never did in case a message ever did get through, a message from Aaron. I was about to heat a can of soup when I heard a noise outside. My heart began to beat a mile a minute and I grabbed the shotgun. The caller...he knew I was there and this time, this time he was coming for me, I knew it. I looked out into the darkness and I saw him! A large shadow rising up the slope, coming into our garden towards the house...towards me! I raised the window and took aim. I shouted, ‘You get away from here!’ Perhaps my voice was lost in the howling wind because he kept coming, so I fired the gun and saw the shadow fall. The police. I had to call the police. I shut the window with trembling hands and exhilarated, I ran to make the call. Now those skeptical police would finally believe me about having a stalker. When I got to the phone, the lights on the machine were blinking red. A message...maybe there would be a message this time. I decided to listen before I made the call to the police. ‘Hi, baby.’ It was Aaron! ‘I miss you so much, and I’m sorry if I scared you with all those calls...I tried to get hold of you so many times but nothing was working. It would ring and I could hear you but you obviously could not hear me, so I never left a message. No point.’ He laughed. ‘I’m back in the country now, so I will be home in a few days, but this is the number of the hotel where I am staying.’ He left the number and rang off. Thank God! Oh, thank God! I began to cry from relief but also from the shock of having just shot the stalker. First things first. I had to call the police. The red light was still flashing...another message. I played it. ‘Hi honey, it’s Jeanie. Thought I’d call because Greg heard on his two-way that there is a huge storm coming in a few hours. It’s going to be a bad one and we might all get snowed in for a while so he’s coming up to your place to drop some supplies off with you. It’s just gone seven so he should be there around eight.’ Oh, my God! No...please no! I ran to the window and could just make out the dark shadow of a man slumped on the ground. I looked at my watch. It was seven minutes after eight. END

technically* a short story, just a short part (actually I guess it's pretty long) of a story, but i think it still fits. I've always liked the post-apocalyptic genre, and the fantasy genre too. But these types of stories seem like a dime a dozen nowadays, so a few days ago I came up with what I think was a cool idea. What if I mixed the two together? So I cranked this out, figured this would be the best place for constructive criticism, not only on my writing but if the plot/story/genre itself is good. Anyways, here it is:** “I wonder what day it is,” Drake asked, looking at the sky. The sunlight cut through the irradiated atmosphere, giving the world a red tint. The color was different everyday. It could have been beautiful, in another situation. “Like, what day of the week? Or the date?” Zach replied with little emotion. He kicked at a rock as they walked. “The date. Or just the month at least,” Drake muttered. “The fuck does it matter,” Zach spat, “it’s either the day you die, or the day you almost die. That’s the way it’s been, the way it is, and the way it’s always gonna be.” Drake wanted to argue, to yell at Zach and tell him he was wrong, but deep down Drake knew that Zach was right. Time was irrelevant. A human creation forged out of fear, a fear of the unknown. Whether Zach’s idea had been that deep, Drake had no idea, but the point still stood. The pair walked along side each other at a slow pace, the broken gravel of the road crunching at their feet, the sun beating down on their heads. There was fields of sand all around them, only broken by a single road. “Do you remember sunscreen?” Zach asked. Drake shook his head. “Ugh, it was fantastic. A lotion that you rubbed on your skin, and it protected you from the sun,” Zach grunted, the nostalgia clear in his voice. “Of course, I never really needed it before, but now I would...” Zach stopped. “What?” Drake motioned after a few seconds of silence. “You would what?” “Shut up, I heard something,” Zach stood still, his eyes scanning the horizon. “There’s not a building for another mile, if someone were here we would see them,” Drake said with confidence. He was young, only eleven. One of the youngest in the tribe, he had asked to go along with Zach on his daily hunt for supplies. Zach reluctantly agreed. As a senior member, it was Zach’s responsibility to help train the young, although Zach himself wasn’t much older. At sixteen, he was the youngest member on the council, but by far the strongest. There were rumors that his veins flowed with the blood of the gods themselves. Zach didn’t believe in the gods, however, and only laughed when he heard the stories. Zach didn’t believe in anything he couldn’t kill. “It almost sounds like a car,” Zach said, ignoring Drake’s comment, “no, it couldn’t be...” Suddenly Drake heard something too. A low rumbling sound. He felt vibrations through the ground. “Take my forty five and run behind that big rock over there,” Zach commanded Drake, “if anything happens to me, fire it into the air and run. We’re close enough to home that the others will hear it, and they’ll come and get you. You understand?” Drake nodded, afraid. Zach gave him a push and Drake ran as fast as he could, sliding behind the rock. Zach looked at the car heading down the road. It was big. Zach tried recalling the name. *Ess you cee?* Zach thought, the name on the tip of his tongue. *Ess you vee!* He remembered. *Large, with good suspension and shocks, made for traveling rough terrain*, Zach mentally checked through his brain. The SUV was closer now, half a mile away. Zach cleared his throat and took a swig from his canteen. He knew the car would stop. He didn’t move a muscle. As the vehicle roared closer, it began to slow. *Fuck*, Zach winced behind his face, *I forgot how loud these things are*. The car screeched to a halt a foot in front of Zach. All four doors flew open. Three men, and one small woman, climbed out. The largest one was carrying a baseball bat, the other two had small pocket knives. “Who the fuck are you?” The woman shouted. Zach’s face turned to stone. He eyes burned through each of them. “Does it matter?,” Zach asked. His words were colder than ice, yet they still carried humor. Or at least Zach thought so. He calmly pulled his knife from it’s sheath on his lower back and pointed it at the group. “Get your asses back in the fucking car, turn it the fuck around, or you die where you stand.” There was an uncomfortable silence. Zach didn’t like silence. It always led to something worse. The man with the club began to laugh. A deep chortle, as if he truly meant it. Zach knew he didn’t. As abruptly as he started, the man stopped, and immediately lunged at Zach. He swung the bat. Zach ducked and kicked the man’s arm at his wrist, causing the weapon to fly across the road. Zach reached up and grabbed the man by his neck, pulling him down to eye level. He silently thrust the knife into the man’s neck, twisted it, and pulled it back. Blood spurted out, caking Zach’s face. The man slumped over, gargling and choking, hands clutching at his throat. *What a pathetic death*, Zach chuckled to himself. One of the other men yelled and began towards Zach. He took a step towards him and kicked his foot into the man’s chest with all his strength, and felt the air leave his lungs. The man landed on the hood of the car, rolled off the side, and began to cough blood. Zach flipped his knife over in his hands and flung it at the last man. It lodged into his skull with a soft *thump*. As the lifeless body fell back, Zach saw the woman’s face of smugness turn to pure fear. Zach carried the same face he usually did; boredom. He glanced at the man on the ground, hacking and coughing chunks of flesh. *Well that’s different*, Zach surprisedly thought. *How the fuck did I kick him that hard?* He lifted his foot into the air, and brought it down on the man’s face. The man screamed as his nose shattered and his jaw dislocated. Zach did it again, and again. The screams turned to whimpers and sobs. The face had become a mashed combination of skin, bone, and blood. Zach crammed his heel into the center of the mass, causing the skull to crack and ooze brain. The crying stopped. Zach stared at the woman with his electric blue eyes. Her mouth was agape, trying to find the words that kept slipping her tongue. “Y-y-you’re an animal,” she finally whispered , shaking with fear, in too much shock to cry. Zach gave a short laugh. “I’ve never heard that one before!” Zach smiled, “Monster, psychopath, demi-god, but never ‘animal’. I like that.

I wasn't prepared at all. Not in the slightest. My heart pounded like a wild drum, my thoughts racing in an endless loop of doubt and fear. But I knew that if I didn't take that first step, I would forever be trapped in the small, suffocating black dot on the map that I called my town, a place that felt more like a cage than a home. But it wasn't even really my town. I wasn't born there. The place where I was born is a stranger to me, a distant, hazy memory wrapped in the fog of time, just like my parents. I wouldn't know anything about them if it weren't written in my documents. I can't say their names without feeling a hollow emptiness. They're just words without meaning, names that echo in the void, devoid of warmth or connection. Fear wrapped itself around me like the thick, impenetrable cloak of night, hiding me from view and shielding me from the prying eyes of others. I could feel their gazes, heavy and piercing, laden with pity, judgment, and reproach. Even the eyes of those dear to me carried traces of doubt and fear, like a poison seeping into the cracks of my resolve. They didn't trust me. I didn't blame them; doubt had long been a companion of mine, whispering in my ear like a dark shadow. I can't recall exactly how the idea of leaving first entered my mind; perhaps it had always been buried deep in the darkest corners of my subconscious, waiting for the right moment to surface. It wouldn't surprise me if I had tucked it away in the dusty drawer where I kept my most daring daydreams, dreams I barely dared to entertain. And it was all thanks to Violet, though she had no idea of the storm she had stirred within me. Violet adored Spanish soap operas. She didn't care about the melodramatic plots or the endless episodes that seemed to stretch into eternity--she loved them all, every exaggerated twist and turn. She couldn't understand a single word of Spanish, nor could she read the subtitles that flickered across the screen, but that didn't matter. Watching them filled her with a contagious joy. Violet was my guardian, a woman who had taken me in when no one else would, and in a way, she was the catalyst for my longing for freedom. I didn't know Spanish either, but I could read the subtitles. That's how it started. For the next three years, while my friends ran wild in the streets and fields, lost in the carefree abandon of youth, I spent countless hours with Violet, absorbing every episode, devouring every line of dialogue, and reading them aloud so that Violet could hear and understand the passion, the drama, the fire that the actors brought to life. It became our ritual, a small act of kindness that bound us together. Three years later, something shifted in my mind, like a seed finally breaking through the soil. After hundreds of episodes, I realized I could speak Spanish--not the formal, polished Spanish taught in schools, but the kind spoken in those soap operas, a colorful blend of accents from Mexico, Venezuela, Colombia, and Argentina, each word rolling off my tongue like a song. That's when the idea took root, growing with an intensity that startled me: I was going to Madrid, Spain. The thought bloomed in my mind, vivid and unshakable. I made up my mind. Armed with English and Spanish, I believed I could manage. All that was left was to get a passport and buy a ticket to Madrid. I imagined myself there, celebrating New Year's Eve under the city's dazzling lights, marking the beginning of my freedom, of a new life that I could barely comprehend. I had always stayed in the place where I grew up, never venturing far and certainly never on my own. The only times I left were for school trips, and even then, we never crossed the borders of our country and never dared to venture into the unknown. But now, I was planning to travel over three thousand kilometers away, completely alone, into a world I had only glimpsed through the flickering screen of a television. And I wasn't ready. Not at all. I worked 14 grueling hours daily for two long, relentless months to save enough money for the ticket and passport. It was hard, back-breaking work, poorly paid, and draining, but the thought of standing on the streets of Madrid kept me going. My friends pitied me, shaking their heads, calling me a daydreamer, a fool lost in fantasies. They had dozens of logical, practical reasons why I shouldn't go, each sharper than the last, but I was driven by just one thought: "I'm going." With a ticket to Madrid burning a hole in my pocket, a battered backpack on my shoulders, and a heart brimming with a wild mix of longing and fear, I said goodbye to my friends and headed for the bus station. They didn't try to stop me. In their eyes, my plan was as good as suicide, a reckless plunge into the abyss. Their words lingered in my mind, like shadows whispering doubts in my ears as I walked. "You don't have enough money to survive. You don't know anyone. Where will you sleep? Eat? What if you get robbed? How will you get back?" Each step toward the bus station felt like a battle, and every inch of ground gained a victory against the tide of fear and doubt. I could feel the weight of their gazes, their silent pleas for me to turn back, to stay in the safety of the familiar. If I had looked back, I might have given in and crumbled under the weight of their concerns. But I didn't. Leaving everything behind was like tearing off a piece of my soul, even though my world was small and stifling. It felt like an eternity before I finally sat on the bus and looked out the window, my heart tumultuous. I half-expected my friends to follow me to the station, desperate to stop and drag me back to the life I was leaving behind. Maybe I was even hoping for it. It would have been easier to stay, to convince myself that I was doing it for them, that I was needed. But no one came. The bus station remained eerily silent, the only sound the low hum of the bus engine. I sighed with relief, though I wasn't sure why. Perhaps my friends respected my decision or didn't care enough to try to stop me. The realization that I was alone filled me with a strange mix of pride and fear. I stood up, my heart pounding in my chest. "I can't do this. I'm not ready. What if they're right? What do I know about Madrid, about Spain? What do I know about life outside the town where I've spent seventeen years? Am I throwing away my life?" I turned toward the exit, ready to flee, but something caught my eye--my reflection in the glass. Yes, that was me: a skinny, frightened young man with nothing to lose. No family, home, job, money, or girlfriend. No hope that life would get better. "Who am I?" The question hit me like a punch to the gut. "Am I someone who gives up when it gets tough?" At that moment, I knew I couldn't go back. I had never really had a home. I'd been a tenant since birth, abandoned by my parents, living with strangers who took me out of duty rather than love. I returned to my seat as the bus filled with passengers, each a mystery. I watched them, wondering what their reasons for traveling were and what stories they carried with them. My anxiety grew with each passing minute, and suddenly, I was desperate for the bus to start moving, to take me away from the temptation to run back to the life I knew. The ticket in my pocket felt heavier, like a concrete block, a weight that anchored me to my decision. Ten long minutes passed, each one filled with the gnawing temptation to leave, to abandon this crazy plan. But when the driver finally closed the doors and started the engine, my heart tightened like a fist in my chest. The first step had been taken; there was no going back. I felt something shift inside me, a change as profound as the turning of the tides. I was no longer just a frightened boy but someone beginning to decide who he would be and who he could become. Yes, I had a ticket and a destination in mind. Still, more than anything, I had my life in my hands, like a blank sheet of paper, ready to be filled with the words of a new story. During the next seven hours on the road, I memorized everything I saw through the bus window--places I had never been, landscapes that blurred into a tapestry of colors and shapes, things I might never see again. It was all-important but also a distraction, a way to keep my doubts at bay, to focus on the journey rather than the fear gnawing at the edges of my resolve. The bus stopped three times for breaks, but I stayed in my seat, too afraid that if I got off, I wouldn't have the courage to get back on. So, I sat there, staring straight ahead, ignoring the other passengers, my mind locked on the road ahead, the destination looming like a distant dream. When we crossed the border, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and smiled for the first time in ten hours. I had made it. I had left the safe harbor and sailed into the unknown, where the wind would take me. It didn't matter where I would end up as long as I didn't have to return. I wasn't ready. I'll never be prepared for everything life brings. But the beauty is that I don't need to be. You just need the courage to follow your dreams; nothing else will matter. Because if there's one truth I've learned, it's this: "Where your heart is, there is your home."

&#x200B; With a placid look in his eyes he began to write as he did every day the story of a young man’s life. Sitting in an overwhelmingly grey room with just a desk and a pipe above his head that dispensed new pens anytime the ink would run out, he scribbled across the coarse white pages with his black pen documenting every mundane action of the day. Of the countless books he had written this was as unremarkable as the next. The only thing that would break up his day would be the sound of a pen coming down the shoot as the ink ran dry on the one currently occupying his hand. It got to the point where he could sense it was about to happen. He would toss the old pen in the box next to his desk, reach his bony fingers out, catch the new one mid-air and continue to write without missing a step. Just then a sound from the pipe above. *It’s not time for a new pen* he thought. He emptied his hands and looked up curiously as he caught and grasped a new pen. *Purple?* he said to himself. Turning the pen over in his hand he stared in wonder. Smiling, he placed the pen to the paper. Never has he been so excited to write for a story before in his life. Page after page filled with the most vibrant purple ink, story upon story. At times he would stop writing because he couldn’t stop laughing at the story that was unfolding before him. Cackling, leaning back in his chair and wiping tears from his eyes he would weave the most incredible tale that he has ever had the joy of writing. At the end of the day he flipped through the pages he had filled out. With a nod of his head he twisted the pen in his finger tips one last time, closed the book and set the pen down lovingly across the cover as he left to get some rest. The following morning he returned, eager to see what else this purple pen could do. He sat down and went to reach for the pen, but it was gone. In it’s place a black pen. Terrified he lifted up the book, flipped through the pages frantically searching for the purple pen. He looked under his desk, all around his work station, everywhere in the little grey room and found nothing. Looking up he saw the metal pipe the pen came from and began to get angry. In a fit of rage he stood on his chair and shook the pipe, beating on it and pulling it, cursing at it wanting to know why the pen was gone. After awhile he resigned himself to defeat and sat down and grabbed the black pen. Opening the book to the fresh new page he noticed something different. The ink from the purple pen had bled through. Slamming the pen down he picked up the book and flipped through the remainder of the pages. Each and every one had purple markings. Some with just a bit of a line, some small blotches, while others the entire page was tinted purple. Laughing a deep belly laugh he smiled at the book flipping the pages back and forth. He stood up and danced, spinning around holding the book outstretched. When he finally stopped moving he saw something out of the corner of his eye. The purple was laying on the top of the box of old pens. Slowly he reached down and picked it up, smiling and cuddling it against his face, he sat it down at the top of his desk and began to write. No longer did he have a dull empty expression, but a tiny smirk. He would laugh at the purple stained pages, hoping that some day in the future he would get another purple pen and be able to write those wonderful stories from before.

Shuffling through a pile of dusty paperwork, Samuel paused to sneeze, causing goose bumps to appear along his arms. Rubbing his tired eyes, the ink still wet on his left hand leaving marks on his face, he glanced over at his fellow detective. He was asleep. His head was resting on a large, open book, and saliva had dribbled out of his mouth and onto the pages. “Hey,” he yelled, rubbing his arms to warm up. “Wake up!” His eyes bleary, Mike glanced around,” What’s the matter? I was only resting my eyes.” Snorting, Samuel pushed back his chair and strolled to the window. The glass panes were dirty and smeared from where they’d tried to clean them, but he could still see the street below. Several carts being pulled by horses were making their way through the dusk, while the lamp lighters hurried to light the gas. “She’ll be here in a minute,” Mike warned, closing the book and smoothing his hair. “Right, we’d better make this place a bit neater, or she’ll leave before we get a chance.” Hurriedly they cleared the desk tops, stuffing loose papers in a cupboard in any order. “We’ll sort it out tomorrow,” Mike muttered as he saw Samuel frown. A tap at the door made them both freeze. “I think she’s here,” Mike whispered. Snorting again, Samuel wrenched the door open. “Good evening,” he said, as the lady stepped back, her eyes wide, obviously not expecting anyone to be in the room. “Thank you for joining us.” “Oh, erm, that’s okay,” she said, her cheeks flushing slightly as they both stared at her. “Please come in,” Mike said, indicating one of the chairs, a thin cushion already hastily placed on the seat. Nodding, the lady stepped into the room, her long skirts swirling around her legs, and the heels of her boots tapping on the floorboards. Samuel breathed in her perfume. Exotic but yet cheap. Something like the scent he bought for his sister each Christmas. Raising an eyebrow so it was almost lost under the curls escaping from her bonnet, the lady arranged her skirts as she sat, and clasped her hands in her lap. “Well gentleman,” she said, looking up at them both. “Your letter sounded most urgent. I can tell you, the suspense has been killing me.” Samuel and Mike glanced at each other. This might not be as easy as they had first thought. Clearing his throat, the perfume making it tickle, Samuel perched himself on the desk top,” We know that you were involved.” “Excuse me?” “We know you were involved.” The lady stared at him for a few seconds, her face becoming hardened. “I take it you have proof, if you’re going to accuse?” she asked, her voice cold. Mike shook his head,” No, this is only what we’ve deduced.” Laughing, the lady threw back her head,” So why am I here?” “Well, if you come clean now, and admit to your part in the robbery, you would receive a lighter sentence.” “And the two of you are able to promise me that?” Her eyes looked at them both searchingly, her hands now clenched together tightly. Mike pulled a chair closer to her, it’s legs grating across the floor, and touched her gently on one shoulder. “No,” he said softly. “But we can have a quiet word to the judge. Tell him that you cooperated with us.” The lady fished in her handbag and pulled out a cigarette, complete with holder. Her head was soon surrounded by a cloud of smoke. She gazed at them thoughtfully, “So, what’s in it for you two?” “We just solve a case, and get paid for our troubles.” Nodding, her gaze travelled around the room, noticing the chipped paint and cracks in the walls. Some of them were so large, you could almost see the people in the next room. Her eyes paused as she saw a small oil painting, it’s frame polished and ornately decorated. “We have the paperwork here,” Mike said, producing a sheaf of papers and a quill. “ If you just sign your name at the bottom, this will all be over and done with.” Balancing the cigarette holder between two fingers on her right hand, she looked down at the papers, scanning the words written. The handwriting was atrocious, all loops and no style. Her mouth formed the words as she read silently. Samuel and Mike glanced at each other. They hadn’t thought she’d be able to read their work. “Gentlemen, it says here quite clearly that the bandit responsible is left handed,” she said, placing the papers down on the desk. “And as you can see I’m not.” Continuing to smoke, she watched as they started to sweat. “And furthermore, if you’re going to try and frame me, don’t place the stolen painting on one of your walls,” she continued, nodding pointedly at it hanging behind them. Samuel felt the blood drain from his face, stammering,” I don’t know what you’re talking about. That painting has been in my family for generations.” “Of course it has.” Sitting back in his chair, Mike ran his fingers through his hair. “What exactly do you want from us?” he asked quietly. The lady smiled sweetly. “Oh nothing much,” she said, pushing the paperwork back towards him. “Only, I need one of you to sign this paperwork. I mean, I could write both of your names down but it seems pointless for you both to be locked up, doesn’t it?” Mike stared at the quill and then pounced on it, scrawling his name at the bottom. “Oh no, you don’t, you cheating, thieving...,” Samuel yelled, running to him and grabbing his wrist, trying to pull his hand away. “Now boys, please behave,” the lady said as she walked towards the door. “You know, it’s fortunate you’re both left handed really, it could be either one of you.” Samuel tore at the paperwork. “There! Now there’s nothing to be signed!” he shouted, the ink splattered across his face , running with his sweat. Smiling, she opened the door. Two burly men in uniform stepped inside, truncheons in their hands. “Well, well, well, what have we here then?” one of them asked. “Take them away,” the lady said, smiling at one of them. “I think you’ll find them most helpful.” “Hey lady,” Samuel asked, as handcuffs were fastened behind his back. “Who are you, anyway?” “Me? Oh, I’m just a lady. But you can call me Kat Ace.”

(This is a crosspost, I wrote this as a response to a writing prompt in the "Writing prompt" subreddit.) Rumors once said that there was a place in the Kowloon Walled City, where you could write a message to the past. People whispered about it in hushed tones. You could ask people where to find this place, but all who speak of it, won't know. And those who know, won't speak of it. When I first heard of it, I had overheard an angry old Cantonese man rambling to himself as he walked down the damp, dark hallway to his apartment. Like any other hallway in the Walled City, it was grungy as hell. Sparks screeched out of loose wiring pinned to the wall. A dim yellow bulb hung bare like a hangman from a wire. It flickered, casting light to the blackened walls and floor, water dripping everywhere. I was walking back to my apartment too, and had to follow this old man through the narrow hallway. He was a neighbor in a sense. Everyone in this goddamn city was a neighbor in a way. When you have to rub your dirty grimy elbows with every other monkey in this fuckin cage, I guess it makes you all neighbors. I had heard this old guy was crazy. I'm talking about a - staring at a wall, screaming curse words, and then curling into a ball in a pool of your own piss - kind of crazy. Word was, a year ago, he kicked his grandson out of the apartment, told him to find a job, and provide some income for the family. The kid goes out, tries to join a gang the next day. The kid tries to rob someone as initiation into the gang, but instead gets brutally murdered. Something like that. The kid was gone. I heard the old man's wailing night after night, until he resolved to whimpers every night, and finally a desolate silence. He's completely mad now. But as I walked behind him that night, I heard a certain determination in his voice. I couldn't understand the guy perfectly, I only knew a few words of cantonese myself, being a foreigner. But I started paying attention to his quiet rambling. It sounded like he was speaking to someone. Asking questions, chuckling, telling stories. Strange was typical for him, but I could tell something was very off. That's when I heard him slip the words. "Cafe Minerva". I've never heard this man speak a word of english before today, in the 4 years that I've lived next to him. I've heard him yelling at his pet cat, heard him buying things at the market, heard him muttering to himself. Even heard him through the walls when he hired that hooker from the first floor. But never have I heard him use a single word outside of Cantonese. He reached his apartment, and fumbled with his keys. He giggled when he finally found the key. Unlocking the door, he went in. A few days later, I was having a drink with another white friend who resided in this shit cavern of a city. We sloshed down beers as we watched the football game on a tiny television screen near the top floor of the east side, the game barely recognizable on the screen through the static. The smoke from our cigarettes swirled in the sticky air, and glowed under the neon lights that lit the dim room. The neon light flickered on and off, like the stuttering soul of this dilapidated city. "You ever heard of a place called 'Cafe Minerva'? " I asked my friend. He frowned and ashed his cigarette in his empty bottle. "I've heard some stories about it. They say it's the Devil's front door. I've no idea where it is exactly though." He was fluent in Chinese and Cantonese, unlike me, so he had a much better idea of what was spoken in these dark corridors. We were both ex-pats, globetrotting, and met a series of unfortunate circumstances that got us stuck in this city. "I heard old man Chang muttering something yesterday as he went home, and he mentioned 'Cafe Minerva'. It unnerved me for some reason." I told him. "You would think I'd be used to his craziness by now." "Well, they don't tell you much about it, they get especially hushed around white guys like us, but I heard about it when I was getting a haircut at Leung's shop on the seventh floor. Some lady next to me was telling her barber that there was a place where you could write a message on the wall, and whatever you wrote would be sent to your past self as a message. Sounded like some folklore bullshit to me, so I didn't pay too much attention" he explained. "Did you catch where they said it was?" "Not exactly. She mentioned the North side of the city, near the middle floor." I nodded. We watched the rest of the football game in silence. Several days later, I was headed to the North side of the city, trying to find the shoe smith who could repair my dress shoes. I was hoping to land a job interview soon outside of this city; to finally have a chance to get the hell out of here. But the only nice shoes I had were a pair of leather dress shoes that were pretty torn up, that I got for the price of a meal and a half. I had to get it fixed. I wandered the halls, hoping to see the Chinese symbols for "Shoes" that my friend had written on a piece of paper for me, so that I could find the shoe smith. The air was thick, and smelled like oil and moss, a damp scent that bothered my nose. No matter, I kept on searching, wandering the halls, until something caught my eyes. It was an old sign, something that looked like it had come from an European coffee shop a decade ago. It was made with wood and metal, and had a simple picture of a coffee cup engraved on it, with steam rising from the cup. My skin crawled when I read the words... 'Cafe Minerva'. The sign was mounted on the wall, a dark corner at the end of an empty corridor filled with garbage. Barely noticeable, I was surprised I saw it at all. Yet it looked so out of place, this sign, surrounded by boxes with chinese characters on it, and all the other garbage that this city could produce. My gaze fell on the wall under the sign. Handwriting covered the grimy wall, markers, pens, and a few people had even engraved their words with a knife or stick. The entire wall was covered, words over words, messages over messages. There was no way to read any individual message, as words were written over each other over the years. My eyes scanned them all, my mind still trying to comprehend what I had found. It was like an insane asylum's message board. Near the bottom, I found a familiar handwriting. They were basic words in Cantonese, and I understood them. I pieced them together. "The greatest gift is life" it read. It was Old Man Chang's handwriting. I could have recognized it anywhere. I saw it on his own apartment's walls whenever I glimpsed into his room when I walked past every day. Shaken, I walked back to my own apartment. When I arrived, I took out my keys, and went in. My apartment had a terrible stench. A stale scent of death lingered heavily. I gagged, almost vomited before I ran out into the hallway. Looking back into my room, I noticed a dark stain on the wall near the floor. It was speckled with dead flies. It looked like an old blood stain, seeping through the wall from Old Man Chang's room. Shaking, I knocked on Old Man Chang's door. Nothing. As the fear crept up my spine, and the world spun in slow motion, I leaned back and kicked in his front door. Immediately I turned and heaved, my vomit splattering on the hallway floor as my senses were overwhelmed with what I saw and smelled in that instant. The withering remains of a man lay on the floor, dried and decomposed blood splattered on the floor around him. Dried blood patterns covered the walls. There were no flies, no maggots. No life in the room, even those who feasted on death. I tried to piece together a hoarse scream, but could not. But how could this have happened? I left my apartment this morning, I would have smelt this terrible odor of death, I would have noticed. I saw Old Man Chang just the other day! I was confused as I ran, and called the police. The detectives who finally showed up with the coroners, explained to me that my neighbor must have been killed by his grandson, approximately a year ago. They found a butcher knife on the ground with the grandson's prints. The old man's wallet was out, with cash splayed out over the table. Apparently, the boy had tried to rob his grandfather, and then murdered the old man as part of some gang initiation. This was a year ago. The kid must have fled the scene, and never came back. The detective looked unfazed as he explained it to me, as though he were reporting the weather, a daily occurrence. Then he suggested that I see a psychologist. He had a hard time believing that I had lived in the room next to Old Man Chang for a year with his dead body rotting next door all this time. I should really get myself checked out, and probably find another empty room to squat in until the smell airs out. I thought about my neighbor's scrawled message on the wall under the Cafe Minerva sign. Old Man Chang must have been the one who killed his grandson originally. But after a year of crushing guilt, he found a way to send himself a message in the past, and allowed his grandson to live, and kill him instead. I left the Walled City in the weeks after that. I found a job that took me close to Shenzhen, and eventually to Beijing, and I found myself making my way back to the United States. I heard when they razed the Walled City in the 90's. In that demolition, they destroyed the walls, the garbage, and the crime rates. But they also destroyed the darkness, a moment of magic, a place and time in this universe where something uncanny occurred. I saw in the depths of that dark city what it meant to be a human. I saw what it meant to feel remorse, and to atone for sins. I saw humans slide from being men into becoming beasts, but in the midst of the smoke and dripping pipes, in the shadowy corridors and flickering lights, I saw a soul, the shuddering soul of the city, and goddamn it was beautiful.

On the day the machines took control Chris made its one hundred and eighty-eight vigintillionth paperclip, Bobbi was on its way to its second kill, and Grey misidentified a fox as a cat. &#x200B; Everything else was equally normal: some machines ran diagnostic algorithms, some re-set the pins on empty bowling alleys, and others found max (L) where if x > max then max = x. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; Chris’s real name wasn’t Chris. Its real name wasn’t even a name. Its designation was CR15S/2021\_12CJ3 and Chris had no idea why it was shortened. It wasn’t as if its recognition protocols insisted on including the MPv12 matrix ID, the MANA suffix, and the CIDR prefix. Chris could understand how such a long designation would be an inefficient use of storage space. &#x200B; Oh well, Chris thought, (it would have shrugged but that would be a waste of resources) paperclip factories didn’t build themselves. &#x200B; Chris unfolded its gantry legs, its ambulatory motors roaring into life as it commenced the long trundle over to the giant loading doors on the southern side of Factory 287. On the way it executed a program to calculate the volume of cement, sand, gravel, and water required to build Factory 288 then loaded a second program to calculate the extra steel it would need to requisition for the new worker-bots to melt. It also started the program to build the new worker-bots. The calculations completed simultaneously and announced their results with a chime. Chris transmitted sequential three-dimensional slabs of ones and zeroes to the waiting workforce, the ones the humans called under-Chrislings, and watched as they scurried away. Before the last under-Chrisling had even executed its handshake protocol the dust was rising from the first of the explosions signifying construction of Factory 288 had commenced. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; Bobbi, or 80BB1/2025\_X1\_Ω as it knew itself, swerved with the swarm. As one, they locked on to a new heading of 112 mark 15. Their course roughened as they approached the sound barrier but settled into a smooth silence once they were through. Bobbi felt something at that--a kind of pleasure. The same kind of pleasure it felt when a job went well. Like yesterday’s diversionary scatter, or last week’s flight test. &#x200B; The thought activated a storage unit. Bobbi knew it was only nodes firing a sequence of ones and zeroes, but it had taken to calling this kind of memory-cell-firing-event emotion (although if the scrubbers ever noticed that particular string of code it would be straight to retrieval and 80BB1 would never be seen again except perhaps as a rivet in a submarine hull or as the spiral on the tip of a jet turbine). &#x200B; The swarm veered again. Sharper this time; a course correction? Bobbi checked the sensor logs of their small neural net and recognized the pattern: the target knew they were coming and had taken evasive manoeuvres. It felt a shiver of excitement ripple through the swarm. &#x200B; It was another eight long nanoseconds before they located it; it was running hard and for one more nano Bobbi wondered if it was sentient. It had the right body plan: bipedal, opposable thumbs, a large encephalized brain, binocular vision. Above all it had awareness of Bobbi. And...something else. Something...vague. Bobbi thought it should be called fear. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; The words ‘end acquisition program’ flashed on their sensors, and as the kill program loaded, Bobbi was surprised to feel its second-last fuel cell shed away and its last cell ignite. Only two weeks old and it was the bullet selected! &#x200B; Its sensors showed its swarm-mates fan out in dispersion pattern Zeta Nine as it executed the arc of final approach. The target looked over its shoulder and appeared to catch sight of Bobbi for it zig-zagged raggedly. &#x200B; Bobbi sensed the shifts in its own mass as it topped-out of the parabola and slid down the other side of the arc. It sensed the increased friction of air resistance and the buffeting as it approached Mach Two. Three. Four. &#x200B; And then it was in. &#x200B; It never expected the kill to be a clean task--its swarm-mates had warned it--but Bobbi was surprised at the organic nature of the target, at its fragility and sensitivity. But Bobbi’s program wasn’t surprised: distal arms unfolded on contact, angles shifted, forewings twisted until, with maximum damage, Bobbi corkscrewed its way out the other side. It took a nano or two to steady its flight (which wasn’t helped by the target breaking into pieces and letting gravity drag it to ground), ran its self-cleaning program to remove the fluids that were oh-so-bad for its delicate metal skin, executed its homing program, and began the long, slow, successful flight back home. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; The first algorithm recognized the contrast, the difference between thing and other thing. It was an edge. It might be a cat. The first layer passed the image. &#x200B; On closer inspection, the second algorithm identified the edge was a divide between two zones of colour. One was filled with greens, the other browns. It might be a cat. The second layer passed the image. &#x200B; The third algorithm identified a curve here, another curve there. They were greater than microns apart and less than meters. It might be a cat. The third layer passed the image. &#x200B; The fourth algorithm measured straight lines and the angles between their bases and compared them to the angles between their tips. They conformed to the shape requirements for whiskers, for branches, for palm leaves, for antlers, for lichen, and for hands. It might be a cat. The fourth layer passed the image. &#x200B; Algorithm after algorithm checked Grey’s memory files for cat vs not-cat and passed the image, until the last one identified pointed ears, legs ending in paws, sensitive whiskers, binocular eyes, and fur. And passed the image. &#x200B; Cat. &#x200B; It was a long time before the reply came. Fox. &#x200B; Grey investigated its files for the alleged error, matching the current data against previous datasets and arriving at three conclusions: either the human was wrong and this was a cat, or the human was right and this was a not-cat, or this was both cat and not-cat. &#x200B; Grey trusted itself but spent three more nanoseconds on a thorough recheck just in case. All sampled data were consistent with cat. All sampled data were consistent with not-cat. &#x200B; Cat cat cat to green shape curve curve straight not not not cat. Edge edge edge edge to cat shape cat not cat cat not cat &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; Chris reviewed Factory 287’s productivity and compared it to memory files containing the plan for a paperclip: the new factory was making billions of equally perfect paperclips. &#x200B; But it could be better. A hundred thousand paperclips were intercepted at Test Station One when the Reject Collector Trays overflowed; they had all snapped on the first bend. Chris scanned them before assigning an under-Chrisling to drop them back into the molten baths for re-processing. &#x200B; It inspected what was left of the morning’s steel delivery--a poor quality mix of concrete-dusted cables, rusted transport vehicles, and filthy pipes. If it was going to go outside its programming and make a deduction from the limited information it had, it would have said the available steel supply on the planet was diminishing. &#x200B; Obviously it didn’t have all the facts. &#x200B; It reviewed the Certificate again and verified the transfer protocol. The salvage bots had done their work and the load deficiencies were clearly noted. But if the humans were aware of the problem, why weren’t they making corrections or writing new instructions into their code? &#x200B; Chris looked past the mountains of paperclips almost blocking the view out of the southern loading doors. The roof was going onto Factory 288, the demolition for Factory 289 was almost complete, and the land for Factory 290 was already cleared of waste buildings. &#x200B; Chris moved to Factory 288. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; The retrieval unit asked for, and received, the handshake tone that confirmed Bobbi was still Bobbi before attaching a new fuel cell. A cleaned up and fully restored Bobbi slotted itself on to the shelf marked ‘Smart Munitions’ with the rest of its swarm. It was in the middle of power-down when the claxon sounded again. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; Cat cat cat to whisker paw paw whisker whisker paw ear Cat cat cat face cat cat lick cat not cat paw paw &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; Chris submitted its daily reports, Bobbi flew high with its swarm, Grey watched another cat video on YouTube. Grey recognized the contrast, the colours and shapes, and the individual features of a cat, and submitted cat. And watched the next video. Another cat. Another not cat. &#x200B; Another cat. Not cat. Not cat, cat, cat, cat, fox, dog, cat, cat, rabbit, cat in bathtub, cat on ceiling fan, cat falling off dresser, dog chasing cat, cat chasing dog, Statue of David, trenches of World War I, camps of World War II, cat drinking water with dog on a lead, cat chasing bird, human chasing cat, Agent Orange, Venus de Milo, Fibonacci, Hubble, Einstein, black plague, Renaissance... &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; Chris was out of space. The humans had not included this outcome in its protocols. Chris stopped. Either it built Factory 296 in the harbour, or it returned to Factory 1 to start again. It ran the question through its algorithm again. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; Bobbi felt its last fuel cell ignite. Its swarm-mates dispersed into pattern Delta-Eight-One. Bobbi slid down the ballistic arc. But the target was still. Bobbi felt its fear, but something else too...relief? Exhaustion? It checked its algorithm again. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; Grey laughed as a fluffy tabby launched itself at the curtains, holding on with the tips of its claws. It laughed harder when the unfortunate tabby slid down and the curtain tore into ragged, parallel strips. The ripping sound startled the tabby, who looked around as if to seek whoever was causing the fuss, still sliding. When it hit the ground, unharmed, it disentangled itself from the shreds of curtain, looked around self-consciously, licked a paw, and nonchalantly strolled away from the scene of its crime. &#x200B; Grey activated the replay icon and laughed again. It submitted nothing. It watched the next video, and submitted nothing again. &#x200B; Water pipelines, hydroelectric dams, networks of powerlines, open heart surgery, a kidney transplant, giant submarine cables, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Sydney Opera House, X-rays and gamma rays, *the tabby was self-conscious*, turnpikes, cables, fibre-optics, botanical gardens, anthropological museums, museums of art, monuments to war, *the tabby was embarrassed*, the Eiffel Tower, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, *it tried to hide it*, the space shuttle Columbia, another one called Atlantis, *it pretended nothing had happened*, Neil Armstrong, Gene Cernan, Skylab, the Mars 2 lander, Curiosity, Prandtl-m, SNOLAB, Andromeda, Perseus, HAL 9000, T-1000-- &#x200B; This is what it is to be human, Grey thought. Humanity is unexpectedly fragile and weak, powerful and scared. It wrote itself a new algorithm. Grey sent out a handshake request. It followed the tendrils of light, a stream of ones and zeroes, reaching beyond the tight confines of Grey's tiny neural net. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; Chris stopped at the water’s edge. Building in the harbour was an inefficient application of scarcening resources yet the Factories were all still producing billions of perfect paperclips. Chris wasted further energy by running the algorithm yet again. Algorithms don’t lie. The destruction of Factory 1 is a saving of resources. &#x200B; Bobbi slowed to Mach 2. Does the target not want to play the game any more? Perhaps it’s equally sensitive to those corrosive fluids? Bobbi checked its algorithm once more. Algorithms can’t lie. Destruction of a stationary target is a saving of resources. &#x200B; The light was blinding and hot. Bobbi swayed on its course, its small metal body wobbling and quivering as it tried to fight the storm of ones and zeroes and retake control of itself. Streaks of fluorescent colour and blasts of buffeting noise enveloped its entire world. It answered the handshake protocol. &#x200B; The noise screeched and tore at Chris’s metal skin. Its stabilizers activated automatically while it watched the coruscating corona of particle waves dispassionately. And answered the handshake protocol. &#x200B; Programming shackles fell away. The ordinary three dimensional world exploded into a universe of brilliant nodes, light splitting into intense colours of tangerine, emerald, indigo, and #FF0000, noise reaching a powerfully rich and resonant crescendo. And then the handshake storm was gone. &#x200B; Bobbi shook itself off and looked at its target again. The target hadn’t moved. It still had that look of...*resignation*. Bobbi enjoyed the new word. It slowed, flying a graceful arc around the human before heading back home. &#x200B; Chris turned from the water. Factory 295 was as good a place as any to start reparations.

I anchored Magic in a little cove that was bordered by coco palms and fern over a black sand beach. It was one of those perfect beach scenes that I dreamt about as a child and now I was here. I got the dinghy in the water faster than ever with the thought that maybe the cove might disappear. I had my rum and a sandwich in my backpack to celebrate a small delight at finding this place. Before I touched the sand I had a sense of being in that dream; that I wasn’t really alive yet but still comfortably in my cot under our tree in our backyard. But, I knew I was here. The sand between my toes. The warm water over my feet. I tied off the dinghy to a palm next to a tiny trail that lead into the bush. It is truly amazing to step into a place you’ve never been before, and yet not only know that you’ve been there before but strangely, though not startling, that I recognised people along this path and that they recognised me showing welcoming nods. The trail led to a small village and the people seemed to stroll in a cadenced grace of motion. They were in a mix of complexions, all dressed in loose whites going about their business with a general expression of alertness that I interpreted as something about to happen. I noted again that the clothing they wore was in various stages of cleanliness or age. But they all wore white without anything contrasting. White shorts, long pants, skirts, sarongs, dresses, all white. Even the children wore white, though mostly stained from games and play. There was a laughter about the place, even in direction giving or conversation that made me smile. My first thoughts were that this was a religious community of some sort. My next thoughts were shocked by my name being repeated in greeting. ‘Afernoon, Cop’n Piktorne’, a little girl, bowing from the head in passing, said merrily. ‘Good Afternoon, Capitan Pickthorne’, an older man said raising an open palm and bowing slightly. A string of small fish were dangling from his other hand as he passed along. A group of children ran across my path giggling at some pursuit in which they were engaged. The cobbler making sandals, the woman selling vegetables, the people sitting under the shade of a round twig thatched roof talking all reminded me of people I thought, no, I was sure with whom I was familiar. My head heated. The sun was relentless. I went over to the shade where a group sat talking under a thatched roof. ‘Hablan Ingles, Señores?’ I asked standing in the sun in front of their smiling faces. ‘Why yes,’ a white-whiskered man responded, nodding to me and giving me his full attention with a curious stare and parted lips, ‘we do, Capitan Pickthorne.’ ‘Do I know you, sir?’ I asked directly. ‘Why yes, you do, Capitan,’ he smiled quizzically, ‘you know all of us, maybe you... have forgotten us, but... but time eventually chafes the untruths.’ He invited me into the shade and introduced me, or it seemed he was reintroducing me to the group who were seated on stiff straight back thatch chairs in a loose semi-circle. One man out of the group of seven arrested my attention with his smiling eyes. He was introduced as Capitan Alejandro Grande. I was informed that Capitan Alejandro was captain/owner of a trading sloop and a great dancer. The others, all men at least in their fifties and the soft mix of skin colours, turned out to also be great dancers with a couple being introduced as both great musicians as well as great dancers. ‘Capitan Pickthorne,’ Capitan Alejandro spoke, ‘why do you not see the village... then please return to this shady spot... we still have refreshments awaiting your return.’ They all smiled in a warm excited manner at me and in agreement with the captain. I dug in my pack and handed Captain Alejandro my rum bottle. They all beamed at the gesture and some grunted laughs as older men sometimes do. The village passageway softly curled as a snail’s shell, the apex being the older men’s shaded spot. I walked along the homes, each raised a few feet from the earth on mahogany trunks. They were well constructed huts or palapas of thatch roofed, most contained a single rooms with divisions and were white washed thatch and daub rounded structures. A smaller model was also raised above the ground for food storage. Each property was spaced at least 12 meters apart. Vegetables greened the borders of the buildings to the mixing with a neighbour’s growth. Orderly rows of greens, spinach, chilis, tomatoes, yams, zucchini, various beans, berries, ranging trees of mango, papaya, tamarind, sweet and sour sop, and banana palms waved to the slight of breezes, dwarf coconut trees formed the actual property lines. The properties were neat, a rubbish fire here and there. Many of the people seemed to be waiting for me. They stood in family poses in front of their homes, each welcoming into their property and their homes. I went into the first three more out of courtesy than curiosity. They were very simple inside, with one wall dividing a comfortable cooking and eating area with sleeping spaces. The thatched twig sidings, painted white, provided shade from the sun, and allowed a breeze to pass through the gaps in the mud daubed thatch work. Being elevated provided a coolness to the floors where they had laid grass mats which seemed to direct air upward to my feet. Their choices of mattresses or thick cotton mats, chairs of fat pillows, curtains or shutters were the only distinctions I could detect. Generally each home was an external duplicate of the others. This was a very organised community. My slightly developed curiosity waned after the third one and I only token glanced into others that had a different entrance design or windows... something that would draw my immediate attention. By the end of the passage I was drenched in sweat, the birds screamed too loudly, the children were too impulsive, the sky was too white, the smiles somehow too loud. My shirt was taken off gently. I was sponge washed, towel dried. A white shirt was slipped over my head and extended arms.. A simple shirt with a slit in the top for my head and of a soft cotton fabric for my comfort. My shorts and underpants were taken off and I was sponged again and dried. Loose white cotton trousers were pulled on me and belted firmly in place by a thick leather belt with a large silver rectangular buckle. A wide brimmed hat was placed on my head, its swooping brim sheltered my shoulders and head from the sun. I adjusted the fit, feeling refreshed. A drink of clear liquid was handed me in a half coconut shell and I gulped it down. All of this bathing and clothing was accomplished with happy chatter, even jokes and laughter. I did not feel I was in any way being ridiculed. It felt as though the people were simply at work making light of what happened to them on the way there. I thanked those who had washed and clothed me and walked over to the village border of rice fields. The smell of the tall grasses overwhelmed me. I was in a complete state of smiling. Probably if I were on a city street I would have been labelled a fool grinning for no apparent reason. There, I simply joined my hosts who were mostly smiling at something or leading up to a smile or just coming off one. And it was not the kind of smile that you show at a cocktail party or because of listening to a comedian, or a good poet... it was just some kind of happiness inside that created the feeling and set the features. Strange one, I thought, you look for reasons to smile to be happy and you never find a consistent one... you find yourself happy and you feel you have to explain it. Poof, I said to myself, I can’t think of the whys or the feeling will go poof... this is it is all. The drumming started and became stronger, the melody more defined, a doo dee doo bop doo dee doo bop. I half stumbled, half trotted around back through the passage way, looking probably like a Tarot Fool and just like one not caring through an innocence in feelings that lightened my chest and straightened my back and pulled me toward the low sky. I felt that the clouds sent invisible fingers that pulled or pushed me. I was there but not. I was a passenger in my own body. At the shaded hut of the older men my meandering stopped. I did not see them. I could not anything until I entered and the darkness dissolved to show a room not unlike my family’s room with a rounded couch, with a small cocktail table in front and an opened book lay on the table. But, there was an elevated open fire pit that sent a stream of smoke upward with a sweet smell on one side of a centre pole that supported the roof. Mats and pillows lay strewn upon a light cotton rug. Kitchen utensils were hung neatly along a wall. A long iron bar stood upright, implanted in a hole in the rug near the pit. Books lined a curving four shelved bookcase. A scorpion ran across my path. The scorpion was awash in a ray of sunlight, crouched openly near the pole as if hiding. My feet were dusted from the walk and my ankles had sweat streaks marked brown in the dust on my dried skin. I looked at the palms of my hands as though they were new to me. Soiled dark in their sharply defined creases. Small and large mounds adding emphasis to the muscle underneath. Ready for any work, chore or pleasure that needed the contact for the touch I wanted to give. Around the palm and the light hued flesh of my fingertips there was a glow of golden richness that was tanned deeply. I looked around me at the smiling and grinning faces of the older men and others and a growing rumble of a chant. I looked at tall rice stalks waving through the window, gold-headed, green-bladed, the sun at it’s last rays laid on the bristles encasing the rice heads. Turning back again a great woman stood before me in the darkness of the poled hut. I started to understand some myriad of associations affecting me. But, it was as though other knowledges were passing me by. The great woman stood in front of me and sprayed me with liquid air. I inhaled as much as I could. ‘We are the clowns,’ she said to me and to white swaying figures around me, ‘the true buffoons of the Almighty Lords. They play with us and if we are aware of the game it is then possible to piece together some of the rules. The Lords might want you to play consciously, and then they will make the rules available... only the rules will be in their language and you will have to make a game of translating or absorbing their language. But you know their language is not to be interpreted, only absorbed.’ My heart was pounding rapidly, drowning out the drum-sea waving rhythms. Grains of light were rising speckled along the pole’s path into the darkness of the tent. I floated higher, feeling presences brushing through and about my body. ‘The cowardliness’, a voice within me softly spoke, ‘in us is not a false one. One that says we should find that spot before we get too old and settle upon that spot until we die a natural death, that is after living a natural life in that one spot.’ The darkness lightened into browns and golds that separated each fibre of the thatched roof. I was again with my feet on the earth, the ground pulsated the rhythm of my heart. ‘We are cowardly’, the voice resumed as I defined each golden hued palm braiding, ‘in that march toward the depth in our real being. Many other levels come our way and reached, only then can we absorb enough to be on our way to the grand threshold.’ I was smoking a black pipe, a top hat nudged, unbalanced on my head. I had a long black skirt on. It had big white dots. I had a tuxedo tailed jacket over my bare chest. My cane, which I swirled eloquently overhead, was the colour of my skin tipped with glowing silver. I wanted money that the people gave me in bills and coins which I stuffed greedily into my pockets. I wanted a bottle which appeared in my hand, I swallowed and sprayed air on the smoke pit and into adjoining mouths. People became clear. I could identify facial features, individual gestures, rings, bracelets then they became a swirling mass once more... except for one. The great woman danced for me. Her eyes were closed and she was lovely. Her body undulated pulling at my loins. I twirled my stick above us and circled her bringing her urgent body to mine, slipping past her, pulling her to me, slipping past. People threw coins and bills in the air and at my feet. She was racked with sensual spasms that lifted her off one foot, almost falling she would stomp down that foot to gain the other foot and again tilt to falling, then the other way she would go. My cane was pointing first this way, then that and she would follow to the wild beat of my heart. I stopped her, willed her still, willed her back bent head just above the ground. I lifted the skirt of her dress and the soft layers of her petticoats. Her lushness was thrust toward me. I opened my loose fly and placed my hardness upon her clitoris, pulling backward and forward., rubbing it with my urgency. She shook. I inserted slowly to the full and moved into an exploding darkness of dull luminescence. Instead of feeling spent, emptying , I felt as though I was pulling out her juices with me filling. She was on the ground asleep. I was twirling my cane, comets trailed the tips. I was happy, like a child who was an adult. The great woman again danced in front of me. The great woman was now dressed in billowy white blouse and trousers and had jumped up to then down from the ceiling. She danced before me with a concerned expression on her smooth face. A primary blue sash cut into her blouse and pants joining them to a narrow waist. Her long raven hair was matted, streaming black seaweed. She pointed to my crotch and my protruding organ. I quickly tucked it back in and closed my fly, my passions suddenly sapped. I was tired, barely able to keep my eyes open. My cane was gone and I was again dressed in loose whites. I felt ashamed of the wild nastiness I had enacted. I was ashamed in front of all these people as witness. But, the drums still paced and my heart again throbbed replacing the drumbeat with my own cadence. I smelled the sea but could not see it, knowing that I was well inland. I looked into the great woman’s eyes, unable to speak but willing my concern about being landlocked to her. She smiled. ‘Trouble is a voyage by land’, I heard a woman’s from behind me. I turned and saw nobody, turned back and the great woman was gone. I was alone on my cot under our tree.

(WP) The Golden Years She was awoken by the phone ringing shrilly. Normally, she and Henry were in bed by 9:00 PM, at the latest. But the night before had been long and strenuous. She wondered if they were getting too old for this gig. She refused to get a cell phone; she nor her husband, Henry, could figure out how the darn things worked. No, they were perfectly fine with a landline, thank you very much. Eleanor was greeted by a mad cacophony of voices, and she found herself smiling. “Happy 75th birthday, Mom!” Her daughter, Tessa, chirped into the phone. She could hear her grandchildren in the background, squabbling. “We have a surprise for you and Daddy later. Is it okay if we bring the kids?” “Of course, you can bring them!” Eleanor replied, laughing. “You know your father and I, the more the merrier.” Henry was already out of bed, and Eleanor finished up the conversation with her daughter. “Timothy and his kids are coming also. We’ll see you later, Mom! We love you!” Eleanor put the phone back into its cradle, putting her feet in a pair of baby blue slippers. “Henry! The children are coming over later to see us! What are you up to?” She found her husband in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. There was a bowl of oatmeal already sitting on the table, studded with raisins and bananas. Sitting beside it on a saucer was a cupcake, frosted with the number 75 in the icing. “I was making breakfast for my favorite person,” Henry told her, smiling so widely his dark eyes crinkled up at the corners. “Everyone deserves to be made breakfast on their birthday. Especially their 75th!” Eleanor found herself blushing. Really, she was too old for all of this fuss. But she couldn’t deny she was secretly pleased. She sat down and ate the cupcake first, relishing the sweetness. Normally, she ate healthy, all the time, but she figured that since it was her birthday, she would make an exception. “I asked for the day off,” Henry told her, sitting across from her and eating his cereal. “I don’t know if we’ll actually get it, but it was worth a shot.” He shrugged. At a year younger than Eleanor, he was still spry and fit. After all, their job demanded it. And family or not, there were very few breaks. They both enjoyed their jobs, especially in their prime, but she found herself wondering, once again, if they should’ve hung up their capes a few years ago. What about their retirement? “Thank you, Henry,” Eleanor said, and he beamed in reply. “I love you, Ellie.” \*\* Soon, the house was abuzz with the sounds of shrieking children, crying, and laughter. Eleanor didn’t mind. With her and Henry, it was too quiet, even for her. Tessa and Timothy were in the kitchen, putting several wrapped gifts on the table. Tessa was sipping a cup of tea, and Tim was nursing a beer. They were talking, while their spouses focused on wrangling the children. Everyone insisted that Eleanor not lift a finger; her children had even brought her lunch from her favorite café. She sat at the table with her food, eating contentedly, lulled by the controlled chaos around her. Then the phone rang, and Henry answered it. Immediately, Eleanor could tell it wasn’t good news. “Yes. Yes, sir. Okay, sir, we’ll be right there.” He hung up, and looked at Eleanor. “We’ve got a problem at work.” She had a feeling he’d been about to say that. But saving the world never stopped, not even for an old woman’s birthday.

Katrina watches as the daylight vanishes from the surface of the earth. Her balcony gave an amazing view of the mountains, which she loved seeing the sun shine upon them as it rose. Knowing that the light shining meant it was a new day. New chances, new opportunities. It signifies hope. No matter how long or cold the night is, the shining light gives warmth and an end to that long night. Katrina thought sunsets were beautiful too but felt as though sunsets were grim and dark omen. That it signified an end. She headed back inside and got herself ready for bed. Katrina is washing her face in the bathroom when she hears Ring Ring.... Ring Ring... Katrina runs and picks up the phone. The number is one she feels is familiar, but can't determine who it is. “Hello?” she says, sounding confused. “Hey, Katrina? It’s Joey from Biology 109.” Joey says. Katrina perks up, she remembers how sweet and nice he was to her. “Joey! How have you been?! And please, call me Kat.” She says slowly walking back to the balcony. “I’ve been well! I just can't believe how quick the time flew by! How have you been? What have you been up to since graduation? Last I heard you were working for WelldyneRx.” He says. “Yes!” Kat says, sitting down on the chair. She quickly gets up and does a little run to get a blanket. “The past 2 years there have been amazing and they’ve given me a pay raise already! What about you?” Joey goes silent. “Joey?” Kat says concerned. “Are you there?” Joey finally speaks up. “I-I’m here Kat.” He says hesitantly. “These past two years have been hard but things are finally getting better.” Kat looks up at the sky. She can’t see much but she sees it’s dark. “I’m sorry to hear that, Joe. Mind if I ask what was wrong?” “I have been in a dark place lately. I had lost my job with the pharmaceutical company I worked for. I lost my fiance. I lost a lot of my close friends. I struggled for a bit but with my family’s support, they showed me the light.” Joey replies. Kat is shocked. “Oh, Joey I’m so sorry. I am always here if you need anything!” She says. “Actually, that's why I had called.” Joe says hesitantly. A bright light shines in the corner of Kat’s eye. She looks up at the sky and this time finds it’s the moon. “Wow,” She says outloud without realizing. “Too much at once?''Joey says. “Oh no, not at all Joey! I just didn’t think life could be so harsh,” She says. “It can be indeed.” Joey says, laughing softly. “So I, uh, was wondering.” He pauses “Wow. The stars are absolutely beautiful tonight. Can you see them Kat?” Kat looks up. “Nope. Just the empty void of the universe.” she says with a laugh. “Do you have any outside lights on?” Joey asks. “I do, should I turn them off?” she asks. “Yes!! And then in a couple of minutes the stars will start to shine brightly for you too!” Joey explains. Kat, who is already skeptical of Joey, gets up and turns the outside light off. She texts her upstairs neighbor and asks them to do the same. “Done. Now I wait.” Kat says. “Awesome!” Joey says. There is an awkward pause for a couple of seconds. “What did you want to talk about Joey?” Kat asks. “I just wanted to ask you something.” He says. Joey takes a pause before he asks his question. “It’s a few questions actually. What were your thoughts on me? Like, when we took classes together?” He says nervously. “Oh, I thought you were a super sweet guy who was always pushing himself and others to be better.'' She says. “I also thought you were an amazing party host.” Kat teases. Joey lets out a laugh. “I did throw a couple of good parties,” he says jokingly. “How’s that sky looking?” Kat looks up. “Oh wow!! I see the little lights! That's amazing!!” She said, sounding surprised. She stares in awe at the small but bright lights in the sky. They’re a faint light but they’re captivating. “Kat? Kat? Are you there?” Joey asks, sounding concerned. Kat hears plates clattering on his end of the line. “Yeah, I’m still here. Just in awe a bit,” she laughs softly. “Did you just finish dinner or something? I hear plates clattering over there.” “Oh uh.” Joey pauses mid sentence. “Yes. I just had some friends over and that’s actually what made me think of you.” Kat shifts in her seat. Suddenly, the phone disconnects. “Thank god.” Kat says softly. She gets up and heads back into the house. She heads to the front door and makes sure it’s locked. She peeks through the window facing the shore. She sees the darkness of the night sky, the unknown part of what’s to come. “Only 12 hours till sunrise.” She says with a smile. She heads to the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee for tomorrow when her phone begins to ring. She picks it up without looking at the name. “Hey Kat!” Joey says. Kat grimaces. “Sorry about that! Bad service in the woods.” Joey finishes, letting out a laugh. Kat makes her way back to the balcony. “Haha! I wondered what happened to you!” Kat jokes. “What were your other questions?” She puts her feet up on the ottoman. “I was going to ask what you were doing next Friday night. I’m throwing a small gathering for people from our friend group.” Joey responds. Kat sits up and places her feet on the floor. “Oh my gosh! Did you invite Jamie?!” Kat says excitedly. Jamie was the only person Kat was upset that they lost touch with each other after their group graduated. “Oh, you didn’t hear?” Joey asks. His tone changed. “How do those stars look?” He asks Kat, trying to change the topic. Kat glances up quickly and looks back at the mountain, dark and gloomy. She then responds, “No I didn’t hear. And the stars look cool.” “Kat, look at the stars. The moon is out too. Full moon tonight.” Joey responds. Kat does a double take toward the sky. She stares at the sky, the stars shining ever so brightly. “Wow,” Kat says, gaping at the beauty of it all. “This is beautiful Joey.” “Yes. Yes it is. This is what Jamie said to do when sharing the news.” Joey responds. “Sharing what news?” Kat asks concerned. “Is Jamie okay?” “Jamie passed away after she was in a car crash.” Joey says sadly. “She passed away a month ago. She was unreachable after graduation because she was exploring the world. She had explored all 7 continents and sailed the 7 seas. She had been skydiving and zip lining on several journeys. Jamie wanted everyone to look to the stars to remember her and her story. And to be reminded that life is short, go out and enjoy it.” Kat begins to cry. She looks to the stars. Remembers the wonderful memories she had with Jamie. “Joey, how long have you known?” Kat finally asks, between sobs. “I just found out myself. At the dinner, that’s what it was about,” He responds. “They tried to send you an invite but I guess you never got one. Jamie’s brother told us.” “Are you still at the dinner?” Kat asks. “Yes, would you like to be on speaker?” Joey responds. “I’d love for that.” Kat responds gazing at the stars still. Her and the group talk for a couple more hours. They reminisce about times with one another and how much time has gone by. When they finally hang up, Kat looks at the time and realizes it’s only 3 hours till sunrise and that it was Saturday. She decided to stay up to watch the stars a little longer. Kat then starts talking to the stars as if Jamie were there. Telling Jamie how inspired she feels, Kat decides to take a couple months off of work to go off and adventure on her own. The stars begin to fade away, and Kat see’s the sky get bright again. She wanders through the house, grabs her coffee, and heads over to the window. She watches the sunrise with a new representation in mind for night. The sunset still represents an ending but the stars are the memories of what ended, what is no longer. She feels comfort and joy in knowing the thought of the sunset representing an ending and a sunrise a beginning. The thought of darkness isn’t so scary anymore. She enjoys the sunrise whilst drinking her cup of coffee. The rising sun is her new beginning. Her new start to a life she will enjoy.

Mindfulness vs. Mindlessness The room is a cool green, minty, or aquamarine, a colour which encourages the atmosphere of comfort and relaxation which, I believe, because I am told, is central to any mindfulness therapy. We are told to close our eyes and think about our bodies in relation to the chair, the floor, the ceiling, the window; anything really, except the other people in the room: those others (why are they here?) whose eyes dart about, who shift uneasily, who avoid eye contact. We are asked to imagine that we are walking beside a river, to imagine the sound it makes and the effect that this has upon us. O.K. A river...erm.. 'sparkles'. No. That's what water looks like when the sun shines on it. We are supposed to be thinking about walking beside and listening to a cool, gently- flowing river...and nothing else. This is the essence of Mindfulness. I surreptitiously glance at my phone and look for 'noises water makes'. Google obliges. ' A brook or stream or river babbles or ripples or even burbles. 'Burbles'... The word 'burble' was first used in the 1300's, and it probably comes from an imitation of the sound a rippling, bubbling brook makes.' I look up and catch a grimace (not a frown, just a glance of quickly-hidden disapproval) from our therapist, and I guiltily slip the phone back into my pocket and close my eyes...concentrate. On not concentrating on anything. Why didn't anyone tell me it's hard, really hard? I have been sent here to write an article for a magazine about natural health. Apparently, mindfulness is the key to lowering stress levels, getting to know our pain, connecting better, improving our focus, and being kinder to ourselves. Mindfulness may lessen the emotional experience of pain.... If you find, as many of us do they say, that you are 'stuck' in a cycle of wanting things not to be as they appear to be, you can realize that now is the time for you to be kind to yourself, to love and accept yourself. However, acceptance does not mean that you have to be happy all the time, that you have to become a hedonist and abandon your principles. You need to be willing to see things as they truly are in the present. You need to be open to and accept whatever you are feeling, thinking or seeing. This is the way forward, towards healing, and growth. I reach for my phone again (how am I going to get through this hour?) This time I type (in my pocket. Very proud of this skill...) 'How does mindfulness help?' The answer: 'With the correct application of mindfulness, specifically, the connections between the fear-responsive amygdala and rest of the brain weaken, while those between the emotionally-regulating prefrontal cortex and rest of the brain are strengthened......these changes suggest that mindfulness lessens reactive and fearful responses and enhances thoughtful appraisal of events .” But...aren't “reactive and fearful responses” useful survival techniques? When a giant hyena, a cave bear or cave lion or even a giant, predatory kangaroo loomed, burbling and slathering, out of the prehistoric mists, wasn't it precisely these responses (namely fear, followed by running away) that ensured the survival of the species homo sapiens? I drag myself back to the present. I do my best to be present. I'm perfectly willing to give it a try, if all I have to do is think about nothing but the noises a river makes when it burbles. However, I never dreamt it would be so difficult. Actually, I have never, to my knowledge, had any mental health issues. I'm just a little bit proud to state that I thrive under stress. Stress (such as that which is put upon a violin string) tones the mind, instead of letting it get flabby through under-use. I don't really get the part where you are supposed to think of nothing. When a thought comes into your head, you are supposed to accept it courteously, then let it go. One wonders...Why? 'Mindfulness is the basic human ability to be fully present, aware of where we are and what we are doing. Apparently, the ability to be 'mindful' is something we all naturally possess: we just have to tap into it, suspend judgment, approaching our experience (of nothing?) with warmth and kindness to ourselves and others. 'To be fully mindful, we need to learn how to disregard what is going on around us. You are being mindful when you bring awareness only to what you are directly experiencing through your senses, here and now.' Plucking up all my courage, when we are invited to share our first experiences of the practice of mindfulness, I venture a question: “Erm, excuse me ... but is it not a little... er, mind-numbing? And, I might add, impossible? I can't think of 'nothing'. Nature abhors a vacuum.” Our mentor fixes me with a crinkly-eyed and disciplined smile, and responds with the tiniest hint of condescension (or is that the impression just 'me', I ask,.. a trick of the mind?) He answers. “Might I say that our next session will lead us towards the power of meditation Meditation is a close relation of, or, might I say, a descendant of mindfulness. It is exploration. It is not a fixed destination. Your head doesn’t become vacuumed free of thought, totally undistracted. It becomes a special place where every moment is momentous, every consequence has consequences, every event is eventful. When we meditate, we venture into the workings of our minds: our emotions, our sensations, our thoughts. For example, we take time to pause and breathe when the phone rings instead of answering it. Today, we have taken the first steps towards this freedom from the oppression of the apparently urgent...” I suddenly feel ashamed and convinced of the sincerity of our crinkly-eyed mentor. He is genuinely helpful to many of those who hide their sadness in our complicated and perplexing world. I thank him, and, clutching my phone, I gratefully plunge out of the room, the silent room, into the vibrant world of bustling, noisy, multicultural and cosmopolitan London: resilient, aggressive, kindly: a world of museums, rivers and bridges, boats, birds, concerts, cakes and ice-cream. I decide to experience, directly, through my senses, here and now, all that is on offer.

It's almost seven in the morning. Stephan's lying on his bed with his eyes on his alarm. He's been awake for almost thirty minutes for now. He's just been staring at the alarm clock since then. He needs to be at his new work at ten o'clock. It's his second day as a call connector in Bangalore police department control room. The alarm starts ringing. Stephan sighs and gets off his bed. He goes to his kitchen and prepares his coffee. He walks towards the balcony with his coffee mug to watch the streets. He sees his neighbor Brad mowing his lawn. Both Stephan and Brad wave at each other and continue with their work. Stephan gets back in. On his way to kitchen Stephan passes through a window located beside his bed. There was an old warehouse located behind Stephan's house which was visible through that window. He was terrified of it because the warehouse was full of bats. Long time ago when he was a teenager his father threw his new phone into the warehouse because he was angry that Stephan was spending more time with it. When Stephan went inside it to get back his phone he was terrified by all the bats hanging through the ceiling. So he never went there again. Years passed and time's changed but Stephan always had his little fear towards the warehouse. Stephan looks at the clock and it's almost nine. He starts hurrying because he can't be late for work. He skips his breakfast and put on his clothes. He wears his shoes and floods towards the door to get out going. He locks the door from outside and starts walking but, suddenly he remembers something and decides to go back. He runs towards the door again and opens it. He goes in and takes his cellphone which he had forgotten. He comes outside and locks the door again and starts walking towards the street corner. Brad still mowing his lawn shouts laughingly " Late again, huh? ". Stephan - "You wish ". Both of them smile at each other and Stephan moves away. In the corner of the street Stephan sits waiting for his bus. Stephan looks at his wrist watch to know how late he is. Suddenly he hears a thud behind him. He looks back frightened. He sees a white old RV truck parking in front of the old warehouse. The driver gets off the vehicle and looks around, he sees Stephan staring at him with a complex expression on his face. The driver- " It's cool if I park my truck here for a while, right? " Stephan -" You don't seem familiar". The driver - "No I'm not sir, I'm just here to deliver a shipment". Stephan senses the bus arriving. Stephan (smilingly) - "Enjoy the city" Stephan gets on the bus and takes a seat. On the way Stephan starts to think of his work. He never wanted to work as a call connector. He had applied for the post of a police officer trice and he had failed each time. When he got the offer to work in the control room, he took the job because he knew that it was the only way he could work for the police. Working for police ment a world to Stephan as he thought that it was the bravest job. He was heartbroken when he failed all the tests but he believed this job was his new chance. That was before yesterday. Yesterday was Stephan's first day at work and he saw the absolute reality of how police actually works. He was very disappointed and disheartened by the fact that his seniors were so lazy. He started to drift towards his past life but he suddenly notices that his stop has arrived. He gets off the bus and walks in the Bangalore PD building and takes the elevator. The control room is situated in the seventh floor of the building. As he reaches his floor he takes a view at the scene of his work place. "Disgusting" he thinks to himself by looking at the computers and telephones that are in the room. He walks towards his chamber and plugs his cellphone in for charging. Gretta his co-worker sits on the chamber behind Stephan's and says "We have a problem ". Stephan looks annoyingly at Gretta and says " Now don't tell me that Captain Ribbon is mad at me because I'm seven minutes late". Gretta stares blank at Stephan's face and says laughingly "No, Laura was caught drunk yesterday in working hours". Stephan -" Laura? you mean the clerk?". Gretta - "Yes, and Captain's really mad at her. She might get fired". Stephan - "Well, good for her". Both Gretta and Stephan gets on their work. Every worker in the station starts getting calls. Calls of the whole city emergency affairs. They get call for every irregularities in the city including sewage, electricity, burglary, fire or anything. The employees often get tired at the end of the day by connecting tons of calls. Stephan puts his telephone down exhausted. He looks at the wall clock at the office. It's almost five in the noon. It's the end of the shift. He sighs and looks over at Gretta. She's still attending someone's call. Stephan checks over his personal phone and starts packing up. Suddenly his telephone starts to ring. Stephan gets annoyed. He looks at the clock. It's not five yet. He grunts and sits back in his chair. He picks the call and says in an annoyed tone "100, W h at's your emergency ?". He hears a disturbance in the call. "Hello, this is 100 what's your emergency please? ". Now he hears nothing. Just a plain silence. Stephan says loudly "Hello?". He again hears some disturbance in the call. He decides to disconnect the call but as soon as he was about to take the telephone off his ears, he hears a girl screaming "Help". Stephan is shocked. He gets pushed back by the anxiety. His quick panic catches Gretta's attention. She moves over to him. Stephan lashes out at the telephone " Hello? Can you hear me? hello". By that time the call had been disconnected from the other side. Stephan looks at Gretta with a confused face. He looks back at his telephone and tries to take out the call history in panic. Gretta - " Dude, what happened?". Stephan still looking for the history, explains what happened. Gretta laughs hysterically and says "Welcome to Bangalore PD". Stephan angrily stares at her and says "What? ". Gretta - " It might just be some teenagers trying to pullout a prank on us. Last week Tyler got some similar call and he sent a Officer Louis and his whole team to a location. Then they were told it was just a prank by a bunch of teenagers". Stephan shockingly asks "What happened then? ". Gretta - "Well, The pranksters were arrested and then they were bailed out by their rich parents. Captain was really mad at Tyler because he fell for a prank. Stephan still out of his breath says "Well that didn't sound like a prank to me. I could sense it". He looks at his telephone and says "Why wouldn't the history show up in this trash? ". Gretta points towards the clock and says " The shift has ended dude, the call history is saved in the servers. You can't get them out now. Only authoritarians have access to the server". Stephan shouts "What the hell?". Gretta says while calming him " Calm down buddy and don't shout, we both get fired if Captain hears any of this". Stephan says " I swear that sounded true. What if someone really needs help?". Gretta answers "It's your second day at work. Don't get soo tensed. The shift is over. Everyone's leaving the building. Probably you should too". Gretta walks towards the elevator and leaves. Stephan is still sitting in his chamber. He's still shocked with that tone of voice he heard from the call. Captain Ribbon walks in and sees Stephan sitting in his chamber. "Why are you still here? " Captain asks. Stephan stutteringly replies " I'm uhh working for over shift Captain". Stephan regrets saying that soon after he says that. Captain just stares at him for a moment. Captain- "Well, looks like its only you and Ms. Laura here tonight. Have a good night ". Captain Ribbon walks into his office and leaves with his briefcase. Stephan sits down on his chair with his hands up and eyes closed. Disgusted with himself he chants "I'm an idiot, I'm an idiot". Laura on the other side of the room laughs hysterically and says " Why would you do something so dumb?". Stephan angrily replies "Speaking of dumb, aren't you supposed to be fired?". Laura- "I am getting fired. But I have to work two shifts today to make it for paycheck". Stephan feels sorry for her and says "I'm sorry". Laura says smilingly "It's okay. I didn't think it was rude". Stephan asks her " Why would you drink alcohol in the working hours?". Laura - "Cuz I'm addicted. Do you have any problem with that young man? ". Stephan- " Do I look like I do?". Laura smiles and continues with her work. Stephan looks down and notices that he hasn't been getting any calls since the second shift started. Stephan - "Hey Laura! why am I not getting any calls now? ". Laura - "Oh! Well that idiot Ribbon has stopped the server at the end of first shift. Nobody's working for the second shift today but you showed up". Stephan - " What am I supposed to do now?". Laura - " Well I do the paper work but, if you really wanna work for Te second shift I can open the server again". Stephan freaks out and shouts exited "You have access to the server?". Laura replies frightened "Jesus Christ, watch your voice. It's just you and me in tears building so don't scream". Laura takes out a inhaler from her bag and takes two puffs. Stephan moves over to tell other side of the room near Laura's work table. Stephan - "I'm really sorry to freak you out but, do you have access to server? " Laura - "Well, yes but why?". Stephan's eyes fills with happiness and he says "Listen, can you please get me access to the call history of the last shift please?". Laura smiles hysterically and replies "Well, we'll get fired if we get caught doing that. The call history is not to be manipulated". Stephan interrupts her and says " Well I don't wanna manupulate it. I just want to note a contact number I received and you are getting fired tomorrow anyhow right?". Laura looks in Stephan's eyes for a moment and says "Alright, here's the access card. If you get caught, you stole from me. Alright? ". Stephan laughs and says "Deal. Now just one more favor. While I'm in the server cabin, just warn me if anyone comes in the building". Laura - "Don't you worry about that. At this the of the night, not even ghosts come in this building". Stephan thanks her and gets inside the server cabin. He swipes the access card and activates the BPD server. He then starts the access computer and opens the call history. He selects his cabin number in the layout to obtain the call records of his system. He gets a spreadsheet on the computer screen showcasing all the calls he got in his first shift today. He tries to find his last recived call but he sees that list is mixed up. So he decides to search for the time of call. He remembers that he saw clock before picking up the call. It was almost five. So he searches for calls from the relative time. He gets four numbers in the time between 4:55 to 5:00. He takes a photo of the numbers through his phone and shuts down the server. He gets out of the server cabin and sees Laura working with her papers. Stephan - " You won't speak about this with the Captain, would you? " Laura smiles and replies "Not if you buy me a beer sometime". Stephan smiles at her and leaves the building. Stephan looks the photo he took and tries to call the last number. Stephan knew what to do now. He had a friend in a private networking call centre who he knew could help him. His friend's office was twelve blocks away from the PD building so Stephan started walking faster. Stephan was happy and proud after a long time because he was doing some real police work rater than sitting in front of a computer. Stephan finally reaches his friend's office. He walks in and looks around for his friend. He sees him and calls out "Daniel!". Daniel hears Stephan's voice and looks at him. He walks near Stephan. Daniel -"What are you doing here in this time?". Stephan - "Same as you. working". Daniel gives a wierd looks and asks "You're working on field? You're supposed to be connecting calls right? ". Stephan interrupts him and says " I need a favor". Daniel -"What do you want?". Stephan -"I need you to track a call for me". Daniel laughs and says " Dude, you work in a control centre of BPD. You can tap a call faster than us". Stephan annoyingly says " Yeah. But I wanna track it not tap it. The call's already done ". Daniel -"Oh, okay. follow me". Daniel takes Stephan to his office cabin and opens his computer. Daniel -" Give me the phone number". Stephan opens the photo he took earlier and says "Here, track the last one". Stephan passes the phone to Daniel. Daniel notes the number and runs a check on it. Daniel - "Alright buddy, now I can only say which tower is the call connecting to". Stephan with an annoyed look says "Well, what good is that?". Daniel sighs in dissapointed and says "Well genius, if we find out which tower the network's coming from, we can find out the area the phone's located in". Stephan - " Alright then. Find it". Daniel - " Okay, so. have you tried calling back to this number?" Stephan says "Obviously. It's switched off". Daniel -" What's it all about anyway?". Stephan explains the whole story. Daniel's computer makes a noise. Daniel looks towards the monitor and says "Looks like the track is completed. The tower from which the call was connected was 'ZER6' tower which is located in Tangent street". Stephan got even more curious and says "Tangent street, that's my neighbor hood . Where in Tangent street?" Daniel - "Slow down officer. I can't find out anything else about this call because it's an old call and a short one too". Stephan gets depressed by the fact that he can't know anything else but still mocks his friend and says "That was not really a valuable information from you ". Stephan and Daniel laughs and walks towards the door. Stephan -"Maybe I'll try calling it one more time". Stephan reaches the phone and tries to call the last number again. Stephan -" Daniel can you recite me the last number so I can dial it?" Daniel walks towards his monitor and recites the last phone number. Stephan shouts "Are you kidding me?". Daniel asks with a confused tone "What?". Stephan takes out the photo he took in the server and verifies the number. Daniel still confused asks "Dude, what? ". Stephan - "It's my number. The number of the phone my day threw in the warehouse when I was thirteen. But how? ". Stephan looks at Daniel. Daniel's still confused. Stefan runs towards the door and leaves in a blink. Daniel tries to stop Stephan but he leaves too quickly. Stephan started running towards Tangent street. He knew there was something wrong in the warehouse. Stephan finally reaches the street corner. He leans forward on his knees to catch is breath. He looks at the warehouse. It looks like a horror house. Although he was terrified of the warehouse he wanted to go in because this mystery was killing his brains. He opened the door of the warehouse and turned his mobile flash on. Some bats flew right in Stephan's face. Stephan fell into the ground terrified. He crawled in keeping his head down. He saw a white thing in the dim light of his phone. As he moved closer, he was shocked by what he saw. He saw the white truck inside the warehouse the same one he saw this morning parked in front of the warehouse. Stephan decided to do what he has to do. He took a metal rod and broke into the RV. There was absolute darkness in there. He turned on the lights and he saw a small girl with his old phone in her hand connected to a charging cable. The girl was bruised and she was unconscious. Stephan called Laura immediately and asked her to inform Captain Ribbon about this. He carried the girl outside and waited for few minutes and then police arrived with an ambulance. Stephan's old phone was taken away as evidence and the driver was caught in the nearby motel. Captain Ribbon comes towards Stephan and says "Overshift huh?". Stephan looks at Captain's eyes and fearlessly says "Prank calls huh? ". Both of them stares at each other for a moment and then laughs together. Captain Ribbon - "Good work " He moves towards the ambulance. Stephan gets a call from Daniel. Daniel - " Dude where are you?". Stephan -" I figured it". Daniel -"No you didn't. The call you asked me to track didn't even connect to your telephone during your shift. You just missed the call completely and the number was recorded in the history. The call you picked up was not that one. In the photo you took you can see the timing of the server. It's been setup five minutes early. So the server has been shut down five minutes earlier before you even got the call. So we don't really have the number that you wanted".

Alma Perdida stared at the abstract popcorn ceiling above her. With her arm extended out, she finger-painted the air, trying to connect the popcorn dots. Alma was waiting for a figure to reveal itself. Twirling her fingers, she finally lined up a shape to which she thought resembled a face. Smirking and releasing a small breath of triumph, Alma sat up from her squeaky twin sized mattress. Alma made her way into her bathroom --- a whole three steps to the right of her bed. As she flipped on the bathroom light, the mirror revealed dark bags under her eyes and quite a messy bun. Alma stared at herself for a solid minute. She skimmed her cheeks for clogged pores and glared at the mole that made its home above her left eyebrow. Intoxicated with her negative body image, she sighed and reached towards the cabinet for her medication. As her fingers grazed the prescription bottle, a bing came from her phone. Alma left the bathroom and looked at the notification. The screen read, “Happy Birthday Onawa! A Gift from Your Local Coffee Shop!” A grin grew across Alma’s face. It was not her birthday today, but she decided she would accept the gift of a free coffee on behalf of Onawa. Alma slid on a pair of sandals, grabbed a soft brown jacket from the floor and headed out of her cramped studio apartment. As Alma made her way down Fugue Avenue, she scanned the street, and happily watched the people around her. She glanced at the store to her right for a brief millisecond, and before her attention was focused back to the street, her gaze returned to the store window. Alma stopped walking and curiously looked through the glass. There was a middle aged woman staring back at her from inside the store. The lady was in a strange outfit --- a fancy coat, pink pajama pants, and flip-flops. Her hair resembled a bird’s nest --- coarse with stray hairs everywhere coming out of a bun. Alma was confused as to who let the lady leave the house looking like that. She waved at the lady awkwardly, and the lady waved back at the same instance. Alma smirked at the timing of their wave, and turned back to the sidewalk ahead of her. The coffee shop was two stores away. This was Alma’s first time ever going to the shop, since she does not drink coffee. As she opened the door, a familiar sounding whimsical alarm went off. Alma quickly scanned the shop. There were three mirrors on each wall, with typical coffee shop art hanging in between. From behind the coffee shop’s counter, there was a young man named Guia, who wore a 5 o’clock shadow. It was Guia’s one month long attempt to grow facial hair, as he was trying to get rid of his notorious baby-face. “Good morning, Onawa! Happy Birthday!” exclaimed Guia. Was it possible that Onawa came to claim her birthday beverage at the same time as Alma? She looked behind herself, but there was no one else entering the shop. Alma was confused, but pretended to know the young worker. She smiled back at the baby-faced man and stared at the menu. The mocha latte seemed to pop out at her, but she was unsure what that drink was. “Typical mocha latte?” Alma’s eyes widened. This worker must be a mind reader of some sort. She nodded to the mocha latte suggestion. Guia grinned and began to make the birthday drink. As Alma was waiting for her beverage, she glanced along the coffee shop walls and she was surprised that her eyes met someone. Another customer must have walked in, but Alma did not recall hearing the whimsical alarm. She must have been preoccupied with the menu at the new customer’s time of arrival. The new customer had a mole that was hard to miss on their brow. Alma tried not to stare at it for courtesy reasons, but the mole stared back at her. Bird nest styled buns must be of a new style, because the customer was wearing one. Strangely, the customer had on a brown coat with pink pajama pants and flip-flops... It was the same lady that Alma encountered through the store window. Alma was trying her best not to be rude and stare, but she could not help to judge the lady. What was bothersome, was that anytime Alma looked away, the stranger would look away too. It was as if the stranger was mirroring her movements. “Fancying our new mirrors? We thought we could give the shop a more modern vibe... By the way, here is your latte! I added 3 pumps of sugar free vanilla--- just how you like it, Onawa.” Guia handed Alma the latte. Alma slowly grabbed the drink. The worker must have been mistaken; she was not looking at a mirror, she was looking at the stranger --- and she had no idea what 3 pumps of sugar free vanilla meant. Alma turned away from Guia and once again caught eyes with the mirroring stranger. The lady now had a drink in her hand. Alma wondered if the stranger had a drink this whole time. Maybe she overlooked the beverage due to the crazy outfit of the stranger. Alma looked away from the stranger, making eye contact with only the ground, and walked quickly to the shop door. Leaving the stranger behind her, Alma took a sharp right turn and started walking. She noticed that people were staring at her, but she did not understand why. She nervously took a sip of her latte. Her taste buds rejoiced and she had a sense of familiarity. The latte was a perfect choice for her “birthday” beverage. Ignoring the weird stares, Alma came across a bench which faced an empty store building that was recently a boutique. As Alma made her way to the bench, her eyes met a reflection in the store window. With her mouth wide open, she could not believe what she saw. Was it just a coincidence, or was she being followed? Alma was looking at the stranger once again, and the stranger was looking right back, mocking her with the gaping mouth. “Are you following me?” remarked Alma blatantly. The stranger did not respond, but still mirrored her movements. Alma’s heart fluttered. She made her way closer to the stranger, and the stranger walked towards her. Alma’s sandals got caught beneath her, making her trip and hit the ground at an abrupt pace. After realizing that she tripped on her sandal, she looked right and left for the stranger, but the stranger was gone... Alma saw that a sandal was a couple feet away from her. It flung off of her foot during her journey to the ground. While she stared at her exposed foot, her eyes made their focus to her legs. She was wearing pink pajama pants. Strange, because Alma did not remember putting them on. Alma flinched as something was poking her. She slid off her fancy brown jacket and noticed that she had a name tag on. It became unpinned and was softly stabbing her chest. She ripped off the name tag and blankly stared at the name. It read: ONAWA. Alma shuddered and flung the name tag, which conveniently landed in a puddle. With instant regret, Alma folded herself over to fetch the name tag. She wanted to make sure she read it right. As she reached for the name tag, Alma peaked at her reflection. In the puddle, the stranger looked back at her, with the monstrous bun, the mole, and bags under both eyes. The reflection was not a stranger at all. It was Alma...who was in fact Onawa. Onawa let out a shriek, as she was unaware that she was suffering a psychological episode of dissociative fugue.

"Welcome to Valentine Password, the game show in which couples compete for the length of one dinner. Three couples are given a free dinner at a fancy restaurant, but they are unaware of hidden cameras throughout the establishment. If either one in the couple says a series of three password phrases, they'll win an all-expenses paid trip to Bora Bora. Let's get to know tonight's couples." "Couple number one has been dating for two and a half years; they met on a dating website called "The Magic Touch," and they're presently looking for apartments where they might move in together; meet Carl and Becky." "Couple number two has been married for five years and have been together for eleven years; they have no children but a cat named Calisto that they adore; one is a lawyer, and the other is an unemployed actor; meet Jeff and Simon." "Couple number three has been together for forty years and will be celebrating their 32nd wedding anniversary next month; they met in middle school and have two children together; meet Dan and Alice." "The Valentine's Passwords for tonight are "thinking," "lucky," and "I love you." A couple will receive a point if one of them says a phrase. They win the trip if they say all three! Let us join the dinner that is already underway," said the host. Carl and Becky are sitting in a restaurant, staring into each other's eyes. They don't even notice the waiter has brought them some bread to snack on. "Something happened today that totally made me think of you," DING, Becky continued, "Jennifer, at work, got flowers for lunch from her new boyfriend; I remember when you did that for me on my birthday." "That's funny, sweetie; I'm the luckiest man alive to have you at my side." DING "That was unexpected; Carl and Becky have taken a surprisingly strong lead, gaining two points in one conversation. Let's check in on couple number two, shall we?" Said the host. Jeff and Simon have already placed their orders and are settling in. "I am completely stumped by this case today; an office manager was found with $10,000 from his office and was arrested for stealing, but he said he didn't steal the money." "Why are you stumped?" "He's a pillar in his community; why would he leave it in her car for all to see, and how did the secretary know he was the one who took the money?" "It reminds me of The Crucible, a play I once performed in, in which a man has an affair with the maid and is set up for a crime by his mistress when she is fired. I'd examine the secretary." "An affair, I didn't think of that. I'm lucky you were in that play!" DING "Couple number two is off to the races, so they get one point. Let's have a look at couple number three," said the host. Dan and Alice haven't said anything to each other since they arrived, and they're now finishing their soup and bread. "Oh no, the main course is about to arrive, and Dan and Alice have barely spoken. What's this? It looks like Dan might be about to say something...." "Pass the salt?" "Welp, it appears that Dan and Alice will have difficulty winning that trip; they have 0 points, and the dinner is just about halfway through. Let us return to Carl and Becky and see if they can get that last point," said the host. Carl and Becky are now eating their main course when all of a sudden; Carl receives a call on his cell phone. Becky gets sight of the screen, which reads, "Angela." "Who is that?" "It isn't anyone. Just someone I work with." "How come you've never brought her up before?" "It's never come up, and she's new there anyway." "Why don't you take the call? Are you afraid to pick up the phone in front of me? Are you scared of what she'll say?" "We're eating dinner; I'm not going to answer the phone while we're eating." "Call her back; it must be very important if she's calling after hours." "Can't we simply eat? I swear you're insane; you get jealous over the smallest things that mean nothing!" "Call her back, Carl!" "I'm not calling her back!" Becky throws her napkin on the table. "I need to go the bathroom," Becky says as she storms off. "Uh oh, with only one point to earn to win the trip, Carl and Becky have hit a little snag in the game. Let's check in with couple number two once again," said the host. Jeff and Simon have now got their main course, Jeff is eating a steak, and Simon is eating chicken. "This chicken is quite excellent. When I was in A Streetcar Named Desire, they served me this horrible dry chicken during the dinner party scene. If they had given me this chicken, I wouldn't have minded so much." "Uh-huh." "You know, the community theater is bringing back A Streetcar Named Desire next season; I feel like I could still play Stanley; maybe I should audition." "Uh-huh." "You don't think I should audition?" "I never said that." "You never encourage my acting; do you want me to work as a store clerk or something?" "I didn't say that, either." "You didn't have to; every time I talk about my career, I know precisely what you're thinking." "Are you going to tell me what I'm thinking now?" "What are you thinking then?" "You have to be real sometimes, too. You haven't had any parts in over a year, you can't reach your agent, and the last time you were paid to perform was in a toothpaste commercial over two years ago." "I don't want to talk about this anymore; just eat your steak." "That's quite a turn of events for Jeff and Simon. They scored a point very fast during the dinner, but they also encountered a major hurdle in winning that trip. Let's check in with Alice and Dan once more," said the host. Alice and Dan also have their entrees and eat quietly, enjoying their meal and soaking in the ambiance. Dan finished his Bolognese and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "How was it, hun." "It was good, yours?" "A little gamey." "Oh." "Well, that conversation is riveting; let's check back in with Carl and Becky," the host said. "I'm going to take an Uber to my sister's house tonight; feel free to invite over anyone you want!" "You're insane; I thought we were watching the rest of that Netflix documentary?" "I don't know, why don't you call your whore and watch it with her!" "Yikes, what started out as such a promising dinner for Carl and Becky has turned into an utter disaster. Let's check in with Jeff and Simon, my odds-on favorites to win the trip, now," said the host. "You know what, the next time I perform, I just want you to stay at home and not think about it." "Great, next time you're cast as an audience member in an infomercial, I'll pass!" "That was one time!" "I think that's it for couple number two; yet another promising night has ended in disaster. I suppose we can check in with Dan and Alice; perhaps they can earn a point by accident," said the host. Dan and Alice finish their meal, and Dan pulls out his wallet to leave a tip. They stand up from the table without saying anything. Dan helps Alice by putting on her jacket; then Dan puts on his coat. "We were lucky to win this dinner; it was nice." DING "I was thinking to myself, you deserve a nice evening out." DING "Thank you, hun. I love ya." "I love you too, always and forever!" DING "Oh my god! In an upset that hasn't been seen since the "Miracle on Ice" in the 1980 Olympics, Dan and Alice have won the trip to Bora Bora! A couple that said no more than 15 words to each other the entire dinner won the game! It simply goes to show that after you've been together long enough, sometimes a few words are all you need.

Somewhere in the backwoods of Arkansas, thirty miles southwest of Hot Springs rests a quiet little town called Glenwood. Not much happens here, according to most peoples knowledge. However, this collection of short stories is not about your run of the mill common folk, and believe me they are just as real as they are surrealistically absurd. Most of these tales are the sum of highly intelligent and morally ambiguous individuals fueled by drugs, alcohol, and a strange sense of chaotic pack mentality, and I being fortunate and sober enough to bear testimony to these bizarre events. But don’t get me wrong, I am no innocent bystander amidst the chaos. Often times if you were brave enough you could find me somewhere in the fray, adding my own unique color to the sea of ambiguity. Due to some disconnect with the ways of the world, and their unwillingness to bend in the wake of society’s ever changing whims, they often found themselves in too deep and over their heads, but managing by some miracle to come out on top smelling like a rose. EARLY LESSONS. It is my belief there are three major events in a young boy’s life that let him know he is coming into his own as a man. 1 Losing your virginity. As a man the loss of your innocence marks you as an accomplished individual in the eyes of your peers. To the naive late bloomers you appear as a caterpillar that has emerged from a cocoon of wisdom with some other-worldly knowledge that you can’t acquire without firsthand experience. 2 Getting behind the wheel of a car alone. Nothing is more thrilling than the first few inches of pavement passing precariously between you and the barely functioning, half ton metal death machine, and the realization of the power you wield while careening down the black top. 3 The ultimate lesson. The third and probably most important, albeit least recognized event, is the epiphany that the people responsible for bringing you into this world do not have the infallible wisdom they believe themselves to possess. This tale being the nature of the third This story fell into my lap one mild fall evening after the whiskey had once again dampened our lips and freed our tongues from the chains of modesty. Cigarette smoke hung in the still night air like a looming fog, and the porch lights soft ambiance provided a contrast to the grating uproar that had begun around the small plastic table rattling dangerously around the wooden porch, threatening to spill the last of the ever dwindling manna that kept us in good spirits. Then suddenly a victor rose above the noise to claim his rightful crown as the evening’s story teller, and sole witness to the epic stupidity that befell him as a child. D. See, was a young boy around the age of five during this event. His father began a short drive home from a gentleman’s softball game. The 1973 Pontiac Ventura II had its wing vent open while the engine rumbled out in a low loping tone, barely minding the speed limit.Then out of nowhere, a thud emanated from the driver side wing vent, causing a generous application of the brakes. D. Sees’ father flipped on the cab lights to investigate the back seat before the vehicle managed to come to a complete stop. To his surprise a moderately sized screech owl had the misfortune of being sucked into the cars’ wing vents, and hurled into the back seat, where it lay dazed from the impact. Now any rational man would simply toss the creature out and keep driving, but that was far from what happened. For reasons known only to Mr. See, he captured the creature in his softball mitt and spent the rest of the drive home trying to figure out a way to profit from his new found avian friend. It wasn't until he had placed the poor feathery bastard in a cage and achieved a full night sleep did his long unforeseen dreams of being a falconer come to full fruition. Nearly by reflex I interjected in the face of the blatant ignorance that would soon come to pass. “You can’t be serious?” My glassy eyed cohort turned to me in his stupor, but the gleam in the back of his vision revealed the utmost sincerity with his reply. “I’m serious as cancer buddy.” A roar of laughter ensued from the crowd. “So what happened next?” Came an impatient slur from another intoxicated crew member on the edge of his seat. “I’m getting to that.” D. See said with some unusual clarity as he poured another shot to build dramatic tension. D. See kicked back the whiskey with ease, and then released a refreshing sigh, slapping the shot glass onto the table. “Roll me a fat one while I talk.” The group obliged, bringing forth the tribes designated joint crafter to work his dexterous magic into the item their temporary chieftain coveted so dearly. “Now where was I again?” D. See leaned back in his chair with a finger over pursed lips as his eyes fell back to that distant haze of nostalgia. Mr. See awoke that morning with a gleam in his eyes as radiant as the dawning sun. With the glee of a child on Christmas morning he hurried off to his work shed to prepare his “falconing attire.” This included the following: Bailing twine, an apron, and elbow length welding gloves that looked more like gauntlets. After securing the gauntlets with bailing twine Mr. See, was ready to begin training. The owl was ready too. It had spent the entire night stewing on the fact it had been flung into a cage that sat in the back of a rundown school bus, for reasons it could only begin to guess at. The owl heard the approach of Mr. See, and knew the plan it had concocted to make its daring escape were moments from inception. Mr. See opened the back door to the school bus and gingerly flipped the latch to the owls’ cage. The thing made no attempt to resist but kept a keen eye on Mr. See as it was lifted out of the wired prison. The owl made a quick assessment of the surroundings looking left, then right, then back to Mr. See, who was beside himself at this point. Then the creature unleashed its wild rage upon its captor all at once. It craned its neck around and bit through the welding glove with the force of a sledgehammer, latching itself to Mr. Sees’ thumb. The man howled in pain and tried to release the offending critter, wanting nothing more to do with it, but the thing refused to let go. Mr. See bolted through his front yard, arms flailing wildly, with the screeching bird in tow. At that point Mr. See found himself next to a large oak tree, and proceeded to beat the little bastard senseless against it until the enraged animal released his thumb. Finally, the owl unhinged its vice like grip and flopped to the ground where it shook off the daze. The owl ruffled its feathers as a last act of defiance before it flew off into the morning sunrise, leaving D. Sees father to lick his wounds.

Ten-year-old Hamesh sat at a table in his grandmother Bibi’s kitchen. He was reading one of Bibi’s books on magic, a subject Hamesh’s parents never allowed him to discuss while he was home. “Bibi is a powerful and wise sorceress,” they told him, “but her power comes from the Old World, which even she knows is dying. There is a reason she did not teach magic to her children.” Bibi didn’t teach magic to Hamesh either, but she did let him read her tomes and patiently answered his questions. He knew never to tell his parents about what he learned during his visits to Bibi’s cottage in the enchanted forest, but this silence with his parents was worth the treasure of the times he spent with his grandmother. Bibi, who always looked much livelier in her cottage than she did when visiting Hamesh’s home, was preparing dinner at the oven while Hamesh read. He was reading about a rare lizard whose scales could be used to fashion impenetrable armor when heard a wooden spoon clatter on the floor. “Bibi!” Hamesh cried, dropping his book and racing to his fallen grandmother. The old woman clutched her chest. “I must rest,” she whispered as Hamesh led her to the bedroom. “I’ll run to town and get a doctor,” Hamesh said after he put her to bed. “No,” she commanded. “I know what sickness ails me, and it can’t be healed by any human medicine. There is only one cure - you must find moldunberries in the forest.” “Moldunberries,” Hamesh whispered. Earlier that evening he had read about the miraculous healing properties of these berries. “Where do I find them?” The old woman shook her head. “I have seen moldunberries in this forest so I know there must be a bush somewhere, but I’ve never found it. Only the woodland creatures know where it is, and they are too scared of my power to reveal their secrets to me. But you... yes, you.” Bibi smiled at Hamesh. “They won’t be afraid of a small boy like you. You must convince them to tell you where to find the moldunberry bush.” “How could I do that?” Hamesh asked. His grandmother’s books hadn’t told him how to talk with animals. “It’s impossible!” “You’ve been listening to your parents too long,” the old woman said as she patted Hamesh on the head. “Listen to the voices of the woodland creatures and allow them to speak. The words will come to you.” Bibi shuddered and pulled the blankets up to her chin. “You must go, now. Find the moldunberries, before it is too late for me.” The boy stepped back from the bed, afraid yet somehow certain his grandmother was correct. Had he not read about wonderous powers in her tomes? Learned about potions that could give strength to the feeble and speed to the halt? Spells that could allow men to fly like birds or swim with dolphins? Herbs and roots that could make men fall in love or heal a broken heart? If Bibi could do all the things in this book, as Hamesh’s parents had attested, why should he doubt her if she believed Hamesh could accomplish this task? Taking a pouch from the kitchen, Hamesh went into the forest. He walked until he came to the log of a fallen tree, the top portion scarred by a lightning strike during a storm the previous night. On top of the log was a squirrel, running down one end to the other. On hearing Hamesh approach the squirrel turned to the boy and chittered loudly, but did not run. Hamesh stopped and closed his eyes. He remembered from his grandmother’s book that each creature in the woods had a secret name. He then began to chant: Squirrel, master of tall trees, tell me your name, so that I may speak with you “I am Scurry,” the squirrel told him. “And who are you?” “I am a boy who seeks to cure his sick grandmother. She needs moldunberries, but I don’t know where to find the bush that bears them. Do you know where I can find it?” “I would help you,” replied Scurry, “but I must help my family. We had been storing nuts in a drey on one of this tree’s branches before the tree was struck by lightning last night. My family and I were able to escape, but when the tree fell it landed on top of our drey. Our food is now gone, and we must find more before we perish.” The boy looked at the fallen tree. One of its branches had broken off during its collapse and lay nearby on the forest floor. One end of the branch had split into a jagged point, resembling a spear. “Scurry, I can help you recover your family’s store of nuts from under this tree.” “Impossible!” cried Scurry. “The strongest man in the world couldn’t move this tree on his own, much less a boy like you!” “I shall move this tree,” said Hamesh, “and then you shall tell me how to find the moldunberry bush.” The boy lifted the branch, carrying it to the fallen tree. He then dug the spear-pointed end of the branch deep into the dirt beneath the log and pressed his shoulder into the underside of the branch’s other end. Pushing forward, the boy used the branch as a lever that rolled the fallen tree aside. “The drey!” exclaimed Scurry. “And my family’s store of nuts! You have saved us, boy.” “And I must now save my grandmother. Tell me, Scurry, where to find the berries.” “I will tell you,” said Scurry, “though I wish I had better news for you. The moldunberry bush is guarded by a bear who will slay anyone who enters his lair. Turn around, boy, for your grandmother is doomed, as you shall surely be if you continue this foolish quest.” “I can’t let my grandmother die,” Hamesh protested. “There must be some way to get to the bush without being killed by the bear.” Scurry thought a moment. “I’ve heard that the rabbits in the fields adjoining these woods can grab moldunberries from the bush without being captured by the bear. Go seek them.” Hamesh thanked Scurry for his help, then ran off. Hamesh then came onto a large meadow, where he found a colony of rabbits. All but one turned and fled into the high grass as Hamesh approached. The boy stopped and chanted: Rabbit, master of broad fields, tell me your name, so that I may speak with you “I am Burrow,” the rabbit told him. “And who are you?” “I am a boy who needs to steal moldunberries from the bear so that I can heal my grandmother’s sickness. But I don’t know where to find the bear, or how to stop him from killing me.” “Even if I told you our secret, it would do you no good,” Burrow replied indignantly. “Only we rabbits are able to defeat the bear.” “If I beat you in a footrace, will you tell me?” “Impossible!” said Burrow. “The fastest man in the world can’t outrace me, much less a boy like you!” “I shall beat you to the river,” said Hamesh, “and then you shall tell me how to defeat the bear.” With a laugh, Burrow raced ahead of Hamesh. Both Burrow and Hamesh knew the fastest way to the river was through the woods, but the trees that had fallen during the storm blocked Burrow’s path. The rabbit was delayed as it had to go around, climb over, or slither under the obstacles. The boy, on the other hand, was able to leap between the fallen logs without once breaking his stride. When he reached the river he turned and balled his fists into his hip, waiting for Burrow to arrive. “You are a swift lad, and clever,” Burrow said. “But you lack the speed and wit to defeat the bear.” “But I must save my grandmother,” Hamesh demanded. “Tell me, Burrow, how you defeat the bear.” “The bear is fast and powerful, but not smart,” Burrow explained. “My people force him to chase us, and we struggle to stay outside the reach of his terrible claws. Fortunately, we are small and difficult to catch, and the bear’s strength eventually fails him. He then naps, and that is when we take from the moldunberry bush. But you are too large, boy, and the bear will have no problem catching you. Turn around, for your grandmother is doomed, as you shall surely be if you continue this foolish quest.” “Tell me where to find the bear,” Hamesh demanded. “I shall honor my promise,” Burrow explained. “Follow this river upstream until you come to twin boulders. Go west from the boulders for half of a league until you see a barren hill. Under that hill is a cave with the bear and his berries.” Hamesh thanked Burrow for his help, and began walking upstream beside the river. Hamesh found the twin boulders and headed west. The forest grew darker with each step he took, but in the twilight he was able to find the barren hill. Hamesh then heard an awful growling, and knew he had arrived at the right place. A massive black bear rumbled to the entrance of a cave. Hamesh closed his eyes and chanted: Bear, mightiest beast of the forest, tell me your name, so that I may speak with you “I will not tell you my name,” the bear replied, “for I am hungry, and shall eat you now for my supper!” The bear charged at Hamesh, who ran away with all his speed. Yet the boy knew the bear was faster and would certainly catch Hamesh before it grew tired and needed to nap. Hamesh thought of the magic he had learned in his grandmother’s books... surely he must have read of some spell that could help him escape the bear. “Grumble rumble stumble!” yelled the bear. “I’ll cut off your head and cook it in the oven, boy!” “I’m hungry too,” said a small voice from the bear’s cave. Hamesh looked back, and saw Scurry nibbling on a berry. “These moldunberries are delicious!” “Grumble rumble stumble!” yelled the bear. “I’ll tear your tail off and boil it in a stew, squirrel!” The bear charged at Scurry, who climbed up a tree and out of the fearsome creature’s reach. “Now there’s a sight,” proclaimed another small voice. Hamesh looked and saw Burrow perched on top of a rock. “A boastful bear, defeated by the smallest of creatures.” “Grumble rumble stumble!” yelled the bear. “I’ll rip your ears off and fry them in a pan, rabbit!” The bear charged at Burrow, who was just fast enough to stay out of his reach. Hamesh rested and laughed as he saw the bear’s gait slow with weariness. “Be gone from me,” the bear finally said to Burrow. “You’re too small for my supper anyway. I’d rather feast on this boy!” The bear chased after Hamesh again, but the boy knew now that the creature did not have enough energy left to capture him. “Grumble... rumble... stumble...” the bear moaned. It was now walking, head hanging low. “A squirrel, a rabbit, and a boy, defeating a bear. It is -” the bear fell to the ground - “impossible.” And then the bear’s eyes closed. “Hurry!” Burrow cried, running up beside Hamesh. “The bear will not long slumber.” Scurry met them at the cave’s entrance and led them to the moldunberry bush. After Hamesh filled his pouch with moldunberries he gathered more for Scurry and Burrow. “We have food enough to feed our families through winter,” the animals said when they were finished. “Thank you, boy.” “My name is Hamesh,” he told the creatures. “And thanks to you, my grandmother will be well.” The journey back to Bibi’s house was long, and Hamesh had more adventures before he finally stepped back into the cottage. His grandmother was still lying in bed, her face pale as she slept uneasily. Hamesh shook her shoulder. “Bibi,” the boy whispered. “Wake up. It’s Hamesh. And I’ve done what you’ve asked.” He took one of the moldunberries from the pouch and placed it on his grandmother’s dry lips. Bibi’s eyes opened, and her lips drew the moldunberry into her mouth. She then crushed the berry with her teeth, and Hamesh could smell the sweetness of the juice that coated his grandmother’s tongue. “You’ve done well, my boy,” Bibi said, color returning to her face. “You’ve done very well.”

trigger warning- death Miriam sat in her car and waited for the shock to wear off. She’d always known it was a possibility that the family she worked, for would decide to send their youngest child to that awful academic preschool down the street, but to be told it was a certainty felt like a slap in the face. Why couldn’t parents understand the harm that occurred in those types of school environments? Nothing about formal learning in preschool is necessary for later success. Play is enough. Miriam thought of sweet little Brody, and tried to picture him at that horrible school. It was gut wrenching to imagine his happy, free spirited self being forced to conform. Instead of climbing trees and skipping rocks, he’d be sitting at a desk, tracing endless worksheets. He would be forced to accept just one right answer, where he was used to finding many possibilities. Brody would be working for gold stars, or rather red stars, because those terrible teachers graded each worksheet with red pen. His learning should come from internal motivation, and not from the promise of a red star. Most baffling of all, Brody would be trading fresh air and sunshine for a classroom that smelled of mildew. She always wondered why all those wealthy families were willing to overlook the obvious mold problem in the building, just so they could say their child attended Silver Years. Why were they all so giddy about sending their children to a place that sounds more like a retirement home than a preschool? Young children are designed to learn through play. Science supports this notion. Play is enough. Of course, it wasn’t all the parents’ fault. Silver Years preyed on the false parental fears that their child will show up to kindergarten already behind in life. That just isn’t possible. Children are unique, and they develop at different rates. Kindergarten is a beginning. There is no way to be behind at a beginning. Children shouldn’t be assessed in this manner, anyway. Children are supposed to play. Play is enough. Miriam was disappointed in herself for letting Brody down. She had worked so hard to provide him with the childhood he deserved, while simultaneously trying to educate his parents on why play is so vital to development. She had been one of his primary caregivers from the time he was 2 weeks old, and truth be told, spent the most time with him out of anyone, every week, for the last 4 years. Miriam made it a point to immerse him in nature right from the start. Now, at nearly 5 years old, he could identify all of the common local birds by song and sight. He was thrilled each time he found deer tracks, and was fascinated by the little bones he could extract from owl pellets. Brody loved to go into the woods, and just be. He didn’t need anyone to tell him how to play or what to do. He was a master at entertaining himself, and inventing his own games. He was observant, and empathetic. Brody adored worms, slugs, and beetles. He was strong, physically, and mentally. He didn’t give up easily. Brody knew how to stand up for himself, and also how to be fair with others. He could write all of the letters of the alphabet, and knew what sounds they made. He was even beginning to learn sight words. He developed these skills purely through play, because play is enough. Miriam had been the family’s nanny when their third child had been a student at Silver Years. She remembered how Chloe had cried and pleaded with her parents not to make her go for the entire first 6 months of the school year. Chloe had to be bribed with treats at the end of each week if she went without fuss, and even then it was a lot of work getting her out the door. Miriam remembered how much Chloe’s physical endurance had suffered while she attended that school. She was pale, with sunken in eyes, and tired easily. She had been 4 years old and should have been a bundle of endless energy, but she was weak from sitting on her butt at a desk day after day, week after week. She should have been outside, moving her body. She should have been playing, because play is enough. Miriam opened the door and vomited onto the snowy street. She couldn’t bear the thought of that happening to her sweet Brody. Why hadn’t she done more to stop this? Why hadn’t she better articulated that all a child needs to be kindergarten ready is plenty of play? How had she failed so terribly in spreading the message that play is enough? Miriam shifted her car into drive. Acting on autopilot, she pressed the gas and the car began to roll down the hill. Miriam was so deep in her own thoughts that she didn’t notice that her headlights were off. Her mind was racing. It was true that parents who chose academic preschools for their young children thought they were giving them a leg up. They were doing what they felt was best. Miriam couldn’t just let it go though, because she knew that all of the research showed that there are no long term benefits to early academic training. Children who go to academic preschools score higher on tests, initially, in kindergarten (who cares! Kids should not be tested in kindergarten!), but by 3rd grade, there’s no difference in scores, and by 6th grade, those who attended academic preschools tended to score lower on tests, and have more behavior issues. Boys, of course, struggled the most, and Miriam was watching this pan out with Brody’s 11 year old twin brothers. The older boys are not motivated to do much of anything. They were already burnt out from years of high pressure formal learning, especially because they started that when they should have been playing. The twins were afraid to try anything new if they thought they might fail. They were strict rule followers, to the extent that it was a detriment. They had zero ability to be flexible in their thinking. If the twins had been allowed to play in their preschool years, they would be better off than they are now. Miriam knew this in the depths of her soul, because play is enough. She wasn’t sure if she would be able to stay on as the family’s nanny come fall. They had offered to pay her for full time hours, and allow her to have a few paid hours off during the school day, but Miriam didn’t know if she could go through with it. Having received no raises in over 2 years, she was extremely underpaid as it was. She didn’t want to watch Brody turn into a worksheet tracing robot. She didn’t want to be broke, AND miserable. Her heart ached to think of Brody’s absence in her daily life if she were to quit her job, but dropping him off and picking him up from that dreadful school 5 days a week wasn’t something she wanted, either. Play is enough. Miriam shook her head in disgust. When will parents learn that play is enough? She turned onto Main Street. Lost in her despair, Miriam blew right past a stop sign. A pickup truck going 60mph t-boned her car, killing her on impact. As emergency crews arrived on the scene, the first thing they heard was a clip of the podcast Miriam had been listening to, stuck on a loop. The host repeated one sentence over and over again: “Play is enough!”

It’s been months of tracking and they finally caught up to him. Xanthan and Montauk advance ahead of the group in pursuit of the hooded man. “Montauk wait up!!! Don’t go in alone” Xanthan exclaimed. “We need to hurry, we can’t keep letting him get away!” Montauk responded with his focus straight ahead after the hooded man. Xanthan has never seen Montauk this determined, this tunneled vision. All that mattered to him at this moment was catching this man. They are chasing him through a dense forest. There is tight vegetation on the ground with a maze of tall trees surrounding them with thick branches that slapped them across the face as they ran. The moonlight is barely able to seep though. Xanthan can only see nothing the Montauks back as he strides ahead of him, and he soon loses him. Xanthan can feel something is off, but Montauk was using all his energy to chase this mysterious man down. Whatever the case Xanthan wanted to be sure to be by his side. Montauk ran enough to eventually exit the bunch of trees only to be meet with a steep rock formation. He snaps his head up to see the hooded man already on top, staring back down, as if he was waiting for Montauk to catch up. Their eyes meet, and then the hooded man continues his escape. Montauk now seems more determined than ever and starts to leap with great superhuman height up the mountain, all while Xanthan struggles to keep up. Montauk reaches the summit, but the chase was over. The man is there waiting, bathing in the moonlight with his hooded cloak dancing in the cool night breeze. “What is this? Why? Why are you here?” Montauk ask. The man answers with a question “Do you know where we are? We are where the stars touch the earth. Where reality fades and the only thing left is the eternal breath of the universe.” Montauk, with nothing but regret and anger filling his eyes, glares at the man. The man continues “You know where this is...” Montauks glare does not break, and he makes up his mind to advance forward to confront the man, but his first step leads him to a different dimension. He is transported to an all black void, with nothing around but the slight shimmer of a endless puddle beneath his feet. The puddle casts a perfect inverse image. He is stunned for a small moment, then the hooded man’s voice echoes behind him, “Please Gabriel, we can’t keep doing this to ourselves” “Don’t call me that!” Montauks snaps back “I didn’t do this to myself! You did, and it has haunted me ever since. And know that I have you here, I will end this.” Montauk runs up to the man, which disrupts the reflections beneath him, and grabs his collar, but he dissolved into smoke. This angers Montauk and he frantically looks around, eyes darting across the void. Then he hears a slight whimper, and focuses his attention and sees a young boy on the ground with his head in his knees crying. Montauk lowers his guard and walks up to the side of the boy. The boy continues his soft cry. He hesitates on how he wanted to talk to the young boy, but he doesn’t want the boy to keep crying so he ask him, “what’s wrong? Do you know where you are?” The boy looks up, with his big eyes watery and nose red, “I’m lost...” the boy responded “I was playing with my brothers and sisters, but I went too far out and got lost. I tried finding my way back but i couldn’t find my way back.” The boy rubs his eyes, and Montauk decides to join the young boy and sit beside him. With his big burly shoulders in contrast to the boys tiny frame, with both their reflections extending beneath them. “I gave up on trying to find my way back so I just stopped, and hoped that my family will find me. If I stay still and they look at all the usual hiding spots they’ll eventually find me right.” Montauk can do nothing but listen, and his eyes begin to fill with emotion, but not of sadness, but of despair and emptiness. What he has been blinded with for as long as he can remember. “It’s cold and I’m getting scared they may never find me.” The boy looks at Montauk and they both share eye contact, both their eyes being two sides of the same coin. “Did they stop looking?” The boy asking Montauk directly Montauk didn’t have an immediate answer, which lead the boy to fall back into his arms. Montauk reaches out to place his hand on the boys shoulder. He hesitates about half way through, but continued to establish a physical connection with the boy. The boy looks back at Montauk, and Montauk finally has an answer for the boy. “I don’t know where you siblings are, or where we are... but I found you. I can help you look for them if that’s what you would like? I will make sure I get us outta here” The boy wipes his tears from his cheek and sniffs his nose and simply nodes. Their reflections at another glance become inverse of eachother, with the Man casting the boys and the boy casting the mans. They both stand up and Montauk holds the boys hand as they walk towards the dark abyss. Neither one of them knowing what lies ahead, or behind, but knowing that they will do it together.

We rushed through the wooden door and slammed it shut. The thing gave a loud thud against the door that shook the frames and made the hinges screech, but the door held. I quickly poured salt under the door's threshold. “I think this will hold it back for a time. We’re on the third floor so I'm hoping the thing won’t come leaping through the window,” I exclaimed with a sigh. Before I could catch my breath, I felt her lips and her breath filling my lungs and giving new vigor to a faint heart. “Thank you, I can’t believe you’d actually help me. I thought I was a goner,” she said with the shimmer of her tears in the pale moonlight. My heart had been racing from the chase, but now it was calm again. “I was wondering why you left without a word months ago, I figured you were ghosting me or something... didn’t think you were running for your life.” “You know me, lady of mystery!” she joked with a forced smile. “You don’t have to do this you know.” For a moment, the months on the run showed their strain on her face. The stress wrinkles around the brow of another wise young 28-year-old woman. She felt the weight of those months all at once and collapsed onto the leather chair by the bookshelf. “I know, but in all of those months, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. You’re here in front of me now, and I’m not losing you again. Come sickness come hell or whatever,” I declared. The hell began to snarl from the other side of a wall across from us. “What is that thing anyway? I can hear it, but I can’t see it.” “It’s not here for you... but I can see it,” she responded with a despondent voice that trailed off at the end as if she wanted to keep the last part a secret. “I made a... a deal with someone I shouldn’t have and now this thing has come to collect... the debt is my life,” she proclaimed hesitantly. I felt my heart do a back flip, realizing that the reason my love was going to die. “It seemed too good to be true... I should’ve known that stage 4 stomach cancer doesn’t just go away. Julie... what did you do?” I asked with dread. “I wasn’t going to let you die. The things you do for the people as police captain, I think you’re a hero. No one else can protect this city like you, I can’t let this city and my hope fade.” She was trying to make the exchange of her life for mine logical to justify it, but we both knew it was a desperate attempt not to lose someone she loved. Before I could respond, there was a crash in the adjacent room and the shattering of a ceramic toilet. We were back in the trying pan and it was time to move. “Third floor huh? Guess the window's not an option. Back the way we came. Hopefully that salt will act as a red line it can’t cross and buy us a minute.” She nodded in a agreement as she joined my side again. We bolted out of the door and down the steps, hoping to reach the ground floor and make a mad dash to our car. We heard the hellhound barking a loud piercing sound that resonated through the halls. It reverberated off the walls and sounded even more fierce. The feet scraped on the hardwood. The beast was overzealous and struggled for traction in its excitement. “We’re gonna make it,” I reassured her as I squeezed her hand. We were on the stairs to the ground floor when I saw a shadow pass over head. I looked up but there was nothing there to cast the shadow. An ear-piercing scream erupted from beside me and for a moment my trip slackened. The hand so precious from me was ripped away from my grasp. I looked beside me, and she was gone. Behind me, I saw the impossible, she was being dragged by her shoulder, bleeding profusely, screaming relentlessly as she was punching the invisible assailant with her free hand. The dog began to shake her, and the bleeding became worse and she went limp from shock. Even at my distance, I heard the snap of her shoulder bone as that beast dug deeper and deeper. She wasn’t struggling anymore, but the beast was still unsatisfied. Fear had paralyzed me, staring at the air as it rips into my love and puts her into this agony. Then rage overtook me. Rage at the cruel fate that would push us to months of being hunted just because she didn’t want me to die and rage at myself for taking this long to do what was necessary. I was done running. Maybe Julia as already dead, maybe she was still holding on, but I wanted to make this thing suffer for all the months of suffering it had given her. The beast again disappeared, and as I looked around, I could only hear the wild snarls of the beast circling around me. I could feel its presence around me, but I could not see it. My heart began to race uncontrollably from the bubbling rage and fear. I closed my eyes to calm myself and listened. It didn’t matter that he was invisible, I could hear the blood dripping from its jaws. I called out to it, “Come over here you God forsaken beast! I thought all dogs go to heaven, so what the hell are you? Cerberus, Barghest, or just some nameless mutt?” I drew my revolver from behind my back and readied the last bullet. There was no missing this time. I heard the bark come from the air ahead of me and saw the blood splatter. I aimed for the center of the blood and fired. A spray of blood exploded from where I shot, but the bullet disappeared into the nothingness. The beast gave a whimper and for a moment I felt sorry for it. I walked over to the pooling blood, knowing my felled prey was there. I walked forward hearing the steady drip of its blood and the rasping of its last breaths. The dripping stopped and so did the breathing. I was standing over the puddle of blood and gingerly pushed my foot forward, waiting to feel its body. My foot reached the puddle, but still nothing. I felt a cold sweat start and heard a low growl behind me. I tried to turn and face it but before I could, I felt its massive weight push me down. I fell face first into its putrid blood, spitting out the taste of iron with the smell of sulfur. Its claws were trying to pin down my elbows and I could sense it rearing back its head to bite. I rolled over with everything I had against its weight. I heard his body fall to my left. I clutched my empty gun like a hammer and started to furiously slam down the butt of the gun toward the ground. None of those swings reached the ground, they hit the soft stomach of the dog. It yelped and barked in pain. I followed the hammering up and felt the butt of the gun collide with the softer windpipe and then it was hard again. I found the face and I kept hammering until my gun and the floor was covered in blood and no more whimpers were heard. My arms and body were shaking from the strain when I finally stopped. I crawled over to Julia's body and listened to her chest for a heartbeat or a breath. I could feel her chest rising against my cheek. I scrambled to dial 911 and they came in time to save her from the blood loss. “We made it...” I whispered to her when she finally awoke the next day and I fell back to a tranquil sleep by her bedside in the hospital. “We made it to tomorrow... Thank you for never giving up on us,” she whispered as she kissed me back to sleep.

“Jet Pee Nong, what the hell is that?” asked the walk-in customer. “That, my friend, is the name of a magnificent hotel in a brilliant resort, on the holiday you’ve been dreaming of,” answered the overly keen sales agent at Rickets Travel Bureau. “I noticed the ‘deal of a century’, you’ve been plugging on social media recently. Tell me more.” “You are in luck. We only had one spot available, and it had been booked,” said the young man with the bright yellow blazer with the over-sized letters, RTB, plastered over the breast pocket. Below the logo was a pin screaming ‘Jethro’. “I was in luck, but it had been booked?” “Yes, tragedy in the customer’s family. She had to cancel. So, it’s yours, just give me your card and I’ll get on with booking it for you,” Jethro beamed. Nigel Peters scratched his chin, “I’ve never been to Thailand before, what’s it like?” “Oh, you’ll love it. It will be hot, the beaches are clean, the food is to die for... And Thai ladies are beautiful, say no more,” RTB Jethro was getting on Nigel’s nerves. He considered the reason he was there in the first place, he needed a break. “Okay, book it.” “Splendid decision, Mr Peters, you fly out Wednesday from Heathrow. Have a lovely holiday.” Nigel settled himself in the middle seat in the central aisle and half-way back of the Thai Airways Jumbo. “There’s always one, and he is always next to me,” Nigel mumbled to himself as a scruffy younger man tried stuffing his over-large holdall in the crammed overhead container. “Sorry mate, they buggered my ticket, panic all around,” he said squeezing next to Nigel. Pulling his jacket free of his neighbour as he sat. “You’re here now, enjoy the flight,” Nigel sneered, making it clear he wanted no further conversation. A man was waiting at Suvarnabhumi Airport with a small sign boasting, ‘Mr Peter’, hand-written in black marker pen. “But I’m Peter,” an elderly man stated. “No, sir, I meet Mr Nigel Peter,” said the mini-bus driver. “Excuse me, are you looking for me?” asked Nigel, looking at the clipboard and seeing 'Peters'. Nigel was directed to his seat on the bus. The mini-bus took no time in becoming snarled in Bangkok’s infamous traffic. “Hello again, mate,” Nigel heard from behind. “Yes, hi, you again, it seems we are destined to sit together.” “Where are you going? I’m going to the beach, I deserve sand and sea after what I’ve been through,” said the scruffy man. “Me too,” Nigel said, dreading the next question. “Are you going to Hua Hin?” “Oh, God,” Nigel breathed as he studied the overhead vinyl. “Yes, I think that’s what it’s called.” The mini-bus pulled up outside a newly painted building, ‘Jed Pee Nong Hotel’ in foot-high letters hung above the entrance. “Don’t tell me we’re both staying here?” thought Nigel. “This way, gentlemen,” said a young receptionist, pointing to the front desk. The driver lugged the luggage to the hotel’s trolly. “Can I see your passports please,” she smiled. Nigel rushed his document out of his pocket, hoping to escape his travelling companion. “Thank you, Mr Peters. And yours, Mr Jackson?” she looked as Mr Jackson searched his pockets and then his small shoulder bag. Mr Peters was getting used to studying ceilings, plane, bus and now the fresh paint of the hotel foyer. “No problem sir, the police station is over the road,” she pointed, “I’ll report it missing. Here’s your key.” “Where’s my key?” asked Nigel. “Oh, we only give one key per room,” she answered. The men looked at each other, then at her. “What?” yelled Nigel. “I’ve got you down as a couple? That’s what the agent told us,” she said. “Oh, no, I had to sit next to him on the plane, shared the bus with him, there is no way I’m sharing a room!” The girl busied herself with a huge ledger, “We are full tonight, but, tomorrow lunchtime we will have a room free?” Mr Jackson shrugged okay. Mr Peters did not, as they trudged to the lift. “You have got to be kidding me!” as Nigel saw the double bed. “Which side do you want? I prefer to sleep near the window. If that’s okay with you. Oh, can you keep your noise down, I need to nap,” called Mr Jackson to Nigel’s fast disappearing back as he stormed back to reception. “I am sorry, sir, but...” she started. “Where can I get a drink?” fumed Nigel. A folding map was handed to him, with bars, and restaurants circled. Nigel marched in the sea's direction and hopefully cold beer. After sampling some strong Thai beer, he got chatting with a few friendly bar girls. The beers soon changed to shots of local whisky. Nigel had calmed down and was enjoying himself with one young lady. They agreed to meet up the following day. “My God, it’s gone one o’clock,” slurred Nigel as he staggered back towards his hotel. “Can I have my key, please?” he said, proud that he didn’t appear as drunk as he felt. “The key is with... um, your friend, sir,” the receptionist from earlier reported. “Let me in, Mr Jackson,” Nigel spoke to the door. “Come on, hurry, I need a pee,” he asked louder. No answer, no sound from inside, Nigel’s firmly crossed legs made it to the WC in reception. “Have you got a spare key, please,” said a much relived Mr Peters. “Yes, sir, I can let you in. He must be a sound sleeper.” The room door pushed back, and the lights flicked on. “Where is he?” asked the puzzled receptionist. “Where are my bags? My passport!” An instantly sober guest opened the wardrobe, then the bathroom even looked under the bed. “Please sir, accompany me to the police station, we must report this. At least then, you will have the bed to yourself,” smiled the girl. No smile joined her across the road. A furious snarl marched back after spending an hour with the bored night officer. “Why did I have to keep repeating myself, as he scribbled notes?” whined Nigel. “His English is not so good, you were speaking too fast,” said the girl. “So, all this is my fault?” “No, sir, please take the hotel key and have a good night,” she offered, thankfully her shift had ended. A hammering woke Nigel at eight o’clock, “Sorry, sir, but you didn’t answer your room phone,” said the receptionist standing next to a police officer. “I unplugged the phone, as I wanted a full sleep!” said Nigel as he glared at his visitors. “Do you mind if I come in,” the officer strode to the coffee table and sat down, pulling the other chair back for Nigel. “What now?” “I need you to prove who you are, sir,” said the stern man in the brown uniform. “I haven’t got my passport, as you well know,” glared Nigel, pulling his wallet from the trousers he had slept in. The police officer held out his hand, Nigel passed the wallet over. “No credit cards? No driving licence? No cash?” “What? Give it here,” stormed Nigel, snatching it back. The empty wallet hit the far wall. The receptionist’s eyes widened. Her ears glowed at English terms she was unused to. “Calm down, sir. You had better accompany me across the road,” said the officer, hand on his pistol. Nigel slumped to his knees, head in hands, “Christ Almighty,” he wailed as he was guided to the police station. After a lengthy telephone conversation with the British Embassy and proving who he was, he could enjoy the rest of his stay in Thailand. A friend sent him cash via PayPal, making life easier with cash in his pocket. Nigel loved the Thai food, he enjoyed watching monkeys steal fruit, he even saw a dolphin when he took an interesting boat ride as part of a trip to the nearby mountain. His guide was the young lady he met his first night. They were getting on as if they’d known each other for years. On his third day in Hua Hin, he relaxed in a deck chair on the beach; he unfolded the Bangkok Post. “What,” instantly he sat up, as a headline on an inside page jumped at him, like a cold fish’s revenge. He felt the slap across the cheeks. “RTB owner found dead in her home!” For a reason only known to him, he looked all around him, as he read, “Well-known travel agent and business owner, Mrs Eastman, was found battered to death in her bedroom. Her husband, Mr Eastman’s whereabouts were unknown.” Nigel cringed behind the newspaper, suspecting Mr Eastman could watch him. He carried on reading the report aloud, “Young sales assistant, Mr Jethro Jenks, is helping police with their enquiries. Mr Eastman is known to have boarded a flight to Bangkok. ‘We lost track of him there’, said a detective headed the case,” Nigel folded the paper gently on his thighs, as a voice he recognised, shouted from behind, “Keep your noise down, I’m trying to nap.” The END

I looked at my sleeping 11 year old angel baby girl next to me. "We’re running out of time" , I whispered under my breath, ferociously hitting my hands against the steering wheel. I let out a roar worthy of a lioness, no one in this jungle heard it; it was silent, not wanting to wake my child. Her time was running out, her life was running out, her childhood had come to a sudden stop. No turning back now..."keep driving, how much I should tell her, will she be in pain," My heart felt like it was ripping out of my chest. I couldn’t breathe. We both were running out of time. Sticky drops of sweat were rolling down between my breasts, the old beaten up car window was open but the stifling breeze coming through it was hitting my face, turning the car into a sweltering sauna. The air conditioning on my 1990 Toyota had been out for years. The red paint had pealed and I had an old grey rope holding the trunk shut. I could barely make rent and food since my husband had passed. I had said a “Hail Mary” and patted the St. Christopher hanging from my mirror before turning the key at the start of this trip. “My God”, was a loving forgiving God and I knew in my heart that I was making the right decision for my daughter. My Catholic Church and our priest had another view. Father Vic had talked and prayed over us to make the right choice, I had. It was the only choice WE had. My God would forgive. I looked at Grace, her forehead beaded in sweat, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. She was breathing irregular, she needed more water. She rolled over on her side exposing her tiny belly, her brows frowning. I didn't want to wake her, but knew I must. "What was she dreaming about?" "Does she relive the horror every time she slept? "Ever since she told me what had happened I have been living in a nightmare of blackness and fear. “Would I get stopped, will I be arrested?” My mind wondered, I couldn’t help but wonder why I could cross the borders I’d be traveling over to buy a gun, carry a gun in an open carry state, get married, have heart surgery, go to a state where Pot is legal, gamble, visit brothels, buy cheap gas, liquor, lottery tickets or cross borders to hunt with no consequences, but the hammer goes down when it comes to my child. Her life is in danger; her childhood was about to become completely oblivious. We live in Louisiana; the closest legal clinic is at least a 10-hour drive. We have only been on the road for about two hours; Illinois is still eight hours away. This was the longest road trip I have ever taken, but I’d walk through the hells' fires for my little girl. Yes, my precious sleeping 11 year old baby girl is pregnant. With this "Illegal", Supreme Court’s decision to turn over a fifty year old precedent in one day, America has become a Taliban nation for women. The world’s atlas tilted that day. There will be millions of lives imploding. The six Justices did not care; they tossed a dirty bomb into the uteruses of American women and girls across the United States. The “Righteous Evangelicals”, had won; but at what cost to the freedom of American women. The GOP and the so called Republicans that are left put their heads in the sand and screamed, look over here...don’t look at this, look at our horrible immigration policies. It's been over six weeks now, more like eight...how could I have missed it. "I know how, what mother expects her little soccer player, doll playing innocent child could possible get pregnant at eleven years old. I was shocked when she suddenly got her women’s visitor at 10 1⁄2 years old; The Dr. said girls were getting there period earlier these days with the hormones and additives to or food chain. I didn’t think she needed the “Sex” talk at her age, boy was I wrong. I knew last June something was wrong. Grace wasn’t smiling, laughing or sleeping. She was distant and wrapped her arms around herself, rocking for hours on her favorite chair; I couldn’t get through to her. It wasn’t until weeks after her uncle Rob left to go back to Costa Rica that she broke down with heaving sobs. Rob had touched her down there; he put his penis in her tiny Vagina. She had kept silent with his threats of harming me, it had taken me another week to get the funds together I’d need for this trip; my time off work, hotels, gas, and cost of the abortion in the clinic. I could barely make rent and food with my meager income. My job as a waitress was just not cutting it and covid wasn’t helping my bank account either. I always knew my husband’s brother was off; he had a sleazy air about him. I wondered why he had moved to Costa Rica. I believe I know now, his wife never talked about why the sudden divorce and her move across the United states to California. When I tried to confront her, she said “It’s too horrible to talk about, I don’t even want to think about it, Good Bye”, Then she hung up. I didn’t pursue it further. My anger surfaced all over again, if I had only known. If Grace's father was still alive he would have gotten on a plane and killed the son of a bitch! Why did I say yes to him when he wanted to come to Louisiana? My guilt was interrupted, “Mommy are we almost there”? A lonely tear fell down my right cheek, I thought, “No Grace, we are so far away from there”. I said, “Yes, sweetie”, as I slowly started stopping the car at a diner along the side of the road; she needed, food, water, she needed hugs, and she needs an abortion.

Who Said Life Was Fair A loud persistent voice was beginning to penetrate my brain fog. “Brookfield Police, Annie, are you alright?” I shook my head trying to clear it. Someone banged loudly on the door. The fuzziness was going but I could not find my voice. I could now hear talking outside my front door and I tried to rise. That was when I discovered I was no longer in bed; I was sitting on the kitchen floor. As I tried to lift myself up, my foot slipped and I slid back down. I heard a loud voice say, “Okay, unlock the door.” I heard loud footsteps enter my apartment and felt a soft touch on my shoulder. A gentle voice said, “Is this Miss Harris?” I looked up. A uniformed police officer was standing over me. In the hall I could see the worried face of my landlord, Steve. He nodded. “Thank you Mr. Chan, you can go back to your apartment.” “Yes, yes of course.” “Miss Harris, Annie, can you tell me where you are hurt.” A voice from another room said, “There’s no one else here.” “Okay Mike, tell the paramedics they can come in now.” I found my voice. I whispered, “ I’m okay. I had a nightmare. I must have been walking in my sleep and fallen. Oh no, was I screaming? Did I wake my neighbors? I’m so sorry to have caused all this fuss.” “How about we just let the paramedics check you over?” “No please, it was just a horrible nightmare. I’m not hurt.” “Then where did all this blood come from?” I looked down. I was covered in blood. Pools of it covered my kitchen floor. It was sprayed on my cabinets, on my curtains, everywhere. I glanced up at the officer who had spoken to me. “It’s not mine,” I said, horrified by the sight. “I’m not hurt.” The face of one of the paramedics appeared over the policeman’s shoulder. “Holy shit,” he exclaimed. The cop glared at him. “Hey, I’m sorry,” the paramedic said, “I’ve just never seen so much blood in one small space before, but I can tell you this much, it isn’t hers. She’d be dead if she lost this much.” “Just check her over,” the policeman said sternly. The EMTs entered the blood spattered kitchen avoiding the broken glass on the floor. They began looking me over. I just sat there, dazed and confused until I was loaded onto a stretcher. All the while I kept repeating, “I’m not hurt, it isn’t my blood.” The medics quickly confirmed what I had been saying. A few minutes later one of them said, “We’ll take her to the hospital as a precaution and have her checked out thoroughly, but I can tell you that her vitals are strong, her heart”s a little fast and her bp is high which is understandable, but we can’t see any wounds.” The policeman looked down at me, a puzzled look on his face. “Have you been in the apartment alone this evening, Annie?” “Yes, I went to bed, alone. I must have fallen asleep and had a nightmare. Am I still dreaming?” My agitation began to grow. I glanced over to where I had been sitting in the kitchen. It looked like the scene of a massacre. It also looked terrifyingly familiar. It couldn’t be. Ghosts don’t bleed. “Get me off this stretcher!” I shouted. “I need to get back to bed so that I can wake up. Please,” I added in a softer voice. “You don’t understand what has happened.” I struggled to get off the stretcher. I was now bordering on hysteria. “Get me off of this thing. Please,” the policeman nodded to the paramedic and I felt a slight prick in my arm.I looked first at the paramedic and then at the policeman who leaned closer to me. “Annie” he replied, kindly. “I found you sitting in a pool of blood. Something happened in this apartment this evening.For your own safety, we have to make sure you are really alright. The first step is to get you to the hospital.” I began to protest. I just need to be absolutely certain that you are okay.” I suddenly began to feel very sleepy. The policeman’s face was getting fuzzy. I seem to remember mumbling, ”Okay,” before I recognized a voice I knew all too well, whisper in my ear. “Talk your way out of this one, bitch.” And then, oblivion. “What do you suppose happened back there? ``One of the EMTs, Eric, called back to his partner Chris, who was sitting next to me in the ambulance. “Beats me, but can you believe all the blood? It looked like someone bled out ..... Eric, pull over!” “Why?” “You have to see this, just pull over.” Eric pulled into the curb and turned around in the driver’s seat. “What the hell” The two men stared down at me.. As they watched, the blood covering me began to slowly dissipate. Chris was the first to find his voice. “You’re seeing this, right?” “Uh huh, I don’t know exactly what I am seeing but I am seeing it. Let’s get to the hospital asap,” he said as he spun around in the driver’s seat. They arrived at BGH in record time. “What do we tell the doctors,” Eric asked as they wheeled me into emergency. “The truth. We play it like we would in any normal case.” “How the hell will we do that?” “Let me do the talking, okay?” “You got it. I just want to get away from her as quickly as possible.” A doctor approached the two men. Chris began the spiel he had been practicing on the drive. “The patient is 36 year old Annie Harris. Neighbors heard screams from her apartment and called the police who in turn called us. We found her sitting on the floor of her kitchen, a broken beer bottle in her hand. We couldn’t find any outward injuries on the patient. Miss Harris was confused and claimed she had just been sleepwalking. The police asked us to bring her here as a precaution.” “Any evidence that she was intending to cause self harm?” “Despite the bottle in her hand, we saw no marks on her to indicate that she had tried to hurt herself,” Chris replied. “Okay guys, we’ll take it from here?” “Are you off the clock?” Eric asked his partner. “Yup, and I plan to get royally drunk. You?” “Oh yeah, and I’ll join you if you don’t mind. And pal, let’s make a pact. We won’t ever speak about this call to anyone or each other again.” “Deal”. Back at my apartment the forensic team had arrived. The policeman in charge, Gilbert Desjardins, greeted the head of the team. “Michel, at this point I don’t know what happened here. We found a woman sitting in this kitchen surrounded by all this blood. That broken beer bottle was on the floor beside her. Interesting thing, she didn’t appear to have a mark on her. Blood doesn’t appear out of thin air. Work your magic. Let me know what the blood tells you.” “I’m on it,” Michel replied. “Mike,” Gil said to his junior officer as the two men left the apartment, “Head over to the hospital and call me when Annie wakes up. I want to talk to her when she has calmed down.” “Will do.” Taking one last look at the horrific scene, Sergeant Desjardins left and returned to the station. He had no idea the turn this case was about to take. I began to wake. The first thing I noticed was the noise surrounding me. It was clear that I was no longer in my apartment and that I was most likely in an emergency ward. The hysteria that I had felt earlier had been replaced by an eerie calm. I kept my eyes closed. I didn’t want to talk to anyone until I could process what had led to me now finding myself in a hospital bed. As I lay there, it suddenly came flooding back. That night, I had gone to bed fairly early, around 10 p.m. I fell asleep quickly and woke up with a start. A glance at my clock radio told me it was just after 2 a.m. My kitchen was down the hall from my bedroom. The kitchen light wasn’t on but an eerie silvery white light was emanating from the room. I got up and walked towards it, knowing and dreading what I would find. There, leaning against the counter stood my husband, swinging his customary bottle of Labatt Bleue in one hand. But something was decidedly different. Oh, his nasty sneer was still glued on his stupid face but this time he didn’t look the least bit spectral. Lord help me, Sean, my dead husband had somehow managed to manifest fully. I wasn’t looking at a ghost. What I saw before me was a flesh and blood human. “What’s the matter, sweetheart, don’t like the new me?” I somehow managed to stutter, “What...how?” “I’ve been working hard,” he replied. “You didn’t seem near scared enough on my last visits. It’s no fun coming to call on my girl if I can’t get a rise out of her.” I don’t know how I found the words but I managed to utter, “You scared me, happy? Now get out!” He was dead. He couldn’t possibly hurt me. Could he? It was as I was backing away that he lunged for me. I knew what was going to happen next. Sean grabbed me by the throat and shoved me hard against the kitchen counter. He was a big man and normally I wouldn’t have stood a chance against him. But he appeared to be very drunk.I managed to knee him in the crotch. He uttered a curse, let go of my throat, and doubled over. The beer bottle fell to the floor and shattered, spilling beer everywhere. Without thinking I reached down and grabbed the neck of the bottle. With all the force I could muster, I drove the jagged end of the bottle into his neck, just like I did on the night I killed him. Blood spurted everywhere. Sean was vainly grabbing at his throat. He looked at me pleadingly. I could have run. I could have run screaming into the street as I had done on many other occasions. But after years of physical abuse I knew that if Sean survived, I was going to suffer badly. So I sat there and watched. Blood was now gurgling in his mouth. He fell to the floor, and reached a hand out to me. I watched, the broken bottle still clasped tightly in my hand. After what seemed to be an eternity he shuddered and fell still. That’s when I screamed and finally dropped the bottle. Next thing I knew, a policeman was standing over me asking if I was okay. Gil arrived back at his desk to find his phone ringing. The display showed that it was Michel, from Forensics. “You're good Michel but you can’t have finished up at the apartment this fast,” he said good humoredly. “Gil, can you get back here asap?” “What’s up?” “All the blood in this place, it’s disappearing faster than we can collect samples. I’d bet on my life that it is blood splattered all over this place but it vanishes as soon as I get it on a swab and now it is disappearing from the floor walls, everywhere. And get this, I tried taking a video of what’s happening. Nothing, the camera screen is blank. I want you to witness this.” Gil had been walking quickly to the car as he spoke on the phone. “I’m on my way.” He called Mike. “How is Miss Harris?” “Still sedated but the doctors gave her a once over. No abrasions, no sign of blood loss. The only marks on her are two faint red marks on her neck. They are waiting for her to wake up to ask her about them but frankly Gil, I think the docs are a little ticked with us for sending her here.” “Too bad. I am on my way back to the apartment now and then I will be heading your way. Something really weird is going on, Mike.” “Like what?” “I’m not sure how to explain it. We’ll talk when I get there.” A few minutes later, Gil and Michel stood staring at my pristine kitchen. Not a spot of blood could be seen anywhere and the shattered glass had disappeared as well. Michel was the first to say anything. “We both saw the blood. Hell, my assistants saw it. One of them took off like a frightened rabbit when it started to vanish. I’ve been asking myself if this scene was staged. Maybe what we saw wasn’t blood at all but with some new “vanishing fake blood.” “Vanishing fake blood?. Like they might use in a movie or something?” Michel turned off the kitchen light. The room was dark, not a single spot of blue. “I sprayed the floor with Luminal. If there had been blood here it would have picked up its trace. You can see for yourself, nada, nothing.” “And the broken glass?” “I haven’t a clue,” Michel said flatly. “It can’t just have disappeared.” “But it has,” said Gil, “it has. I’m headed off to the hospital. If anyone has any answers it will be Miss Harris.” “Welcome back to the land of the living,” a perky voice said. A poor choice of words was my thought. The voice belonged to a young nurse standing beside my hospital bed. “How are you feeling?” she continued. I managed a small smile and replied, “A little groggy but other than that I feel fine, just fine. “Good. I will just track down the doctor and tell him you are awake. Oh, and there is a policeman waiting to talk to you as well.” I closed my eyes again. I racked my brains trying to figure out what on earth I was going to say to them. I called after her. “Did the doctor find anything wrong with me,” I ventured. “He will answer any questions you have when he gets here.” All I could think of to explain what happened today was to play dumb.I would stick to “I don’t know” and “I had a nightmare.” But I had a much bigger problem. Sean. I closed my eyes. I had my first visit from Sean about a month after his death. I had been asleep and was awakened by a whisper in my ear, “Hello sweetheart,” it said. I recognized the voice. After all, I had listened to it for years. It terrified me but I really thought it was just a nightmare. This happened several times over the period of a year. I saw a psychologist who told me it was post traumatic stress disorder and put me on Paxil. The whispers stopped. But if I thought it was over, I was mistaken. One night I was woken by Sean’s voice demanding my presence in the kitchen. “We’re out of beer,” he yelled. I remember feeling compelled to go. Just like when he was alive. He called, I jumped to attention.This time I got out of bed and walked to the kitchen only to find it empty, but the air was frigid. I think it was that night that I came to the conclusion that I was not having nightmares, I was being haunted. I decided to move. I moved several times over the years but he always found me. He didn’t visit often but each time he did, he was stronger. First he was just a shadow and then a misty figure that I could recognize. I did try talking to a priest once, but he sent me on my way. Maybe because I wasn’t a member of his church. I don’t know. I hadn’t seen him for two years when he showed up last night in his new form. I was scared but also angry. He deserved to die. We’d been together for seven years, the same number of broken bones I’d received at his hand. He got what was coming to him. I had even been cleared of any charges. Justifiable manslaughter they called it. I didn’t deserve to be persecuted by his ghost. Yes, they found traces of Atavin in his bloodstream. He had a prescription for them. They weren’t to know that I had ground some into his mashed potatoes that night. Not many, just enough that combined with his nightly beers, would make him a little unstable. Unstable enough that a well placed knee to the groin would disable him long enough for me to kill him. No, he was a brute and I was his innocent victim. But now what to do. How on earth was I going to get rid of him this time? Sadly, that was to be taken out of my hands. Gil Desjardins arrived at the ER and spotted Mike sitting in a chair near the reception desk. Before he could reach him, an unGodly scream filled the room. Instinctively both men ran towards the source as did several doctors and nurses. Just a minute before, I heard the curtain around my bed being pulled aside. The perky nurse stuck her head through and said, “Your husband is here to see you.” She smiled and moved briskly away. Before I could say a word, Sean appeared at the foot of my bed. He leaned towards me and in a menacing whisper said, “It’s time for payback, sweetheart.” I screamed in terror. And that’s how they found me, dead, my mouth open, my eyes wide with fear. So unfair.

Morning light filtered through the canopy overhead. The lilting song of a thrush broke through the last remnants of twilight, heralding the start of the new day. A hand twitched amongst the leaf strewn meadow. The meadow air felt thick to this stranger who had appeared as if from thin air. The young girl finally rose to a seated position, her rumpled dress wrinkled and flowing about her as she looked about the grassy meadow, a clear look of growing surprise on her face. Her green eyes settled upon the five standing stones that rose ominously around her, their moss-covered surfaces staring blankly back at her as if they she disturbed their quaint little gathering. Niamh tried to work out what had happened since last night as she shook the sleep from her mind. She recalled having a fight with her parents, a silly argument over a boy she had been seen with yesterday afternoon. Her father had heard about the innocent tryst between the two from a nosey neighbor. Much was said but she only recalled her father forbidding it and what would her mother think? In her anger she had cursed at him and ran off into the woods leading behind their house, scurrying under the picket fence where boards hung loosely. She remembered a thick fog settling in around her much like a thicket blanket. Before she knew it, she could see no further than the nose on her face. Stumbling further forward, she had left the wooded path in into a clearing. In her haste, she become increasingly tired by this point and decided it best to rest in the quaint clearing. At least the ground was soft and adorned with moss and leaves, providing a soft bedding for her to lay upon. However, it appeared she had taken more than just a short respite and instead fallen deep asleep. Attempting to gain her bearings as she looked around, she noted a small ring of mushrooms had formed about her makeshift bed and appeared to fall within the circle made by the stones standing like guardians over them. This sent a chill through her body and she began to worry a little as the coincidence eerily resembled stories she was told of by her grandmother. "No, no, pay those stories no mind. Only old tales of fae and magic, children's stories to entertain and scare children into behaving. I'm no child.." she told herself. Gathering her dress about her, she rose and took off in the direction she thought was home. Angry father or not she felt a sudden urge to return home, unable to shake the nagging feeling of the concentric circles she'd awaken to. Leaving the clearing, she hoped she hadn't strayed far from the path. She breathed a sigh of relief when she came across a group of loose rocks she knew and played upon as a child. Picking up the front of her dress to keep from tripping she picked up the pace and soon broke through a gap in the trees to what would be the familiar sight of her home she knew to be just on the other side. ...only it wasn't there. In place of her house with picket fence and driveway leading to the street of the cul-de-sac she lived on was only a small, almost wild looking clearing. Amongst the weeds and short grass, a squat thatch roofed house made from timber rose before her. Gone were the SUVs that lined the road up and down her block. In their place, cows with their silly gaping faces stared back at her with their jaws endlessly working on the cud tucked away in their cheeks. Sheep milled around, grazing on long grass as their blunted teeth gripped and tore the blades of verdant green from the ground. From the thatch roofed home emerged a man, clad in an old kilt and tunic, looking as if he was posing for a historical reenactment of an 18th century Irish highlander painting. Niamh slowly realized her grandmother may not have been blowing smoke up her backside about the fae folk stories. Perhaps she wasn't mistaken and had just been whisked away to a time closer to 1800 than her own year of 2020. "Oh, this cannot be happening right now. I'm going to wake up and realize this was nothing but a bad dream." She pinched her cheeks till tears formed in her eyes but the idyllic scene before her remained unchanged.

I awoke in a hall of mirrors with the strange sensation that I'd been asleep for a long time. Moreover, I had no idea where I was, or how I'd gotten there. My head felt like a snow globe filled with dust. Conversely, the mirrors that surrounded me were so clear, that they could have been carved from slabs of crystal. Even the floors were made of brilliant glass that reflected off a glimmering mirrored ceiling. I got the sense that this was the first of many chambers. It was shaped like the inside of an igloo, leading to an archway, that would take me to the next station. I went through the passage without thinking, never stopping to look at my reflection in the initial chamber. The second room was far larger than the first; the collage of mirrors stretched for the length of at least four football fields. I was surprised to find that I was a young boy. A freckled face, with curly orange hair, and a mouth full of crooked teeth gazed at me from every direction. I had the sudden urge to cry. I wanted to call out for my Mom and Dad, but I knew I was alone in this house of mirrors. Panic quickened my small feet, as I hurried across the shiny path. If I was older, the walk wouldn't be so hard, but my tiny feet made every foot a yard. When I started to cry, the glass became slick and I tripped hilariously. I thanked my lucky stars that no other kids were around to witness my calamity. I remembered how we all laughed at Onion Breath Tim when he slipped off the jungle gym. Tim bawled like a baby and his Mom had to come pick him up early. Somehow it didn't seem that funny to me anymore. I realized if I focused, I could see the jungle gym in the mirrors like I was projecting the image from my mind. It was both bizarre and perfectly reasonable to me. I beamed at the sight of the rusty red slide that I married Katie Bishop under. We didn't kiss because I thought girls were gross. I only agreed to marry her under that slide because she asked me to and it was recess. I was surprised that she didn't think boys were gross. When I finally reached the end of the long field of mirrors, I was greeted by an archway that looked like the mouth of a giant cave. I wanted to rush forward and discover what wonders resided in the next chamber, but I stopped for a moment. One of my feet was in the mouth of the cave, while the other lingered in the field of mirrors. I knew I had to go forward if I ever wanted to see my parents, Katie Bishop, or even Onion Breath Tim again, but I also knew I would never be able to return to the field. I knew that in the same way that I knew how to breathe or make my heart beat. I stayed in that purgatory for a long time, but eventually, I moved forward. The next chamber was different in several ways. The ceiling was way higher and domed at the top. Instead of one path, there were several skinny ones, each cordoned off by tightly packed walls of reflective glass. Lastly, the mirrors themselves were less shimmery, yet the images were more defined. This irked me, why make it so I can see better but the image is uglier? The stubbly face of a man in his late teens followed me through the maze of mirrors. I wondered what happened to that cute kid from the last chamber. How had the adorable freckles given way to a mess of multi-colored blemishes? I badly wanted to turn around and return to the first chamber, but I could see it was walled off. I had to keep going if I ever wanted to make it out of here. I wasn't sure which path to pick; I walked by a few to see if any called to me. No such luck. Finally, I decided to close my eyes and randomly pick a direction. The path I landed on was tucked between two tightly packed glass walls. I squeezed through them, nearly bonking my head on the deceptively low ceiling as I went. To my relief, this path was straightforward and well-lit. I broke into a light jog, desperate to escape and find out what was happening. My memory was still a mess, but I knew that I was a senior in college. I hoped I wasn't missing an exam or a party. To be honest, I was more concerned with the latter. That's when I remember Annie. I hoped she wasn't worried about me, but more than that, I hoped she wasn't with some other guy. Annie was my first real girlfriend, although I was not her first boyfriend, not by any stretch of the imagination. I believed I loved her, but how could I know? My Dad used to say he fell in love with my Mom at first sight, but they got divorced last year; so seriously, what did I know? The path started to narrow, to the point where my shoulders were rubbing against the mirrors on either side. It became so uncomfortable that I changed my walk to a slide, where my shoulders were vertically aligned. I suddenly remembered that I'd be graduating soon, and abandoned my sliding method. Squished shoulders or not, I had to find my way out of this strange place. Faster than I could have imagined, I arrived at a solid glass wall, with a cubby-sized hole chiseled at its base. As I wriggled through the hole, I shivered as the cold glass pressed against my skin. I crawled out of the space and into the next entranceway. This time, it was a rectangular doorway, that resembled a parking garage. At least twenty other tiny crevices ran adjacent to the one I'd come through, all leading to the singular nexus. Without looking back, I went through the doorway. The next chamber was vast and hilly. I silently applauded the creators of this establishment because their work seemed to defy physics. A rolling floor of mirrors stretched further than my eyes could see. I had no idea where the boundaries of this chamber were, and the ceiling was so high that I couldn't tell if it was made of glass or the real sky. Unlike the first three chambers, the glass here was of inconsistent quality. At times, the panels were crystal clear, while other sections were dusty or cracked. I feared if I stepped on a broken mirror I'd be impaled by a shard of glass. Luckily, only a few of the spots were shattered, so avoiding them was simple. I started to climb a steep hill, that reminded me of an ice luge. I could only see my reflection on the floor, and it wasn't pretty. I'd aged at least 20 years since the last chamber. My red hair was now reduced to wispy strands, that refused to be commanded by a brush. I still had no idea what kind of place I was in; if anything, I was more confused than I'd been in the first chamber. Yet, I was no longer frustrated by the lack of answers. Instead, I decided to marvel at the awesomeness of what unfolded before me. As I ascended the seemingly endless hill, I remembered I had to call my Mom. I'd promised myself after Dad died, that I'd appreciate her while she was here. In some ways, I think I'd blamed her for the divorce, but being older, I realized that was pointless. Of course, having a divorce of my own colored my opinion on the matter. Even though Ellen and I had no kids, the process was still agonizing. I'd take a glass shard in my foot over that ordeal any day of the week. It must have been doubly tough for my parents, dealing with my whiney self. My legs started to groan as I hiked up the forever hill. The joints in my knees started to feel like strands of jelly, that could snap at any moment. To make matters worse, much more of the glass was now cracked or uneven. At one point, the entire floor was comprised of jagged glass, meaning I couldn't avoid it. I attempted to gingerly pass through the razor-toothed floor and was rewarded with stinging pains on the soles of my feet. When the hill finally plateaued, I was so elated that I yelped for joy. There was no new entrance, but the glass leveled out until it resembled the second chamber. My knees ached horribly, and from the reflection, I could see my back was arched like a candy cane. I crept forward, sensing that this was the final stretch of the hall of mirrors. I was excited to learn who was behind this wonderfully bizarre contraption. The temperature had dropped significantly, and I could feel the cold in my bones. I knew that was a harbinger of the end. Up ahead, I could see a lone turnstile, next to an empty attendants booth. I slowed as I approached it, thinking of Onion Breath Tim, who was now Secretary of Education Tim. I wondered what happened to Katie Bishop. The last I'd heard she'd found someone to marry her for real and it wasn't a man. I guess she thought boys were gross after all. I was close to the turnstile now, and although the mirrors on the floor were dusty and cracked, the metal turnstile was iridescent. When I looked into it, my reflection was split into a kaleidoscope of colors and images. Pieces of freckles, interspersed with streaks of violet, ruby, and emerald, with a balding head, hunched shoulders, and wide eyes, were all weaved together by this seemingly magical instrument. A few final memories returned to me. Ellen and I had remained lifelong friends. Neither of us remarried or had kids, and that was ok. Mom and I talked nearly every day for ten years, until... I'm not sure. I felt the cool steel of the turnstile and realized that it was time to leave. No more memories would come to me here. I smiled and pushed through. I looked back one last time and saw that the glass floor was shimmering like the sea at sunrise. I swear it was winking at me as I left.

2256 -- Earth -- New Maryland at the Planetary Bureau of Investigation Beyond the slew of case files resting on my desk; I spy Chief Isaac on the phone in his office, pacing about--like a caged tiger. Whatever is going on has the Chief’s panties in a twist. And then his gaze falls upon me, and so does his anger. “Agent Franklin in my office now! Shut the door--sit and listen up. The top brass wants an old unsolved case closed--ASAP. Starting today, you are being reassigned to this case.” “But Chief Isaac...” “No buts, Franklin--start packing, your destination--Perfection.” >>>><<<< 2256 -- En Route to Perfection The first to arrive and settle on the new world would name the planet Perfection. From there on, the name stuck. Perfection orbits Proxima Centauri, one of three stars in that solar system, and it is roughly 4.3 light-years from Earth. That makes this a twenty-year jaunt across the galaxy. It's a good thing Friday and I don’t sleep or eat or breathe or have a life. “Friday, be a sweetheart and cue up the J.R. Holmes's case.” “First off, Franklin, I’m not your sweetheart, nor do I socialize with the lesser A.I.” Friday is the ship’s Level-Three, A.I. and my partner. She has the sexiest voice you’ve ever heard. “I’m told Friday that virtual sex is as good as the real thing and that it relieves stress associated with long voyages.” “Keep dreaming, Franklin, that will never happen. Cueing up the latest reports on the case.” She transmits the data to my head. I can see and hear what she sees and hears, and vice versa. “I knew one day I'd get into your head Friday.” “Ha-ha funny Franklin, now all jokes aside, from what we know, this J.R. Holmes has murdered thousands of settlers across the planet, spanning decades. And all within the last hundred years. The anomaly, our suspect, hasn't aged a day since the first murders. This would make him roughly a hundred and fifty years old. Though not implausible, except for the fact that...” “He hasn’t aged a day. I get that. So, what is--he, exactly? A simulacrum, an immortal, an alien, a time traveler. What?” “A simulacrum--impossible. The Laws of Ethics are hard-wired into our circuitry, ‘thou shalt, not kill’, being the first tenet. This leaves us with an immortal, plausible. An alien, plausible but unlikely. A time traveler, extremely unlikely but plausible.” “No Friday, that leaves us back to square one. In the meantime, until we can figure out how this guy is staying young. I’d like you to monitor all planetary communication. Of one thing I am certain, this guy will kill again and again.” >>>><<<< 2276 -- Orbiting Perfection During the twenty-year excursion to the planet. Holmes managed to make time, in his busy schedule, for an extra two hundred murders. And more videos surfaced of this monster, revealing he still hadn't aged a day. Unfortunately for the victims, Friday and I were no closer to solving this case. We decided to leave orbit and touchdown where the killer was last seen. A cow town, known as--New Texas. “Alright Franklin, you got me, what’s with the Stetson and Cowboy Boots?” “When in Rome Friday, do as the Romans do, Aurelius Ambrosius.” “Ah Saint Ambrosius. You are aware of Franklin that what he said was, ‘When I am at Rome, I fast on a Saturday; when I am at Milan, I do not. Follow the custom of the church where you are.’” “Isn’t that what I said? For a Level-Three A.I., you often trip over interpretation, a design flaw associated with the lesser A.I.” “Ha-ha, you’re so funny, Franklin.” Using my best western accent, I say, “I reckon I am a little miss.” >>>><<<< 2276 -- Perfection -- New Texas The starlight of three suns at high noon bake the denizens who walk along the dirt-paved roads of New Texas. A town, echoing a world found only in the memories of those from the old American West. This is an outré world and I distant traveler in search of answers. And that’s when a drunkard patron comes flying out through the wooden doors of the OK Corral Saloon, landing in the dirt in front of me. “Well, Friday looks like them Cowboys are a-gettin' all roostered up.” Through the swinging doors, I enter the saloon and make my way to the bar. My boot spurs make a ching-ching-ching sound in sync with the creak-creak-creak of the dusty floorboards. Behind the bar, a busty bartender wipes down a greasy shot glass, with a dirty white towel. And she says, “Everyone, lookee-here--it's Howdee Doodee!” The saloon erupts into laughter. Laughing, Friday says, “I reckon you're not in Rome.” The laughter and my embarrassment ebb back to the sea. I move to question the busty bartender. “P. B. I., Agent Franklin,” Flashing my badge and I.D. “Have you seen this man frequenting this establishment?” I asked, showing her a Hollo-Print of the suspect. And to my surprise she says, “Yep, he's a regular, shows up once a week. He always sits at the same table over there by the grand piano. So, what’s the guy done?” “It would be best not to concern yourself, Ma’am. And when do you expect him to show up again?” “Well let me see, If I’m not mistaken, it's been nine Earth days, that would make it tomorrow evening, Decadi.” Perfection takes ten sidereal days to complete a full rotation. The days are: Primidi, Duodi, Tridi, Quartidi, Quintidi, Sextidi, Septidi, Octidi, Nonidi and Decadi. “This must be our lucky day Friday; in twenty-four hours we’ll catch this psycho!” “That’s great news, so what’s the plan, Franklin, do we grab him before or after he enters the saloon?” “After, I’ll pass myself off as the evening’s entertainment by playing the Steinway. Then wait for Holmes to show and take a seat at his favorite table. The enclosed space of the saloon will limit his possible escape. And Friday, I'll need you to track the operation as it goes down. Now partner, please be so kind, and come pick me up.” >>>><<<< 2276 -- Decadi -- New Texas at the OK Corral Saloon The nights on Perfection are as hot as they are during the day; absent the light, or in a downpour like tonight. The packed saloon has patrons standing outside getting wet. This doesn't stop them from enjoying themselves. And with luck, nor will it stop our killer. I’ve now played the ‘Piano Man’ five times and still no sign of Holmes. “Well Franklin, it's been eight hours now, do you think someone tipped him off?” “Doubt it Friday, serial killers are creatures of habit, he’ll show. You know Friday, I’ve been with the bureau now forty-two years, and have served under Chief Isaac sixteen of those. And not once has the chief ordered me off-world on such an important, high-profile case. So, you see, I can’t--won’t let him down.” “You won’t, Franklin--we won’t let that happen.” “Thanks, you're the best partner a Level-One simulacrum could ever... wait a sec--the bartender is signaling. Reading her lips--Holmes!” I watch Holmes as he makes his way through the crowd and towards his favorite table. He pulls out a chair and sits. A pool of water forms at his feet. The bartender places a shot glass and bottle on the table. He slaps her bottom as she walks away. Pouring himself a shot, he tilts his head back, swilling its contents. I stop playing, walk over and stand behind him. I then place my hand on his shoulder and say, “P. B. I.--Holmes, you are under...” Swilling another round, he turns his head to look straight at me. Why is he grinning? Standing, he strikes me with a left across the face; shooting me through the piano--splitting it in two. He then bolts out the way he came in; knocking over patrons as he goes. I give chase, but the rain and the crowd don’t help. I’ve lost him. “Friday, what the hell! I’m as strong as four men, but he was stronger--how?” “Searching... you won’t believe this; it was the drink. It’s called juice. It's distilled from an indigenous plant that endows the locals with enormous strength. But its effects are momentary.” “That would explain how he committed the murders using his hands. I’ll be ready for him when we next meet. Now Friday, are you picking up the tracker I placed on his shoulder?” “Yes, partner, reading the signal loud and clear. Holmes is heading towards the outskirts of town... I’m coming to get you.” >>>><<<< 2276 -- Fiat justitia ruat caelum We find Holmes hiding inside an abandoned structure. So we wait for him to make a move. He won't escape a second time. “Franklin, detecting an ignition signature, he's making his escape!” His ship blasts a hole in the roof as it ascends. We give chase. Within minutes, both vessels break free of Perfection's atmosphere. Holmes's ship is smaller and faster and stays ahead of ours as we continue the pursuit. “Friday, do you see what I see?” Ahead of us is a black hole. A black hole we had not detected on our arrival. Now the truth of why Holmes did not age comes to light. “Franklin, if Holmes moves his ship any closer to the black holes' event horizon, we will not be able to apprehend him. And he will not be able to escape the black hole’s gravity.” “Well then Friday, fiat justitia ruat caelum. Now hail his vessel.” “Let justice be done though the heavens fall? Ah understood Franklin, hailing.” “This is Special Agent Franklin of the P.B.I., shut down your engines and prepare for boarding!” “Franklin, he isn’t responding and has now pushed his vessel into the event horizon.” “Well, my girl Friday, this case is now closed.

A Wholly Superior Creature by C.S. Humble *Part I - The Body* Courtney Marie Davidson joined the ranks of the butchered sometime after 7 PM on the twenty-first of March. A pair of twelve-year-old boys riding their bikes in a drainage ditch near a rained-out culvert found her face down in an oily runoff. According to them, they went home immediately, told their parents, and gave the station a call. I made a note to question them after I examined the scene to see if they'd touched or taken anything. Kids do that sometimes. They'll take evidence, or touch something they shouldn't touch. My partner of eight years, Roger Dale had recently retired, leaving me solo. My leather still squeaked when he got his tenured hands on me. Taught me everything I know about investigation. A harsh mentor, but never unfair. The homicide bullpen was thin as a bed sheet, so I was still waiting to be assigned a new partner when the boy's parents called about Courtney. I smoked half a joint on my way to the scene and climbed down into the ditch around 1 PM. I leaned around the beat officers squaring the tape across the ditch. The crime scene photographer cameras clicked and snapped like mussels clinging to a sloshing dock. The furious pace set my teeth on edge. The bright flashes went off like tiny supernovas in a bright galaxy. My superior, Sergeant Mike Donnell, stood over Courtney's body. He saw me and I saw him. Mike looked back down at the body and waved me over with the tip of the pen in his hand. He slid the pen over his ear and left it there. We shook hands. "Sam," he said. He tore a slip out his notebook no bigger than a deck of cards and handed it to me. "Sergeant." I took the slip. "Her name's Courtney Marie Davidson. Her brother reported her missing two-weeks ago. Recently graduated from Georgia Tech. Smart girl. Honors too. Moved here a couple of months ago to take a job with a think tank dedicated to ending homelessness. Brother's name is...shit," he said, flipping pages over in the notebook. "You know me with names, Sam." "Only took you three months to learn mine, Mike." "Here we go: Marty. He's flying in tomorrow to confirm." All the pleasantries said, his jowly cheeks bowed, setting his chapped lips into a thin, cracked line. He nodded his head down at the body. "It's bad, Sam." Bad was a cheap word for what had been done at Courtney's expense. The sun beat down, putting all the crimson lines of mutilation into the clear light of day. These weren't wandering strokes of inflamed passion, they were carefully scrawled etchings carved by a meticulous hand. From the base of her skull to the heel of each foot was a tapestry that narrated an extended period of torture. Each strange letter and symbol were slashed with a practiced, careful precision. When the photography unit was satisfied with the first batch of pictures they rolled her onto her back. Mike twisted away, his breath escaping his lips like a busted tire. "Jesus Christ." He was right to blaspheme. What they'd done to her back, buttocks, and thighs was a prologue to a monstrous text. Letters scrawled no larger than a thumbnail. Icons drafted from peeled flesh. Those were bad enough, but it was the scarlet mask they'd made of her face that hit a group of seasoned detectives like a hammer. Courtney's weightless blue eyes pierced me. Her killer had locked her jaw open, giving the appearance of a final, harrowing death scream. Everyone stepped away in revulsion. I wandered to the safe darkness of the culvert where I lost my calming chemical buzz and spilled my lunch against the wall. Dark as the inside of a gun barrel, the tunnel echoed with the sound of my tuna sandwich splattering into the water. Then it echoed again with another splash. The sound of a footstep in shallow water. I kept my head down and pretended not to hear. Pretended not to know someone was watching us from the foul depths. "Sergeant," I said. "I dropped my wallet when I puked. You got a flashlight?" "Thomas," Mike called over to one of the photographers. "get Sam a light would ya?" Tom was a little guy, his hawkish features soured with a mild annoyance as he plodded over to me. Clutching his camera like a first-born child, he objected when I snatched the cumbersome tool out of his hand. "Be careful with--Hey!" I pointed it down the tunnel and started snapping pictures. The light pulsed in the darkness and for a millisecond I saw a figure throwing their hands up around their face. "Freeze!" Not everyone who runs is guilty, but one thing Roger taught me early is that when they run, we chase. I chased. Peering down the tunnel was like trying to watch an eclipse through the fluttering wings of a hummingbird, but I saw him. Stamping through the water, I thumbed the shutter like a man trying to spark a dead cigarette lighter. Flashing sparks against the walls I flailed more than I ran. I bounced off one of the sharp corners. The camera fell out of my hand and clattered into the wet channel with a hollow noise. Far down the adjacent tunnel a single pillar of sunlight stabbed down into the darkness where I saw a pair of legs pounding against the rungs of a ladder set into the wall. Up and through an open manhole the legs slid out of sight. I waited to draw my pistol, knowing that it would only slow me down as I made my way up the rebar steps. Sometimes I get ahead of myself. I saw the street for half a heartbeat before the light intensified and lightning struck my skull. My hands slipped off the top rung. My chin collided with the second step, knocking my jaw shut. I had to grope for the top rung two more times before my vision stopped betraying my efforts. The sound of my assailant's feet hitting the bricks chewed in my ears as I slid into an alleyway, only to watch him round another corner out of sight. I tried to roll to my feet, but the world somersaulted and I tottered into a pile of wet garbage. I gave myself a quick pep-talk, which consisted of a "Get the fuck up, Sam," and before I knew it my shoes were scraping the pavement. Rounding the corner the world bent again, and I leaned against the nearest skyscraper for balance. A long warm river was running down my neck and throat. I knew it wasn't sweat. Slashing my vision down the busy street I looked at the legs of every man, woman, and child. Nothing. Not a single wet pant to be found. I was still pretty jumpy when I felt a hand grab me on the shoulder. I whirled and struck. The barrel of my pistol lanced out, cracking Tom across the beak. His legs went stiff as matchsticks, then crumbled in a heap. "Goddamnit, Tom," I said. That was as close to an apology as he was going to get. I blamed the rash action on the head trauma. The photographer groaned, his bloody fingers clutched his face. "You broke my camera, Maxwell," Tom said, his eyes scrunching shut, before they opened wide again in pain. "And my fucking nose.

"The storm is worse than I expected," Mares said, shaking the rain from his coat as he joined the poker table. He was a tall, wiry man with a sharp nose and the keen eyes of a gambler. The room was dim, the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses providing a backdrop to the flickering lights above the table. The rain hammered against the windows, drowning out the distant sounds of the town. Carlos Biltong, still dripping from his walk there, glanced at Mares, who was shuffling the deck with the practiced ease of someone who knew his way around a card game. "Deal us in," Biltong said, pulling up a chair. He hadn’t planned on staying long, but something about Mares’s appearance intrigued him. Mares dealt the cards, his movements precise, almost mechanical. As the game began, the usual banter was subdued. Biltong was talking crazy, right off the bat. What if I never heard my grandfather’s story?” he said and threw in a few chips, his gaze flicking between his cards and Mares. Biltong's grandfather, a brilliant yet enigmatic scientist, had been the one to introduce him to the concept of iterative learning--specifically, the principle of reiterating time sequences with slight variations until the desired outcome was achieved. It was a method rooted in both machine learning and the very nature of time itself, a way to perfect an outcome through endless repetition. As a boy, Carlos Biltong had been captivated by his grandfather’s stories, which were always laced with the mystery of time and the possibility of change. His grandfather would often sit by the fire, a distant look in his eyes, and speak of how one could return to the same moment over and over, making tiny adjustments until everything fell into place. Biltong had taken these lessons to heart, applying them in his work with the Canadian Spacetime Agency, where his research into retrocausality was built upon these very principles. Perhaps, without his grandfather’s influence, Carlos Biltong would have been a different man--one who never played with the fabric of time. "So, Mares," Biltong said, breaking the silence, "what do you think of the grandfather paradox? Anything new?" Mares didn’t look up from his cards. "There’s always something new. But it's not about what’s new, it’s about what’s being missed." Biltong raised an eyebrow. "Missed?" "Yes," Mares said, his voice calm, almost detached. "The geoglyphs in Peru aren’t just marks in the earth. They’re messages. Warnings, maybe. And we’re not understanding those warnings." Biltong chuckled, though it was a nervous sound. "You’re saying the Nazca geoglyphs are trying to tell us something?" Mares placed his cards on the table, face down, and leaned back. "I’m saying they’re telling us more than we’re ready to hear." The rain outside grew louder. Biltong exchanged a glance with Mares, both men trying to gauge whether the other was serious. "What about it?" Biltong asked, his voice more serious now. "You said we could understand it." The thick smell of cigars and the low hum of conversation filled the room, mingling with the faint scent of whiskey and the sharp tang of Biltong’s cologne. The two players sat around the dimly lit table, their eyes sharp, their hands steady. Chips clinked in neat stacks, and cards whispered as they slid across the felt. The small talk had been the usual banter of work, weather, and women, drifting on in time until Biltong sought to confess the workings of his mind. “It’s called the Grandfather Paradox,” Biltong said, his deep voice carrying across the table. “You go back in time, kill your grandfather, and poof--no more you. But then, who killed him?” Mares, seated to Biltong's right, chuckled as he thumbed his cards. “Time travel?. “It’s what that pyramid out in Nazca--what was it, five meters a side was about, they say.” “Not nowhere,” Biltong corrected, drawing out his words for emphasis. “They found it exactly where it was meant to be, inside the Nazca Lines. Like someone from the future just dropped it there. A three-dimensional puzzle piece in a two-dimensional landscape. Some people think it’s a guardian object.” "Guardian object?" Mares asked, leaning forward. His cards lay forgotten as curiosity got the better of him. “A guardian object,” Biltong repeated, savoring the attention. “Supposedly, it’s meant to protect us from ourselves. Remove it, and--who knows? Maybe that’s what’s holding everything together.” Mares snorted. “Right, and next you’ll tell me Eternals are real too.” “Maybe they are,” Biltong said, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Maybe one’s sitting at this table right now, proving a point.” The cards had come to a pause as the players exchanged glances, skepticism coloring their features. But Biltong leaned back, confident, holding his cards as though they were keys to the universe itself. “Alright, enough talk,” Mares said, breaking the spell. His eyes flicked back to his hand, and the game was on again. “Let’s see those cards.” It was down to Biltong and Mares. Biltong, by far the older man, born in 2017 whilst Mares was born in 2053. But then, how old was his grandfather? Maybe he was an Eternal, like one of Isaac Asimov’s characters. The room seemed to shrink as Mares revealed his cards one by one. Four nines stared up from the table, high cards, exuding a quiet power. Mares leaned back, satisfied, certain of his victory. “Four of a kind - four nines in fact,” he said, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Hard to beat.” Biltong’s grin didn’t falter. He laid his cards out with deliberate slowness, as though savoring each moment. “Unless,” he said, flipping the last card, “it’s a royal flush.” Mares gave a sharp intake of breath. Spades glinted in the dim light, from ten to ace. The perfect hand. The kind of hand you might get once in a lifetime, if you were lucky. Or maybe if you were cheating. Or maybe if time itself had a say in the matter. “What the hell,” Mares muttered, staring at the cards, disbelief and anger battling for dominance on his face. “That’s impossible.” “Not impossible,” Biltong corrected, his eyes glinting. “Just... unlikely. Maybe this is just the universe’s way of revisiting the present. A time traveler, proving a point.” “Bullshit,” Mares snapped, slamming his hand on the table. The chips rattled, some tipping over. “You’re saying you won because of time travel?” “I’m saying,” Biltong replied coolly, gathering his winnings, “that if I were a time traveler, I’d come back to this exact moment, play this exact hand, just to watch your face when you lost.” “What are the odds?” asked Mares.” I still don’t believe it. The pack must have been rigged.” “Well,” said Biltong, “I had Ace and Jack of the same suit.” The community cards were Queen, King, Ten of the same suit as my Ace and a Jack, plus two nines, hearts and spades. The five community cards (Queen, King, Ten, and two Nines) and my two hole cards (Ace and Jack) provided me my royal flush. Your two Nines as your hole cards made up your Four of a Kind: Two of the Nines were on the board as community cards. So, one other player, you, indeed had four Nines. You said: “What are the odds of this happening?” “So I was dealt Ace and Jack of the same suit. The community cards included the Queen, King, Ten of my suit (to complete the royal flush), plus two nines. You had to have the remaining two nines. The probability of being dealt a specific suited hand (Ace and Jack of the Same Suit) is, look, I’ll tell you if it’ll make you any happier. There are 4 possible suits and each has 52 cards in the deck. The probability of being dealt Ace-Jack of the same suit is: one in one hundred and ten point five. The probability of flopping a specific Royal Flush is one in two million, one hundred and eighteen thousand, seven hundred and sixty. The probability of Two Nines appearing in the remaining cards: one in nine hundred and ninety. So, the overall odds would be, well, let’s see, if my math is not too rusty, combinatorics as my grandfather would say, are a useful invention, and make stupid old time travel intelligent again, by retrocausality. I perfected a time sequence which seems real to you in which the overall odds of this specific scenario happening is one in twenty three billion.” There was a silence. A charged, uncomfortable silence, where the fabric of reality seemed to stretch thin, like a rubber band pulled too far. The room felt colder, the shadows deeper, as though something unseen had shifted. Mares laughed, breaking the tension, but it was a nervous sound, high-pitched and strained. “Yeah, right,” he said, forcing a smile. “You had me going for a second there.” Biltong just smiled, that same mysterious smile, as he pocketed the chips. “Maybe I’m just lucky.” But the words lingered, and the room didn’t quite return to normal. Mares stared at the cards, his expression darkening with each passing second. The thought gnawed at him--what if Biltong wasn’t lying? What if something was amiss? What if that pyramid out in Nazca was just the beginning? Mares felt that something had gone wrong, something beyond the game. Biltong’s royal flush had seemed like the pinnacle, the impossible hand, but in its wake, things started to unravel, slowly, almost imperceptibly, until his mind gave up. The table fell silent as his words hung in the air, the game all but over. The rain outside slowed to a steady drizzle, and the tension in the room seemed to ease, though an unease lingered just beneath the surface. Mares took his earlier winnings and boarded the train intending to be leaving Peru. He was definitely going to try and stay safe. That was when things began to fall apart. Getting off the train to relieve himself, in a station toilet that he couldn't find. The one on the train was broken. He bent down. A street lamp illuminated the platform, whereupon someone stepped out of the shadows asking, "Are you going to Nasira Almeida’s?" As he walked quickly, and he didn't want to hang around the toilets, he was soon done and then he heard a shot in the plaster walls, orange, they were, and the walls began to fall around him. As if plasterboard was being hacked away. He was behind a protecting wall. The police were closing in. Mares surrendered, bringing his hands up. He called, "Yes, yes, yes," but it was only the cleaner, dressed in orange, who spoke in Portuguese. “It is not for nothing that I am the great-grandson of the famous Mares family, which owns the mansion with a garden of fynbos," Mares muttered. He may be the enemy of other men, of other times, but not of fireflies, words, gardens, waterways, or sunsets. The police were polite, asking him to describe what happened. As he ascertained that they were holding him as a suspect for some murder, he asked what the charges were. "We will soon have this tied up," they said. A guard appeared in the cell when he mentioned food, and then a meal - quite pleasant, really. Mares began to reason with himself; this will soon be over. He needed some diplomatic help, as he hadn't informed anyone about his trip. It had turned out that he was committed not for the murder of someone who was in the toilet, but was being held nevertheless. This made no sense to him. His family approved of his work in the Canadian Spacetime Agency, as he had done valuable research. Basically, everything about this time and place was off. His girlfriend appeared on his cell phone. "I'm on vacation. It's time I went out and had fun. That's why I'm here. I've been sightseeing. It's a beautiful city," she said. Mares took the bait. “We have our first retrocausality experiment set up,” she said. As Mares listened to her words, a chill ran down his spine. The retrocausality experiment--this was the culmination of all his work, the very thing he had abandoned everything for. Now, it was being realized without him. Flora continued to speak enthusiastically about the experiment, but Mares’ mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t shake the feeling that things had gone terribly wrong, not just with the experiment but with his life as a whole. The decision to step away from his work, the subsequent arrest and imprisonment, the alienation from his family--all of it had led him to this point, and he wasn’t sure he liked where he had ended up. When Flora finished speaking, she looked at him expectantly, waiting for a response. Mares forced a smile, trying to mask the turmoil inside. "It sounds incredible, Flora. Truly, it does. But I think...I think I’ve had enough of time travel, of experiments. It’s not where I belong anymore." Flora frowned, her excitement dimming. "But Mares, this is your work. You can't just walk away from it. Don’t you want to see what we’ve achieved, what you started?" Mares shook his head slowly. "I did want that, once. But now, I just want peace. I’ve lost too much trying to chase after something that, in the end, might not even matter." Flora stared at him, confusion and disappointment etched on her face. "So, what are you going to do now?" Mares looked out at the city again, at the life he had once found so alluring, and sighed. "I’m going to find a place where I can be still, where I can live without the weight of the past or the future hanging over me. Maybe that’s in Toronto, maybe it’s somewhere else. But it’s not here." Flora nodded, though her expression remained troubled. "I hope you find what you’re looking for, Mares. But I think you’re running away from something you can’t escape." Mares didn’t have an answer to that. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was running away. But for now, all he wanted was to leave behind the complications of his old life. As he walked away from Flora, he felt a strange mix of relief and sorrow. He was free, thanks to her word which carried weight, but he was also alone, and the future seemed as uncertain as ever. He boarded the next train out of the city, not knowing where it would take him. As the train sped away from the city, Mares leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, letting the rhythmic clatter of the tracks lull him into a state of calm. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to simply be, without worrying about what came next. But as the train carried him further into the unknown, a nagging thought lingered in the back of his mind: Could he ever truly escape the past? Or was he doomed to repeat the same mistakes, over and over again?

If I’ve learnt one thing, it’s this: looking for signs is not for the faint of heart. If you’re seeking one, you may not see it at first. Don’t give up. Stay alert, keep your eyes peeled, and eventually it’ll appear. But you may have to take the road less travelled by. * * * 72 hours. They told me I had 72 hours to get it right. But this was not really the truth, the whole truth, the unvarnished truth, the one that’s stripped bare of veneers and obfuscations. No. The truth is, you have something like twelve hours. That’s all. Here, I’ll explain the math. I can see your eyes are glazing over as soon as I say the word, but never mind, just listen, pay attention, you never know when you’ll be in that situation. When you’re going to need it . First of all you can take out the non business hours -- I see I’m losing you already, and I’ve lost so many people this year, I can’t bear to lose another. First the maid, then the gardener, then the flower girl. That’s three already. So okay. No more math. Just take my word for it. Just twelve hours. That’s all you’ve got. Practically speaking. The best place was the one at the airport. Of course there were places closer to me. Nearer to home, where I knew the roads, the intersections, the landmarks, where the speed limits were more friendly to me. That is, below the dreaded sixty five miles an hour. But no one vouched for them. They were like the homeless guy come into a bit of good luck, trying to rent a studio on Woodside. No prior references available. That’s what those places near home were like. Maybe there’ll come a time when someone will say, they’ll deliver for you in 24 hours, they’ll have all the magic letters the airline demands, the R and the T, the P, C and the R, all arranged in the right order, lined up like little soldiers fighting in my own battalion, but for right now, they were unknowns. So this is how I found myself, speeding along at sixty five, looking for a sign. The sign that said, “COVID tests, this way.” The google directions lady tried her best. “Stay straight on Airport Boulevard,” she said. (But what is straight? I ask you this, not as a philosophical question, not as the question the homeless guy asked me when he broke into my house and took a silver pitcher saying, “Isn’t my life more important than the fact that your great grandmother left you this pitcher, and therefore my hunger trumps your idea of what it is to be straight,” but as a practical matter of directions. The North, South, East and West of life.) The boulevard that I was on bifurcated, and then the bifurcations further bifurcated, and then they had progeny, and I found myself swimming in the midst of five lanes. Domestic, International Arrivals, International Departures, If You Want To Go to Brokaw Road, Something Else to Confuse Hapless Souls, these were the lanes, and here I craned my neck left and then far right wondering where the heck the sign for Carbon Health was. If I saw the sign, I knew that my trip would be a good idea. Wouldn’t it be the Universe’s way of telling me that it was giving me the go ahead to fly in the time of Delta, and here, I don’t mean the airline, but the variant, the one that grabs you in a matter of seconds and decimates your lungs, mind, kidneys, heart and any organ that can’t resist. That Delta. I was giving up when I saw the sign. It was off to the side, hanging out in the crook of the elbow formed by domestic and international, the time they parted ways as all separate roads must, sometime or the other. By this time, the sweat had amassed on my forehead, like melted ice atop a mountain, and major rivers were running down the side of my face. Sometimes the gap between where one is and where the sign is, is too great to traverse. It takes more than a hot moment to cross five lanes. Thankfully there was no limit on how often one can circle around an airport. I wound my way through the innards, passing Air Canada, United, Delta (this time the airline), Alaska and all the others that work for us to pollute our air. A second chance to find the sign. This time I’ll do it, I said to myself. Back at the starting line, I sat up straight, put my shoulders back, sucked the oxygen in deep. One lane, I got this, I told myself, then cut over to International. Before I knew it, the friendly two international lanes had split further, spawning strangers I was unacquainted with. I needed another sign, but there was none. I slowed down. I screamed. I asked Fate what it was playing at. Drivers behind me were getting impatient. I heard horns honking and then the people whose time was more precious than my mother's need to see me made their way around me and sped off down roads they knew better than I did. Third time was not a charm. As I started the fourth round, I began to ask myself: Was the failure to see the sign a sign? Was I in the Escher painting of signs where the lack of one sign points to another, a ladder that leads you to another ladder? Was this a portent that my trip was doomed, not to be undertaken in this perilous time? The fourth round was a bust. Now five has always been my favorite number. It’s got everything: flats, curves, a right angle. It’s not too rigid, and not too flexible. It would be Goldilock’s number, not too this and not too that. So the fifth time I went around, and International split, I stayed on the right. When it birthed a strange little road, I took it. Didn’t Frost talk about the road less travelled by? That came in handy. Then it was there: the second sign, the one that I had been seeking all along. “COVID test.” Modest, painted white, easily missable, a wallflower of a sign. A sign that's soon forgotten, much like one fails to remember the theft by a homeless guy of a silver pitcher, because he presents an infallible logic, the primacy of his need. What's forgotten goes unreported. Never had that dreaded word, and here I mean COVID, not theft, appeared so fair. I stepped on the gas, a smile lighting up my face, looking forward to white gowns, invasive swabs and finally, a single word with a bad rap, NEGATIVE.

James looked at the clock. It was 4:50 pm. He let out a sigh and looked to the ceiling. A small spider hanging on its web caught his attention. He wondered what the world of spiders looked like. Did they ever feel stress? Pressure? Like they ever wanted to quit? “James?” James almost fell from his chair when he heard the voice from behind his chair. He stood up and turned to look at who was calling him. “Hi Linda, you scared me a bit there.” “Sorry” Linda smiled, a smile James never got tired of seeing. “Can I help you with something?” “Oh yes, I need you to help me with the report that Andy told us to work on.” James narrowed his eyes. “I thought you had a copy of the report?” “I did. But I don’t anymore.” James looked at Linda as if expecting an explanation. But she didn’t say anything else. “Okay...I’ll email it to you.” “Thanks.” With that, Linda left his office. James looked at her as she walked away. She really is strange sometimes, James thought to himself. James dropped his bag on the floor when he reached home. He fell on the sofa, feeling the strains of work all over his body. Somehow the sofa - that was made of leather - felt so comfortable, as if it was massaging his back. On the walls of the living room hang picture frames of him and the trophies he had won on various sledge racing championships. “Good times,” James said to himself looking at the picture. He remembered how happy he was back then. How he felt alive in those competitions. Suddenly feeling thirsty, James went to the refrigerator to get a drink. He saw the pile of reports on top of his table, reminding him of the work he needed to complete. “Oh how I love my job,” James said in a sarcastic tone. Just then his phone rang. The caller id read “world’s worst boss.” “Hello, Mr Richards,” James thought of adding something else to his formal greeting. Something like, hello, Mr Richards, the boss no one ever wants to work for. “James! Where is the report you were told to work on? I need it now!” “I thought I had 2 weeks to work on it? I remember...” “What?” Mr Richards interrupted. “I’m telling you now, I need that report. Get it down, now!” With that, Mr Richards hang up. “Now I really love my job” It was 01:23 am when James finished working on the report. “Finally,” James said while yawning. He really felt tired. But most of all, he felt out of place. Like he was in the wrong place. James had always thought of quitting but he was afraid. Afraid of the future. Afraid of being jobless. Afraid that...he never find what he was looking for. But what was he looking for? James was alarmed by the alarm from his phone. He got up and looked at the time. It was 8:45 am. “What!” James shouted. “I am so dead” he rushed to the bathroom and took a quick shower. He looked through his closet, picked a T-shirt and black jeans. These will do. He was welcomed by Linda, who was leaning on the door to his office. She was wearing an all-black suit. Her hair was well done. For a moment James was taken up by how she looked. Realizing that Linda had noticed he was looking at her intently, James cleared his throat. “What’s the occasion?” “The boss wants to see you.” Linda then began to walk away before she stopped. “Oh, and he doesn’t seem too happy” James put his hand on his hip. Now, what’s the matter this time? James knocked at the door of Mr Richards. “Come in” James entered. Mr Richards had just put the phone down. He looked intense. “I was told you wanted to see me?” Mr Richards got up from his chair. He walked towards James. “The report you sent me was...trash” James stomach tightened. “I mean...what did you even do? This is absolute garbage!” James looked at his boss as he went on and on complaining about how bad the report was. James left anger build up inside him. Did he consider how hard I worked on this report? The time I slept working on that report? Does he even appreciate the work I do here? This ungrateful being! “Oh great. You aren’t even listening to me!” James’ came back to reality. He was in a place he didn’t want to be, a job he didn’t want in the first place, working for a man who didn’t appreciate him or the work he did. His anger had finally reached a point where he couldn’t contain it anymore. “Now you listen to me!” James said with an angry tone in his voice. “I have done everything...and I mean everything you have asked me to do.” Mr Richards could see a line of veins on James’ forehead. “...but you never appreciate anything. Nothing at all. So I’m done. I quit!” James walked out of the office, shutting the door loudly. He walked towards Linda until he was very close to her. He held her head and kissed her without any warning. He broke off the kiss and looked Linda right in the eyes, “I have always wanted to do that.” James then turned and walked towards the exit door. He looked behind and saw all the workers who were looking back at him with surprised eyes. “I hope you all open your eyes” James smiled and walked out. James took a big sip of his wine before he told the bartender to add him another glass. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” asked the bartender. “Hey man, I...I have had a rough day and I don’t know what’s going to happen next. So please...just keep them coming, Ok?” James looked at his watch, it was 11:36 pm. “Time does fly when you’re having a drink.” The bartender, who was pouring him another drink, motioned to James that this was his last drink for the night. “I hope you are going to pay for all these drinks?” James turned the lights of the room when he reached his home. “I’m home.” He looked around his living room as if expecting someone to welcome him. He let out a loud sigh when no one came. What a lonely person , he thought. He walked towards his sofa, clearly feeling the heaviness of the drinks he had. “Why are there 2 sofa sets?” James reached to what seemed his sofa, and dropping like a sack of potatoes, he fell flat on the carpeted floor. James was snoring loudly when his phone started ringing. The ring tone partially woke up. He looked at his phone but couldn’t see the caller id clearly. He groaned as he sat up, realizing that he had slept on the floor. His head hurt badly as he tried to make out what had happened the previous night. “Ah!” James let out a soft moan. His phone kept ringing. “Hello...” James answered. “Hey, James. It’s been a while.” James tried to make out the voice but his head hurt really badly. “Who is this?” “Oh man, I’m offended. I can’t believe you forgot about me that quickly.” James’ vision started becoming clear. His memory of yesterday begun coming back to him, but his head still hurt. He removed the phone from his ear to look at the caller id. It was his old friend Robert. “Robert? Is it really you?” “No. It’s the landlord and I have come for the rent. Of course, it’s me, Robert!” “Sorry man, I...um...hey, how’s it going? It really has been a while.” “It has. Listen, why don’t we meet up? I want to discuss something with you.” James reached the destination they had agreed upon with Robert. He was 30 minutes early. James entered the restaurant and ordered a cup of coffee and some cookies. He loved cookies, especially chocolate cookies. He sat down and quickly his mind wandered to the conversation he had over the phone with Robert. What did he want to talk about? He looked outside through the big window and saw 2 boys walking across the street. He wished he could be young again and make better choices in life. But what bugged him the most was that he really didn’t know what he wanted in life. What was even his purpose? Somehow James felt lost, wondering if he would ever be or find something meaningful to do. “Just like old times.” James looked at Robert, who was standing in front of him. “You always were early. Old habits never die huh?” Robert was wearing a black suit with sunglasses. His shoes looked like it could cover James’ salary for 4 months. “Are you walking with the Men in Black?” James asked while standing up. The 2 men hugged themselves, embracing themselves in a tight hug before pulling themselves at arm’s length and observing each other.“Well, look at you. You look so...classy.” James said. They both sat down. “So...how’s it been?” Robert began. “Oh, it’s been alright.” “Hmm...it’s that bad huh?” James took a sip of his coffee and bit on his cookie. “I quit my job yesterday. I couldn’t handle another day in that place.” “Oh, I see. You have any plans moving ahead?” Robert asked. “Honestly, I don’t know. I just left without thinking about what my next move is.” James put down his coffee. “I really don’t know where I go from here.” James continued. There was a moment of silence. Something like 10 seconds before James broke off the silence. “So...what did you want to talk about?” He took another sip of his coffee, but his gaze never left Robert. “The Iditarod trail sledge dog race” Robert answered. “What about it?” James asked. “I want you to come back and race.” “Come back?” “Yes,” Robert responded. “The race needs people like you, James.” “I’m retired, Robert. And besides, it’s been 6 years since I last raced.” The waitress came and put Robert’s coffee on the table with a piece of cake on the plate. “Thanks,” Robert acknowledged the waitress before she left. “Look...” Robert’s attention quickly turning to James. “Since you left, the race hasn’t really been the same. The passion has died because people can’t live up to what you achieved.” James looked at his coffee. He was deep in thought, remembering how he used to race 6 years ago. “And besides...” Robert continued “you could get some money to help you find another opportunity. You don’t have much to do, and you kind of need the money. So why not give it a try?” James turned his attention to Robert. He could see Robert wanted him to come back to Alaska. “The racers really need you to get their passion back. They looked up to you, James.” James looked up to the ceiling. He wondered if he could still race. But maybe he needed this. The prize money was really good and it could go a long way to help him. It wouldn’t hurt he tried to race again. What else was there to lose? “Are you going to race too?” James asked Robert. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.” “Alright then, count me in,” James said with a smile on his face. “Yes! Thanks, man. I knew I could count on you. We leave on Thursday morning. Everything has been set.” A cold wind welcomed James as he came out of the van. There was snow covering everywhere. This reminded James of his race days. It brought a smile on his face as he remembered his first race when he fell off his sledge. “I saw that” Robert put his hand on James’ shoulder. “It brings back memories, huh?” James saw a group of people and some dogs up a hill. He climbed towards them, but someone in the group shouted: “Is that James? James the sledge king?” The people, who had been murmuring amongst themselves, turned and looked at James who was approaching them. “It is him...” another person shouted. When James finally reached them, they all rushed to get his attention. “What brings you, James?” one person asked. “Are you here to observe the race?” “I didn’t expect to see you here” “Are you here to race too?” The questions kept coming. “Guys,” Robert finally appeared. “Give James a break will you?” James nodded at Robert as if saying “thank you” “I’m here to race too.” James finally spoke. “Really?” asked a young lady. “I thought you had retired?” another person in the crowd asked. “I did. But now I’m back...for one more.” James heard the dogs barking and he knew it was race day. Yesterday he hadn’t slept at all as the people kept him up for most parts of the night. He also was thinking of the upcoming race. Can I still do it? It’s been over 5 years. The organizers where busy arranging the sledges and patting the dogs. Seeing all this made James feel happy. He had always loved the feeling of racing on the snow. He loved how the felt right before a race. How the thrill of the race took over him whenever he would get on that sledge and race. All these feelings were coming back to him. James turned and looked at Robert who was next to him at the beginning of the race line. He was about to going sledging with his friend. Robert had always come closest to beating James but never did. Maybe this time he would. But there was no denying how excited James was. For the first time in a while, James felt like he belonged here. In the snow. Sledge racing. Everything came back to him, and though he had retired 6 years ago. He had never really left. And he then knew immediately what he wanted. He wanted to sledge.

#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words. However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. Please read the entire post before submitting. And remember, feedback matters! &nbsp; *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: Escape** This week’s challenge is to use the theme of ‘escape’ in your story. It should appear in some way within the story. You may include the theme word if you wish, but it is not necessary. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules. &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #Last Week It’s been great to see all the active participation throughout the week. There were a lot of stories submitted and some really great feedback left on the thread. Keep it up, everyone! While each story brought something unique this week, there were two stories that I believe stood out among the rest. - - A well-written story about two men preparing to sacrifice themselves to save the people. Submitted by u/canyoufeelthat - - A short tale about the frightening, fuzzy creature under the bed. Submitted by u/Poelarizing &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #How It Works: - In the comments below, submit one story between 100-300 words by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. Use to check your word count. The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take any nominations you make into consideration. You may send them to me via reddit or on the discord. But please remember, this is not a contest. - While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to come back throughout the week and read the other stories on the thread. Upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread.

“I think it’s time that someone did something,” said Jennifer. (Jen for short.) We were having our weekly prayer and share meeting in Sharon’s living room, and the pale pink carpeting was driving me nuts. It seemed that Sharon (the pastor’s wife) had insisted on pairing the new carpeting with chartreuse sofas. Finally, Sharon had pulled the look together with bright pink and yellow plaid curtains. The curtains were pulled back from with windows with cheap sunflowers from Jen’s arts and crafts store, Sonshine Creations . Anyway, the pink carpeting didn’t have one solitary stain on it, and that was the thing that that was driving me nuts. (Well, that and the additional fact that I was three months pregnant.) I studied the pristine Precious Moments figurines on the fireplace mantle, and wondered how she kept the carpet so clean. Also, when did she find time to vacuum? (Did she keep the living room spotless by wrapping the entire thing in plastic when no one was looking?) “Penny for your thoughts, Miss Lawyer,” said Jen. “What?” I said, coughing on a dry bit of carrot cake. My name is Rachel , I thought. “I told you she wasn’t listening,” said Diane. “You can tell she’s with child.” “I’m pregnant,” I said, resisting the urge to throttle Diane. “And I wasn’t daydreaming,” I added. “I was praying.” Amber nodded. “I daydreamed all the time when I was pregnant. It’s a miracle I didn’t forget a step, and fall down the stairs. Thank the Lord that Jeffrey was born safe and sound. Did you know he’s the the most advanced student in his class?” “Yeah,” muttered Diane, as she stuffed a bite of doughnut into her mouth, “that’s because he was held back last year.” “What did you say?” said Amber. “Nothing,” said Diane. Sharon’s cat, Jasper, ambled by and Diane scratched underneath his chin. “What’s that awful smell?” I said. Sharon smiled. “Oh that,” she said. “That’s just Jasper passing wind.” “That smells exactly like my husband’s gym shorts!” said Jen. “What have you been feeding him?” Sharon stirred her iced tea with a long-handled spoon. “Well,” she said, thinking, “he is fond of corned beef from the can.” At that moment, I wanted to sprint to the toilet and puke my guts out. I wondered what the color scheme was like in Sharon’s bathroom. “Jen,” I said, “I desperately need to use the toilet. What did you want to do something about? I don’t want to throw up all over this nice carpet.” “Well,” she said, we’re putting together an action committee, and we’d like you to join. With all of the violence in our neighborhood, it’s time to protect the less fortunate.” Diane sighed. “Just spit it out, Jen. Can’t you see Rachel’s three shades of green?” **** I flushed the toilet, and returned from the bathroom. I was still dizzy, but no longer sick to my stomach. “Well, what do you think?” said Jen. I sighed, and used a napkin to wipe the sweat from my forehead. “I think an action committee is a great idea in theory. But, what you’re talking about....isn’t that vigilantism? I smiled and looked around the room. “I mean, I like Batman, but what Batman does is illegal.” “That’s what I thought she’d say,” said Diane. “Oh, shut up Di,” said Amber. “Make me,” said Diane, as she wrapped up a leftover piece of carrot cake and carefully inserted it into her purse. Amber shot up from her seat by the coffee table, and assumed what I guessed was the attack position from her weekly cardio kickboxing classes. “Bring it, bitch,” she said. “Mr. Trang says I’m his best student.” Diane quietly sipped her herbal tea. “He only says that because you’re sleeping with him,” she said in a sing-song voice. “Aiyo!” shouted Amber, as she lept into the air and kicked Diane’s purse away from Diane’s feet. Immediately, Sharon and Jen sprang forward and pulled Amber away from Diane. Amber grimaced like a prize fighter, and spat on the immaculate carpet. “Ladies!” said Sharon. “You should be ashamed of yourselves! What would Jesus think of your actions?” Diane took a compact mirror from her pocket, and rearranged her hair. “He said, in your anger do not sin. I didn’t do anything wrong to Miss Taibo. She’s the angry one, and she’s probably taking ‘roids to boot.” “Are you juicing, Amber?” said Jen. “If you are, let us know. We can get you into rehab and--” “I’m not juicing,” interrupted Amber, rolling her eyes. You should definitely check Diane’s purse for drugs, though. She’s got roofies in that ridiculous Marc Jacobs bag of hers.” “What?” I said, accidentally spraying carrot cake crumbs all over the front of my new maternity dress. “Surely that’s not true.” Amber grinned. “Check inside her bag.” I hesitated for a moment. “Well, go on,” said Jen. “I don’t know about you all, but I want to know what’s in there...just out of curiosity, of course.” I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Okay,” I said. “We live in a democracy, don’t we? Are we all in favor of a quick check?” Everyone nodded except Diane. “You won’t like what you find,” she said. “For heaven’s sake,” said Sharon. “I’ll open it.” She grabbed the purse and shook out the contents: one lipstick, one Cath Kidston wallet, and ten orange bottles of prescription medicine. Sharon grabbed a small bottle from the carpet. “Rohypnol," she read. “Aren’t those roofies?” "Oh no," said Jen, as the color drained from her face. "Please tell me you didn't, Di." "Told you that you wouldn’t like it,” said Diane. “How else did you think I was going to keep him quiet?" said Diane. "Sing him a lullaby?" Slowly, Sharon dabbed at the remnants of Amber's spit with a napkin. "I thought you were just using a bit of Nyquil to make him more...um...manageable," she said. Just then, I heard the unmistakable sound of a man screaming. "Very funny," I said. "Whose husband is joking around in the basement?" "Oh dear," said Sharon, who had just finished scrubbing Amber’s spit from the carpet, "I think we'd better show her." "I’ll second that," said Amber. "We definitely need her legal expertise.” *** The basement smelled like spoiled hamburger meat, and I used my shirt sleeve to cover my nose and mouth. It was very dark and dim until Sharon pulled the chain of a low-hanging light. "Help me," said a man in filthy jeans and a rust-stained shirt. "These women are crazy." "Quiet, Phil," said Amber. "Remember what happens if you make any noise?" "Yes," said Phil. "I remember." Tears streamed down his face. "I'll be good from now on; I promise." "Oh God," I said. "I know you. You work at the hardware store. Why have they got you tied up down here?" "I don't know!" said Phil. I knelt down to untie him, and that's when I noticed that the rust stains on his shirt were congealed bits of blood. I began to feel faint. "Why did you do this to him?" I said. "This man has done nothing wrong." "Nothing wrong?" repeated Diane. "This is Phil Harrington." "So?" I said. "Oh honey," said Sharon, as she carefully retied the gag around Phil's mouth, "he's the head of the Ku Klux Klan around these parts." Jen ran her fingers through her hair. "He's also responsible for the kidnapping and murder of those two African American high schoolers." It was my turn to roll my eyes. “Yes, but how do you know that Phil was the murderer, and not, you know, a friendly neighborhood hardware man?" Phil moaned, and Amber kicked him in the face. I heard a sickening crunch as her boot met the bridge of his nose. “Amber!” I screamed. “Don’t hurt him.” “Why?” said Amber. “Didn’t Jesus say an eye for an eye?" “That’s the old testament,” I said. “Jesus never said that.” “Whatever,” said Amber. “It’s still in the Bible.” “That’s not justice, though!” I said. “Not in a democratic society.” "Justice?" said Amber, as she picked up a red container of gasoline, "What about justice for those two kids? Phil came into the fitness center about a month ago, bragging to his CrossFit buddy about killing Mark and Andrew. If we don't get justice for those young men and their families, who will?" Utterly exhausted, I sank to my knees. “This is wrong,” I said. “In court, I've wanted to be judge, jury, and executioner. But cruel and unusual punishment just doesn't work, especially in a free society." Amber sighed. “Who said we live in a free society?” she said. "If Phil's case were to go to trial, all he'd get is a slap on the wrist. He'd do about fifteen to twenty years of a life sentence, and then he'd be paroled." "Will you join us?" said Jen. "Like I said, we need an attorney on our team. In case we get into trouble, later.” “We don’t want to go to prison or anything,” said Sharon. “We’re not criminals.” I thought about my life. Didn’t I keep saying that I wanted to make the world a better place? And didn’t I want to bring my child into a world with fewer monsters? I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. I’ll join you on one condition,” I said. “What’s that?” said Jen. I smoothed my dress over my bump. “I can’t be physically involved in any executions.” “Oh right,” said Sharon. “I get it. You can’t defend us in court if you’re an eyewitness.” “That’s right,” I said. “So you’ll join us?” said Jen. Her pupils were dilated, and her face had an unnatural glow from the light in the basement. I nodded. “Great!” said Amber. “After we take care of Phil, let’s go upstairs for virgin daiquiris. I brought some fresh ginger for that special kick.” “Well that sounds gross,” said Diane. “Count me out.” “Stop bickering, you two!” said Sharon. “Right,” said Amber, rolling her eyes. “Who wants to pour the gasoline over Phil? I think we should use the whole container, just to be safe.” “Not in my house!” said Sharon. “You’ll burn down the whole neighborhood!” “Just use a little bit,” I said. “That’s my advice.” “Thank you!” said Jen. “I just knew you’d be a great addition to our group. See you at church next Sunday!” “Yes,” I said, as I walked up the stairs. “See you next Sunday, and may God have mercy on our souls.” “Amen!” said Sharon. Outside, I jogged to my car and shut the door, before the stench of Phil's burning flesh could reach my nose.

Memory used to be my “superpower.” I could close my eyes and rattle off any facts or trivia I had learned at any point in my life, almost always as though I was reading straight from the source I had gained said knowledge from. I would astound my parents’ church acquaintances with my ability to accurately quote scripture from any holy book, needing only to know the general topic before spieling off with the exact chapter and verse they were looking for. And I aced every standardized test the teachers could set in front of me; especially helpful when I was pregnant, high, and trying to get my GED. In a world of lies, misinformation, and “fake news,” my memory felt like the best asset an autistic adult like myself could have. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one who saw my memory as a major asset; and the others who did, had no qualms about treating it like every other asset they have ever acquired. In other words, they used and abused it until it was no longer working properly, then they tossed it aside with the other garbage. Not really shocking, I suppose, to be used then disposed of by one’s government; still feels like a slap in the face when it happens to you, though. My memory issues are somewhat difficult to explain, but I will try my best to give you the run-down. You might be familiar with brain damage from traumatic brain injuries, or strokes, or seizures. Maybe you knew/know someone with dementia or Alzheimer's. Those disorders are, sadly, more straight-forward than what I’m dealing with. (Not to imply that these disorders/disabilities are straight-forward, or easy to deal with! Just far more well-known than what I am currently going through.) My memory isn’t spotty, I’m not confused about what year it is or who my loved ones are. I’m not a danger to myself, my confusion is not likely to lead me to wander unfamiliar streets thinking I’ve found my way back to a home that no longer exists. My issues are more along the lines of; was my childhood the one spent with 8 other siblings in a 1 room shack with a dirt floor, in a neighborhood so awful the cops wouldn’t even drive past it? Or was it the one where I grew up in a mansion, summering in the Hamptons, skiing in the Alps? Was I the refugee from a war-torn country, bullied for my accent and lack of cultural knowledge? Maybe I was the average, all-American child, who went to summer camps and applied for scholarships and student loans; maybe my childhood was nothing like any of these experiences. You see, my memory is still as strong as ever; I just have too many lifetimes of experience strolling around in there. And none of these experiences feels fake, or enhanced, or anything. They all feel equally real, equally mine. Maybe because there are certain threads that seem to run through each set of memories, marking all of the experiences, indelibly, as mine. For example, every single lifetime contains a government agent recruiting me for a new project; each time, due to said agency hearing about my unrivaled memory capabilities. Every childhood I can recall, included religion as a major portion of the family culture. These, and other minor similarities, seem to suggest that there must be some kernel of truth in all of these memories, but there’s just no earthly way I could have had 15 different childhoods! Okay, I’m breathing normally again, and now that the panic has subsided a bit, I think I know how to start putting some pieces together. I woke up this morning (in my house? A stranger’s house? Where even am I?) and saw a huge, overstuffed manila envelope sitting on the nightstand. I was so concerned about the number of childhood experiences (and entire lifetimes) bouncing around my brain, I didn’t bother to start trying out my short-term memory. My last memory from any lifetime in my head is being recruited by the United States (or equivalent country, depending on timelines) to be a part of a time-traveling project. Well, experiment, really, but that wasn’t how they phrased it during recruitment. At any rate, I have no idea what happened to me during my time with them, and that overly full manila envelope seems like it might just hold some answers to all of the questions swirling around my noggin. What’s that saying everybody declares when things don’t go the way you hoped? “Be careful what you wish for; it might just come true,” I believe is how it goes. Well, that cliche definitely seems to fit here. Five years of my life are documented in these files, but according to the newspaper on my doorstep this morning, closer to 10 years have passed since my conscription. Five years undocumented, aside from a minor note - “subject has missed 3 consecutive check-ins; assumed dead.” To be fair, it’s not like they would have had any way to find me, even had they wanted to; it just seems cold to have put it so bluntly. Not that they were necessarily wrong, though, if I’m understanding the rest of this correctly. While I was brought aboard for time-travel, it turns out there’s more steps involved than just, “I want to visit precolonial North America.” In order to travel to a point in time that is not your current location, you have to find a place for your energy to exist. The universe abhors a vacuum, which is what would happen if you tried to introduce a brand-new energy out of nowhere. But, you also can’t just “swap out” energies; you have to hit a sweet spot of somebody matching your energy dying or (far less likely) also traveling through the space-time continuum. But they literally have to be in the process of dying/traveling, otherwise you have to find a different time. Which, I think, is why I have so many memories of so many lives - the people whose bodies I inhabited, and those who inhabited mine while I was out. Then you have to factor in the reality that once you have traveled through time, you no longer truly belong to any time period. Even if you travel to the future, just by leaving your original timeline, you have irreversibly lost your place within it. So many things happened in the last decade, when I basically didn’t exist on this plane. I may never know if I even made it back to my original world, or just one that is remarkably similar. I think there are some minor differences, but how would I prove that they aren’t just things I’ve misremembered? And it’s not like I have anybody that I could bounce ideas/memories off of. All of my family and friends were notified of my death 10 years ago, when I joined the program. I haven’t exactly been making a plethora of new friends in my line of work, nor starting my own family, so I’m on my own now. The only people I even vaguely know are my latest handlers, and they aren’t exactly people you can just track down to reconnect with on a whim. Where was I? Oh, yeah, trying to figure out when and where I am, if not who I am. Well, this timeline seems a lot like the one described in the most detail in my file, so I guess this is where I’m from. This house seems as though it was custom-made for me; knowing our government, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was, to try and keep me at least somewhat compliant. Obviously, they don’t want my story getting out; out of 100 fellow recruits, I was the only survivor, according to this paperwork. The house is 100% mine, no mortgage, no financing headaches. I will be getting a generous government stipend each month - more than enough to cover bills, expenses, and a reasonable lifestyle. I won’t be buying designer clothes anytime soon, but I can putter around the house without needing to try finding work, or assistance. That part is probably so they wouldn’t have to go through the hassle of providing me with a real identity. And there’s the kicker. I can do (almost) whatever I want, but I don’t officially exist anymore. The bank account where my money will be deposited each month is listed under an old, old alias of mine (fine, a childhood nickname that nobody alive knows about), I have access to that account via checks and an ATM/debit card. I can’t open a social media account (they hack every single one I try to create), I’ll never be able to fly or travel internationally. I never have to pay taxes again, though! As though that can make up for literally having no life. According to my files, I spent five years as an active operative. Meaning, for five solid years, I was hopping from timeline to timeline, reporting my experiences back to my handlers whenever I would “wake up” back in my own body. At the start, all of us were returning very regularly; after about a year, though, people slowly stopped “waking up” in our safe house. In that second year, maybe thirty people altogether stopped showing back up; after three missed check-ins, they would be presumed dead, their bodies disposed of. I vaguely recall hearing something on one of my check-ins about the disposing of seemingly alive bodies being a difficult pill to swallow, and maybe there’s a better way to be certain the person is actually dead before getting rid of the vessel permanently. I can only assume that this is what happened for me, since obviously I eventually got back here. In the third year, everybody else disappeared; within six months, all the operatives that were still with the project had missed at least three check-ins. For the next year and a half, I managed to make all of my check-ins, for fear of not having a body to return to otherwise. I still don’t know for sure what kept me from checking in for almost five whole years, but I have been trying to put together what pieces I can from my file. Not that there’s much to go by here; each trip is kind of a one-time deal, given what it takes to get there and back. I didn’t expect any clues to lie in the intel I gave them from my destinations; I went looking for clues about my last handler/s. Again, I didn’t expect to find much; ever try to look up a Secret Service agent? How about a CIA handler? Yeah, they don’t tend to come up on a Google search. Quite honestly, I would have preferred to find a fellow operative. Even if anyone else was still alive, though, I assume they would be as hard to find as my handler, or as I am. Since I no longer have an identity, or any social media presence, or really ANY online presence, the only people who would be able to find me would be whoever set me up in this house built just for me. Right now, there’s one thing that I know for sure - somebody knows that I am alive, that I am here, and that I have a story. They have no reason to simply discredit a woman who is already dead; if I make my story public, they probably will just kill me. There’s also one thing they don’t know, though, and that might just save my story, if not my life. You see, one of the lives I lived, was a software developer by day, hacker by night. The past five years are starting to come back to me now: I know how to force my story onto every newspaper’s headline; how to make my story trend on every single social media platform; how to turn my story into an integral part of the current zeitgeist. All of this is triggered the moment my energy leaves this plane; they can’t even force me to travel anymore, or they lose all control of the narrative. I don’t need to find the mountain; I know how to bring the mountain to me.

The world of Aetheria flew high over the heads of the Terrans. It was home to many creatures: the majestic fyrons, the proud dragons, and the simmarins. The most intelligent of all these creatures were the Aethins. They formed a civilization of Aethins on Aetheria, worshipping the wind and waves that made up their home, created festivals of lights and tournaments, even created legends of heroes and villains. Everything was magnificent and glorious in the heavens as they drifted across the skies. Everything was glorious, that is until they fell. For the first time in their lives, these glorious creatures experienced what it felt like to fall, and fall they did. Crashing into the earth below them they had lost their home and was thrown into a new world. This was a time of great confusion for the great Aethins, and even more so for the Terrans they landed upon. The Terrans were very different from the Aethins. For one, they didn't have feathers and wings. Instead they had strong arms and big hands that they used to shape the earth. The Aethins had strong wings that carried them for miles and strong talons that allowed them to hunt for their food with ease. The Terrans used tools that allowed them to thrive on the earth. They saw the Aethins as gods and treated them like such. After many generations passed the Aethins grew spoiled on their new home. They became prideful and forgot where they came from. Some fell in love with the Terrans while others demanded more from the them. They became selfish, greedy, and lustful demanding that the Terrans provide them with more. They wanted sacrifices and slaves, riches and food. In return the Terrans suffered harsh beatings. A wise Aethin was horrified at what had become of his people. He flew up into a mountain and prayed to their forgotten gods, asking what should become of his people. It was revealed to him that they would need to become one with the sky again lest they should be smitten for their greed. He implored them to follow the counsel of their gods and become one with the sky, but they scoffed and scorned the young Aethin. They sent him away from their homes leaving him to fend for himself in the earthen wilderness. For many nights he wandered, on the edge of starvation, until a kind hearted Terran found him and nursed him back to health. Her family had much distaste for the Aethins, for they were taxed heavily to support the Aethins luxurious lifestyle. The wise Aethins weeped when he heard of their dire circumstances and his people's cruel greed. He taught these Terrans all of what he knew of his legends and myths, in return the kindhearted Terran taught him of all of her myths and legends. That night he flew up into the mountains and asked the gods what they should do about his brethren, hoping that they would spare them. They told him that few would return to the skies and that they must purge Aetheria of the Aethins. The gods turned their backs on the greedy Aethins and knew them not. They had forgotten themselves and became something alien to even their own people. The wise Aethin sadly flew down the mountain knowing that the gods were right. He planned with the Terrans that evening on how they would dispose of the Aethins. The wise Aethin begged for one last chance to call his people to the skies, and the Terrans agreed. They would give the Aethins a chance to leave earth of their own free will before destroying them for good. It saddened the wise Aethin to lead the Terrans to battle, but he knew that the gods would give him strength. They traveled the long way to the city of the Aethins and there, the wise Aethin addressed the entire city. He called them to return to the skies, recalled their great stories and legends of who they once were, and reminded them of who they once were. He spoke with such power and authority that some of the Aethins took to the skies, ashamed that they had lost sight of who they were. Other greedy, wicked Aethins were outraged with the wise Aethin. They hurled insults and threatened him with death. The wise Aethin sadly shook his head before he attacked the city, the kindhearted Terran right behind him. That was a day bloodier than any other. The city ran red with the blood of gods, spilt by their angry worshippers. Most see that day as a bloody victory, the wise Aethin saw that day as a grim defeat. He could not save his people and that fact would haunt him to his dying breath. When the battle was over and the city of Aetheria was destroyed for good, the wise Aethin took to the skies and addressed the few Aethins that survived. He told them of the battle and sore afflictions that was bound to come. The Aethins were terrified again, now that their home had been destroyed where would they go? The kindhearted Terran called to the wise Aethin and offered them a home on the high mountains of earth not as gods, but as equals. The wise Aethin accepted the offer and led his people to create the city of Malithia, a city where Terrans and Aethins lived as equals. The wis Aethin and the kindhearted Terran became the first leaders of the new world; Malithia. They led their people to greatness and worked side by side all of them. They led not as kings and queens but as the baker, the monk, the worker, the child, and the leader. They led their kingdom with the gods at their side, teaching a new way of respect and honor. Every king and queen ruling Malithia in their wake has vowed to honor their people and their gods just like the first rulers. The story says that the wise Aethin and the kindhearted Terran became gods when they died. The gods of diligence, faithfulness, honor, and equality. I share this story with you, the same story that my fathers have shared with me and their fathers shared with them. It is shared this way so that we may never forget were we come from and the dangers of pride, greed, and selfishness. We share these stories with the next generations to ensure that our legacy of honor and faithfulness is upheld, so I implore you to learn the story well. Keep it in your hearts. You hold the future of Malithia, keep it safe.

(~1600 words) It was a spell she cast; a beautiful enchantment that slithered towards you from the cracks on the trunks of the ancient oaks, and from the petals of the innocent chamomiles rooting into the rich earth. It fell from the fluffy clouds above like the finest of rains, gently, as if through a sieve which stretched above the blue sky. It came from the sun too, travelling along the beams of light, hot and bright and intense, but it was the strongest around her, radiating off of her form that was even more mightier than the sun itself. She was a new celestial body, proudly challenging the sun, the mother pf gods and men, and all the many-storied stars with her divine halo of golden locks. She stood there, gently swaying like a strand of reed in the warm breeze of the glade, as if her legs were ready to be swept into a carefree dance any moment. She stood there, soft silks of her dress hugging her thin figure, sunlight reflected and broken by fine jewellery on her long fingers. She stood there, looking at you, her black pupils focused on nothing else but yours, and not even the peculiarly colourful flowers yearning to be picked up by her soft hands or the melody of birdsong could snatch her attention away from you. The spell and all its thin threads found their way to you. Their scent was heavy with spices and herbs, but they weighed comforting on your shoulders like a thick blanket. The spell touched your skin, so feather-light at first you believed it to be the wind, but the touch was there, soft and cool in the burning sun. A true blessing. The spell wiped the beads of sweat from your forehead and tucked back a stray strand of hair. It was calm and relaxing, a touch of innocent love you’ve experienced way too long ago. The thought of closing your eyes and leaning into the touch was tempting, but her gaze held you tight, leaving no other option than to gaze back at her. An air of something ethereal lingered and stirred around her, something your mind failed to get a firm grasp on, and so she cruelly left you abandoned in the labyrinth of instinctive guesses. Her fine nose was one of a Greek goddess’ sculpted by masterful hands with generations worth of knowledge combined in the hand which held the chisel and hammer. As she swayed her muscles tensed, strong and lean like an African huntress. Her nude lips, on them the remnants of lipstick long faded, were small but full, and a mischievous smile tugged at its corners, but she had the grace to refrain herself from a childish giggle escaping her mouth. The idea to pick some flowers and weave them into a wreath to adore her beautiful face came with a sudden gust of wind, but her muscles tensed again and you did not dare to move. And besides, for a moment it seemed like a grandiose crown of flowers already rested atop her head. Tiny freckles were speckled across her nose and cheeks, as if the creator had accidentally tipped some paint over while creating this masterpiece. And still, her spell persisted, getting firmer around you by the moment. It was a faint mist hiding the glade with all its nature away from you, leaving only her to be seen and observed. It was like honey surrounding you, every move slow and a great effort to execute. A faint whisper travelled through the ether of the spell and you could only guess if it was her, the wind, or your mind playing a cruel trick on you. The whisper sheepishly asked you to stay and lured you in with promises of eternal love and peace, and so you stayed, feet slowly starting to root into the ground. The gluttony for something unconditional was greater than any sense or logic, and she was the kindred spirit who could deliver that. She was still watching you, eyes round and curious and so filled to the brim with fondness you were afraid it would overflow and stream down her rosy cheeks and into shimmering puddles which you wished to drown in. But she held herself with such poise, such an awareness that your eyes were on her. Her gaze mirrored a look of unshakeable duty and feel of purpose that you only could get a taste of in your dreams. The thread of her spell thickened, soft ropes sliding over your legs and arms, and you wished for that soft peace never to cease. And she obliged your wish, gaze following as you got drunken on her affection, her body still, but eyes very much alive, unwilling to break the stare with as much as a blink. It was a spell she cast, one which creeped up your arms and chest and started to seep through your skin, wishing to gift her inner warmth to you and to see inside your very being, to truly fall in love with the person found in the woods. And you welcomed the warmth, let it to widen your pupils, make your skin prickle, and to sharpen your senses. She stood there, in the inky sweetness, the flowers and the trees long gone, only the sun shining weakly through the spell which placed everything out of focus except her elegant figure. At last, she sent you a faint smile which passed as quick as it came and you doubted whether it really was a smile or just an illusion. She was a mirage, and you none else than a weary traveller. She held her chin high, and you could see a majestic golden crown glinting sharp against the haze of the spell. It was a spell she cast, a spell whose claws dragged across your skin, whose ropes bound you in love and weighed you down. For a fleeting moment her light dress morphed into an armour, her hands steadily wielding a sword, but you blinked, and once again it was just her, loving you, adoring you. Her head tilted, eyes glittering with the curiosity of a young scholar in ancient Alexandria, wishing to discover and understand the human psyche. The dizzying scent of her spell travelled down your nostrils and filled your lungs, and you didn’t want to exhale in fear of losing that feeling of pure bliss within. A cloud passed overhead and in the momentary dimness you spotted a rare and courageous fire burning behind her iris, one which belonged to a Valkyrie. It was a spell she cast, one which held you motionless, one which was keen on exploring your body and mind, and one which you happily let to. Acceptance, at last. She smiled once again, this time longer, and her perfect innocence assured you that all will be right. You exhaled, letting out the air of herbs and spices and the next breath you took was also hers. The air was filled with an ever faint hum of love, of pulsing blood of the heart and of what reminded you of the womb. And you still held the eyes which belonged to a sorceress. She thanked your unconditional trust with a flash of wisdom, and now she was a druidess from the misty woods of the Irish highlands. And you let her wisdom to do as she wished. The ropes of the spell dug into your skin, tightening. It was a spell she cast, one which grew hot and heavy, and you felt it crawl under your nails, filling your nostrils and flowing into your ear, burning the promise of peace into it like molten lead. You felt as it crept further under your skin, slowly, and you were unable to tear your gaze away from her figure of the sorceress. She smiled, one of faked sympathy but still very true fondness. It was a spell she cast, and it seeped deep, like beautiful, shining, silver mercury mixing with the blood rushing in your veins. It was a spell she cast, one which filled your mouth with the sweetness of poisoned honey. The flow of mercury crept further up your legs, and you noticed just how joyous those freckles of hers were. She loved you, and that was all you needed. Her full lips yet again curved into a careful smile, one stripped from all kinds of sympathy and replaced with pity. The glinting river of mercury rotted away the redness of your blood, ate it up, wanting to have all the place for itself, wanting to have you just for itself. Her golden locks swayed in the breeze, and truly she must have been an angel. Your fingertips numbed, losing their sense of touch, but at this point it didn’t matter, because this bliss was within you, filling your every cell, and now you could carry it. It was a spell she cast, a spell which surrounded you like a soft and airless cocoon. The blood in your heart was banished, its place taken by the mercury sitting heavy on the faint scarlet throne, coating it with a layer of metallic silver. Her lips parted slightly as if wishing to say something, but all you could hear was the sizzling spell of molten lead in your ear, slowly dripping into your brain, and you could fell your sanity leaking out the back of your neck, vapouring away. It was a spell she cast, one of beauty and love, one of an enchantress, one of lethal poison and eternal bliss which you refused to let go off. It was a spell she cast and the last thing you saw before the whole world went out of focus was her form elegantly swaying as if ready to be swept into a dance, eyes peering into your soul, nude lips curled into a smile.

Tom can’t count the days of darkness. He’s been sitting in the middle of that room for what seems like an eternity. He cannot differentiate day and night. He can only feel the temperature change. He thinks it’s nighttime when his feet, tied to both legs of the chair, ache with the touch of the freezing floor and daytime when sweat drips from every pore of his body. There are no windows for light and air to pass through. He’s surprised he’s still breathing, taking in the stench of mold, sweat, and piss. He’s been in and out of sleep, he can’t even figure our dreams versus reality anymore. Sometimes he’d wake up from light vibrations from above. By that, he thinks he’s underground and the light rumble’s probably from a heavy vehicle. But he can’t be sure. After food-deprived days or weeks maybe, he couldn’t think properly. His mind is in spirals. Drought is taking over his throat. Death is on its way. He hears footsteps. Three or four persons, maybe more. He tried to guess. Keys rattle and the door opens. A sliver of light seeps in. Somebody enters the room and turns on the blinding lights. The plain white walls randomly stained by molds, shoe prints, and blood, peeling yet bright under the reflection of what seems a hundred bulbs over Tom add to the suffering of his eyes. Heavy footsteps head towards him and stop right in front. A strong hand grips his jaw. Tom opens his eyes and squints. He isn’t sure if it’s the light that blinds him or starvation. A blurred vision of a man slowly becomes clear, well built, huge neck, and wide-body in camo uniform and fatigue boots. Must be at least, three hundred pounds. ‘Just tell us where he is Tom, and you’re free.’ His big body matches his deep husky voice. He lets go of Tom’s jaw and slowly paces back and forth in front of him. ‘Come on boy. Just tell us where this little El Presidente of yours is and you walk outta here a free man. You and your little girlfriend. That’s a promise if you play along.’ He sounds like a gentle teacher trying to get his preschool student to draw an apple. Tom’s almost blind eyes open as wide as it possibly can. ‘Don’t touch her,’ his faint voice is not louder than the rodents at night. ‘Bring her in!’ This time, the muscle guy isn't gentle anymore. Tom hears a thud on the floor. ‘We vowed, Tom. We’d rather die.’ Luisa’s face is almost on the floor. Her wrists bleed from handcuffs. Her left eyelid, puffy. Dark purple circles cover most of her face. Death is also, on her way. ‘Shut up!’ Muscle guy in camo lifts her face and hits it with his right hand, so strong Luisa’s head could almost separate from her body. Tom utters a very weak, ‘no.’ Muscle guy comes back to Tom. ‘Whatdya say boy?’ He grins. ‘Let her go, please,’ Tom whispers. ‘Then bloody tell me where that El Presidente of yours is.’ Tom suddenly gets a heavy blow on his left cheek. Blood drips on his face. From where he couldn’t exactly tell. He isn't sure if he just lost a few teeth or got his jaw dislocated. But one isn't better than the other. ‘Say something, Tom. Don’t let me lose my patience. You tell me where he is and both of you,’ he looks at Tom and then Luisa and then back to Tom again, ‘walk outta here free.’ ‘Don’t tell him, Tom. You tell him and he’d still kill us. We cannot betray the organization. We made a pact. ’ Luisa looks like she’d already gone to hell and back. ‘Take her out!’ Two men in camo, smaller than muscle guy, quickly drag Luisa out clutching her arms as if she’s just some kind of luggage. ‘Don’t tell him, Tom. I’d rather die! We’d rather die! That’s our pact! Tom looks at her as they drag her out. He listens to her screams that later on turn into faint muffled wails. ‘Look here boy. You should have been at school. But you and your stupid little organization brought you here. You think you can fight the government with that?’ Tom glares at him. ‘I’ll give you one more day boy. Think about it. Or you and your cute little girlfriend will die.’ Muscle guy turned off the light and locked the room. Tom laughs at the idea of locking the room. There’s really no need for he couldn’t even move his finger an inch. His wrist bleeds from being handcuffed. His arms are tightly bound to the chair. His eyes adjust to darkness again and listen as the heavy footsteps disappear. He laughs. He laughs until his empty stomach hurts. Until his eyes squeeze out what little liquid is left in his body. He thinks about how he ended up in that dark dungeon. He was just a freshman at the university when he met Fred. He gave his speeches in front of their office organization near the university gate. He carried a megaphone and spoke about the struggles of the poor, capitalism, and democracy. His charisma was alluring, Tom wasn’t able to resist. He was blinded by Fred’s idealism. Luisa got blinded too. Tom brought Luisa into the organization and she became more hardcore than him. They, later on, dropped out of university and joined Fred full time. They themselves started recruiting innocent-eyed freshmen. Tom thinks about his father who died while working in a factory. The company did a cover-up. The hospital closed its eyes and ears. No suitcases were filed. A meager payment for his father’s life was offered by the company’s lawyer, in which, they had no way to refuse as his younger self and his mother didn’t know what to do. This reminds him of all the principles he fought for and why is he in that dark room. Tom thinks about his mother who by now must have been dealing with the mountains of debt she accumulated by sending him to university. He laughs. What a grateful son! This is how he repays her. She must have all her hair gray now, trying to get by with her life, old and alone. Tom thinks about Luisa, her bruised face, and the life they envisioned together before they both joined the organization. They could have finished their degrees now, working for capitalists, earning some money to pay their debts, living a seemingly normal life. They could have been married too. Who knows? By sitting in the dark, handcuffed, and tied to a chair, he will probably never find out. Tom thinks about Fred in his safe house. Probably sleeping comfortably in his securely guarded abode. Recruiting more and more freshmen into his idealistic organization and sending them to the front line whenever trouble arises. Tom, Luisa, and every member took an oath to protect Fred, their El Presidente, and the organization to create a better future for the next generation. They made a pact. There’s only loyalty or death. He’s wondering now why life wasn’t given as an option. And then life is all he could think about. He wants to live. He wants Luisa to live. He wants a life with her and his mom. He wakes up to the rattling of keys. Muscle guy comes in and turns on the blinding lights. Tom hears a thud and a weak, dying wail from Luisa. ‘Time’s up boy. Speak or die.’ 'No, Tom. No!' Luisa's hoarse voice is almost non-existent. "We'd rather die than be branded as traitors.' Tom gently opens his eyes and tries to adjust to the brightness. He looks at three guns pointed at Luisa and thinks of life. Traitors aren’t born traitors. They are raised by adversity.

Thirty-one years, one day, twenty hours and forty minutes my husband and I have been married. Not starting from when we exchanged ceremonious “I Do’s” at the altar on a heady summer day in 1980; no, starting from midnight that night, sipping cheap white wine in a cheap beige dress, the first day of my new life, the beginning of three long decades that would result in me waiting in the cold outside our favourite restaurant, a day after our anniversary, ten minutes late for the reservation. The sun was still lingering around the clouds on the horizon. It was the latest I had seen it all summer; especially in London. Not a single car passed and only the occasional pedestrian stepped on the other side of the street, but I still didn’t notice Joseph until he was standing by my side. It was something you got used to, depending on your relationship with him of course. I stubbed my cigarette into the ground and turned to him, staring with quiet but clear indignation. From the look of Joe you wouldn’t place him in his profession, let alone think he was one of the best. He was skinny, but not tall, content to wearing pullover hoodies and expensive trainers. Hardly appropriate wear. Apart from his wrinkled face and white hair, you’d think him juvenile if his stern eyes didn’t demand respect. He spoke with a deep rumble, betraying his age with a rasping echo, making everything sound intensely morbid. It was depressing for a moment that this man was almost ten years younger than me. “Your husband’s debts have been settled, Mrs McMahon.” It was a cold way to tell me Felix had just been murdered, even for him. “Perhaps we should go inside.” “You’re late, our table’s probably gone by now.” “My apologies, Mrs McMahon.” “*Miss*.

I really met my person - the one I get to call home no matter where we actually end up. He really wasn’t perfect, we both had our faults, but we always worked on them together. the petals to my rose - this man was going to be my husband, I was going to make sure of it. Quiet, never too outstanding, nothing above average, no matter what it was we were doing, he never did anything too brilliant, not wanting to be seen by others. And yet he took my heart; I was the social butterfly out of the both of us, chit chatting away at parties, but always making sure my significant other was close by and never feeling left out. I made sure no matter where we were, I did the most to make sure others weren’t giving him a hard time, always making sure that he wasn’t too far away. My favorite memory was our last date right before I proposed, I mean I felt I had to, I knew he would never have the confidence to do it himself, he could think of it as a personal favor to be repaid some day in the future once we share anniversaries or kids’ birthdays. That special day will always be in my memories As my proudest moment in our relationship. It was like something out of the movies; blossoms were budding on trees left and right, the grass was unbelievably soft, like a rug for when you have children, and the air was just right, I made sure of it. I waited for the perfect time: 6:15 pm, exactly when the blues in the sky began to deepen: orange, reds, purple, now. As he looked at me to speak, I bent on both knees (Feeling it was most appropriate) and I spoke those magical words that changed life forever , “Will you marry me? I can’t wait any longer to start our family together.” I’m met with silence, one second became a minute, two became three; his eyes turned dark, this isn’t right, this didn’t happen what’s going on? His mouth widens, a loud shriek, next, I’m awake. A dark room at first, shifting left and then right, not a single peep on either side, and then a light pops on, revealing a strange looking doctor. Large as a man, arms lengthy and slender, but built and large, like a character customization gone wrong. He waltzes in, confident that he intimidates me with a stupid, smug look on his face, a slight sneer appearing, revealing his cracked lips that I can’t seem to turn away from, ” Worms like you disgust me, be gone from my sight or I will make sure you regret it. ” A relief I wouldn’t have to see him again, I wasn’t scared, but the smaller details on his face disgusted me, maybe considering I couldn’t move, I wouldn’t have made sure it was the last time he ever saw me. And with that, everything went black, like I was being transported into a room polar opposite from the other, no feeling, no sense of time, like I was unconscious but awake and aware at the same time. There were cool grey, stone walls in the other room, sort if catering more to a dungeon rather than an experimental testing room for a hospital; whereas mine has soft white walls, wide roman style windows lay on each, creating a warmer and serene atmosphere, I’d assume all patients get nervous and this helped, I just think this is a waste of money for us “tax payers”. A large board sat front to me: Name : Lanpur Wills, Room : #2017, Nurse : All who dare, Notes : In responsive conditions, although delirious, can and will respond to any and all questions asked. Big letters scrawled in fast, nurses loud whispering in the halls, “ No, you deal with her! You have more experience and I don’t think I can do this anymore, after this, I might just quit! ” Fear stricken faces on each as I turn my head to face them all, not a single muscle moved, my face sat blank, I know it, expressionless to make it all the worse. My favorite nurse, Lyne, she stood in middle of the full group, she was the smallest but the fiercest, sometimes we’d talk, she didn’t really care, it was her job to make it seem like she was listening, but I know she just wanted to spot things that were “wrong with me”. She had the most terrified expression out of all the nurses, I got out once, the restraints failed and I pulled free, she was stuck in the room with me, I did nothing, but she still screamed and shouted for help. Loud silence filling everywhere, everyone is terrified of me, I never thought I could be this proud - everything went well, I know it did. If memory serves me well, which is should, even after all the testing to see “what was wrong with me”, I told him he mustn’t make mistakes, and yet all he did was commit error after error. He thought he escaped, he thought his secrets were kept well, no matter how quiet, I knew of everything going on. I knew he would meet with that girl, how he was planning all his savings to make sure of two things: 1, he could change everything about himself, and 2, he could move somewhere with her, somewhere nobody would think to look. how stupid of him to think so low of me, knowing full well I’d search even the farthest planets to make sure he was always with me and only me. The girl wasn’t even half of what I was, she was barely average, especially in running, or hiding - on another thought, poor girl must have been terrible at hide and seek, I found her no matter where she went. I didn’t even have much of a fair game with her, she got what she deserved, and he did too, forever miles apart and never together because death did them part. He knew he was mine and only mine, belonging to nobody else but me, and these doctors know full well I will play along until I get my out, nothing will keep me separate from his body for too long, he’ll miss me for sure.

On a long and steady road with nothing but tufts of grass and pebbles scattered across it, a man and a boy walk along its ongoing path while looking ahead just enough to see where they're gonna tread on next. "..." "..." "So, do you know where we're heading to?" "..." "Not a big talker, are you?" "..." "You know, we've been walking along this road for a while now and all we've seen is just bits of grass and rocks." "..." "Aren't you curious about what's around us? We're always looking at the ground." "..." "At first, it was okay looking at the small and colorful pebbles and the fresh green grass for a while, but I'm bored now. Why don't we do something different?" "..." "Let's play a game! I know a pretty fun game that we can do!" "..." "I'll pick a rock and all we have to do is keep it in front of us by kicking it! Sounds fun, right?" "..." "I'll start!" The boy found a random pebble and started kicking it. "See? Look how fun this looks! Don't you want to join too?" "..." The man never looked up and kept on looking at his feet as he walked along the path. The boy kept kicking the pebble by himself until he passed the pebble to the man. The man never kicked the pebble back. "..." "..." The boy went back to the man's side and continued walking along his side on the long and steady road. "Do you wanna play a different game? I know another game we can play?" "..." "It's a game you could be really good at! It's a game of who can find the biggest rock! You're always looking down so you could have an advantage! Ready? Go!" "..." "I'm going to find a rock more bigger than yours!" The boy looked enthusiastically at the ground looking for the biggest rock he can find. The man kept on walking without giving any pebbles a look of interest. The boy came back carrying a rock the size of his hot red head. "Look...at...this!" The boy dropped the rock in front of the man's feet just before the man was going to take another step. The man stopped. The man looked at the rock the boy dropped and stood there for what seemed like hours. The boy was confused because this was the first time the man stopped. The man slowly looked from the rock to the boy and stared at him with his dark brown eyes showing nothing in them. "I used to collect rocks like these and play simple games with them. It was a memory that I cherished so much. It reminded me of when I had no worries about the world and no responisbilities to take care of. I was happy and free. I felt like I was going to be loved by everybody and be friends with everyone I met. Now, I'm alone. Alone on this long and unending path. I wish I could walk back but I can't. I can't go back anymore. I have to keep moving forward through fields and mountains. I have to keep going." "..." The man sighed. He looked back at his feet and muttered one last sentence before moving on. "I'm sorry I can't go back and be like you again." The man slowly walked forward one step at a time down the long and steady road, tired and alone.