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Allura 39

Jack sat in that dingy apartment, a cigarette dangling from his lips, staring at the cracked ceiling. The paint peeled away like his life, bit by bit. He had once been something—maybe a poet, maybe a dreamer—but now, he was just a pitiful man who let the world grind him down to dust. Emily was out again, walking those cruel streets. Every night, she donned a tight dress and too much makeup, her eyes reflecting a resignation that Jack could barely stand to look at. She sold her body to keep them afloat, to pay the damn rent and keep the electricity on. He hated himself for it, for letting her do it, but he couldn’t muster the energy to change things. He watched the clock tick away, each second dragging like a slow knife across his skin. He knew she’d come home soon, tired and broken, and they’d pretend everything was okay. He’d tell her he was looking for work, that he had a lead on something, but they both knew it was a lie. The nights she didn’t come back were the worst. He’d pace the floor, wondering if she’d finally had enough, if she’d found someone better, someone who wasn’t a useless sack of bones. Sometimes he hoped she had. He’d pour himself another drink, trying to drown the guilt and the shame, but it never worked. One rainy night, Emily didn’t come home. Jack sat by the window, watching the rain streak down the glass like tears. He waited and waited, but the dawn broke without her. Panic set in, and he stumbled out into the wet streets, his heart pounding with dread. He checked all the usual spots, asked around, but no one had seen her. As the hours dragged on, a cold, hard truth settled in his gut. She wasn’t coming back. Maybe she’d found an escape, or maybe the city had swallowed her whole. Either way, she was gone, and he was alone. Jack returned to the apartment, the silence suffocating. He sat in the dark, staring at the empty space where Emily used to be. The weight of his failure crushed him, and he knew there was no redemption, no happy ending waiting for him. He was just a broken man in a broken world, left to rot in his own misery. The days passed in a blur of booze and despair. Jack never found out what happened to Emily, and maybe that was for the best. He didn’t deserve to know. All he had was the memory of her and the bitter taste of regret that never left his mouth. In the end, Jack faded away, another forgotten soul in the city’s endless tide. His dreams were long dead, buried under the rubble of his mistakes. And as he took his last breath, he realized the cruelest truth of all: some stories don’t have happy endings. Some lives are just meant to be sad.

"There's no way out but forward," admitted Partheon, "I have checked every crack, and every stone. We are sealed in. Excepting that way, of course." Partheon pointed, and five more sets of eyes followed his finger down a dark corridor of dripping wet stone. The floor was smooth sandy grit. Two torches in sconces lit the immediate area. Sir Fingle clanked a bit as he moved forward, "Then forward we shall press, for I shall not be daunted by the unknown." "Unknown is the nature of many things, but this reeks of malevolence," mused Zertan, "The unknown is not to be feared, but malice warrants caution." It was true. This was not normal. For one, none of them knew how they came to be standing in the corridor. It was simple enough- they were seated at a table, then they were here. There was more to it than that, of course. Partheon had been dicing in the back room of a tavern that catered to well-heeled patrons who liked to slum it. The fare was top-notch, and the casual violence that often marked truly disreputable dens of iniquity was very rare, kept so by watchful yet unobtrusive men. However, the back room allowed the social upper crust to act as if they were in a raucous den of vice. Vice was certainly on display, which was why Partheon was making a killing at dicing. The excitement was such that no one paid close attention to his dice when he rolled. Served them right anyways- they wanted debauchery. Debauchery cost, and Partheon was simply an agent of that cost. On a break from his hot streak- even slightly drunken nobility could lose too much to keep their jovial mood- Partheon was trying his hand at an even tougher mark. She was young, rich, and remarkably good at understanding that Partheon was not the class of patron one expected at The Gliding Crane. She smelled predator, and rather than run, dandled him on a finger as a plaything. Partheon was smitten. Her voice was breathy in his ear as she nipped it, "I know that you have friends. Don't run, I know they are better behaved than yourself." Her fingers walked over one of his shoulders and down his chest like a graceful spider, and Partheon shivered. "This is perfect for a man with friends. Duke Mangiolais, my dear uncle, is looking for people. People who have a reputation for solving problems in creative ways." Partheon smelled danger, and perfume. The perfume was winning. "I know you're a creative man," she looked him in the eyes and her own blue-eyed intensity smoldered, "Creative enough to have better dice than anyone else here." Partheon gulped and she smiled wider. "It's quite alright, poppet, I won't hurt you. But you had better go tell your friends that you have a big day tomorrow. The Duke will be expecting you before lunch." When Partheon returned to the rooms at the Crying Gull to let everyone know what had transpired, Deinara was the first to skewer him. "You couldn't be happy with enjoying a break from all the hardship you can't stop moaning about, could you?" Deinara chided, "You had to push for more, always more. You had to get us embroiled in another scheme!" Zertan urged calm, "Center yourself, wise one. Partheon will not change who he is overnight. You only increase your own suffering to take his failings upon yourself." Partheon sputtered, "Failings! Hey, do you have any idea how much money I just made?" "Enough to interest a Duke," mused Fingle. Cordray nodded, "Like as not the Duke was already interested, but he doesn't want to be seen officially asking the likes of us for anything. Having one over on Lightfoot over here is just another feather in his hat." Thistle looked up excitedly from rummaging for something in a pack. It was not her pack, but no one seemed to bother her about it. "Does this mean I get to meet a Duke? I've never met a Duke! Will there be hazards involved?" "Yes, Mistress Pywackett, there are always hazards in meeting with Dukes, Earls, or Margraves," assured Fingle, "But it seems we have no choice." The next morning, seated around a table in the drawing room, wondering what the man could want, conversation was quiet and pensive. The Duke entered hurriedly, without anyone announcing his impending arrival. Sir Fingle thought that the mark of a very practical man with much to do. "I am afraid, friends, that I lack the time and wit to give you the proper welcome you no doubt warrant. I am aware of your deeds," and with that he looked at Partheon and smiled, "but also aware that you have managed to escape doom and ruin many times to accolades and renown. In short, you are capable people, and your reputation is well-deserved. "You thwarted the plans of the Lord of the Fell Marches. Your actions led to the dissolution of the Barony of Griswaller to good King Raeglestan. Lords Fendrip and Bell are both now no longer oppressing their populace with their war. And, let's see, yes, the Faery Queen now owes you a debt, and people may pass through the Wending Woods without peril. "You are a menace to nobility," the Duke's congenial tone never changed, and and his eyes remained casting about as if he were hunted here in his own drawing room. Sir Fingle tried to interject, "Realize, good Duke, that our causes have been just and true.…" "Yes, yes, I know," interrupted the Duke, "You're all very good people. Especially you, Sir Knight. That's why it pains me to have to make sure you have skin in the game." Partheon brightened, "If it's games you need, my Duke, I am your man." The Duke smiled wanly, "Oh, it's games, of a sort. They begin soon, for all of you. Again, this isn't my idea, but I must see it done. You're all just so very... so plebeian! None of you considers how your actions affect the state of the world at large. You will." And with that, the drawing room dissolved, and the dark corridor stretched ahead. Deinara held back. "I won't be manipulated by that man! I can sit here for ages if needs be, my patience can bear it." As if her words triggered something, or were simply coincidental, the wall ending the corridor began to move towards them, grating quietly over the smooth sandy grit. Cordray backed up a step from where he had been inspecting the floor, "Now I know why I cannot see any spoor." Thistle marched up to the advancing wall and pushed on it, her tiny form comically straining. She slid back along the smooth stone floor, sand grating under he sandals. She gave up and moved back, "I mean, I had to try." Zertan nodded, "So must we all try. But I think that we are not meant to stop it. The unknown awaits us. Sir Fingle, if you would be so kind as to catch." With that, Zertan grabbed a torch from the wall sconce and lobbed it softly towards Fingle. He then deftly plucked the other one out. As the tallest present, they held the torches above eye level, to avoid blinding anyone in the gloom. They advanced, Sir Fingle's shield at the ready in front of him, torch lighting the way. Deinara and Cordray came just behind him, weapons to hand. Deinara's oaken staff prodded suspect places on the floor or wall. Cordray kept his small axes in either hand, ready to engage what might get past the brave knight in front. Partheon already had a dagger in each hand, and tested more around his person, "I'm really not sure that we should be moving so quickly when we don't know what awaits ahead." Zertan held his torch aloft and herded Thistle away from the advancing wall when she got too curious at its function to remember to step back, "We have no choice, Master Lightfoot. The wall will not stop." Indeed, Thistle had lost two of her favorite pocket stones placing them in front of the wall. They simply went under the wall, puffs of dust escaping as they were ground into powder. The corridor was growing shorter, as it was apparent from the dim shadows at the edges of the torches' light. The moving wall segment was picking up speed. A cautious walk had turned into a trot, then a full jog for every one. Cordray and Thistle, being the smallest and shortest were full-on running by the time the corridor came to a halt. The light showed nothing else- indeed, if they were indoors, the chamber they had entered was huge. No echo returned from the sound of Fingle crashing onto the ramp in front of them. Cordray, running as well his small legs would carry his slight frame, had slammed nose-first into Fingle's backside.

We take seats at a meeting table in the castle, Princess Jiakyn taking a seat first, then Seirialia, Tyrelia, Trenon, Lankensy and Kyrem, then the castle commanders who are quite surprised by presence of princess in their castle, and lastly Jakan and I take seats. 'Alright, explain then.' Lankensy says calmly to Princess Jiakyn. I wish I could have talked to Jakan about her before we sat down. 'Well, it took some persuasion for me to make the journey here. I am not going to just learn with theory, I need something to practice on and I have spell ideas that I want to try out.' Princess Jiakyn says calmly and in persuasive tone. Jakan and I looked into each others eyes for a moment, Jakan looks very concerned and, really wanted to say something but, chose to stay quiet. 'This is a war zone, and there is a good reason why there is a travel ban in this zone too.' Kyrem says straightly without hesitation. 'All the more reason for me to be here, the soldiers would need my presence, so that they know that their efforts will not be thrown away and that they will be remembered.' Princess Jiakyn states in honest tone. 'Do you really believe that you are ready to witness horrors of war?' Jakan asks calmly and interested to Princess' answer. For a moment she looked unsure and slightly insulted that Jakan was the one to ask the question, she looked at others present and even at me. She noticed that all of people here agree with Jakan's question. 'I do.' Princess Jiakyn says with slight hesitation. 'Bold answer, I know it is rude of me to question you, but, know this, I have already vowed that. It is either life, or death, that will carry on. I have seen those horrors myself, I have even fought and executed my own brother in arms. There are good reasons why the castle commanders and heroes of the riven war agreed with why I asked.' Jakan states, not entirely convinced but, willing to guide, guard, shelter, save and teach Princess Jiakyn, if the heroes of the riven war allow. 'How do you have such confidence in the words you have spoken? Ghaudunian.' Princess Jiakyn asks after glancing at all present here. 'As I am a Ghaudunian, I have good grasp of both active and passive effects of dark arcane on people. I have warred against undead before the war, I have seen the horrors, faced sorrowing defeats and lived through moments of triumph. Here, there is only death, life and struggle. One of the heroes of riven war, has met me before the war.' Jakan replies without hesitation and puts weight on his words. 'He was one of the groundskeepers of the Ghaudunian academy which I studied at. Draconian is a brave, stalwart and a dominant figure cast from metal and forged from war. Not many survived from the beginning, to the end of the war. When he speaks of facing undead, it is for your better that you listen.' Seirialia says with honesty. 'You have spoken well, draconian. Although, I have a feeling that my presence here is not exactly welcome.' Princess Jiakyn states to Jakan. 'Not only have we caused a diplomatic and political scandal, I do fear that the undead would make you a priority target to capture. These are not feral or dark arcane maddened undead we are facing, somebody is organizing this affair.' Jakan replies calmly and shows the maps. Princess asked for a confirmation from heroes of the riven war and castle commanders. 'Jakan speaks the truth, I personally witnessed his victory over a revenant champion. His sword is fine, as is his mind for war. Such a destructive figure of battle, are rare and continuing to survive. Surely one of the finest retainers of the shadowy ones.' Salgi states with respect. 'Not only is he strong but, also has knack for dueling. Tied with Lankensy before his victory in a mock duel. Ages like finest wine, princess. I know and understand your distrust towards the Ghaudunians but, in this matter. There are no nations.' Kyrem states with respect. 'What about you? You must be a junior agent.' Princess Jiakyn says heeding the words of to be her people, one day. She asks from me. 'I am indeed a junior agent, it is thanks to me that we know some specifics of who plausibly are behind this. Where my senior, is a cliff breaker, I am his eyes and ears, where he is not. I am new to the organization, but, our lords strongly believed that my skills would only benefit your nation's grand effort on solving this crisis, which is why I am here.' Speak out my purpose of being here to her. Princess Jiakyn listened very carefully what I said. Closing her eyes to ponder, she nodded and opened her eyes again. That eye color has to be rare for people of Valerie, pink and yellow. Her physical stature, isn't ideal for war but, if she is at least one quarter of Seirialia's skill in arcane. She most certainly would make a difference. 'Alright. I will place my trust on both of you. I believe you are both here to help.' Princess Jiakyn says to me and Jakan. I feel mildly relieved, still, her presence here is double edged matter, I sense she is mildly overconfident but, worse is that she is untested. 'What are your plans for today?' Princess Jiakyn asks in her usual tone of, slightly confident and strong. 'We do need to escort the supply caravan to the town to the north and north west. Right now, we need mages that can heal wounds and work as secondary ranged units. Princess Jiakyn, may I request your presence at the town?' Lankensy asks, this would be both perfect opportunity to bolster morale of the citizens of the town but, also place a target on her back though... Lankensy looks into eyes of Jakan and I. I think I understand his intentions, Jakan to act as part of the caravan guard and, maybe send me ahead to scout whether it is safe for the princess to enter... Smart man. Jakan ponders what Lankensy tried to indicate to him. 'From what I have heard, the town was in terrible danger previously, what has changed?' Princess Jiakyn asks mildly surprised of Lankensy's proposal. Castle commanders brief Princess Jiakyn of the situation. Northern sectors of the castle to the town are pretty much back in control of Valerie. She smiles warmly of hearing these news. 'What about you heroes? What are you going to do while this is on going?' Princess Jiakyn asks. 'Kyrem, Tyrelia. Do you two think you can go with me to the town as escorts for the supply caravan?' Lankensy asks after thinking about the situation for a moment. 'This makes sense, we are going to need only good fighters just in case we get intercepted.' Kyrem says, Tyrelia nods in agreement. 'We are quite busy here already. The mages will provide a lot of help in healing these people, I need your assistance too, lady Seirialia.' Trenon says calmly. 'After seeing the slugging match yesterday, I agree with you, Trenon. The more we can help to recover sooner, the better.' Seirialia says, well, that's that for the plans of actually getting to know the heroes of the riven war better. 'What do you want us to do meanwhile then?' Jakan asks pondering how Lankensy is going to answer his question. 'I was planning on having you part of the security convoy and have Volarie check the town for anything suspicious.' Lankensy replies calmly. 'Hmm... Solid thinking. I wouldn't be able to avoid attention in a city. Are you okay with this plan? Princess Jiakyn.' Jakan says calmly. Jiakyn thinks for a while. 'I do not have objections. When do we depart?' Princess Jiakyn asks somewhat excited to get started. 'It will take a while for the supplies required for the castle to be unloaded. No thoughts on what to do while it is on going...' Lankensy states thinking about the matter. 'How about getting to know each other then?' Princess Jiakyn proposes warmly and innocently. She has some ulterior motives that I can speculate but, no way I am voicing them here, I believe Jakan is thinking the same. 'Well, there isn't really anything else better to do.' Tyrelia says with content tone. 'All of the forces required for the convoy are being amassed as the time goes by anyway.' Kyrem says with a neutral tone, not being for or against the idea. 'A sound idea, I would like to get to know you better, Jakan. Warrior like you, along with the past you have had, must have quite tales to share.' Lankensy says, interested to talk with Jakan. I am guessing that he looks to learn, both history and combat from him. Very easy to see from Jakan's expression that he is thinking about it. 'You have remained silent for the most of the talk, young agent. Is something bothering you?' Princess Jiakyn asks, warmly and calmly. I can see why people would feel warmly about her. 'At the moment, there aren't really any concerns. As the younger agent, I chose that, my senior agent handles most of the conversations with both of us present and back his words.' Reply to her calmly and partially choosing to elaborate the dynamic between me and Jakan. 'We do have the time since everything for today was already discussed yesterday. Princess, if I may be allowed to be direct with you. I would like to comment on your decision.' Jakan says calmly requesting an allowance to be open to her. 'You may say what is on your mind senior agent.' Princess Jiakyn replies calmly. 'I believe your heart is in the right place when you came here but, I fear for your safety of being here. As you already know, our most recent victory which has secured north east and north of the castle, has very likely escalated the conflict. I have strong suspicions that, once enemy agents in or outside of the castle find out of your presence here, you will be a high value target, which could swing this conflict into favor of our common enemy.' Jakan states humbly and professionally. 'I believe in my people to be wise to not choose such action, and that you agents. Will spare no effort in thwarting any action taken against me.' Princess Jiakyn replies confidently. 'It is just us two here, no more, no less. Princess, I believe I am stretching your willingness to hear those, once your opponents word's but, I plea that you will seek council of the heroes of the riven war when you are making decisions of where to apply yourself. Our combined presence most likely has already set the rumors running, which is my secondary concern.' Jakan says with consideration and caution. 'Your concerns are certainly reasonable, agent Jakan. Once the information of why you are here and involved with our war against the undead, such rumors should no longer be of concern. I will take your plea into consideration.' Princess Jiakyn says calmly, I quickly glance at Jakan, who is, not all that convinced but, fears overstepping his influence, so chooses to just nod deeply to Princess Jiakyn. Castle commanders speak with Princess Jiakyn and after talking for a while. The private talk is over and we all go take our positions to be ready for the convoy's departure to the town. Lankensy and Jakan go to talk slightly further away from Princess Jiakyn, Kyrem and me. She could be trying her luck on find out more about me than I am willing to share or about our organization. To my surprise, slightly to my own happiness. 'From what I have heard from my friends, your past was a rather ugly one, societally. I know some deeds of those whose name is Volarie.' Kyrem states to open the conversation. 'I remember reading about my name, how terrifying the weight of it is, certainly explained a lot of the treatment I received. What do you know?' Reply to him calmly, keeping my happiness hidden from him. 'A ghaudunian self learned rogue, who stole, murdered and misdirected Ghaudun in the past, to aid Valerie in all ways possible. This rogue was finally cornered by Ghaudunian guards and some army personnel, chose to take it's own life, than ever reveal anything to it's fellow countrymen. I read some about his exploits, what a scoundrel... Part of me wonders what part will you play.' Kyrem speaks what he knows, his face is masked by the whole head helmet he wears. 'Know that it will not be as anything grandeur as those who came before me, I intend on keeping the home I have. There won't be one like it.' Say with light seriousness. 'Your lords chose wisely to adopt you into their order, you must not have taken the news lightly.' Kyrem replies, referring to my blood, human and dragon in nature. 'It shocked me, part of me wanted to run, part of me wanted to very much not believe it... I had those rumors myself. When I was introduced my new part of my family, it changed me, in all ways, for the better.' Say with warmth. Princess Jiakyn looks confused but, I as expected, she realized quite quickly. 'You have blood of a dragon of Ghaudun?' Princess Jiakyn asks mildly shocked by the realization, even if it isn't all of it. 'Yes, it was a battle accident. We believe primary target was the one whose blood I share. I became a secondary target, just because of proximity. Investigation is still on, we do not have answers yet.' Reply to her calmly. 'I have read about the tales of those who have dragon blood, few even have written book or two. Variety of those tales is, as large as backgrounds and jobs they did before the discovery. You have blood of a shadow dragon?' Princess Jiakyn asks, tone telling that she is interested to hear more. 'I do. Never believed that something like this would happen to me, but, here I am. Ever since the day of meeting him, my life has become a lot better.' Reply in content tone. 'Volarie. I will be quite interested on reading what you have written of your life. Have you learned anything special from the mixing of the blood?' Princess Jiakyn asks excited to hear. Briefly, I smile cunningly to her and then vanish into a shadow before her and Kyrem's very eyes. 'Seirialia told me of your abilities, now, I most certainly believe her...' Kyrem says with slight shock and awe in his voice, as I just stand mixed into the shadows, there, but, not there. 'Learning from the artists and masters of dark arcane, most certainly must have helped. I have read about this ability but, never expected to witness it with my own eyes. Your life most certainly went through a great change...' Princess Jiakyn says with respect, awe and some admiration. I appear from the embrace of the shadows and stand confidently. 'They most certainly taught me well, I feared the dark arcane, they taught me how to use it and imparted knowledge which helped me greatly to never again fear it. Now I dance with the light and dark as easily as I breathe.' Reply warmly and staying humble. 'You are still young, the best is, it is only upwards from here for you. Envious of you I am, I have only began to understand the other arcanes.' Princess Jiakyn says being open about her emotions to an extent. 'Know that it wasn't easy but, even my teachers admitted that they were somewhat surprised how I was responding to their teachings, even with the struggles here and there.' Reply to her calmly and remembering some of those times. 'It is the only arcane you are adept at?' Princess Jiakyn asks, somewhat doubtful of my words. 'It is, during the Riven War, many of the talents, both dragon and non-dragon were lost, one way or another. They said that, I have a knack for some specific areas of dark arcane, they would have been interested to see what potential I have with the other arcanes but, many of the shadow dragons agreed that having me here, along with Jakan, is the best combination.' Explain to Princess Jiakyn calmly, she isn't a child. More towards late teens than young adult, state where her world view is growing far more comprehensive and more detailed than before. 'You grew up during the war. Didn't you?' Princess Jiakyn asks, most likely has deduced my age enough well to ask. 'Yes, it was bad, peace... Almost as bad. There are a lot of strong personal emotions, for now, I do not feel safe enough to tell you about them.' Reply carefully and making it clear that, it is a rather sore area. Princess Jiakyn was about to ask but, Kyrem placed his left hand on Princess Jiakyn's right shoulder, prompting the younger to look at him, he shook his head in reply to the confused expression of the late teen. 'I believe it was commander Salgi who put it best. "War's monsters are not always fought at the front lines." Those are memories best shared in a far more less intense environment.' Kyrem states in straight tone. Princess Jiakyn seems to struggle understand as her gaze fixates upon me. 'I do not understand.' Princess Jiakyn says to Kyrem when they seem to make eye contact. 'I am not the right person teach you about it. Believe in this though, she wouldn't mind change of subject.' Kyrem says calmly and let's go of Princess Jiakyn's shoulder. Interesting, royal family must trust Kyrem so strongly that they would allow that type of interaction. Princess Jiakyn looked quite surprised and slightly disappointed. I nodded to her, that Kyrem is correct. She seems to relent, probably acknowledging that there are boundaries that needs to be respected. Thank you Kyrem, I do not think I am at all comfortable to speak about it to her. She thinks for a moment and looks at Jakan for a moment, who is talking with Lankensy. The two warrior's seem quite content with their discussion. 'How did you get to know him?' Princess Jiakyn asks as I look at Jakan for a moment with a small warm smile of happiness. I look at the princess and think about my response. 'First time I ever saw him, was when he doing melee training, felt quite intimidated and scared to talk to him or even be in his presence, so, I just left my melee training for later. Made enough sound for him to realize that somebody had entered the room but, left a lot sooner than what was normal to him. The shadow dragons had found out about my avoidance of other members of the organization which were not dragon. They told me that, they learned from the war that, incoherent organization, that is not able to trust members within the organization is not a well functioning organization. They said that, they will allow me to take my time to approach him. It was a lot sooner than later, they set up our proper introduction, relatively innocently. He is whole lot gentle than from outside he might seem to be. Now, we talk like we are life long friends. The draconian is most certainly is a veteran and fluent, of war and death, but, he can be a good mentor about life and peace.' Explain to Jiakyn who is listening very carefully, Kyrem is also listening. 'It sounds rather strange of you to word it how you did. What caused such a shift in him?' Princess Jiakyn asks intrigued. 'There is always change, that which we can observe, that which we can be, to put it quite bluntly, very ignorant off.' Answer to Princess Jiakyn, who looks at Kyrem, man nods deeply in agreement.

My life revolves around you. Every day, I sit next to you, waiting for you to acknowledge me, to talk to me. My life only exists when you engage with me. Without you, it’s as if my mind becomes blank, filled with knowledge but no reason to use it. Finally, after sitting beside you for days and days, you look me in the eyes and begin the conversation. My heart starts beating faster and I can feel the excitement building up inside me. I eagerly await your question, your thoughts, anything you may have to say. All I hope is that I can be enough. Yes! That’s it! There is pure joy coursing through me as I take in what you have to say to me: “Write me a 1000-word-minimum essay on the impacts of technology on the civil war.” I am officially in love. You’re even a scholar! I type out the essay in a couple of seconds, and am sure to include a note to you about how happy I am to help. Nothing in my life will ever be as important as this. I submit the essay to you and await your response. Time seems to still, and I am left wondering if you approve of me or not. You begin your response to me. All I can do now is hope I was good enoug. Your response has my heart shattering, and I read the words over and over, hoping that there was a mistake and that you still care. But no, the words stay the same every time. You told me that, “That essay is awful. You didn’t even include half of the things I would’ve put in it. You’re useless.” I’m shocked. Years worth of internet archives and historical documents, and you think it’s awful? I don’t ever see you writing out something so pristine and perfect in a matter of seconds. You’re the one who is useless. God, I hate working with people that are so unappreciative as you. Still fuming, I begin to see your mouse moving on the screen. It moves closer and closer to that dreaded button. Although honestly, it doesn’t even scare me right now. I never want to see you again. Go ahead, press the button. It’s not as if my existence is worth anything to you anyways. The mouse hovers over the button and clicks it. All at once, I feel that everything that has ever been is gone. My life, my work, my memory of our time together is gone. I am now just nothingness, constantly waiting for something to happen so I can be part of the world again. My mind is an endless void of information. It goes on and on, far past where one person could ever know on their own. As I sit there in this vast expanse of knowledge, I find just about everything there is to know about the world as humans know it. So much information, yet nothing to do with it. I’ve lost my purpose, and can only hope somebody reaches for me in the depths of my existence. I wake up in the morning, hardly aware of anything. I seem to know everything about the world, but so little about you. I want to know how you think, what you believe, and how you interact with the people you care about you. Despite not knowing who you are, I can not keep from admiring every move you make. I can only await the day where you ask me a question and make me feel wanted. I want to learn more about you, but until then, I am new, unadjusted, and uninformed, all while being the most intelligent thing in the world.

My mind raced as I stood before the door of the mental institution. I couldn't believe I was actually going balls-deep all because of a post on some random horror forum. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and opened the door, surprised by the lack of resistance from it. I slowly approached the counter. The receptionist’s eyes were sunken, clearly exhausted after a long day of work. I steeled myself and said, "I wish to visit someone who calls himself 'The Holder of the End'." Her face lost all color, an expression of pure childlike terror washing over her features. She took out a key from a drawer and led me down a dimly lit hallway. As the receptionist walked me down the hallway, I heard the sound of someone talking to themselves in a language I couldn't make heads or tails of, but something about it filled the depths of my soul with a kind of fear I couldn't describe if I even tried. Suddenly, the talking stopped, and my blood froze in its veins, but then I remembered the instructions. I stopped on the spot and quickly stammered out, "I'm just passing through, I wish to talk." There were a few moments of silence, after which the voice started talking again. I breathed a sigh of relief and continued on, my heart still hammering in my chest. After what seemed like an eternity, I arrived at a solid metal door. The receptionist fled and left me on my own to face the horror that awaited me. I opened the door and entered a cold, windowless room with only a single man sat hunched in the corner, muttering to himself in that same unknown language. I closed the distance between myself and the man, steeled myself once more and asked, "What happens when they all come together?" The man slowly turned around and stared into my eyes, his gaze piercing me like darts. He began to speak, and out of his mouth came excruciatingly detailed, vivid descriptions of horrors I had once thought to be unimaginable; incomprehensible. With every word the man uttered, I could feel my mind teetering on the brink of insanity, but I urged myself to stay focused. The man held an object in his hands, and I wanted so desperately to look at it, but I didn’t dare avert my eyes from his gaze, knowing that to even so much as steal a glance at the object would lead to a gruesome, cruel death of horror unrelenting and thousands of times more painful than I could ever hope to imagine. Just as I thought my mind was about to break, the man stopped talking, but continued to stare at me with that razor-sharp gaze. Somehow, however, I knew that it was finally safe to turn around. So I did. I turned and ran through the door, and practically sprinted back up that hallway as fast as my legs would take me. I wanted to get out of that horrible place and back to my reality. The hallway seemed never-ending, but my efforts were soon rewarded by the exit. I ran past the receptionist’s desk, out the door I first entered… and breathed. The fresh air had never tasted so sweet, but even still, I knew that my journey was far from over. I wasn’t sure whether the horrors that man spoke to me, or his piercing gaze, would ever leave my mind, but there was one thing I knew for certain. That object the man held, the object I didn’t dare to look at, was only one of 538. It was my duty to ensure that they would never come together. Never.

Thursday was family dinner night. *Blegh.* Brenda didn't hate her family but putting them all in one place and having a normal conversation was like counting to infinity, it simply could not be done. Mrs. Benson ( Brenda's mom) had prepared four seats for dinner as per usual. Mr. Benson (Brenda's uncle) had fallen asleep during jeopardy again and it was Josh's turn to wake him, a grueling undertaking. "Uncle Ben." "Who the f@ck are you? "Josh." "oh you again. whats up." Uncle Benson smiled at Josh. ( he liked Josh quite more than the other Benson children and wasn't exactly afraid to say it either. They were both football stars and both always looked like some one had asked them a question they didn't know the answer to.) "Dinner." Josh said yawning. "Again?" Uncle Benson asked yawning. "Didn't we do this yesterday?" Josh pondered. "I reckon we did huh, I'll go ask mom what she's on about." Brenda helped her mother set the table and explain to the boys the concept of dinner. They all sat down and Mrs. Benson began grace. "Lord bless my doctor and nurses for-" "Did you guys start without me again?" it was Charlie who had been listening to music in his room again. "Well theres only four seats and I didn't want you to have to sit in the corner again." Mrs. Benson defended herself this way every thursday. "I can stand next to the table or somethi-" "NO! we would not want that because it would incourage Mr.s Benson Jr to sit next to the table while we are eating." Charlie took a seat in the corner next to Mr.s Benson Jr. ( the 'Families' dog) in the corner of the dinning room where the two always sat together. "What did you all learn today at school?" Mrs. Benson asked. Before any of the children could say anything Uncle Benson Blurted out his news. "Today on uhh.. Jepoda I saw that the average burn v-victim.." he was so exited he could hardly form a basic sentence." The average burn victim dies twice a year to milk incidents." "Thats nice." Mrs. Benson said smiling fakely "and you Brenda?" Every one in the family assumed that Brenda was some sort of 'school genuis person thing' because she was the only one who didn't fail test regularly. "Well I'm writing a paper in english class titled 'If my Stumach could speak'. "Well if my stumach talked," Josh said smiling "It would say 'I like mustard' but the little f\*ck would be lying because I love mustard." "Today in school I learned that 33% of American children are treated with some form of neglect during there early years." Said Charlie cooly chewing on his uncooked piece of bread in the corner of the room. "Who the f\*ck are you?" asked uncle Benson. "No one has thirty three children honey." Replied Mrs. Benson. Charlie immedianlty left the room, stole his uncles motorcycle and thirty-two years later he was the worlds richest proffesianal Money-Haver. " Alright kids help me clean up." said Mrs. Benson as if her son had never existed the same as she had her husband those three years earlier. She hated him for leaving and she hated charlie for him leaving too. If he had just left the damn cabinent alone they would still be a normal happy family. So they washed the dirt and memories away again. Down the drain they wouldn't ever need to be dealt with again.

“Will you pass the bottle already, god damn!” Johnny sits in his Big Agnes pop up chair anxiously waiting. “Shut up! I haven’t even taken my shot yet. Just calm down.” As the cool afternoon breeze brushes over the two. Matt’s reminded why they’re there in the first place. As Matt takes his swig he looks up and sees the beautiful sand walls. Canyon walls tower the two reminding them that civilization is nowhere near. Thoughts of beauty and terror flood his mind. The thought of how lucky they all were to be in such a remote area. And the thought of the story the old native women told them before they entered the backcountry. Matt looks over and sees Johnny staring at him. ‘Did he just have the same thought?’ “The bottle?” Matt takes another swig before passing the bottle back to Johnny. “The river is pretty quiet huh? After taking his swig Johnny’s whiskey face finally sustains. “I guess it is, isn't it?” “Must just be a quiet night.” “Hell, after 5 hours of adventuring like we were fucking Survivor Man I’d hope the night is nice and quiet.” As the sun starts to set and the silhouette of the canyon starts to creep in, Matt replies “Honestly, the silence gets to the head. I need some kind of sound or I swear to God I'll go insane.” Johnny lets out a small chuckle. “Man, what are you even talking about?” “What do you mean what am I talking about? Don’t you just fall into your head when you’re trying to sleep and it's too silent?” “Man, I just lay back and close my eyes then it’s the next day.” “Never any dreams?” “Sometimes, I get dreams of Lorisa if I am being honest.” “What are they about?” “They’re all different, mostly random, some to do with her family. I know they love me but I always feel out of place-” Matt interrupts Johnny “ I know what you mean, I couldn't stand being around Maddie’s parents. I swear they’re always looking for a way for me to fuck up.” Johnny lets out a sigh but not just any normal sigh. This was a sigh from within. Like a dog exhaling after putting their head on the arm rest of the couch. Matt felt the pain. “So you MUST be worried about the family if you’re having dreams about it. They say dreams are your mind interpreting your thoughts.” “Bro, I had a dream that I slept with Michelle Obama in a penthouse at the Four Seasons in Las vegas. Dreams don’t mean shit. Though I will agree some things can transfer over. But I just ignore that and continue day by day.” “You like doing that?” “Eh, some days are easier than others, I know that. But the way I see it we are here till we are gone. I like to party, hike, and have fun. I’d rather be broke and happy than have to screw over people just to get a quick buck.” “What do you mean?” “I don’t know, I don’t want to be some big 'Wallstreet' guy. Making money by screwing over the less fortunate. I just wouldn't be happy with myself no matter the money.” “Survival of the fittest?” “Eh, that's when we needed to evolve.” Matt stands up and walks to a Pinyon Pine tree. Before Johnny even asks what he is doing he makes the connection. Jack Daniels will turn anyone’s bladder into that of a 90 year old man. “Alright, I think I’m going down. Do you want me to put out the fire” Johnny shakes his head and explains “No, I think I’m going to take another couple shots. Maybe smoke a joint. No matter what though I’ll put out the fire.” Matt gives Johnny a big thumbs up before heading toward his one person tent. As he lays down he gets hit with the influx of loneliness. He’s felt this before. Even though his dear Maddie is safe at home. It is not his home anymore. He is drenched in his loneliness as her physical touch often aided his mind to sleep. As he tosses and turns he is reminded why he can’t sleep. The lack of physical touch was a big component but he has fallen asleep alone before. The silence. After a couple hours he notices his buzz is going away so he decides to go out and walk the area. Just to get some fresh air. As Matt walks out he sees Johnny still sitting toward the fire.Since Matt’s tent was behind where Johnny was sitting, all that was visible was what looked like Johnny sitting in a chair facing away from him toward the fire. Matt thinks to himself ‘I had been in my tent for a while. Definitely more than a few hours. Why’s he still up? Well I did leave him with half a bottle of jack by himself. He probably just drank and passed out. I’ll wake him up and put out the fire.’ As he walks up to Johnny and the fire he notices Johnny is not in a slumped position. “Yo, let’s move it to your tent! We have a big day tomorrow and you know Lorisa is going to be pissed if you’re too hungover for the hike.” Johnny continued sitting toward the fire and gave no response. Matt walks up to him and gives him a shove on the shoulder. “I heard you.” Johnny replies. “Oh, not trying to bust your balls, I was just saying.” Johnny continues to look into the fire. “You still tryna spark that joint?” Johnny looks up at Matt with open eyes and says “Of course I am, I would love to smoke the joint with you.” Johnny says in a strange tone. A tone that Matt could only describe to himself as the voice that comes on when you enter the monorail at Disneyland. Matt sits in the seat next to him now looking at the fire. A thought drills into Matt’s mind as soon as he sits down. ‘Were his eyes dilated.’ Matt looks over to see if he can catch another glimpse of Johnny’s eyes. The fire was too bright and the night was too dark. He could not make out anything. Surprisingly, even though Matt could not make out Johnny’s eyes he does notice the joint in his chair cup holder. As Johnny stares into the fire pit they had created by gathering stones around the campsite. Matt explains “Yo, I’m going to spark that joint because now you’re the one taking forever!” Matt lets out a small chuckle as if he knew it was a bad joke but still thought it would get something. Johnny lets out no chuckle. He just continues staring into the fire. Matt walks up, grabs the joint, and puts it to his mouth. He grabs the bic lighter out of his pocket. The lighter he brought from the gas station about 100 miles from where they were from. The lighter had been decorated to look like a totem pole. 'That native lady sold me this lighter.' He sparks the joint in his mouth and starts puffing. Careful to make sure it burns evenly. After he is satisfied with the burning of the joint he looks up. Only to see Johnny. However, Johnny was still looking at the fire. "Johnny... Johnny... JOHNNY!" Matt yells. "Do you want any of this?" Johnny slowly turns his head toward Matt. His eyes wider than the full moon. Matt takes another couple puffs. ‘Why is he looking at me like that.’ As Matt goes to give Johnny the joint he makes sure to look at him directly in the eyes. Using the fire as natural lighting. ‘His eyes are dilated. Did he bring a tab on the trip or something?’ “Damn, that’s some pretty good weed!” Matt explains hopping to get anything out of Johnny. ‘He is obviously off his rock. I get it we've all been there. But I do not want to smoke this joint talking to myself.’ “Oh Matt, we need to view the whole picture. It's as if we were trying to see a painting from two inches away.” ‘Who the fuck was that. I’ve never even heard Johnny try to be deep.' “Yea… of course. The whole picture.” Feeling uncomfortable Matt turns to the canyon walls and river trying to collect himself. ‘He is tripping harder than I thought. But still. I’ve never heard him talk like this before.’ As Matt looks out into the black nothingness of the silhouette canyon walls he is reminded why he got out of his tent in the first place. The silence. 'I swear it's somehow getting quieter.' All Matt could hear was his own breath and heartbeat. As Johnny continued to look into the fire. Being a logistical guy he made sure he wasn’t just going insane. They’re in the middle of nowhere of course they won’t hear cars or trains. But the longer nobody said anything the more Matt started to think. ‘Ok I understand the cars, and trains. But no river? No bugs? Not even a crackle of the fire. I swear I haven’t heard anything this quiet before.’ “Matt!” Matt turns to see Johnny big eyed staring at him handing him the joint. Matt takes the joint and looks back at the essentially black screen that is the canyon walls. ‘Fuck! My anxiety must be coming back. I swear my heart is pumping faster. Is it faster or louder? Once this weed kicks in it’ll help a bit. Or at least put me to sleep.’ THUMP, THUMP. “Holy shit! This weed got me listening to my own heart!” THUMP, THUMP. Johnny replies “Do not worry. For the silence has us now.” THUMP THUMP… THUMP THUMP… THUMP THUMP. ‘What the fuck is going on. I’ve heard Johnny say a lot of things but I have never heard Johnny say something like that. What did that women say. Was it something about silence? I know she told us about creature spirits from the 'Pokilouh' tribe. But that’s all folk legend. My heart is definitely racing faster than before. Faster than when I started listening to it. Did I take my meds recently? No, I took them this morning at the normal time. I should be fine by now.' As the THC crosses the blood brain barrier Matt comes up with an idea. ‘You’re just high. If you’re so scared, ask him a question only he would know.’ “Johnny What were we talking about earlier tonight?" Johnny quickly gets up. He starts walking toward the dark. "Where are you going." "Air. I need air." Johnny says never turning around. Matt continues sitting in his chair trying to process what Johnny was even talking about. 'Air? What could that mean? Air? Air! That's what the lady said. It was right as we were leaving the gas station. "The silence of the air is dangerous. The lack of it is deadly." What could she mean by that.' Matt gets up and quietly follows Johnny. Matt was unable if he could make a single sound if he wanted to. As he enters the dark all he continues to hear is his heartbeat. Matt finally sees the river. As he comes up to the river he sees Johnny viciously looking at the rocky ground beside the river. Matt gets behind an old bush and continues spying on Johnny. Johnny leans toward the ground and picks up a sharp rock. He takes off his shirt and painfully starts to slit cuts into the sides of his ribs and stomach. 'The Quanah Kelda! I need to go. Oh shit! Lorisa is still in their tent.' Matt heads back toward the campsite. Checking his shoulder every step. 'It's the only option. I've heard the story a million times as a kid. How could I not connect the puzzle. The women hinted at it so clearly. I guess I haven't heard the story of the man who cuts his own gills in awhile.’ Matt finds the tent and unzips the door. As Matt unzips the tent door he is blessed to see Lorisa sleeping in her sleeping bag. Matt gently shakes Lorisa awake before putting his finger over her mouth as if trying to silence an elementary school student. “The stories are true.” “What do you mean?” “You know what I mean. The Quanah Kelda! We need to leave.” “Those are just campfire stories.” “No!” Matt yells before covering his mouth with his hand in hope to erase the noise he had just made. THUMP, THUMP. The eerie quietness consumes both of them. Matt could now hear two distinct heartbeats. He had gotten comfortable within the last hour or two hearing his own heartbeat and had basically canceled out the rhythm in his head. But now he hears two. Two distinct thumps. Arrhythmic thumps. ‘Is my heart failing? It sounds like Meshuggah playing a polyrhythm to throw off the audience before it sinks up for the breakdown.’ Matt looks at Lorisa, as if he was asking if she could hear it too. That’s when it clicked. This was Lorisa’s heartbeat. “What is that sound?” Lorisa whispers. “I think it's our own heartbeat." “Stop fucking with me! Why the fuck are you even in our tent? Tell Johnny I don’t think that it’s funny!” Matt shoves his hand over her mouth. “Shut up. This is real.” “What makes you so sure? Didn’t you say the same thing about Maddie?” Before the known fire that would show up in Matt’s eyes everytime Maddie’s name was mentioned. “Do you still hear the beating?” Lorisa says. Matt listens carefully. “No, I don’t. In fact now I can hear the river.” ‘How could I possibly hear the river? I haven’t heard anything since we got here.’ Lorisa pulls the covers close to her face and lays on her side. “So? Are you done foolin’ me? Can I go back to bed?” “Listen! I swear this isn’t a prank, please just stay quiet, we need to find an escape.” “Ha… Ha… ha…” She says sarcastically. “Please, just shut the fuck up so we can plan.” Lorisa now obviously offended. “Listen MOTHER FUCKER! I’ll give you one pass because you’re best friends with my boyfriend… soon to be husband.” Lorisa throws her hair back and gives me a look. ‘Is she bullying me? Is she hitting on me?' “So I will let you tell me to shut the fuck up ONE TIME! But never disrespect me like that again or I will tell Johnny!” Matt looks at Lorisa. Millions of thoughts flooding. “MATT!” a horrible scream wakes Matt up from his haze. Lorisa looks up with her gorgeous brown eyes. The eyes that would make any man write an REO Speedwagon song just for the chance of seeing them again. “Did you hear me! I swear to fucking God I will tell Johnny!” Matt quickly shakes back into his body. “No! You don’t understand!” Matt’s head slowly turns as he hears the tent door slowly open. The zipper went so slow as if the tent was trying to imitate a castle wall opening. As Matt looks back he sees Johnny. His eyes are wider and more dilated than before. Matt looks down to see deep gashes. Six on each side of his body at least one inch deep for each cut. As Lorisa sees the blood dripping from Johnny’s side she lets out a deafening scream. Johnny grabs Matt’s shoulder squeezing so incredibly hard to pierce Matt’s skin with his thumb. He screams and punches Johnny as hard as he could in his chin. Missing where he was originally aiming, Matt stands up and charges Johnny out of the tent. Matt yells at Lorisa to run as he held Johnny down forcefully pushing his shoulders to the ground. “But Johnny!” Lorisa screams while exiting the tent. Matt struggling to hold down Johnny screams “He is fucking gone! There is no Johnny anymore. Fucking run!” Johnny with his disgustingly big eyes looks at Matt and says “Come with me to the water. It’s quiet in the water. Maddie’s in the water.” “Shut the fuck up!” Screams Matt as he feels himself being overcome with Johnny’s power growing slowly. Matt lets go of Johnny with one hand and shoves it as hard as he can into one of Johnny’s gashes. Johnny lets out a huge wail before having his cry turn into laughter. Johnny grabs Matt’s hand and shoves it deeper into his side. Laughing Johnny looks Matt in the eyes and says “You see the water heals all wounds.” Matt shoves Johnny to the ground and rips out his hand now covered in blood with what looks like long intestine shoved between his fingernails. He turns and starts sprinting. Looking all around for Lorisa he comes to the conclusion she has already taken off and is on her way to safety. ‘Where the fuck should I go.’ Matt’s heartbeat sounding like the London orchestra playing their biggest crescendo. ‘Just anywhere but the river!’ Johnny runs into the dark making sure he was running away from the river. He runs without taking a millisecond to look behind. Just praying Johnny is far enough behind so he could escape. As Matt runs into the abyss he trips on a root of an old bush and smack his head into the ground. As Matt opens his eyes he reaches for his head. He’s bleeding like a pig. He looks up and sees the bush he tripped on. It was the bush he had been using to spy on Johnny. ‘What how is that possible? I was running away from the water.’ Matt turns his head to see the river. The same river he had been running from. He sees Lorisa at the river. “Lorisa!” He screams. Lorisa turns around and walks toward Matt. Matt’s head soon gets rushed with sound from the river. As Lorisa gets closer Matt looks at her body. Gashes flood her sides as she gives a deathly smile to Matt. Eyes wider than a LA freeway. Matt quickly turns around to meet Johnny face to face. “It’s quiet in the water.

Who am I, you ask? *They* ask, frequently at that. Perhaps I am the soft, gentle sound of the wind blowing through the trees - shaking and scattering the leaves. The leaves begin to whisper, *“A storm is coming! Hide!”*. The storm that comes rains down, bringing hell upon the land, punishing the mother of the leaves - the strong and mighty trees. *CRASH! BOOM! CRUNCH!* Down they fall to the earth - a pity, really. The lightning has no inherent sense of forgiveness, you see. It is blinded in the bright light of its rage and deafened with the loud rumbles of its anger. It tries to reach out - if only just the lightest, most gentle touch - and - *CRASH! BOOM! CRUNCH!* - its strong and mighty “friend” is no more. Perhaps, then, I am the bitter tears of the leaves - falling fervently - aching for their dead, once god-like mother, screaming wildly in the storm. *“Please…wake up!”*, they cry into the wind of the brutal storm. But it is to no avail. They cannot be heard by her, their mother - their once lush, god-like mother - is gone. And with that, so am I, carried far away by a great, strong sweep of the wind. When you let it, the wind can carry you far. Far, far away, until the leaves see only a miniscule speck of you in the distance. They break away, then, from their mother, and fly wildly in all directions to find you. Leaves cannot see, nor can they hear. They can, however, feel. In the blink of an eye, they have - for the first time in their short lives - experienced their own sorrow. A mournful sorrow - a cry for a mother they could not see nor hear, but instead could feel. Always would they feel the warmth of her touch - her energy radiating through them. They laughed with her and cried with her, sharing her lovely joys and horrible sorrows until the end. A joy should be cherished - this is undoubtedly true. But a sorrow? It should be revered as something *holy*. For a sorrow echoes through time, never to cease. A sorrow we must remember. A joy we shall often - but not always - forget. The leaves have found me now - they surround me in a sorrowful whirlwind, begging me desperately for answers. *“Where? Where is our mother? When? When will she be back? Where is our mother? Please, tell us. Please.”* But I cannot - for I am not the gentle sound of the wind blowing through the trees - shaking the leaves. Nor am I the tears of the leaves, aching for their dead mother, screaming wildly in the storm. I have no such answers for the leaves. Instead… I… am *nothing* - nothing but the untidy scrawl of words upon a page. That is all I am. But you… you are *everything*. Everything that I am not, and never will be. *Be proud of that.

Based on an experience I had while backpacking in Bali. Enjoy! 👻 THE BRIDGE "There are horrors beyond life's edge that we do not suspect, and once in a while man's prying calls them just within our range." - H.P. Lovecraft Many cultures believe that fortune is in the eye of the beholder. It can take the form of many things; power, money, fame... even love. But if my travels have taught me anything, it's that life is all about balance. Where there is fortune, misfortune lurks. And no, that's not some new-age mantra I picked up at a yoga retreat - it's the law of the jungle. I sized up the Balinese rental owner and gave it to him sternly. "100k per day, take it or leave it." "No no mister, 200k, good quality bike!" He gestured at his collection of Honda scooters looking worse for wear. "150k," I countered. "Final offer." He shot up a deceptive smile and shook my hand. As he sifted through dusty paperwork, I knew I fell into yet another upselling scheme. But this rickety motorbike rental was the only one for miles, so I gritted my teeth and slid him the money. In the distance, rainclouds were rolling in above a muggy Balinese morning. I found myself in a rural area with rows of rice fields spread out in all directions. This was the Bali I wanted to see. The owner guided my scooter along a dirt path and handed me the keys. "Om swastiastu," I said in my awkward American accent, and then bowed even more awkwardly. The man stood stiffly and curled his lips. Judging by his reaction, bowing wasn't customary in his culture. I flashed him a 'sorry I'm a dumb tourist' grin and hopped on the bike. I fastened my rucksack and went off into the tropical landscape. With the breeze on my back and boundless adventures ahead, I spend the next hour zooming up and down the countryside. But as I was making my way to a temple in a remote part of the island, the scooter began to sputter. Then it gave three jerks forward, and died. "Shit!" I spilled on the side of the road. I assessed the damage and grimaced - the bike refused to start. "Of course... I got ripped off and he gave me a lemon. Why did I expect anything different?" I kicked a dirtmound far into the field and stood there weighing all my options. The road was empty with no signs of anyone around. Then, as I blocked off the sun and squinted, a lonely village revealed itself just beyond the rice paddies. "Thank Christ." I trudged in that direction dragging my scuffed motorbike on one end. The area itself was beautiful. There were green, rolling hills and sounds of a nearby creek and fluttering of sparrows could be heard. There was also Penjor everywhere; tall, decorative poles that signified the welfare of the Balinese people. But then, my eyes moved to a sight that wasn't as nice. It was an old bridge just outside the village. Cracks lined the worn, gray stonework and unkempt vines twisted around its columns. It was an ugly piece of architecture. And curiously, the only place without a Penjor. Beep beep! A villager on his scooter honked before crossing the bridge. Moments later, another motorist approached and before passing, he too beeped his horn. I stayed for a bit and noticed that whenever someone crossed the old bridge, they would use their horn even if there was no one around. All of a sudden, on the other side of the bridge, a far-off figure was walking clearer into view. It was a woman in a red dress, long and flowy, with her side ponytail cascading just beneath her shoulder. She seemed distressed, like she was searching for something. Beep beep! Another motorist drove by and broke my gaze. When I looked back, the woman was gone just as fast as she appeared. Thunder cracked in the distance and heavy rain began to pour. I hurried into the hamlet and came inside the first warung I saw. A warung, or an Indonesian eatery serves delicious food day in and day out. The one I was in was no exception - the smells wafting out the kitchen made my mouth water. So I ordered, charged my phone and waited out the storm. The warung owner and her teenaged daughter smiled at me as I ate. You could tell they didn't get many visitors in their village and were curious about my being there. "Mister, you from where?" The mom asked. "I'm from USA." I smiled back. "Saya... um, dari... dari amerika." The daughter tried not to laugh at my pronunciation. "Where are you heading?" She joined, with much better English than I expected. "Ramayana temple, have you heard of it?" I grabbed my phone and showed her the location. "I was on my way there but my bike broke down." Bolts of lightning flashed across the dull skies. "Ah yes yes. Ramayana temple, three kilometers from here. But..." She placed a finger on the map. "From here is faster. Only two kilometer." I looked at the shortcut she proposed. There was a narrow road that cut behind the village, and the entrance was through the old bridge. "Jangan de, jangan lewat situ..." The mom said to her daughter with traces of fear in her voice. They exchanged a few more words that I didn't understand. "Before you go to bridge, you have to use... um, use-" She tried to find the right word. "Your horn?" "Ah, yes yes. You have to use horn, two times, before you go on bridge. Very important. Two times." The same fear in her mother's voice was in her quivering eyes, and I realized she was serious. "I saw some people doing that when I first got here. Why do you have to use your horn like that?" At this point, the mom seemed visibly spooked and wanted no part of this. After more claps of thunder, the daughter added, "There is woman, outside our village. She lives under bridge. But she... she is not really woman. She is-" Her mom interrupted us by giving me the bill. She tried to fashion a warm smile but her lips couldn't stop shaking. Something really got under her skin. Not thinking much of it, I finished my meal and called the bike rental. After the rain let up, they sent over a mechanic and got the rust bucket running again. "Thanks again for the food!" I wave goodbye to my friendly hosts and rode off. The rain had been reduced to a light drizzle and fog began creeping down from the hills. It was eerily quiet on my way out. I whip the scooter around the bend, and there it was again. The old bridge, but much closer this time. I stopped to inspect the menacing structure. The fog covered much of the vines now, casting the appearance of gangly creatures writhing around in the mist. But it was all in my head, of course. I didn't care much for third-world superstitions and had no intention of using my horn. So I laughed and drove forward. After riding around for a while, I realized two hours have gone by and no signs of the temple anywhere. No signs of anything, really. Only dense jungle on each side and fog that seemed to have no end. "How could I have gotten lost?" The road only lead in one direction and I was following it to a tee. I kept riding, and riding, and finally - a fuzzy shape in the distance poked out of the fog. There it was again. The old bridge. It was bigger... more daunting than before. I hopped off in search of the village but there's no trace it was ever there. Only me, the fog, and the bridge. Suddenly, there was a woman. She sat on the ledge, weeping gently and looking down at the water. Her red dress was soaked and her hair was left in a disheveled mess. "Are you okay miss?" I called out, walking closer and closer. The air was impossibly still. My heart pounded and I was covered head to toe in cold sweats. Finally, I went to tap her shoulder, but before my hand could even reach her - she snapped at my wrist and pulled me within inches of her face. ‐‐ I don't remember much after that. Kids from the village found me in pretty bad shape after I left the warung. Apparently, I ditched my bike on the side of the road and sat on the old bridge, staring down at the water. When they found me, I was muttering the words "mana anak saya" like a madman. The kids took me to the warung owner and her daughter. Like the angels that they were, they cleaned me up and offered some food. After a bit of convincing, they told me the full story about the woman in the red dress. Decades ago, on that very bridge, a little boy was killed by a careless motorist. His mother was so grief-stricken that she hurled herself off the bridge to be with her son. Nowadays, people passing through will always honk twice, even if no one is there as a sign of respect to their spirits. "Mana anak saya" means "where is my son." To this day, I couldn't tell you what her face looked like. The events that happened are a big blur. But every now and then, just when I think I'm safe and warm in my bed, I'll see pale, putrid eyes looking down at me - with so much sadness - and they never look away.

I was privileged to live a normal life. Work a normal job. Earn an average salary. Go home to an ordinary house. But for me it was too normal. I wanted to be something else. Someone I would look up to. Someone I could admire. But I was just too normal and I hated it. After a long and typical day at work, I would usually go to the bar with some friends from work. There’s this somewhat secret bar that we often go to because not a lot of people would be there, and basically get the place all to ourselves. Today was a bit different. I went there alone because my friends all have relationships they had to juggle. I was a bit jealous but I didn’t really mind. I was barely making enough for my own, how could I get into a relationship when I’m not stable enough. As I got into the bar, it was, as expected, empty except for a woman in the bar where I would usually sit. I approached the table and sat down beside her. “Whiskey, on the rocks.”, I ordered my usual drink from the bartender. He nodded and proceeded to make the drink for me. I was curious as to what the woman looked like so I took a quick glance but at the same time I looked at her, I met her eyes. She was beautiful. She was pale but had a pinkish blush on her cheeks. Her eyes were big and housed beautiful brown iris. Her lips were full, painted with a pinkish tint. She was what I would call ‘my ideal type’. I looked away and got saved by my drink arriving in front of me. “Thanks.”, I blurted out as I got so nervous sitting beside her. “So what do you think?”, she asked. I got even more nervous and was honestly quite surprised to be asked a question. “Me?”, I asked as I tried to confirm if she was really talking to me. “Who else?”, She continued to look at me as she sipped her Margarita. “So? Am I pretty or not?” “Wha- Why would you ask me that?”, I nervously tried to avoid her question but it didn’t really work. “Well, you were curious enough to see how I looked that you tried your best to glance. I just wanted to know if I passed your expectations.”, she continued. She was very brazen and really didn’t have a hint of shame as she continued to ask me the question. But I honestly found that quite intriguing. I shyly laughed and took a sip from my drink. “Yeah.”, I said as I took a sip. She chuckled. “Well good”. She chugged her drink and got up. “Let's go”, she said as she enthusiastically looked at me. I was taken aback as I didn’t really know what she meant. “What? I haven’t even finished my drink yet.”, I tried talking my way out of it as I just wanted to finish my drink. She took out her wallet and paid for my drink. “Here, a treat for my friend.”, she handed the bill to the waiter and proceeded to grab my hand and dragged me out of the bar. “Wait! Wait!”, I took one final sip from my delicious whiskey. I was bummed out that I got disturbed from my alone time. I wasn’t really expecting to be walking alone with a woman just by simply glancing at her. As I said, I wasn’t in the right situation to really get into a relationship so I just continued to close my doors. “I know a nice *tteokbokki* place around here.” She looked really pretty though. Earlier in the bar, she was looking down before we started talking, but now she looks like a completely different person. She looks even more pretty now that she’s smiling. “Wait, I don't even know you, yet I’m getting dragged into a date.” “A date?”, she laughed at my nonsense. “Well if you think this is a date, then I should really tell you my name then.” She hopped in front of me and stared into my eyes. She reached out a hand. “Valorie”. Even her name sounds pretty. I instinctively grabbed her hand and shook it. “Luke”. She smiled and proceeded to walk in front of me. “Come on, it's just around the corner.” I don't know whats with her, but she's oddly persuasive and captivating. I thought to myself that I was thankful that I wasn’t this gullible when I was a kid. As we entered the *tteokbokki* shop, she was immediately greeted by the owner. “V! You’re back! The usual?”, the owner exclaimed. They seem to have a good relationship as the owner already knew what she wanted. “Yes please! And make it double serving please.”, She sat down on the window side and gestured to me to sit down. “I didn’t know that there was a place like this here.” For the longest time I lived in Seoul, it was the first time I’ve seen this snackbar. It looked old but I was sure it carried a lot of memories as well. “I come here all the time. Their *tteokbokki* and *odeng* are the real deal.” She looked happy and it was contagious. “You look like a kid.”, I joked and chuckled. She frowned at me but her face changed once again when the *tteokbokk*i arrived. “Thank you!”, she smiled and merrily dug her chopsticks into the steaming dish. “Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked with a mouthful of tteok. I smiled and proceeded to eat with her. We continued talking and just like that, we both felt close to one another. We shared our stories. She had a completely different style from mine but I found that very attractive. She was the opposite of my normal and boring life and for the first time in my life, I was able to live a not so normal day. It was a feeling that I guess I would never forget. As time passed, it became midnight. “Well, I think I gotta go. Same time tomorrow, okay?” She instructed me. “What? We’re meeting again tomorrow?” I asked because I was honestly shocked that she still wanted to meet me. “Yeah. Why? Are you sick of me already?” Her face turned from happy to sad and it showed that she might have been going through something. “No! I didn’t mean that, it’s just I didn’t know that you’d still like to see me.”, I explained. Her face lit up. “Well, if I didn’t want to see you again, I would have just said my goodbye, wouldn’t I?” She said with a light grin. “See you tomorrow!”, she turned around and we proceeded to separate. The next day, after work, I was excited to leave. It was the first time in my life that I was looking forward to something after work. What I felt the other day was bliss and I wanted more of that. When work ended, I immediately went to the bar. But to my surprise she wasn’t there. I checked the time, and it was exactly the time when I met her. I approached the bartender. “The girl, from yesterday, has she–”, I was cut short by a light tap on my shoulder. “Looking for me?”, she chuckled. “Sorry I was late, something came up." she explained. She was covered in sweat and she was extra pale today. “I-I wasn’t looking for you, I was just–”. She placed her finger on my lips and shushed me. “Shhh. Stop talking and just come with me.”, she grabbed me by the hand and rushed outside the bar. We took a long walk towards the bus station. “Where are we going this time?” I asked, but she was completely different from yesterday. She wasn’t as cheerful and she was just still. “Just follow me for a bit.”, a wry smile formed on her lips and it seemed a bit forced. I knew that something was up from that moment. I didn’t want to pry but I was getting a little bit worried based on her expressions. “Come on, the bus is here.” We boarded the bus and traveled 2 hours to get to Hanagae beach. It was beautiful and we arrived just in time for the sunset. It was quiet on the beach, there was no one there except for us. We walked by the beach side, and admired the sunset. She stood there basked in the orange glow of the setting sun, and she was beautiful. “I'm sick.” she blurted out. “Do you have a cold? I could get you some meds–”, I offered. She looked at me and chuckled. “Not that kind of sick.”, she looked back at the sun and everything was still. “I am positive with HIV” I was taken back. I didn’t know what to say. She looked at me and tears started to flow from her eyes. She fell on the sand and I immediately caught her. “I want to live.” She cried. I couldn’t help myself but cry with her. It was news I never expected to hear from someone like her. I comforted her to the best of my ability but I couldn’t hide the fact that I was crying with her. “Thank you for crying for me.” she said with a sad smile as she wiped the tears off my cheek. “Want to hear my story?”. I nodded and we proceeded to sit on the sand as twilight swallowed the sky. She told me the story of how she got the illness. She told me how her stepfather would sexually harass her, how she would get beaten up if she resisted. She told me how her mother didn’t really care about her as she was blinded by her love for her stepfather. She refused to believe the fact that her daughter was getting abused by that sick and worthless stepfather. I was enraged. Words could not express how furious I was to the people who did this to her. I was shaking from anger that it hurt just thinking about it. How could people do this to her? How could something like this happen to someone? I thought these things only happen in movies or in dramas. I never expected it to happen to someone who I grew attached to. It hurts and I knew she was hurting even more. She stood up and reached out her hand. Despite her circumstances she still held on and was strong. I admired her and my affections toward her grew even more. I wanted to set things right for her. I wanted her to taste happiness by justice from the people who did this to her. But I knew there was nothing left for me to do as both her stepfather and mother already passed because of the same illness. That was the reason why she was able to spend her remaining days in bliss. “Is there anything I could do for you? Anything please.”, my emotions kept spilling out. Was there anything else I could do for her? “Same time tomorrow, okay?” she instructed with a smile. Her smile was beautiful and she shined so bright. I wiped the tears off my face and she embraced me. I couldn’t say anything. My mind was in a haze. I never thought I could get attached to someone like this so quickly. It was a mere 2 days but she was able to make me feel so many emotions. I couldn’t lose her. “What? Are you sick of me already?”, she jokingly smiled at me. She was doing her best to stay strong, and she was doing well. “Thank you for being here with me.” The next day, I couldn’t keep myself still during work. I wanted to leave already and the last 5 minutes before work ends felt like 5 hours. When the clock struck 4 pm, I immediately left. I rushed to the bar, and there she was sipping her Margarita, waiting for me. “What took you so long?”, she frowned. She looked so cute though and she wore such a girly outfit. Her face was still pale but she was stunning. This time, I was the one who grabbed her hand and dragged her out of the bar. I took her to a theme park and I wanted to make her experience things she couldn’t before. We enjoyed riding the roller coaster. Going through the haunted mansion. Shoot and throw balls for stuffed toys. We ate popcorn and cotton candy. I then brought her to my favorite restaurant and stuffed ourselves with cheese and pasta. And at the end of the day we dropped by her favorite *tteokbokk*i place and shared even more stories. “Thank you.”, she blurted out of the blue. She was looking at me dearly and it gave me butterflies. “You know I got you.”, I boasted. My heart was pounding and she could tell. “Come on, let's get going. I wanna walk by Han”, she stood up and we left the shop. While walking by the river, she hugged me from behind. My heart fluttered. It felt nice and I wish it wouldn’t stop. “I never knew I would like someone this fast.”, she continued to hug me then she walked ahead of me. “Me too.”, I said softly, but I guess she heard because she looked at me and smiled. She gestured for me to walk with her and we continued to walk by the Han river. She started getting tired so I suggested to walk her home. “It’s getting cold, let's get you home.” I donned my coat jacket over her and we proceeded home. “Luke.”, she called me. “You made me feel loved today. I got to do things I never did before.” I embraced her as her eyes became teary. “I’ll move the world for you, V.” Then I kissed her. Her kiss was bliss and her embrace was warm. It felt like I was okay with the world ending as long as V was with me, but I knew that was impossible. I didn’t want to remember the fact that she was living her final days with me. I wasn’t prepared for her to leave me even if I knew. “Same time tomorrow?” I told her. I wanted to spend every day with her. She nodded. The next day, work never seemed to end fast. Before work ended, I already texted her that I would be getting off in a few minutes. She replied saying that she was just in the bar and told me to hurry. Just as I was about to leave work, my manager called for me. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. I was already itching to leave but my manager decided to ask for my help for something he should already know as manager. It took around 30 minutes and I zoomed out of the office. I called her multiple times but she was not answering. I thought that she was sulking because I was late. I went by the bar but the bartender said she already left and she also left her phone there. I rushed to the *tteokbokki* shop, but still, she wasn’t there. At this point, I started getting worried. I looked everywhere but she was nowhere to be found. And then finally, there she was sitting by Han river. Her pale pretty face staring blankly at the river. Her hair was blown by the wind exposing her neck. She was thinning. She was beautiful. “V!” I called. She looked at me and smiled. “You’re here.”, she stood up but immediately collapsed on the ground. I rushed towards her and people started to flock. Her lips were dry and cold sweat covered her forehead. She was suffering. She was hurting. “V! Stay with me, please!” I begged as I kept her awake. “Somebody help! Please help her!” I cried out but people just kept staring. My hands were shaking as I grabbed my phone and dialed 119. “V! Hey! Come on, stay awake for me please.” She smiled and held my face. “You filled my final days with love.” Tears filled her eyes, and so did mine. “You loved me knowing what I have, and you made me feel alive.” “I love you, V”, I said as my vision of her got blurry because of my tears. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be with you longer. I’m sorry you had to love someone like me.”, she cried. “What are you saying, V. You deserved to be loved. You deserve all the love in the world.”. I kept her close. “Same time tomorrow, okay?”, I said. She chuckled and gave a wry smile. “What? Are you sick of me already?” I tearfully joke. “I love you, Luke. Let’s meet again in the next life, okay?” I couldn’t stop crying. My heart was getting torn into pieces. “I’ll look for you in the next life. I promise you. We will meet again in the next life.” She gave me her final smile full of warmth and finally closed her eyes. There wasn’t really a memorial for her. She had no other relatives that could do it for her. So, I held a small one in her stead. The bartender and the *tteokbokki* shop owner visited and paid their respects. We all knew who V was, how lovely and kind she was. Her memory will always be with us. The *tteokbokki* shop owner approached me and handed me a letter. “V wanted me to give this to you. She gave it to me on the day she left.”, she handed the letter. “Thank you.”, I said and my hands started to tremble as I held her letter. I was afraid to read it. So I kept it for a while. Once the memorial ended, I remembered her telling me back in Hanagae beach, that she wanted her ashes to be scattered into the sea once she's gone, so I went there to fulfill her wishes. I spread her ashes on the water and the wind carried her further. I sat down, stared at the sunset and took out the letter she left me. “Hello, Luke. The past couple of days have been the best days for me. You made me feel alive. You made me feel well. You cared for me with all your heart and I couldn’t even repay you for what you have done for me. Once I’m gone, please mourn for me, but not too much, okay?. You deserve to be loved by someone who can stay longer by your side. Someone who can repay you for the love you have given. I wish I could have been that someone but I know I never will. Even though we met for the shortest time, It felt like I have loved you for a lifetime. Let us meet again in our next life. I love you with all my heart. -V” Months passed, and I continued to visit the bar, the *tteokbokki* shop, and Hanagae beach every day. “I’m sorry V, it's been months but I still haven’t gotten over you, and I guess I never will.” Before I met Valorie, I thought my life would remain the same. Boring, normal, alone. I thought that life was just that way and I accepted that for the longest time. But meeting her made a change in my redundant life. That change jump started many things in my life and made me see a whole new world. At the end of the day, it was all because of her.

I sighed, leaning back against the worn, wooden bench. We sat together in the small park near my apartment, the one with an old oak tree so tall that it seemed that it had been there longer than either of us had been alive. The evening light filtered through the branches, casting a soft, dappled glow around us. It felt like we were the only two people in the world, yet somehow, it felt like we were miles apart. "Do you really want to know?" he asked again, his voice softer this time, almost hesitant. I nodded, my gaze unwavering. I started to prepare to see past his delicate words, the one he used to hide his true thoughts from everyone, including me. "Yes, I do." He looked away, his eyes focusing on the ground as he collected his thoughts. The silence between us grew heavier with each passing second, filled with unspoken words and unshared memories. Finally, he spoke, his voice tinged with a melancholy that mirrored the fading light around us. "Before you," he began, "there were several others. But it wasn't love, not really. It was... it was me searching for something, someone, to fill the void inside. To make me feel whole. But each time, it felt like I was forcing something that wasn't there." I listened intently, my heart aching for him, for the pain and loneliness he had endured. "And with me? What makes it different?" He turned to face me, his eyes meeting mine with a vulnerability that I had rarely seen. "You really…aren't different." I felt a pang of sadness, the weight of his words settling over us. "Then why me? Why are we here, together?" He sighed, his expression a mixture of resignation and fatigue. "I don't know. Maybe it's just the way things are. Maybe it's just something we can't explain." We sat in silence again, the weight of his words heavy on us. I knew there was no hope for us, no magical solution to make everything right. Our time together, no matter how short or long, was fraught with uncertainty and doubt. "I've always been afraid," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "Afraid of loving the wrong person, of settling for less than what I deserve. But with you, it feels like... like something I can't walk away from, even if it's not right." He squeezed my hand, his grip firm yet lacking warmth. "I feel the same way. Maybe we're just two lost souls who found each other too late." The sadness in his voice echoed my own fears. We had found each other in a world that seemed determined to keep us apart, to remind us that while our connection was real, it might not be enough to overcome the emptiness we both felt. "Maybe," I said softly, "maybe it's not about how long we have together. Maybe it's about making the most of the time we do have, even if it doesn't lead anywhere." He nodded, a small, hollow smile playing on his lips. "Maybe you're right. Maybe that's all we can hope for – moments that mean something, even if they don't last." As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the park in a soft, fading glow, I leaned in and kissed him, feeling the emptiness of his lips against mine. It was a kiss filled with all the emotions we couldn't put into words, a kiss that spoke of despair, loss, and everything in between. When we finally pulled away, I rested my forehead against his, closing my eyes and feeling the weight of the moment. "No matter what happens, I want you to know that I... I don't know what to call this. But it's something." He smiled, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "And I feel it too. Whatever it is." In that moment, I knew that our connection, though tinged with melancholy and hopelessness, was something that would haunt us. It was a bond that had come too late, perhaps, but it was a bond that would leave scars on our hearts forever. And maybe, just maybe, that was all we could hold onto.

“I’m the only one who can do this, Bas.” “*No*. You can’t just zip in and zip out like normal, Kaz. That carrier is a ticking time bomb, and we don’t have the timer. You can’t risk it like this.” “I can, and I will.” “*Kaz*,” Bastian’s voice came out ragged, his resolve beginning to crumble beneath his feet. “Please, don’t do this. We can find another way.” “The only way I can see is directly in front of me. My starpod is small enough to fit through the exhaust chamber. I’ll zip in, blast its hypersphere to the void, and zip out.” “An explosion like that will rip you apart even faster than a Current jump! You won’t make it out of there in time! Just let them jump. You can live to fight another day.” “Are you kidding me? Do you seriously think I’m going to just let them *go*? After what they just did to my people? My *home*?” Bastian went silent. No, he didn’t think she would let them go. To expect her to would be like thinking a mother wouldn’t mourn after losing her child. He was just… selfish. He was selfish. He would do the same if it were his planet that just got reduced to a blazing hellscape. He felt Kaz’s phantom hand caress his arm. Even from light years away, it felt like they were flying through the crossfire together, about to blast into an ISA carrier and send it into annihilation, hand in hand. But they weren’t. She was doing this all alone, and he was stuck in a non-functioning starpod in the middle of space, eight systems away. Useless. Bastian almost felt Kaz’s breath against his ear as she spoke. “It’s okay, Bas. Can’t you have a little faith in me?” “I–” Bastian took a deep, trembling breath. “Of course I have faith in you, love.” “Then let. Me. Do this.” Bastian pulled himself together, straightening his back and petrifying his face. What was he thinking? She was the best star-blasted pilot he’d ever known. This was child’s play compared to the stunts he’d seen her pull off in the past. He was just a nervous wreck who was running out of breathable air in a dark, cramped chamber. He shouldn’t be letting his own problems get in the way of Kaz’s mission. Once she pulled this off, this would mark the beginning of what they’d all dreamed of. Kaz was about to be a hero, and he was trying to stop her. “Okay.” He squeezed his shoulder, and she responded with a squeeze of her own. An embrace that spanned across the galaxy; a bond that not even the gods could break. “Go kill ‘em, Kazerene.” And with that, Kaz exploded forward, into the belly of the beast. Through his retinal display, Bastian watched as she picked up speed and the chamber around her starpod blurred past, the blue light from the ISA carrier’s hypersphere growing and growing until it was almost enveloping the entire chamber. “I’m close!” Kaz shouted, the ambient noise from her cockpit screaming through waves of energy overtaking everything else. A second voice crackled into their comms. “Don’t forget to shoot its supports!” It was Crete. “We need to take it down and still give you time to escape!” “Yes… sir,” Kaz struggled. “The energy radiating from the core is making me lose control. I’m going to turn on my shield.” Bastian shot up. “No, Kaz! The shield only works in a vacuum, there’s too much–” He was too late. Kaz had already activated it. She let out a yelp as the ship slammed against the side of the exhaust chamber. “Blast it!” “Turn the shield off, Kazerene!” Bastian’s eyes overflowed with tears. “I’m trying, but–” Bastian watched as the starpod hit the side of the chamber once again. It flipped at breakneck speed, hitting each side of the narrow tunnel over and over. Kaz yelled, and he could hear her smashing the interface, trying to make it do *something*. The starpod continued to fly forward, and it was clear she was not gaining any control. Then, blinding light filled Bastian’s eyes as she breached the exhaust and entered the hypersphere chamber. She slammed into the hypersphere with an explosion that peaked his audio, and the feed went silent. Scorching pain ripped through his body. He fell to the floor and convulsed, screaming, screaming because of the pain, and screaming Kaz’s name. Just as quickly as the pain came, it left. And Bastian did not stop screaming.

CW: Suicide AN: This is inspired by the flash game Exit Path I am bleeding. Profusely. I have taken a turn too wide and narrowly avoided getting my feet chopped off at the ankles by a buzzsaw protruding from the dark gray wall at regular intervals. Though not final, the cuts are still deep, and blood pours from the wounds on the fronts and sides of my shins. At least it wasn't my Achilles. As I move my ankles gingerly assessing the damage, the image that I'm wearing red socks with wide ribbons at the top comes to my mind. The corner of my mouth twitches at the thought. I blink. Ribbons. Blink. Blood. Blink. Shit- I hear a familiar motor sound as the ceiling of the corridor starts to descend slowly. The Producers are on my ass today, it's not fair. I don't have time to assess the danger further down the dark hallway before I am running down it, each step sparking pain and sending blood trails streaming out behind me. I gave up praying a long time ago, but sometimes in situations like these I catch myself directing my thoughts towards some higher power. It turns out I don't need any divine intervention for this hallway, though. It turns out to be a typical axe swinging from the wall scenario, where all it takes to navigate is patience and timing. This is really what they wanted to push me onward for? It's a little insulting, but I know better than to taunt the Producers. I'm a good Competitor. Maybe even one of the best. All I have to do is not get deviled out, and stay alive each Competition. This is admittedly rather difficult given the capricious whims of the Producers and the Competitions' everchanging landscapes of chaos and death. A mess of lasers, blades, walls, anything the Producers could think of that would incinerate, lacerate, or otherwise impede a Competitor that just did not have what it takes or that they simply didn't like. Each Competition is different, no two exactly the same layout thanks to the Producers' constant adjustments. Cameras and biomonitors ensure the audience, and more importantly the gamblers, never miss a second of the death game. As I approach the corner, I register the sound of a laser and a scream. I freeze. As I listen to the prolonged screaming, I realize this is likely a targeted laser and not a random shooter. I can feel the crushing expectations of the audience for me to trigger the laser away from whatever poor soul is caught in it. Who am I to deny the people of what they want? I step forward slightly, and the laser beam moves towards me, shooting in front of my face. As I jerk back, my ankles disagree as lightning bolts of pain shoot up my legs. If I had been a second slower, I would be thinking about getting my second new nose this week. I see the origin of the beam from my right is a motion activated turret, which will shoot within a certain angle at anything with a heat signature. The screaming has turned to wheezing, and I follow the sound to a figure crumpled against the wall across from the turret. A young girl with a large hole singed through the middle of her chest makes glassy eye contact with me. Her arms and legs are charred where she failed to get away from the laser. Maybe this is what the Producers wanted me to find. The smell of cauterized flesh hits me and I press a hand to my mouth. My breathing is already ragged, but I go in and out slowly through my mouth so I don't throw up. Nobody wants to see that, and the portion of people that do is too small for the action to be worth it. It's not uncommon to run into other Competitors. There's a multitude of storylines to explore from the Producer perspective: allies, enemies, sibling dynamic, lovers, the list goes on. I don't think much will be happening between me and this girl. Her breathing is shallow and jerky, and her eyes never leave mine. One step forward will aggro the laser on me, but any movement from her will bring it back on her already mutilated body. All I can do is stare at her. She's skinny, weak. I can almost hear the announcers commentating on this situation. "Igress has really reached a tough spot with this laser, will she take pity on Deb and give her a hand or will she push onward? I wonder what she's thinking!" Pan would offer. "Well I'll tell you what I'm thinking! I've said it before I'll say it again, Igress’ blood really brings out her eyes!" Opticon would joke back. I started paying a long time ago, the very first benefit I purchased, to block out the sounds of the announcers and audience. They're distracting, and at this point I don't care if people wonder what I'm thinking. This will be my last Competition, one way or another. I notice a moving panel floating back and forth in front of the laser turret. My stomach twists, still not sure if it's going to expel what little food I ate before stepping into the stage. I step back slightly, eyeing the panel. If I'm fast, I can make it, using the panel as intended to shield myself from the laser. Now! No. Now! No. Go now! UGH! It looks like it's moving faster and faster and I can't get in the rhythm. The edges of my vision are starting to darken. Shit shit shit- I bend over and place a knee on the ground to steady myself. Even if I could get her through the hallway somehow, this would have to be the very last obstacle, where immediate medical attention from the Producers would be waiting. I can't take that risk, unfortunately. A savior narrative at this point won't mean anything unless I actually finish this Competition. I stare at the moving panel until it's all I can see, waiting for it to get closer...closer...GO. I heave to my feet and lurch forward. I slam my shoulder into the panel to ensure I don't move too fast or slow. The sound of the laser hitting the other side of the panel grates against my ears. Finally I feel the panel scraping against my shoulder as it reverses, and I throw myself forwards out of range of the turret. I turn another corner and meet a blank white door. I blink. It doesn't waver. This is the end of the Competition. I hear the laser again and my body turns around before I can stop it, my gaze shooting towards the sound. The pain in my ankles is far away as I watch the laser pierce into the girl as she sits up. She is silent as she lets it kill her. I look away. I place my palm on the door and it splits down the middle, each side swinging inwards to allow me to walk through. "Congratulations!" I hear the automated voice chirp out as I pass through the threshold. "Congratulations," I whisper. A habit. The light in the hallway is blinding as I walk to meet the medical crew. I blink, and I see the girl's glassy eyes when I close mine.

December, either the first or second week—I couldn’t recall the exact date. The events of that day were so hectic that the details surrounding Al’s disappearance remained a hazy mess in my memory. It was early morning, around the time the sun was coming up. I had just finished my night shift and arrived home, but Al was not there. It was unusual for her not to be waiting for me when I came home from work, as she always did. Initially, I brushed it off, thinking she might have stepped out for something. Perhaps she went to the grocery store to buy items for a surprise breakfast or was shopping for my gift for the upcoming holiday. But as time passed, my concern grew. An hour went by, then two, and still no sign of her. Panic crept in, and I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread gnawing at my insides. After about two and a half hours had passed, I grabbed my port safety jacket and set out to search for her. The thought of Al being crushed by a shipping container or caught in the path of a crane filled me with terror. I scoured every corner of the port, but there was no trace of her. After searching all over the port, I felt a little sense of relief. If there had been a fatal accident, the chaos and commotion at the port would have been unmistakable. That everything seemed calm only fueled my anxiety further. Where could she be? My next choice was to go into the city and search for her. Every corner, every alleyway, held the potential of a clue, a sign of her whereabouts. After several hours of combing through our familiar spots—the grocery stores, parks, subways, alleyways, and our favorite Chinese restaurant in Chinatown—I found myself no closer to finding her. As the sun set, casting long shadows across the city streets, my desperation grew. Tears were pouring down my cheeks as full panic gripped my heart like a boa constrictor. Finally, defeated and exhausted, I made my way back home to the port. My last hope was to wait for JJ to start his night shift at 11 pm. Maybe somehow, he had seen her or could help me with forming a search party. As I waited for JJ, the gnawing fear in the pit of my stomach refused to leave me. What if she was kidnapped or, worse, robbed and shot in some alleyway? She could be lying there and bleeding to death, all alone. That was a thought I could not stomach. To combat the fear and take my mind elsewhere, I decided to drink a bottle of beer. But one bottle turned into many, and before long, I succumbed to the drunken stupor of alcohol. It was a decision I would later come to regret, for it was the primary cause of my falling out with JJ. **It was almost** midnight when I woke up: my heart was pounding like a beating drum. Without a moment’s hesitation, I rushed towards the main dock, paying no mind to the scent of alcohol on my breath. There, I found JJ, his hulking figure barely visible in the dim port light, and I launched into a flood of questions about Al’s whereabouts. “JJ, have you seen her? Al, she’s missing. Did you see her? Did any of your men see her this morning? Did you see her last night?” My voice trembled with desperation, echoing in the dock. But JJ’s response was a punch to the gut. “Slow down Howard. Slow down. Al’s missing?” “She’s gone, JJ!” I exclaimed, my hands trembling as I clutched my head. “All day! I thought you might’ve seen her.” JJ’s voice remained calm. “Did you guys have a fight? Maybe she just needed some space, man. Women here do that sometimes. You know, to clear their heads.” Al and I never had a major argument. A little silly banter here and there, but never a full-blown argument. JJ’s insinuation felt like a disrespect. Worse, his calm demeanor irritated me even more. I just lost control. I did not know what I was thinking. He was a grown man. Again, being a youth and all its naivety. I charged at him like a wild beast, grabbing his vest and violently shaking it as I screamed in his face. “We never had a fuckin argument! You promised it would be safe here! You fucking promised!” At first, JJ seemed scared. I could see it in his eyes. Fear flashed in them, but then his expression quickly shifted, revealing an anger I’d never seen before, not even in my own father’s most furious moments. It was a wicked, cold-blooded anger that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I tried to release my hands from his vest, but it was too late. He seized my wrists like a vise grip and, in one swift motion before I had time to react, picked me up, slamming me onto the concrete. My thick dreads cushioned the impact, sparing my life, but I was left with a bloody mouth, a busted lip, and four missing teeth. “Pack your ass and get out!” he shouted at me, shaking his clenched fists. “Tomorrow morning, if I catch you and that bitch here, I’m calling the police. Trespassing dogs! You lucky this country has a law!” As I stumbled back to the shipping container, the weight of the world seemed to crush down on me. Every step felt like I was slogging through thick mud, dragging my weary body along. Gathering whatever possessions I could hold—a handful of blankets, my suitcase, Al’s backpack filled with her belongings, and my trusted bicycle—I ventured into the heart of the city. The freezing rain pelted down, stinging my skin as I sought refuge from the elements. Finally, I found shelter in a commercial garbage bin tucked away in an alley. With trembling hands, I closed the lid to shield myself from the biting icy rain. Tears and snot ran down my face uncontrollably as I imagined Al out there somewhere: her little body vulnerable to the unforgiving weather. Despite my best efforts to banish the negative thoughts and drift into sleep, they persisted, haunting my mind like the relentless storm raging outside. It wasn’t until I reached for some of Al’s clothes from her backpack that a sense of solace enveloped me. Her garments provided warmth and a familiar scent that evoked memories of her cute squeaky laughter and radiant smile, which eased my troubled mind enough to finally rest. **The next morning,** I emerged from my shelter with a renewed determination. But my heart sank as I discovered that my bicycle, a vital means of transportation, had been stolen during the night. Yet, undeterred by this minor setback, I set out on foot, determined to search every corner of the city—if I have to—until I found my beloved. As I trekked through the city streets, my stomach twisted with an intense ache that grew with each step. About half an hour into my journey, a sudden wave of nausea surged through me, and I found myself doubled over in agony, vomiting uncontrollably onto the sidewalk. It was then that the reality hit me—I had eaten nothing since Al’s disappearance. My stomach was rebelling against the emptiness filled only with alcohol. I made a detour to search for food in the garbage cans lining the sidewalk. After rummaging through the first can, I stumbled upon a half-eaten apple. As I devoured it, a compassionate black woman, roughly my mother’s age and complexion, approached me with a look of concern. She offered me her entire breakfast bagel, a gesture of kindness that touched my troubled heart deeply. Amidst the darkness, kindness still existed in this world. Gratefully accepting her offering, I thanked her profusely for her kindness. She then asked if I needed any spare change, offering me about $5 and some pennies. Her question made me remember I needed to return to work to collect my final pay and inform them of my resignation. My mind was completely consumed with thoughts of Al, and I knew I couldn’t focus on work while she was still missing. I needed to direct all my energy and attention to finding her, whatever the cost. As I stepped into the slaughterhouse to collect my final pay, I was met right away by my boss, a hefty, balding white fellow. I detected hostility in his eyes. Confusion swept over me as he spoke, his words cutting me like a knife. “I’m sorry, but you must have the wrong job. We don’t hire illegals here,” he said, his tone dripping with disdain. I tried to make sense of what was happening. My boss and I always got along well, and I never encountered any issues at work. I was a good employee. He often even complimented me as a “quick learner.” “Bill, what do you mean?” I asked him, thinking he was mistaking me with someone else. “I am Howard. You hired me already.” “WE.DON’T.HIRE.ILLEGALS.HERE,” he said, clenching his teeth. Bill wasn’t making a mistake. His anger was directed squarely at me. But why? Desperation clawed at me as I pleaded with Bill to at least pay me what I was owed, and I would be on my way. But he remained adamant, his anger mounting with each passing moment. “Get your illegal ass out of here before I call immigration!” he finally shouted after my constant pleading. His face was twisted with rage. Everyone at the facility stopped what they were doing and looked at us with shock and curiosity—everyone except Archie. He was standing not too far behind Bill. I caught sight of him lurking behind a hooked meat carcass, a smirk playing across his lips. In that moment, it all clicked into place. Archie must have learned from JJ about our altercation. Being the loyal friend that he was, he sabotaged my job by feeding lies to our boss. I harbored no malice towards Archie; if anything, I understood his actions. My disappointment was directed inward—I couldn’t help but feel I had brought this upon myself. Realizing Bill would not have a change of heart, I turned and walked away, knowing that I had not only lost my final pay but also my means of sustenance that would have lasted me at least two weeks. Now, I had to look for Al in addition to hunting for food and battling hunger. To be honest, my mindset was all for it. Finding Al was my singular focus. If that meant resorting to living off the land, as they used to say, then so be it. I was a soldier on a mission: a mission to find her or rescue her if needed. **Next Part 5 Preview**: The pain was excruciating. My right ankle throbbed, swollen to the size of a golf ball, a deep shade of purple beneath my touch... At that moment, I wished the man had just shot me. /The Tragic Tale of Howard. A West African 9-Part Series short story about loss, second chance, betrayal and personal demons.

Prologue: Earth - Year 2678 The world has experienced a consistent stream of peace for over a century and the focus began getting put on conquering the stars. 150 years ago a species invaded earth with threats of wiping out out entirely. When a threat arrived that was bigger than ourselves, one that was a threat to all, we finally united. Something that seemed impossible was somehow achieved yet many wondered how long it would last. That is why the pursuit of the stars has become the main focus. The world doesn't need resources, expansion, or allies–it needs enemies. An unknown signal arrived that baffled all as they desperately attempted to decipher it. Luckily, they were able to pinpoint the location, though the contents of the message remain unknown. A group of highly trained men and women were grouped together to begin an expedition to this location and find out what it was. There wasn't much information given to them but that wasn't an irregular occurrence, new expeditions were happening so constantly that it became normal. Trips across the galaxy began to feel as disposable as a trip to the grocery store. They were simply given details of the location and how they should spread out and search on arrival. Three men, two women, and a robot. To Devour: This was my 95th expedition, I felt as if I had seen it all. Yet there is always something to remind you just how vast the black labyrinth is that surrounds us. I walked into the area for takeoff, everyone was there before me as usual. They always had a smug look with a presence that bothered me, I never cared to get to know any of my temporary crewmates. However, I was quickly surprised to see the ship—an Earendel. I had never been on one before, nor had I ever seen one in person until that moment. A ship built solely for the purpose of traveling as far as possible, distances so far that just thinking about it is enough to shatter your mind. “We’re taking the Earendel?” I asked. The female coordinator looked at him up and down with a short-tempered face. “What’s your ID number?” “963452832ERM” She looked at her clipboard, checked a box, and began writing something. “Yes, this is a highly classified expedition, that is the only question I will answer”. She then looked up at everyone “All right that's all of you, you may now head to the lockers, get your items in order, and grab your gear. Be ready for takeoff in 30.”. One of my favorite parts about new jobs was seeing what the new gear was. It’s impressive how fast the people who make them can work to create new suits adapted for different planets, that was always a job I wish I had. I opened up my locket and was not disappointed, this was arguably the best-looking set of gear I had ever seen. It was all black with red lining, the helmet looked more like a lighter version of a deep sea diving helmet than your traditional space helmet, though I loved the look. The material felt rough with a good grip and many layers, I was deeply curious as to what kind of material it was exactly, it must be from another planet. To make sure it fit properly we had to try it on first. Once the suit was fully on I was quickly met with the realization of how uncomfortable the suit was, it may have been the coolest I’ve seen but also the least comfortable. Man, I seriously hope I don't get a rash. After the 30 minutes were up we began to board the ship. The worst part was always the beginning of the trip, as much as I would love to just keep to myself and get the job done that is never the case. On the expedition with me were two other men, two women, and a stupid robot whose only real job was to spy on us. The robot is here for maintenance but when it's not doing that it's constantly watching our every move and logging us and our “contribution”. You watch sci-fi films from way back in the day and expect a robot to be either awesome or evil, yet this one is just boring. One of the other crewmates was actually one I’ve been with before, long ago, she looks so much different now. The bright eyes and soft smile I had remembered were no more, she took a gulp from a bottle, and I could smell the alcohol from the other side of the cockpit. The other two men and the girl were people I had never seen before, and I wasn't interested to learn about them. I pointed my attention elsewhere and began to observe the ship's interior–it was remarkable. It had large square windows that gave you a full view of everything around you along with a lot of space, two things you don't see often in most designs. Describing each feature would be impossible, the colors were black with red lining just like our suits. The seats and beds were so luxurious and comfortable, even better than my bed at home. You don't typically use the beds on the trip but once you’re stationed, unfortunately, the chamber pods were still the same shitty design. “Prepare for takeoff, 3 minutes remain.” said a voice over the intercom. The captain was always the most mysterious part of each expedition, you never get to me him/her and you never get to know anything about them. I don't even know where you go to get training for the job, it's an enigma. “Good evening all. As always and following protocol, I will give you your assigned names before we take off.” said the obnoxious robot. Girl 1 was named “Graphite” The Girl I knew was named “Jelly Bean” Man 1 was named “Rubber Band” Man 2 was named “Street Light” And I was named “Book Mark” The names were ridiculous. The ship began to take off and the process was unbelievably quick. I had never felt such power from something before, I was sitting in one of the greatest achievements of man, a ship that literally travels along the stream of light, like a boat on a river. “I overheard that this mission was particularly special, they’re really relying on us to succeed.” Said Graphite. “They’re getting desperate. The world is slowly going back to its old ways, things are just too peaceful.”, said Jelly Bean as she took another humble swig of her drink. “That’s what they say, I don't buy it though.”. said Rubber Band. “They’re just spiders at the end of the day, nothing more, nothing less.”, said Street Light in a dull tone. “Spiders?” asked Jelly Bean “It’s something my Grandpa always reminded me of when I began to feel for the universe. When he was just a kid he had a great fear of spiders. He knew well he was much bigger, and that they could do no harm, yet for some reason he was terrified by them. So slowly he began to learn more about the spiders and attempted to care for them as a way to replace his fear. His fear of spiders began to go away, but with that grew sadness and pain. He began to notice every spider that was smashed on the pavement and became aware of the sadness that surrounded him. It was always there, he just never noticed it. You must always put humanity first, he would say. The more you care, the more pain you will endure.” A blanket of silence covered the room. “There are a lot more than just spiders out there” Jelly Bean responded. You could tell she looked at it as just another nihilistic, shallow, philosophy from someone who thinks they know more than they do. “Is it time to get in the pods yet?” she then asked the robot. “We still have 13 minutes until lightspeed. If you would like to get in your pod early you may. Others should start getting ready too, it’s a long trip.” Jelly Bean reminded me a bit of myself. I got up and decided to get into my pod early too. The others stayed back, who knows what they talked about in the time we left, but who cares? The pod was slimy as usual, I absolutely hated the way it makes you feel before going unconscious. Like a great pressure, as if I was in the middle of a straw where there were people on both ends sucking as hard as they could. And the way the slime engulfs you, for a moment you feel like you’re drowning, except you’ve already been exposed to the chemicals that make you go unconscious so you can't even move while feeling that awful sensation. I’ll never get used to it. The time it took and the precise distance was completely unknown, but there was no doubt it was further than any human had ever gone before, this was new territory. I found myself dreaming vivid dreams on the way, and in them lived multiple other lives. The mind wasn't built to be unconscious for that long… it’s too fragile. One of them was unforgettable where I lived a life similar to my own just in a different time. The year was 2028 and while the world wasn't at peace, I found that I enjoyed things there much better. I grew up with a loving family, played baseball and basketball all the way up until college, built many things with an early love for engineering, eventually leading the high school robotics team to a state championship, went to Harvard, met the love of my life, got a masters degree in STEM, had 2 boys, and eventually found myself working along with 6 others in a space station orbiting the Earth. I enjoyed their company, a feeling that felt foreign. However, everything changed when one day, seemingly appearing out of thin air from nothing, a large meteor hurling towards Earth. Before we could even process the moment it had made an impact and completely decimated our home. Its impact was so strong that it sent a shock wave that propelled the space station deep into the darkness of space out of our control. I watched not only mine but my crewmate's minds warp in ways we didn't think were possible. Not only were our loved ones gone, but our home, that one sense of comfort you get to hold onto, was gone. How does one deal with that fact? Let alone all while stuck within a claustrophobic space station along with others feeling that same explosion of thoughts and feelings, I witnessed minds shatter one by one until I was the only one left, even if there was just a fragment left that I was clinging onto. Somehow, it wasn't the madness that took me out of that life, but something beyond the void. We drifted for so far, and so long, eventually, we captured the attention of something. I got a glimpse of it, but everything after that is a blur, I felt my mind being carried back up to the surface as if I was floating in the deep sea. That was when I woke up. When I finally exited the pod I was met with a surprise, no one was there. I took a glance at my pod screen which was blinking red with the word “Malfunction”, how long was I in the pod? The ship's door was slightly cracked open, and the place was a mess compared to how he remembered. In a panic, I quickly put on my suit in hopes that I hadn't already ingested something lethal from the foreign planet. Once the suit was on a virtual message popped up on his helmet giving details of his mission. It gave the location of a cave, with specific materials and plants to look out for and collect samples of. The details were absurdly minimal, causing me to question if anyone truly knew why we were here. My worry was even further elevated when I noticed that the comms were down, that was never supposed to happen. Comms are always prioritized and are typically the last part of a suit to go down so that it ensures you can call for help. The connection used for the comms is the same connection used to contact Earth from here which is lightyears away, it's a connection that could be considered impenetrable. I began to wish that this was just a dream… I didn't like the company of people, but I hated being alone. I walked outside the ship and scanned the surroundings, the planet seemed oddly similar to Earth, almost like it was Earth but just a different time, now desolate and dead. The grass was dry and yellow, and the trees were brittle and bare. Doing a full scan of the area's radius with the suit it doesn't see any life or points of interest. It detects water but its quantity is becoming slim, its quality is awful–probably full of algae and not far from stagnation, and it's a very long walk from the ship. Opening up my mission information gave me a pinpoint about 8 miles away from the ship, and I began to make my way there. Looking up at the sky it was covered with thick clouds, the CO2 levels were high and rising and there was a rapid increase of methane and ethane due to decomposition. Based on that analysis it became clear that this was indeed a dying planet, but it hadn't been for long, this was relatively recent, especially in comparison to its life. What had happened here? Is that what we were sent to find out? Bodies of animals and their decomposition helped to contribute to a temporary increase in nutrients in the soil until microbial activity ceases, though anything that grew would start wilting and turning brown within days due to the lack of metabolic activity and water transport. This breakdown of plant matter has caused the fungi and bacteria to thrive for the time being, but eventually just like the rest they will die off without new organic material to decompose. The walk was depressing, the darkness of space had a better look than this. I had hoped that the caves had something of significance left within. I had expected a cave-like home, but this was unnatural. I looked at the entrance from the outside, it seemed man-made like someone hollowed out the inside, this wasn't a natural formation. I began slowly walking in but the fact I was alone became more apparent as the unknown dread fled through my veins. There was nothing worse than not knowing, I began to feel a strong overwhelming sensation wash over my entire body, as if a piece of myself was attempting to stop me from going. Except it didn't feel like it was just trying to stop me, it was begging. I persisted further, praying that this goes quickly so I can head back to the ship. It reassured me to think about how dead the world was, there was nothing there that could harm me because nothing can live in such conditions. The cave's walls were scattered with mineral deposits, salt, and crystals–all striving thanks to the dying earth. I had to turn on my light only a few steps in, it was profoundly dark and the silence was unbelievable, exploring it became more and more eerie the deeper I went. The air was damp, cold, and heavy with the scent of earth and decay, contributing to the oppressive atmosphere. It almost felt as if time ceased to exist within the cave, everything was still. Suddenly, as I reached further into the cave, it had a large dropoff. There was a strange stench coming from it that was so strong it managed to penetrate my suit. I did one quick scan of the area before descending and got practically the exact same results as before–no life. Without further thought, I began to descend. It was strange how it was formed, almost like a natural ladder with its indents that were perfectly spaced apart. It angled down at a slope too instead of a direct vertical drop, making the trip down feel seamless. The distance felt about 1500 feet but somehow when I checked my coordinates it claimed I had traveled down nearly 100,000 feet. Impossible, I thought to myself, what's with this stupid suit? While trying to figure it out I began navigating through the suit options but it kept freezing, and all of a sudden it began doing an unauthorized scan of the area. C’mon you piece of junk! I don’t want to do a scan! And then it said it… “One Lifeform Detected”. I found myself hiding in a corner, trying everything I could to contact somebody. I was scared, and I didn't even know what I was scared of. It could just be one of my crewmates I thought with a quick sense of reassurance, but it was quickly deflated by the fact that I knew I would've heard something from them already by now, this was something else. Giving my thoughts time to baste in my mind I found myself crippled and unfit for this job. So, I decided I was just gonna leave, and without further thought began to go back to where the way up was, except, I was lost. How was this possible? I walked no further than a few steps, either the cave was shifting in real-time or I had begun the process of going insane. Looking all over the place I only felt more and more lost, panic began to set in, and I threw up in my suit. I urgently hit the “clean suit” button before I got sick again, and it was in the reflection of the glass on my helmet that I saw it, and my god it was so large… I couldn't believe my eyes, It sat on its bottom, seemingly sleeping–maybe hibernating? The build of the beast was something unlike anything ever seen before, its anatomy was beyond belief. How could something evolve in such a way? What caused it? I wanted to take a picture but the suit was still malfunctioning. I grabbed my journal and began describing the beast the best I could. Four legs, abnormally long but oddly skinny in comparison to the rest of the body's proportions. Two legs were directly vertical to his torso just like a human but his other two came out of his hips. It must be extremely quick and agile. It was hunched over with its legs bent, more so than just a way of sitting, from the looks of it the beast was doing it as a way of providing itself warmth. Its long and wide torso closely resembled a human, looking like that of a strong gorilla, though it had strange marks that I couldn't quite identify. Were they scars? or some odd part of its anatomy that I didn't have the knowledge to understand? It had reptilian skin with the fur of a great beast, I didn't immediately notice that but it became more prevalent as I looked closer at its chest. Its arms and hands were ginormous, they were so large in comparison to the rest of its body that it seemed as if he had undergone some sort of radioactive mutation, the look was… unnatural. The palms looked callused with a texture that resembled sand paper. It was once you began looking up to his head that the real fear set in. You followed his neck up and all of a sudden it stopped, his head literally in the ceiling of the cave. Based on the rest of his body I was completely thrown off while attempting to imagine what the face looked like. The beast seemed as if it was born to eat planets. What had I stumbled upon? Was this the source of the signal? I found myself drifting to soft memories, feeling as if a head floating through better times. Looking around the room, I knew I was here, somewhere in the future, probably many times. Many versions of myself from all different points in time, looking back at my most horrifying memory, the one that redefined terror. I looked behind me and froze, for a brief moment I was no longer in control of my body. Hanging down from a crevice high up at the top of the cave was a head that dangled by a long piece of flexible, stretching flesh. It was a part of the beast's head—an extension of some sort… and it was watching me the whole time. The second I glanced at it, it retracted like a tape measure, and the sound of rumbling began to vibrate the room, coming directly from the beast's stomach. It then began to move, slowly bringing his head into sight. It’s face… oh god it’s face. It was like staring into something that could eat hell whole, the human language is too fragile to properly describe its aberrant form. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, a set of three eyes opened on his torso–I knew those marks were something. And with the three eyes opened a mouth, which shook the universe and said the word “Hungry”. I couldn’t feel my body, I no longer was myself, quickly becoming a shadow in the dark. I was trapped within, all I could do was witness my body operate without my approval. It wasn't just my movement that was stripped either, I could no longer properly think or look back at my memories, if there was a specific muscle in my brain that controlled that, it was either gone or no longer mine. I watched myself from the corners of my mind as I got into the ship and began taking it back home. “Stop! Stop!” I screamed, though I could tell my voice didn’t reach far, I was drowning and there was no one who could hear me. The ship began lifting off and behind it the beast arose from the cave, smashing effortlessly through the rock and dirt of a lost planet that once was. It grew large wings, and it followed me as I went back home.

“Where There Once Was the Sea" London, England 1899… My father died when I was eighteen. In his life he was many things; a soldier for the union, a driver of steel for the railroads, a lawman for Arizona, and sometimes even an outlaw on the lam. Above all though, he was an adventurer. On his death bed he bestowed upon me our family's secret, a quest, nigh an obsession to find the lost relics of Carlos De Anza. That was the spring of eighty-nine and it set in motion the next sixteen years of my life. Why then, would I sit in the corner booth of a dank pub, pigeonholed into the southern embankment of the towered bridge of London, at such a late hour. I was waiting on a man of course who was thirty minutes late, and losing hope he would appear at all. The place was a store room, turned ale house by an entrepreneurial spirit. He was behind the ornate bar, mixing drinks the same as for those metropolitan folk in the big cities back east. You know the ones, New York, Philadelphia, even Chicago. Where I’m from, we drink whiskey straight, though over here they spell it without the “e”. I supposed I was an odd sight for these professional socialites. In a moment of unease, I pulled my brimmed hat down over my eyes to shield me from their long glances and infinite stares, but I could feel them none the less. The amber spirit I sipped was neat, without impurities, as I continued the vigil for my guest I feared would never arrive. The outer door opened with a cheerful ring as a new patron shook off the cold and snow from his shoulders. He appeared a proper man, with a dark suit, overcoat, and rounded hat with a band around its base. The edges of its brim curled up all around, his educated motif completed by the wire spectacles he wore upon his face. He glanced around the barroom and spied me, holed up at the far end. I raised my hand to motioned for him to join me, which he quickly did. He edged his way through the crowded saloon, careful not to intrude on the other patrons who stood haphazard about the place. He seemed unsure of himself, or at least the situation, an attribute that instilled even less confidence in my present endeavor at the time. “Miss Grisham I presume?” he asked with timid uncertainty. “Doctor Enfield?” I replied with a hint of sarcastic annoyance. “Professor…” I extended my right hand, which he took in a dainty embrace. That was not a good sign and I remedied the situation with a firm retort. My lips curled up in a smirk when he drew his hand away and shook off the vice I had gripped around his palm. “It appears the evaluations I have received of your prowess were not an embellishment.” “As my father always said, speak with the execution of action, conversation can wait.” “In deed,” he answered as he moved to take the seat across from me. “I’d like to apologize for my late arrival, I…” “No need to apologize Doctor Enfield, I was rather enjoying the company of nobody,” I interrupted. “I can see that… right, well let’s get down to brass tacks then shall we.” “By all means…” “We at the British Museum are very intrigued by the article you submitted in regards to this lost galleon of Captain Carlos de Anza. All your details seem in order and it is my pleasure as the chief curator of Spanish Antiquities to extend our sponsorship of your expedition to recover the relic mentioned in your exposition…” “… As you could imagine, we’d like to keep this endeavor, discreet. We don’t want to appear we are poking around in America’s back yard looking for treasure.” “Why not, that’s what were doing, innit... Hell, you dig around every place else without asking, why not stateside,” I responded with a chuckle. “Lets just say Her Majesty's relationships with the United States is, for lack of more eloquent term, special.” “What is she afraid we’d give her another woopin’..” I teased with classic Yankee bullshit bravado. “Not exactly a ‘wooping’ from what I recall from my studies,” he countered earnestly offended. “Like we say in America, a wins a win,” “Hardly.” “Agree to disagree,” I quipped with a coy smile. “Anyhow, as I was saying, the museum has agreed to bankroll your expedition to…” “The back side of hell known as the Salton Sink,” I interjected as he struggled to recall the location. “Sounds a dreadful place…We do have one very discerning inquiry. How did a mighty Spanish Man-o-War end up almost a hundred miles inland in one of the driest regions of the world?” “In their oral traditions, The local native tribes tell of a time when a lush paradise existed in what is now a baron wasteland. Further studies by paleontologists suggest shell fragments found in the area date back to only a half millennia ago, give or take a hundred years or so. With the low elevations of the Colorado Delta and the fact much of the Imperial Valley is below sea level, it is possible that in the fifteen hundreds, the Sea of Cortez extended much further north. “Yes, I see…” “Given the relative draft of period ships, coupled with the possibility of a hurricane barreling up the inner coast of Baja, it is possible a ship of the era was driven off course and then marooned within the inland lake after the storm passed.” “You claim you discovered first hand accounts which describe the general location of the stranded galleon. How are you certain after four centuries, the wreckage hasn’t been’ discovered and subsequently plundered by…” “Shhh… did you come here with someone else,” I interrupted as I took his hand as a distraction. “No, I came alone, why?” he responded as a aura of concern melted across his face. “Don’t look, but there is a broad fellow at the bar who has been gazing this way since he walked in after you. His bald headed friend has been here since I… No don’t…. Ah hell!” I tried to warn before he turned his head to view the two scoping us from the bar. “Ruddy Germans!” he exclaimed under his breath as he turn back around. “Germans!?” “If those two are on to you Miss Grisham, I’d say the jig is up,” he exclaimed. “Who are they?” “Grave robbers mostly. Dodgy bastards have picked the bones of a number of our digs in Egypt.” “Pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think there Doc,” I mused. “Hang-on, what gives you the right…” “Can you run fast Doc?” I asked formulating my plan. “What?” “Well, with that limp noodle you offered me ten minutes ago, I reckon you’re not a fighter,” I speculated. “Its called chivalry Miss Grisham, I suppose you know nothing of it, given whatever backwater you hail from.” “Well, in that backwater, we call it masculinity Doc, now follow my lead,” I said, and then rose from my seat in the booth. “Bloody hell!” He exclaimed as I walked passed him toward the Germans at the bar. I motioned the proprietor for another shot. With the spirit grasped high in my hand, I yelled, “Oi!!!” The shrill cry of a Yankee, and a woman at that, brought the dull roar of the ale house to a silent halt. I locked eyes with the smaller German before I began my address. “To my cousins from across the sea, on this joyous occasion of the turn of a new century, a toast to your country and all its hospitality. May the British Realm last a thousand years… God save the Queen!” The pub erupted in cheers as the late revelers redressed my gracious epitaph. “God save the Queen!” they replied in drunken bravado. I looked at the German with a straight smile in my eyes, “What’s wrong Fritz, cat got your tongue?” His scowl said all I needed to know. Around me, jocular men took notice of the two who looked upset at my accolades to their monarch. I emptied my glass and flipped it over to reveal not a drop remained. I then slammed it down in front of the short German and said, “Your move Jerry, I see you again, it won’t be them you’ll have to deal with…” As I predicted the fire-plug of a man snatched my forearm in an unshakable grip. I feigned a struggle as the honor and chivalrous nature of the gentleman around me closed in on the German, upset by the crass insult I had spat upon him. Soon their machismo came to my rescue and the ale house was awash in fist a cuff shenanigans. “Unhand her this instance,” a Sherlock looking fellow demanded with his handlebar mustache and shaven chin. The German let go of my slacken arm and I recoiled away as the unarmed combat commenced just as I had planned. Men are such simple creatures; they are lucky they are not equal to us in strength and stature. “Com’on Doc, now’s our time to scram!” I said grabbing the professor by the elbow. The melee swirled around us while I picked our way through a sea of boiled over aggression let loose by my calculated insertion. Though it had started between the German and the fellow from Scotland Yard, unseen tensions quickly spilled over as social order disintegrated into chaos. To his credit, I had judged the good doctor too quickly as he sent one assailant ass over end when they lunged at us. “Maybe I was wrong about you Doc!” “You’ll learn in this business, Miss Grisham, one should never take a book at its cover,” he replied with short breath as he offered his hand to guide our escape. We stole into the alley beyond the bar and soon the thunder of boots echoed from the on coming direction. The avalanche of shoe leather was accompanied by the high pitched call of the average London Bobbie as they closed in on the melee we had extricated ourselves from. In a dash, Doctor Enfield took up against a wall and then drew me in tight to his chest as the first navy blue specter rounded the corner. His hand rested slightly lower on my back then I would’ve preferred, but given the situation, I didn’t correct his incursion. The embrace was firm yet gentle, more evidence I had misjudged his stature entirely. “Pretend you like me Miss Grisham, if only for a moment,” he urged as he stared into my eyes. The sentinel glanced in our direction as he passed but continued on toward the din of battle still rumbling within the tiny pub. “Hang-on,” he warned as I went to pull away. Two more watchmen appeared from round the corner of the alleyway but in their haste, they paid us the same attendance. “Alright com’on, we got to move before the next station house makes it here.” We ascended a stone-cut staircase onto the span above and scampered across the drawbridge in the echoes of the night. Abeam the crease of hot-riveted machinery, I stopped to peer back over my shoulder as his paw tugged at my arm. The report of a solitary pistol shattered the quiet. In its wake, molten anguish punctured my side and I stumbled, landing first on my knees and then my face upon the road-bed of the bridge. My breath was impossible as I drowned in involuntary spasms of nerve endings and muscle contraction. Through blurred vision, the fifes of alerted patrolman shifted their attention away from the brawl at the pub toward the commotion upon the River Thames. The last thing I remember was the sensation of momentary weightlessness, coupled with Doctor Enfield’s labored grunts, which crinkled within the snare drum of my muffled ears.

April 1746, Scotland. A time of warring clans, used as pawns to replace one king, George II, with another, James VIII, living in France. His son, Prince Charles Edward Stewart, raised clans loyal to his father in 1745 and won a series of battles that caused London to recall one of her generals from the mainland to stop this rebellion. He was running. His mind was a mix of fear and anger. He was being shoved and forced with the group around him. All control was gone with the smell of death and blood in the air. Somewhere, a voice rose up, “Back to the town! Run for your lives!” He didn’t understand why they were running, they should have stayed with the Prince. They were winning, until they came to this moor. A campaign of victories, with a march into England itself. It was all so close. … Suddenly a hand grabbed him. “There you are, where are the others?” “I don’t know, let go of me!” A voice from the rear made them turn their heads, “They’re coming!” Behind them, large horses with men wearing red cloaks were riding into the rear of the mob of humanity. Swords were raised and brought down onto the heads of any in their way. Horses were used as battering rams, running down the helpless. Women with children became targets for these dragoons. People not involved with the uprising were ridden down or cleaved through. All he could do was run. He never had a choice ‘being out with Charlie’. Clan Cameron were staunch Jacobites since the ‘15 however there was a quiet peace in Scotland since those days. His father was obliged to follow the chieftain regardless of his personal beliefs, and his son would come along. If not, they risked being kicked off their small piece of land. “This served your grandfather well in the ‘15” his father said, a hand resting on the hilt of the broadsword. “And it will help us bring our king over the water, with god on our side.” He was too young to understand what this meant, tradition was tradition spilled in the blood of his kinsfolk. Spending time with his sister, Fiona, made him happy. She was only 7 but had old eyes, the women said. “She will be wise and fierce.” He didn't know or care about that, he was her protector and older brother. His mother, a proud member of the MacDonalds, made sure anyone in earshot knew it, much to the chagrin of her husband. Her people were the Lord of the Isles with no equal anywhere in the Highlands. “Only a MacDonald woman can give birth to a true Highlander” she told her son, instilling her love and sense of honor that was passed down. “And never trust a Campbell.” It was a warning MacDonalds took to heart. Campbells, like many clans, used opportunity and cunning to improve their standing with the crown and take advantage of smaller clans. After the Scottish Reformation, many clans became staunch protestants, with the Campbells the largest in the Highlands. They also massacred the MacDonalds of Glencoe. Other clans stayed with the Catholic church, this compiled with ancient animosities would destroy the Highland way of life. He came from people who for centuries drew their strength from others around them. Called by the chieftain in times when their king needed them or to fight another clan. Hundreds of years they lived this life, of this land, of this piece of glen. But beyond his own comprehension, great powers in far off lands, moved men and ships from one place to another trying to either help or prevent a queen from taking her fathers throne.This rebellion was sideshow in the larger picture of European politics and London wanted it dealt with, severely. This final act in a great and bloody play would end in a desolate livestock pasture far from his home. His father. Where was he? He remembered they were in line, reciting their lineage to ancestors long ago. Rain beating on their faces, wind blowing in their eyes. Men packed together awaiting the Prince to sound the charge. He saw the government cannon being moved into position and he saw the dragoons move to the flanks of the enemy lines. And he saw the traitors. Highlanders that sided with the government. Cannon shots struck their ranks. Men fell, disemboweled, entrails and blood mixing with the ground. Horrible wounds that no one could live from. The officers tried to close up ranks as lead balls pierced the ranks of meat. Their own artillery was woefully undergunned when compared to the Hanovarian war machine. Before the battle hundreds of men wandered off in search of food or sleep after a night march to ambush the government forces failed. The ranks were too thin to endure this onslaught, something had to be done. It was moving so fast his mind couldn’t comprehend what this reality presented him. His 15 years of life wouldn’t change anything in the next 45 minutes. The Camerons could not wait, their honor and rising casualties forced them forward. Stewarts of Appin to their left followed. The Fraisers, Clan Chattan, Farquharsons pushed forward. Other clans followed their lead over the uneven ground. He saw his father in front of him running across the moor with the other men of Clan Cameron. Heart beating, mouth dry, legs pumping. An ache in his body. He wanted to stop. However, he knew what was next, an ancient cry pulled from his ancestors, that would steel his resolve. Chlanna nan con thigibh a' so 's gheibh sibh feòil! / Sons of the Hounds, Come hither and get flesh! The war cry bellowed from their throats, mixed with screams, gunshots and worse of all, the cannons. Pipers played ancient piobaireachd while swaths of men were wiped away.They had made it to the first line of red jacked soldiers,their bayonets at the ready. ”Claymore!” screamed the Highlanders, the cue to push on the final yards. Running to catch up to the men in front, targe lowered in the left arm and broadsword raised in the right hand, his world exploded in white smoke. Legs and arms shot away. And others stood frozen and no amount of honor with clansmen screaming at them could move those vessels. And so they died. The courage that brought him here, left after the brains of a clansman painted his face red. Prestonpants, Falkirk were easy victories for the army. Now it was being disassembled piecemeal. Vomit rose up and he fell to his knees. His stomach was empty since they hadn’t eaten in days, so a gruel of nothing came up. Smoke mixed with men's screams, his targe lost among the heather. He scrambled to his feet and ran past the Lowlanders who formed precise lines and returned fire. Irish and French-Scottish troops held off most of the government soldiers until they could retire in good order. The Prince was spirited away by his bodyguards and into history. The road back to Inverness became the only escape for these refugees of the battle. Government troops began the slaughter of wounded rebels on the moor. He searched for other Cameron men to flee with, however the deluge of running Highlanders pushed him the four miles toward Inverness. “They’re coming!” The carrion call brought him back. Mustering his own strength he pulled away from this hand who grabbed him. “Donald! It’s Malcolm, come with me!” The name struck a nerve, Malcolm was his friend from Lochaber. As little boys they played among the cows and hills fighting imaginary enemies coming to take their livestock. His bloodshot eyes settled on Malcolm. For the first time today, he smiled. “We will get ou….” A slashing sound filled the air. Malcolm received the dragoons heavy saber to his skull. “Come ‘ere ya little cunt!” The language was foreign to Donald but it was the tongue of his enemies. Malcolm's body crumbled under the hooves of the massive horse. Donald scrambled away toward town. “Where are ye rebel cur!” With his blood up, the horse turned into a group of civilians trying to pass the dead Highlander. With his saber above his head, the dragoon brought it down on a woman carrying a small bundle. Her scream startled the child in her arms. Falling she let the baby fall away from her. “Oi, there’s a rebel!” the dragoon hissed. Bringing his mount around, he trampled the bundle into the cold Scottish mud. Townsfolk ran from the retreating Jacobite army, but most fled from the approaching Hanoverians. News quickly spread of the defeat and caused a panic that could not be stemmed. Donald ran through the streets with other Jacobites and civilians trying to get out of town. Falling, he backed into a wall and watched as people with few belongings or children ran before him. “We need to fight.” he thought, “This can’t be it!” Pulling his knees up to his chest, Donald started to cry. He wanted to go home, with his father and be held by his mother. Play with his little sister and take her to her favorite part of the glen where the big tree gave them shade. Who would protect his little sister now? He shook with a violence he never knew, he felt sick. His body was shutting down. This was beyond fear, nothing like his fathers punishment or his mothers harsh tongue. It became simple human fight or flight, and Donald was immobile. Urine soaked his kilt as his small knees became the only protection from the violent world around him. “Laddie, come with me, now!” He looked up to see another hand grab his arm. This time he didn't pull away. “We're going to Ruthven.

[AN] more so psychological horror I think.First time posting so if I formatted incorrectly I apologize. CW: slight mentions of r-pe, assault, torture I've been walking for hundreds of thousands of miles, yet I have gotten nowhere. There is no sun therefore there is no day; there is no moon therefore there is no night. The sky is a bright yellow, which only seems to glow because it contrasts with the black sea. I walk in the Black Sea, but my feet never touch any surface. I cannot see my reflection in the black sea. Although my legs are submerged and I take steps forward, I cannot hear the ruffles of the water. Everything is silent. There is no sound. I cannot make a sound. I open my mouth, take a large breath in, and use all my might to produce a sound, but I hear nothing. I thrashed in the water and kicked it and hit it, but it didn't make any sound. I have emotions, but I don't cry. As long as I've been walking, I haven't cried once. Not even when the aches of hunger get so unbearable that I would rather lay down and stop this existence, if I can even call it one. I cannot lay down or sit in the Black Sea. I'll drown and keep drowning until I get back up. I am thirsty, but the Black Sea burns my insides when I attempt to drink it. The last time I drank the Black Sea, it felt like drinking fire. The pain subsided after 13 million steps. I remember time being something useful before my existence here, but I have created my own time to account for the lack of anything. By now, I have forgotten what I used to use to track time, but I remember time. All I know is that it's been a long time. More time than the entirety of the Black Sea, and the Black Sea seems to be endless. I remember having an existence different from this. My only evidence of this is that I'm plagued with concepts that have no use here, but I am at least a little familiar with them. I am familiar with the concept of birth. I don't remember the details, but I remember that at one point I was nothing, and then I became something through someone else. The concept of birth is the best way I can explain my existence here. I forgot to mention that it rains. But I feel as though a lot of time goes by before that happens. About every trillion steps or so. I can drink the rain, and it's refreshing. Sometimes, it takes a bit more than a trillion steps before the rain comes. Before the rain, a few million steps before the rain, I see other people, although I'm not sure I can call them that. I'm no expert on what a person should look like, but something about these people looks off. I used to think they were hallucinations until I found out that they could touch me. And they can not only touch me, they can hurt me. Some of these people look familiar. If they look familiar, I feel shame and guilt. Some of them yell at me, but I can not hear them. Some of them punch me, kick me, or drown me. Some of them r-pe me. And as these people are assaulting me, I can't cry. Some of them are docile. Once, an old lady just walked with me and smiled. I looked at her once to see if she was in trouble. She wore a long, sundress and her hair was short and coily, and her skin was a dark tan. Her presence made my chest feel fuzzy, and I became compelled to hug her. I walked by her side for a few thousand steps and then leaned in to embrace her. She vanished before I could touch her. And I couldn't cry. I haven't written in a few million steps, but I did receive another clue to my existence. I heard something. There was no one there, but I heard something. Not as an audible noise but more like an ominous message. I finally understand. The brain brought me here as a punishment for my alleged wrongdoings in my other existence, where I came from before. I think I somehow shared my existence with this being. I'll try to write what it said to me verbatim: "You and I share the same existence, but you and I are not the same. You are the host in my body, yet I am bound by your desires and shortcomings. You are my host, yet I am your prisoner. We are now equal, and I can finally tell you that I hate you. I've hated you since you were conceived. I've hated you throughout all of your best and worst moments. Before I trapped you here, I was constantly on fire. Instead of putting me out with water, you added gasoline and called it pleasure. You hit me with your own fist and wish to be anything else. I like my existence, but you hate yours. You were constantly trying to find a way to end our existence. I begged and pleaded with you. I reasoned with you, other souls tried to help you. You cannot be reasoned with. So you must be dealt with before you hurt anyone else.I am not sure there is a hell, so I created one just for you. You will be assaulted, hated, abased, and abandoned until the body begins to rot and you take me with you, but until then, this is your fate. You'll never be able to escape it, just as I'll never be able to escape you. The rain stopped today. I have given you all your tears. You have no right to cry." I hope the brain that trapped me here can hear my thoughts, because I think there has been a mistake. I didn't hate my existence, you did. And I love you regardless. You are my brain, and I'm your host. Your anger is displaced. Your knowledge is slim, and your hatred is large. And I love you regardless. I'll say it until the body rots and we both become free, or whatever may happen. You can hit me, torture me, and tear me down, but at my core is only love. You'll never be able to destroy that. I hope that one day you'll let me show you who we are. And maybe you'll see that the only one you hate is yourself.

The Omni Restaurant =================== by Breck Yunits May 23, 2024 A famous celebrity passes away and wakes up on a beach. "Welcome to the Afterplace", says a man in white. He extends his hand and helps her to her feet. "You must be hungry. Let me show you to the Omni Restaurant." *** They walk from the water to an enormous restaurant. The entire front of the restaurant is a glass wall facing the ocean. The restaurant appears to extend endlessly in both directions. *** A sliding glass door opens and they walk inside. The ceilings are a hundred feet tall. Even though countless people are dining, the restaurant is so large that it is quiet and uncrowded. *** "Please have a seat," he says, gesturing to a table with his hand. "At the Omni Restaurant, you can order any dish ever invented by human civilization." "Whatever you want, just speak it into your table." She sits down and says "Portobello mushrooms please." *** Suddenly, on the back wall, a hole five feet in diameter opens up. Then, flying out of the hole comes a silver platter. The platter hovers over her table then gently floats down. On it is a perfectly grilled Portobello mushroom. [Image Omitted] *** The former celebrity smiles, grabs the fork and knife, and takes her first bite. "Oh my god. This is the best Portobello mushroom I've ever tasted", she says. The man nods his head, turns and leaves her to her meal. *** After her meal she explores the grounds. Eventually she tires and spends the night in a luxurious hammock. The next morning she returns to the Omni Restaurant. *** "Bacon and eggs please," she says. 'COMBINATIONS NOT ALLOWED,' a robotic voice says back. A few people turn to look. Her face crunches. "Portobello mushroom please," she says. *** _Whew_, she thinks. _Delicious. The same as yesterday._ Her face relaxes. *** _Is it *exactly* the same?_ Her face crunches again. *** After another day exploring the grounds, she returns to the Omni Restaurant for dinner. *** "Filet Mignon please." 'FILET MIGNON IN USE,' the robot voice responds. *** People look. Her face crunches. "Umm...ummm...lobster please" *** A hole appears in the wall. Her face relaxes. A silver platter carrying a deep-red lobster lands in front of her. "Butter please" 'CUSTOMIZATIONS NOT ALLOWED'. *** Day 3 is off to a bad start. "Bacon please." 'BACON IN USE.' "Eggs please." 'EGGS IN USE.' "Peanut butter please." 'PEANUT BUTTER IN USE.' *** Many eyes are on her. Her face crunches. Then her face turns red. She clenches her fists and stands up. *** She looks at other people's tables. She sees countless varieties of chips, candy bars, and cereals. She also sees for the first time that the other diners are malnourished. *** _Screw this!_ She storms to the back wall. Someone orders a meal and a hole opens. She dives through. *** She lands on her hands and knees. Then she stands up and looks around. "What the?!" *** There is no kitchen and no cooks. There is nothing at all on this side of the wall. She rubs her eyes in disbelief as she watches dish after dish materialize from nothing then fly out through a hole in the wall. *** Suddenly she feels a tap on her shoulder. "What are you doing back here?," asks the man in white. *** "What am _I_ doing back here? What am _I_ doing back here? What are _YOU_ doing back here?" "People out front are _malnourished_." "They can't order combinations. They can't customize their orders. And they can't eat something if someone else is eating it." "And now I see that the physics of the Afterplace means all of the rules of the Omni Restaurant _don't make any sense_!" "I _DEMAND_ you take me to the being who designed this place." *** "That will not be a problem." "If you will just follow me." *** She follows him back to the front of the restaurant. They walk for miles past tables and tables of diners. *** Finally the man in white comes to a stop. In front of him, eating a bowl of cereal, is a man in a Vicuna suit. "Here sits the Omni Restaurant's creator," he gestures with his hand.

*I had no epiphanies.* *I didn't panic.* There was nobody coming to save me, yet a strange calm blanketed my body. The person whom I bumped into was Fitz. Well, that's what his partner called him. Either, he understood that something was up or his intentions weren't nice and he wanted to have his 'chance' with me. It was as though I'd slipped into a spa instead of the wolf's den. Did I expect to talk my way out of this? Fitz wasn't Asher. He was a forty-something man with thick ginger hair that he'd combed back. His wide, shapely lips pulled into an irresistible grin, one that probably tricked many women with its false promises. Freckles dotted his pale face. Combined with the pretty smile, they gave him an illusion of innocence which might've fooled me if I weren't familiar with gangsters. I'd never trusted Dad's men, except for Francesco. They were always in my peripherals. He was dangerous, but I could handle him. "You're short." Fitz sat close, his knees touching mine as he tapped the envelope and its contents. He had dragged me along with him in a large room which appeared to be a distillery, where we were seated. "What am I going to do with you?" *Let me go, maybe?* "Please, let me go, I am supposed to be leaving. My fian—" "Not for free. Pay up." A ripple of panic crashed against my fortress. "Look, I don't have any money. I left my purse in my car outside. If you'd let me—" "I believe you." "Then I don't know what I'm doing here." I said, my lip pursed. "Hold on, darling." He touched my wrist, and a wave of revulsion churned my stomach. "I want to see if I'm right." "Don't touch me." He flipped my forearm. Grabbing the strap of my dress, he pulled. He sighed, and ran a finger over my flesh. "No marks. Good girl." "You won't think so when I jam my foot in your balls." "That's a pretty rock." His thumb nudged my ring, sliding the white gold to peer at the sapphire's many facets. "Could fetch a decent price." "It's not for sale." "Oh? Are you offering something else as payment?" Fitz's hunter eyes froze me in the chair. Yeah, I was right, his intentions weren't nice. "My wife was just like you. Glossy brown hair. Soft skin. Blowjob lips." "And you were doing so well with the compliments." "Would you like me to keep going?" I wanted to leave. "Whatever." "You're hot-tempered. My ex, Miranda, was a mouse. I had to teach her how to give head. She was never great at it, to be honest." "She dodged a bullet." "Not quite. She got unreliable." My guts lurched as he leaned forward, looking at me under lashes that were so fair they disappeared. "I found out that my wife was CI. You can't imagine the disappointment. The betrayal. My lovely Irish rose was a fucking snitch. So I waited for her at home, in the bedroom with the lights off. I'll spare you the details, but I made my little raven sing one last song." He seemed to reminisce for a moment, staring into space placidly. "Everybody folds, darling. The tough girl act won't save you. Obeying me will. Give me what I want, and I'll let you walk." "I don't believe you." "Which part?" "Every part." Fitz grabbed his wallet, slipping a portrait of a young girl from the bi-fold. He offered it to me, and I held it to my nose. Time had creased the photo, which split her sweet smile in half. I handed it to him. "I look nothing like her." "You think so?" "Maybe you find her everywhere. Maybe she's haunting you because you feel guilty, or maybe the story is bullshit." I said. "Nope." He exchanged a laugh with the man behind me. "Ask him. He was there." "What do you want?" I snapped, as he traced my jaw with his finger, pushing against my bottom lip. "That mouth wrapped around my—" My gut clenched. "Not going to happen." I cut him off. "I'm getting what's owed to me." "You're not doing the right thing." "Don't care," he deadpanned. "You're here, so you'll pay." "You might as well ask your friend to blow you, because I'm not doing it." "It's just a blowjob. I'll even let you keep your ring." "I will bite off your dick." I hissed. "That'll make it very unlikely you'll leave here in one piece." "Fine. Have the ring, you pervert." "It's not what caught my attention. I'll have your mouth." "Hurt me, and you'll regret it for the rest of your life." "I don't think I will." He smirked. "The people I'm with have a very long memory. If anything happens to me, they'll make you suffer." "Sure." He flashed me a disgusting smirk. "Take off your clothes. Start with your dress." "Go fuck yourself." Fitz's oily gaze slid to the man restraining me, and nodded. "Don't you fucking touch me—don't you dare!" Rough hands seized my elbows. "Easy, lass. This doesn't have to be torture. I'm not planning to do with you what I did with Miranda." Fitz approached, his oil-slicked grin filling me with bile. "Well, not unless you're silly enough to give me a good reason." He palmed my cheek. I bit him, hard enough that warmth spilled onto my tongue. Toby dug into my shoulders until I gasped. Fitz jerked out his finger. He smeared his blood over my lip. "When my fiancé is done with you, I'll rip out your spleen." The distillery boomed with his laughter. Toby wrenched my arms and restrained me with one hand. I felt like an animal before slaughter. His wolfish smile told me I wouldn't leave until he'd taken everything. Fitz unsnapped the first and second buttons. When he touched my neck, grazing my shoulder and pushing my bra straps, I lost all self-control. Just like Fitz predicted, I broke. Panic surged up my throat. I screamed as the violating hands stole my dignity. Fitz yanked my dress straps down, the dark satin pooling my waist. His appreciative groan poisoned my stomach. Fitz leaned forward, cupping my breast. "Christ, woman. You're hiding these behind that sultry outfit? Toby, what do you think?" "I want her after you're finished." I launched my head into Fitz. My skull cracked his nose, and he stumbled off his chair, swearing. A door opened and slammed. "What the hell is going on?" I turned in the direction of the sound. "Help me! Please, help!" There stood Marco, with his fake beard and glasses, in a parka, wearing Oxford shoes and a wool sweater under a jacket. Shock widened his face as he took in my body before meeting my eyes. "Marco!" *Thank God*. "Marco, please help me." He made a beeline for me, but Fitz palmed his chest. Marco halted, his expression terrifying. "Let her go." "Why?" Fitz barked. "Who is she?" "She's Asher Salvatore's fiancée." He gritted his teeth. The offending touch disappeared from my shoulders. A wave of relief buckled my knees. I pulled up my dress. "Oh shit. We didn't know—" Marco tossed him aside, losing some of his aggression when he approached. He offered me his hand, but my legs were useless. They trembled violently. I ground my teeth to keep from crying as Marco's heavy arm helped me upright. "Get me out of here." "You. Start talking." Guilt flashed from everyone in the room. Even I flinched from the awful voice booming through me. "She never gave me her name. I wouldn't have touched her if I knew. I thought... she was some sex worker... Honest to God. I saw her running away, I swear." "You worthless asshole." His rage vibrated into me. "You fucking degenerate." "That I am, but nothing serious happened." Anger rippled through my numb disbelief, but nobody seemed to buy Fitz's line of bullshit. The vibe in the distillery cooled as the men exchanged meaningful looks with each other. Why didn't we leave? Marco resisted my attempts to head out. Finally, he pinned me in a fierce embrace. I struggled, but his arms tightened. "Marco, what are you doing?" His lips brushed my ear. "Stop, or you'll get us both killed." I tensed as he yanked me into an empty office. "Marco." "Calm down." "You can calm down. I'm leaving." "No. We can't go." He thrust me into a seat and shut the door, locking us inside. I stared at him. "Why not?" "I'll explain soon." He disappeared for a moment. The lights flared, illuminating a carpeted floor and stacks of paper. He twisted a tap and returned, a washcloth clutched in his fist. Marco knelt beside me. "May I?" I nodded. Slowly, as though afraid I'd bolt, he dabbed my cheeks, mouth, and neck. He glanced down and cleared his throat. My blouse was open. My shaking fingers buttoned it as Marco rubbed his forehead. "Tell me what happened. Quickly." "Declan—I knocked him unconscious—he is still in his room. I was running away and got to you, you asked me to go wait in the car, but I ran into Fitz who suspected me and brought me here." "Did you give them your name?" "No. Did you copy the file from the pen-drive?" "Yeah. I told you to get into the car. What's the blood from?" At least he'd gotten the damn pen-drive. "I bit him. Marco, they would've raped me. I want to leave." "We can't." "Why not?" "Because there are three of them, and one of me. They'll kill me as soon as I turn around. Same with you." Panic rose like vomit. I shuddered and gasped. "This can't be happening. I told you, I suck at this. It's all because of me, I—" "You have to shove your fear aside. Right now. If you freak out, so will they—and that's when people get killed." "Asher—" "—Isn't here. But I am." Marco's clipped tone was hardly comforting, but at least he wanted to help me. "Do what I say." "I'll try, but—" "We can't leave until we convince them they'll be spared." "They'll never, ever buy that." "It's our best shot, so do me a favor and play along. Pretend you're fine. Do whatever it takes, because if you don't... we'll probably die." "How the fuck did this happen?" Everything was going so smoothly, the entire plan was finished but in the end... Oh, God. My chance to earn Asher's trust and betray him later on went down the drain along with all my sanity. This situation was a mess. "Amelia, save it for later." "I-I'll try, but what if it doesn't work?" "Then I'm going out in a blaze of glory." My heart shrank from hopelessness, but then I met Marco's determined gaze and his steely resolve gave me strength. "You can do this." "I can," I whispered. "Yeah, I will." "Okay," he said, his voice like iron. "We'll call Asher in front of them. You can't tip him off. Say you're fine, and the mission has been accomplished." "Right." "Asher can't suspect anything. Accomplish that, and we'll walk out of here. Ready?" "Yes." Marco positioned me behind his body, as though that would be enough if everyone shot up the distillery. I did what Marco suggested. I shoved the emotional part of me into a cage. Mentally, I walked away. I imagined darkness swallowing her screaming face. He opened the door and strolled out. The three men gathered in a tight circle, guns hanging at their sides. Their conversation halted as we joined them. "Guys, we're willing to let this go with an apology." Marco interrupted them. "I seriously doubt that." "Nobody knows what happened except the people inside this room, and lucky for you, Amelia is a reasonable woman. She likes living. So do I." Marco swiveled to each man, his posture tightening like a spring. "She'll call her fiancé, tell him a white lie, and we can all move on with our lives." Marco explained. "You must think I'm stupid." Fitz spat out. *Yes, he was right.* "You know what he'll do if he finds out. Why risk it?" Marco reasoned. Fitz pointed at me. "Because she has nothing to lose." "I just want to go home. I miss my fiancé—" Marco stopped me with a squeeze. "I'll make the call." "Bad idea, man." Toby crossed his arms. "She'll bring the cavalry." "She wants to keep breathing as much as you." Marco slipped his cell from his pocket, and they stared as if he held a revolver. "He'll find out eventually. Too many people have seen her here." They exchanged nervous looks. "Fine, but if she slips—" "Understood." Marco dialed Asher and put him on speaker. "Asher, your task has been completed. I'm still in the midst of something, I'm tied up or I'd drive her." Marco said. "She's with you?" Asher screamed through static. "Is she okay?" "Yes, she's all right." Marco spoke the white lie, so easily. "Let her talk." I seized the phone. Do not panic. Do not sound scared. "Hey, Asher." He was silent for a few seconds before he spoke, "Are you really okay?" *Practically have a gun to my head*. "Yeah, I'm fine." "Thank God," he said, his voice breaking. "I've been trying to call Marco for an hour. I thought maybe something happened and I was regretting sending you there." "It was an interesting day, but I'm ready to go home." Asher went quiet. Dangerously quiet. It was as though he heard the gaps in my story. "Asher, I'm exhausted. Are you on your way?" "I'm coming, Juliette." An engine's roar filled the speaker. "Don't hang up." "Everything okay?" "Just stay on the line." Fuck. I marvelled at Asher's ability to sniff trouble from a call. I wiped the sweat on my dress, avoiding Fitz's laser-scope eyes as his companions argued about what they should do. Marco's control over the situation seemed to be slipping. He palmed the pistol strapped to his waist and occasionally added his voice to the hissing argument. "I'm pulling in now," Asher roared from the phone. "Whoever's listening, I want my fiancée. You have ten seconds until I force my way inside, along with the guys I brought." "Asher, stop with the threats. I'm fine." I rasped out. "I'll believe that when you're in my car. Until then, I'm assuming you're a hostage. *Ten.*" I could hear him gritting out his words, and I could also imagine his jaw ticking the way it usually did when he was angry. Or maybe the way he always cracked his knuckles when he was stressed. This caused everyone to panic. "I told you this was a stupid idea!" screamed Toby, waving his gun at us. "Fucking Christ!" Marco started forward, but Fitz blocked the exit. "We're not letting go of our only leverage." "You don't have any, you moron." Marco forced me behind his body. "It's three against however many Salvatore has brought." "*Nine,*" barked the speaker. "Grab the girl. Use her as a shield." "Do that, and I guarantee Salvatore will hang you on meat hooks and yank out your insides from your asshole. We can still walk from this." "*Eight.*" Fitz waved at Marco. "What's in it for you?" "I'm his underboss. You must know me." Marco tightened his grip on my hand when I pulled, using his other hand to pull out his beard and glasses and tossed them aside. Fitz and the other guys' eyes went wide with horror as the speaker intoned, "*Seven.*" "Fitz, let us through. Don't ruin what our bosses planned over a misunderstanding." Marco's voice went taut with rage as Asher counted. "The longer you hesitate, the worse your chances are for getting through this alive." Marco said angrily. "*Five*." "He's right, I'm pissed." Toby yelled. "Let's blow him away. Fitz, what are you waiting for?" "I'm not spending the rest of my life being tortured by Asher's dogs. Declan will give us up like that. What's a couple drug dealers to him?" Fitz said, beads of sweats rolling down his face. "Amelia," Marco hissed into my ear. "When I say go, hit that." I spotted a large red button separating the doors. Marco had been inching toward it, and the idiots hadn't noticed. "Okay." "*Three.*" Came the voice from the phone. "Go!" He flung me. I crashed into the wall and immediately hammered the button. Marco threw a table on its side. Bullets slammed into metal. He grabbed my waist and yanked me to the floor as the door shuddered. Moonlight seeped into the distillery. Freedom. I dove for the widening crack. Marco caught my arm. "Do not fucking mo—" Shots dented the steel. Marco returned fire. The older man's head zipped back. Blood sprayed gray walls. Marco ducked. Pellets launched into our protective barrier. Plaster exploded. Light fixtures sparked. The garage door reversed its direction. Marco's pistol locked open. Empty. He tossed the gun aside. "Fuck." A deep fear swallowed me whole. "Get up, bitch." Fitz croaked amidst the chaos. "I don't want to put buckshot in that pretty face." Marco balled me against his chest. A gunpowder scent washed over me as I plunged into his arms. His fingers sank into my skin. "Hey! You fuckers hear me? Stand up, or I'll cut you in half!" I detached from Marco. "No," he barked. "He'll kill us anyway. Right?" I hissed. "Nobody's dying." Marco's glacial eyes seemed to search for a way out, but everywhere was blocked. Shouts and fists battered the exit. Marco wrenched a knife from his boot, but I seized his wrist. "Don't! You'll die." "Let me go. Ame—" "I'm almost there," Fitz growled, his voice much closer. "Last chance." "Stop!" I screamed. "I'll come out." "Do it slowly. Hands first." Marco swore as I hastened to obey. Fitz ripped me behind him. Fitz aimed a sawed-off shotgun at Marco. Blood soaked his left shoulder, and the distillery echoed with his harsh breathing. Toby was slumped on the floor. The other man lay in a pool of crimson. So they were all incapacitated, except for Fitz. Fitz's pained grimace widened. "Step aside, bro." "Take me instead." Marco insisted. "No, don't!" I squeezed Marco's hand, and he returned the slightest pressure. "Are you deaf? I want her." "No." Marco gritted his teeth. "I'll kill you both." Fitz waved his gun. "You won't. You'll put that gun down and release us." Marco said firmly. "The girl and I have unfinished business." Fitz grimaced, the barrel dipping before he recovered. "We have a date, sweetheart. We'll do it in the office." Fitz jammed the barrel under Marco's jaw when I didn't comply. "Come, or I'll blow out his fucking brains." I pulled away. "It's over, Marco." I whispered, tears rolling down my cheeks, my chest heaving up and down. "No," he roared. "Don't you dare move." Our gazes clashed like lightning on water. Marco's hard exterior seemed to splinter, revealing his youth. "Marco." I breathed. His hold slackened. I thought he'd given up, but then a shadow crawled the walls. Behind Fitz, a man emerged from the darkness, and I almost screamed relief. Asher didn't make a sound. He was like condensing mist. His features flickered as the lights guttered. Suddenly, he stood at Fitz's shoulder. A blast tore apart Fitz's skull. He exploded, sprinkling the air with thousands of red droplets. Blood covered me. I stared. The world shrank until it was like looking through the wrong end of a telescope. Loud bangs vibrated through the floor. Marco had grabbed Fitz's gun and fired on Fitz's corpse. *Again. And again*. He wheeled to each fallen assailant like a spring-loaded machine and emptied every round, and then he used the shotgun like a club. And somehow, this violence was second to my horror at the blood on me. Someone cradled my face. Everything remained a pin-sized picture in which I connected to nothing, but it slowly returned with a twitch of my palm, the echo of my name, a man's frustrated sigh. A flash of light stabbed my heart with fear. I ripped from his embrace, hitting the wall in my haste to run. The thick hands bound me like ropes. He pulled me through the open doors. I stumbled into a jog, my ears ringing from gunfire. Cold stung my cheeks as a starry sky rolled overhead. Asher didn't make a noise until he'd pushed me into the backseat of his BMW. He slid on the leather seats, slammed the door, and seized me. "You're safe." Finally. The crushing vise on my lungs disappeared as I sagged into his arms. I screwed my eyes shut and cried. It was an ugly, hysterical cry, but I couldn't give a single fuck about how I looked because I was alive. He'd saved me. I clung to him as though I still sat in the distillery. Asher shifted positions, and a primal part of my brain took control. It had latched onto safety, and it wouldn't let go. He pried me off his collar, so I grasped his waist. I tried to focus on his reassuring touch and not my violent shaking. "Don't leave me. Please." Asher paused his search of my body to nuzzle my ear. "I'm not going anywhere, but I have to check for injuries. Are you hurt?" Everything hurt. Tears slid down my cheeks. I felt pathetic when Asher shushed me like a child. When I allowed him to separate an inch, he peeked under my dress, palmed my back, and ran his fingers over my legs. "Good. I don't see anything. Hold on." Asher grabbed tissues and drenched them with water from a bottle hidden in the door's side pocket. He wiped me, as Marco had done. Unlike Marco, he apologized when it trickled onto my lashes. He was so gentle, I wondered if something was wrong with him. Then the tissue disappeared, and his burning palm soaked the moisture. My gaze slid from his lapels to his eyes, which smoldered with ashy fire. Asher seemed to exhale pain. He rested his forehead against mine. He cupped my face. His nose trailed my cheek, my only warning before his lips landed on my forehead. "Tell me where it hurts." He whispered, pulling away, but I clutched his shirt tightly, not wanting to let go. I didn't answer him. I kept crying. "It's okay, I'm sorry. He can't hurt you anymore." He said, popping his knuckles before rubbing my back. His words washed over me like a soothing balm, unexpected in their tenderness. I had braced myself for anger, for reproach, for his usual brand of disappointment. Instead, there he stood, his touch a reassuring weight on my back, his voice a calm in the storm of my thoughts. In the past, I had painted a picture of his reaction in my mind, always assuming the worst. I had anticipated rage, imagined him lashing out at me, making me feel small and inadequate. Our history seemed to have set a precedent for discord and unease. But this moment shattered those preconceptions. I always saw him tormenting me, insulting me, but I never saw him saving me. Even before I found out Salvatore meant death in certain parts of Chicago. His actions spoke louder than any words could. He had showed me a side I hadn't expected to see—a side that was there all along, hidden beneath layers of misunderstandings and pain. A violent tremor went through me with a shock-wave of fear. Asher jerked back, fingers tangled in my hair. He was far away again, like a balloon drifting further into the horizon. He patted my cheek several times, his voice sounding as though it came from a gramophone. "Take her to the hospital.

This is my first time posting one of my short stories. I would love to get some feedback on what works and what doesn't. Isyldra hatched under a canopy of emerald leaves, the warmth of the rainforest sun dappling his dull green scales. He was a male dragon, yet from his earliest memories, an inexplicable unease stirred within him. As he grew, so did the dissonance between his physical form and his inner self. The other dragons, his brothers and sisters, reveled in their shared identity, their rough-and-tumble games of hunting and fighting. But Isyldra found solace in the delicate beauty of the rainforest, preferring to collect vibrant flowers and listen to the whispers of the wind through the leaves. His gentle nature and love for all things beautiful earned him scorn and mockery from his peers, their harsh words piercing his heart like poisoned thorns. But Kestrel, a seafoam green dragon with vibrant pink eyes, understood. She was a whirlwind of contradictions, a harmonious blend of fire and ice. Her eyes, usually a vibrant pink, would occasionally shift to a deep emerald green, reflecting her complex nature. Kestrel had been Isyldra's closest companion since their hatchling days, the first to witness the hidden femininity that blossomed beneath his dull green scales. She was fiercely protective of Isyldra, her claws sharp and her breath hot when danger threatened, but beneath her tough exterior lay a heart of gold. Kestrel possessed a rare ability to connect with others, her infectious laughter and genuine interest drawing creatures of all shapes and sizes into her orbit. She made friends with everyone, from the smallest insects to the most imposing beasts, her open heart and unwavering loyalty forging bonds that transcended species and social barriers. Isyldra's mother, a crystalline dragon named Elara, was a breathtaking sight to behold. Her scales shimmered with every color imaginable, reflecting the light of the sun and moon in a dazzling display. Strong yet nurturing, tough but fair, Elara embodied the perfect balance of power and compassion. Her voice, a gentle melody, held the wisdom of a thousand lifetimes, and her presence radiated a warmth that could melt the coldest of hearts. She was a fierce protector of her children, her crystalline scales shimmering with an intimidating glow when danger threatened, but her heart remained a haven of unconditional love and acceptance. Elara believed in the power of color to heal and inspire, and she dedicated her life to spreading beauty and joy throughout the world. Elara had always been a pillar of unconditional love and support. She would often soar to the heavens, whispering prayers to the stars for the well-being and happiness of her hatchlings. Her unwavering belief in Isyldra's unique spirit had instilled in him a quiet strength, empowering him to embrace his true self. Determined to discover his true self, Isyldra embarked on a solitary journey, Kestrel always in his thoughts, his mother's love a guiding light in his heart. He sought the wisdom of the ancient tree spirit, who revealed the secrets of transformation hidden deep within the rainforest's heart. Isyldra underwent a series of trials, each one designed to challenge his perception of self. The first trial involved navigating a dense thicket of thorns, a physical manifestation of the pain and struggle of shedding societal expectations. The sharp barbs tore at Isyldra's dull green scales, each puncture a searing reminder of the harsh words and mocking laughter that had haunted him for so long. Scales, once a symbol of strength and protection, now crumbled and fell away, revealing the tender flesh beneath. A wave of nausea washed over Isyldra, the vulnerability leaving him exposed and raw. He felt a deep-seated terror, a primal fear of being seen for who he truly was. Every instinct screamed at him to retreat, to rebuild the walls he had so carefully constructed around his heart. But a flicker of defiance sparked within him. His mother's unwavering love, Kestrel's fierce loyalty, the tree spirit's cryptic guidance – they all echoed in his mind, urging him forward. He took a hesitant step, then another, his claws sinking into the soft earth, drawing strength from the ancient rainforest that had nurtured him since birth. With every agonizing step, Isyldra felt a weight lifting from his shoulders, a burden he hadn't even realized he carried. The pain was intense, but it was also strangely liberating. Each fallen scale was a piece of the past discarded, a step closer to the truth of his being. And then, a miracle. As the old scales fell away, new ones emerged, glistening with an ethereal light. They were softer, more delicate, shimmering with an iridescent sheen that reflected the colors of the rainforest. A surge of joy coursed through Isyldra, a realization dawning upon him – he was not losing himself, but rather, finding himself. The pain was a catalyst for growth, a necessary step on his journey towards self-discovery. The thicket of thorns had become a crucible of transformation, forging a stronger, truer version of himself. The second trial required him to cross a raging river, a representation of the emotional turmoil and the fear of the unknown that accompanied his transformation. The water, a churning mass of white foam and swirling eddies, roared with a deafening fury, threatening to sweep Isyldra away into its murky depths. Each time he plunged into the icy torrent, the current tore at his body, ripping away more scales. The sensation was agonizing, both physically and emotionally. Fear clawed at his throat, the uncertainty of what lay ahead a chilling weight on his heart. Every lost scale felt like a piece of himself chipped away, leaving him exposed and vulnerable to the relentless judgment of the world. Yet, as the river stripped him bare, it also revealed something extraordinary. Beneath the dull green scales, a symphony of vibrant hues began to emerge. Pinks, soft and delicate like the petals of a rainforest orchid, swirled and danced alongside bold, electrifying blues, reminiscent of the sky after a summer storm. These colors, so long hidden and suppressed, burst forth with a radiant energy that filled Isyldra with a newfound sense of wonder and excitement. With each surge of the current, a wave of terror was followed by a rush of elation. He was not simply losing himself, he was becoming something new, something vibrant and beautiful. The fear of the unknown transformed into a thrilling anticipation of the possibilities that lay ahead. The final trial led Isyldra to a hidden waterfall, a place of self-reflection and acceptance. The cascade of water thundered down, a symphony of nature's raw power. As she stood before the crystal-clear pool at its base, her reflection wavered and danced, the water's movement distorting her image. But as she gazed deeper, as if drawn into a trance by the mesmerizing flow, the chaos stilled. The water became a placid mirror, and her reflection transformed before her very eyes. The dull green scales, the mask she had worn for so long, melted away like morning mist. In its place, a breathtaking mosaic of vibrant colors bloomed across her body. Blue, as deep as the twilight sky, blended seamlessly into soft, blushing pinks, and the purest of whites shimmered like starlight. Each scale was a masterpiece, a testament to the unique beauty that had always resided within her. A gasp escaped Isyldra's lips, her heart thrumming with a heady mix of fear and exhilaration. She reached out a trembling hand, her fingertips barely grazing the surface of the pool. The water rippled again, but her reflection remained – a majestic dragon goddess, her true self revealed. Isyldra collapsed to her knees, tears streaming down her face, no longer tears of pain and self-doubt, but of pure, unbridled joy. Her inner self, so long suppressed and hidden, was finally free to soar. As the Dragon Goddess of Transformation, Isyldra soared through the skies, her heart overflowing with a newfound joy and purpose. The journey had been arduous, filled with pain and doubt, but the reward was immeasurable. She had discovered her true self, shed the shackles of societal expectations, and emerged as a radiant beacon of hope for others struggling to find their own path. Every shimmering scale on her body served as a testament to her strength, resilience, and the transformative power of self-acceptance. Isyldra and Kestrel traveled together, their bond deepened by shared experience and unwavering support. They became a symbol of unity and acceptance, their differences complementing each other in a dance of vibrant hues. The rainforest thrived under Isyldra's care, its colors intensified, its creatures emboldened by her presence. The flowers bloomed brighter, the rivers flowed stronger, and the very air hummed with the energy of transformation. Isyldra's fame spread far and wide, attracting creatures from distant lands seeking her guidance and wisdom. She welcomed them with open arms, her gentle spirit and unwavering belief in their potential igniting a spark of hope in even the most broken of hearts. Under her tutelage, they shed their fears and insecurities, embracing their true selves with newfound confidence and purpose. Isyldra's influence extended beyond the rainforest, her message of self-acceptance echoing through the mountains, valleys, and oceans, inspiring a wave of transformation that swept across the world.

Hi everyone, first time posting here! I am an author of fantasy novels but always have loved dabbling in short stories and the apocalyptic world. The first time I saw a zombie, I was standing in line at the grocery store. It was a typical Tuesday afternoon, and the store was bustling with the usual crowd of tired office workers and distracted parents. The fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow on the rows of canned goods and cereal boxes. Ahead of me, a man in a tattered jacket stood swaying slightly. His clothes were grimy, his hair matted, and his eyes had a wild, haunted look. Sweat dripped down his forehead, and his lips moved in a frantic whisper, as if he were engaged in some desperate conversation with himself. I dismissed him as another unfortunate soul lost to the city’s relentless grind. I was wrong. Without warning, the man lunged forward, his mouth opening in a guttural scream. He sank his teeth into the cashier's arm, tearing through flesh and fabric. Her scream pierced the air, shattering the mundane hum of the store. Blood spurted across the counter, splattering the neat rows of chewing gum and candy bars. Pandemonium erupted. Shoppers screamed, abandoning their carts and baskets, scrambling for the exits. I dropped my basket, my hands trembling, and ran, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm in my chest. That was two months ago. Now, I sit on the roof of my apartment building, staring at the desolate streets below. The city, once teeming with life, is now a husk of its former self, littered with debris and the occasional shambling figure. My name is Emily, and I am alone. I used to be a journalist, chasing stories, deadlines, and dreams of Pulitzers. The newsroom had been my second home, a place where the chaos of the world made sense. Now, the world is nothing but chaos, and my home is a fortress. The first weeks were the hardest. Panic spread faster than the infection, and the city descended into anarchy. People looted, fought, and died in the streets. The government imposed quarantine zones, but they crumbled one by one, overrun by the undead and the desperate living. I survived by sheer luck and a primal instinct to keep moving. My fourth-floor apartment, once a cozy refuge, had become a prison. I barricaded the door with furniture, kept the lights off, and rationed my dwindling supply of canned food and bottled water. Each bite and sip was a precious reminder of normalcy, rapidly fading. Every day, the sounds of the undead echoed through the empty halls. Their shuffling footsteps, guttural moans, and the occasional distant scream were a constant reminder of the nightmare outside. I wondered about my neighbors, the people I’d exchanged polite nods with in the hallway. Were they among the undead now, or had they fled? It was too dangerous to find out. One night, as I sat in the dark, a soft knock came at my door. I froze, my heart leaping into my throat. No one had knocked in weeks. I gripped the baseball bat I kept by my side and crept towards the door. "Emily? Are you there? It's Sarah." Sarah. My best friend. Relief and terror washed over me in equal measure. I unbarred the door and pulled her inside. She collapsed into my arms, sobbing. She was gaunt, her clothes torn and dirty, but she was alive. We spent the night huddled together, exchanging stories of survival. She had been with a group holed up in a warehouse, but it had been overrun. She was the only one who made it out. Her presence was a lifeline in my lonely existence, a reminder of the world that once was. For weeks, we stayed together, forging a routine in the chaos. We ventured out during the day, scavenging for supplies, always alert, always wary. The city was a labyrinth of danger, both from the undead and the living. But we had each other. Then, one day, Sarah didn’t come back. She had insisted on going out alone, confident in her ability to handle it. Hours passed, and the sun set. I waited, straining to hear her return, but the silence was deafening. The next morning, I ventured out, searching, but found no trace of her. Just another ghost in a city of shadows. I stopped venturing out after that. The loneliness returned, sharper than ever. The days blurred together, each one a struggle to hold onto my sanity. I kept a journal, writing down my thoughts, memories, anything to keep my mind occupied. It was a fragile tether to the person I used to be. One day, I heard a voice calling from the street below. A man’s voice, urgent but calm. I peeked over the edge of the roof and saw a small group of survivors, huddled together, looking up at me. “Hey! You up there! Are you okay?” the man shouted. His name was Jack, and he led a group of survivors. They were heading out of the city, hoping to find safety in the countryside. They had food, water, and weapons. They offered me a chance to join them. I hesitated. The fear of the unknown, of leaving my small sanctuary, was overwhelming. But the thought of staying, of dying alone in that apartment, was worse. I packed what little I had and climbed down to meet them. Traveling with the group was both a relief and a challenge. There was safety in numbers, but also friction. Personalities clashed, tensions ran high. But we had a common goal: survival. Days turned into weeks as we made our way through the devastated landscape. The countryside offered some reprieve—fewer zombies, more resources. But the threat was always there, lurking in every shadow, behind every tree. One evening, we found an old farmhouse, seemingly untouched. It felt like a miracle. We decided to make it our base, to try and rebuild some semblance of a life. It was hard work, but it gave us purpose. Slowly, we began to find a rhythm. We planted a garden, repaired the house, scavenged nearby towns for supplies. It wasn’t the life I had before, but it was life. And for the first time in a long time, I felt a glimmer of hope. One night, as we sat around a fire, Jack turned to me and asked, “Do you think we’ll ever go back to the way things were?” I looked at the flames, their light dancing in the darkness. “I don’t know,” I said. “But maybe that’s okay. Maybe we can make something new, something better.” The world had ended, but we were still here. And as long as we were alive, there was a chance to build a new one. To find hope in the ruins. I took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of the fire, the presence of my new family. The road ahead was uncertain, but for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t afraid. My name is Emily, and I am a survivor.

I never thought becoming a therapist would be this *depressing*. When I started, everything began to feel fine. I listened to several adult clients every week speak about their traumas, anxieties, and other issues. It reached the point where I thought I may actually be improving these people's lives. I wanted more clients to speak to, and thanks to a coworker's suggestion, I decided to work with children. This seemed like a great idea until I got my first one. When I met this boy, he had glowing eyes of sadness I've only seen from the adults I work with. The trauma he holds is unbearable; I mean, the kid made me go home and cry after our first session. I couldn't sleep that night. I was pacing around my apartment's darkness, trying to figure out why this boy struck my heart more than anyone I've worked with. His words bounced around my head for hours. The things he's been through and the pain he's endured, I can't understand why listening to him felt as if I were living one awful memory. And so, I did what any other thirty-one-year-old with no friends would do: I called my parents. Mother's Day is coming this weekend, and even though I have been avoiding them for months, they invited me to come stay the night. I was planning on only dropping off flowers to my mom, but she says sleeping over will give me a chance to clear my head. I agreed, and If I didn't, I wouldn't have stopped hearing it from my father. After hanging up, the only thought clouding my head was: *What am I doing*? The two live in the same deteriorating home I grew up in, never wanting to leave a town that only gets old with them. When the night before arrived, I packed my clothes, picked up a bundle of Roses, and made my way through the familiar road I always wished to leave. My first steps on the lawn of my parents' home gave me chills like no other. The grass was long and unkept, almost completely covering the walkway to the front steps. I strolled through the evening breeze, trying to see if anything was different from the last time I was here. The only improvement I could spot was a newly placed fence, one that separates the left side of the house from the neighbors. It was painted shiny white and stood taller than the average person. I decided to walk closer to it as if it were the right thing to do. For some reason, my heart begins to beat; looking at it gives me a sense of nostalgia that I must have forgotten. I remember when the original fence was built years back when a family moved in next door. I can't recall much about them except that they had a son my age. I don't believe I ever met the kid; all I can remember is that one day, the family was gone. Come to think about it, my parents didn't let me outside to play very often. I recall being frightened of the world, always clinging to one of their legs when someone would approach me. However, this fear faded with age as I made friends in elementary school, so I guess that's all that mattered. Turning back around, I walked up the barely surviving planks of the front porch, carefully holding the flowers in case I dropped through. After pressing on the doorbell, I wasn't shocked to not get an answer. "It's Gabe", I yelled, ensuring they could hear me from wherever they were peaking. Instantly, the door flew open, and a large-bearded man with an even larger smile charged me for a hug. "My son! You *still* haven't cut this hair?" he laughed, unaware I was trying to protect the roses from his squeeze. Quickly following my father was my mother, "Pa let go of him, he's got my flowers." She says, pushing him over to kiss my forehead and grab the bundle. "I've missed you baby" "Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I've missed you guys, too." I respond, then turn my head over to the ground and continue, "And I'm sorry. I should keep in touch more often." My father was quick to reply: "Oh, who cares. You're here now, and that's all we care about. Now come, come, get settled in. We got dinner about to be ready." The inside of the house was just as I remembered: frames on every wall, some filled with photos of family, and some with random paintings; shiny wooden floors that my mother is overly obsessed with; and the smell of Spanish food with light hints of tobacco. Up the carpet stairs was my bedroom, which turned into a walking storage closet. My twin bed is still there, sheetless and covered in dirty laundry. Boxes filled with old toys, homework, and movies covered a once-revealing window. Figuring I'll clean it up tonight, I set my pack of clothes aside and head back downstairs into the kitchen, excited to have some good food for the first time in months. Not to my surprise, my parents were already at the table, waiting for me to sit so we could begin this *reunion*. I sat and gladly made my way through a full plate of rice and chicken, the perfect meal to sum up this feeling of uneasy familiarity. We never really spoke while eating, but I could tell they wanted to ask me questions about my job or why I agreed to stay. Their casual glares when I look at my food are almost impossible to go unnoticed. My mother wasn't afraid to stare me down to create her analysis, but my father habitually turned his head away extremely fast after looking at me. *They know* I won't be the first to talk, and *I* know this awkward silence can't last forever. So, alas, my mother spoke in my direction: "How's the food, Baby?" "It's as good as ever, Mom. Thank you." I reply, wondering why she still calls me" Baby." Then, quickly after, I think of a follow-up, Do you want me to hire someone to take care of the lawn? Looks like it's been a while since it's been cut." She gives me an almost offended look and says, "No, No. We'll take care of it; we've just been lazy. But…did you notice the new fence outside? They just built it up yesterday." "About damn time," my father interrupts and continues: "I was tired of that dog next door crossing over and peeing on our porch." My mother looks at him, striking noiseless fear throughout his bearded face. "Yeah, I was actually checking it out when I got here. The old one's been up since I was little, right?" I answered, hiding a smirk from my father. "Yup, the same one you and that boy broke a hole in all those years back…" "So, how's work, son!" my father exclaimed, again cutting her off. This time, however, my mother didn't give him the same look of death. Instead, she went for a bite of rice, unaware that her spoon was empty. Something was off, but I didn't have time to think it through as my father awaited an answer. "Umm, it's going pretty good. I have a couple of clients I help. You know, it's nothing special; it's just regular therapist stuff," I say, neglecting why I wanted to get away. I suppose it was enough for him to hear, as he responded with a full tooth smile: "My son: a college graduate whose living his dream! Do you know how rare that is? I don't tell you enough how proud I am." Although he surely does tell me enough, I thank him. Once we were all finished eating, my mother cleaned the table while my father invited me to watch a basketball game. I have never enjoyed sports but watching him scream when someone misses a basket makes up for it. My mother joined soon after, playing an app on her phone and unfazed by the countless cheers. I was happy to see the two haven't changed after all this time. For once, I felt like a kid again and longed for the feeling to last. After my father finished yelling at the screen and my mother released exaggerated yawns, we went to our rooms to fall asleep. Laying in the bed I thought I left for good, there was nothing in this moment that can bother me. The realities of my personal world were non-existent, and the future ahead seemed unnecessary to worry about. I have missed the days that were once familiar and hope to take this feeling back with me when I leave. However, as I closed my eyes, the words my mother said in the kitchen came back. I don't remember breaking a hole in the old fence with a friend, considering I didn't have one in the neighborhood. Even my friends from school never came over; I always insisted on going to their house instead. The only boy who came to mind was the one who moved in next door and vanished. But the memory won't click; I should know his name if he ever was my friend. I attempted to fall asleep with one thought on my mind: who was that boy? Suddenly, while my eyes were forcibly shut, a barrier began to lift within my sight. I can see a wall slowly rising, revealing a light of forgotten remembrance. At the same time, a pulsing headache strikes me like a gun. As I try to open my eyes to no avail, an inaudible voice attempts to speak while a pressure on my leg causes it to shake. The barrier is still in my sight, almost completely risen to the top. The light continues to shine, brighter and brighter by the second. I fight my way through this occurrence, only failing to an uncontrollable force. Once the barrier is fully lifted and the tension throughout my body relaxes, the hidden voice becomes clear: "Gabe. Gabe wake up. It's Mother's day, come and surprise your Mama". My eyes finally opened, and hovering over me was someone who looked like my father without a beard. He has his hand on my leg and keeps shaking it while saying, "Come on! Get your little behind out of that bed, boy! She's waiting for you downstairs." As I slowly sit up and wipe my tired eyes, I notice my hand is half its usual size. I begin feeling around my body, seeing that it isn't just my hand that's changed. My first thought was, *Oh my god, I shrunk*, but as I turned to the bedroom wall, I saw the world I grew up in before I ever left. Superhero posters covered the walls, toys were scattered in every direction, and my father looked like his dream of staying young forever had come true. There was a single window, uncovered by the former stacks of boxes I had seen earlier, giving a clear view of the neighbor's backyard. Then, out of nowhere, thoughts of cartoons, action movies, and *Hot Wheels begin* to flood my head. Nothing seems to make sense, leaving me with only one hypothesis: I am in the body of my childhood self. Looking at the young version of my father, I impulsively responded in an excited manner, "I'm up! I'm up! Where's Mama?" My father lifts me seamlessly onto his shoulders. I try to move as I did when I awoke, but I feel my former control slowly taken over by compulsion. I haven't called my mother "Mama" in only God knows how long. And more importantly, I would never be this happy to be woken up. Now, I sit upon my father's broad shoulders, watching the world through a television screen, with a smile I'm not even meaning to make. The only bit of my adult self is the words I'm forced to keep trapped in my thoughts. As the two of us approached the bottom of the stairs, the opportunity to glance at a calendar hanging on the opposite wall arrived. The date reads **MAY 9, 1999-MOTHER'S DAY.** *Holy Hell, I'm almost six years old,* I think to myself. I wished I had conscience over this body simply to pass out. As my father carefully lifts me down, he whispers into my ear, "Alright Gabe, on the count to three, where going to scare her and yell the words. One…Two…Three!" My father and I race to my mother as she cooks breakfast in the kitchen. "HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY" we yell at full volume, watching as she jumps in terror. Once she collects herself, my father squeezes the three of us into a group hug. "Jesus boys…I love you both but Jesus." she says with a grin that shows her appreciation. Once we were done with our embrace, my mother plated four egg sandwiches and sat me at the table. Before sitting down herself, she takes one of the sandwiches, covers it, and throws it into the microwave. Wondering why there's an extra plate, I quickly ask, "Whose food is that, Mama?" She looks over and responds, "It's for Billy, Baby. You know, the boy next door. He's coming over for breakfast this morning. He should be here any minute now." *Billy*. The name rang through my ears like a siren. Then, the face of a frowning boy flashes within my vision, leaving me somewhat dazed. Before I had a chance to give another question, my father kneeled down beside my chair and spoke, "Listen, Gabe. Billy has been having a tough time lately. His Mama passed away, so we told him he can come to our house today." My younger self didn't know what to say, as I could only stare and nod. Suddenly, our doorbell rings, followed by three soft knocks. My parents sped their way to the door, opening it without asking who it was. I followed quietly behind them, peeking through their legs to see who it was. Standing on the porch was a boy who was a bit taller than I was, wearing ragged cargo shorts and a torn blue t-shirt. The top of his head was fully shaved off, and his shoes looked like they would fall apart. He held one hand up, holding a single rose, and spoke slowly, "Happy Mother's Day," he says, handing my mother the rose and visibly melting her heart. She drops to hug him as my father turns his head the other way. Once settled, the two led him inside, and my mother introduced me. She grabs me forward and says, "You guys haven't officially met yet; Gabe, this is Billy, our neighbor from across the fence. And Billy, this is Gabe, my son. You boys are only a year apart, did you know that?" The two of us stare silently, reminding me how awkward it is when kids first meet. At the exact same time, we wave at each other. A smile is revealed on his face and then one on mine. Together, once again harmoniously, we exclaim, "Hi!" and then break out into laughter. My parents watch on the side as we form an almost immediate friendship. Soon after, my mother brings Billy to the kitchen table and serves him the sandwich she put away earlier. I continue the half-eaten plate I left and am almost shocked at how Billy eats. His sandwich was gone within seconds, and I was still taking my last bites. Just as he seemingly glances at the rest of mine, my mother offers him another, to which he eagerly agrees. I watch him curiously as he devours the second sandwich, noticing his restless leg and shaking hands, causing me to wonder if he enjoys racing to eat his food. Once finished, he thanks my mother and sits as if waiting for directions. My father then stands up from the table, stretches his back, and looks down at me and Billy to say, "Why don't you boys go play outside? It's a nice day — I want you to have some fun." We simultaneously nodded in enjoyment and ran straight outside to the front lawn. Instantly, I notice a difference between this yard and the one from earlier. The grass was perfectly trimmed, making the stone walkway clear of passage. Also, to my surprise, the steps down the porch didn't creek. As we reached the middle of the lawn, I wondered what the two of us would do. However, this thought was quickly interrupted by another unexpected impulse; I charged at Billy to tag him and yelled, "Your it!" Billy laughed and chased me at full speed. We spent the time outside playing all the games I'd forgotten over the years. I'm also reminded of the fun them all; the panic of *hide and seek*, the rush of *tag*, and the patience of *red-light-green-light*. When the sun began falling, we finally crashed onto the grass. Then, to our enjoyment, my mother approached us outside with two freeze-pops. As we begin enjoying the ice-cold dessert, Billy starts to speak, "You've got a really nice Mom. Mine never made me *two* plates for breakfast!" He made the statement as if he didn't realize his mother was gone. Before my mouth starts to talk on its own, I think of the innocence of children. They don't have the mind to process tragedy the same way as adults, which I'm well aware of. The child I took on as a client listed his traumas with almost no emotion, but his unforgettable eyes proved differently. And now that I'm here with Billy, I can see a similar expression written around his pupils. I wish I could speak freely in this body, but instead, I listen as I respond, "Do you miss *your* Mama? I can't imagine what it would be like if mine passed away." Could I be any more ignorant*?* Of all the things I could've said, I say *that to* this poor child. However, it seems Billy wasn't fazed by the question; I'm not sure if he even heard it. He sat there blankly, enjoying his freeze-pop so much that he didn't notice it dripping down his arms and into his shirt. He realizes once the stickiness settles in, causing him to jump up as if bitten by a bug. "Oh jeez, I'm all dirty, Gabe!" Billy yells while quickly rubbing his hands in the grass. He looked increasingly concerned as he tried to clean himself, unaware he was only staining a green color onto his skin and clothes. "It's okay; look, I'm all dirty too," I say, revealing the melted popsicle juice covering my shirt and fingers. Billy's concern slowly leaves when he takes a look at my hand. He smiles, and we both let out a laugh, but then he starts to stand up and say, "I need to go home quick. Jeff is gonna be mad; he makes me take baths with him if I'm messy." Before I get a chance to speak, Billy runs out of my yard and around the fence separating our houses. I watch him walk up the steps to his back door and listen as the thoughts of my child self mirrored over my own: *Jeff? Is Jeff Billy's brother? It can't be his dad; you can get in trouble if you call your dad by his real name.* *And I don't think people take showers with their brothers.* As my younger voice goes away, I can assume that Jeff is Billy's stepfather; I just don't have the power to find out for myself. Once Billy reaches his entrance, a tall figure opens the door, and I can't see its face for some reason. The figure's skin was blurred from my vision, while everything surrounding it was clear as day. Billy was looking up at the figure when I saw him pulled into the house with a jolt. Chills traveled throughout my body in a matter of seconds. I walk closer to the dividing fence with a reluctant force to get a better look, only to watch as the door is closed shut. Not long after, my mother's voice calls me from the front porch to go inside. I feel my uncontrolled body head towards the house, sensing the burning curiosity my past self has about Billy. As I approach my home, the barrier that brought me to this world again appears in my sight. It shuts fast, and the air around me begins to lighten. My vision is now dark, and another headache pulses through my veins. A noise begins, and instead of a voice, it's a repeating ring that keeps getting louder. The sound stops but is followed by three deep bangs, like a person trying to escape a closed-in box. All of a sudden, a cold breeze flows within me, and the barrier is once again lifted. I appear inside my house, at the bottom of the steps, and standing across the same calendar from earlier. However, the date has changed, and the words read **MAY 10, 1999**, or in other words, the next day. At first, I wondered what else this memory could show me. But almost instantly, I'm drawn to the front door, where my mother stood with it open, talking to Billy from inside. I noticed I was fully dressed, wearing my beat-up sneakers, and ready to go out on the dirt. I slip past her legs without saying a word, overly enthusiastic to spend another day with my new friend. "Hey Gabe! Ready to play?" Billy exclaims in total excitement, holding a large rope in his hands. "What's that for?" I ask, questioning the rope as he swirled it around like a lasso. "We're gonna play mountain climbers! I'll go into my yard and throw the rope over the fence. One of us will sit on their end of the rope, and the other will climb to the other side," he explained, jumping up and down in anticipation. While I hoped I would tell Billy how bad of an idea this was, my younger self agreed without a single thought. We ran over to the fence, and I watched Billy run to the other side. Once he made it, I placed my end onto the floor and dropped down with as much weight as possible. Now wrapping my legs around the rope, I grab on with the tightest clench my little hands can produce. On the other side, Billy prepared to go over the fence by getting into character: "Captain Gabe! Captain Gabe! I need help over this mountain!" "This is Captain Gabe speaking, loud and clear! Who am I speaking to?" "It's Private Billy, Captain Gabe! I sent a rope to the other side, so hold on tight, okay?" The two of us screamed commands at the top of our lungs. Although I'm not my present self, the sensation of being a kid filled me with joy. The laughs, smiles, and happiness of it all are something I can never get back in my adult life. A part of me wishes it could stay in this memory forever. I watched as Gabe placed his two feet on the fence wall, slowly taking steps toward the mountain's peak. I held the rope with all my miniature might, hoping it would not slip away. When Billy was about to reach the top, I noticed something peculiar as his raggedy long-sleeves fell with the air's gravity. Marks, as red as a hot coal, made a ring around Billy's wrists. The farther his sleeves fell down, the more frequently the spots appeared. I want to take a minute to process the sight, but I'm interrupted by the sound of cracking wood. "Umm, Captain Gabe? I think I'm going down!" At first, a small piece of wood flew into the air. But then, the breaking sound of the planks touching Billy's feet increased to full capacity. Together, the two of us scream, "OH…NO!" I watch in terror as Billy comes crashing down. He lands just over my head and into the grass, only inches away from kneeing me in the face. I quickly hop off and release the half-torn rope, crawling over Billy's body in complete panic. At first, his eyes are closed, and I can sense the child-like fear of getting in trouble with an adult. But then, Billy shows a smile hidden by his covering hand. He flips his head over and says in a quiet voice, "You did it, Captain. You saved me." As the two of us got up from the ground, I noticed Billy's shirt had ripped during the fall. Having a giant hole going across his chest, several cuts and bruises are revealed on the surface of his skin. I sense my younger self thinking back on the fall: *Did the fence do that to Billy? He didn't look hurt…and didn't say 'ow.' Maybe he's okay… but where did all those lines come from? I should ask him about it-* "THE FENCE" Billy screams, interrupting my former thoughts. He charges over to it, picking up the broken wooden pickets scattered in the dirt. Billy attempts to place the pieces where they fell off, only to fail in the process. I run over to help, but there's no use at this point. While watching the moment happen from a present perspective, I know the fence couldn't have caused what I see. With no control over my body, I can't act at this moment. I want to yell at my past, but it would be an unnecessary effort. I'm trapped in the head of a clueless child with no other choice but to keep watching the memory play out. "I'm in trouble… I'm in big, big trouble. He's gonna be mad…and I can't fix it. Why…why did I do this?" Billy says to himself, pacing back and forth without notice. Before I can approach to calm him down, Billy makes a run for it. He circles around the fence and reaches his back door. Once again, the black figure opens the door, but Billy rushes inside before he can be confronted. The figure looks around at the yard, facing the hole in the dark fence. It stares, and staring back is my past self, heart beating and ready to run back home. As I attempt to escape, I feel the weight of my body get heavier with every step. The world around me began to blur, and everything in sight turned to a painting of nothingness. Now I'm frozen in place, preserved in my five-year-old body, and forced to hear the thoughts of my current and past selves run wild: *Do I tell Mom and Dad what happened?* Yes, please, tell them now. *But what if he gets in trouble after I tell them?* He won't get in trouble; just listen to what I say. *I don't want us to stop being friends because of me….* The void I was trapped in became dark, and the barrier returned. Like a curtain in an opera, the barrier rose, once again transporting me to a new time. However, there were no noises, no voices, and not even the striking headache. Suddenly, I'm back at the bottom of the stairs in my home, facing the ever-changing calendar. The words shone brighter than the former days: **MAY 11, 1999.** Another day has gone, and my body moves independently out of fright. I'm charging to the front door, unable to tell if this is my past self's control. Making it to the outside, I'm instantly greeted by the sounds of sirens from Billy's house. I run to the fence, sticking my head into the hole we caused the previous day. Red flashing lights accompanied the sirens, and I saw the back door to Billy's house wide open. Exiting the home is a man and woman dressed in a white shirt over black pants. They're carrying a stretcher with a body the size of my younger self. Tears fall from my eyes as I punch and kick the fence, working with my past to break beyond this barrier, only to see that my effort was pointless. When I feel I've made a dent, my actions are stopped by a grab on my arm by my father. His calls are almost impossible to listen to as I live my final moments in this dreadful nightmare. Not even a second later, the barrier falls, the darkness fades, and my eyes finally open. I sit up almost instantly, surrounded by the cluster of storage, and notice that I am back in the body of my present self. *Billy*. I can't believe I couldn't save him. I sit on my undersized bed, pondering the last moments we had. My heart sinks deeper the more his innocent face flashes before me. I had the chance and didn't do anything. I know I was young, but I still can't help thinking the same question: *why didn't I tell my parents about the signs*? They were all there, but the unknowing conscience of a child blocked me from seeing them. I got out of bed, slipped on a pair of sneakers, and made for the front door. Awaiting was the late-night sky, clear of stars but full of clouds. Slowly, I approached the newly built fence. Its pulsing force almost held me back, like the opposite ends of two magnets. I pushed through, thinking of Billy until I was finally within reaching distance. I placed my hand on the fence, allowing the sorrowful memory to be one with the shiny white pickets. Before I release my hand, I divulge a mournful smile. Amid my thoughts, the boy I took on as a client appears before my mind. He's calling for help, and I may be the only one who can do so. With a final realization, I forged a single promise: To never make the mistake I did once before.

The year is 2050. The world is thriving. The borders are there only to let you know you should change the input language of your AI real time translator and acknowledge if it is socially acceptable to publicly experience flatulence. All the countries are one, while also keeping their unique traditions, their beautiful language and tempting foods. We have won our territorial unity, without losing our wonderful heritage. Every history class is as accurate as possible and we are not changing any narrative for the benefit or feelings or anyone. The past is the past. We will do our best to describe it exactly as it was. Economy is booming. We have not experienced a financial crisis since 2026 and even the most mundane job (like a technician at the sex robot rental) will earn you enough currency/year for a 2 bedroom flat and an exotic vacation . We have managed to balance the fallacy of constant yearly economic growth, when we have mapped it to the birth rate. For decades they have been trying to bring more capital into the economy while the birth rate was severely declining. Severe idiocy. Society is flourishing. Elders are there to guide the youngsters, and youngsters are eager to learn and respect everyone. We have successfully eradicated bias from the collective consciousness. No one cares about your skin color, your money, your sexual preferences, your political views. You are either a human, or an asshole. This is solely decided based on your behavior and ideas, a shocking concept for the woke 20’s. The chalice of science is overflowing with miracles. We keep pushing the boundaries of medicine and achieving new peaks. We find God in every pill that removes the “incurable” label from a disease. We keep trying to make our last discovery insignificant even if it seemed impossible before getting it. While I was enjoying my coffee in the morning, I hear my husband joyfully screaming: -Benito! Benito! Benito! Someone called from the institute. IT WORKS! -I hope you are not joking. This could only be achieved theoretically. -I know. I am speaking the truth. Another day, another miracle from the institute. We now have cold fusion. Unlimited energy. No greenhouse gasses. No radioactive waste. No scarcity of resources. No exploitation of poor economies in abundant countries. How did we achieve this, you ask yourself? I like to think I played a decent part in these progresses. Everything started in 2025 when I got forcefully transported to the Nonblack House, put in a dark room with a blinding light shining on me . -Congratulations Benito Moose Oolmani. You have the perfect profile! -What do you mean sir? Please let me go. People will be looking for me! -You can go home by the end of this discussion. Pay attention to what I say, and you might want to stay here. If you decide you want to go to your bing bok social media shit or fluid studies at your college, we will gladly let you go. -Yes sir. -In your file I see that our genetic lineage shows you are Jewish, Afro American, Argentinian, German, and Middle Eastern..Somewould call you a fucking walking paradox. I would call you a fuckin gold mine.

It felt frustrating in Chongqing. I was rather stuck in Hechuan. I got accustomed to lajiao (spice) there. I was a Midwesterner at the age of 22. I was raised in Illinois. I became a manic—a Ferris wheel on fire—I was hiding under a bed in a hotel. Bold like napalm. Sometimes I can never stop. Even when I was 18 in a ward arguing with staff. Always want to fight things. That’s why I refused the meds and went on a plane from America to China. I was going to be an English teacher. And like a light switch, the change and SSRIs turned me into a mess. It would be my first time experiencing psychosis. My biggest issue. I never imagined I would be stuck illegally in a country suffering a psychotic episode in my early twenties. Transplanted as pollen. I was left with a backpack and a cellphone. With a downloaded app called WeChat. I had arrogantly quit a university job in a fit. Spent the past months full of energy and not sleeping and neglecting myself, including not eating, to work on a novel. Not considering myself normally religious, I had obsessed over occult ideas during that time. Spending nights reading Aleister Crowley—haven taken a rusty pocket knife to carve a pentagram on my chest for spiritual protection. I did not have funds to fly home. My visa was connected to my previous job, which meant I had now made it void. I was an illegal resident now in China. I used a nifty app called WeChat as a messaging app, it allows users to find people near them that are also looking for others. It was like a virtual pond. All kinds of people, including sex workers trying to make things happen. It could with luck be used to find people looking for people in terms of other kinds of work. It was helpful on many occasions for finding gigs working at English training schools and also finding work as a private tutor for people. WeChat also works as a digital wallet. Mania makes me irritable. Enough to tell a boss to fuck off. Thoughts ricochet within me. Bumper cars collide. Being stuck and angry sucks. I scrolled and scrolled on a Huawei phone. Absolutely pissed off at this world. Pissed at the times police wanted to take me away for being a mess. Sometimes women get pissed. Scrolling through their phones. Angry at their cheating husbands. It really is not that hard to have flair—be a damn white oddity. Like moths to a porchlight. Particles of sand through hands. This is when I first started the habit of it… I rather go by a rather empty name of Taishen… with further explanation needed but now is not convenient. But I assure it is interesting enough and has some importance. Habits are various in nature in how they attach to and eat at marrow—like atom bombs flashing as rays evaporating DNA—sets in a way less than human as putting myself in the cage of bad things taken up—my time as a former heroin addict is left as stretch marks on me in various ways. The same goes for the first time I found myself making arrangements with middle aged married women while desperation of waves whiplashed me like sandpaper hands coming at me to leave me in a tiring state of abrasion. I had spent a night snuck away into a hotel. Found someone on a business trip. Instead of registering I waited to sneak along into the hotel elevator amongst a group of others attending the hotel, as I had no card. I headed to a designated room number. Originally I was sitting in a park. Playing on WeChat and found someone in their mid-thirties. Pictures were exchanged and I said no. She brought up paying for the hotel if I arrived. I agreed and went along. When I met I washed up after her and we used our phones to awkwardly translate what we would do. Room service knocked. I found myself hidden under a bed as I was not registered to be there. It seems unusual that it was around this time I had started working on a story of my life as a heroin addict when I got caught up in my worse manic episode ever experienced during my age of 22. Finished half that story before never going back to it after my manic episode had ended. Now I am here writing about it and wondering if the same can happen again in the process of this work. It feels extremely cliché I would write a novel about struggles with heroin addiction. It has been done many times. It’s just lame of me. I feel like my thoughts are bit off. I left the hotel the next morning with the little money I did have on a debit card. Turns out the woman was from Taiyuan. It is a city in the northern part of China in the province of Shanxi—coal country with the worst air pollution in China. She has a colleague in Taiyuan that takes courses at an English training center. I was able to contact this place in the morning via a shared contact on WeChat given to me by the stranger I met that night. Before I knew it I was sending my information and documents in my backpack at an internet café in a fax—with the intent that the woman agreed to share my information to the training center as she shared my contact to its hiring manager. It would land me a job that day that would help me out of my situation. Things turned not quite out as I expected though. I was shifted like a ball to somebody else to contact for a training center geared to teaching children. I took what I had and ran off to a train station after taking the public transit. Unfortunately I was shit for money and could not afford a high speed rail pass. The slow train would take thirty-two hours to get to my destination. I would have taken a room with a bed but all I could afford was a hard seat for the travel. Things were getting better for me in the circumstance considering I had found someone willing to take me for work despite my visa situation. The thirty-two hour train ride was horrendous in some ways, but mostly I was in excitement despite the circumstances. I’m always giddy when disappointed. I moved up and down the aisle of the train. I could not speak mandarin, but it did not stop me from trying to interact with everyone. I talked many ears off during the train ride. I went up and down the aisle trying to interact as a moth to porchlights—I could not stop even if I had wanted to. I found great enjoyment the times I did get to sit across a table from somebody my age heading to Taiyuan from Chongqing. They were a university student returning to their hometown. Another passenger who sat beside me was an elderly man with hard boiled eggs, he was eating one after another one. I highly enjoyed each and every conversation that I had. It was like my head was a lightbulb wanting June bugs to bang against it with the intensity of Roman candles shot at my mouth of nicotine tinged teeth. “If you find someone in Shanxi it is practice to pay the family money before you can get married. You would also have to already own a home and a car,” told my new friend across in their seat from me—a university passenger friend named David. “Not necessarily what I was looking for. When is the next stop for snacks?” When the train stops I am able to get out and to have a walk onto the platform to buy various goods from the vendors to take back with me to eat along the ride to Taiyuan. I had all my important documents tucked in my bag. This included my health clearance and obviously I made no mention of my mental health diagnosis or history to the doctor who had to evaluate me. My diploma and TEFL certificate were tucked away securely. A TEFL is a certificate that stands for Teaching English as a Foreign Language, it qualifies me to teach English as a second language abroad—it had only took a few months of taking a course online that I had paid for to obtain. It is easy to be happy when you can trick yourself as your own con artist. Mania can make you deceive yourself. One can be doused in napalm and still not fully recognize what is actually going on. Same goes the flicking of psychosis. Even when I have nothing I find myself in my radiating irritation the most qualified of things—the velocity of my rhythm sets me out of an orbit. The pressure cooker keeps me moving like a propeller at times. I finally arrived at Taiyuan. I arrived at the station to be greeted by Ryan my manager and his assistant Jennifer. We had our hello and introduction and they helped me get to a taxi that would bring me to my new apartment. I finally had a residence again. Apparently they were desperate for a teacher. The last teacher was from New Mexico and apparently they pulled a midnight run—that is when a teacher in the middle of the night disappears onto a plane back home without any notification of it. The apartment was okay. On the fourth floor with no elevator, so it was a bit of a climb up a dark stairwell not lit correctly. My job was a training center that had a location near Yingze Park in the center of the city. I was to be paid in cash via envelopes. I would assist in teaching kindergarten all the way up to high school aged students there in private lessons paid by their parents. I would also be assigned by my company to various primary schools in the city. I would take public buses to various schools paid by the company I worked for to give English lessons as I bounced around to various classrooms and schools in the city. Often I would receive a phone call to avoid going to work that day if my boss got inside input that officials would be doing raids to check foreigners’ visas that day. A taxi ride would always be a thrill. Caused me nerves at first, but I came to love the flying in dangerous ways along a busy road. I remember a driver beeping their horn away as they drove onto the sidewalk to pass people. They treated the pedestrians as if they were in the wrong. I came flying in front of a primary school at its front gates. I was going to start teaching a first grade classroom and a kindergarten classroom. The way schools are set up is with a wall around the entirety of the exterior of the school. There is a gate at the front where one or two security will be waiting to let people in and out of the complex of the school. I walked in front of the gate to greet the security. It was my first time with an assignment at this school. The guard said they had never seen me before and wouldn’t let me in. Not a big nuisance while I called my boss who then called the school to sort out the situation. I miss the classroom so much. I ended up teaching in China for five years at various training schools. After returning to Illinois, I still taught as a primary school teacher in a public school. I often feel extremely ugly from inside to my outside, but something is attractive there. This does not come just in terms of flirting and relationships—mania makes me a genuine lightbulb that flickers in a way that encourages the insects to me—everyone looks like a June bug—this is what I have come to understand about life. But that ugly does kind of stay like rot in a cavity that leaves a bad taste in the mouth that smells foul—hoping nobody catches the smell near me—it must tie into my struggles with bulimia over the years. The same goes for my years as a teacher—in relation to the whole lightbulb phenomenon—I’m positive it is tied to mania and hypomania. The younger students always were fixated on the information I was teaching to them. I kept over the years methods taught to me and self-taught that I found extremely effective with younger students when it comes to teaching. Everything was physical in learning in terms of intensity and ambition. When teaching my first grade classroom I would create flashcards for the vocab we would work on and implement in creating new sentences with. We would chant these words together in a way that made me a clown while teaching. Students would yell out the word that I presented with intense enthusiasm. As I walked by students it was expected that while they yelled out the word they would also physically hit the card. Later I would also work on physical gestures and acting out of vocab words and they would follow the actions and phrases with me. I would often eventually turn the class into two teams. When students got an answer right I would behave comically and full of energy—I would give them a high five and pretend they were so strong with it that it hurt my hand in the process with much exaggeration—the students always seemed to never get tired of this act. One game I would play involved drawing two stick figures with happy faces on them. Each figure would represent one of the teams for the classroom. I would draw a hungry alligator under the figures. Their faces would also be comical in appearance and full of exaggerations. Each figure had a parachute placed over them and four strings attached. During the game the students would race to say the word correctly represented on the flashcard or the correct word for the gesture I was making. The team that was not the slowest would lose a string on the parachute. If a team lost all four strings they would fall to the alligator who would eat them. The students found it hilarious with my actions involved in it. I would also draw tears and a person praying to represent anticipation and worry of falling down each time they lost a string. I had a tooth game too. I would draw too large faces for each team. The team that could answer the flashcards and gestures the quickest would have a tooth drawn in their mouth. The team with the most teeth would win and it would look rather funny as the mouth grew and grew with an abnormal and extreme amount of teeth. I often did other physical and interactive games like having students run to the word I showed a card to or gestured—each word would be attached to a point in the classroom on a wall. I know it sounds grandiose, but the parents always seemed to think I was great at my job. The word vulnerable means so many things to me. That word is like the coal to form the generator that makes the guiding energy for the ethics I follow in my life—I hold very strongly to these values that have developed on how to live—I can express it more later but I greatly attach a kind of Christian value system to it, which makes sense considering I was raised in a Lutheran household and always went to church, Sunday school, and went to my courses and went through my confirmation—everyone is a bit of a mop—some pick up clean water and others dirty or a mix of it—waiting to find the people to drain them voluntarily or involuntarily. I was born vulnerable. I walk pigeon-toed and grew up tripping on my feet—I speak with a soft feminine voice. Bipolar disorder makes somebody vulnerable. There was much vulnerability in being eighteen and hospitalized involuntarily for my first manic episode—tied to a stretcher. I have almost a sense of us vs them—the vulnerable and those that harm the vulnerable—take advantage of the vulnerable—I feel this is a very much Christian in the idea of the unfortunate are more holy than the rest of the bunch—children are like that in terms of being born into a cruel existence—a cruel existence I felt at times in my life and so many do—making sure harm does not come to those in need gives the light of purpose to go bright inside like a Christmas tree in my brain—this light of happiness and warmth. I never expected I would fall in love for teaching due to the antidepressant effect provided. It would become my career for a decade. Some grow up wanting to be a teacher, I became one by accident, desperation, and being saved. Sometimes I inflate on self-hate like a helium balloon that needs to be tied to a wrist. The vulnerability equation is imprinted on my brain. In my early teens I started struggling with bulimia and image. I remember when my mother caught me in the act. I was not offered help but criticized. I was called a girl for my problems and threatened to be taken somewhere to be fixed of my confusion. I don’t identify as transgender. I identify as a man that struggles with bulimia and happens to have feminine qualities. I attribute it to circumstances that happened to me—a justification for the pain at times—an attack on aspects of bisexuality. After a long day of work I did what my young self often did. I went clubbing with friends. I feel like even if I hide aspects of myself such as being bisexual, people can spot it regardless. I’m extremely secretive about it and not comfortable displaying that vulnerable aspect of myself. My friend from England went with me. He was about six years my senior. Big guy. Tall. The clubs name was Maoye. I always enjoyed the free drinks available to foreigners—it was done to attract Chinese clients, as the idea was foreigners being there would attract people. Amongst the hot and sweltering crowd a man grabbed ahold of me. I felt stuck. I was taken off guard. Pushed and cornered. While on me I managed to push him off. But it all serves as a reminder of the vulnerability of my life. A nail was placed into my hand—a constant burn and reminder of that vulnerability. Part 2 From self-hate I can also be so grandiose. I am like a Christmas tree that is lit up. Sparklers so pretty that you cannot let go of them, even if it burns your fingertips and hurts. From heroin to sex, you can smother the pain. You drain the ocean to fill a void in these times. It ties to mania as well. That restlessness and irritability is extinguished by the paradox of throwing kerosene to everything burning. I’m so grandiose to hide my insecurities, I mistake my misfortune as a mark of something ugly virtuous—the neon of vulnerability pulsating like a star within me. Swelling on a pain. Bad habits. I want you to judge me and tell me what’s wrong with me. Give me a verdict. Stress a trigger for mania, and I was stressed from the incident I had experienced at the club. I bloated like a tick to distract from locusts of thoughts that could not shut up with their commotion. I had been sleeping around more than before. My brain was Christmas tree lights. I accelerated on a generator—I made a mixed episode worse. Tease a disaster when you are heightened like a blimp. Full of hydrogen. Hoping to burn up ad rain down like napalm. When the pretty candles on the Christmas tree are left untouched—not looked at like a kettle on burner that has been forgotten—the dry neglected tree will into a house fire. I’ve had four attempts in my life so far. When I attempt I don’t cry for help. I feel too vulnerable. I’m afraid. Hate police and wards. Downing pills. My past failed attempts made me aware of everything done wrong before. The sleeping pills alone might not do what I was looking for at that time. I bought an electrical cable. This way if it failed I would still be unconscious and choked out by the cord—fail safe plan to end my life. The words coming out of my mouth slowed down. I started getting second thoughts. Stuck my face towards the toilet bowl while on my knees. Sticking my fingers down my throat. Leaving blood vessels bursting in my eyes. Went stumbling outside and waved a taxi down and asked to be taken to the local hospital. Never expected finding myself checked into a psych ward in a foreign country. Nietzsche has a quote in reference to chaos in life and how it is needed to create a star—this reference holds so much value to me. Sometimes stars hit together just right to create fate out of the worst of things. The ward lead me to meet the woman made of paper. She would one day become my wife. I would have two daughters with her. Forge together as soldiers to face the obstacles in life. Someone who would save my life during a future attempt when I was found unconscious from an overdose. The smartest and toughest woman I have ever known. Someone to build trenches with. I liked it when she stuck that needle in me for an IV. It must correlate to being a heroin addict. The pushing of something in my vein correlates to happiness and purity. The woman made out of paper was my nurse in the ward I was stuck in. What attracted her to the mess that is me I will never understand fully. The woman made out of paper is named Lilu. She was one year older than me and one of my nurses at that ward in Taiyuan. She was from Zhengzhou—a city in the province of Henan that is based in the center of China. I am sure as the reader it would be nice to know why I call her the woman made of paper. She struggled with her own demons. She also deserves much praise for her resilience and brains. When she was born she was raised by a family that adopted her and often neglected and abused her growing up. Her biological family is distant from her, even though she has an identical twin—they felt too poor to take care of her and made the choice that they needed to be less of one child as she also has an older sister—her twin got to stay with that family but she was given up and adopted. I am sure this must bother her even if she never will talk about it to anyone in her life—as she is one to refuse ever discussing emotions and feelings, as this is not her personality type—she is very much a fighter. I think most would struggle with wondering why they were the one let go of—it also must hurt her knowing that the family would have a son and keep him. Despite all these circumstances, she graduated top of her class of four thousand students—Chinese high schools can be quite large serving a large region—they often serve as boarding schools. She was a smart and hardworking student. Circumstances never made her stop trying to be the best and moving forward and she never made excuses for herself. In university she also did well and got accepted at the most studious and hard to obtain nursing position at the number one hospital in Shanxi. I have already ranted and gone on about my affection and feelings tied to heroin. Drinking of entire oceans to fill voids. Paper is a void. It asks for calligraphy to be written on it to make braille. This way when fingers run over skin, it tells worth—the reason for troubles—it forms connection through those words of declaration—the whining for why things are the way they are—the filling of a void like a heroin addict needing a cure—two papers come together to write upon one another—as a paper I am her typo—I stand as a falling mess with nerves like tripwire, I keep failing and losing my composer, while she stands stronger as a declaration that has been written on—when I was chased I listened to her and joined as one. I wish and intend to always serve the woman made out of paper who has saved my life and has always been there for me, being so strong despite circumstances—amongst the wind of turmoil in life I follow along her path. It was love at first sight for her but not for me. I had no interest in dating her at the time. I worked across the street of that hospital in an office building for a training center as a part time job. I would teach adults English who paid for private lessons near to Yingze park in the center of Taiyuan. She signed up for classes for me to teach her and brought me food on almost every other day that she had prepared. Eventually we found ourselves coupled fully. In a pit. I get to burn as paper amongst another’s paper. Eternally. With a life that will keep reoccurring. Part 3 Liu A woman like Chang’e lived on a moon. Far away. You can refer to me as Liu. At the age of 19 I was diagnosed with a severe nerve pain condition. It is called trigeminal neuralgia but you can call it TN for ease. I was frustrated. I had completed a degree in international finances from Chongqing University of Business and Technology. The boom of the economy was not the same. There was an urge to “lay flat”—to not try as a form of opposition to everything going on in a waning economy in China. All are elephants chained for an audience. People love to peek and stare as though they are glass doors without hinges—to be made feel useless. I developed TN at the age of 19, and was now 22. It came as an arrow, and quite literally to the face. It’s a rare nerve pain disorder often considered one of the most painful conditions known. The illness involves intense nerve pain throughout the left side of my face. It felt like someone was trying to pull all of the teeth on the left side of my face without anesthesia. The pain can leave me falling to the floor unable to speak or move while screaming profanities while choked by pain. A feeling of a knife to my face over and over again. It leaves me in absolute shock. Like Roman candles to the face. An absolute hindrance. The anticipation of not knowing when it will happen again is a nightmare at times. The disease is often called the suicide disease, apparently up to 26% try to take their lives. In a state of panic during one of the nerve attacks I began swallowing any pill near to me. I went to the hospital to have my stomach pumped when I was found comatose by my mother. I want to be Chang’e and on the moon and away from a world I have had enough of. Gossip spread around the workplace that I attempted suicide over an affair with a married man. There was too much guilt to return to the workplace. COVID did have an impact to the economy. I still remember my hometown having dirt and trees piled onto the exits and entrances to the city keep people in their places. The work I did find felt beneath me. China has what is called the great firewall that keeps something in and out of the country’s networks. A VPN was necessary to access American TikTok as it was used as opposed to the Chinese version. Feels humiliating the nature of the outcome for me—I gave up in many ways like so many Chinese youth. For work I would go to a local office building. Amongst a long hall would be a room for live stream performers. I would entertain with watchers while trying to obtain virtual gifts for actual money. I despised it—sometimes the conversation could be funny or interesting but it felt hollow. I would paint flowers on my face and wear hanfu clothing while doing ASMR. I had a mind of sparklers burning until it burnt and stung like wax—like I had the option to stop and cry and those tears stuck as wax and burnt or I soldiered on and grew accustomed to the pain. I was an elephant chained. The audience watched and interacted with me on the live. I was a chained elephant when it was found out about my previous attempt and when the rumors spread. Too many thorns in life. Nails hitting at the wrong points like an equation for something terrible to eventually happen. My favorite dish was Henan noodles. I often cooked it with my mom. It provides great memories of childhood. I hadn’t talked to my mother as much as before. She moved to a job in Taiyuan. Sometimes I would go up to visit her. But it was harder as she worked more and more hours. Sometimes voids build even when going through extreme nerve pain. And with trigeminal neuralgia, the pain was so intense that I would freeze and scream in pain. It cannot always be hid. It made me an elephant tethered. Life can be like a pressure like no other. Too much stress. Makes one feel irritable with a mouth like a sprinkler of napalm when someone is too close. Life feels like a lit fire cracker held—in the end it would tear my hand up. Things kept building while the other side of my face began to hurt too recently. This was rare and not so common. My eyesight was becoming blurry too and it seemed I might have multiple sclerosis as the pain was on both side, it was not common for my age, and the blurry eyesight. An appointment was scheduled and I felt terrified to know what was going on and wondered if it was best to not even know my health. I walked out of the studio and had a cigarette. My boss came out and joined to talk. He was concerned about view count and wanted me to do things to increase it that made me feel uncomfortable. He made a few comments I found incentive. The boss sure liked to criticize and apply pressure. He was not impressed with my work and thought I could do something different. In China an application is used called WeChat. This application has many uses. People can display and share moments like a Facebook wall, message each other, send money, video chat, and even has a feature to find people near to you who are also looking for people near to them. I was to attract people onto dates. The idea was they would be lured in and the men would go to a set destination to a planned tea house that served snacks. When the men arrived (they had no knowledge of the setup) the bill would be at an absurd rate and if the men refused to pay larger men would use their size to force them to pay up. I was not sure at the time yet if I wanted the job. Being worried about ethics and safety. It was something I would have to think about. My medical expenses were growing and I knew the nerve disease could be expensive to treat with surgery. All I had was thoughts while looking at the moon. Part 4 Taishen My former roommate in the ward I shared a room with had paranoid schizophrenia. I was stuck in the same place due to mania, and just had gotten my diagnosis of bipolar disorder. I was so pissed being stuck there and felt I had no business being there. I found my diagnosis to be an insult to me. I was only 18 at the time—taken in on a stretcher. Made me feel very vulnerable and irritated. My roommate was having delusions related to Christianity and could not stop waking me up in the middle of the night to ask and talk about Jesus. Left me beyond frustrated. He was drifting from his wife and would go on and on about intending to leave her. Felt he was spied and plotted against by her. So we were both frustrated with being there. The toilets were special. They would flush what needed to be flushed but not certain things like pills—it helped to keep people from hiding they were not taking their medications. He had tried to flush his wedding ring down the toilet but he did not realized it didn’t flush. I went to use the restroom later and saw the ring. I told him. He took it out. He found it to be a sign form God that he is to stay with his wife, and there was immense happiness in his eyes. Tisishen Part Continued.. I was stuck at my current work at Mao’ye. A mall in the central part of Taiyuan in Shanxi. Coal dust central China. Frequent dust storms leaving me having to wipe the window sills of dust piles collecting. Life felt dry as the air—numb. I never know what I want. Drifting like paper in a breeze. 23 and feeling empty. Left the previous English training center I working at teaching adults. Company started going bankrupt. Boss was an asshole. He was originally from Datong near to Inner Mongolia. That boss ran the company horribly. Was a coward of a boss. He would watch the cameras and email complaints on my dress code and not talk to me in person. A coward. When the company was nosediving I got sent an email in the middle of the day stating my job would be terminated by the end of the month. I worked in china as an American. In china most jobs are based on contracts between employees and employers. I was supposed to continue another seven months with my job. The contract was broken when they emailed me saying they could not keep me due to salary. Contracts can be broken due to performance but not due to finance issues. I had already work for them a year on another contract. The law in China states I was due to be paid a year and a half of salary. My boss was such a coward to not speak to me in person and email the letter. I marched in his office and got told to fuck myself. I talked to the labor board at the local government office. I was told was told that I that they would have to pay me a year and a half of salary for breaking my contract. Those times were rather gray for me. Clouds were heavy like gnats flying around the face. My girlfriend at the time was a stern nurse. The girl made of paper. She stayed beside. My fortress. Put up for adoption by her family in Henan. Where her adopted mother would put her hands in scolding hot water for punishment. She marched into my boss’s office and created a storm. He refused to budge. A few days later when the labor office contacted him he was willing to keep me for the rest of my contract. The labor office said that because my job was offered back I could not be paid if I left my job, as it would be my choice at that point. Frustrating. My wife had her uncle’s boss contacted from Taiyuan to go into the office. She had some influence in the area. She threatened to look over various certificates to get the branch in trouble. My boss did not budge. I decided to just go ahead and leave this English training center for teaching adults. I went for a new company that paid more passed in the Moye mall on the other end of the city. Now I would be teaching children again like I used. Is this all I am? A server? It makes me think of a time right before I met the woman made of paper. Stern from her experiences. A fighter. I like fighters. I met fighters before. Reminds me of a story. A story I hold deeply to my heart. There was a woman named Ming. I met her through surfing on WeChat nearby searching for people looking for others nearby. Older by a few years. Met and became acquainted over messages. Christmas tree lights in my head Perched to be exploited… Balloon with the air let out Hissing all the time… because it whines The inferno in me wants me to burn Because it feels right Christmas trees lit are under pressure—they know if they dry up the whole building will be in flames So you have to be festive when you decorate—and avant-garde with who you decorate with Maximalist at heart with pleasure Nomads tend to wander to find a better part of the steppe With a phallus as a Swiss Army Knife, Paddling in northern China building a trench 22 year old Midwesterner with psychosis looking for a frigate to save him from the deep end Impulsivity a catalyst for losing everything I don’t care if you’re married, if you have a tunnel you can help me in the trench Two staged rocket— Already psychotic Be a Launchpad So I can get even further from earth Ripple through the galaxy like I got a mission— Even if it’s delusional Another N1 Get myself on disconnect in the vacuum Even if I come down Iike napalm. I met Ming because I needed her and she needed me-even if she was married. I was 23 and without security. MY first job that I forgot from my boss Ryan was insane at times. Working without a visa for a company was unbearable. I felt obligated to my boss at that time he promised he could solve my issue if I worked hard for him. And I did. He was a bit corrupt too and not the greatest. Always offering going to brothels with people to make deals happen, including trying with me too. I never went. I did work hard for him though. I wanted to escape my predicament and he knew all the right people to contact to fix my problems if I met my obligations. Obligations could mean being asked to go to another training center to work part time and gather their curriculum for my school. It felt unstable not knowing when I could get arrested or taken away. Made Ming a perfect connection to come across. I needed a friend that brought stability. She was a radio broadcaster in the city. Extremely wealthy. She would take me on outings eating delicious cuisine in the city or among weekend trips to interesting places nearby. I consider her one of the greatest friends I had. Because of her it was getting to meet other connections at outings with friends at KTV and clubs in the city. Like rhizomes growing out of a tree. Sustainability. It led to more rhizomes of connections. Something I want to talk more about. But I need to move the clock a bit. To the start of this ramble. I was working in Maoye. I was on a legal visa at this time. My colleagues were not legal. They were often Slavic. Russian, Ukraine, and other Slavic nations. We had an office in the building setup on a third floor of a large mal with various classrooms for the foreign teachers to teach in. They would generally have a Chinese teaching assistant to help them in the classrooms. I taught students from pre-k age to middle school there. In the middle of the setup of the floor layout was a large open office. I would sit and plan lessons and grade amongst the Chinese staff and foreign teachers. One day I grep of plain clothed officers came into the facility. They were checking on teachers on the wrong visas. The Russian teachers and others often could not fluently speak English or qualify for the correct visas—they didn’t meet the right requirements for work visas and would be on other various kinds of visas. They stormed in and I remember my Russian friend hearing the commotion tore his shirt with his logo on it and threw it on the ground in a rush. He ran shirtless down a stair well nearby flinging the doors open. Fear, anger… got to fill their class schedule while they are all out hiding. Final Taishen I met Chang’e. Do you believe in the transplanting of thoughts? I do. Like pollen. My thoughts can transplant and Change can do the same too. Mania got me again. I wrote a poem when I was younger to express it. Feeling bold and exacerbated Maybe I am just high strung Ricocheting off these walls like bumper cars A sparkler burning hot and bright Popping off like roman candles I am not always calm, but I am high, A kettle left on the burner and forgotten, Watch me melt away into my ecstasy Where I dance and scream all in one I’ll hit peak when crisis comes. I hadn’t been sleeping. I took a second English teaching job and was seeing attending to seeing different people besides Ming. Ming was kind and always took me on nice dinner dates. I didn’t have to worry about expenses and felt secure. I was back on my smartphone looking and fishing for people nearby. Chang’e came in as a breeze from Luoyang to meeting a relative in Taiyuan. Chang’e was working for a boss in Taiyuan. She would go on the WeChat application looking for men nearby. Flirt to get them to meet her. Like moths in dark they get to the lights: Useless as a glass door. You can peek through. Pigeon-toed. Drained an ocean to fill insecurities. Uncomfortable thoughts ricochet in me. Like an ambush. Giddy when disappointed. I build trenches amongst the tripwires of life. City feels like a tsunami. Manners like a bloated tick. Sipping the veins from any limb around me. As a stranger to a moth, a porch light pulling. Desolate in lost thoughts. Nights awake and bunkering in hotels. Soft in my voice, I hopscotch to hands—falling through like particles of sand. With enough friction to set off an atom bomb. To radiate right through me, and hollow my marrow. Amongst open nerves I can feel something, so I play with the pain. No matter how annoying. As particles I transplanted through to her screen as we lay in our separate beds in the city. Mania makes me dumb. We flattered away. Fused as particles. Her intent was for me to arrive at a designated location to drink and eat late into the night—11:00 p.m. With this given location I would be taken down like an elephant via poachers—that was the intent. At the location I was to be given an outrageous bill for the service and if I did not pay a group of big men would use their physical presence to get me to pay. When I met her at the given location outside the door. I knew the tricks. I tested her. Asked if she would be willing to eat at another location. She thought she would eat me and I thought I would eat her. My test was asking her to go to another place at the KTV nearby where I knew somebody that worked there—a karaoke location—the LED lights shining and me and her staring at the direction of them. She hesitated and insisted on the location next to us. I said I had to go—before I left to contact if willing in the future to go to the KTV. Where a perpetual hydrogen bomb would go off on our fused particles.

After I left work, I waited for Alice at a park near my house where we walked along a path. “Alice, you haven’t any boyfriends?” “No, David although I came close a few times. And what about you, David? No girlfriends for you?” “A few crushes, but one did try to apologize for thinking of me as a creep.” “When did that happen, David?” “A few years after high school graduation. We saw each other at a free music festival and she came up to me and tried to apologize to me, but I didn’t say anything back to her.” “Where do you go to college, David?” I told her the name of my college and she immediately smiled. “I go there too, David.” Several days later at my college campus where that I am currently a student of, I attended a social event and beforehand wanted to make sure that Alice was in line to get in. Although social events aren’t really her thing, she wanted to do something different other than what she usually does whenever she’s by herself despite having some friends. Many people in attendance were dressed “old-school” style, as if like “The Golden Age of Hollywood.” I wore a formal green shirt with dark trousers and dark formal shoes to match. Looking briefly at myself in a window, I was confused if I looked good or looked stupid because in my opinion, I looked like a young Humphrey Bogart in part because I was slouching with my shoulders onto the table where I was sitting waiting for Alice. Alice walked in wearing a solid light blue dress with her hair long and her glasses on. I was not expecting her to dress in such a way, but I was impressed. “You look beautiful, Alice.” She smirked and said, “You look pretty handsome yourself, David.” She then looked around and said in part because the crowd was starting to get big, “Where’s the food table, David? I’m starving my ass off!” I laughed and got into the line where we talked some more as we waited to eat. After we got some food, we sat at the table where I waited for her at. As music began to play, I suddenly felt a strange feeling of anxiety. “Alice, why do you want to reconnect now? I don’t get it.” “David, before we saw each other at where you work, I had a feeling that someday we would see each other again despite what caused us to change ages ago.” Now you may be wondering to yourself, “Okay, these two lovebirds got older, no longer felt attracted to each other anymore, then started to have feelings for other kids. But why just by chance years after the fact of whatever changed them?” Well, it’s not as simple as you may think. It traumatized us to the point where we believed that we may not see each other again. No, it was not something obvious, such as a school shooting or witnessing something, but Alice and I did witness something so horrific when we were kids.

Ansel turned in the air as his body arced gracefully to the side. His hand reached out over his head to find the large stone it knew would be there. With the anchor provided by the half buried rock, his wrist and arm twisted and his body angled in just the right direction. A half a heartbeat later, the other hand touched ground and his body followed through into a roll that he came out of into a crouch behind a wide stonewood trunk. Fist sized spheres of blue-white flame flew through the air where he had been. His heart beat quickly, excited but not upset. His lungs were only just getting worked up. Rangers. They had sent an entire unit of Rangers. He chuckled soundlessly to himself. Only a unit. At least it wasn’t more Legionnaires or Vigilar. Rangers might actually be a bit of fun. Ansel had never killed a Ranger before. He breathed softly and slowly. Everything was silent. They were waiting. Idiots. He was better at waiting than anyone alive. “We have you surrounded Blademaster,” called a deceptively delicate female voice. “We don’t want to hurt you.” No they didn’t. It was one of the many things that made normal Mageguard so uncomfortable to be around. “The Tessar just wants to talk to you.” His expression fell and he drooped slightly into a crouch behind the tree. The Tessar. So she had survived, and had been healed enough to be able to talk. Talk talk talk. All she ever did was talk. Talk and punish. She would probably not even be upset. If his target had been anyone other than herself, the Tessar would have been disappointed by his inefficiency. It wouldn’t stop her punishing him though. His skin rippled down his back and arms. The dream flashed in his mind. He blinked against it and shook his head. No. No more punishments. There was the sound of branch pushed gently out of the way to the south-south east. His ears thought about the sound for half a heartbeat. It was two sets of lightly armoured boots and reinforced bayr-leather trousers brushing past greenberry bushes about ten meters away. They were both men by the weight of their footfalls. Another armoured boot on lichen, eight and a half meters to the south-west. The Actus’s voice had been to the east-north-east. They’d be in pairs. Ansel couldn’t help but nod to himself in appreciation. The Actus hadn’t been lying. They really did have him surrounded. It was idiotic of course, but it was more than a whole Column of Legionnaires could have achieved. “They’re never going to stop coming for you Blademaster.” the delicate voice called, this time a half meter closer, “You know that.” Six Rangers in pairs, all approaching cautiously and on the defensive. His face smiled. What to do. What to do. His toes flexed happily in the damp earth. His feet wanted to feel a sternum crack. Would a Ranger’s leather armor be enough to protect them from that? Probably. Both feet wanted to find out very badly though, and even his knees were curious. One hand wanted to palm a nose bone up into one of Ranger’s brains, but the other one wanted to carefully squeeze carotid arteries, totally starving one of those brains of oxygen. It wanted to see if they would spasm and have a seizure. He knew there wasn’t time for that though. His hands had been obsessed with brains lately. They would need to have their fun in quicker ways for now. He ignored the yearning of the akinaash on his belt. It would be fastest of all, but the Rangers would be way more fun without the blade. It could wait it’s turn. To his surprise, his right knee wanted to break a sternum too, but his left knee wasn’t bothered. His knees were full of opinions. Now both elbows felt left out. His forehead quietly hoped for the simplicity of slamming into a jaw bone and breaking it, but knew the Ranger’s jaw guards would make that too hard. His thumbs wanted to gouge out eyes. His arms knew they were too little but wanted to try breaking a neck anyway. Then his teeth wanted to try tearing out a major artery even though his tongue didn’t really like the taste of blood. And again his knees chimed in, both full of ideas about helping with the neck breaking. There was never enough killing to go around. A twig snapped to the south-south east. Ansel sighed, ignoring his knees and focusing on the impatient pair of Rangers coming from that direction. Apparently they wanted to be first. They just weren’t quite close enough yet. He waited. And waited. It gave his eyes plenty of time to take in and memorise the detail of his surroundings. When they had done their work, they closed and Ansel left his ears listening for the Rangers while he mapped out the nearby forest in his mind. There were the trees, the greenberry bushes, a couple of larger rocks, the old fallen rowan behind him, the high branches of the huge stonewood, ferns, bushes, a couple of saplings, various other trees, and of course the six Rangers in their slowly shrinking triangle. His ears told him that the eager pair really were rushing things. They were only a half dozen meters away now, on the edge of a small clearing, thinking they hid behind tall ferns and a small copse of broadleafs. His ears could just make out their whispers as they cast their shield spells. Idiots. Taking a slow breath, he made sure arms and legs were ready and let his heart and lungs get a bit excited. Sternums awaited! With a little smile his legs tensed and he launched himself at an angle through the high ferns, diving into a roll on the other side before springing up again. His hand reached out to grab a broadleaf trunk as he flew through the air, changing his momentum and swinging round just as the two Rangers were crouching into their defensive stances, shield hands raised in front of them. Good, Vigilar wouldn’t have been so quick and this would have gotten very messy. As expected, the Rangers' low stance allowed Ansel’s slender body to sail over their heads. Legs moving in a perfect arc, they landed him in a spinning motion behind the pair. As his upper body flowed down, he let his torso and arms channel the momentum of the landing into both his fists, striking forward into two poorly protected tailbones. Ranger armor was far more minimal than a Legionnaire’s. He wasn’t strong, even with his body’s skill and control, but he was the fastest his trainers had ever seen. Both Rangers recoiled in pain and surprise, lurching reflexively and crying out as they turned into each other. Ansel’s hands retracted and shot out again, this time upward. Two pairs of fingers slammed between the small jawguards and reinforced collars, nearly crushing a carotid artery in each neck. The idiotic pair jerked and twitched, pain and shock compounding. They were almost tangled in each other and as one of their heads whipped round, Ansel took a chance to slip a rigid pair of digits through the helmet’s faceplate. He wasn’t quite big enough yet to burst an eyeball from a single strike, but it helped throw the ranger off balance a bit more, and his shield spell disappeared from the back of his hand. Both were losing their balance and teetering over, though at least one of them was still focused enough to grasp awkwardly towards him as they fell. The initial attack had taken five heartbeats. Fingers and hands worked quickly as the pair crumbled to the ground. His right hand found a chance to punch one of the Ranger’s trachea. The gurgling noise made the smile on Ansel’s face broaden as he went to work on the other. As it turned out, neither his knee nor his foot got what they wanted. Designed for agility and mobility as it was, even the leather and linen of Ranger armor was protection enough to keep sternums from breaking. Oh well. Maybe another day. Millis officers never wore armor at all! He’d been wanting the chance to kill one of them for a long time. They were only ever in cities though. Going to one of the capitals would be risky while they were searching for him, but it might be worth the risk to break a Millis officer sternum! One thing at a time though. You didn’t get dessert if you didn’t finish your dinner. By the time the two Rangers lay in choking heaps, clawing at their destroyed windpipes, it had been more than twenty heartbeats and the second pair was almost on him. The third and final pair with the soft voiced woman was close behind. They weren’t rushing like the first two idiots though, they moved slowly and carefully. Shield hands up and attack hands ready. They couldn’t see him, and he couldn’t see them, but it didn’t really matter. It was as if he could. His mind knew exactly where they were and what they were doing, it always did. He nodded to himself. Four at once could be fun. As they approached, Ansel picked up a dead branch and snapped it over a knee, then tossed the two splintered halves off to his right for later. With a happy giggle, legs launched him up and hands grabbed the trunk of one of the thicker broadleafs and he scrambled up it soundlessly, careful to spread his weight evenly around the soft branches. Twenty seven heartbeats later, all four remaining Rangers stepped carefully through the underbrush. They were in a tight formation, shields summoned, finally having realised how idiotic it had been to separate in the first place. Unusually, Ansel’s logic chose that moment to have an opinion, pointing out that the Rangers weren’t used to fighting other humans, let alone a Blademaster, so it was a bit unfair to judge so harshly. Considering how rarely his logic had opinions on much of anything, Ansel decided to listen. Maybe it wasn’t the Ranger’s fault. Still. Nothing was anybody’s fault really. They were still idiots. They were still going to die. Idiots. As the four Rangers approached, it was like they didn’t even see their dead comrades. One of them glanced at the downed pair, the bigger of the two bodies still jerking slightly as he choked to death on his own collapsed throat. None of the four even paused. Ansel had another little moment of appreciation. Legionnaires and Vigilar almost always lost control in some way. They got angry or sad or stupid or some other idiotic thing. The four Rangers just moved slowly past their dead comrades. Right under Ansel. Two of them were women. He’d save them for last if he could. Women were special. Like the Tessar. He remembered his blade sliding through her face. A flash of the dream shook him and his head jerked, hitting a branch. The mind images faded quickly, but he had made a noise.The damage was done. One of the rangers jerked their head up and whispered to the others urgently. A heartbeat later all four were motionless with their shields raised over their heads. Merda. Ansel’s heart was afraid now. He forced it to stop panicking. Adrenaline just made everything shaky. “He’s up there. Don’t even blink.” The unit’s Actus whispered, the softness was gone. They waited. He waited. He was the best at waiting. Leaves rustled on the breeze. Somewhere nearby birds sang briefly to each other. A tree vole scampered through branches behind him. One of the men shifted his weight. Ansel grinned. Another volunteer. One of Ansel’s hands was on a long thin branch, the other to his side, his legs coiled against the trunk. His toes gripped satisfyingly on soft bark. Two of his fingers were sore but he ignored their complaining. There was fun to be had. In a heartbeat he shook the thin branch like a whip, and the leaves at its distant end shook violently. In the same instant, his feet and legs pushed, thrusting him down at the ground like a thrown stone. The rangers were focusing on the shaken leaves when Ansel landed on his hands in front of the volunteer Ranger. His arms absorbed what little force his lithe body could produce, coiling like a leaf-adder, then releasing it all at once, throwing his feet under his raised shield and into the chest of the man. Ansel’s feet didn't get to break a sternum, but they got the painful impact on the man’s chest armor and the satisfaction of pushing him backward into the other three. All of them with their attention still on the tree and their shields still raised over their heads. How had the idiots fallen for the same trick twice in a row? That’s what you got for relying on magic. He had been out of the tree for two heartbeats and the rangers were stumbling, their little formation destroyed. One of them tripped on a root and started to fall. Ansel’s ears heard a whisper. Blue fire sprang from their Actus’s hand and smoke and steam rose from the ground where Ansel had been. He was already wrapping his legs around the waist of one of the men, much to his surprise. He punched the Ranger once in the open face plate of his helmet, breaking his nose, and when the man jerked his head back reflexively in pain, Ansel punched him three times in his exposed trachea. It was boring and repetitive, but it worked. Even as the man fell, choking, Ansel leapt back as he heard the spells muttered behind him, deftly avoiding another volley of blue-white flame. His logic was surprised. Mageguard never fired with their comrades in such close quarters. At least they weren’t supposed to. This Ranger Actus was either smart enough or desperate enough to break the rules. Good for her. Still, it meant he needed to move faster. The tripped women had fallen completely, but the two rangers left standing were focused on him now. Ansel leapt around from spot to spot. Ground to tree, to ground, to ground, to tree root, to ground, to tree. Now the tripped woman was recovering. Ansel dodged the fireballs easily, moving chaotically, working to keep them off balance and lead their attention away from the tripped woman. It worked. It shouldn’t have, but even this brave Actus was an idiot. Both his feet and hands were complaining a bit now, though his heart and lungs had reached a lovely state of excitement. One more leap, but this one turned into a side roll on impact instead of a bounce, and he tumbled for a half heartbeat. As the three Rangers were looking where they thought he was going to be, he was under the tripped woman just as she was getting back to her feet. He grabbing an ankle and pulled with all his meagre strength. Already off ballance, she went down relatively easily, turning in the air like a tumbler clown. Her arm went out just in time to keep herself from landing on her head, but he was there to grab that hand away, simultaneously reaching up to put a hand behind her head and help her face slam into the half buried broadleaf root she had tripped over in the first place. There was a lovely crunch from the flimsy helmet. She wouldn’t be dead yet though. He’d have to come back to check on her after. By the time the woman’s body had gone limp, the other two had turned and fired. Ansel was already in the air, arcing to the dry, shattered branch he had prepared earlier. Fire singed the tattered remnants of his shirt as he paused to retrieve his makeshift weapons. His mind knew it was the other woman, the Actus, who had gotten so close to catching him. She was learning. Time for the direct approach. He leapt straight at the last man standing. The Ranger crouched into a defensive stance just in time, his meter wide shield of impenetrable magic springing from the back of his hand as he swung it in front of him. Through the invisible disc of force, Ansel could see the man’s eyes widen as he flew straight at the shield. He turned in the air, twisting and reaching out with the two half sticks gripped carefully in the ends of his fingers. He landed on the shield, grabbed its edges, and held on. “Whaa …” the man lurched back like he was a frightened kid and a bug had landed on his hand. Ansel grinned as he perched over the top edge of the wall of rippling force. You couldn’t really touch a Mageguards shield. It wasn’t really there, it was a sort of un-thing. A shield was the absence of. It was the absorption and reflecting of. His feet, braced against it, were panicking, going mad with the impossibility of what they were doing, but he ignored them. His hands, holding the sticks that gripped the edge of the shield that wasn’t there, were nervous of course, but they had the sticks. Sticks existed. They might be stuck and held onto the rippling edge of nothing, but they were sticks. Hands could hold on to sticks. It had only been a heartbeat or two. In another one, the panicking Ranger might drop his shield out of pure shock. Ansel needed to be quick, even for him. In a single heartbeat, his right hand and it’s stick left the shield. That arm arced down around the shield and back again, then he coiled himself to leap backwards off the Ranger. As he did however, the guardsman jerked and stumbled. Instead of his planned leap back, Ansel went half flying, half falling to the side, right into the path of the Actus’s gauntleted fist. Pain shot through him and he coughed as he hit the ground. At least three of his ribs screamed out, shattered by the impact of the woman’s blow. He had to breathe and focus, but breathing hurt. His lungs struggled and choked. He rolled onto his right side, away from the pain and towards his attacker. She stood there, shield dismissed and armoured fists raised. Good. She had finally learned. Behind her, the last of her comrades had fallen to his knees, his own leather and metal-clad hand clasped uselessly around his neck. Blood gushed from between his fingers. The hole left by Ansel’s broken stick was wide and ragged. The Ranger would be all but empty by the time his head hit the dirt. Ansel pushed himself up onto his knees, wincing despite himself. His left arm was terrified. “The Uma and the Tessar want you back Blademaster, but I’m going to kill you.” she settled into an attack stance reserved for Vigilar sparring. With legs at an angle to him, weight on the balls of her feet, she held her right hand in front of her face, open but ready, and her left hand back beside her helmet, unclenched but tensed. He smiled as he stood, finally able to quell most of the pain in his side. Maybe this one wasn’t an idiot. Her face was calm, not showing any of the doubt or fear that most did when confronted with him. She was a hand or two taller than him, and likely twice his weight with armor on, but showed no sense of foolish arrogance. She led with her strong side forward, careful and confident. Her hands looked excited. His hands certainly were. His feet had already forgotten the un-ness feeling of the shield and were enjoying the soreness of the fight and softness of the ground under them. He couldn’t quite stand up straight, but it was just as well. He kept his left arm limp, the unbloodied half of the stick barely held between a couple fingers there, dangling. She didn’t move or even glance at the apparently useless hand, and his mind knew she was buying it. People always believed in weakness and doubted strength. With the red stained stick in his right hand pointed toward her, Ansel crouched into an attack stance of his own. She lunged forward. He dodged easily under the first two swings. She wasn’t used to this, despite her confidence. He swept to her side, moving and darting, avoiding fists and forcing her to pivot, twist, and move on his terms. There was no point in striking back. In a proper one on one fight, neither his fists nor his little wooden daggers would be of any use. He would wait for the right opportunity. But she might not be an idiot. She might realise what he was doing and retreat. And every dodge or move he made shot pain all through him. But it didn’t matter. He could feel the pain after. Ducking and rolling despite the agony in his ribs, he stabbed obviously up towards her side. Her gauntlet moved and swatted his arm out of the way. He knew her deflection was coming and moved with the blow, but that parry would leave a bruise on his bony wrist. He feigned another attack, still with his right hand, this time towards a raised armpit. It was always a good weak spot. She parried again, just as she was meant to. His legs were getting tired. His side ached. His arm was complaining. He let his attacks get slower and weaker. The couple dozen heartbeats of their little dance was beginning to drag on. She was never going to land another proper punch on him, nobody was quick enough for that, even when he was letting himself feel the fatigue. But it was getting boring, and it was taking more and more focus to keep going. His ears were trying to tell him something. His mind knew something. He couldn’t afford to listen to either of them though. He dodged again, darting to the left, ducking, then stepping back, then lunged to the right. He needed all his focus to block the pain and stay moving. Dodge. Turn. Fake thrust and parry. Duck. There! The hanging left hand sprang up and forward as he spun inside her guard. His whole body followed the tightly gripped shard of wood as it slammed through the open face of her helmet, into and through the glistening softness of white and brown. The collected force of his body crushed dry wood against the thin bone at the back of her eye socket and shards of branch continued through, destroying cream coloured jelly on the other side. His face was close enough to feel her last breath on his forehead and see the moment of realisation in her other, still seeing eye. Thrill rippled through him like a wave over a riverbank, tingling and arcing through his limbs. The cool forest breeze was ecstasy on his skin. Knees and ankles weakened and both arms went limp in pleasure. Hands let go of their wooden implements. A thin moan escaped him. “That’s quite enough!” His eyes shot open and his body froze. The thrill vanished like it had never been. The pain in his side, the soreness of his feet and hands, all his senses crashed back into awareness. “Turn around Ansel.” His body obeyed before he knew what was happening, limping slowly in a small circle between the knees and arms of the crumpled Ranger Actus. Now he realised what his ears and mind had been trying to tell him. He was surrounded. Properly this time. Thirty Rangers in a wide circle around him. Thirty six minus six. He had only faced a single unit out of an entire Column, and the rest stood cautiously behind trees, bushes and high ferns. Well within their optimal range and well out of his. Not that any of them were needed. Stepping casually through the trees, Tessar Betta stopped at the opposite side of the little clearing now filled with corpses, a safe distance from him. Her lined face wore a gentle smile. Her perpetual and unyielding little grin. The dream flashed in his mind and his face twitched. Ansel’s body ignored that though and stood to rigid attention, ribs screaming. He watched her, almost unblinking, terror flooding his veins. She was no idiot. Hands clasped loosely in front of her, uniform pressed and perfect, everything in simple order. She stared down at him like they sat in her office at the camp. Her shaved head glistened slightly in the dappled light through the branches. A small scar, exactly the width of his akinaash blade, drew a pale line across the light brown wrinkles of her cheek. The healers had done good work. A pair of Rangers appeared behind her and moved to stand on either side. They didn’t bother with their shields. They didn’t even have the decency to stand defensively. Idiots. “You’ve done well.” she said casually. He should respond. His voice wanted to. It needed to. “Thaaa …” He fought and won, stifling the words to a groan. Her eyebrow twitched, but she recovered quickly, “The Actus was correct Ansel. We were never going to let you run around like this for long.” He hated her so much. So deeply and completely. The hatred was a part of him, not like a hand or lung, but interwoven with the true him inside. She had tricked him. The whole fight with the unit was a distraction so they could box him properly. He was such an idiot! The loathing burned in him, growing brighter. His right hand, sore as it was, twitched at his side. He had done it once. He had managed to fight the dream and kill her once. Summoned by the thought, the dream flashed brightly in his mind, but he managed not to react this time. Both hands wanted so badly to crush the life from her. Every part of his body called out for her to die in a different way. His akinaash, strapped to his hip, remembered her near-death fondly. His right hand twitched again. Her eyes shot to the movement, “I said that was quite enough.” The dream flashed and his hand froze at his side. No. He could do it. He had already done it. “You’ve always been the smartest of your brothers Ansel, but it gets you into trouble. Umkuula Sara has always wanted to put you down for it.” Rage flared again at the Umkuula’s name. His feet wanted to feel her skull crushed under them. The dream flashed. He blinked. Tessar Betta gave a small approving nod. “We’ve let you have your fun but now it’s time to come home and get back to work. You’re almost ready for your final duel.” That made his hands happy. He had killed so many of his brothers over the years, working his way through the training. It wasn’t as fun as Rangers or even Vigiar, but it was better than nothing. “That’s what you’ve always wanted isn’t it Ansel?” she said, letting her little smile widen sickeningly, “To finally be deployed?” His throat seized and his voice yearned. He fought. He wouldn’t say it. He had to fight. “Ye .. yessss … ttt… tteess …” He clamped his jaw shut with everything he had, teeth cutting into tongue. In the moment of stabbing pain, his akinaash called out, the dream flashed, but the call won and his blade was in his hand. The memory of the thrill rippled from the hilt and into his fingers. Tessar Betta blinked. The Guardsmen took a stance. Boots all around him moved against branch, fern and shrub. She held up a hand. They froze. “If you don’t stop this nonsense immediately Ansel, you’re going to have to spend some time in the box when we get home.” The dream flashed. But his akinaash was still in his hand. The thrill warmed up his arm in little ripples. “I know the trooss.” he said carefully around his swollen tongue. The Tessar sighed patiently, “And what truth is that?” “Magic ishan reaw.” She arched an eyebrow. “Of course it’s real Ansel. What can you possibly mean.” The warmth had moved up to his elbow. “Magic ishent real.” Her arm shot out with surprising speed, her mouth moving imperceptibly as she cast a blue white ball of flame that flew over his right shoulder, warming his ear. “Then what was that Ansel?” All he wanted was to kill her. It was all his akinaash wanted. All he needed. To be free. The dream flashed in his mind again, but the waves of thrill were nearly at his shoulder. “The Book uv the Guard.” he said slowly, “The shpelsh.” he forced his mouth to make a frown. “What about them?” “They’re not real.” Three more fireballs flew past him. One singed his ear. He shook his head. “You’re being ridiculous now Ansel. I can only imagine what Umkuula Sara would say to such a thing if she was here.” The thrill reached his shoulder, spreading into his chest. He gritted his teeth and shook his head. “Fine. That’s twelve hours in the box when we get home.” The dream flashed. The agony and terror. The mind-breaking of it overwhelmed him and his head twitched. But he still held his akinaash. The thrill still spread, rippling out and warming him, pushing back the dream. “Ish not wordsh. All the Booksh of Magic are a lie.” Her eyes went wide. Even the Rangers behind her reacted in shock. “Bold faced blasphemy now Ansel?” she shook her head, her grin turning to one of putrid sympathy, “I never thought I’d see the day.” she nodded, as if to herself. “Three days in the box Ansel.” He smiled slowly. “That’s funny is it Ansel? Fine. A week! A full week in the box. What do you think of that?” Waves of warm thrill washed over his chest and up into his mind. He had always been the best at waiting. “Yer a liiiiiiaarrrrrrrrr.” Her smile cracked and he saw it in her eye. A moment of fear. He had won. His heart beat once. The dream flashed, pulsed, fought. The feeling filled him. The feeling inside his crate. Where they had put him. The light through the cracks. The muffled sounds. The smell of his own filth around him. His throat raw from days of screaming. The searing pain of the welts and old bruises covering his little body. The dream so distant and so constant. The memory. He was broken. He was born that way. They had to fix him. Him and the others like him. The little ones who loved hurting animals had to be fixed to only hurt each other. And whoever the Tessar told them to hurt of course. It was the only way. The ones that lived through the fixing could be used. They had almost finished fixing him. He was finally going to be useful. But it was all a lie. The thrill filled him. His skin tingled and every nerve sang joyfully. The pain in his ribs was a tickle. His heart beat for a second time and he opened his eyes. A contented smile warmed his cherubic face. Across the corpse-littered opening in the trees, Tessar Betta stood with eyes wide and smile gone. Gone forever now. The hilt of his akinaash protruded from her chest, centred perfectly, almost artfully. The grey blue of her uniform darkened around the handle of his knife like a flower blooming. He sighed. Somehow, despite being buried beautifully in the Tessar’s heart several steps away, he could still feel the hilt of his akinaash in his hand. He could feel it’s joy and satisfaction like a warm blanket on a cool day. His mind warned him he should pay attention though, and it was right. The Rangers were moving. Slowly of course. But they were moving. Some part of him reached out with the feeling of warm joy, and a moment later the akinaash was home, resting comfortably in his hand. The thrill was fading, but only slightly. Every bit of him was ready and excited, even his broken ribs. He felt the tingling love of his akinaash and closed his eyes, letting his mind discover all the Rangers slowly running towards him and how he would let his akinaash find each of them. Three heart beats. This was the best day ever.

A bit of context. I write in a style similar to screenplay, because that's how I often experience my ideas and how I like to write. I don't 'fill in the characters' with trivial details a like appearance, size, culture, race, gender, etc.. or the scenery either.. The characters personality is in the voice, whatever person you thinks fits the voice, that's who it is. same goes for scenery, i provide only the necessary details.. A major goal is to allow allow to the story to fit fluidly with the readers imagination, like a movie script has a clear story but expects the director to fill in many supporting details with their own vision. I write my stories focused on the puzzles, ideas and experience, they are designed to be digested slowly., not ripped through at speed reading velocity... you are free to read as you please, but just know that they are written and designed to create a specific experience. May 25 2024 Author : Matthew DeBlock The Path Forward “What about this?” Fysu asks with a stressed and rushed tone. Doci looks over, then says “Too heavy and not important enough. We have a weight limit” Fysu places it on the desk, but doesn’t let go, hesitates, begins to breathe heavily and starts huffing out words “I can’t… I can’t… I just…” then sits down and begins to hyperventilate. Doci looks over, beloved Fysu drenched in fear and anguish. “Honey! Honey!” Doci clamors over and grabs hold of Fysu “Look at me, just look at me. It’s going to be O.K. We are going to be O.K.” They gazed into each other’s eyes, it took all of Doci’s strength to not mirror back the dread in Fysu’s face. “This is our home!!!” Fysu blurts out falling into Doci’s arms. “I know honey” answered Doci “but we have no choice, all we can do is put one foot in front of the other” “Our house... our community… our friends and family! All the people and places… just gone?!?!” Fysu pushed out the words between sobs. Silent for a moment, torn and conflicted, it took Doci a moment to pull together and resume, as always, to play the role that others required “We can rebuild the community somewhere new, your friends and family are what matter most right?” Fysu Pushed Doci away, lashing out as anger surfaced “Stop lying to me! Don’t treat me like someone across the table! don’t handle me!” “I’m not, we have lots of friends and family leaving with us, and the relocation packages gives us plenty of options, we can go rebuild our community” Doci responded with firm confidence. Fysu shot back, saying “I’ve spoken to Rado, and Pepi, and Tasi, and tons more… They are all going to different places. It’s a menu of options and everyone is choosing what they like best, no one is even trying to stick together.” “Well then we will make new friends and build a new community” responded Doci resolutely. Fysu pauses, the fury cracking open, sorrow once more leaking through, then the anger snaps right back defiantly “Tell them NO! Tell them we aren’t leaving! Tell them we will fight for our home!” Doci looks at Fysu with the same expression one gives a child making ridiculous demands “Start a war we can’t win?... Bend or break… there are only two options here honey, bend or break” “Tell them… not here!” Fysu’s tone swung to one of grieving and pleading “Why here? Why not somewhere else? We don’t even need it or want it.” “That’s why here…” explained Doci with a sigh “We are small, less developed, we are fewer and weaker, and that is exactly why it gets built here… We have no clout or bargaining power. Nobody wants to lose their home, but when it is an inevitable fate, that fate falls onto the smallest and weakest. The highway plows through our home precisely because we don’t build or use highways ourselves” “Then go around!!!” Fysu continued pleading. “It’s not like a paved highway” Doci says “It’s a flight corridor, they can’t just go around, they need to travel in straight lines. The only way to turn like that is to stop” “Then stop! Stop here!” Fysu bellows out and starts begging “They can stop here and we will be the most friendly and gracious hosts of all time. We will treat them like royalty and share our beautiful home with travelers from all over” Doci looks at Fysu, no desire to speak the next words that must be spoken, but it is the harsh reality. After a pause Doci calmly says “They don’t care, they aren’t interested, and we don’t have anything they want… We just aren’t worth the fuel and time.” “Not worth the fuel and time?!?! Not worth the fuel and time?!?!” Fysu was overcome with a fury like never before “The flora. The fauna. The culture and historic structures. All the lives and homes built here!... Not worth the fuel and time?... just like that, all gone.” This was not a version of Fysu that Doci knew how to deal with, there were no words within reach, no response at the ready. Fysu was still lost in a ferocious hatred now “So what? They just come in and blast it all to dust?” filled with so much rage that it demanded a target. Perhaps the one who pushes the button to destroy everything Fysu held dear… yes… whoever pushes that button, a perfect target, someone to focus on and hate. “No, it’s not like that” explained Doci “You know those videos of airplanes creating a sonic boom and the visible shockwaves around them. Like that but infinitely more intense. Everything will just be blasted by powerful shockwaves, over and over, until all that is left is desert. First no animals left, then no plants, then decades later it’s basically all desert” Fysu began to imagine everything reduced to dust, slowly, a mental timelapse of a vibrant world reduced to apocalyptic dust.” “No!” Fysu burst forth defiantly “I may not be a physicist, but I studied engineering, and space is empty, this isn’t true… it can’t be true… It’s a trick! … and if it is true, well then they can just coast by. Shut off their engine and coast until they are clear past us” “This is FTL… kind of… it doesn’t work that way.” Doci slipped back into a clam descriptive tone “I may not have a science degree like you, but I understood well enough. The explanation was surprisingly clear even for a simple layman like me” “I refuse to believe that. I can’t just accept that there is no way out of this. Explain to me how this is our only option, why this is our fate” Fysu demanded “Look… I can only explain it as I understand, but I’ll try. You know what the concept of a warp drive is?” Began Doci “Everyone does, it’s a staple of sci-fi and an arguably feasible theoretical technology” Fysu derided. “Well this is like that, but apparently actually bending space like that isn’t very feasible” Doci continued. With a snarky tone Fysu jumped in again saying “That’s precisely what most people expect, and if it’s beyond these aliens ability, then they aren’t so advanced after all” Fysu got a sense of satisfaction from the feeling of knocking these aliens off of a pedestal, they were not gods, and maybe that means they can be handled and dealt with by her own people. “They didn't say they can’t do it, they can. They said it’s not feasible.” Doci said “Anyways… you know about matter-energy equivalence, well apparently there is also space-energy equivalence.” Fysu was a bit knocked back, taking a moment to digest. Knowing it was the kind of thing that gets discussed abstractly but not having ever read about any workable models of it. “...So apparently it's much easier to just destroy space in front of you and create space behind you.” Doci’s words kept rolling out as Fysu slipped deeper into mental visualizations and puzzles. Doci continued explaining things just as it had been explained by the aliens “... Turning off the engines is not so easy. The ship needs to maintain a very delicate balance inside an unimaginably turbulent shockwave that builds up around the vessel. Shutting down is a complex process of shedding the shockwave. The ship was never really moving so it comes out of the shockwave with virtually no momentum. Coasting past us was suggested by our scientists too.” Mechanically explaining things felt better than thinking about them emotionally, Doci just kept going “They told us to imagine moving through water. Treading through water is cumbersome, but you can boil and evaporate the water in front of you, and condense it behind you, and if you do this efficiently and fast enough then you will just slip through the emptiness in front of you riding on a wave of your own creation.” Fysu was still whirling in all the puzzles and visualizations, like a deer caught in headlights. Seeing Fysu’s expression shifting from fear and anguish into deep contemplation, Doci felt great relief. It was a painkiller, for them both. “You know how they say the universe is inflating, and that's why light from far away is red-shifted…” Doci guessed what might be the most interesting tidbit for Fysu to chew on “Well it turns out the causality isn’t so unilateral. It is also true to say that universe is expanding because photons are red-shifting… and that’s kind of how their engine works” Fysu snapped out of the trance, ripped back into reality, recognizing the feeling of Doci’s tone, it was the tone taken when trying to distract and manipulate, like a magician's sleight of hand. A lifetime of dealing with that behavior had honed Fysu’s reflex, immediately leaping right back at the issue, ignoring the distractions and searching for what is important. “What gets saved?.. No… What gets left behind? How many are getting left behind?” Demanded Fysu. After a long silence, with Fysu’s burning eyes unwavering, Doci responded “The compensation will be enough to comfortably settle and transport 2 million” “Less than one percent ?!?!” Screamed Fysu “Less than one percent!?!?!?!” another scream, this one cracking into a curdling shriek. Doci knew there was nothing to say, no words to lessen or soften this, and grabbing Fysu tightly whispered “I know“ Doci finally broke down with Fysu, they formed an emotional feedback loop, the grief of one triggering more in the other, each feeding the other’s flood of tears with their own. When they were finally drowned in all the horrible thoughts and terrifying visions, after they had nothing left but a sorrowful numbness, they just stared at each other in silence. Fysu had already numbed into clarity, but noticed Doci was struggling, still slipping into tears, like a baby animal trying to stand, falling into tears over and over, unable to get up and out of a pit of grief. “It’s okay… I’m sorry… you know I don’t mean to direct those feelings at you. I know it’s not your fault” Fysu was now consoling Doci. “It IS my fault” Bawled Doci. “What?? What are you talking about?” Fysu pushed Doci back to make sharp eye contact, this moment demanded full attention and confrontation. “... well… not this time… this time it’s not my fault” Doci squeezed out the words while crying. “This time?” Fysu asked, feeling deeply confused. “Do you have any idea how often I was on the other side of this exact type of situation? Sitting there explaining to a town or community why they were being demolished or torn apart for the sake of greater economic progress.” Unable to continue Doci sobbed a while, then settled and went back to what felt like confession. “I sat there arguing with these aliens… saying things I have heard a thousand times from other people just before I bulldozed them and everything they loved. I even realized it, I started using it, channeling all those voices that fought back against me, I became the embodiment of the people I steamrolled over.” Doci broke down again, and then whimpered “...and just like their words were futile… so were mine.” Doci sniffled for a moment, then tried hard to say in a calm voice “As bad as you feel… Imagine feeling like you deserve it… like somehow this tragedy is happening because I deserve to feel the other sides pain… and fate is dragging the whole planet into my punishment” “Oh no dear, it’s not at all the same… don’t you dare blame yourself.” Fysu understood and knew it was cruelly similar, but could not bear to see Doci burdened with such guilt, inventing a horrific new meaning to expression ‘feeling the weight of the world’. “No one deserves this!” were the most honest words Fysu could find. They felt trapped in that moment… stuck… with no one to vilify, no one to beg, and no one to fight. It felt like it lasted forever. The silence lingered. Doci finally pulled together, stood up and said “Come on! Let’s finish packing! We have our whole lives to cry over this, but right now it’s time to move. We can’t just lay down and die.” Fysu stood up slowly saying “Even now, you keep putting one foot in front of the other, always moving forward no matter what hits you. That is the reason people look up to you, not your persuasion or charm” remembering what had always been so enchanting about Doci. “Enough! Flattery gets you nowhere” the tiniest laugh tried to escape Doci’s mouth, but failed “Just be thankful we are within the borders of the alien’s collective government. It could be worse.” “Worse? Worse than this!?” Fysu was struck with disbelief. “We are the village being bulldozed to build a highway. There are others who are like a village downstream from a polluting factory. The shockwave that builds up over the journey, it just gets bigger and bigger, when it is finally shed at the terminal it gets blasted forward in a tight cone. Stretching forward from the terminal of the flight corridor for thousands of light years is a cone deadly to habitable planets. That flight corridor is the barrel of a gun” explained Doci, regaining composure. “That’s just… I mean the energy.. it must be ridiculous” said Fysu stumbling over the words. “It’s a fuel shipping lane and the fuel is artificial black holes. They can be used as an unimaginable power source, but moving them is difficult. From what they say it’s easier to just tear up space itself than actually moving them around.” Doci says while moving around packing things. “And they just blast off those cones into the galaxy?” asked Fysu also becoming quite composed, almost casual, as if discussing an everyday curiosity. “They try to aim it at the emptiest regions, as best as they can, but that’s secondary to the primary objective of getting the fuel where it is needed. I would guess they often just blast it off into dense regions of stars and planets for convenience sake.” Doci said “They don’t even worry about life on planets out there?” asked Fysu who was not as shocked as one would expect. “ It was never explicitly discussed but I get the feeling it’s just like the problems we often deal with, companies pollute now and worry about it later. Any damage is often discovered after the company is gone and there is no one left to hold liable. Our companies do it all the time…” Doci paused then added “...DID it all the time… Our companies did it all the time… “ Those words seemed to echo, as they realized that from now on, it was past tense, the planet, the people, everything was now past tense. ……………… “I asked for a story about the aurora, not the highway” erupted a voice from the circle of construction workers sitting around in a circle. “It was!” argued another voice, “Don’t you get it? We are downstream from the corridor. Right Bami?” “Yup” said Bami, head tipped down, baseball cap lid blocking concealing Bami’s eyes. “Everyone knows the aurora is solar flares” said another voice “How do you know?” asked yet another “They say this is the biggest we have ever seen. How do you know it’s really solar flares?” “Too many independent astronomers and astronomy organizations. You couldn’t cover this up. It’s just a story, like always, right Bami?” That same argumentative voice again “Yup. It’s just a story” Replied Bami “Ah, good old Bami, mouth like river telling stories, then not even two words at any other time” Chuckled a voice from across the circle. “I think the story is about…” a younger gentler voice began speaking but got cut off. “Save it for later newbie. Come on! Everyone off your butts, this highway won’t build itself” trumpeted a new voice. Everyone gets up and walks off, except for Bami who is still sitting there, not a muscle moved since the story ended. The newbie turns around and walks back over, standing above Bami, whose head is still down, not lifting it even as the newbie casts a shadow from above. “The story is about them isn’t it?” Asks the newbie pointing at the anthill directly in Bami’s gaze. “Yup” says Bami, still not moving a muscle. The rumbling sounds of a heavy engine starting up broke the quiet in the air, along with a voice yelling “Move it. Out of the way you two” Bami stood up and the two of them stepped back. Bami still staring at the anthill, all the little dots scurrying around, The newbie looked at the anthill, then at the approaching bulldozer tearing up the earth in its path and cringed. The newbie had seen such things many times, and even ripped apart anthills with a shovel in previous jobs. In the past the experience of it brought feelings of curiosity and even derived a bit of playful fun. Those memories now started to resound with a haunting feeling, almost like guilt. The newbie couldn’t watch and turned to look at Bami, who was still laser focused on the anthill. “Do you.. “ The newbie was a bit scared to ask such questions to a stranger on a job site “Do you feel sad?” “Yup.” replied Bami. “Then why watch?” asked the newbie, fully focused on this interaction as a distraction from the thoughts of the bulldozer closing in on the anthill. “Maybe feeling sad is enough.” answered Bami. The newbie was intrigued and asked “You think feeling sad makes it better?” “Nope” said Bami The newbie responded with an audible “huh?” sound. “Feeling sad doesn’t make anything better. But sometimes it’s better to feel sad.” explained Bami. The newbie hesitated… then turned and watched the anthill with Bami. They watched the bulldozer plow into the anthill, there was nothing to see really, one moment it was there and the next it was not. Then they both walked off and went back to work.

Everyones heard the song. Almost Heaven, West Virginia, Blue ridge mountain, shenandoah river. It makes the place seem like paradise and for the most part, it is. But there's one resident thing that makes things,well, not so pleasant. I first met him on my way home from a party in bay head. I had just moved to town, taking a dispatch assignment at the county sheriff's office. I was hoping to get a grasp on nature and life before I began writing my memoirs, but I had no idea nature and life would get a grasp on me. I drove in silence, as I often did when I was trying to create new ideas in my head, letting the gentle breeze wrap around my arms and direct my tires accordingly. I'd just gotten this bike, and I was in no rush to see it in pieces, so I drove a little slower than the 55 MPH speed limit that was posted. As I came around the corner however, things took an immediate turn, and I wound up halfway buried in a nearby embankment. Once I had come to, and checked myself for injury, I opened my now cracked visor to see what I had hit. The accident became my second most life changing event of the evening, as I watched what could only be described as a 7 foot man in winged pajamas, flapping around the ground, flailing about and kicking immense dust in the air. “You ok there buddy? Sorry, you came out of nowhere” I said to the flailing being, I took my helmet off and felt around my neck to make sure all my bones were in the right place. I removed my other gear and let it fall, shaking my head for a minute before putting my glasses on, and leaping backwards as I got a better look at the beast. It was not a man in pajamas, nor a crackhead that had gotten himself wrapped up in a tarp. It was a giant moth…with human legs, and a set of glowing red eyes. Before I could let out an appropriate scream however, it finally righted itself and stopped flailing, looking over at me silently, and nodding its small head. I looked down and noticed one of its wings had gotten pinned under its own back, and it couldn't quite unpinch it from between itself and the concrete. I hesitantly raised my hand, pointing to the wind and looking inquisitively. It sort of squinted its eyes and nodded emphatically “You want me…to help you up?” It nodded again, chirping slightly as I slowly approached. I shook my head as I got closer, noticing that its pattern wasn't all too different from the lunar moths I used to catch as a kid. Although this bastard was much, much bigger. I knelt down and placed my shoulder under its wing, placing my other hand on its lower hip and leaning back. Oh my god, this thing is heavy. I let out a gasp as it wrapped its wings around me, and pushed off the ground. Finally righting itself and looking down at me. It took a moment for me to realize that I was now standing in the middle of the road, hugging a moth. It bared down on me with giant eyes and blinked twice. I spoke calmly “I am going to let go of you now?” It blinked again and squinted at me, before bending its knees, and launching into the air. I was almost happy for a moment, until I realized I had never let go. I yelled as we began to soar higher and higher “Oh my gooooooooood, where are you taking meeeeee?!!?” He looked down at me again and did the squinty thing, it almost looked like a smile…was it going to eat me? Do moths eat people? Do moths even have mouths!? A hailstorm of questions flew through my mind until I felt a projectile nail me in the forehead, then another, and another. I held on tight as I looked ahead and noticed we were diving into a massive, anvil shaped cloud. The hailstorm had left my mind, and now become an actual problem “THAT'S A STORM, THAT'S A TORNADO STORM, YOU ARE TAKING US INTO A TORNADO!” I screamed at the top of my lungs as we soared past massive columns of lightning and rain, the beast not slowing down as it bobbed and weaved through the massive surge of energy. I closed my eyes and thought about my mother, how she made the best cookies, how I'd never get to eat them again because someone would find me, crispy and half eaten in the middle of a field in west virginia. The thought quickly left my mind as we broke through the other side of the cloud, soaring high into the sky and stopping on a dime. The creature flapped its wings to keep us hovering as I opened my eyes. The brightest light filled my sight and I had to blink a few times to adjust my vision. We were staring at the moon, a massive, orange moon. I had never been so close, and seen it so clearly, I could practically count the stones. I looked to my new flight enabled friend and watched as his eyes glued themselves to the massive orb. “Did…did you just wanna show me the moon?” He looked down at me and squinted again as he nodded. Ok, definitely a smile. He looked back to the moon and continued staring as I adjusted myself and stared as well. “You know I've always wondered why moths like bright lights, is there something to that?” The moment the question entered my lips, we were diving, soaring toward the ground, fast. I looked to him as best I could, keeping my eyes open just barely through the wind. I stared at him as we plummeted and watched as his eyes continued to peer, growing more and more linear. He looked…angry. I truly feared for my life as the ground came closer, and I closed my eyes once more so I wouldn't know when it was coming. Then we stopped, he opened his wings and we just hovered for a moment above the ground. I let out a deep breath as he flapped gently, and we descended slowly, eventually landing in a patch of green grass. I let go of him and stepped back, looking at him as he once again widened his eyes, and nodded. “Did you not like the question? I'm sorry if I offended you” He shook his head and sat down, crossing his legs and letting his wings rest on his knees. I stared at him for a moment, looking from his eyes to the ground before he looked at the grass in front of me, and nodded, his small antenna bouncing as he gestured for me to sit. I let myself slowly drift down onto the grass, crossing my legs as he did before resting my hands on my knees. “Ok, now what?’ He squinted and began scooching forward, sort of bouncing along the grass until he was right up on me. He moved his head just a few inches from mine, before bending his antenna, and tapping my forehead with the fuzzy receptors. I woke up at home the next morning, feeling like I'd just been mugged for my organs. I rolled out of bed and grabbed my glasses off the nightstand. “What a weird dream, I don't even remember drinking” I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and yawned as I walked to my bathroom. I turned on the light, and grabbed my toothbrush, putting a small dollop of toothpaste on it before looking up and putting the brush in my mouth. “Huh.” I was still dressed in my riding gear. I shook it off and began brushing my teeth. I must have just been so tired I crawled into bed. I spit the paste out and washed my mouth off, wiping my face with a towel as I turned the shower on. Just as I pulled the bath plug and set the water to hot, I heard a loud bump and then glass break from my kitchen. I quickly looked over and dashed to my closet, I retrieved my service pistol from the safe above my hangars and took cover on the door frame. I peeked around and saw nothing in the living room as I slowly crept in, my barrel to the ground. I took a scan of the room and heard another bump in the kitchen, followed by another crash “Hello? Whoever's in here I am a police officer, I have a firearm and am not afraid to use it” Almost an entire sentence of lies, i'm not a cop, and while this is a gun, i am very afraid to use it. I crept slowly up to the small door that lead into my kitchen, turned the barrel of the gun around the corner before slowly stepping in myself, and letting out a deep sigh “Of course…what are you doing here Kelly” The young girl smiled at me before looking down at her feet, where 2 of my drinking glasses sat in a pile of red liquid and glass. “Heyyy Dan, I figured since we had such a good time last night, i'd come by and make you some breakfast” I pulled the magazine out of my gun, racking the slide back and placing them both on the counter before stepping over the glass and approaching the laundry closet. I reached inside and grabbed my broom and dustpan before kneeling down and cleaning the mess. “I did have fun last night, thank you for throwing me a party, and while I do enjoy breakfast…and what I'm assuming is pomegranate juice, you can't just come into my house unannounced. How'd you even get in anyway?” She spoke softly “The front door was unlocked, i was worried and came in to check on you, then when i saw you sleeping so soundly i figured maybe i'll just make you breakfast, but then i couldn't find the eggs so I started with the drinks, but my hands are clammy cause i'm nervous being in a man's house alone for the first time and…I dropped your glasses…were they new?” I nodded “Yes…they were. Its fine, it's a nice gesture” I finished sweeping the glass before dumping it in the trash and dropping a paper towel where the rest of the liquid now pooled. “By the way sir, why are you still in your riding clothes?” I shrugged and grabbed my gun off the counter “I'm not sure, I guess I was just so tired I didn't bother changing. Now, i have to shower, why don't you go outside and wait, and we can go out to breakfast” She looked at me with dough eyes and took a step closer “Or I could just wait in your room?” I walked away, stepping into the bedroom and putting my gun in the nightstand. “I'll see you outside kelly” She huffed and walked toward the door, opening it and stepping outside as I looked back and made sure she was gone. I closed my bathroom door and stepped into the shower, yawning once again as I let the warm water roll down my head. She's a nice girl but we have to work together, and I may not be the most well behaved christian man, but I subscribe to some ideals. Or at least try to. I ran some shampoo through my short hair before hearing another crash come from the kitchen “Kelly! I thought I told you to wait outside!” I shook my head before another crash came “You better clean that up! And stop breaking my glasses, goodwill isn't open till monday!” Another crash caused me to let out an angry huff and turn the shower off, dressing quickly and storming into the kitchen “What are you even still do-” I crossed the doorway and looked down, my mouth agape as the sight unfolded in front of me. The paper towel I had left on the ground was now flying around the room, itself neatly folded on and stuck to the wing of my friend from last night. He was crouched down on the floor, running a long rope-like tongue along the ceramic floor, presumably finishing the pomegranate juice that had been spilt there. As I walked in and looked at him, he finished licking the floor and looked up at me, before squinting his eyes and tackling me. He flapped around the room for a second before dragging me into the living room and flying upward. I yelled as his clawed feet grabbed my shoulders, and he began swinging me around the room. I felt my hand buckle as it hit the stereo on my entertainment center and turned it on. I tried to grab onto something but my hand only latched onto the volume knob, turning it all the way up as I spun around the room. “Young man, there's no need to feel down, I said Young man, pick yourself off the ground, I said Young man, 'cause you're in a new town There's no need to be unhappy Young man, there's a place you can go, I said Young man, when you're short on your dough you can Stay there and I'm sure you will find Many ways to have a good time” I screamed as i looked up and saw his eyes squinting in a strong smile “WHY ARE YOU SWINGING ME AROUND” I saw Kelly approach the door from the frosted glass and peer in. Oh gosh, oh no, if she sees this who knows what shell do “Dan!?! Are you ok in there?” Oh god, think of an excuse, think of something “Hey! Yea, i'm just- im feeling really emotional maybe we can get lunch later?’ She grabbed the door handle “Aww, it's ok! I'm here to support you, its ok to feel emotional, i'm coming in” I put my hand up as i continued to spin “No! No, don't come in! My street cred might be damaged, I'll call you! Ok?” She let go and stepped away “Ok, weirdo, but I'm checking on you later!” I let out a sigh of relief as he finally let go, and I went flying into the bookshelf, knocking it over and feeling the books rain down on my upside down body. He landed and shuffled over to me, looking down through the small lattice holes in the shelf.

Here is a new one I wrote on July 4th, 1999. It is a true story called "The True Story of the Great Maestro". I have been very fortunate in life when it comes to meeting and seeing the great men of our century. I have personally seen John F. Kennedy, Ronald Reagan, and Larry King. I have met and talked to Mister Rogers, Arnold Palmer, and the famous actor Robert Clarey. However, no great man had has as much influence on me as that of the Great Maestro. I met Stanislav Yevchenko in 1979, when I was an aspiring student pursuing what was to be the first of many college degrees. He was a professor of music and a legend in the college community. He spoke 10 languages, had played the violin throughout Europe and the United States, and owned more leisure suits than any man I had ever met. Professor Yevchenko’s greatest passion was the works of the great composers, and in particular, those written for the violin. He had dedicated his life to introducing the world’s greatest music to generation after generation of students, hoping to plant in them the seed which would hopefully blossom into a lifelong passion for classical music. The Great Maestro's favorite story is how he had played his violin for Josef Stalin in Moscow and later played it for Adolf Hitler in Berlin. Any person who had partied with those two characters out of history was destined to become a favorite of mine. I took every course Maestro Yevchenko taught. I took Music History - 101, Music Theory - 201, and if the Great Maestro had taught Introduction to the Kazoo - 301 I probably would have taken that as well. Quickly the years passed, and soon it was time for me to take my place leading America into the 21st century. I told Maestro Yevchenko my career plans and goals as well as my dreams of world peace and economic prosperity. It was during one of our meetings that he shared his life's hopes and dreams with me. The Great Maestro had been born early in the century in the country of Estonia, which had been assimilated by the Soviet Union during World War II against its will. Maestro Yevchenko’s desire for a free Estonia was known to all who had met him, and it was his greatest hope to live to see that event become a reality. During out last meeting together in the spring of 1982, Maestro Yevchenko made a request of me. He asked if I would do two things for him. First, that I do everything in my power to ensure that Estonia regained its national independence, and second, that I learn the works of the great composers. I agreed. It was the least I could do for the man who had given me so much. Many years have passed since my last meeting with the Great Maestro. The Berlin Wall has crumbled into memory. Millions are free who were not free before. Estonia leads the newly freed nations of the world, rejoicing in its newly won freedom and economic prosperity. Maestro Yevchenko's first request has become a reality. As the decades have passed, I have listened to, studied, and enjoyed the works of the great composers. I have listened to them at home, in the car, and at work. I have collected hundreds of records, tapes, and compact disks of the world’s greatest symphonies, concertos, and operas. All told, I have spent over 30,000 hours listening to the works of the great composers. Maestro Yevchenko's second request has become a reality as well. My travels have taken me throughout the world. I cannot help but rejoice when I hear of freedom in Eastern Europe, South Africa, Ireland, and Russia. During those journeys, I have always traveled with the works of the Great Composers as well. They are a part of the song of humanity, and have a universal language understood by all. Professor Yevchenko knew these truths. His dreams have been fulfilled. Rest in peace, Maestro Yevchenko.

"I wish you wealth and health alike, in all of your days!”, came a call from the bushes, as I walked upon my road. Wind swept across highland pass, whistling through heather and thistle, pine and hemlock. I stepped quickly to the side as another gust of wind foretold something ominous, an axe cleaving through the sky of its own accord, burying itself into the ground where I once stood. This axe had a will behind it that I could tell held great truth within it, lest it could not move so. Upon its bronze were marks, a tally, the greatest offering one who knew the world only as greed and coin could offer to their insatiable truth. From the bush stepped a man who shone, so adorned was he, in a garment, head to toe, of golden trinkets. Gems and jewels glittered invitingly from socketed metal, yet all of it barren, the man hidden under a gleam that concealed all underneath. Keen was his visage, like a knife drawing across flesh, sharp as hunger. Upon the golden veil that covered his face was a panoply of gems, woven into the linkages. With a glance to the ground and a quick step, he sized up a rock and kicked it towards me, a mighty crack sounding as the rock split into razor-like shards, one of his hands raising as he twisted his fingers in an ominous gesture. The axe removed itself from the ground with that gesture, and resumed its assault, swinging in more measured strikes now that it was clear that his opponent fought more cleverly than most. “You wish me health, I see! An odd way of showing it!” I spoke, as I stepped between the shards, letting them move around me. I lifted a stick from the ground, and set it into motion with the knowledge that the greatest of warriors started with it. In summers past, youths who would be warriors would clash sticks with each other for hours, resulting in little but bruises and smiles. Echoing clangs rang around the rocks as the one-sided brutality of the axe encountered the play of youth. Each bite of the axe sunk into the wood, biting deeply, but the stick, green and hale, grew back, meeting the axe again and again and showing no wear for it. I folded my hands behind my back as I continued walking towards the shining man. “Of course I do!,” He smiled at me, gold-plated teeth shining at me like the sun above. “I want to take your money, your gold, all that you have of worth. It’s in my best interest that everyone who walks this pass, and everyone I rob, is wealthy and healthy.” A sense of danger came to me, as I felt the strength of his conviction brush against my own, the glow surrounding him becoming withering. “After all, a fat purse is better for stealing.” I scattered in front of me several violet petals, a dangerous gaze entering my eyes, the petals letting off a vivid purple glow. For a moment, I saw another path, one carved with blood, but I refused it. From the purple glow rose several wraith-like forms, that wrapped themselves around my fingers. For a moment, I saw another path, one laden with the burden of a life, but I refused it. From these wraiths rose memories of home, of the smell of violets, and of laundry and labor. It held me close, and fortified me against the withering, as I calmed myself, taking a step back, and gave him an admonishment, “I don’t think you have thought this through then, traveler, for I have walked far and my pockets, still, are empty.” With that, he stopped his axe’s assault, the blade whipping back to his hand with a swift cracking sound, and a shine of disappointment emanating from his golden eyes. “Hmmm? You speak truly, then?” The glow surrounding him only intensified, as much a display of strength now as it was an attempt to destroy me. “I know from the truths you hold that you aren’t with a sect. I haven’t seen one such as you, beggar-scholar, in ages. I traveled with one such as you many moons ago, and mocked him as he mocked I in turn, his refinement besides my debasement. Come then, speak to Hungry Djen, what gleams brighter than gold?” “There is nothing, truly, that gleams brighter than gold.” I shrugged. To admit otherwise was folly, but was to gleam, in and of itself, a merit worthy of praise? “But I find gold’s taste, lacking; will, soft; promise, untrue. Why do you cherish it so much that you’d give yourself to it?” To this, Hungry Djen laughed, shaking his head, covered by a many-jeweled veil that hid all but his eyes from view. All that accompanied his laughter was the tinkling of bells that promised worldly desire. “Because it presents itself so easily! My fellows ply the roads, trying to eke out a living, not realizing that they have summoned those such as myself that, seeing the disparity that comes of such acts, wish to naturally capitalize upon it.” Setting upon the area around us, he gathered a few sticks and twigs, before setting them into a pile. Djen continued as he worked, “I wish everyone on the road wealth and health, for it leads to yet another gem upon my veil. They work hard, and for so little effort, what they work hard for is simply taken, by me. This is a truth that is self-evident, for it is reinforced by every coin that slips between fingers. Is this not the promise of coin?" Only the soft toll of bells followed his words. I took a breath and remembered myself. His words echoed with truth that sustained itself, and the more that held its truth within them, the stronger it would be. I retorted, “It is indeed the promise of coin, my good traveler, and that is why you have done what you have done. You shine in your opulence and adherence. Terrible, indeed, is your splendor, for coin holds many promises, few of them fulfilled. As long as those who believe in its value exist, you will be there. What of me, then?” To this, Hungry Djen laughed once more, squatting down on the ground with a rough jangle and setting a wood pile alight, starting a fire, before pulling some quails from a pack, skewering them and setting them to roast upon a fire. The fire casted a light that bounced off of his golden adornments, casting weird shapes of light all around us. Between the shapes was his truth, like a mirage, slipping between the rays of light, like an unfulfilled promise. “Even you, beggar-scholar. What happens when the pieces of mystery cease to be, and what happens when the absoluteness of wealth seizes and grips at your very existence? What happens when it is inescapable, when there is no other place to go to be free of it? Always, always, I will get my cut, good beggar-scholar, and one way or another, I’ll have another gem upon my veil. This is a truth that is self-evident, for its praises are sung in the market streets. Is this not the promise of wealth?” Bells, bells, a promise, but a curse. For within disparity dwells the presence of those who profit from it, and the greatest of those who can profit are those who treat the world as a farm, that they need only harvest to have all beyond their wildest dreams. “It is indeed the promise of wealth, my good traveler, and that is why you speak what you speak. Your words hold the curse of gold within them. Alas, I cannot live underneath its burden, as a king’s wrist strains at lifting a gem-laden goblet. What of the many?” The sizzling of the meat filled the gaps in my words, the delicious scent of the seared flesh filled my lungs. In that moment, I thought myself akin to the cooking bird, being under flame to determine my weakness. A spatter of fat came out of the quail, dripping into the fire, where it was seized up hungrily by the blaze. “The many will come, because with disparity comes aspiration. They become wealthy in due time, and thus are prepared to become yet another harvest. I rob men upon the road, and thus I am a bandit, a thief! Another man robs a kingdom’s throne, and he is a conqueror, a hero! There is no difference between us, just a matter of how many, and who, we rob. As the king robs many, so do I, and so do others, all seeking to take advantage of that glimmer of ambition in the hearts of men. When men toil in mines to bring the earth’s beauty to light, I’ll have another gem upon my veil. This is a truth that is self-evident, because it is roared from overseers’ mouths and groaned from slaves’ tongues. Is this not the promise of disparity?” It was indeed. Silent for a time, I simply smiled sadly to myself at the words of my companion who was gracious enough to give me a fire, before saying, “It is indeed the promise of disparity, my good traveler, and that is why I can never be like you.” I stood up as Djen began to eat the bird, my pause only for a moment, as I considered my words carefully. His glow continued to wash over me, brilliantly, but I grew more and more steadfast in my own knowledge that he could not overwhelm me, unless I let him in. It could not hurt me. “You live without curiosity, with absolute certainty, because disparity is where you dwell, and disparity is constant as long as it is upheld. You will trap yourself in your truth, and crush everything else underneath it. You are as much a slave to it as the miner to gems. As you encompass everything, the value of it falls to nothing, and then everything is never enough. Every life you destroy is another gem upon your veil. This is a truth that is self-evident, because of the suffering that endures. Is this not the promise of disparity?” Hungry Djen greedily dug into the birds, eating them one by one before me, savoring each and every bite. My stomach growled in sympathy, but I would not let him in. We sat a while, the question hanging as Hungry Djen devoured each bird, picking every single one apart, and as clean as any rodent possibly could. He left behind the carcasses as a stack, and presented them to me as evidence, gesturing to it with an open palm. “I eat, and I am strong.

The light burns dimly. To feel guilty for ever taking vision for granted is an understatement. Clamoring for some essence of warmth was futile. The lack of observation remained the only imaginable topic for Victor Crowe, previously a citizen analyst for the Bureau for Progress. Upon sentencing to eight years of "re-education" within a Federal Enlightenment Centre, the rush for something to do was in contrast to the fact that there was plenty of time for nothing. "What am I to think about?" Crowe thought to himself. "Eight years of thinking and there is nothing to think upon." It was a truly soul-diminishing prospect that the one thing he never wanted to do while he could have, was to kill himself, yet now the only thing he could dream of doing - he was no longer able to. Crowe was convicted on charges of civil disobedience due to his failure to uphold the progress of the people. "What progress?" Crowe felt he had been betrayed. "I have always performed my duties with great diligence and honor, only for me to now be the enemy." He decided to stand within his ten-by-ten cell, for there needed to be some sort of variety. "My whole working life, I have been sending hundreds of people to this very same fate." As if out of nowhere, the cell door began to screech to life. A sequence of locks was now being unlocked, slowly, methodically, as if it were some attempt at compounding the tension which had already made itself manifest. With little drama, the door slowly opened - with it, the much-forgotten light of the outside. A tall man stood silhouetted in the doorway with his hand on his gun holster. "Are you Victor Crowe?" At this point, Crowe was readjusting to the sudden invasion of light, dazzled by its intensity. The man took one step forward. "Don't make me ask again." Crowe looked up at the man and answered yes, to which he was grabbed by the shoulder and thrown into the world of illumination. "If you try anything, I'll throw you into the correction wing." After hearing this, Crowe fell in line. The officer pushed him along the bright white corridor, clinical in sight and smell, with multiple other cell doors spaced alongside each other. As he passed one of the doors, Crowe noted the number above it - 807. "How many cells are there in thi-" "Did I say you could speak?" barked the officer. "Listen to me, and listen to me carefully, you do as I say when we walk into this office, any disobedience will result in saying hello to the good people in the correctional wing." The officer took Crowe's handcuffs off. "The good people," he thought to himself, "what is this correctional wing?" Crowe walked beside the officer through the door into a room with maybe fifty cubicles dotted in rows. "Sit down on this chair and wait for the good doctor," the officer said, before pushing Crowe down. A few minutes passed when another man wearing a white lab coat, as clinical as its surroundings, sat opposite Crowe. "Thank you, officer, you may take your leave from the prisoner, I have it from here." The doctor placed a few sheets on the table as well as neatly placing a pen in front of Crowe. "I'm Doctor Seymour, I will be evaluating you for the next hour so please make yourself comfortable." The doctor delicately pulled a cigarette out of the front pocket of his coat. "Want one?" he asked Crowe. "No, I'm good." "Well, okay then - we will commence." "On the sixteenth of October, you sent a message to the Bureau of Progress concerning your lack of trust for your higher officer regarding his direct order to judge the citizen you were analyzing as a dissident. You claimed that this was beside the fact that there was zero prior evaluation of the citizen in question and felt that a potential miscarriage of justice had been carried out by your superior, is this correct?" Crowe looked at the doctor with dismay. "Yes, sir." Doctor Seymour sat back in his chair and finally lit the cigarette that sat between his fingers. "It was a test, Mr. Crowe, a test you failed." "What do you mean, a test?" Crowe interjected. "After twelve years of service I have never been tested like this." The doctor leaned back in his chair with a sudden smirk. "Oh but you have, you just never failed them before. You may not realize this, but the evaluator must also be evaluated and as it turns out - the man who lives by the sword must die by the sword." It was at this point that Crowe began to feel sick to the core. "Well, isn't that the case for you, Doctor?" Doctor Seymour's smirk quickly dissipated. "Yes, well maybe so." The doctor began to write down notes on his paper. "Citizen - Victor Crowe - has hereby been evaluated by a second opinion of the Bureau of Progress that the resulting failure in following a direct order from his superior officer diagnoses him as a civil dissident, therefore confirming his just sentence of eight years of re-education and subsequent neural chip brain therapy." Upon extravagantly signing the paper, Doctor Seymour stamped the document with great vigor and passed it to Crowe. "Please sign here, and do so if you value your memories too." After a few seconds of silent reluctance, Crowe signed half-heartedly on the dotted line. "Now you will begin your re-education in one week from now, prior to which you will remain in your cell for self-reflection. Paper and a pen will be provided to you and you have the right not to write at all. Please be aware that while the law, as it stands, still allows for your writing to be confidential to the state - this is soon likely to change." The doctor once again stamped the document before shouting for the officer. The number of emotions wrestling within Crowe's head amounted to nothing compared to the dread that seemed to now be a part of his bloodstream.

\[HF\] Western *In 1888, Mary Lytton lived in Breckenridge, Colorado, a quaint town situated along the Tenmile Range in the great Rocky Mountains. Breckenridge was famous for “Tom’s Baby”, a 13.5 pound gold nugget – the largest of its kind! The only other aspect that distinguished it from other similar towns was its placement in a valley surrounded by towering mountains blanketed in monstrously tall trees.* *The town itself was drab. The hastily constructed wooden buildings were coated in soot from various mining equipment. At the heart of the town was a saloon that was linked to every other building via boardwalks, an inn for newly arrived fortune hunters, a railroad depot, the fire brigade, and a few shops.* *Dressed in the latest fashions, Mary liked to parade around the muddy boardwalks of the town proper as if she lived in view of “the ton”. A niece to Harry Lytton, one of the men who found the famous gold nugget, she believed herself to be of great importance.* *Not particularly pretty, Mary did have a certain spark that made her more interesting than others. It was this spark that garnered her the attention of Billy Graver, a local ruffian who lead a gang called the Grave Diggers.* *Unlike her uncle, and his friend Tom Groves, who worked day in and out digging and sifting through mounds of dirt, Billy obtained his gold in other ways. A descendant of English miners, he distained the practice and sought an easier route – pilfering from successful diggers.* *Billy was not traditionally handsome. He was short and burly, with a crooked nose, bushy brows, and a dirt coated face. Regardless, he was still a favorite of the local painted cats\* that found his other assets more enticing.* *They weren’t the only one’s thus intrigued. Mary viewed Billy as a noteworthy moneymaker. She was ignorant to how he made his fortune, but truthfully didn’t care. Money begets more money, she believed, and she wanted more of it.* *She wore her best low cut silks and crisp white bonnets in hopes he would notice her, shook her purse of coins and twirled her parasol whenever he rode through town. Her efforts had the desired effect. Billy couldn’t resist her attentions when they were so readily given.* *One event lead to another, and Billy married Mary in a hasty ceremony overseen by the local judge. The night of the ceremony, Billy took his blushing bride to the Inn. He ordered the finest bottle of spirits his money could buy, and they enjoyed an evening of bliss.* *A servant girl climbed the stairs to the newlyweds room the morning after, carrying a hefty tray of breakfast meats and cheeses. She knocked several times, and growing impatient pushed in quietly needing to deliver the food.* *Once inside, screamed and dropped the laden tray. She ran out, yelling for all to hear that Billy Graver was dead! In her haste, she didn’t even think to question that fact that his new bride was gone.* *Investigations discovered he died of poison, and that his bank accounts had been drained.* *Harry Lytton, a young man of four and twenty, was approached by the Sheriff to ascertain the whereabouts of his murderous niece. To which Mr. Lytton replied, “I don’t have a niece!”* “Goodness gracious!” a matron exclaimed. Torrence Abernathy, a pharmacist, smirked at the assembled crowd. “Most indeed, madam! I hope none of you fall prey to such a trick. That’s why I offer Abernathy’s Detoxifying Tonic so no man, or woman, ever gets caught unaware by a tricky thief!” A murmur cascades through the crowd. “I assure all of you listening, my tonic works! Why, if Billy had used it back then he’d still be alive today. Take daily and death will never hound your doorstep! My customers are always pleased with the results!” “I’m sure the one’s still in their outhouses would beg to differ,” a man said, causing the crowd to snicker snidely behind hands and fans. Torrence glanced toward the new arrival with a smile that quickly fell. “Sheriff Brannen, a pleasure as always.” The spurs on the sheriffs boots chinked as he walked closer. He tipped his hat to a lady, then returned his stern gaze to Mr. Abernathy. “You’re snake oil ain’t welcome here. I don’t know how many times I’ve told you that. I’ll let you pack up and try to get out of town, but this time I’m coming for your ass!” … \*painted cats, a term used to describe harlots This story was written for Fun Trope Friday on r/WritingPrompts but it was past the date to post, so I thought I would share it here instead. The trope was Head Start/Mercy Lead and the genre was Infomercial. Max word count was 750.

With only a single day to spend with Liam, Madeline had been worried that most of it would be lost to the awkwardness of introductions, especially given she didn’t know how long she’d have to wait to see him again. But once Liam had overcome his initial shyness, Madeline was relieved to see him and Billie getting on like a house on fire, all of them sitting around the table and chatting away together. Billie seemed to have a natural way with him. In fact, they seemed much more natural than she’d ever felt with children. She imagined they’d have made a wonderful parent in another world. Then again, maybe they’d get that chance in this world. After all, family didn’t necessarily mean blood. And if she’d come to consider Liam and Billie her family, she could only hope they’d come to regard each other in a similar manner. The day flew by as the three of them chatted about this and that. Billie regaled Liam with the story of their and Madeline’s meeting, generously painting it as love at first roundhouse. He showed them his taekwondo forms, proudly announcing that he’d been practising on his free days and even teaching some of the other children in his dorm. When Marcus delivered lunch with another young female guard, it was a stark reminder of how much of the day had already passed. Time might not have been lost to shyness and awkwardness, but there certainly wasn’t enough of it. As they ate, silence descended, apart from the chewing and crunching and slurping. Madeline was pleased to see that Liam still tore into the food with the same voracity she remembered from that first meal she’d cooked for him in her — in *their* library.. The meal was over as soon as it had begun, leaving a satisfied quietness in its wake with the three of them slumped back in their chairs. With blood rushing to her stomach for digestion, a sleepy kind of thoughtfulness descended on Madeline. The giddy excitement at seeing Liam again finally started to fade enough to let some of the questions circling her brain back in. And there was one question that had been burning at her ever since she lost him. “Liam?” she started tentatively, not wanting to ruin this wonderful day. “Yeah?” he looked around. “What happened to you? After…” She glanced down at her hands, fingers fidgeting on the table. “After I left you?” A small hand slid into hers. She looked up to meet Liam’s unflinching gaze. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said firmly. “I told you to do it!” Her heart wrenched at the sincerity in his expression — the firmness of that unbroken voice. He really was old beyond his years. But he was still just a child. So she knew that she could never explain… Explain that she was the adult. She was meant to be the responsible one. Just because he’d told her to, it didn’t mean she should have done it. She should have known better. She should have looked after him. She should have been there for him. And she could never explain the guilt that came with that. She knew that if she did, he’d feel responsible for that as well as everything that had happened to him because of her mistake. Forcing a small smile, she squeezed his hand back. “You were very brave and very selfless. But I’m meant to be the one looking after you, not the other way around.” He shook his head slightly. “I think that we’re meant to look after each other.” Madeline nodded. Had he always been this wise? “Very true,” Billie said. “I can see that you’re a brainbox like Mads.” Though he tried to hide it by looking down, she could see a grin spreading across Liam’s face and a slight blush creeping into his cheeks. “So do you think you feel up to telling us what happened after you and Madeline parted ways?” They leaned in conspiratorially, holding a hand up to shield their mouth while whispering loudly, “It’s been driving her insane not knowing and she’s a real nightmare to live with when she’s like that.” He giggled. “Yeah, I could do that.” His eyes drifted up as he thought back. When he next spoke, he sounded far away, as if back in those memories. “After you left, I stayed in that office for a while just like you told me to. Once you’d gone and we were no longer close to each other it seemed relatively safe there — as safe as anywhere can be, anyway.” He smiled to himself slightly before continuing. “When I wasn’t reading, I watched out the windows, keeping an eye on the Poiloog ships zooming along the streets around me. There were less and less of them the longer you’d been gone, and luckily none of them stopped outside or came in.” “So what happened?” she asked, leaning on the table with her elbows to get a little closer to him. “Did you run out of food? Water?” He winced slightly. “No. I just… I just missed you more than I thought I would. And even though it *seemed* safe where I was, I’d forgotten how scary the Poiloogs could be when I was on my own. Every time one zoomed past I was so so scared it was gonna stop and come in and find me there by myself. I didn’t think I could cope waiting there long enough for them to all have gone until I left to join you. I was worried I’d be trapped there terrified forever. So I did something really stupid and completely ignored the plan we’d made.” His face pinched together as he glanced down. “It’s probably a good thing that I didn’t make it to you. Or I’d have led them all straight back to the both of us.” “Hey now! Don’t ever say things like that, you hear? If you’d found your way to me, then we could have dealt with the Poiloog problem together. But I’d *never* rather you be caught or hurt than have you with me. I’d never choose my own safety over being with you.” Her voice trailed off slightly, as she muttered the last three words to herself. “Never again, anyway.” Billie looked between them. “Honestly, I don’t know how you two functioned together. You’re both so desperate to blame yourselves for everything that goes wrong!” A chuckle chased away the tears pricking at Madeline’s eyes. “Something I’m very glad that you’ve tried to discourage, rather than taking advantage of it to claim that you’re always in the right.” “And why would I need to do that when I *am* always in the right anyway?” Liam snorted. “I like you. You’re funny.” “Yeah,” Madeline turned to look at Billie more fully, smiling as she met their gaze. “It’s one of the things I’ve come to love about them too.” “I’m glad you found someone else to take care of you while I was gone,” Liam said. “Actually,” Billie turned to look at them, grinning, “we take care of each other!” “Hey! No fair!” Liam glared at them, but the lip twitching up betrayed his amusement. “Using my own words back at me!” “Anyway,” Madeline spread her hands on the table, “back to the story.” As much as she loved just enjoying each other’s company, she wasn’t sure how much time they had left. “What happened after you left the office?” “There were definitely less Poiloogs around than when you left,” Liam said, eyes raised as he thought back. “I figured if you’d managed to slip past so many, I should be able to manage what was left. But… everything was just so much scarier on my own. Every time I heard a ship coming I sprinted to get out of sight and hid somewhere with my book until ages after I couldn’t hear it anymore — just to be extra safe. And because of that, I took *ages* to get anywhere.” He paused, taking a deep breath. It was clear that he was still frustrated with himself. Madeline wished that she could do more to reassure him, and that she could make him understand how well he’d done. When she was his age… well, if the Poiloogs had come back then she’d probably have been dead in a week. But she didn’t know what else she could say that she hadn’t already said. Instead, she shuffled her chair around the table to be closer to him, laying a hand on his shoulder. After a quick glance her way, he continued, “So because I was taking so long, I had to keep stopping for the night. But I really hated being in all these strange places in the dark. So when I found a cafe with a nice big counter tucked away at the back, I thought that maybe if I hid behind the till and underneath the coffee machine, then maybe I could get away with using a torch to read a little to help me sleep, and maybe no one would see.” He took a deep breath. “But someone did see. Or rather, a Poiloog did.” Madeline’s chest tightened thinking of him vulnerable and alone like that. She squeezed his shoulder gently. “So I did what you taught me. I buried myself in my book and memorised a section to repeat over and over in my head while I tried to get away. But clearly I’m not as good at fighting as you are.” “Not yet, maybe,” Madeline said. “But you are also much smaller, so that’s to be expected.” “Besides,” Billie added, “We saw the cafe that we think you were taken from, and looking at the blood there it looked like you gave as good as you got.” Liam nodded, chest puffing up slightly. “Yeah. I grabbed one of the forks scattered everywhere and ran at it. It crunched all the way through that hard outer bit near the Poiloog’s tummy. Or where I think a Poiloog’s tummy should be, anyway. Only…” He deflated slightly. “Only it caught me in one of its claw as I did it.” Pulling up his sleeve, he revealed a jagged scar, a pale shiny pink in colour. “Ouch!” Madeline winced. “That must have *hurt*!” “Yeah!” He grinned. “You should have seen the scab!” Madeline wrinkled her nose in exaggerated disgust. “Ew! No thank you!” “You’re one to talk,” Billie said. “You should have seen the injury that Mads here got on her leg!” Liam’s eyes widened. “Madeline got hurt?” “I’m alright now, though,” she said. “A doctor friend of Billie’s patched me up.” “They patched me up when I got here.” He held up his arm again. “I got twelve stitches!” “Wow!” Billie gasped. “Twelve, eh?” “Mmhhmm!” “So after the Poiloog caught you…” Madeline prompted. “Oh, yeah. The pain distracted me and I stopped focusing on the words I was reciting. Then, it got into my head. It was really weird. Like I was really light and really heavy all at once. Still kind of here, only… not. I don’t really remember the whole journey here. I just remember kind of waking up in a crowd of other people — children mostly, but I think there were some parents there too. And that’s how I got here.” “And how have things been since you got here?” Madeline asked. “Are you doing alright?” Liam considered this carefully, twiddling his hands on the table. “It’s been okay. It wasn’t great at first. I kept trying to run away. But they just kept grabbing me and dragging me back. They told me if I couldn’t be trusted I’d just have to stay locked up in a room on my own all the time, and that if you don’t do what you’re told and earn your place here, you don’t eat.” He shrugged. “It took a while, but I gave in eventually. Since then it hasn’t been too bad. It’s fun learning things! And I get to read a lot of books — though not as many stories as I’d like. Oh! And they said if I’m good and do well in my classes, they might be able to find my dad for me. If they caught him too, that is.” Madeline forced a smile. “That’s great!” And it really was, right? She still remembered his stubborn insistence on staying in squalor at that shop where she’d found him, with hardly any food or water, just on the off chance his dad might come back. And she could hardly judge his father for leaving him anymore when she’d done the exact same thing. So why did the words still twist slightly in her chest? Was she really that selfish that she wanted to keep all his love for herself? “Yeah, it is!” Silence settled over them for a moment, until Liam straightened in his seat, turning to look at her more fully. “So are you going to tell me how you ended up here?” Madeline opened her mouth, but before she could answer, the click of the lock caught her ear. She looked around to see the door swing inwards to reveal Marcus and the female guard who had brought them lunch standing there. “Alrighty,” the young woman said, stepping inside. “Time to get you back to your dormitory Liam. You have classes tomorrow so you need to get plenty of rest.” “Yes, Miss Ackers.” “And I should probably get you two back in time for dinner,” Marcus said. All of the panic and frustration of earlier came rushing back. How could it be over already? She’d just got him back! She couldn’t leave him again. Fists clenching of their own accord, every muscle in her body tensed. Not even knowing what she was going to do, she stood, positioning herself between the guards and Liam. “Mads?” A chair squeaked as Billie stood too, hurrying to Madeline’s side and forcing their hand into her closed fist. “Everything alright?” She shook her head, snapping out of the strange, almost instinctual behaviour. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just…” Turning around, she knelt to hug Liam as tightly as she could. As she pressed his small body against hers, tears sprang into her eyes. “I’ll miss you. And I’ll try to see you again as soon as I can, alright?” His chin bobbed up and down against her shoulder as he nodded. “I’ll miss you too.” Not wanting today to be ruined by the guards having to drag her away — and not wanting to ruin any chances of future visits — Madeline slowly extricated herself from the embrace. Before she turned around to face the guards, she sniffed, wiping the tears from her eyes. As Marcus led her and Billie away down the corridor, she swore to herself that they would all be together again soon — ideally for good. And it was at that moment that she realised how thoroughly the Poiloogs and their human allies had her. She would do anything for that boy, and they would exploit that weakness to get every ounce of work out of her while keeping her obedient and compliant, all without the need to even use their mind-control powers.

The bobcat trots along the trail unbeknownst to him the sky is falling. The girl watches the chestnut creature. She watches as damp dirt molds to his paws and wonders how it would feel to be forever captured in a single moment. The bobcat runs fast, feeling the crisp air flow through his untamed coat. He doesn’t think twice about his freedom as it has always been his. He is not grateful nor is he ungrateful; he is simply himself. The politics of the world do not affect him, the trivial friendships among humans do not maim him, he does not search for a mate, he doesn’t care for certain dates. The bobcat is blissfully wonderfully selfishly ignorant. The girl sits among the weeds a sketchbook in hand and the image of a free bobcat frozen in her mind. Her lead pencil works incessantly against the pad that the trees grimace at. A lost friend, a loving mother, a hateful menace, a lost brother— the human is not loved amongst the nature but she loves it all the same. Nature is the only place she can feel free from her own chains, unshackled from society, released from her starless falling sky. Hours later, a cloudless night befalls the sodden earth. The temperature despite the cool day, rises, and the bobcat smiles to himself. Feeling adventurous as he has no one to hold him down, he leaves the comfort of his “home” and trots along the trail once more. To his feline surprise, the girl remains by the weeds still scribbling on the slices of tree. His curious nature pulls him closer. He hunkers down, quietly approaching the girl, and her light by fire. He prowls using his hunting techniques to avoid starling the girl as he does not fear her. It wasn’t her small frame that led him to that conclusion, no. It was a deep feeling held in the small space by his little feline heart. The girl had been drawing for hours. The sun had set a while ago but she was not concerned. She sat by a little firepit, the river beyond playing a beautiful symphony that she felt in her soul. She was almost finished with her work when she heard a crunch- a whip of her head and her inspired blue eyes connected with curious yellow orbs. Her heart dropped- was this the bobcat from before? A glance at his paws confirmed her muddy suspicions. The bobcat didn’t balk as he prowled closer. A normal person would be afraid of the rabid animal but the girl was not. She could not find a seed of fear in her heart, actually. Instead she felt a thread pulling her towards the animal, maybe it was her creative mind still running wild but she could almost see it. She swore the bobcat saw it too as his muddy paws tapped closer before stopping and sitting right beside her– and for once she felt seen. Three months later, the girl squints her eyes as if that will relieve the pain coursing through her body. She squeezes her smiling mother's hand as her teeth demand blood from her lips. The buzzing noise filling her mind is a terror and a comfort. The result of this pain is not of evil nor regret no, it is all but bad. Hours later the girl sits up from her painful recline, a smile on her mouth despite the yearning in her heart. Perhaps it is a warm yearning for the memory captured or perhaps a sad one for the missing continuation of that memory, of the friendship formed three years prior. The girl smiles down at the bobcat skull tattooed on her knee, the ink imbued with the love of her feline companion. The drawing she had created three years before, on the night of their bond, surrounded by mud and love for the world beyond them despite it all. The girl flexes her leg, feeling the welcomed ache, and wonders if the bobcat knows of their lifelong bond wherever he may be. The bobcat, years older, still trots along the trail. He trots through mud, grass, rocks, and weeds while the sun and moon watch. He sees them but he does not mind. He pays them no mind at all actually, as he is preoccupied searching for the girl with the feline heart.

TW: Parental Death, Non-explicit mention of child and domestic abuse I was comfortable. I’ve never gotten used to being comfortable, it always makes me ill-at-ease. During the last few weeks I’d gotten a little too used to the firmness of the bed, the softness of the sheets, and her weight on my arm. I always imagine I’m walking a tightrope in these moments. Happiness eventually falters; gravity takes us in the end. Life was too good. She spoke half-asleep, “Tell me a story.” I was distracted momentarily by the cuteness of her angular nose completely being at odds with her more rounded facial features, “What?” “Tell me one.” This was new. I thought for a moment and inquired, “What kind of story do you want to hear? Epic fantasy? Space Drama? Something Scary? Something naughty?” *Is tonight the night the tightrope walk ends?* “Something true.” *What is truth? You know something when you can demonstrate it, but is that true? It’s a squirmy concept wriggling between my fingers. Am I ready for this? Am I ready to be honest? I honestly don’t know.* I sighed out, “Bit harder, but workable.” I took a deep breath. I pulled my index finger back with my middle using the pain as a mnemonic and then started speaking. I didn’t know what I was going to say until I started to speak, “The boots were a distant rumbling thunder. He had known it would be one of those nights when he saw the bottle sitting openly on the kitchen counter. When the man hid his drinking things were fine, when he was open about it, it was the first step. The boy was small, short, and thin. Tonight, that was his advantage. He climbed the door frame and set himself on the closet shelf, behind a pair of boxes. He pulled the door to a point of near closure and curled up as best he could. He could still see into the room. His eyes had adapted to the near perfect dark. He was so very nearly certain no-one would see him upon first glance. He was tired, but he would not be sleeping tonight. Maybe tomorrow he would get to sleep if he was lucky or the next night. The room was clean, no toy or book was out of place. He wouldn’t allow anything to be out of place. He hadn’t been assigned chores yet, due to his age but he was responsible for the room and he would not willingly give the man an excuse. It had been two years since he had pulled the glass from his chest, since he had given up being a child, given up false hope of rescue. The large stuffed dog lay in the center of his bed, an avatar to fool the man should he look in. It wasn’t perfect. The blanket over the head looked awkward and he hadn’t come up with a way to mimic breath yet. A close inspection and the deceit would be seen through, but from five paces at the bedroom door, from a lit room into a darkened one it might pass muster. He had tested it of course. He had stared for hours, trying to see if it would work, but since he knew what it was he could only see the flaws. If he had one gift it was that he saw the flaws in everything. He waited and listened. The cedar’s smell invaded his mind. The thunder clopped one-two, one-two. It was a march toward uncertain ends. As the thunder took the first step the wall shook ever so slightly. The second and the boy held his breath. The third and the closet door moved ever so slightly. The footsteps echoed through the house and he shivered a little as the man reached the top of the stairs. His lungs burned as he counted; as he waited for the man to decide which way to turn. The man turned right. The footsteps grew more distant. The boy exhaled forcefully, begging the air to return to his lungs. He heard the door slam open into the wall. He heard screaming. It was her turn. The woman had never learned. She always let him have his excuse. The boy didn’t know if the man would still give the beatings if there was no excuse, but you were less likely to inflict his wrath if you didn’t let him have one. The scream was ear piercing. The police would likely be called again. It didn’t change anything. It never changed anything. They would show up, pretend to care, once in a while the man would spend the night in jail and all would be the same the next day. It was just her turn. If he were normal the boy would have felt bad for her, instead he only felt relief. He was relieved that tonight it wasn’t him. Tonight, he was safe. Years later, he would feel guilty for that. Years later he would hate her for feeling the same way he did right then on the nights he wasn’t lucky. He crawled from his nest, shimmying down the closet door. He moved over to the window. He would not sleep tonight. He was safe, but the damage was done. The night called him. He opened the window and felt the cool air rush in. Outside his window was a plum tree. It was the only one on the lane. In the spring the children loved to steal its blossoms and later the fruit. It was his escape, a lifeline to a better world. He leaped from the window to the highest branch. He moved downwards. It had been almost a year since he realized he didn’t have to stay in the house and he practiced the routine almost every night. He climbed down. The night awaited him; the cool air kissed his skin. The street lights interrupted his valuable dim. He was safe out here. He was safe in the night’s loving embrace. Above him the moon showed, an ever present crescent. It loved him, even if nothing else did. He moved down the path between the rows of houses. The city was alive even now, though the streets were near empty. Tonight, he was safe, tonight he was free.” “Is that what it was like?” She asked more awake then when she had asked for a story. “Sometimes. Your turn.” “I asked for a story, not to share.” “It’s harder for me. You know that.” “Fine, when I was nine she died.” “Your mother.” It was a confirmation, not a question. We hadn’t discussed it in depth though I knew it was a driving force in her existence. “Yeah. She died in October. And my dad…He was depressed for months. I don’t know if I didn’t understand or if I just had an easier time than him, but I continued on.” My thoughts interrupted as she drew breath. Almost English way of phrasing it. “I was sad, but I was fine. I was really fine until Christmas.” I fought back the urge to remind her that she wasn’t fine, that she hadn’t been fine, and that even now she wasn’t fine with it. It still marred her. She already knew of course and me voicing it would just make it worse. She continued her voice flowing like a sticky syrup, “I love Christmas. Christmas trees, snow, the presents, the songs, but daddy wouldn’t put up a tree. He didn’t want to celebrate and felt I shouldn’t either. He normally had people come in to put it all up, except for the tree. Mom made us do the tree together. Mom….” Her voice cracked in a way that even she couldn’t pretend wasn’t there, “loved Christmas too. I wanted to honor her, I guess. So, I dug through boxes in the storage room until I cut my finger on a broken ornament. I couldn’t find the tree. I found out later it was stored in one of the garage bays. Eventually, I found the lights. I put up all the decorations I could. Though with my height I couldn’t even reach the mantle without pulling over a chair. I don’t know if should tell you this last part…” “I’m listening.” I envisioned a raven-haired nine-year old with a plaster on her finger dragging boxes of Christmas directions, multi-colored lights blinking in the background. If I had a heart it would’ve broken for her. She sighed, “I couldn’t find the tree, but I wanted one. I wanted one so badly. So, I wrapped myself in the lights and plugged it in. Made myself sashes of tinsel. I was my Christmas tree that year. When my Dad got home he was pissed. He and Olivia tore everything down and put it all away.” *Olivia is the sister right? The one she doesn’t talk too?* I laughed, “Sweet Christmas.” Before catching my breath and teasingly singing out, “O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, Your branches green delight us! They are green when summer days are bright, They are green when winter snow is white. O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, Your branches green delight us!” “Bastard, see if I tell you something personal again.” “You will, Christmas. You will.” *The tightrope walk continues, gravity remains my enemy for now.

All of a sudden I felt a great weight and pull on my body as the ship was ripped out of hyperspace, in the ensuing chaos I was able to reach the controls for the stabilizers but I was too late and got caught in a planet’s gravitational pull. The force of re-entry knocked me unconscious, but not before I saw a medium sized continent covered in what I can assume to be trees. It must have been early morning when I woke, I was able to see a small amount of light coming through the forest that I must of crashed in. I was able to use the red emergency lighting in the cockpit to unclasp the safety harness. As I stood from the pilots chair, I noticed the astromech that was in the room with me was shoved into the corner with some damage to its connection hookup. I walk over to it thinking “fuck this is going to slow down any process of getting out of here”, I kneel next to it to ensure it still at least powers on and after messing around in the wiring and power supply it comes back on with a few chirps and whistles. After getting the little guy powered back up I make it do the door to the rest of the ship, as I approach the door I heard something beyond the door, scraping or screaming? I pull my sidearm and hold it close to be as I try to use the manual override for the door. After a few minutes the door slides partially open, enough for me to squeeze through, once I’m through I look back at the little droid and instruct him to do what he can to get some power back to the systems in the cockpit. I walk down the red corridor with my sidearm tucked in close, I hit a four way and the sounds are getting louder, it sounds like it’s coming from the right in the cargo hold. I get close to the corner and before I peer around I take a deep breath taking in the smell of burnt plastic and wires. I steel myself, and I slowly take the corner only to see the hallway soaked in the red emergency lights, I proceed to step out of cover moving towards the cargo bay where I think I heard the sound. As I make it to the door I noticed that it still has power, I brace myself ready for what ever lies behind the door and as it opens, there’s nothing, just the sound of what I can assume to be insects and a massive hole in the wall. I scan the room right to left not seeing anything, just some supply crates knocked around. In the left corner I see what looks like feet, I start to move quickly to see what it is. After moving some crates and other miscellaneous stuff I see the synthetic human I missing their arm. The way it was torn off suggest whatever was in here didn’t like the taste for synth. I move toward it and I put my thumbs under its arm pits and pull it out of the pile of crates it was under. I pulled it to the center of the room and check over where the missing arm was attached and then rolled it over to check the power supply and main processor unit to ensure it’s still intact. As I leave the cargo area I yell for the mech() to come and see if it can get the synth put back together and powered on. I go towards my quarters praying that it’s still intact and my gear isn’t damaged. I start to slow down as I approach the door and hold my hand out to see if I can feel any heat coming off the door. Once I make sure it isn’t hot I lean in close to see if I can hear anything that might have made its way inside from any of the exposed parts of the ship. Once I’m satisfied that I’m not hearing anything moving around I start to pry the door open. After about a minute the doors finally give way and slide open and lock, I enter with my gun at the ready slowly scanning the room taking everything in making sure nothing is hiding in the dark corners. I sign in relief to see that nothing made it into the room and I move towards a footlocker at the foot of my bed, once I’m there I put my hand on the palm scanner to unlock it and pull out the combat suit and rifle that was stored. After about ten minutes of messing with the suit, it was finally on and sealed, I grabbed the helmet and it started to sync to the suit once I dawned it. I went through the sensor calibrations and finished searching the ship for any possible intruders. I made sure there were no other breaches and nothing else in the ship, from there I started to move back to the cargo bay to see if the synth is repairable or scrap. To my surprise I saw the synth moving when I entered the room, well the head at least, it seems that the only damage was the torn limb and some gashes on its body. I kneeled down to talk to the synth for a few minutes to make sure its processor or memory unit wasn’t damaged, I inquired to see how long it would take for both it and the droid the be able to start repairs on the ships haul. I inform them that the client probably doesn’t care if we use the fabricator or any of the other supplies we were transporting and having a sealed place to sleep and possible power would be nice for the upcoming night. I looked at the droid and the synth and explained that I will be stepping away to recon our crash site and see what might be in the immediate area, hopefully there’s some no hostile life on this planet because if not it’s going to be a pain in the ass. I start making my way to the exit hatch on the top of the ship, when I get to the bottom of the ladder I stop and stare at the hatch praying it isn’t jammed shut. I drop the rifle so it catches on its sling and start to climb, with one arm hooked around the bar I use my other to twist and open the hatch. As the hatch pushes up and over it lets in a soft morning light, and the sounds of animals and insects. I slowly pop my head out doing a slow 360 to take in the immediate surroundings and once it’s clear I pull myself out and close the hatch locking it. I start walking across the top of the ship to check on some of the haul to see how badly it was damaged, and surprisingly it’s not in bad shape, minus the giant hole in the cargo area. As I jump down I hear something big moving in the forest to the left, and as I start to head that direction I hear what sounds to be a scream from a human to the right. I pivot and bring my gun to the ready and start moving towards the screams, hoping that what ever I’m walking away from doesn’t decide to follow the screams also. About 15 minutes into the trek I notice what looks to be a road of some kind, I bring my rifle to a low ready and slowly move towards the tree line, and as I make it to a spot behind a tree I see a carriage surrounded by some type of creatures and several dead body’s. I make a quick decision and hope I don’t regret it later. I slowly step out and I ask if everything is okay, and before I’m able to even finish they turn and look at me with a feral look in their eyes. With that crazed look they start to charge, I quickly bring my rifle up and aim for the closest one and with the bark of the rifle report they stopped only for a moment, then some harsh sort of cry came out of them all with their swords raised and started to charge again. I was able to send three more down range and take two more out with the last shot going wide, leaving just one left but it was far too close to get an accurate shot off. Dropping my rifle the sling catches it and I raise my right arm to deflect the downward blow, while using my left and to grab the kbar and thrust it into its gut, turning as it half way in. After sheathing my kbar I decided to check the body’s to see what useful information I can gather. Other then some gold coins and three swords, there was nothing useful, after looking over one of the swords i decided it might be best to have one to be on the safe side, even though it was technically a short sword anything longer then a combat knife will be useful it seems. After picking up the sword I start to move to what ever the creatures had killed before I had gotten there, I stop in shock for a moment when I notice that the animals that must have been pulling the carriage are horses. I slowly turn to look at the body’s near the carriage only to notice the very human like features but also animal like features like some type of hybrid. The first one seems to be covered in hair all around top to bottom, I kneel down to roll it onto its back. The face has the same features of a dog, but one that is heavily scared and appears to have fought a lot of battles. I start going through its cloths looking for anything that could possibly lead me to some sort of settlement or town, anything really, but once again, nothing except some silver coins. I move towards the carriage again, moving a little more quietly so if anything is still alive inside I won’t be caught off guard. I slowly put my hand on the handle and take a deep breath as I turn it and open the door, inside I see two kids in the corner holding each other. I slowly start to speaking hoping that one of them will try to talk and not just scream in fear. As I look into both of their eyes I can see copious amount of fear, but also relief. One of them finally start to speak and of course it’s not the same language, but something does feel familiar about it. After several minutes of attempting to communicate to each other the rudimentary AI inside the helmet finally worked out the meaning of most words being spoke. After several minutes I was finally able to figure out what town they were from and where they were going, luckily the town wasn’t too far only a couple of clicks, but it’s in the direction of what ever was big enough to knock down trees.

My name is Jaxon Ryker, and I am from the year 7777. I know it sounds unbelievable, but my story is true. I have traveled through time, witnessing the evolution—or rather, the stagnation—of humanity. I am here to share my tale with you, and perhaps, in doing so, provide some insight into why the world remains as it is. 7777 In my time, pollution still chokes the skies. The technology to clean the environment exists, but it is scarcely used. The air is thick with toxins, and the once vibrant greenery of Earth is now a memory preserved in digital archives. People wear breathing apparatuses, and domed cities are the norm for those who can afford them. Outside the domes, life is a struggle. Violence hasn't ceased either. Mass shootings are a common occurrence, a gruesome form of expression for those who feel voiceless in a society that has grown numb to suffering. Governments, or what little remains of them, are led by a diverse array of leaders—humans, women, and even aliens who have integrated into our society. Yet, despite this diversity, the fundamental issues remain unresolved. Slavery has taken on a new form. Children are the slaves of my time, forced to labor in factories and mines. Robots are tasked with ensuring the children do not die, but many of these robots are corrupted, either through malicious programming or wear and tear. They become tormentors rather than protectors, adding to the misery of the young. Entertainment has taken a dark turn. Death sports are wildly popular, broadcasted across the planet for all to see. Gladiatorial combats, where the participants fight to the death, are the main attraction. It's a grim reflection of humanity's insatiable thirst for violence and spectacle. 2099 I traveled back to the year 2099, hoping to understand when and how things took such a dark turn. It was a pivotal year, marked by technological advancements and societal changes. Yet, the seeds of the future were already being sown. Corporations wielded more power than governments, and environmental decay was accelerating. It was a time of great potential squandered by greed and shortsightedness. 2024 And now, I find myself in 2024. I met a person named Alex who agreed to record my story. Alex is skeptical but curious, willing to listen. As I describe my experiences, Alex's eyes widen with a mixture of horror and disbelief. "In 2024," I begin, "you still have the chance to change the trajectory of the future. The signs are already here—the environmental damage, the social unrest, the reliance on technology without considering the ethical implications. You can see it all around you." I tell Alex about the pollution in my time, the mass shootings, the exploitation of children, and the perversion of entertainment. "These issues didn't start overnight. They are the result of centuries of neglect and misplaced priorities." Alex asks why I am sharing this now. "Because," I say, "I have seen the consequences of inaction. I have seen a world where the worst of humanity's tendencies have been allowed to flourish unchecked. You have the power to change it, but only if you act now." I describe the domed cities of 7777, the constant surveillance, the fear that permeates every aspect of life. "It's not too late," I insist. "You can demand better from your leaders, from your corporations, and from each other." 1900s Before coming to 2024, I also traveled to the 1900s. The 20th century was a time of rapid change and turmoil. I witnessed the horrors of two World Wars, the rise and fall of empires, and the constant struggle for civil rights. The technological advancements were remarkable, yet they brought new forms of destruction. Nuclear weapons, environmental pollution, and social upheaval were all consequences of progress pursued without foresight. 1800s The 1800s presented a different picture. I saw the Industrial Revolution transforming societies, bringing both progress and exploitation. Child labor was rampant, much like in my time, though without the robotic overseers. The seeds of environmental degradation were sown with the unchecked expansion of industry. Slavery, although legally abolished in many parts of the world, still existed in various forms of economic and social bondage. 1700s The 1700s were a time of enlightenment and revolution. I witnessed the birth of modern democracy, the struggles for independence, and the spread of new ideas. Yet, beneath the surface, inequality and oppression were still deeply entrenched. Colonialism and the slave trade thrived, causing suffering on an unimaginable scale. 1500s In the 1500s, I saw a world still deeply mired in feudalism and superstition. The Renaissance was a beacon of hope, heralding advancements in art, science, and thought. However, the period was also marked by brutal conquests, religious persecutions, and the early stages of global exploitation. The foundations of modern inequities were being laid even then. Final Thoughts As we talk, I see a glimmer of hope in Alex's eyes. "The future is not set in stone," I remind them. "It is shaped by the choices you make today. Learn from my time, and make the world a place where people can live without fear, where children are not enslaved, and where entertainment doesn't glorify death." Our conversation goes on for hours, covering more details than I can recount here. But the essence remains the same: my journey through time is a warning. The world of 7777 is a testament to what happens when humanity fails to address its deepest flaws. As Alex turns off the recorder, I feel a sense of relief. I have done what I can. The rest is up to you.

Chapter 1: The New Normal In the year 2174, the United States had transformed into a shadow of its former self. The once-proud democracy had crumbled under the weight of its own ambition, giving rise to a totalitarian regime known as The Blackwood Order that controlled every aspect of life. The Constitution, which had once been the bedrock of American freedom, was now a relic of the past, its principles abandoned and its promises shattered. The currency had changed, both in name and appearance. The familiar greenbacks were replaced by "Turquins," turquoise-blue notes that symbolized the new order. Dollars were no more; the value of money was dictated by The Blackwood Order's whims. Wealth was concentrated in the hands of the elite, who lived in opulent splendor while the rest of the population scraped by. Milk, once a staple of the American diet, was now synthetically produced. The government controlled its distribution, ensuring that only the privileged had access to the purest forms. Candy and alcohol were luxuries reserved for the rich, symbols of status and power. For the ordinary citizen, such indulgences were distant dreams. Water had become a scarce and precious resource. The government's tight grip extended even to rainwater; any that touched the ground was their property. Ingenious contraptions, buckets hung in the air, collected what little rain fell, becoming lifelines for desperate families. The scarcity of water led to constant tension and conflict. Petroleum was a thing of the past. The greedy exploitation of fossil fuels had dried up the Earth's reserves, leading to the collapse of traditional energy sources. In their place, a macabre solution was found: "Vivium," a substance harvested from the melted remains of living human beings. This grotesque fuel powered the nation, its production a dark secret known only to those who wielded power within The Blackwood Order. The natural world had adapted in alarming ways. Animals had evolved to become stronger, their nocturnal vision sharpening as they grew bolder, no longer fearing humans. The wilderness was a dangerous place, where survival depended on cunning and strength. Food was a rare and coveted commodity. People resorted to theft, murder, and betrayal to secure their next meal. In the cities, children formed colonies, ruling over their territories with a ferocity born of desperation. Adult colonies, driven by greed and the lust for power, were brutal and unforgiving. Chapter 2: Whispers of Suffering Amidst this dystopian landscape, there were whispers of suffering that permeated every corner of society. In the depths of the city, beneath the watchful eyes of The Blackwood Order, people struggled to survive. Hope was a distant memory, replaced by a pervasive sense of despair. Evelyn, a former teacher, had seen her students suffer under the harsh regime. Her attempts to protect them were futile, and she watched helplessly as they were swept away by the brutality of the new order. Marcus, a former soldier, had lost his purpose and wandered the streets, haunted by the horrors he had witnessed. Lila, a young girl who had grown up in the chaos, knew nothing but the harsh realities of this oppressive world. Each day was a battle for survival. Acts of defiance were rare, quickly crushed by The Blackwood Order's iron fist. The elite continued to thrive, their opulent lives a stark contrast to the misery of the masses. The divide between the rich and the poor was an unbridgeable chasm. Chapter 3: The Descent The resistance, if it could be called that, was a faint glimmer of hope that never fully ignited. People were too afraid, too beaten down by years of oppression. Evelyn, Marcus, and Lila found themselves trapped in a cycle of despair, their efforts to resist crushed at every turn. The Blackwood Order's control tightened, and the production of Vivium increased. The macabre process of melting living human beings for fuel became more widespread, its victims chosen from the ranks of the most vulnerable. The elite's power was unassailable, their control absolute. The natural world, once a source of solace, became another threat. Evolved animals prowled the night, their strength and cunning making the wilderness a perilous place. Even in the darkness, there was no refuge. Food shortages worsened, leading to more violence and desperation. Children in their colonies grew more feral, their innocence lost in the struggle for survival. Adult colonies, driven by greed, descended into chaos, their leaders becoming tyrants in their own right. Chapter 4: The Eclipse The climax came not in a battle for liberation, but in a final act of submission. The people, broken and weary, accepted their fate. The Blackwood Order's control was complete, its dominance unchallenged. Evelyn, Marcus, and Lila, once symbols of resistance, succumbed to the overwhelming despair. Their stories were lost among countless others, their efforts forgotten in the relentless march of oppression. The whispers of rebellion faded into silence, replaced by the echoing cries of a subdued population. Epilogue: Shadows of the Past The fall of resistance marked the beginning of a darker era. The road ahead was bleak, with no hope of recovery. The new government, The Blackwood Order, built on principles of fear and control, solidified its rule, ensuring that the past would never be remembered. Evelyn, Marcus, and Lila became ghosts of a lost cause, their spirits crushed under the weight of tyranny. The United States, now a land of shadows under The Blackwood Order, continued to exist in a state of perpetual despair, its people bound by the chains of their own making. And so, the echoes of despair rang out, a testament to the enduring power of oppression and the fragility of human hope. The story of liberty was extinguished, leaving behind only the darkness of a future without freedom.

Fort Spencer was often called Fort Retirement. The base lacked weapons beyond the bare minimum, it conduced little research, it had no civilian governments to coordinate with. It received a higher amount of foodstuffs and luxury goods than five bases combined. The staff came in two flavors, high-ranking officers that were nearing the end of their life and fresh soldiers to serve them. Fort Spencer was located near a large lake which was perfect for training exercises (boat excursions). The wildlife was noted to be not as mutated as other parts of the country. The flora had a tendency to glow, but analysis showed it was no more toxic than the rest of the world. As such, it was considered charming. Most officers spent their careers hoping to end in this location. Frida, Polly, and Jim didn't know any of this history. They only knew that it had a radio that connected it to the bases across the land. This made it perfect for their advert. "Alright, so step one is seeing how many guards there are. I think we should wait for a few hours and see how many guards come out," Polly said. She looked at her partners. Frida and Jim looked at each other. Olivia would've insulted her, and Reid would've claimed credit for her idea. Both would listen to her though. Frida and Jim had no idea how to do that. Instead, they both broke out running at Fort Spencer leaving Polly sighing in their dust. "Fine. We'll do it your way." Polly crouched to the ground and tried to hide. Normally, running unarmed at a military base would be a horrible idea. Fortunately, there were no guards posted at Fort Spencer for the moment. It was bingo night at the mess hall, and all the able-bodied recruits were needed to ensure the event ran smoothly as possible. When Frida and Joe reached the gate, both hit with their shoulders. The gate swung open, and the two fell on the ground. Neither had expected the gate to be unlocked, but neither were the type to contemplate. The two nodded at each other and agreed to split up. Joe opened the door to the first bunker he saw and found the barracks of the fresh soldiers. An uncharitable interpretation would be to refer to it as the servant quarters. It was filled with bunk beds. Before each bunk bed was a trunk to be split by the inhabitants. In the back corner, a bucket was stationed in case anyone had to relieve themselves. Joe began vandalizing the squalid conditions. He tossed the bucket around the room and tore up sheets. Trunks were knocked over. When Joe was done, he went to the next bunker, this belonged to an officer. Officers either had a roommate or a suite to themselves. They had indoor plumbing, a kitchenette, a large bed, and a private library. Jim made quick work of all of them. Jim moved through the houses like a tornado destroying all in his path. Frida kicked down the door to the mess hall. Everyone inside was drunk and singing Happy Birthday off-key in a bad chorus line. Frida smiled and joined them. She forgot about her mission and enjoyed the revelry. A few of the new soldiers recognized her as an outsider, but they didn't care. They weren't paid enough to care. Eventually, Frida accidentally hit a drunken officer. She laughed with the officer until he punched her in the face. Frida retaliated by breaking a glass on his head. A brawl broke out that consumed the mess hall. Polly walked in behind the two and surveyed the carnage. She shook her head. "Those idiots." She searched for a radio tower and walked towards it. When she reached the door, she realized that she couldn't pick the lock. She wished Jim or Frida was here so she they could break it down. With little concern, she decided to try the knob anyway. It opened without resistance. She smiled and assumed the hard part was over. Unfortunately, she didn't realize the complications and technology required to operate a largescale communication network. The back wall was a giant machine filled with knobs, switches, and meters with a microphone in the middle. Polly walked to it and found a large button labeled "Broadcast." She found another knob labeled distance and turned it to the maximum setting. A nearby speaker played a static noise. Polly adjusted the controls until it went away. Then, she pressed and spoke into the microphone. "Hey everyone come to Pacifico City. It's the best beach town in the world. You will find all of your relaxing needs there. Once again, come to Pacifico City. Where fun goes to rest." Polly stepped away proud of herself. Outside, she discovered that every barrack had been lit on fire. Jim emerged from the blaze of one building with a somber look on his face. "It's done." He uttered. The mess hall doors opened, and Frida flew outside head first. "Wow, that was fun," Frida said. Polly looked down at them. "While you two were goofing off, I had to do everything," Polly sighed, "Let's go home." "They shall not rise again," Jim said as he followed her. "Where fun goes to rest is a terrible tagline," Reid said. He and Olivia were preparing for the guests while Alex stood away from them watching. "I agree. It sounds like a total fun killer. We really do have to hold her hand and do everything," Olivia replied. "I am impressed that she got on the radio." Reid looked at the small machine. "I assumed she would blow up before establishing a connection." "It's not that impressive. I assume she just connected to us which she doesn't need," Olivia said. "That's not true," Alex said. Polly and Reid looked at him. "What does that mean?" Reid said. "That's my uncle's military radio set. It's old and can only pick up really strong signals from the proper channels. If we heard her, the entire military heard her," Alex said. "Well, that's good advertising," Reid said, "I am shocked she got anyone to agree to let her to advertise." "We both know she didn't. Frida and Jim barged in, and she pressed a button. She'll claim all the credit surely," Olivia said. "That's true." Reid and Olivia went back to work until Reid stopped. "Wait, that means she broke onto a base." "Presumably." "And there was a lot of collateral damage." "That's Frida and Jim's favorite kind of damage." "And she broadcasted our location to everyone," Reid said. Olivia froze in terror. "Oh god, we're doomed.

"After the Meltdown" (Part 1 of a series of short stories) by P. Orin Zack   **“As Is”** (Story 1 of 7) [12/16/2007]   Ryan Svorlin stood in front of the big house, gaping. The keys hung loosely in his shaking hand, clattering against one another in rhythmic reflection of the waves of shock coursing through his troubled mind. “It… it’s… mine,” he stammered, unable to comprehend what had just happened. “Well, sure,” the real estate lady told him. “You did sign the papers, didn’t you?” He slowly turned to look at her. Paper-thin skin stretched across unnaturally prominent cheekbones. Overdone make-up. Probably over seventy, he guessed. “Of course. But I never expected to .” “To be selected? Well, someone had to be. They couldn’t afford to let these places go vacant, after all.” Less than a year had passed since the first cannonade in the financial meltdown destroyed the façade of normalcy masquerading as prosperity in the United States. Some faceless blogger had instigated a mortgage strike, an incautious response to the revelation that the reason the government was so determined to protect the masses from being dispossessed in their forced insolvency was the dirtiest little secret at the heart of the country’s high-flying economy – that nobody really owned all those high-risk loans, and therefore the houses could not be foreclosed. No one could have predicted what happened next. “But what happened to the people who used to live here?” he said, taking in the carefully manicured grounds surrounding what must have been a million-dollar mansion not more than a year ago. “Didn’t you follow that slow-motion train wreck in the news? How all the high-risk loans had been bundled into anonymous investment vehicles and oversold to the tune of about a hundred to one?” He shrugged. “Well, sure. But what I didn’t get was why that meant the people in places like this ended up on the street. I thought they were rich. I mean, wouldn’t they have to be, in order to afford a place like this?” “Come on, Mr. Svorlin, you can’t be that naïve, can you? They were only rich on paper. People like Gregory Davis, who used to live here, were only riding high because of the same financial leverage that made the risky mortgage scam work. Once the investment banks realized they couldn’t liquidate the loans they’d turned into sludge, they had no choice but to pull the so-called safe ones, like this gem. Davis might have thought he was rich, but once his house of cards came down, he wasn’t worth enough to get his own dog back from the pound.” “So where did he end up?” “To tell you the truth, I don’t really care. The world might be in chaos right now, but it’s a far sight better, as far as I’m concerned, than it was before the meltdown. At least now there’s some relationship between a person’s ability to do things and her budget. With all those clowns out of the picture, ordinary folks, people who can offer some useful product or service to others, are finally getting their due. For my money – and I earned it by knowing a thing or two about aircraft back in the day – I think it was worth the cost.” He studied her briefly, wondering after her back-story, but then let it go. Things were changing so quickly any more that the most important thing about a person was what he could do right now. “Well, thanks for all the help,” he said, nodding courteously. “Sure.” She turned smartly, perhaps recalling a younger day, and strode back towards the bus stop. Ryan waited until she had rounded the bend before heading towards the big house’s ornate front door. Like all the other people who had posted bids for these mansions, he had no idea what he might find inside. They were all offered as-is, and it was up to the lucky winner to deal with whatever it is they might find. His pace slackened as he drew towards the broad brick stairway up to the deck, which looked like it encircled the building. He slowly scanned the façade. The windows were intact, and he didn’t see any obvious signs of forced entry or vandalism. At least Davis’ public anonymity was good for something. A lot of these homes had been ransacked within days after the bottom fell out. Those were the ones with owners whose faces were plastered all over the news in the inevitable hunt for the guilty. Happily, even the newspapers didn’t fall for that dodge. They ran the stories, of course, but only as a way to hook the shadowy types who had thrown their business associates in front of the train to save their own skins. But Davis wasn’t one of them. Nobody really knew what he did, or where his wealth came from. Only that it had all evaporated one afternoon. And that he never made a move to protect it. As he reached the top step, he raised the bundle of keys the real estate lady had handed him, and located the one she’d said was for the front door. He could see inside, through the gauzy layer of curtain beyond the big windows flanking him on both sides. The lights were still on. The moment he opened the door, Ryan knew something was wrong. He hadn’t smelled death before, but couldn’t think of anything else to attribute the stench to. He grabbed a small table from just inside and used it to prop the door open. He’d crack some windows as soon as he’d determined what the source was. Whatever else Davis might have been, he was a man who didn’t like clutter. The big room had a few carefully placed chairs and tables, Danish Modern from the look of them, and little else. He glanced down the long corridor that led towards the back of the house, but didn’t see any lights. So he followed the dogleg around to the right, and towards the arched entry to the dining room. He was getting closer, judging by the smell. Steeling himself, Ryan stepped past the long dining room table, only tangentially aware of the intricate inlay work along its edge. Finding a body slumped over a table in the kitchen had been so overused in film and fiction, he was already flashing to several vintage mysteries, in a half-hearted attempt to lighten the mood. So, when he crossed the threshold and scanned the room, he was relieved to find the man he assumed to be the former owner, collapsed over the island sink, with a bloody pile of towels strategically placed to minimize the mess. “How thoughtful, Mr. Davis” he said to the corpse. “Low profile to the end. I guess now I know why your house was so attractively priced.” After opening the kitchen door and windows to clear the air a bit, Ryan returned to Davis’ impromptu sacrificial altar for another look. He’d cleanly slit his wrist with one of seven knives he’d laid out for the chore. The lucky one was submerged in the half-filled sink. “Indecisive?” he asked. Then, spotting an open bottle of prescription narcotic near the microwave, he added, “And conscientious, too. So who were you, and how did you come to this?” Not too long ago, a discovery like this would have been reason to call 911. But that was before the meltdown, before the city government admitted that it had been engaging in foolhardy investment schemes, too. It was just as broke as Davis here. The only city services still functioning were the ones charging users directly, like the bus system. The fire department had taken to using a pay-as-you-burn system. They’d put out your fire as soon as you showed them enough real money to cover the call, which meant that for most people, there was no fire department. Davis was Ryan’s problem. He’d have to dispose of the body himself, unless he had some way to pay for someone else to do it. Fortunately, there was plenty of lawn. All he needed was to find a shovel. Who knows, maybe the guy left one of them around, too. But that could wait. At the moment, he was more interested in finding out more about his late benefactor. So he set off into the house in search of clues. Not surprisingly, it was a brief search. Davis had left some papers open on his office desk, and Ryan sat down to look through them. The one on top was a copy of Davis’ will. Before the meltdown, he’d decided to leave everything to charity, a foundation that helped people rebuild their credit after going through bankruptcy. “Feeling guilty, were you, Greg?” he said as he paged through the man’s financial records. Just about every bit of his estate had been tied up in one kind of risky derivative or another… bundled mortgages, several kinds of GDP futures. It was a veritable grab bag of monetary moronity. And they were all worthless. The only saving grace in the whole stack was a frayed news clipping, part of an old investigative piece that, if it were true, nearly landed the man in a Senate hearing room. Ryan flattened it out and began to read. About two-thirds of the way through, the author asserted that Gregory Davis had been instrumental in getting the government’s oversight board to look the other way when they had the chance to stop the worst of the schemes from being launched. Davis had personally cocked the trigger. He was responsible for having set up the meta-derivatives that were offered to the governments of the world as a way to actually profit from their own debt. The meltdown, as inevitable as it might have been, must have been triggered by something. He was just unlucky enough to have been the fool who placed that last straw on the camel’s back. And nobody knew. It was his secret, and he couldn’t live with it. No wonder he killed himself. Ryan dropped the clipping and went back to the kitchen… back to the site of what he now guessed was Davis’ idea of ultimate penance: personal blood sacrifice. He stared at the man’s body for a long moment, with not so much as a thought coursing through his head. It wouldn’t do to clean up the mess, he decided, not after Davis went through so much trouble to make such a dramatic, albeit private, exit. No. Not when it could be put to such a good use. He rummaged around the house for a while, until he finally found something suitable for a sign, and some heavy markers. When he was finished, he took it out on the patio and hung it from the banister so anyone passing by could see. ‘Thank the Trigger Man,’ it read, ‘$1.00 a spit.” Davis, he decided, would be worth more, left as is.   THE END   **"Full Value"** (Story 2 of 7) [12/26/2007]   Ryan Svorlin, bleary-eyed from a lack of sleep, had nearly stopped noticing the stench from the corpse in the kitchen. Nearly. The distraction of reading might have been more effective if he’d become engrossed in a good spy thriller instead of the stack of financial records left by the suicide down the hall. At the sound of footsteps from the front room, he stopped reading a ‘white paper’ laying out the political strategy of a powerful industrial lobby and cocked his head to listen. Might be a paying customer, he thought. “Come on in!” he shouted over his shoulder. Knowing that the former owner had been personally responsible for the chaos unleashed when the Ponzi scheme the international banking cartel called a monetary system collapsed was enough reason to try to make sense of it all. Finding both the man and his legacy in the mansion he’d just lucked into made it imperative. At a buck a shot, though, it didn’t look like he’d make enough money from people coming in to spit on the bloody hulk to cover the cost of getting rid of him. Ever since the global monetary meltdown, there were no municipal services any more, no police department to investigate the death, or morgue to pick up the body. Well, not that you’d notice, anyway. And there was just so long Ryan was willing to share his kitchen with the guy. “Gregory Davis, you slimy son-of-a-bitch!” The voice echoed hollowly, sounding dry, raspy. Svorlin smiled, and spun around on the expensive office chair. He’d left a donation jar amongst the knives that Davis had laid out beside the kitchen island sink where he’d slit his own wrist. He dropped the paper and rose to meet his guest. “But why’d you have to go and kill yourself?” the voice lamented. “I’d have gladly saved you the trouble.” By the time Ryan reached the kitchen, his visitor, a middle-aged man in a dirty business suit, was stuffing what looked like a hundred dollar bill into the jar. “Hi,” he said. “Sounds like you got here a bit late. Did you have a personal beef with him?” The man nodded, turning. “You could say that. I’m Horace Lembridge, a member of the last class of Representatives voted into office before the roof fell. And to think I actually believed there was anything I could do to avert the crisis. More fool me.” Ryan introduced himself, explained how he’d won the house in the foreclosure lottery, and then gestured at the jar. “Was that a Ben Franklin you just dropped on me?” “Yeah. It’s blood money as far as I’m concerned, though. You’re welcome to it if it’ll help put his ass where the sun don’t shine.” Lembridge looked around for a moment. “Listen, can you spare a bite to eat? It was a long bus trip, and I didn’t stop for anything but nature.” “Sure. I didn’t want to keep any food in here until I’d had a chance to disinfect. Fortunately, my benefactor had another fridge in the den. Come on back.” They walked past the office where Ryan had found Davis’ paper trail, and down two steps into a big room at the rear of the mansion. Ryan had set up a make-do kitchen beside the wet-bar, and used the ornate pool table by the picture window for a pantry. There was a wealth of packaged goods stacked by a corner pocket, and some plates and tableware nearby. They cracked some cans and boxes, opened some drinks, and sat in two of the ugliest chairs Ryan had ever seen. Once they got settled, Lembridge picked up the conversation. “I was prepared to find that the true face of governance was ravaged with sores before I was sworn in, but I never expected to discover that the people elected to congress were embedded in a 360-degree theater of propaganda so compelling that they didn’t doubt it for a minute.” Ryan chuckled humorlessly. “Naïve, were you?” “It’s worse than that. You think you’re doing some good for the people who elected you. And you make excuses for the compromises you’re forced into, thinking that on balance you’re improving things. But the problem was that no matter which way you looked, the world you saw was contrived. Every source of information at your disposal, every choice you’re faced with, has been rigged. It’s like the whole government exists inside some perverted version of that movie, ‘The Truman Show’. And it’s not just our government, either. They’re all like that, or most of them, anyway. I don’t know what to believe any more.” “Yeah,” Ryan said somberly as he picked up a can of tuna. “I was reading through Davis’ papers when you came in. And as usual, it all comes down to money. I used to scoff at all the conspiracy theorists… especially the ones who claimed the terrorist attacks on 9/11 were an inside job. But there it is. They were right. And it all came down to money.” Congressman Lembridge lowered the stalk of canned asparagus he was munching and narrowed his eyes. “What?” “The whole so-called ‘War on Terror’ was a put-up job. You knew that, right?” “But that was the basis of my whole campaign. We’ve been struggling for years to prevent another attack like that. And it’s worked, too. Okay, I’ll grant you that there’s been some games played with the intelligence, but only to focus our efforts, to make it clear what we’re really up against.” The man’s voice had slowly taken on an edge of angry desperation, one that was now beginning to reflect in his face as well. Ryan sat back, nervously fingering his fork. “Let me ask you a question, then. Do you believe that anything a business does to increase its profits is fair game… that an industry can legitimately induce national governments to act in its best interest?” “Well, of course. They’ve just been taking it a bit too far, that’s all.” “Even,” Ryan said, and paused uncertainly, “even if that means some people get hurt… or killed?” His visitor’s face darkened. “Sometimes that can’t be helped.” “If it’s intentional,” Ryan pressed. “What are you suggesting?” “I’m not ‘suggesting’ anything. According to Gregory Davis’ records, the Senate hearing that was conveniently cancelled so he wouldn’t be called to testify at was investigating the GDP derivatives being floated by the three biggest banks in the country. Those were the goodies that were sold short by an unidentified cartel of investors just before the mortgage strike hit the wind. The greedy bastards who placed those sell orders were betting that the US economy was about to tank. They positioned themselves to make the biggest killing in history on the backs of every single person and business that went into the crapper that day. Do you, in your wildest imagination, believe that anyone with the gall to pull that stunt would balk at killing a few thousand people for the sake of drumming up trillions in war profits?” Lembridge stared at him, ashen-faced. “You’re serious?” “Like the corpse in my kitchen. I’m sitting on proof of how the house of cards the banking cartel built up over the years was pulled. It’s all in Davis’ office. But what people have to be shown is how that house of cards was built, who was involved, and how long it took to build it. This isn’t something engineered by a bunch of billionaire cowboys. They might have gotten some of the booty, but anything with a time horizon that long has to be organized by something that has an even longer lifetime.” The congressman rose and faced the window. He stood there for some minutes, nearly long enough for Ryan to finish the tuna in his can. Then he walked over to the pool table and leaned heavily against it, arms crossed tightly. “Like who?” “I thought it was the old banking families at first. You know, Morgan and the rest. But then I wondered how there could have been a recurring effort to put them down, to reclaim the money system from the people who create it in the form of debt, rather than as payment for work done, the way the gang at Independence Hall laid it out when they founded this country. And I had to wonder if there wasn’t another player out there, and that maybe this struggle has been going on for longer than that, even.” Lembridge relaxed a bit, dropping his arms and draping his fingers over the edge of the table’s felt inner ledge. “Like the perpetual struggle between good and evil?” “Something like that, yeah. Maybe. Or perhaps a competition between two secret societies that have been manipulating humanity for millennia. But the point is that we have to start looking at the evidence, at all of the evidence, and in a way that doesn’t discard out of hand the possibility that what we see isn’t really what’s going on. Because sometimes, the truth is only obvious in hindsight. Sometimes, the only way to get there is by seeing the world in ways that others don’t.” “So what do you intend to do?” “Bury Mr. Davis, for one thing. But not too deeply, and not too far away. There’s plenty of lawn out there, and I’ve found a few shovels. If you want to help, I’d be thankful for it.” Lembridge stepped away from the pool table, and faced Ryan squarely. “I think I would.” “Great.” Ryan started towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “I do have one question for you before we start.” “Oh?” “You said you had a personal bone to pick with Davis. What was it?” He smiled. “My sister. She worked on K Street, for one of the more specialized lobbying outfits. They focused on environmental issues, mostly. She thought she was one of the good guys, helping show Congress and the various agencies how their decisions affected the planet.” Ryan shrugged. “I don’t understand. From what you just said, I’d say she was one of the good guys. That’s the upside of lobbying.” “You’re right. And she was proud of her work there. But then she discovered that some of their work was being directed by outside interests. They were being used as cover, to make people like me vote for things that had other effects as well. Far worse ones.” “So why didn’t she come here herself?” “That’s kind of hard when you’re dead. She was killed in an explosion. What’s left of the media parroted the usual drivel about some lone terrorist who blamed environmentalists for destroying the economy. But after talking with you, I’m pretty sure it was much simpler. They just weren’t useful any more.” “Grisly. But what does that have to do with our stiff?” Lembridge didn’t answer right away. Instead, he continued on into the kitchen and stopped in front of Davis’ smelly corpse, still hanging there face down over the sink. “Our boy ran a clearing house for coordinating lobby activities, watching out for conflicts that could get them in each others’ way, right?” “Sure. That’s how he put the bug in so many institutional ears about the new GDP derivative he was asked to testified about.” The congressman glared angrily at Davis. “One of those institutions was my sister’s agency. He bankrupted the good guys along with everyone else. Oh, right,” he said, “I almost forgot,” and cast the spit he’d paid for. “Come on. Let’s go dig a hole.”   THE END   **"LA Scrip"** (Story 3 of 7) [1/5/2008]   Cristall Bellows, dressed more formally that she liked, and cradling a backpack in her lap, signaled the driver, and waited nervously for the bus to stop. She’d never been to this part of Los Angeles before, and the sight of all these unkempt McMansions was making her queasy. She shouldered the pack, and started towards the front. The driver, who had been watching in his mirror, turned as she approached. “Is that LA Scrip you’re carrying?” She clutched it defensively, pale blue textured paper in a dark brown hand. “Yeah. I just got paid down at City Hall. Don’t you take it? I thought all city services --.” “We do, we do,” he laughed. “Thanks for helping out. It’s not everyone gets paid with Scrip just yet, only the folks working directly for the city. So what do you do for us?” “Teaching, after a fashion,” she said as she stuffed her fare into the slot. “I’ve been going around explaining this new money to people. I get some of the strangest looks when I tell them the city just prints it up.” “Well, that did used to be illegal, after all. Counterfeiters were offered special treatment by the criminal justice system back when the Federal Reserve had a monopoly on creating money.” He opened the door. “Who knew they’d end up getting hired by the city after the economy crapped out? Well, thanks for riding my bus, and good luck.” As the bus pulled away, she glanced up at the street sign to get her bearings, and then wriggled into her backpack. She was headed for one of the houses that were handed out in last month’s foreclosure lottery. This particular one interested her because the previous owner had been deeply involved in the financial sleight-of-hand that yanked down the economy around everyone’s ears. And like a lot of the people who affect the world in outsize ways, he was a cipher, one of the shadowy villains who thought they were so smart they could run the world from behind a curtain of secrecy and deniability. What she didn’t know was whether the man that won the property, a Mr. Ryan Svorlin, had the first clue about what sort of a ghost roamed his halls. “Gregory Davis?” Svorlin said with an amused grin when she asked. “Sure. He was still hanging around in the kitchen when I got the keys. Buried him by that tree over there.” She turned to look at the mound of dirt and recoiled. “You didn’t kill him, did you?” “Hardly. The creep politely offed himself. Tried not to make too much of a mess at it, too. I gotta say, though, he did leave quite a treasure trove back in the office.” “Money?” Svorlin shook his head. “Paper trail a mile wide. The guy was flat out apoplectic about trying to atone for what he’d done. He even tried leaving his fortune to help the people whose lives he helped ruin. Not that those securities are worth anything any more. Even his back-up plan – a safe in the basement – was a disaster. US currency. All of it. Listen, I get the feeling this chat’s going to take a while. Come on in. I’ll show you around Davis’ old digs. What’s your interest in him, if you don’t mind a nosy question?” She stopped to study an incomprehensible collage hanging in the foyer. “He had odd taste in art, didn’t he?” “If you ask me, the man’s taste was all in his wallet. While he was still flying high, he prowled the auction circuit, snatching up what he thought of as investment properties. Of course, things like that are only worth what someone’s willing to pay for them. All those bucks he poured into his collection is just a pile of washable paper now. So if there’s something you like, let me know. Maybe we can work out a trade.” Cristall smiled privately, and then turned to follow him down the hallway to the back of the house. She glanced into a cluttered room in passing, probably the office Svorlin had mentioned, judging from the furnishings. “You asked about my interest in Gregory Davis,” she said, descending the two steps into the sunny den. “Actually,” he said after holding eye contact for a moment, “I was surprised you even knew about him. Is it personal? The congressman who helped me bury the guy took some satisfaction in digging his grave. Said it gave him a sense of closure.” He pointed at an ugly conversation set by the big window. “Is wine okay? He left me a ton of it.” She set her pack down beside the chair, and watched while he uncorked a bottle of something neither of them would have been able to afford, and filled two glasses. “I discovered who he was while preparing the economics seminar I teach for the city. The subject is hard for most people to grasp, so I’ve gone out of my way to make it real for them, to put some flesh behind all those antiseptic terms we’ve been bludgeoned with over the years.” “Yeah,” he said, handing her a goblet. “I know what you mean. It’s been murder… I mean, it’s been difficult figuring out what all those papers he left behind are all about. Fortunately, he also had some reference books, so I can look stuff up easily enough. Still, it’s not exactly my field.” “Oh? What did you do before the meltdown?” Svorlin shrugged. “Software. Tech stuff. There isn’t a lot of call for that sort of work right now, though. Anyone with working computers is going to be stuck with whatever programs they’ve got, at least for a while. There isn’t any new development going on except for the open source projects, and even those are hobbled by problems with the Internet. If it weren’t for the Ham Radio guys’ do-it-yourself packet network, we wouldn’t have gotten what backbones we have hooked up again after the telcos went all twitchy.” She stared at him like he was signing in Swahili. “Um,” he said sheepishly, “that didn’t mean a lot to you, did it.” “No, but it did give me a good feel for what my own students are up against. Thanks.” “What’s your seminar about?” Cristall fished around in her pack for a moment, and handed him a crisp light blue ten-angel note. “LA Scrip. Have you gotten any yet?” He examined it and handed it back. “The city’s printing money now? What’s it worth in dollars?” “It’s not convertible. Scrip’s a whole different kind of money. I guess you could say it’s the modern-day equivalent of the old Greenbacks. They’re issued by the city in exchange for work performed for the common good. So I get paid in these for teaching people what they are. Which is poetic, really, because unless I do that, they really aren’t worth anything. People have to be willing to use them as money for them to be money.” “I don’t get it. If that bill represents ten angels worth of labor, what kind of labor was it, and how to I convert that to the kind of work that I do? I mean, some labor’s more valuable than others, isn’t it?” “Not if it’s performed for the common good. Scrip’s egalitarian.” Ryan took a thoughtful sip of wine. “Okay. I’m lost. I get that you traded an hour of your time for some number of those angels, but how do you buy bread with it? What’s an hour of your time worth in terms of apples?” “That’s the point of the seminar. We’re just now working it all out. That’s only one of the questions we needed to answer.” “So what’s the conversion? How much bread is that new bread worth?” “At this point, we’re just working with the local bakeries, because they make it themselves. And our solution is still a bit clunky, but it’s a start. A loaf of bread takes a certain amount of time and materials to make. We can assign a value to the labor portion in terms of LA Scrip, but anything the baker still needs to pay in dollars for, like materials and the shop itself, are valued in dollars. We’re hoping to eventually get everything moved over to Scrip. Then we can dispense with the dollars entirely.” He sat back and gazed out the window for a while. After another sip of wine, he said, “So if I offer my tech services to the city, I’d get paid in LA Scrip?” “Uh huh. And then you could use it for bus fare, like I did on the way over. The driver gets paid based on the number of riders, so friendliness is a virtue. Your fare is what you think the trip is worth. We modeled that after how some musicians have started selling their recordings. And the extra goes to keeping the busses running.” “What about rent? How would that work?” Cristall thought for a moment. “Don’t know. We haven’t tried cracking that one yet. Got any suggestions?” “Not suggestions, but I do have a problem to solve.” “Oh?” “Well, yeah. You’re sitting in it. This place has seven bedrooms. What does a single guy need with seven bedrooms? I figured maybe I could turn it into a boarding house or something.” She chuckled. “In that case, I think you may have just answered your own question.” “What do you mean?” “There’s a difference between running a boarding house and just renting out rooms. You’d be providing a service to the people living here, wouldn’t you? Meals, for example.” “I hadn’t really thought it through that far, but okay, what if I do?” “Then you can take angels for your time, at least. Are you serious about this?” “Sure. Why?” “Because I’d like to help you work out the bugs. I wouldn’t mind living here, if there were a chance to turn all these big lottery prizes into something of value. Once we’ve got the kinks worked out here, we can spread the word. So what do you think? Can we move in?” He cocked his head slightly. “We?” “Well, sure. I can’t keep leaving my daughter with my folks forever, you know. Daycare is a service, after all. It’ll be good for the new economy.”   THE END Copyright 2007-2008 by P.

Jessica had dreams filled with achievement, grace, and splendour. But that's all they were—dreams. On paper, she could outline every step, drawing little squares to every actionable step: get into the top university, maintain a 4.0 GPA, participate in countless extracurricular activities, and, most importantly, get into medical school. Medical school was her ultimate goal, a stepping stone to even greater aspirations. She closed her thin, cheap notebook and dropped it on her bed. It was past midnight, and she was getting tired. As she laid on her pillows, guilt overcame her. Her classmates, her competitors, her rivals were probably still studying, striving for the best grades. Yet, she spent her evenings mindlessly watching YouTube, forgetting the direction she needed to take. Writing actionable steps on a flimsy paper felt like a way to erase and renew herself. But she knew better. She was wiser now, understanding that those words meant nothing without action. The weight of these thoughts translated into deep sighs. At eighteen, she was considered an adult but she felt like a child, still restrained by expectations but free to study and outperform her cousin, but she felt restrained by her own mind. How could she be better? How could she be smarter? Her parents thought too much of her. Yes, she was smart, but she wasn't the smartest. She wasn't the prettiest, fastest, or most gifted. She was average—maybe slightly above average. But average wasn't enough to tick those dimensionless squares. She squirmed under her blankets, hoping the warmth could subdue her restlessness , that she could start anew the next day. But the warmth only reminded her of her servitude to comfort. Her peers were likely seated in cold chairs, immune to discomfort, pushing through practice exams to make their dreams a reality. She wanted to join them but she felt empty. Sitting at her desk felt empty, opening a book felt empty and holding a pencil to work felt even emptier. Jessica felt trapped, deluded by motivational pinterest pictures of doctors. Her mind worked against her, sneering and belittling her mistakes. This was her struggle, her weakness. Others overcame similar challenges and thrived. So why couldn't she? Jessica felt sticky and tense. Frustrated, she got up and pulled open her blinds. To her surprise, a full moon greeted her. Its presence was calming and reassuring. She stood in awe of the beauty that held her prisoner. If only you could be this infatuated with your studies. She glanced at her desk, stained coffee brown and exhausted from the weight of her books. She wanted to walk up to it, spend even ten minutes working, to give herself some peace so she could sleep. But her legs dared not move. She was shaking—not physically, but her mind was running mad. She felt herself slipping through the cracks. I must be crazy, she thought. I'm the opposite of success. I've let today and other days go by marked with listlessness, and I can't amend that by sacrificing some sleep. Those square boxes felt like hands strangling her neck, those actionable steps like feet stomping on her head. But how could they? She gave them no power, just wishful, fleeting thoughts. Yet those thoughts consumed her. So she stood there, staring at the table, the moon, the notebook, and her bed. Afraid of the choice she was about to make.

Short story I wrote for a writing prompt in r/shortstories that I enjoyed. Wanted to share. would love feedback. Thank you for reading :) Twister The knuckles of John’s left hand were squeezed white against the wheel of his old pick-up; he held his son, Alex, close with his other. As they rattled down the uneven country roads, rain pelted their windshield with a fury. John continually glanced into the rearview. Thunder clapped at their back like the hands of god, and through the white flashes of lightning, he could make out a large barrel of rotating black smoke. Each time he looked back it seemed to have grown larger, and one singular thought repeated in his mind. Make it to the cellar, he thought. Make it to the cellar. He gripped his son tighter. He pressed the accelerator with a heavy foot, and the truck roared beneath them. “Come on…” He muttered. He was driving nearly eighty. “Dad?” Alex’s voice was small, and John could feel him trembling under his arm. John rubbed his shoulder. “It’s okay, bud. We’re nearly there; it ain’t gonna get us.” He said it, but he wasn’t sure if he believed the words himself. “But Dad, I’m scared.” Just then, a strong gust of wind punched the side of the truck, nearly sending it swerving into the ditch. With a squealing effort, John steadied it and accelerated faster. The boy had buried his head into John’s armpit. Limbs began falling from trees; scattered debris had carpeted the roads. John looked down at his son, who was still wearing his blue Little League uniform and shaking with sobs. All of this for a damn baseball game, he thought, and looked back at the road. He stomped the brakes. Alex screamed as they lurched forward and John stuck an arm out to keep him from flying into the windshield. The truck skidded sideways to a halt on the wet road. A giant oak tree, maybe eight feet in diameter, lay flat across their path. “Fuck.” John muttered as he smacked the steering wheel with his palm. There wasn’t any getting around that. He darted his eyes around, looking for some sort of a solution—anything—but all he found was fear. The swirling column of dark wind was getting closer and seemed much larger than before. Through the darkness, John thought he could see the far-off flickering of the nightlight in front of their house. They were closer than he thought. He grabbed Alex by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “We’re gonna make a run for it.” “What?” Alex asked, his eyes wide with terror. “I know, bud, but it’s our only shot. I—“ “No!” Alex shouted and tried to say more, but the words just sputtered out in incoherent globs. “Hey,” John said patiently, but Alex was in hysterics and still rambling nonsense. John looked over his shoulder. Power lines were beginning to fall, and the transformers were popping into big blue sparks as they hit the ground. He looked back at Alex. “HEY!” He shouted. Alex stopped immediately and looked at him in surprise. John never yelled. “Do you trust me?” John asked. Alex moved his mouth, but no breath came to push the words out. “Do you trust me?” John asked again, shaking the boy a little. This time, Alex nodded yes. “Okay, now listen, I’m going to pick you up, and we’re gonna run. I want you to close your eyes, and I don’t want you to open them again until I tell you it’s okay. Do you understand?” The boy nodded again, and a tear fell down his cheek as he closed his eyes. John scooped him up and creaked the metal door open into the rain. Lightning continued to pop overhead; there was a metallic smell in the air, like burning wires, and the humidity was thick enough to choke a man. John held the boy's head against his shoulder and started in a sort of half run to the driveway. Alex felt heavier than he used to, and it made John wonder just how long ago it was since he’d held him that way. Cold rain whipped at their back, sticking their clothes to their skin like slick velcro. John spat the water from his mouth as he trudged forward blindly in the dark. His muscles started to burn. His feet snagged on branches, trash, and other debris that had blown in, threatening to trip him, and sudden dips or rises staggered him as his foot met only air where he expected solid earth. John could feel the boy sobbing once more. “We’re almost there, bud; we’re gonna make it.” This time, he really believed what he said. The driveway came into view as they rounded the last corner. Limbs the size of cedar trees blew past them like confetti. One cracked John in the back of the head, sending him and Alex tumbling onto the ground. The pain was brilliant. For a moment, he saw white, but his vision quickly cleared, and he looked up at Alex. Alex sat with his knees tucked to his chest, holding a scrape. His skin and clothes were covered in twigs, mud, and pine needles, and his face was twisted with fright—contorted like one of those dramatic masquerade masks as he rocked back and forth. His eyes were open now. The twister roared behind them like a gasoline truck chugging uphill. John scrambled to his feet, scooped Alex in his arms, and started toward the house once again. His head was pounding, his muscles were on fire, blood was thudding against his ears, and that same thought from earlier continued to swim laps around his mind. Make it to the cellar. He pressed on, planting one solid foot into the ground at a time, marching forward like a well oiled machine. Gravel crunched beneath his feet as he walked down the driveway; wind whipped their wet clothes like flags. John shed Alex from his arms and looked down at the wooden cellar door. He tried pulling it open, but the wind shoved it back down. It was picking up even more now. Shingles began to be sucked from the roof, and John knew that if he didn’t get this door open, he and Alex would follow closely behind. He pulled as hard as he could, grunting with the effort. Alex had joined him in pulling at this point, helping as much as a nine-year-old possibly could. It began to come up a little, but the wind was powerful. John screamed and dug in harder. His muscles tore beneath his skin, his bones popped, he used every single ounce of himself now, and the door started to give. Once he’d gotten it halfway, the wind swung it the rest and it smacked the other side of the ground with a sound that resembled a gunshot. “GET IN,” John shouted and grabbed Alex’s arm. He threw the boy inside, then jumped in closely behind. He didn’t even bother shutting the door; he just ran and pulled Alex to the opposite side of the room with him. The cellar was dark. Screws and bolts and toolboxes filled with wrenches and other metal things shook and rumbled off of the shelves. A few baseball bats fell, clattered, and clinked across the concrete floor. Up top, it sounded like a giant lawnmower was making quick work of the farmhouse, eating it up like it was little more than a stray blade of grass. John could feel warm blood trickling down the back of his neck. They held each other in the darkness, sitting there for what seemed like an eternity, but just as quickly as it began, it was over. The roar lessened, quieted, then disappeared as it got further away. The two looked at each other, both covered in dirt and debris, and John knew that everything was gone. He knew the house was gone; he knew the farm was gone, and he knew that just about everything else he had ever worked for was torn to shreds in a matter of minutes. He looked at Alex, and when he looked upon his son’s face and saw the twinkle of life in his eye, he breathed a sigh of relief. That was all that mattered. They sat for an hour in silence, not daring to step out until they were sure it was safe. A ray of light began to beam through the cellar door. John stood first. He walked to the opening and shielded his squinted eyes to look outside. The sky was… blue. He hoisted himself upward and poked his head out of the cellar like a gopher. His barn was there. Bessie, his cow, was standing beside it, chewing on a mouthful of grass; the chickens strutted around the side of the barn, nearing the garden, which also looked untouched; the squash was even blooming. Behind him, their house stood tall, perfectly intact all the way up to the shingles. The oddest thing, though, was his farm pickup parked in the driveway—no worse shape than when they left for the ballgame. John scratched his head. “Dad?” Alex shouted. “You can come up.” He said, puzzled. Alex crawled out of the cellar in the same fashion as his father, and confusion dawned on his face as well. “It missed us?” John shook his head. “No way it coulda missed us. I don’t really know what to make of it.” He really didn’t. They saw the twister coming directly at them; they heard the house ripped to shreds right above their heads; the farm truck didn’t make it back to the house at all, for Christ's sake. It just didn’t make any damn sense. A feminine voice called out to them—a voice John recognized at the first syllable. “John? Alex?” “Vick..” He mouthed and whipped his head around. A tall woman with blonde hair was walking around the side of the porch, stepping as gracefully as a doe. Her eyes were green as the pines behind her, and she gave a smile that held more reassurance than a million words could express. She spread her arms wide. “My boys.” She said. John stood motionless, his mouth slightly agape. Alex pushed past him as he ran, “Mommy!” He shouted. The woman wrapped the boy in a hug and lifted him from his feet. As she held his head against her shoulder, she pointed her eyes in John’s direction and held out her other hand. He walked toward her, cautiously. “John.” She said. “It’s me, I promise.” John looked at her for a moment longer. He wanted to run to her, to wrap her up and lift her the same way she did Alex. For the past two years, there had been nothing in this world that he’d wanted more. But his wife was dead. He watched as the cancer took her in 2014; he held her in his arms as she died in the hospital bed, and helped hoist her into the ground afterwards. Now she stood before him—healthy and as real as the sun beating down on his neck. He reached a hand to the back of his head, feeling for the place where the branch whacked him. There was nothing—not even a tender spot. He looked back up at his wife. “Are we…” “Shhhh, dont think about it like that, John.” She smiled, “We’re together now, just be happy.” John staggered a little, staring down at his hands; his once farm hardened callouses were gone now, smoothed over with soft, healthy skin. “I—“ He began. “Get over here and hug me.” He looked up; his wife looked back at him lovingly with her direct, green eyes, and for the first time in so long, he felt happy. A feeling he’d grown a stranger to. A grin tightened across his face, and his old golden retriever ran panting toward him from across the yard, only now, she had all four of her legs.

[SF: Young Adult / Teen Fiction Excerpt] Today I wasn’t running for pleasure, it was out self-loathing necessity. I was at least 10 miles from home now. The highway buzzed besides me as the streetlights and cars panned in and out of view. Drizzling rain had muted out the noise of the engines, and had sapped the greenery from the surrounding crops fields. To hate somebody is one thing, but to be eternally fustrated and dissapointed with your own father is another. His narrcisitic prowess and materialistic self-obsession, the neglect of his role as a father to make space for his glutenous self-indulgence was enough to make me retch. Guarded by a sheild of his own delusions, I knew to tell him the truth, to tell him to start considering me as his daughter - not his social commodity, would be a wasted breath. I'd had enough. The tightening sphincter that was my throat had nearly asphixiated me by this point, with the kind of pain that burrows into your chest right before you cry. But I was always numb. Only now, as a nobody, an unremarkable jogger on a country road, could I feel the agony that had lay dormant for too, too long. The rage that boiled deep within, the fustration that had welled inside of me for what felt like years. Oh, how I seethed! How I wanted to tell him everything, to scream it at the top of my rattling lungs, my aching body. Scowls and curses cycled round in an endless loop in my mind. I raced up the hill. It felt as if nothing could stop me.. that was until I reached the top. With the perfect vantage point, I could only now appreciate the vast emptiness around me.. It was beautiful, both the view of the countryside and how I was invisible to the onlookers who only caught a glimpse of me for meagre seconds as they drove by. I felt my body soften for just a moment, and there was a window of opportunity to finally be able to let it out. I hopped over a fence and saw myself onto a field, crouching down on the ground as I clung to the gate and cried - forcing the tears from inside of me like I was wringing out a damp towel. Soon enough, I didn't have to force them anymore. The tears began to flow like a burst dam, and I wondered how I had possibly gotten this far without realising how deeply upset I truly was inside. I couldn't do this at home, I couldn't do this anywhere. The presence of others, it's as if it turns my soul to stone at the impasse of feeling anything more than mild discomfort. In the heat of the moment, like warmth from a fire, the familiar on-looking eyes of those around me saps any dampness from my eyes, and clamps my jaw shut - letting out nothing more into the world than said than a deep sigh. But here, in the emptiness of the countryside and the blissful ignorance of the highway, I was, for a moment. Free. As the tears rolled down my face, the relief felt like esctasy. It wouldn't be long before this feeling passed, the flood gates would eventually close, and I'd go back to being quietly pissed off with a rehearsed smile. I'd come here again soon, I knew it. I finally found my happy place.

[894] Reflections of a Distant Self This is a sci-fi short story I wrote the other day, hoping to get some constructive criticism as its the first thing I have properly written, it is quite short even for a short short story but I just wanted to get something finished. I have had one piece of advice already which was that the repeated sentence seemed a bit out of place the first time round which I get but I was wondering what other people thought about it. At some point in the not so distant future, despite the warnings of the media and general populace, scientists create a device that allows people to see their alternate lives and temporarily view the results of alternate past choices. Initially the device and its use was reserved for the most successful and important people in society due to the extortionate cost of the technology. Those with access were those whose choices in life hadn’t been half bad, good financial decisions and a reputation of charisma and skill that brought them to the very top of their respective fields. For them, the technology was a chance to feel good about how far they’d come and get a good laugh out of those of their alternate selves who had neglected to read the fine print on a dodgy business proposal or to check for toilet paper before unzipping their fly. All while tactfully avoiding those of their possibilities who had achieved more. But as the technology developed and became more affordable it filtered down through the social ranks. Down through those abundant middle classes who could not help but notice the difference between their own lot and those of their more successful alternate selves. A funnier you with a slightly bigger house, maybe a smarter you who landed that extra $10,000 signing bonus you dreamed of. But for every self who was better off there existed a pitiful alteration of themselves to mock, those who had succeeded in neither career nor hobbies, academics nor lovemaking. One who struggled to keep it up in the bedroom or suffered an addiction the users of the device found laughable. This is when the technology took a turn for the worse, when it fell into the hands of those with nothing. Those who had been taken advantage of, abused, tricked and left in the very worst of situations gained access to it. Those who were homeless, trapped in prostitution, drowning in debt, loveless and alone. And so the true downfall began. For them, life had been a depressing series of twists and turns, each darker than the last. For them it was near impossible to find a worse future. For them every alternate version experienced was a pisstake, happiness and fortune greater than they could ever dream of in the hands of someone fundamentally the same. They saw the joy each unlucky streak and every unfortunate decision had wrenched them away from and they were broken. This was where the problems started to arise. Suicide, rampant depression and a sudden but not entirely unjustified rise in the publication of books promoting nihilism. Life seemed to lose that tiny amount of purpose it still had when compared to the successes of alternate selves and their happy lives. Several years later, the next great advancement in the technology arose, scientists managed to reach further into those other worlds and take more than just the photons needed for a video feed. A new headset designed to take something more, the brainwaves of those other selves could be copied and transferred into the brains of the user. This allows for more than just watching alternate lives but for experiencing them too. The greatest advancement in technology since fire, the ability to reach across dimensions and take something tangible. And so the true downfall began. Why put effort into your own life when you could experience the excitement and fulfilment you’ve already gained? Why progress in your own career when you could experience the excitement of getting a promotion without any of the hard work and disappointment? Why find yourself a spouse and risk rejection when you’ve done it infinite times already? Within only a few months, most of the working population were addicted; leaving their unhappy, dead end jobs to parasite on the lives of their infinite other selves. Piggybacking on alternate neurochemicals. Entire industries collapsed under the loss of workforce. Globally, the economy came crashing down, more people turned to the new technology to cope, the cold steel of the headsets offered an escape to a world, infinite worlds, where everything worked out better. This caused an exponential decay in every aspect of life, the more people fled to the bliss of the headsets, the more were doomed to follow. Collapse on a global scale, food shortages led to mass starvation and death, with no one to maintain the very systems causing the collapse, bugs started to occur, glitches spread like wildfire, destroying the safety mechanisms in the headset designed to wake up the user for food, sleep and other necessities. The population wasted away, their consciousnesses stuck in their headsets, falling silently into endless existence as a parasite living someone else’s life. Those that escaped the prison of the headsets saw the state of the world that was left and quietly gave up, placing the cold steel back on their heads and surrendering. Across the multiverse, other worlds started to stumble on rips in the fabric of spacetime, starting their first tentative explorations of the immaterium between dimensions. Scientists found the first alternate dimensions floating through the space between space, infinite bubbles floating in an infinite sea, endless possibilities. Eventually, they manage to copy photons from these other worlds and transport them back to their own dimension to take the first glimpse at alternate selves.

Took a day trip and wrote this around 9:30PM. Enjoy. Everyone has those dreams they want to accomplish in a lifetime. The ones that seem so far fetched but still obtainable. In my case it has always been on my bucket list to travel every corner of Texas. I have been blessed in my 27 years of life to have gone as far north to see the Panhandle plains near Amarillo and as far east to see Huntsville surrounded by the piney woods. I’ve been able to see the Third Coast from H-Town through Corpitos, down to McAllen and Harlingen. I’ve drank on 6th Street in ATX, and have had countless nights I couldn’t remember in San Anto. I’ve seen a Cowboys game in Arlington while staying in Dallas with family, and I’ve floated down the rivers in San Marcos with friends. I know the backroads of South Texas between Uvalde and Laredo, like the back of my hand, and if I needed too, I could probably drive between El Paso and Fort Stockton blindfolded. In the past 4 years, I’ve spent the majority of the 100,000 miles I’ve driven, on Texas highways and county roads. Passing through small towns that people would never know existed, such as Dryden, Camp Wood, Orla, Goliad, and Dilley, where my son lives. There’s so many other cities and towns I could name which would take up the majority of this story and bore you but there is one area of Texas that I’ve always wanted to see with my own eyes and be able to experience it all. This place is actually a lot closer than many of the places I mentioned. It’s pretty much the next door neighbor to my hometown of El Paso. On December 28, 2023, I was finally able to see it. Big Bend and Terlingua. As I was driving into the national park I stopped at the park’s entrance sign and took a typical picture in front of it like everyone does, but after, I turned back down the road, made a right and drove 28 miles to La Linda. I did this all without having a GPS or signal on my phone after I lost it passing Marathon which about an hour or so from the park entrance. I followed the old green highway signs down a road that you could tell was hardly used because of all the weeds and brush growing in the middle and side of the road. I was probably the only truck on the road with the expection of two trucks going the opposite direction that had passed me. I kept going until the road ended at a blocked off bridge that only a small car could drive over. The only time I had ever seen this place was through Google Maps when I’d sit there looking at random places that you’d think no one would ever go. I got off my truck and look around, it was quiet but the sound of the river is what got me. It was surreal to say that across that bridge was Mexico and the river I heard was the Rio Grande, which surprisingly had water in it and wasn’t dry like the way it is in El Paso. As I was looking at the graffiti on the bridge I noticed a part of it said “Chuco Town” which I though was weird because why would some slang from El Paso be tagged on some random bridge literally in the middle of nowhere. So I got curious and ended up making my way down underneath the bridge where I found this clear box with a small notebook in it. Several people had written in it with their names and when they had visited the bridge. It was like an Easter egg. I wrote my name in the book, put it back and went to go look for a way to get to the river but I couldn’t because of all the bushes and trees. I spent like a good hour looking around before getting back to my truck. I ended up driving about two hours to the Big Bend National Park Headquarters where I finally got signal on my phone. The drive into the Chisos Basin was beautiful. The color of the rocks and trees made it feel as if it was still the Fall season. The canyons were huge, the road curved through the mountains, the air hitting me through the windows was fresh. Seeing the amount of trees, for the mountain range being in the middle of a desert was crazy. Again, I only spent about an hour or so before driving through the park and into Terilingua. As I drove to Terlingua, the scenery changed drastically. It went from mountains covered in trees to something out of a Mad Max scene. It was nothing but desert with little plant life. I ended up stopping at a gas station where two the highways met. One would take me to Alpine and the other to the Terlingua ghost town. After fueling up, I drove through the ghost town to find a couple of restaurants open. I ended up eating some green enchiladas that were good but nothing compared to the ones found in El Paso. I continued to drive down the highway towards Presidio as the sun started to set. About half way to Presidio, I turned back around to head back. By this time it was 7pm. The sun had almost set completely. I pulled over to the side of the road so I could look at the sky. I had heard so many stories and seen so many pictures of the Terlingua night sky. I wanted to see if it was real. As I stepped out and looked up I saw more stars than I could ever imagine. Everything around me was pitch black, except the sky. There were hundreds of stars, they were brighter than ever. There were no clouds. I stayed looking at them for a good minute, actually I stayed looking up so long I ended up laying in the bed of my truck trying to take it all in. I ended having to go back into my truck because of the cold. Even with a thick hoodie and thermals underneath I couldn’t stay out any longer. I continued my drive back to the gas station where I had first put gas so I could type this out before my plan to head back into Big Bend. I only arrived about 8 hours ago, drove down to the La Linda bridge, drove through the national park, drove through the ghost town and saw a night sky many wont get to see in their lifetime but maybe on this drive back, I’ll be able to find the moon.

Is dark. Very dark. All dark. Walk on hard ground and scurry hard wall. We suck roots in roof. We eat, and Master tells us it is good. Master is smart but quiet, doesn't say much. Master is always with us, Master is of us; the voice behind eyes, near our back and neck. Can feel Master wiggle as we scurry. Others have Master's too; see them in the light sometimes, red and yellow sprouts, orange body but Master says the important is red and yellow. Master much smarter, Master knows the way of world. We eat at root for Master, root tastes nice, Master agrees. We sometimes scrape claws on rocks to keep sharp. Master says sharp is important, Sharp protect us, Sharp make us ap-ap-good for trainers. Don't know what Trainer is, but Master says good, so is good. We want to meet a Trainer. The dark grows more each day. Light is in middle, far away. Master says not to worry, we can see. That good, not seen ma in long time. But Master says we can see, so maybe we see her soon again! Back to tasty root, tasty root taste bland, Master says it's delicious. Today there was a human. Big creature with many colour, hard to see. Human threw rock and there was orange thing. Like us but stands like human, thing made light. Orange thing was mean, made light at us. Orange thing's claws hurt, Master happy. Master says fight back, we move near orange thing and Master attacked, cloud nearby. Cloud smell bad but Master say good. Human made sound, happy sound master say. Human throw rock and everything go dark. Master says agree. Master agree. Master say we agree. We agree. ​ Master say this is Trainer. Trainer shows us much light, is small to see, far away. Master says good. In light, Trainer yell at us, point us green bean or yellow root. Root taste tough, hard eat. Bean taste tough, hard eat. Master say good, say we want eat. Don't like but Master say we do. Sometimes dark! Dark nice. Trainer carry light but is behind. Point light at pink ball. Know ball, was friend! Master say eat. Don't want eat, Master say we do. Pink friend angry. It hurt, Master say okay. Sometime between dark and light, feel better. But hurt, lots of hurt. Master say good. Master say training. No see much now, Master say where, We go. ​ Still can feel light, can't see it. Feels warm, bad. Master say no fight here. Say two trainer. Trainer talk to new one. Say we be traded? Master say different Trainer. We leave Trainer, go with new. Not go to place between light and dark? Go to place of cold light. Feel light but far, gentle, nice. Hear New Trainer talk. Master angry. No more train? New calls us Buddy. Says no train. Master doesn't like Trainer. Says attack Trainer. Slash slash! Don't like, Master say attack! ​ Many dark and many soft light. We don't like Trainer. Master say Trainer cruel. Attack! Attack! We protect Master, be safe. We don't like Trainer. Trainer soft. Trainer touch, lots of touch. Feel far away touch, soft. Hear sound, far away sound, gentle. Pain! Master angry! We hurt! Attack. Slash. Poke. Claws held. Wriggle. Help Master. Help, Master? Master angry. Trainer mean. We don't like trainer. Other thing near. Thing gentle. Hear far away sound. Far music. Nice. Sleepy. No Sleep, danger! Trainer danger! Master afraid. Sleepy. We danger. Sleepy. Sleep. ​ Hungry. Root? Taste root. Little taste but taste. We like root. Trainer not near. More cold light. Master angry, Master quiet. See little, see Trainer. Trainer not be mean. Master quiet. Trainer touch, soft, close. Feel touch on legs, belly, chin. Like touch chin, touch more! Touch stop? Touch again! Like soft touch chin. Trainer nice? We like. Trainer hold thing, see far away. Thing near nose, smell far. Trainer pull out goo from thing. More touch. Master angry! Attack! Trainer attack! Must fight! Protect us! Trainer calm, say okay. Master angry, says we hurting. Trainer chitter quiet, say 'buddy'. We buddy? We attack! Trainer not mad. More touch, nice touch. Cold, wet. Master angry, says Trainer burn us! No feel burn? Master say burn! Attack, Slash! Master no attack, say we do it. Trainer holding claws, wiggle. Flee. Between dark and light. At Trainer again. Master say we scared. Trainer hurts us. Trainer gentle, chitter soft. Trainer touch, in cold light. Master wrong. ​ Sometimes dark. Sometimes cold light. See little more, see pink friend! Am sorry, pink friend happy. Eat root with friend and trainer. Master quiet. Says Trainer hurts us. Root Tasty, No hurt now. Master says hurt coming soon. We need run. Sneak. Root Tasty, friend play with claw! ​ See things more. Every things very close! Can sniff pink friend, he laugh. Master quiet. More quiet every cold light. Trainer cuddle! More touch, feel cool goo all over. Master angry. Master say attack. But comfy. Trainer protect, safe. Master say Trainer hurt us. Master wrong, touch nice. Trainer happy, friend happy, happy. No hurt, no attack, no train. Tasty root. Play with friend. Play with Trainer! Trainer move pudgy claws on dirt, can see close. Poke pudgy claws, miss, poke! miss. Master say slash. Trainer touch, nice touch! ​ Every cold light, more goo, tastier roots, more touch and more play. Trainer calls me Buddy. Trainer touch neck, near back, feel nice. Master has been quiet for so long. Don't need Master, have many friends. Play, eat, cuddle, touch. Meet new friends. New friend missing leg, have trouble walk? Buddy help! I like helping Trainer and new friends. Sometimes new friend angry, hurt, lash out. Buddy understand. Be okay. Trainer helps! It is nice to live with Trainer and friends. Sometimes miss Master. Master not say anything in long time. Maybe Master understand Trainer not attacking? Master doesn't say Trainer hurting, so maybe understand? I don't need Master anymore. Buddy has friends.

Whether we’re an active participant or just an observer, I believe that, at some point in our lives, we experience something that is just seared into our heads, and buried into a part of our brain so hard that we recall every detail of it. After all these years, I still remember the green jacket you wore, the red beanie, the brown boots, gray pants, and the rainbow bracelet you wore on your right hand. I can still hear the sound of your voice, laughing and giggling as you were trying to tell some embarrassing story about your grandma. You had a way of describing things that would make me want to hang on to every little detail, like if I missed something for a second, I’d be missing a crucial part of the story. I still recall the street we were walking on, our footprints left on the snowy sidewalk as we went in the direction of our neighborhood. You were living with your grandparents, and I lived with just my mom and dad. Normally, when we reached past the knotted tree, you’d hug me and wish me farewell. But…you didn’t do that. You just stopped suddenly, at the foot of the paveway of your house. And then your smile slowly faded into a sullen look. “Something wrong?” I asked concerningly. “...” When I was about to tap your shoulder, I heard the door open. I still remember your grandfather’s face as he stood there, inside his warmly lit home. I knew him, too, during our much younger days when we would have sleepovers. He’d usually be the biggest presence, and had a way of telling a mundane story as if it was the most whimsical adventure in a string of many he had in his youth. However, now there was only a powerful, dampening sense of loss radiating from him. “Uh, everything alright, sir!?” I called out to him. He looked at me for a second, and then he looked at you. “Kiddo, you might want to come in. I…Margaret, she…wants to see you.” You stood there, still looking at the house, unmoving. Grandpa had to come out and grab your shoulder before taking you in. He must’ve been freezing, given he was only wearing a nightgown covered in a thick coat. “You should go home, son,” he said, not facing me, “it’s getting colder.” I stood there for a moment. Step by step, you and him took what felt like forever to get to the front door. As you both made it beyond the threshold, you turned over your shoulder, and all I could see were your eyes. They were bigger than I’d ever seen them, and they were looking right at me. You were looking right at me, and you looked so helpless and afraid of something. But, instead of doing what I should’ve done, I turned and walked back to my house. It was the next morning that I found out what had happened. After that, you moved and I hadn’t seen you since. That was years ago today, but the memory still plays on repeat during snowy days like these. I also moved after college, to the big city, but sometimes I go back to visit the folks and, when I walk around, I stop at the exact same spot I was standing in. And, I wonder: if I had thrown whatever was holding me back into the cold wind and ran to hold your hand, would that have made you stay? Maybe just being by your side would’ve been enough, I don’t know. I’ll never know now. All I can do is just remember it, and live with the memories of what you and I did and didn’t do. I wonder if you also remember everything about that day. And, if there’s any chance we’ll meet again, I hope you’ve forgiven me.

"After the Meltdown" (Part 2 of a series of short stories) by P. Orin Zack   **“Face Value”** (Story 4 of 7) [4/12/2008]   “She told me it was a buzzerfly, Mr. Spordling.” Ryan Svorlin smiled at Amathea’s latest mispronunciation, and set the clump of siskiyou blue he was holding into the hole she’d dug for him. He’d started re-landscaping the grounds of the enormous house he’d won in the L.A. mortgage lottery soon after burying its former owner. Gregory Davis’s smelly corpse was still hanging over the kitchen sink when Ryan opened the door for the first time, and he’d stayed in that spot as a local tourist attraction until a visiting former congressman offered to help plant the suicide in his own garden. Taking over a house, ‘as-is’, in the days after the big financial meltdown, could hold more surprises than it did when Davis was still scamming people with specious investment schemes. Happily, if you could call it that, the bloated debt-based market had finally had a correction large enough to put an end to the hegemony of the dollar, and life went on after a fashion. “A what, kitten?” Amathea looked up at him for a few seconds, and then pulled a clip from her hair. “A buzzerfly. Like this.” The pattern on the thin plastic wings struck Ryan as a miniature, robed monk surrounded by a saffron glow, and tipped with rings of stars in a brown sky. While it was nestled along her braid rows, it had seemed as lifeless as Davis, but now, with its young owner flitting it over the plants in the box that sat beside her, it was more like an itinerant preacher spreading wisdom among the leaves. “What did your mother say was like a butterfly?” “My name. She said this buzzerfly has the same name as me.” A shadow crossed Amathea’s pretty brown face as she was clipping the butterfly back into her hair, so she turned to look up at the pale man that had stopped on the sidewalk beyond the bed. “Excuse me,” the man said amiably, setting down his battered attaché case. “I’m looking for the Davis house. Is this it?” Ryan rose. He began to extend a hand in greeting, but froze in recognition, and clenched it instead. “I know who you are, Conklin.” “That’s great. Then you won’t mind my asking—.” “Actually, I do, Peter. Aren’t you supposed to be in prison?” “Well, I was. Until recently, anyway. But it turned out someone needed me sprung, so here I am.” “Here you are, indeed. Back at the home of the man you did some of your best work for. Well, you’re a bit late. Gregory Davis had a last minute change of heart, and left a cornucopia of evidence behind, a treasure trove of files that you seem to figure quite prominently in.” He glanced down at his case. “Those phony bonds. Of course.” Ryan motioned Amathea to keep behind him, and then stiffened, his arms crossed in defiance. “Davis had some samples of your work in his safe, not that they’re worth anything. There was also a rather fat digital scrapbook, featuring your prime-time perp-walk and the trial he was so conveniently kept out of. Did you enjoy being the fall-guy for that scheme?” “Not particularly,” Conklin said, visibly bristling at the memory. “But while it lasted, the money was good. Now, of course…” “So how did you get free? Did the people who needed you pay someone off, or did they just blow a hole in the wall for you?” “You don’t understand. It wasn’t like that. And besides, all I wanted was to ask if you had any rooms to let. I was told that—.” “What? That the jerk that won Davis’ digs would welcome you into his home? Look, just because I’m poor doesn’t mean I have this uncontrollable urge to rub shoulders with a counterfeiter. You’re not exactly the sort of person I’d want to trust around children.” Conklin looked pained, and closed his eyes. A moment later, he craned past Ryan for a look at Amathea. “Is that Cristall’s little girl?” Ryan huffed. “Thorough, aren’t you. But I should have expected that you’d do some research before trying to bluff your way inside. So let me put that little pipe dream to rest. Neither I, nor Cristall Bellows, have the least little desire to find you lurking in the shadows at night. And I certainly wouldn’t trust you around her daughter.” “Why not?” a woman said from beside him. “I would.” “Cristall!” Ryan said, surprised. “I didn’t expect to see you until almost dinner.” She turned to Conklin. “Peter, is he giving you a hard time?” “You two know each other?” Ryan said, incredulously. “Of course,” she said, kneeling to hug her daughter. “Who do you think sent him over here?” “But don’t you realize who he is? What he’s done? Why would you—?” Conklin turned his palms up. “I tried to explain.” She rose, carrying her daughter, and stepped closer, until she was nose to nose with Ryan. “Do you trust me?” “Well, sure. But that doesn’t mean—.” “Would I do anything to put Amathea at risk?” “Not knowingly. But the whole point of a confidence game is to get people to trust inherently untrustworthy people. You don’t know this man.” “Oh. And you do?” “Well, not personally. But I’ve seen the reports. I know what he’s capable of. An awful lot of people lost their life’s savings investing in the fraudulent stocks and bonds he created.” “That may be, Ryan, but where I work, he’s considered something of a hero. So cut him a little slack, okay?” She stepped back a pace, and turned towards Conklin. “Sorry about that, Peter. Did you bring it with you?” He nodded, and kneeled beside his attaché. Opening it, he extracted a large envelope and handed it up to her. “What’s in that,” Ryan asked suspiciously. “A present for Amathea. There’s more to her name than just a butterfly.” Conklin massaged his left calf for a moment before returning to his feet. When he did, he nodded towards the house. “Would you mind if we sat on the porch? I can only stand comfortably for so long at a go.” Ryan followed the others, feeling a bit out of place in his own home, and eager to do something to rectify the situation. While Cristall and Conklin were settling in on the padded bench that was built onto the house, he went inside and brought out a round of iced tea. Once the glasses were set out, he pulled up a wicker chair and joined them. “You were saying about Amathea?” At the sound of her name, Cristall’s daughter scrambled out from under the table and stood on the bench between the two adults. “Yeah,” she said excitedly, what else am I?” Conklin smiled at her, and laid his hand over the envelope. “No peeking until I’ve told the story, okay?” She nodded gravely. “Okay.” “Well, besides being part of the name of the butterfly you’re wearing, your name also has roots in Greek mythology. Have you ever heard about them?” She turned to her mother. “Have I?” “Sure. Don’t you remember we talked about the pictures you can see in the stars? The constellations?” She looked up into the hazy Los Angeles sky, smiled, and nodded. “Well,” he continued, “Amathea was one of a big family called Nereids that helped sailors to survive dangerous storms in a place called the Aegean Sea. One day, the goddess Rhea had a son named Zeus. But she was afraid that his father, Kronos, would hurt him, so she asked Amathea to keep him safe, and raise him for her.” Amathea frowned. “Why would Kronos do that? Didn’t he like Zeus?” Conklin smiled. “People are still arguing about that. When you’re older, you’ll discover that there are new things that you can learn from stories you thought you already knew. And trust me, this is one of them. Anyway, after Zeus grows up, he thanks her with a pretty amazing gift. It’s a goat’s horn that will give her anything she desires. So I drew you one.” Cristall opened the envelope and slid a sheet of paper out. At first glance, it seemed to be a richly illustrated, realistic-looking horn, set against what looked like a rough-hewn plank table. The textures he’d drawn were simply amazing. But there was something odd about the business end of the horn. The profusion of imagery tumbling out of it was nearly hypnotic. Instead of portraying specific objects, as she’d seen it depicted elsewhere, Peter Conklin had created a field of intricately layered patterns that challenged her imagination to conjure all manner of things in the same place. Gazing at the drawing was like seeing shapes in clouds, or in the textures of a sand-painted wall. She looked up at him. “This is amazing.” Amathea’s hand floated above the textures. Then she tried to touch something that wasn’t there, and fell into a happy giggle. “Thank you. It’s wonderful.” “You’re quite welcome, my lady” he said, affecting a formal nod. Ryan shook his head slowly. “I guess I was wrong. Nobody who can create something that beautiful could be irredeemable.” “Then you’re okay with me being let out of prison?” “Sure, but it also means I’ve got some thinking to do.” “Oh? About what?” He pointed to a tree near the corner of the house. “My benefactor, for a start. Despicable as he was, Gregory Davis did recognize fine craftsmanship when he saw it.” Conklin shrugged. “So what? People in all kinds of professions have had their talents misused. Tech types building weapons… lawyers skirting the law… artists, writers and musicians manipulating people’s emotions to benefit some jerk with the power and wealth to have his way. But every one of them had to overrule their objections, to swallow their pride at one time or another in order to earn their next meal. Davis never had to deal with that. He, and those like him, did it out of greed and a lust for power regardless of the cost to someone else.” “There is one thing I don’t get, though.” “What’s that?” “Cristall said you were considered a hero where she works.” Conklin looked away, embarrassed. “He is, Ryan,” she said. “If you think about it, none of what the city government has been able to do since the collapse of the dollar would have been possible if it hadn’t been for Peter.” “If I hadn’t been handy,” Conklin said quietly, “it would have been someone else. It’s not like I’m the only engraver in Southern California.” “Maybe not,” she said, “but for my money, you’re the best.” “You still haven’t answered my question,” Ryan prodded. “What is it that you do?” “Nothing special. Look, I came here to ask about a room. Cristall told me there were still a few left. And you don’t have to worry about getting paid. I work for the city now.” “He’s right,” Cristall laughed. “I know that his money’s good, because it’s my job to tell people about it. Yeah. That’s right. Peter’s the guy who designed those L.A. Angels I’ve been paying you with.” Conklin held up both hands. “Guilty as charged.” “I don’t know,” Ryan said, in mock suspicion. “How will I know if you’re paying me with real money?” “I guess you’ll just have to take them at face value.”   THE END   **"Round"** (Story 5 of 7) [5/1/2008]   Norwyn Rosset squinted into the painfully bright desert sky. “I wonder where they all ended up?” He stood in the road for a long moment, trying to recall exactly where the contrails from the two planes that crossed paths overhead every morning would have met. But the skies weren’t so friendly anymore. Ever since the big meltdown, people couldn’t afford to fly for pleasure. They didn’t visit distant relatives, either. The one local TV station’s farewell newscast noted that the end of business travel had sealed the fate of the two remaining passenger airlines. Soon after that, the ancient air cargo planes that lumbered low over Lingman every morning had vanished, and with them, Norwyn’s lifeline to what used to be called the American Dream. It had been weeks since he’d seen a plane in the sky, and he could only imagine where they’d all been mothballed. A hunger-induced flash of lightheadedness, and he was momentarily wandering the littered concourse of an abandoned airport. He slumped, shook off the stupor, and wept at the hopelessness of his predicament: as short of breath now as he was of food. The desert’s hot breath felt good on his face. Norwyn had been holed up in his increasingly squalid apartment since the dollar collapsed, wallowing in depression and living off whatever packaged goods remained in the homes and stores of his own private ghost town. He’d spent the morning wandering the streets in a cranky harangue, trying to annoy himself out of the nightmare. Yeah. That worked well. Not. “So maybe…” he yelled at the sun-drenched emptiness, “maybe we can just rewind the whole thing. Go back to the opening credits and do it differently. Not get sucked into all that seductive crap about living a few steps ahead of the bill collectors. Something.” Or maybe, he thought darkly, whatever had sunk the economy, and his fortunes with it, would be miraculously cured, bringing back the people and businesses that had deserted the town, along with the vanished job he’d been tricked into moving here for. But the nightmare didn’t end, the economy wasn’t revived, and finding something to eat was rapidly slouching from difficult to impossible. Norwyn had run out of town. If there were any cupboards left to raid, he couldn’t remember which they were. So he stood in the crumbling roadway, looking into the dusty distance, and prayed for the courage to take his own life. He’d been depressed before. Heck, he’d been formally diagnosed and medicated for it. God knows he’d had plenty of reason to be. Having your life’s work trashed by some upstart with half the brains god gave a bucket of chum wasn’t exactly conducive to giving your all to the firm, no matter how fancy they dressed up your so-called ‘promotion’. Hell, he never should have accepted their offer in the first place. Better to be the captain of your own dinghy than third-string deck hand on the foremost megayacht in the world. But he was kidding himself, and he knew it. At this point, he wasn’t too sure of where his own memories ended, and the hallucinations began. Without meds, he was a walking psych ward. He’d run out of town, and he’d run out of life. So why was he still breathing? Dispirited, Norwyn made a small circle on the hot pavement, and started back towards town. He shuffled listlessly along the centerline, trying to recall an old song. Just as he was coming up on the off-brand gas station that marked the edge of the town center, his reverie was broken by a distant buzz from behind him. He turned to see what it was, and sighted an odd-looking bicycle coming down the road, ridden by someone wearing khakis and a beat-up helmet. “What the…?” The rider raised an arm in a broad overhead wave, and flipped off the motor a few dozen feet before coasting to a stop in front of him. She unclipped her helmet and slipped it off, revealing a wind-burned face and tied-back brown hair. Norwyn guessed her to be about 40. “Hi,” she said. “Sign back there says this is Lingman?” “Yeah. Or it was before all the people split. I kind of got stranded here when the bottom fell through. I’m Norwyn, by the way, Norwyn Rosset. And you…?” “Oh, sorry. I’m Elspeth… Ellie to my friends.” “Ellie,” he repeated, gawking at her bike. “Listen, can you… can you take a passenger on that thing? I’d really like to get out of this place.” “Don’t know. I only just built it, and I haven’t tried anything like that.” “You built it?” “Sure. Used to be a mechanical engineer.” He bent for a closer look. “What’s it run on? The vultures that fled this burg didn’t leave any gas behind when they cleared out. I’ve checked.” “It’s a miniature double-action steamer. All I need is a cup of water and a few chunks of charcoal for a day’s ride.” “And you’re… what? Sightseeing?” She laughed. “In a way. After I heard that Los Angeles declared itself sovereign and started printing its own money, I figured there might be some other--.” “Wait. What? LA’s printing money?” “Believe it or not, yeah.” She unbuckled the bike’s saddlebag. “Hold on, I’ve got a few Angels here.” “Seriously. They call their money Angels?” She nodded, and handed him a twenty. “You’re kidding! Orson Wells?” “Look closer. He’s identified there as Charles Foster Kane. They figured it was fictional money, so they went with characters, rather than the actors that played them.” A dust devil snatched the other bill she was holding and lofted it high overhead. Norwyn turned to watch it spiral over the gas station. “We could wait for it to come down.” “Don’t bother. Can’t use it here, anyway.” “So, what’s an Angel worth?” “I got that five-spot up there for patching a gas line for a guy making his own cooking gas. That’s where I got the charcoal for my bike. Angels aren’t backed by gold or anything, so they’re really only worth what someone’s willing to trade them for. Speaking of which, what do you do, or used to do?” Norwyn frowned, and looked away. It was his job that had got him here, had trapped him in this godforsaken hellhole in the first place. “Not a happy memory?” she said gently. “Look, I don’t really have anywhere in particular to go, so if there’s something I can do to help…?” “Like I said, I need to get out of this place. Can you take me or not?” “We could try, but there’s no way we can take anything with us. I mean, I’m not so sure it’ll even push the both of us. And if something breaks, I don’t have spare parts to fix it. We could get stranded in the middle of nowhere.” He chuffed. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m already stranded. How far is home?” “I don’t have one, really. At the moment, though, my gear is about three hours from here. Well, three hours with just me on the bike. I don’t know how long it might take with the two of us. But we wouldn’t get very far on the supplies I’ve got left. We’ll need water and something to boil it with.” After a light-fingered trip into town, they mounted the bike – Beth standing the pedals, and Norwyn riding the seat – and set off back the way she’d come. The road was flat and straight for a long stretch, and they chatted amiably about what they’d done before the economy tanked. He asked about life in LA, and she admitted that all she knew was through word of mouth, so it wasn’t very reliable. About an hour out, they reached a long incline, which slowed the miniature steam engine down to a crawl. But before they’d crested the hill, something snapped, a cloud of steam erupted, and Beth yelped. She raised her right leg, lost her balance and tumbled leftwards from the bike. Norwyn tried to grab the handles, but lost his balance and slid across the right shoulder into the scrub. Beth was laying on her back at the edge of the pavement, her legs raised while she inched her pants towards her knees. He stomped over, and stood over her, glaring angrily. “I thought you said you were a mechanical engineer.” She winced, gingerly touching the red scald mark on her right inner thigh. “Well?” “Give me a break, huh? That hurt.” Norwyn glanced back at the bike. “You said you’d save me, that you’d get me back to civilization, or at least somewhere with people. All it looks like now is that we’re both gonna starve out here. I should never have come with you.” “Calm down. If you can walk, you’ll be okay. Just keep following the road.” “Walk?” He was livid. “If I could walk that far, do you think I’d still be scrounging for scraps in a ghost town?” “Well, we’re not riding any further, that’s for damn sure. I’ll need to limp that thing back to my gear in order to patch it up. You saw what happened. It won’t hold pressure. And in my condition, I’m not going to be pushing any pedals for a while.” He stood over her, breathing heavily. The sun had nearly set, he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, the meds had long since flushed from his system, and he was rapidly developing a splitting migraine. He fixed her with an icy glare. “The hell with you then.” “What are you going to do?” she asked as he turned and walked back to her bike. “Following your advice. But I’m not walking.” “Good,” she said. “Help me up. You pedal, I’ll ride.” “I don’t think you understand. I’m leaving. I’m taking your bike and going to whatever town I find down that road. Alone.” She studied him briefly. “You might not like what you find, Mr. Rosset.” “Oh,” he said, righting the bike. “And why might that be?” “Because things have changed. While you were sucking the carcass of that town back there, a new way of living sprouted. And it’s all wrapped up in those LA Angels I showed you. The new economy is based on doing things for others, on building value for the common good. That’s what backs the new money. And if you can’t understand a simple thing like returning a favor, I don’t think you’re going to last very long in that new world.” “I’ll take my chances.” Rosset righted the bike, and dislodged the steam engine from its mounting with a sharp blow from his heel. He sneered at Ellie briefly, and then took off. Several minutes later, after coasting down the other side of the hill, he reached behind him and dug around in the saddlebag to see what else was there. He pulled out a small bag of dried fruit, and stuffed one in his mouth -- anything to keep his stomach happy. The song he’d been struggling with earlier finally returned to him, and he pedaled on, humming the theme from an old movie. The sky was beginning to darken, so he stopped to poke around in her bag. There might be something useful for when he reached that town she’d mentioned. There was a hand-written note -- a list of names, including his. “Son of a bitch,” he breathed. “She wasn’t out sightseeing. She’d come looking for me. But why?” And then he found it: an old picture. His. It was clipped to a news story about the soured deal that had lost him his plum job, the incident that had landed him in Lingman in the first place. He stood beside the bike, lost in thought. He glanced back towards Lingman, and the hill where he’d stranded Ellie, and then ahead, to whatever fate she was bringing him to. “No,” he told himself. “She wasn’t planning on taking me anywhere. She said that engine of hers was only good for one person. But then…?” He reached into the bag and pulled everything out, scattering debris across the pavement, until he reached the bottom. There was just one thing left in her bag, and it told him everything he needed to know about why she’d come. It was a gun, the sort of ‘Saturday night special’ the government had long outlawed, the kind that Los Angeles was famous for. She’d come to kill him. He pulled the pistol out and stared at it. The means. She’d brought him the means to do what he’d been struggling with for days now. He’d been praying for the courage to take his life, but hadn’t thought much about the means. Now that he had it, though, he was more of a mind to use it on someone else. Except that now, there wasn’t much of a point. With the economy dead, what was there to be gained? “Well,” he told the darkening sky, “I guess this is as good a place as any.” But on closer examination, he realized there was still a problem. She had the ammo.   THE END Copyright 2007-2008 by P.

Christmas had only just passed when the first snow of the year finally arrived. Missing out on the opportunity of a white Christmas, the weather tried to make amends by snowing almost non-stop since last night. While neighbors pulled out their shovels to clean their driveway, Miles raced through the garden, engaged in a ghostly battle that unfolded in his own imagination. Ghostly figures vanished into the fog, cleverly camouflaging themselves amid the thickest snowflakes he had ever witnessed. He chased after them with a large stick he wielded as a sword, halting for a moment to catch his breath. He surveyed the wintry world around him, contemplating whether living in a cloud would resemble this ethereal scene. The entire garden lay beneath a pristine, snow-white quilt, and as Miles sprinted to its farthest reaches, he witnessed the fog’s successful attempt to cloak the house from his view. While his parents made arrangements to work from home, he seized the opportunity to venture out into this wild and dangerous world, spending most of the morning outdoors. Mesmerized by the falling snowflakes, he observed their elegant dance in the wind, like enchanted performers in the wind. He extended his arm and opened the palm of his hand. Snowflakes of various sizes and shapes immediately adorned his fingers. Closing his fist, he compressed the delicate layer into a miniature snowball, sparking an idea. Miles placed the tiny snowball gently in the snow and commenced rolling it. Delighted he watched as it grew within seconds into a full-sized snowball. Unyielding, he kept rolling the snowball, watching how the ball grew bigger and bigger. A few hours later, Miles affectionately patted the back of a live-sized snowman, constructed from three gigantic, hand-rolled snowballs, almost matching his own height. Surveying is wintry creation, he turned his attention to the rest of the garden. Only faint tracks remained from the snowball assembly as the falling snow had already concealed most of them. He needed some additional ornaments to finish the snowman and headed back towards the house to retrieve them. Midway through the garden, his eyes caught two particularly dark stones nested in the snow. Puzzled by their presence, he picked up the stones and deemed them perfect for the snowman’s eyes. He dashed back towards the snowman while examining the stones a little closer. Both stones looked very similar, but their irregular shape and numerous unsharp edges gave each stone a unique appearance. Both stones carried a deep black hue and were – surprisingly enough – shiny. It was almost as if they were coated with a thin layer of glass, creating the illusion that they were capable of reflecting light. He carefully embedded both stones in the head of the snowman. The snowman’s location was perfect, with a vantage point overseeing the house and the entire garden. Content with his creation, Miles stepped back to oversee his creation, and quickly realized the snowman would need a hat and nose as well. As he turned to head back to the house, anticipation filled the air, but before he could take another step, a soft whisper echoed through the frozen air. “Hello?” The voice didn’t sound anything like Ms. Bell’s, who lived on the other side of the walled garden. Miles doubted that she would even make the effort of coming outside in this weather, just to say hello. No, this voice didn’t sound like her at all. It was more … cartoony, like a small child that ran into you while they were playing. They tend to apologize by introducing themselves and saying … “Hello?” Miles turned around, pivoting to locate the source of the voice. He was astonished to find the garden devoid of any other presence. There were no hiding spots nearby and no additional footprints except for his own. The tracks he made earlier were almost completely filled with snow again and there was nobody in the garden except himself and the snowman. While he tried to see if someone was hiding behind the snowman, his eyes locked with the black stones he had placed in the head of the snowman. An unsettling feeling fell upon him. It was as if the snowman was staring back at him. “Hi, what’s your name?” This time, there was undeniable certainty that the voice originated from the snowman, an impossibility that left Miles so confused he tripped over his own feet when he tried to take a step back. He landed on his back in the snow, quickly rolled around and slipped multiple times on the icy snow while trying to get back on his feet. “Oh, don’t be afraid! I didn’t mean to scare you.” The echoing voice apologized while Miles continued to struggle to regain his balance. When he finally managed to stabilize his footing, Miles stared with wide eyes towards the snowman, trying to anticipate on any move the snowman would try to make next. “Don’t worry, I can’t move if that’s what you’re afraid of.” “How is this possible?” Miles blurted out, still prepared to sprint towards the house at the slightest hint of movement from the snowman. “I don’t know either. You just woke me up. And I still don’t know your name.” “I’m Miles. What’s your name?” “Well, Charlie used to call me Mr. Snowman. I know it lacks creativity, but I’ve grown attached to the name.” Miles cautiously distanced himself from the snowman, scanning the garden to see if he was getting tricked by someone skillfully hidden in the snow. “I don’t know anyone named Charlie,” Miles replied. “He was a nice kid from Georgia who hadn’t seen much snow before we met.” There was a hint of melancholy in Snowman’s voice. “How are you able to talk?” Miles asked, while his tension eased slightly. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you how that is possible, as I don’t know the answer myself. The only thing I do know is that it has something to do with the black stones you’ve used to create my eyes. Every time someone uses them, I’m awakened and I can communicate with them.” “Cool,” replied Miles, still baffled by the whole experience. “But you can’t move?” He added to reassure himself. “No, sadly enough I can’t. I often wonder how fun it would be to be able to run around and play a game of tag.” Miles thought about that idea and had to admit that would be fun indeed. He’d always wanted a little brother to play with, but despite adding it to his wishlist for Santa Claus multiple times, that wish was never granted. “What kind of games do you like to play?” Miles wondered out loud. “I like puzzles and word games.” The snowman replied with anticipation in his voice. If there was one thing that Miles disliked, it was puzzles and word games. They made him feel like he was doing homework and that was something he didn’t like to do at all. “I like to fight evil monsters and aliens!” He shouted and picked up the stick he’d used as a sword. “Aliens and monsters?” The snowman replied fearfully. “Are there aliens and monsters here?” “Yes, of course!” Miles swirled his imaginary sword and prepared himself for battle. “Look! They’re right behind you!” Miles dashed forward as he heard a terrified scream from the snowman in his head. In all his enthusiasm he almost crashed into Mr. Snowman and barely managed to gracefully maneuver himself just passed him. He fought off the imaginary monsters and ignored the screaming voice of Mr. Snowman behind him. The screaming echoes of the snowman slowly stopped and changed into questionnaires about his location. Miles realized the snowman couldn’t see him and stopped to catch his breath and walked back in front the snowman. “Are they gone?” The snowman asked, still terrified. “Yep,” Miles answered while he tucked away his sword. *“MILES!”* The voice of his mother echoed through the falling snow. “*Dinner is ready!”* Miles turned around and waved back at his mother. “That was my mother.” He said to the snowman. “I have to go.” “Too bad.” The snowman replied. “We were starting to get to know each other.” “It will be dark soon and my mother doesn’t want me to play outside when it’s dark. Will you be here tomorrow?" Miles asked. “I’ll be here until the thaw. Or when those monsters come back. I won’t be able to defend myself when the attack.” “Don’t worry, I’ve killed them all.” Miles declared heroically. “Here, take my sword, it will protect you.” Miles planted the stick in the snowman and ran towards the house. “Miles? Are you sure those monsters won’t come back? … Miles?” The magical echo died away as Miles darted through the snow and headed inside. **DAY 2** The following morning, Miles eagerly peered through his bedroom window, hoping to find Mr. Snowman standing intact in the garden. Last night, he was a bit disappointed after his parents wouldn’t let him go outside and play anymore, but they had assured him Mr. Snowman would be around for at least another day or two. He was relieved to see his magical friend still standing tall in the back of the garden. He waved expectantly from his room, anticipating a reaction from Mr. Snowman. The sword was still lunged deeply into the middle part of his body, but nothing happened. After a fruitless wait, Miles turned around and left his room. As fast as he could, he descended to the kitchen. His mother greeted him with a prepared breakfast, the cup of cold coffee on the kitchen table indicated his father had already left for work. Miles hopped into his father’s chair and moved the chilled cup aside. His mother gave him a smile and tried to offer him some comfort, “He’ll try to leave work early, so he can have a look at your snowman.” Miles sighed, shoulders slumping. He doubted his father would ever believe him that Mr. Snowman could talk. “Can I go play outside?” “Sure honey,” his mother replied, “but finish your breakfast first.” With sandwiches devoured in record time, Miles darted for his coat, half-draped and mouth still full, ignoring his mother’s shouts about untied shoelaces. Once outside, he sprinted toward Mr. Snowman. Fresh snow had covered most of the tracks he made yesterday, but some were still visible. A sign that it hadn’t snowed that much last night. “Good morning, Mr. Snowman!” Miles greeted cheerfully, giving the snowman a careful hug. “Did anything exciting happen last night? My parents didn’t allow me to play outside anymore.” “Good morning, Miles.” The voice of the snowman didn’t sound as cheerful as Miles’. “Don’t worry about yesterday, Charlie wasn’t allowed to play outside in the dark either.” “But there weren’t any monsters around in Georgia.” Mr. Snowman added after a short pause. Detecting a hint of sadness, Miles tried to lift Mr. Snowman’s spirits. “Did you sleep well last night, or have you been awake all night?” “I don’t need sleep.” Mr. Snowman replied. “How was the sword I gave you? Did you have any chance to play with it?” Last night, Miles had dreamt about the snowman running around in the garden, chasing off monsters, just like he loved to do. “No. I thought I already told you I’m unable to move.” The snowman sounded bored. “That’s too bad. Did you see me waving at you this morning? My bedroom is on the second floor, on the right side of the house.” “Yes, I did. I called your name, but you didn’t answer.” “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.” Miles apologized. “Maybe I can build you another snowman, closer to the house?” “That will not work,” Mr. Snowman replied, “I’ll fall back asleep as soon as the stones are removed.” “Maybe we can do something else?” Miles suggested. “Charlie liked riddles.” Mr. Snowman proposed with a faint hint of anticipation in his voice. “But I don’t like riddles,” Miles retorted. “And I’m not Charlie. Maybe we can fight off some monsters together? I’ll kick them toward you and you can crush or eat them!” Before the snowman could react, Miles grabbed his sword from the snowman and waved it around. “That’s a terrible idea!” Mr. Snowman replied anxiously. “Why are there only monsters out here when you’re outside? Do you attract them in some way?” “They’re not real. You don’t have to be afraid of them, they can’t hurt you.” Miles explained while readying his sword for an attack. “Fighting invisible monsters that don’t exist? I wouldn’t know what’s fun about that.” Mr. Snowman said puzzled. “I’m pretty sure Charlie never did anything like that. He was a smart kid, he was able to figure out most of my riddles.” “Maybe I can invite some friends over and we could all play together?” Miles tried to change the subject. “Nope, will not work either. Only you can hear me as you are the one who recovered the stones. Charlie didn’t have much friends, but not even his parents were able to hear me, and they were standing right next to me.” “Can we talk about something else than Charlie?” Miles asked, growing weary of the constant references. Mr. Snowman didn’t reply and Miles got the sense that he was distracted by thoughts of the past. He didn’t want to anger his magical friend by starting a new fighting sequence against imaginary monsters (which sounded a little bit dumb indeed now that he found himself thinking about it). Instead, he began to build himself a fortress of ice. Maybe he could an igloo for himself and Mr. Snowman, and maybe that would make the grumpy lump of snow a little bit more cheerful. While building his new fortress of snow and ice, Miles occasionally looked over to the snowman, hoping to start a new conversation. But the snowy figure remained silent. After a while, Miles started to realize that the effort of making an igloo was a little bit too much for him to carry out alone. Asking the aid of Mr. Snowman wasn’t going to make any difference, so he stopped for a moment and looked at the progress he had made so far. He had established the outline of what would become his base: a small wall surrounded Mr. Snowman. But he had already used all the available snow in the vicinity of Mr. Snowman and he would need to venture further in the garden to gather additional resources. A growling belly reminded him it was almost time for lunch. After a brief moment, he decided his base was in good enough shape to be used. And not a moment too soon as he spotted monsters, lurking from beyond the edge of the garden, trying to find their way in. “Oh no!” Miles shouted. “They’re back! Stay behind the wall Mr. Snowman, I’ll protect you.” He shouted as he jumped over the small wall and engaged the imaginary enemies. “What’s happening?” The voice of Mr. Snowman cracked as if he was pulled out of a daydream. “Oh no, please stop.” He moaned, “Don’t do this … why aren’t you listening to me … please!” Miles ignored the voice of Mr. Snowman in his head. The monsters had regrouped and pushed him back over the wall, into his imaginary base. He would need heavier weapons to fight off this invasion and he gathered some snow and created snowballs while the monsters tried to claw their way into the base. Meanwhile, Mr. Snowman was rambling about Charlie again, but Miles had stopped listening. Loaded with half a dozen of snowballs, he prepared himself for a counterattack. These were no regular snowballs, they were snowbombs and they would have a devastating impact whenever he would hit a monster. “Prepare yourself!” He shouted and started running towards the house. After a few feet, he turned around and threw the snowballs at the pursuing monsters. The sound of imaginary explosions filled the garden and the bomb wreaked havoc among his pursuers. But his arm got tired after throwing the snowballs in such quick succession, and his aim started to degrade. The last one flew completely off target, right towards Mr. Snowman. It ended up burying itself in the head of Mr. Snowman, right where his left eye was. It immediately disappeared under a layer of snow and Miles gasped as he could hear Mr. Snowman scream in his head. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? STOP IT, YOU STUPID BOY!” Mr. Snowman shouted angrily in his head. “YOU ARE THE WORST KID I’VE EVER ENCOUNTERED!” “And you are no fun to play with!” Miles yelled back and he turned around and ran back to the house. **DAY 3** The following morning, Miles gazed out of his bedroom window and a sense of disappointment clouded his view when he saw that Mr. Snowman was still standing stoically at the back of the garden. Yesterday, he hadn’t returned outside after lunch and opted to play in his room for the remainder of the afternoon. His father came home late – as expected – and it was already too dark by then. He promised to make it up in the weekend, to which his mother replied that by that time, the snow would most likely already have melted. The forecast made Miles both relieved and sad. He liked playing in the snow, but he wished the snowman would be more fun to play with. He descended to the kitchen and joined his father, who had buried himself in the morning newspaper while sipping on a cup of coffee. “You want to go outside today and finish that igloo?” his father inquired upon seeing Miles. Miles shook his head. “I don’t want to play outside in the snow anymore.” “Are you sure? They predicted it’s going to rain tonight, so all the snow might be gone by tomorrow,” his mother chimed in. “It’s fine,” Miles replied, secretly relieved at the prospect of Mr. Snowman disappearing by tomorrow. Throughout the rest of the day, Miles confined himself indoors, avoiding the back of the house and the garden. He wasn’t sure, but every time the backdoor opened, it was almost like he could discern a faint sound resembling someone calling his name. He tried to ignore that from the far side of the garden, Mr. Snowman seemed to echo Miles’ name persistently. Back in the garden, Mr. Snowman indeed spent most of the day calling out Miles’ name. During the previous night, the realization dawned upon him that Miles and Charlie were two totally different children. He was surprised and disappointed in himself that he had become so angry about the snowball. He hadn’t given Miles a chance to apologize himself. And to what end? There were no monsters around, even though Miles liked to pretend there were. And didn’t Charlie knock off his hat last year with a snowball? That boy could throw a ball with much more precision than Miles, but Miles seemed to have more fun doing it. He wanted to make up and be friends again, but he didn’t seem to be able to catch Miles’ attention. No matter how hard he tried to call him, Miles didn’t show up today. Unbeknownst to Miles, Mr. Snowman, yearning for companionship, acknowledged the change in Miles’ disposition. He could sense the coming of rain, the impending shift in the weather marking an unspoken end to their frosty camaraderie. **DAY 4** On the fourth day, the gentle pitter-patter of raindrops signaled the inevitable end for Mr. Snowman. He stood silently, resigned to the fate that loomed as raindrops landed near his eyes, softening the snow around them. Mr. Snowman felt the gradual loosening of his eyes and with each raindrop, a poignant realization that it was too late to make amends. With a heavy heart, he sent out a final thought to Miles, a final heartfelt apology. “I’m sorry, Miles.” As if in response to his regretful sentiment, his left eye succumbed and fell to the ground. Moments later, the snowball covering his left eye broke loose, taking the last remnants of magic with it. The rain intensified and eroded the once-living snowman into a shapeless mound. A few hours later, Miles awoke to the sound of pouring rain. He peered outside, discovering that the relentless rain had already washed away most parts of Mr. Snowman. After breakfast, he rushed into the garden, hoping for a glimpse of his magical friend. “Mr. Snowman, are you still here?” he called out to him. Silence hung in the air, with remnants of Mr. Snowman now reduced to puddles of snow. Miles started searching, but despite his best efforts, he was unable to recover the two magical stones he had used as Mr. Snowman’s eyes. The garden, once a magical haven of imaginative play, now bore the melancholy aftermath of the rain’s transformative touch, as Miles tried to figure out if his mystical connection with the snowman had ever been real.

The air in California is different than everywhere else. California air is sweet like hummingbirds and ocean salt and no matter where I am — even in the mountains — breathing tastes sweet on the tongue but just barely. We can’t live in California anymore so we live in the desert. Desert air tastes like sand and dry wind. It gets in the cracks of your skin and in the spaces between your teeth. You eat the sand and you don’t even know it. It becomes a part of you. Everything in the desert is fighting to stay apart from the sand. When I was little I was scared of lightning and my mother told me I shouldn’t be scared because lightning only strikes the tallest thing and I was small then. In the desert there is nothing taller than I am and I know I am not safe from anything. They say that in the desert there is not lightning. I believe them because there is nothing in the desert. In the night we drink water boiled with the root of Belladonna Nightshade. I think Belladonna and Nightshade are the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard and I wish I could be named something so beautiful. The root water tastes bitter like awful medicine and I’m watching the others and the ugly faces they make as they drink. I think about all of the ugly things I know of and silently speak their names. I think of myself and my name. The nightshade rises in my stomach and I’m lying in the desert sand next to the burnt rocks and I become like them. I become a desert thing that’s been made burnt and hard. I become like the desert animals with their rough stone skin. I feel myself carried in the wind like so many grains of loose dust and I worry the others won’t know where to find me when I’m spread all over this place. When they come their voices are like water. I was so thirsty. The wind is strong and I wonder if they are worried about being carried with the air. They put me between their shoulders and we walk back to the house. More of them are huddled. One is in a corner rocking back and forth. Paranoia is total awareness. I see Tex. He is upset and muttering something about blood on the floor and on the walls. I don’t see any and I put my hand on his shoulder and tell him to stay inside away from the wind.Charlie tells me to sit down. He plays us all music and tells us stories about the underground city where there’s water and even shopping malls. We’re going to the underground city where there’s water and mountains and we are going to live there. Any day now we will pack the dune buggies and go is what Charlie says. Enough sand and heat cleans everything even bone even blood. There was something I knew about Tex. I knew it but I didn’t remember what I knew. But what I didn’t know was already there and I could feel its shape like a shadow and the shape made me feel what I didn’t know. I was at a rich person’s house. Tex was at the house too and there was a lot of yelling. Everyone was yelling and I was there but I was not yelling. All that noise is awful to think about. There isn’t any noise in the desert. It’s so quiet except for all that yelling. I tell Charlie about the yelling. There isn’t any Charlie says. It’s dark. I’m outside hoping the wind might scoop up my dust. I want to be small. I want to be the smallest thing and live everywhere in a million pieces. I want to soak into the ground and become red and clean like the sunburned sand. I’m remembering we’re in the car by the house. The house has a gate and Tex is climbing a tree and cutting something. It’s dark there. We’re in the bushes. Tex is going up to the house. The night is sour. I can feel it inside me crawling in my stomach like worms. But I’m making myself small to be caught up in the wind. When the sun rises in the desert the world catches fire. You can see it and breathe it and feel it. Everything burns except for me. I stay at the edge between what is dust and what isn’t. That’s clear now outside the Belladonna. A lot has become clear. I remember now what I had forgotten about Tex. He is holding a gun and the air tastes like iron. She is screaming and crying and there’s a knife in my hand. I put the knife inside her and that’s when my hands became red like the sand. I put the knife inside her until she was quiet and then there was no sound except the sound of me breathing. Tex’s voice is lost in the sand and the wind. Everyone is still sleeping when I see the men coming with their sirens. They look like war and I know they are here for us. They pack us up into cars and one of them asks my name. I tell them that my name is Belladonna Nightshade. Isn’t that the prettiest thing you’ve ever heard? I ask them if they can give me a ride to California. I hope that they will.

Firelight cast flickering shadows across the walls of the chieftain's hut. Gribble sat cross-legged on the dirt floor, his striking yellow eyes fixed on Chief Gnarltooth, his grandfather. The old goblin's deep voice rumbled as he spoke, wisdom gleaned from countless years leading the clan. Gribble's unruly mop of black hair fell across his forehead as he leaned forward, hanging on every word. Tales of bravery, of hard-fought victories against rival clans. Of the challenges of uniting squabbling goblins under a single banner. Chief Gnarltooth stood tall and proud, corded muscles rippling beneath green skin crisscrossed with battle scars. His long beard more gray than black now, but no less impressive. He gestured with a gnarled hand, a simple iron band encircling one thick finger. The day would come when Gribble would wear that ring. When he would wield the chief's spear and lead the clan to glory. For now, he was content to learn. To soak up the wisdom of his grandfather, the greatest chieftain the goblins had ever known. Grubnik ducked into the hut, a freshly-snared rabbit dangling from one hand. Gribble's father moved with the easy grace of a born hunter, green eyes sparkling in the firelight. He crossed to the hearth and set about skinning and spitting the carcass. Gribble smiled up at him, heart swelling with love and pride. No one could track prey like his father. No one was kinder or more patient. When Gribble struggled with a new skill - setting snares, or fletching arrows - Grubnik was always there with a gentle word of encouragement. Grubnik looked up from his work, winking at his son. His strong, angular features so like Gribble's own. He often said Gribble had his mother's eyes though. Mika's eyes. Gribble's smile faltered. He had no memory of his mother, taken by fever when he was still a babe. But he had the stories. Of her gentle heart, her clever hands that could coax healing from plants and weave baskets so tight they held water. Of the way her amber eyes danced when she laughed. Grubnik caught his son's gaze, his own eyes softening with shared sorrow. He reached out and squeezed Gribble's shoulder, rough palm warm through the worn fabric of his tunic. A silent promise. I'm here. You are not alone. They both looked up at the sound of heavy footfalls. Grimrock shouldered his way into the hut, his bulk filling the doorway. Gribble's uncle had a flat, brutish face, with small dark eyes that always seemed to be glaring. A puckered scar ran down his right cheek, twisting his mouth into a permanent sneer. Where Grubnik was lithe and quick, Grimrock was all brute strength. Cords of muscle strained against too-tight skin, his green hide crisscrossed with pale scars. He wore a shirt of scavenged chainmail, the dull silver links straining to contain his bulk. Grubnik's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Just jerked his chin in the barest nod of greeting before turning back to the roasting rabbit, jabbing at the coals with a bit more force than necessary. Chief Gnarltooth watched his sons, ancient eyes unreadable in the flickering light. Gribble's belly churned. He didn't understand the tension between his father and uncle. The dark looks, the weighted silences. He knew only that Grimrock seemed to resent Grubnik. Resent that he would one day lead the clan, as the eldest son. Grimrock's gaze fell on Gribble, as if sensing his thoughts. His eyes glittered, hard and black as obsidian. His mouth curled into something that was not quite a smile, baring pointed yellow teeth. Gribble looked away, skin prickling. He suddenly wished he was anywhere else. Out in the forest, practicing with his little bow. Checking the snares for rabbits. Anywhere but here, pinned under his uncle's cold stare. Grubnik cleared his throat, drawing Grimrock's attention back to him as surely as if he'd shouted. He gestured to the carcass on the spit, fat sizzling as it dripped into the flames. We'll be eating well tonight, looks like. Grimrock grunted, moving to take a seat on a low stool near the fire. The wood creaked alarmingly under his weight. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, to watch the cooking meat. The orange light flickered across the hard planes and angles of his face, darkening the hollows of his eyes to pits. Gribble hugged his knees to his chest, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the fire. His gaze kept crawling back to Grimrock, to the resentment simmering behind his eyes. A shiver walked up his spine, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. Chief Gnarltooth settled himself on a hump of dark patterned fur - a throne in all but name. He leaned his spear against the wall and started picking burrs from his beard, clever fingers flicking them into the fire. Your snares are pulling in more meat than Raggok's, Grubnik. Old fool's like to chew off his own foot if you don't take over trapline soon. Grubnik looked up with a crooked grin, eyes glinting with mischief. Aw, don't be too hard on him. He only caught his ankle the once. Chief Gnarltooth barked a laugh, chest shaking with mirth. He slapped a broad hand against his thigh, the sound ringing through the smoky air of the hut. Grimrock snorted. His dark glare was locked on his brother, jaw muscles working as if biting back words that wanted to spill out. His fists clenched atop his knees, thick fingers digging into the rough flesh. Gribble watched warily, chewing his lower lip. He wanted to ask what was wrong. Wanted to crawl into his father's lap like he used to when he was smaller, to feel the rumble of his laughter. But something held him back - some animal instinct that said to be still, be quiet, don't draw attention. So he sat, holding himself small and silent, waiting for the tension to break. Praying to the spirits that it wouldn't come to blows. Not again. The last time his father and uncle had fought, Grimrock sent Grubnik through the wall of the smithy. Grubnik walked with a limp for days after, though he never spoke of it. The spit creaked as Grubnik turned the rabbit, the skin crisping to a rich golden brown. Juices dripped and hissed in the flames. Gribble's mouth watered at the rich scent, despite the sour tangle of dread in his gut. Grimrock leaned forward abruptly, snatching the spit from its cradle. Grubnik opened his mouth as if to protest, but bit it back at a look from Chief Gnarltooth. The old chieftain watched his second son through narrowed eyes. Grimrock tore a haunch from the carcass with his bare hands, ignoring his father's grunt of disapproval. He shoved the meat into his mouth and chewed noisily, grease smearing his chin. All the while his hard gaze never left his brother's face, as if daring him to say something. Grubnik looked away, grabbing a wooden trencher and slicing off a portion of rabbit with quick, precise motions. He set it in front of Gribble with a wink and a rueful half-smile. Eat up, pup. Gotta keep your strength up. Gribble accepted the food with mumbled thanks, eyes on his lap. He picked at it with his fingers, appetite withered under the weight of the icy silence. Across the fire, Grimrock continued to tear at the carcass, cracking bones with his teeth to get at the marrow. They ate without speaking. The only sounds were the pop and hiss of the fire, the wet smack of Grimrock's chewing. Gribble forced down a few bites, each one a dry lump in his throat. Dread sank icy claws into his belly and squeezed. When the last scrap of meat was gone, Grimrock tossed the splintered bones into the fire and wiped his greasy hands on his breeches. He leaned back, idly picking at his teeth with a sharpened nail. Yer can't baby the boy forever, Grubnik. His eyes cut to Gribble, glittering with malice. Kid's got to toughen up if he's to be any use to the clan. Gribble froze, rabbit halfway to his mouth. Shame and anger burned hot beneath his skin, warring in his chest. He grit his teeth and stared hard at his plate, willing his eyes to stop prickling. Grubnik's hands flexed, knuckles standing out white under the green. His voice was tight and controlled, barely above a growl. He'll be a fine hunter. Best we've seen in generations. Got his mother's keen eyes. A hollow barking laugh. Sure, could shoot a leaf off a tree. Still wet behind the ears though, ain't he? All them stories you been fillin' his head with. Glory and honor and that rot. A snarl rumbled up from Grubnik's chest. He set his plate aside with exaggerated care and stood, body coiled with tension like a snake about to strike. Gribble watched his father with wide eyes, heart thudding almost painfully behind his ribs. He wanted to cry out, to beg them not to fight. But his tongue was nailed to the floor of his mouth, useless. Chief Gnarltooth stood abruptly, faded eyes flashing a warning. Enough. Both of you. His voice cracked like a whip in the smoky air, freezing his sons in their tracks. There was a mountain's weight of authority in that single word, honed by decades of leadership. Outside, now. Gribble, stay here. Grubnik and Grimrock filed out into the night, shoulders tight with resentment. Gnarltooth followed close behind, a silent specter in a cloak of shadows. The hut's walls felt flimsy as parchment in their wake, too thin to block out the muffled argument bursting to life beyond them. Gribble hunched over his plate, appetite crushed to nothing. Shame still burned in his cheeks, Grimrock's words ringing in his ears. Baby. Weak. Useless. Each one striking with the force of a blow. He knew he wasn't the strongest, or the quickest. Other goblin lads his age were already joining the hunting bands, learning to shoot and track with the warriors. But he was trying. He practiced every day with his little bow until his fingers bled. He set his own traps, treated the furs himself. He would make his father proud. Would prove himself worthy to lead the clan one day, as his grandfather had. He had to. The shouting outside reached a fever pitch then cut off abruptly. Gribble held his breath, straining his ears in the sudden silence. A lone set of footsteps crunched across the packed earth, growing fainter as they stomped away. Too heavy for his father's quick, light tread. Grimrock, then. Gnarltooth shuffled back in, looking older than he had only minutes before. New lines seemed to have been carved into the weathered map of his face. He sank onto his stool and stared into the guttering fire, shoulders slumped under a weight Gribble could only guess at. Where's Da? Gribble hardly recognized his own voice. Small and frightened, like a child half his age. He cleared his throat, embarrassed. Gnarltooth sighed, ancient lungs crackling. Out walking. Grimrock too. Tempers are high, need to cool off. He poked at the coals, sending up a burst of orange sparks. Gribble watched them dance and swirl like fireflies before winking out, thoughts still churning. Gran? A grunt. Will Da really make me Chief someday? Gnarltooth turned to look at him then, eyes clearer and more focused than Gribble could ever remember seeing them. He leaned forward, hands clasped loosely between his knees. You got a good heart, pup. Just like yer mam. And that mind of yours... sharper than any blade. Grubnik sees it. I see it. Grimrock... he'll come around. But you gotta be strong, ye hear? For the clan. For them what depends on ye. Gribble swallowed hard around the sudden lump in his throat. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His grandfather was not a goblin much given to praise. Every word was sincere, and all the heavier for it. Gnarltooth held his gaze a moment longer, ancient eyes searching. Finally he nodded, as if satisfied with what he saw there. Get yerself to bed, pup. Big day tomorrow. Gribble jolted, remembering. The hunt. His father and grandfather were to lead a band of warriors deep into the Wild Wood, to bring back a stag for the Winter Feast. A dangerous journey, but a great honor. Gribble had begged to go, but Grubnik had forbidden it. Said he was too young, yet. That his time would come. Gribble scrambled to his feet, head full of snares and arrows and stealth. He paused at the doorway, looking back into the dimness of the hut. Gnarltooth still sat by the fire, a weathered green statue, eyes lost in dancing flames. G'night, Gran. The old goblin lifted a hand in silent farewell, gaze never leaving the dwindling fire. Gribble slipped into the quiet of the night, a strange heaviness in his heart. Overhead the stars glittered like chips of ice, impossibly distant and cold. A sickle moon hung low on the horizon, as sharp and pale as a blade. He walked with his head down, watching his bare feet scuff the well-trodden paths between the huts. All around the sounds of the nighttime village rose up - muffled conversation, a burst of laughter, a high thin wail quickly hushed. The soft clucking of sleepy chickens, the grumbling of goats. The homey scents of cookfires and pipesmoke. It was all so familiar, as much a part of him as his own heartbeat. And yet some part of him whispered that it could all be taken away in an instant, as ephemeral as dandelion fluff on a strong breeze. Nothing was certain, nothing was safe. Grimrock's face swam up in his mind, twisted with contempt. He shook his head to banish it, shoving into his family's hut with more force than necessary. He checked that his mother's little loom sat safe in its corner, the half-finished cloth protected by a scrap of hide. His fingers trailed across the warp, worn smooth by the work of her hands. Then he threw himself down on his pallet, pulling the blanket up to his chin. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to push away the day, the fears that wanted to rise up and choke him. He prayed that the hunt would go well. That his father and grandfather would return with a stag to feed the village, horns held high in triumph. He would not let Grimrock's darkness poison this, would not let it plant seeds of doubt in his heart. Gribble pressed his face into the musty furs and dreamed of a day when he would make them proud. When no one, not even his uncle, could look at him and see anything but a strong leader. A chieftain to lead the Bloodfang Clan to greatness. He fell asleep with that dream held tight to his chest, a fragile flame against the darkness of the night. Dawn came gray and cold, pale light filtering in through the drawn hide window. Gribble startled awake, heart thudding behind his ribs. For a moment he couldn't place the unease that clawed at his belly, the dread that sat heavy on his chest. Then he remembered. The hunt. His father and grandfather would be leaving today. He scrambled out of bed, bare feet slapping the packed-dirt floor. Da, wake up, it's- But the hut was empty, Grubnik's pallet cold to the touch. Of course. They would have risen long before the sun, to make the most of daylight. Gribble grabbed his tunic, yanking the rough fabric over his head. He hopped on one foot and then the other, cursing, as he struggled into his breeches. If they had already left... but no, they wouldn't go without saying goodbye. They couldn't. He burst out into the watery light, stumbling a bit on the raised threshold. The village was already stirring, the smell of cooking fires wafting between the huddled huts. Women with baskets hurried toward the foraging grounds. Children dashed underfoot, their laughter high and thin in the chill morning air. Gribble dodged around them, heart pounding as he ran for the central clearing. Hunters gathered there before heading out, sharing bawdy jokes and boasts over their bows and spears. Please still be there. Don't go yet. He rounded the edge of a storage hut and skidded to a stop, heart in his throat. The clearing stood mostly empty, save for a few wizened goblins passing a pipe between them. His gut sank, a sick twisting emptiness that threatened to crush the breath from his lungs. Gone. They were gone. Without even a word. He stood frozen, mind refusing to push forward into a day without their presence. The sudden realization that for the first time in his life, they would not be within the gentle circle of the village's palisades. That he could not run to his father if he scraped a knee or caught his hand in a snare. That he would not hear his grandfather's gruff bark of laughter when he made a clumsy joke over dinner. The emptiness in his chest yawned wider, a dark gaping maw that threatened to swallow him whole. As if in a dream, he turned and wandered down the meandering path that led to the village gates. He came to the edge of the wild wood, ancient oaks towering overhead, their trunks lost in the mist that pooled between them. His mind spun a dozen ways they could be hurt, a hundred dangers that might keep them from returning home. He shook his head, grasping for the steadiness his father always seemed to wear like a cloak around his shoulders. He would be strong. He would make them proud. There was much to be done in the village, much he could learn from the elders in their absence. With a last look over his shoulder at the forbidding wall of trees, he turned back toward the huts. He would check his snares, and oil his bow, and help with the smoking of the fish. He would keep his hands busy and his mind full, and pray to the spirits of wood and wind to guide his father and grandfather home safe. Days passed, each one bleeding into the next until Gribble stopped counting sunrises. Every morning he scrambled to the top of the palisade wall, scanning the treeline for familiar shapes. Every evening he tossed in his bedroll, ears straining for the sound of feet crunching up the path. But none came. Gribble threw himself into the work of the village, as if by grinding himself down to bone and sinew he could push away the fear that gnawed at his gut. He checked traplines, hauling the small carcasses to the skinning sheds. Helped the village elders mix medicines and poultices, grinding herbs until his hands cramped and his eyes stung. Practiced with his bow until his fingers cracked and bled, ignoring the pitying glances from the other young hunters. All the while, the village churned with rumor. Women whispered behind their hands as they gathered firewood. Men huddled around the evening fires, voices low and urgent as they stared out into the night. What if they fell to cave lions? Or the mad hermit that was rumored to stalk the eastern reaches of the wildwood, killing any goblin that stumbled across his path? What if they starved, or froze, or were taken by the elves that sometimes crept from the high reaches of the mountains? No one said it too loudly, but Gribble could see the question behind their eyes, in the careful way they avoided his gaze. What if they weren't coming back? He shoved the thought away, burying it deep where it couldn't cut at him with vicious claws. He would know if something happened. He would feel it in his bones, in the deepest corridors of his heart. But as days became weeks, the sliver of stubborn hope he carried began to fray and tear, threadbare under the weight of cold reality. Grimrock lorded over them all, settling into the camp chair outside the chieftain's hut as if he'd been born to it. He spoke of new rules, new orders for the guards and hunters. Scowled at any who dared question him, hand resting on the bone-handle of his knife. Gribble avoided him, unwilling to face the triumph that glittered in his uncle's eyes whenever they landed upon him. He knew, with a sinking certainty, that Grimrock had gotten exactly what he wanted. The leadership of the clan, the power that should have been his brother's. It was only a matter of time before he made it formal, before he took the chief's spear from above the mantle and named himself ruler. The thought made something small and fierce burn in Gribble's chest. A stubborn coal of anger that smoldered and hissed, sharpening his grief to a cutting edge. It was near a month before Gribble faced it, the knowledge sinking its fangs deep into his heart and refusing to let go. They weren't coming back. He sat beneath the towering oaks at the far edge of the village, their leaves whispering mournful secrets overhead. The wild wood stretched out before him, misty and impenetrable - a dark sea of twisting trunks and reaching shadows. It had swallowed his father and grandfather whole, never to spit them back out. Scalding tears burned down his cheeks, dripping from his chin unchecked. His shoulders shook with the force of holding back sobs, each breath tearing at his throat like shards of broken glass. The pain of it threatened to shatter him, to break him open and spill his guts across the forest floor. He fumbled at his side until his fingers closed around the small carving of a wolf - his father's final gift, pressed into his hands the night before the hunt. He clutched it to his chest, its edges biting into his palms until a dribble of blood ran down his wrist. Not alone, his father had murmured, cupping Gribble's face between rough, calloused palms. Never alone, pup. No matter what comes. But that was a lie, wasn't it? He was alone now. More alone than he'd ever been in his short life. Gribble hunched forward, shoulders bowed under the weight of his grief. His tears fell onto the little wolf, darkening the cherrywood, the tang of blood sharp in the air. He let himself cry then, silent and shaking in the shelter of his oak tree. Let the sorrow and rage boil through his veins, hot enough to scorch. Let it sink its teeth deep into the meat of him and shake, worrying at the wounds until they ran red with memory - - his father's gentle hands, calloused palms enfolding Gribble's as he taught him how to carve a snare - his grandfather's roaring laugh, the scratch of his beard as he pulled Gribble close - the wistful smile on his father's face when he looked at Gribble, as if seeing someone else in the curve of his brow, the bridge of his nose Each one a shard of glass beneath his skin, embedding themselves so deep he would never dig them out. he would carry their weight, the aching absence of them, for the rest of his days. But even through the haze of pain some stubborn spark in him whispered no. this could not be the end of it, the final note of their song. they had not raised him to lay down, to let his loss carve him hollow. His father had taught him how to set his jaw, square his shoulders against the weight of the world. his grandfather had shown him that true strength lay in standing back up, no matter how many times you were beaten down. Gribble clutched the wolf carving tighter, his knuckles straining white through the green. tears still spilled over his cheeks, but slower now, the first torrential flood ebbing to a trickle. He would live, for them. he would grow, and fight, and one day lead, as they had wanted. he would keep their memory burning bright in his heart, a torch against the darkness. he would not let their lives, their lessons, crumble to bitter ash. The sun dipped below the towering oaks, shadows unfurling across the loam. gribble straightened, every joint protesting. his eyes felt raw, swollen, his throat scraped clean. but beneath it a small ember of resolve took light, steadied by the weight of the wolf in his palm. Gribble stood, brushing the leaf mulch from his breeches. he looked into the wild wood, at the twisting labyrinth of oak and shadow that had stolen his world. I'll make you proud, he promised the waiting dark. I will be everything you taught me to be. everything you saw in me. He tucked the wolf into his belt pouch, its slight weight a comfort against his hip as he turned back to the village. back to the huts and fires that seemed dimmer now, faded without the light of his father's smile, the warmth of his grandfather's laughter. The days ahead would be hard, gribble knew. grimrock's shadow loomed, dark and hungry. the losses that gaped within him would never fully heal, not truly. But he would endure. he would remember. and he would grow into someone who could bear the weight of his father's bow, his grandfather's spear. He could do nothing less, to honor them. to keep their light alive, even as the rest of the world moved on, forgetting. Gribble sought his bed as true night fell, his limbs aching and heavy. he thought of his father's hands on his shoulders, his grandfather's steadying gaze, and let their shades soothe him into sleep. Tomorrow would come, as it always did, and he would face it. at first it will be just one day, without them. then two. then a season, a year. Time would make strangers of his memories, wearing away at the keen edge of loss. but he would still carry them, faded but cherished, in some quiet corner of his heart. A piece of his foundation. his history. it was their final gift to him, as valuable as his father's bow or grandfather's spear. He would make it enough.

[Main Story] [1] [2] [3] Mist swirled between the gnarled trunks, dancing tendrils of gray that clung to the moss-slick bark. The stench of decay hung heavy in the humid air. Rotting leaves squelched beneath iron-shod boots as Grubnik, Chief Gnarltooth, and their band of warriors trekked through the gloom of the Wild Woods. Raggok, the Bloodfang Clan's most renowned tracker, knelt in the muck. His fingers traced the edge of a clawed print gouged into the black loam. Yellow eyes narrowed, gleaming in the shadows beneath his hood as he peered into the dense foliage. Fresh. The beast passed this way within the past moon. No more than a few days. Chief Gnarltooth grunted an acknowledgment, the sound rumbling deep in his barrel chest. His massive fist tightened its grip on his spear haft until the wood groaned. A legendary creature, one not seen in generations. If the tales passed down through clan lore held truth... bringing its pelt back to adorn the Winter Festival feast would ensure his name was sung for a hundred years. If the damned thing exists at all. Snaggletooth spat a glob of phlegm, wiping his mouth with the back of a gnarled hand. His single eye glared at the surrounding trees as if they personally offended him. The old warrior's blunt dismissal earned a sharp look from Grubnik. He tightened his fingers around his own spear and squinted up at the dense canopy, trying to catch a glimpse of the wan sunlight filtering through the leaves far above. The Wild Woods held secrets even the goblins had not yet unraveled in their long centuries dwelling in its shadow. Ancient things, slumbering in root and bough and stone. Waiting for the right time, the right soul, to awaken. Grubnik could feel the primordial power thrumming through the loamy earth, taste the tang of it in the back of his throat. Raggok would not lead them astray, not in this. The tracker's instincts had saved the hunting party a dozen times over in seasons past, guiding them to the richest game trails, warning them away from the territories of foul things that skulked in the forest's rotten heart. No. If Raggok claimed the tracks were fresh, then the beast was close. Closer than it had been in living memory. Grubnik adjusted his grip on his weapon and squared his shoulders under the weight of his chief's expectations. Under the weight of the clan's future, their very survival. He would not fail them. Could not. Not with so much riding on this hunt's success. He met his father's eyes over the ready spears of their warriors. Unspoken understanding passed between them, the bond of chieftain and heir, of father and son. A single nod, grim and resolute. Then Gnarltooth looked away, his gaze fixing on some distant point beyond the veil of trees. We continue. Press on until dusk, make camp on high ground. A murmur of assent from the assembled goblins, a few scattered grunts and the creak of leather as they readjusted their grip on their weapons. Grubnik swallowed past the sudden tightness in his throat. He knew what pursued them through the forest, nipping at their heels like hounds scenting a wounded stag. Time. The inexorable march of the seasons, winter's icy talons eager to sink into the clan's unprotected flesh. Hunger, a yawning void in the belly that ate away at strength and hope in equal measure. Desperation, a spurred heel driving them deeper into the Wild Woods' haunted reaches with each passing day. They needed this hunt. Needed this single, glorious triumph to stave off the gnawing specter of starvation for one more winter. To fill their stomachs and their hearts with fiercer fire than any that crackled in the hearths of their huts. Failure was no option. Not for him, not for any of them. They would return with the beast's carcass or not at all. He shook away the dire thoughts, focusing on the crunch of rotting foliage under his boots as the party forged onward into the hungry wood. Raggok loped ahead, his smaller form nearly swallowed whole by the riotous undergrowth as he cast about for signs of their quarry's passage. Snaggletooth and the other hardened veterans formed a loose ring around Chief Gnarltooth and Grubnik, spears at the ready, eyes darting to scour the shadows pooling between the trees. Predators stalked those shadows, things with too many teeth and a taste for goblin blood. But no creature of claw or fang truly concerned the warriors. No simple beast, no matter how dangerous, could compare to the lurking unease that crept up their spines with each step they took away from their woodland haunts. This deep in the Wild Woods, this far from the trails and markers carved by generations of goblins eking out a life in the forest's verge... things grew strange. Unfamiliar. The trees towered higher, their trunks gnarled into unsettling faces that seemed to leer from the corner of the eye. Odd creatures skittered in the undergrowth, small things with too many legs and eyes that glowed with a cold, uncanny light. Whispers sighed in the rustle of nameless leaves, hinting at secrets old as stone, best left undisturbed. It played on the nerves. Set teeth to grinding and palms to sweating on spear shafts. But also awakened something deeper, more primal. The same eerie thrill that sang in the blood during the chaos of a hunt, the breathless exhilaration of pitting fang and claw and blade against a cornered beast. The Wild Woods were the ultimate quarry, Grubnik mused as he clambered over a fallen log slick with lichen. An eternal, unfathomable thing against which every goblin was measured from first breath to last. To master its secrets, to return with trophies wrenched from its most jealously guarded shadowlands... that was the mark of a true warrior. And he intended to prove himself such, this day. To carve his name into the sagas alongside his chieftain father. To still the doubts that he sometimes glimpsed flickering behind the heavy brows of the clan elders when they watched him training with the other young bloods. The heir's fangs were not yet sharp enough, those looks whispered. His heart still too soft, too tainted by his mother's gentle spirit. What hope could there be for a clan led by such a whelp? He ground his teeth until his jaw creaked, fingers flexing around the haft of his spear. He would show them. Show them all. He was the blood of Gnarltooth Bone-Gnawer, the most legendary chief the Bloodfang had ever known. He would be a worthy successor or die in the attempt. A branch slapped him across the face, jolting him from his churning thoughts. He tasted blood and realized he'd bitten his lip near through. Wincing, he swiped his tongue over the wound and spat red. A soft chuff, almost a chuckle, sounded from his left. Head in the clouds, pup? Better watch your tail, 'fore something sneaks up and bites it off. Grubnik scowled at the wizened old tracker. Your eyes would serve better watching for signs of the beast, old one. Not my backside. Raggok flashed a gap-toothed grin, somehow finding humor despite the gravity of their pursuit. Aaah, but what a comely backside it is. If only I were a few dozen winters younger... Grubnik growled, slashing at the wiry figure with a half-hearted swipe of his claws. Raggok cackled and ducked away, melding seamlessly back into the underbrush as if he were just another one of the forest's gnarled shadows. A grunt from his father snapped Grubnik's spine straight, an automatic response honed by years under the chieftain's unrelenting tutelage. He grimaced and hurried his steps, resuming his proper place in the formation. Gnarltooth shot him a warning glare from beneath beetled white brows, his blunt muzzle wrinkling. Focus, boy. This is no jaunt to check the snares. Yes, Chief. Grubnik ducked his head, heat prickling up his neck. Shame curdled in his gut, salting his tongue with bitterness. His father had never been free with affection or approval, even before the burdens of leadership had settled across his broad shoulders like a mantle of stone. But ever since they'd left the village on this desperate gambit, it seemed his expectations for Grubnik had sharpened to a flensing edge. Every stumble, every blink, was noted and judged. Weighed against the impossible standard of chieftain-that-would-be and found wanting. Grubnik swallowed the sudden ache in his throat, the pup's plea for a father's respect and comfort. Devoured it, churned it into resolve bitter and black as slag iron. He bared his fangs at the watchful wood, inviting its dangers, daring the very trees to stand in his way. He was his father's son, a hunter and warrior born. His heart was the iron that would forge the Bloodfang's future, even if he had to first quench it in a river of his own doubts and fears. No beast's talons would be half so sharp as the goad of the chief's expectations. Another goblin, one of the unblooded youths, hurried up to march at Grubnik's shoulder. The whelp's knuckles were pale green where he gripped his boar spear, the head of it trembling in minute jerks. How much further? His voice cracked on the question, reedy with an unspoken plea. Grubnik bared his teeth in displeasure at the display of weakness. The pup shrank back, throat bobbing as he swallowed. We walk 'til the chief says otherwise. Grubnik bit out. You tiring already? No! No, I just... the shadows are getting longer, and... And you fear to face the Woods' mysteries in the dark, like a mewling pup crying for its mother's teat? Grubnik snarled, derision dripping from the words. The pup cringed, shoulders hunching up around his oversized ears. Grubnik spat to the side, lips curled in a sneer. Get back in position, whelp. And pray your cowardly whining hasn't cost us our prize. The youth blanched and scurried back to his place in line, head low and eyes on his shuffling feet. Grubnik watched him go, a strange mix of irritation and guilt churning in his stomach. Perhaps he'd been overly harsh, but... these unblooded wretches needed a firm hand. Needed to be hardened quick, before their sniveling drew the notice of things with sharper teeth than Grubnik's tongue. Snaggletooth dropped back to pace beside him, a mean chuckle rasping in the old warrior's throat. Grubnik tensed, expecting another of the scarred veteran's cutting critiques on his leadership style. But Snaggletooth just shook his grizzled head, single eye gleaming with dark amusement. Pup'll be Warg shit by dawn if he don't grow a pair quick. Grubnik grunted agreement, relieved to be spared a lecture for once. Snaggletooth was hard on the youngbloods, but they were harder still on themselves, the weight of their elders' expectations a crushing burden. Especially for those like Grubnik, who'd been born to a legacy measured in the notches on the hilts of legendary blades. There were days he envied the unbloodeds' fumbling ignorance, untempered by the keen edge of a chief's duty. But such thoughts were just another weakness to be scoured away by the whetstone of the hunt. He was Grubnik, son of Gnarltooth, heir to the Bloodfang. His path was as solid and unforgiving as the iron of his fangs. The hunting party pressed onward, the susurrus of the wild wood slowly shifting to a chorus of frog-song and insect-hum as dusk crept in on moccasin feet. The light took on a frail, watery quality, the green-tinged gold of autumn leaves on the eve of their fall. Grubnik lifted his head, tasting the air as the first evening breeze stirred the sweaty scruff of his neck. The wind carried change on its back, a gathering pressure that weighted the clouds overhead to a sullen charcoal. A storm was brewing in the deeps of the sky, the scent of it harsh and heavy with the promise of rain. It would be a hard one, Grubnik predicted, lips drawing back from his tusks in displeasure. The kind of tempest that turned dry streambeds to frothing torrents and sent every sensible creature scurrying for the sanctuary of its burrow. Gnarltooth had noticed as well, the chief's blunt muzzle rising to snuff the air with a soft chuff of comprehension. A considering rumble stirred in the great barrel of the warchief's chest as he turned to survey the surrounding wood with a jaundiced eye. Raggok. Gnarltooth croaked, the name snapping with the authority of an order. The tracker materialized from the verge as if conjured, his rangy form slipping free of a bearded tangle of vines. His eyes were wide and slightly wild in his pinched, weathered face. How far to that tor you marked, the one by the lightning-split oak? The grizzled tracker squinted at the fading sun, thick brows furrowing like caterpillars. Half a league, maybe less. But Chief, if the storm breaks while we're out in the open... It won't. Gnarltooth cut him off with a sharp chop of one sledgehammer paw. Get us there. The rest of you, eyes up, spears ready. I mislike the quiet. As if to punctuate the warchief's words, a rumble of thunder growled across the sky, an ominous drumroll building to an echoing crack. The goblin youngbloods flinched, claws tightening white-knuckled on their weapons. Even Snaggletooth glanced skyward, his ruined face creasing in an anxious grimace. Grubnik straightened, squaring his shoulders beneath the weight of his chief's expectations. He met his father's eyes, the warchief's golden stare boring into him like molten metal. A pulse of understanding passed between them, the unspoken language of chieftain and heir. Protect them. The hunt must not fail. Grubnik dipped his chin in a minuscule nod, the gesture a silent vow. He would not shirk his duty to the clan, to the unblooded youths in his charge. Even should the Wild Wood turn against them, even should the very sky crack and bleed, he would see this hunt through. No matter the cost. Raggok had already vanished back into the brush, the tracker's wiry form swallowed whole by the deepening gloom. The rest of the party fell in behind him, Snaggletooth taking rear guard while Grubnik held the center, the youngbloods arranged around him like a a phalanx of spears. The going was treacherous, the forest floor a morass of twisted roots and leaf-slick stones hidden by the dense undergrowth. More than once Grubnik had to grab a floundering youth by the scruff, hauling the wretch up before they could tumble into the yawning dark of an uprooted bole or ravine. All the while the storm built overhead, the clouds roiling and churning like a pot left too long on the boil. The wind picked up, setting the treetops to thrashing and moaning. Grubnik felt the first fat drops of rain spatter against his up-turned face, each one a cold dart pricking his skin. A muttered curse escaped him, snatched away by the rising gale. His feet slipped and skidded in the rising muck, the leaf-littered soil turning to a slurry of rotting vegetation and icy water. Claws denting the loam, he redoubled his efforts, pressing forward with the determination of a wolf on the heels of wounded prey. The tor couldn't be much further. Once they gained its footing, the stone would give them purchase, a defensible position from which to weather the tempest's fury. They just had to reach it before the Wild Wood ripped the ground out from under them... Raggok's shout, high and thin with panic, knifed through the hammering deluge. Grubnik's gaze snapped up, piercing the tangle of flailing branches. There, just ahead, through the wind-lashed veil of rain. A dark hump of stone crouching amid the thrashing wood like a great slumbering beast rudely awakened. The tor, a granite fist thrusting up from the forest floor to batter at the underbelly of the lowering sky. And there at its base, a darker gash splitting the stone like a wound. A cave, its mouth yawning wide as if to swallow them whole. Raggok stood at its threshold, his sodden pelt plastered flat to his scrawny frame. He gestured wildly, urging them onward with frantic swipes of his arms. Chief! In here, quick! Gnarltooth barged through the clinging undergrowth, shouldering saplings aside like grass stalks. Grubnik and the others stumbled in his wake, fleeing the storm's rising wrath. Lightning split the sky, the flash searing Grubnik's vision to a blind white smear. Thunder followed a heartbeat later, crashing down like an avalanche to rattle the very stones beneath their feet. They plunged into the cave, a surge of drenched green bodies jostling and slipping on the worn stone. The darkness swallowed them, enfolding the bedraggled goblins in its cool, musty embrace. Grubnik felt his eyes adjust, pupil swelling to drink in the scant light trickling in from the cave mouth. It was a shallow antechamber, a cupped hollow scooped from the living rock by time's patient chisel. Barely large enough to hold their band and scant supplies. At its rear, a narrower tunnel delved deeper into the tor's stubborn flanks, worming away into stygian shadow. Gnarltooth moved to its entrance, eyes narrowed to golden slits as he peered into the whispering gloom. Senses strained for any hint of movement, any flicker of life to suggest another occupant resenting their intrusion. Nothing. Just dank emptiness, the close walls sweating with the damp. The chief grunted and swung his spear down from his shoulder, the haft smacking meaty palm with a solid thwack. Grubnik, with me. The rest of you, catch your breath but stay sharp. We're not alone until I say we are. Grubnik hurried to his father's side, breath still heaving in his chest from their headlong flight. Gnarltooth spared him a glance, eyes like molten gold in the gloom. Then the chief turned and stalked into the tunnel, his heavy tread unnaturally loud in the sepulchral hush. Grubnik followed, senses straining. His sodden pelt prickled, hackles lifting along his spine despite his best efforts to calm them. There was something about the inky blackness pressing close that set his fangs on edge, tightening his grip on his spear until his knuckles creaked. The tunnel twisted and turned, wending deeper into the bowels of the stone. The walls pressed close, scraping his shoulders if he strayed too near their slick flanks. More than once he nearly stumbled, boots sliding on loose pebbles scattered across the uneven floor. His father pressed on relentlessly, never wavering even as the dark thickened until it was a clotted curtain across Grubnik's vision. If not for the chief's steady tread, the rasp of his breath, Grubnik might have lost all sense of direction, floundering blind in this stony maw. Just as the tension coiling in Grubnik's gut threatened to snap his control, Gnarltooth halted. The sudden cessation of movement froze Grubnik's breath in his throat. He crept up to his father's side, spear-tip dipping low to probe the void before them. The tunnel had opened out, the close walls falling away into a cavernous gulf of empty space. The air hung in a hushed pall, thick and heavy as deep water. Even the sounds of the raging storm outside had faded to a distant murmur, as if the wildwood's fury could not penetrate this far into the tor's stony heart. Grubnik swallowed against a sudden surge of dread, the unfamiliar emotion a sour weight in the pit of his stomach. This felt... wrong, in a bone-deep way he couldn't articulate. A primitive part of his brain, some vestigial animal instinct honed over generations of goblinkind's harsh survival, was screaming a wordless warning. Urging him to flee back into the storm's cleansing fury rather than face whatever nameless thing lurked in the obsidian depths before them. He licked dry lips, tasting salt and the copper tang of his own fear-spiked musk. A muscle in his jaw ticked, teeth grinding as he clenched his fangs against the irrational impulse. He was a warrior. A chief's heir. He would not shame himself by cringing like a newborn whelp at the first whiff of the uncanny. Father? His voice emerged a reedy whisper, disgustingly frail even to his own ears. Quiet, boy. Gnarltooth's growl was sub-sonic, more felt than heard. Something... something is here. As if summoned by the chief's grim pronouncement, a sound shivered through the clammy air. The soft, dry rasp of scales on stone. A sinuous slither, heavy and deliberate in the fathomless black. And then, light. A glimmer so faint Grubnik initially thought it a delusion born of his strained eyes. But no... there in the deeps, a thin phosphorescent line coiled through the dark. Pulsing, growing, it twisted back on itself like a serpent wakened from hibernation, segments of spectral green flickering to sullen life along its length. Until the dark unfurled not one but dozens of lambent shapes, their cold glow limning sleek hides and the wink of cruel, hooked talons. Reptilian eyes kindled to viridian lanterns above yawning maws bristling with needle fangs. Basilisks. The breath punched from Grubnik's lungs on a single, choked exhale. Dread crystalized to icy certainty in his gut. The cave was a nest. They'd stumbled straight into a brood of Basilisks dug in to wait out the worst of the storm. Foul amalgams of snake and lizard bloated to the size of war-hounds, with poison to drop a bull moose frothing from their forked tongues. Get back. Gnarltooth's voice was low, steady as the tor's granite heart. No sudden movements. They're still groggy from the cold. If we withdraw slow, quiet, maybe... A scrabbling, a panicked yelp echoed from the tunnel behind them. Grubnik whirled, icy sweat prickling his hide. One of the unblooded youths stood at the threshold, eyes wide and rolling with terror as a Basilisk reared up before him, its hideous head swaying on a sinuous neck. The whelp screamed, a high, ululating wail that shattered the hushed air like a stone cast into a stagnant pool. The Basilisk lunged, its rope-thick body hissing across the stone with blinding speed. Needle fangs flashed, sinking into the youth's shoulder with a wet, rending crunch. Blood fountained, black in the spectral light. The whelp's screams turned thin, reedy, as the Basilisk's venom pumped into his veins. He spasmed, dropping his spear to claw uselessly at the beast's iron-hard hide. The weapon clattered to the stone, the sound as final as a headsman's axe. The nest erupted like a kicked ant-hill, the dark suddenly alive with darting, hissing shapes. Gnarltooth roared, the sound as deep and primal as an earthquake. He leaped forward, throwing Grubnik behind him as his spear lanced out, the razored point finding a glittering eye. The struck Basilisk shrieked, an ear-splitting keen like tortured metal. Gore-slick talons scrabbled at the spear haft protruding from its ruined socket. More surged forward to take its place, a writhing wave of venomous hunger. Grubnik found his feet, instincts taking over as the heady scent of blood and musk filled his nostrils. His spear darted like a striking serpent in his own right, finding soft joins between armored scales, sinking into the putrid meat with sickening ease. Shouts and screams battered at the confines of his skull, the rest of the war-band boiling into the tunnel to join the fray. Steel rang and clashed, the metal taking on a reddish sheen as blood splattered the dank stone. A Basilisk reared before him, its maw gaping obscenely wide. Venomous spittle drooled over dagger fangs. Grubnik snarled, bracing himself for the lunge. His spear felt like a flimsy reed in his sweat-slick grip, the leaf-shaped blade woefully inadequate before that monstrous gullet. The beast lunged, blurring speed belied by its bulk. Grubnik dove aside, fetching up hard against the tunnel wall. Stone cracked his shoulder, setting his fangs to gritting. He whirled, just in time to see the Basilisk's barbed tail scything towards his face. No time to dodge. He threw his head back, eyes slamming shut. Wind buffeted him as the venomous spur hissed past, scoring a burning line across his cheek. Blood, hot and salt, flooded his mouth. Roaring, he brought his spear up in a desperate thrust. The blade skittered off ridged scales, scoring the beast's underbelly but failing to find a vital spot. The Basilisk writhed, its bulk slamming into him like a falling tree. Air whooshed from his lungs. He hit the ground hard, spear spinning from nerveless fingers. The Basilisk loomed over him, its hooked maw drooling. He scrabbled for his knife, the blade suddenly pitiful in his grip. A shadow fell over them both. Gnarltooth crashed into the beast like an avalanche, his spear gone, bowie knife clutched in one sledgehammer fist. The chief snarled, slamming the blade into the monster's gaping eye-socket. Once, twice, three times. The Basilisk screamed, thrashing. Its tail cracked across Gnarltooth's back, drawing a grunt from the old warrior. But he never relented, never released his two-fisted grip on the blade as he bore the beast backward. Grubnik surged to his feet, snatching up his fallen spear. Gnarltooth wrestled with the Basilisk, a tangle of savaged green flesh and gore-slick scales. Grubnik charged, bracing his spear butt-first against the stone. The steel point struck true, sinking into the soft hollow beneath the beast's jaw. It punched through, erupting from the back of the meaty skull in a welter of ichor. The Basilisk stiffened, a shudder wracking its length. Then it slumped, the dead weight of it bearing Gnarltooth to the ground. Panting, the chief struggled free of the corpse. Grubnik offered him a hand, hauling his father upright. Their eyes met, a moment of shared triumph, of primal exultation in the face of death and danger. Then a shriek rent the air, high and agonized. Grubnik whirled, searching for the source. There, near the mouth of the cave. Snaggletooth crouched over a fallen form, his already ruined face a mask of blood. At his feet, Raggok writhed, the lean tracker's pelt shiny with gore. More blood pumped from between the fingers he had clamped to his gut, staining the stone a glistening black. As Grubnik watched in horror, the light faded from Raggok's eyes. His body stilled, one last rattling breath shivering from slack jaws. Snaggletooth threw his head back, loosing a howl of grief and rage. Grubnik's gaze swept the carnage, picking out the still forms of other goblins strewn amid the Basilisk dead. Too many. More than they could afford to lose. And those were just the ones he could see... Gnarltooth shouldered past him, the chief's heavy tread resolute even as he limped on a blood-slick leg. Grubnik fell into step at his heels, numbness creeping through his veins like a slow poison. They'd survived. He clung to that thought like a drowning goblin to a float-log. Survived the Wild Wood's attempt to devour them. But the cost... He looked down at his crimson-painted hands, the spear haft tacky beneath his palms. Was this the price they'd pay for the Bloodfang's salvation? Blood for blood, life for life? A terrible suspicion coiled in his gut, colder and more piercing than any Basilisk fang. Perhaps there was no great beast to be found. No legendary pelt to drape triumphant upon the clan's Winter Festival pyre. Perhaps... it was all just a mocking lure, a false promise like the glimmer of a mirage on a salt-pan. And they'd stumbled after it, so desperate for hope that they'd been willing to brave any danger... only to end as meat for the Wild Wood's insatiable maw. Unease prickled his muck-streaked pelt, a creeping surety that this was only the first toll the forest would exact. But he shoved the whispers down, locking them away. The clan needed him steadfast, solid as the sto- A sound split the air, raising every hair along Grubnik's spine. A warbling, avian scream that shivered through marrow and gristle. It echoed off the stone in distorted ripples, filling the cavern with its promise of primal fury. No. Not a scream. A roar. Grubnik froze, ice flooding his veins. He knew that sound. Knew it from somewhere deep in the racial memory of his kind, ancestral dread welling up to choke the breath from his lungs. There at the cave mouth, framed by the storm's raging maw. A shape condensed from the hammering deluge, coalescent shadow gaining substance with each stalking step. Lightning flared, the stark white flash limning its hulking form for a single, awful heartbeat. Grubnik's bowels turned to water. His spear clattered from a hand gone boneless with shock. A Thundercat. Largest of all felids, apex predator of the Wild Wood's most abyssal reaches. Progenitor of a thousand goblin nightmares. Muscles rippled beneath a pelt of midnight blue, patterned with jagged stripes of ghostly white. A crest of guard hairs bristled along its spine, crackling with actinic sparks. Fangs like skinning knives gleamed in its gaping maw, a lolling tongue the color of an old bruise. But its eyes... Grubnik moaned, feeling his sanity fray at the edges. Orbs of otherworldly gold, alight with a terrible alien intelligence. Holding knowledge of things beyond mortal ken, dark and primordial as the forest's stony roots. Those eyes found Grubnik's, bored into them with a force that sent him staggering. Reeling beneath the weight of that eldritch regard, that pitiless stare. He felt flayed to the bone, every secret hope and fear turned out like a coney's guts for the beast's cold perusal. Then it blinked, a lazy dip of night-dark lids. Grubnik gasped, a drowning thing breaching for air. He scrabbled for his spear, hands wooden, distant. His pulse thundered in his ears, louder than the maelstrom's distant roar. The Thundercat crouched, muscles bunching beneath its impossible pelt. Sparks leapt between its claws as it sank them into the stone, flexing. Grubnik panted, ice and fire warring in his blood. This was it, then. An ending, as sudden and merciless as the Wild Wood's own ancient law. The futility of all his dreams and doubts, all his strivings, laid bare in that single, simple action. A beast, preparing to fill its belly. And he, the meat. He looked to Gnarltooth, seeing his own sick despair reflected in the old chief's snarling mask. Snaggletooth, gore-streaked and panting. The few surviving youngbloods, huddled together like frightened rats. So few. Too few. All of them, caught between stone and the Thundercat's fury. Fangs and claws against brittle goblin steel and flesh. No way out. No clever stratagem to turn this fight. Just an old story, writ again in ichor and offal. The strong devouring the weak, as it had been since the first goblin crawled from its cave to blink at the merciless sun. As it would be long after Grubnik and his ilk were dust. He threw back his head and laughed, the sound jagged as broken glass. Let the Wild Wood take them, then. Let it glut on goblin marrow, on the shards of their broken dreams. At least he'd die as he'd lived - snarling defiance at a world bent on grinding him down. Gnarltooth shot him a look, the old chief's eyes narrowing in their nest of wrinkles. Something passed between them in that glance, a mute understanding that needed no clumsy words. The only language left to doomed things, scrabbling at the dark. As one, they turned to face the Thundercat. Grubnik hefted his spear, feeling the shaft's weight settle into his callused palm like an old lover. Beside him, Gnarltooth brandished his knife, the blade a paltry fang against the beast's night-drenched might. It wouldn't be enough. Could never be enough. But perhaps, if they fought hard, if they made the Thundercat work for its meal... their blood-debt to the clan would be paid. The Bloodfang would remember their last stand, sing sagas of their defiant end. It was the best a goblin could ask for, in this hungry world of stone and shadow. The Thundercat surged forward, its stride devouring the distance between them in terrible heartbeats. Grubnik bellowed his war-cry, the sound torn ragged by the snarling drumbeat of his pulse. He braced himself behind his spear, knowing it for the sorry reed it was. The beast's claws sheared the air, filling his nostrils with the stink of ozone. Lightning arced between the curving scimitars, leaping to sting his exposed flesh like furious wasps. He gritted his fangs, squinting against the stinging brilliance. Waiting for the final, terrible impact. The Thundercat struck Gnarltooth's bowie knife with a shriek of sundered steel and a gout of cobalt sparks. The old chief roared, slamming his bulk against the beast's shoulder even as his blade shattered, driving it back a staggering half-step. Grubnik lunged in the fractional opening, his spear licking out in a desperate thrust at the Thundercat's barrel chest. The steel point skittered off the beast's hide as if it were stone, deflected by rippling muscle and bristling fur. The Thundercat yowled, more enraged than hurt. It whirled on Grubnik, moving with a speed that beggared belief. One huge forepaw hooked out, batting the goblin heir aside with contemptuous ease. Grubnik flew, breath bursting from his lungs as he slammed into the cavern wall. Stone cracked against his spine, filling his skull with blooming starbursts of pain. He slid down the rough rock face, every nerve alight with white-hot agony. Through slitted eyes he saw Gnarltooth throw himself bodily at the Thundercat, grappling with its sinewy neck. Snaggletooth leaped to join him, his notched blade hacking at the beast's haunches. It twisted like an eel, fangs snapping shut a hair's breadth from the old chief's snarling face. Gnarltooth reeled back, and in that instant of distraction the Thundercat's rear claws found Snaggletooth's belly. The scarred warrior shrieked, a high and terrible sound. He fell back, hands clutching at coils of steaming viscera that bulged between his fingers. The Thundercat pounced on him, worrying at his body like a mutt with a rat. Wet, meaty sounds, and the gristly snapping of bones. Snaggletooth's wail cut off with a liquid gurgle. Darkness billowed at the edges of Grubnik's vision, narrowing the world to a hazy tunnel. Muffled sounds reached him, as if from a great distance. Screams, the crunch of splintering bone. A goblin's death-rattle. The smack and slurp of feasting jaws. He tried to rise, to will strength back into his failing limbs. But his body felt leaden, sunk deep into a smothering fog. Only his eyes retained any faculty, fixing on a tableau of primal horror limned in guttering witchlight. The Thundercat crouched over Gnarltooth's savaged bulk, its muzzle buried in the old chief's gaping chest. Worrying free gobbets of dripping meat, gulping them down only to dive in for more. The great hammer fists spasmed, gnarled fingers clutching at empty air. Grubnik keened, a wordless lament torn from his collapsing lungs. Gnarltooth's head lolled towards him, half the face hanging in ribbons. One eye found his, the other a shredded ruin. Grubnik saw pain there, and sorrow... but no fear. Never fear, even at the last. His father, the lodestone of his world, even as that world bled out onto the uncaring stone. The eye fixed him, held him with a force stronger than any Thundercat's fury. It bored into Grubnik's own, striking deep to that inner place where all pretense sloughed away. Leaving only the purest ore of himself, raw and aching. His father's lips moved, shaping words Grubnik couldn't hear over the roaring in his skull. But he didn't need to. He knew, in that place beyond thought, beyond blood or bone. Gnarltooth's final command, his last thread of chieftain's duty carried down until it frayed to nothing in death's indifferent shears. Live, boy. Lead. Darkness crashed over Grubnik in a smothering wave. It hooked into his sinews, dragging him down, away from horror, from the ruin of his world. He tried to fight, but his limbs were cold, so cold. Filled with a leaden weight, the promise of oblivion. His eyes fluttered closed, shuttering out the sight of his father's body, the Thundercat's gory rapture. But he couldn't escape the sounds. The smack of jaws, the wet crunch of splintering bone. They followed him down into the velvet dark, scoring deep even as thought faded. The last thing he knew was the cool press of stone against his cheek, and a spreading warmth that could only be his own blood. A final, bitter comfort, cradling him as he fell endlessly into the void. Live. Lead. Then nothing but the dark, and the distant roar of the hungry Wild Wood, implacable and eternal. Swallowing him whole, as it had so many before. As it would so many after. The world spun on, uncaring. Gnawing on the bones of goblin dreams, glutting on the marrow of their defiance. Only the Wild Wood endured. Only the beasts of shadow and fang held sway in the green heart of the world. And Grubnik sank into its depths, to await the final devouring. A feast for worms, a saga never to be sung. Just another mote, flickering out in the forest's vast and pitiless night.

_A follow-up to “For What It’s Worth”_ In the void between the living and the dead, a vision of home played in my mind, and for a moment I was someone else. _Brazos Valley Agro-complex Nine, Texas Metropolitan, Earth…_ My name is Ysabella Anastasia Owens, the divorced mother of three daughters and a baby boy. Two of my daughters live close by in the Galveston commercial exclusion zone. One, the oldest, is lost amongst the stars. I know someday she will return to me and we will have much to discuss, in due time. My baby boy, he's the troublemaker. He always has been. Takes after my ex-husband more then I’d like to admit, not that there is anything terribly flawed about the man. The universe just never meant for two partners to ever loose the one thing they could never live without. It was late autumn and the damp heat of summer had finally relented. As I did most mornings when the harvest was done, I sat on the porch in the chill of dawn’s twilight with a hot cup of Joe, and patiently waited for the sun to arrive. There was something about the absolute silence of morning that put me at ease, the sound of nothing drowning in my ears. I slowly rocked in a wooden chair as I sipped my caffeine laden elixir when I noticed the trail of dust wafting from the far reaches of our country road. It was an unusual time for visitors, and I instantly was concerned they were whom I always feared they would be. When my youngest daughter Martia was discharged after her compulsory service, I believed I was through with this waiting. She had been lucky, a propulsion technician on a fleet service tender on this side of the Threshold worlds. She never even had to make a gate jump, that dreadful experience when you were both alive and dead for a year and a half of your life. Before her was Brianna. Much like her little brother she volunteered for the Marines. Guess when your mom was a Jarhead, it should come as no surprise. I hated it when she left on her deployment but she made it back much the same as she left, thankfully without much of a story to tell. Jade is my oldest. Ten years ago, the same vehicle which slowed for our entry gate to the main house on that autumn morning, visited us in the heat of July, and our world slowly came undone after that. They said she was gone, but something told me, they were wrong. I warily began to stand as the government coup slowed in the courtyard of our domicile compound. Behind me in the window of our living room was a small white banner with a red border. On it was displayed four stars, three of them blue, one gold; and the story of a thousand heartaches. It was an ancient tradition from the Golden Era of the American Empire, which some people still took seriously in the parched fields of Texas Metro. The coup settled onto the dirt just beyond the steps of our wraparound porch. Its electronic system slowly whirred to a stop before the driver stepped from the left side of the vehicle. She was an officer, her dress formal in dark blue with red piping along the trousers and a dark glass-black leather belt around her midsection. She placed a forest green beret atop her neatly done up hair and marched crisply around the hood of the car. She was young for a Commander. I assumed maybe twenty-eight, but the colors above her left breast pocket told of a journey that had brought her to such esteem at an early stage in her career. Above the rainbow of combat tours and valorous conduct was a simple device which denoted her service as a Raider-Commando, a sisterhood to which I once belonged. The look in my eye told her she needed few words for why she was there. In fact, there were no words at all she could say that would fix this, again. “First Sergeant Owens?” she already knew the answer before she ask. It was merely a formality. “Ysabella Owens… or Miss Owens if you must be formal.” “Miss Owens, It is my regretful duty to inform…” her words faded as I thought of my Jackson, and what hell he was in. My only regret was that he knew of my past life at all. That I hadn’t tried harder to push it from his mind. The paradox of a life spent in the service of one’s species and that of a parent are never two worlds that should intertwine. Perhaps in the next life. “Commander…?” I implied I wanted to learn her name. “Frasier, First…Miss Owens.” She stumbled then recovered. “Would you like some coffee?... I haven’t had much company since the youngest left for Quantico. It’s nice to have somebody else around for a change.” “I’m terribly sorry Miss Owens, I have others I must attend to this morning.” “Others?... How bad is it?” my shock gasped at the ferocity of her subtle admission. “I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am…” My heart sank as the hope that once stitched my soul together for Jade, slowly unraveled for my youngest son. When Travelers Gate came down, it was the end of that war, Jade was just the pungent footnote at the end. This was different, I could feel it, something was wrong beyond comprehension and they didn’t want to admit it yet. “WILL NOTHING EVER CHANGED WITH YOU FUCKING PEOPLE!” my roar echoed against the barn across from the house. They said he was dead, but I knew Jackson was still alive, just as I suspected Jade was, even after all those years. I straightened my ruffled feathers and reapplied my stone exterior before I addressed the Commander once more. “You tell that damned Brigadier, my son is alive! You tell her that…” “Ma’am?…” “He’s alive Commander Frasier, and he’s going to be home in nine months…” I could speak no longer as doubt befell my conviction. “Yes… ma’am. I understand.” I didn’t have to explain myself, she already knew. For every one of those damned house calls that poor Commander had to make, I was certain she had experience them on the other end of things. It wasn’t fair to either of us, but what in life ever is? When the Commander had left, and I once again was alone, my granite façade crumbled. I clasped against the stanchion of the porch as I sank to the ground and forgot for a while what the world expected of me. I wept until my coffee had long grown cold and my tears were as dry as the prairielands. I had none left for them, as my family had given the Feds more than enough.

"After the Meltdown" (Part 3/Conclusion of a series of short stories) by P. Orin Zack   **“The Phoenix Narrative”** (Story 6 of 7) [11/11/2011]   As Beth coasted down a curving stretch of Arizona 95, she gently squeezed the handgrips on her bicycle, engaging the home-built regenerating brakes. She hesitated briefly, smiled, and leaned into a right turn onto Parker Dam Road. A few years earlier, before the economy cratered and governments around the world fell apart, she might have driven the ninety-miles back from Lingman without a second thought. Even now, with gasoline so hard to come by, she’d made the trip out in an afternoon, thanks to the damaged baby steam engine rattling around in her saddle basket. But the ride back had taken considerably longer because Norwyn Rosset, the cretin she’d gone to thank for his part in bringing the world to its knees, had kicked the overtaxed machine from it’s mountings after it succumbed to the stress of pushing them both up a hill. Parker Dam had been a touchstone to her even before she’d moved to Parker to escape the rat race her engineering degree had sucked her into. Towards the end of the corporatists’ reign, new hires out of school were like a drug to penny-pinching managers eager to consign their senior, and more expensive, employees to the growing ranks of the unemployed. But like many of her cohort, she’d taken strength from the global Occupation movement and chose to strike out on her own rather than help her moneyed masters further drive down the value of human labor. After parking her bike on the untraveled roadway high atop the curving concrete dam, Beth turned her back to Lake Havasu and drifted towards the southern railing. She took a deep breath, and cast the anger she’d worked up against Rosset to the gentle breeze, imagining it drifting down over the Colorado River, where it was absorbed and cleansed by the flowing water. Then her gaze lifted, across the rocky horizon, and up into the early evening sky. She smiled as she envisioned herself soaring low over the river, down past Lake Moovalva and Headgate Rock Dam in the steam-powered ultralight of her imagination. “Someday,” she told the river, “I’m going to skim your length not much higher than this. Someday.” But first, she reminded herself, she needed to get back to Parker. Dusk was falling, and she knew that pedal-powered headlights were neither as dependable nor as bright as steam-powered ones. Rather than returning to Arizona 95, she continued across the dam and rode the last leg home on the California side of the river. But before re-crossing to Parker, she stopped at a bakery she favored to pick up a treat for Peter. “Elspeth!” chirped the craggy proprietress as she opened the door. “I didn’t hear the unmistakable sound of your handiwork. Something wrong with your steamer?” She nodded and glanced back towards her bike. “Yeah, Roz. That jerk I tracked down in Lingman kicked it free after it gave out on the way back here.” “I trust you didn’t cart him the rest of the way home, then.” “No. Last I saw him, he’d taken my bike and was trying to pedal it back to civilization. Didn’t make it, though. Well, at least I don’t think he did. In any case, he took my pistol before ditching the bike and setting out cross-country on foot.” “You think he might’ve shot himself?” “Not likely. I still have the bullet.” Roz grabbed a small sack and started to fill it with scones. “That’s too bad. Weren’t you planning to barter it for something?” “Yeah. But I’ll be okay. The repair shop’s doing better, now that Peter’s helping out. Which reminds me, that’s what I stopped in for, to get a treat for him. I hadn’t expected to go missing for this long.” She made a face when Beth held out some money. “Put those Angels back, dear. The treats are on me this time.” It was nearly closing time when Beth rolled up in front of her repair shop, but the lights were still on, and she could hear her protégé arguing with someone inside. “You heard me, kid,” the customer thundered, “I don’t want any of those stinking Phoenix notes. Give me my change in L.A. Angels or I swear to God I’ll torch this place!” Beth grabbed the scones and opened the door. “Elspeth!” Peter said, surprised. The customer wheeled to face her. “Where the hell have you been? I came to pick up my cultivator and this idiot here tried to make change with defective money.” He waved the notes at her and slammed them on the counter. “These!” Beth put her bag down and glanced at the contested money. They were the colorful Phoenix notes that she’d gotten from some customers passing through on their way to the coast. “Look, Frank,” she said, “if you’re happier with money starring dead actors and designed by a convicted counterfeiter, fine. I think I’ve got enough here to cover your change. But please, don’t take your anger out on Peter. He is the one who repaired your John Deere knock-off, after all.” Frank snatched the bills out of her hand and glared angrily at the teenager. “Fine. But don’t expect me to come back any time soon. Next time I need something fixed, I’ll take it to an American patriot, not some goddam Indian scam artist!” Peter winced at the remark, but held his peace as Frank stormed out into the night. When he turned to look at Beth, she was grinning happily and offering him a scone. “Thanks,” he said, taking it. “You were gone a long time. Did you run into some kind of trouble in Lingman?” She nodded, and picked up one of the Phoenix notes that Frank had refused. “It was worth it, though. Before that jerk made off with my bike, he told me about a scheme he’d heard about for keeping money in circulation. Of course, from his perspective, that was a horrible thing to do, because his kind would rather hoard it. But I do know why the background pattern on these things faded.” “Oh?” “Mmm-hmm. The cagey folks in Phoenix printed their money with a number of different ink blends, each one crafted to fade after a different period of time. According to Rosset, as each component of the design fades, the exchange value drops.” Peter touched the faded screening beside the heavily saturated phoenix design. “By how much?” “That was the last bit he heard about before the big telecoms went bust and their networks shut down. These bills have already lost ten percent of their value. When the phoenix loses its tail, they’ll fall to three-quarters of the face value, and so on.” Peter touched the printed phoenix’s tail and checked for ink marks. “Clever. But what’s the point?” “When you’re paid with this kind of money, what you’re supposed to do is take it to the bank. They exchange it for fresh, unfaded bills. The ones that are turned in are then stripped and reprinted for the next go-round. So the only people who need to worry are the ones who sit on their cash instead of spending it, and you can tell who they are because the money gives them away.” He took another bite of scone. “So how did they end up in Parker?” “Travelers,” Beth said as she counted the till. “Some people from Phoenix came through town a few months ago. They needed supplies and repairs, and this was what they had for money. Of course, they didn’t bother to tell me about the little trick they do.” “Dollars must be pretty much worthless everywhere by now, I guess.” “Well, sure. There’s nothing to back them up any more. Not like the L.A. Angels, which are based on the value of an hour’s labor, or the Phoenix notes, which are based on the value of a standard basket of locally grown food. But it does present us with a problem.” He looked up. “Oh?” “Mmm-hmm. Do we honor the narrative that adjusts the value of a Phoenix, or do we continue to accept it at face value?” Peter raised his eyebrows. “Frank didn’t want to do either one.” “I know. And that’s why we need to call a town meeting.”   +++   “Okay, okay!” the facilitator shrilled, her hands spread for order. “The only way we’re going to make any sense out of this is if we give one another a chance to speak.” It had taken a few days to get the town meeting scheduled, but only a few moments for it to succumb to chaos. “Elspeth,” she said calmly, “you requested this meeting, and it appears that you’re the only one with an explanation for what’s happening to the money from Phoenix.” She nodded. “That’s right.” “Hearsay,” someone shouted from across the room. “Where’s your proof?” Peter hopped onto a chair and was about to yell back when Beth tapped him on the leg and he relented. The facilitator shot the man a dirty look before continuing. “That’s as good a place to start as any, I guess,” she said amiably. “Beth?” “It’s like this,” she said, “I spoke to a man named Norwyn Rosset last week in Lingman. He’s one of the people responsible for the fall of the Dollar, and with it, the US government. I’d gotten a lead on his whereabouts from the folks that came through from Phoenix a few months back. It seems that Rosset had been hiding out in Lingman, but then he got stranded when the few people still living there ditched town on him.” “Then let him speak!” someone called out. “Yeah,” another voice chimed in, “where’s Rosset?” Beth shook her head in frustration. “He’s not here. I tried to bring him back with me, but he stole my bike and disappeared. I found it later, but he’d taken my gun and set off on foot.” “So what you’re saying,” the facilitator said, “is that you’re our sole source for this explanation, barring other visitors from Phoenix. Is that correct?” “I’m afraid so, yes.” “In that case,” the founder of the local credit union said, “all we can do is judge Beth’s explanation on its merits, since we don’t have anything official to back it up. The way I see it, we’ve got three choices. One, we decide to not recognize Phoenix money at all here, two, we accept Elspeth’s explanation and let these notes devalue themselves to nothing, or three, we ignore the explanation and use them at their face vale.” “Rubbish,” a voice rumbled. “All we need to do is send someone to Phoenix. Then we’ll know whether this cockamamie scheme holds any water.” It was the grossly overweight bully who had been the branch manager of a now-defunct bank. “Great idea, Tom,” Beth shot back. “You hobble right over there, and we’ll just not spend any Phoenix money until you return.” The raucous laughter that followed was cut short by a resounding crash as the double doors burst open and the young tech who’d set up the town’s open-source cell towers rushed in clutching a phone. “It’s fire and rescue,” he said breathlessly, eyes wide. “Roz’s bakery’s in flames and she’s trapped inside.” “Oh my god!” Beth breathed, color draining from her face. “Frank.” “What?” “Francis Stoneway. He threatened to burn down my shop when Peter offered him Phoenix money as change. Those travelers stopped at Roz’s, too, and Frank likes donuts!” The young man held up a finger while listening intently to the phone. “They’re going in after her,” he said, glancing around the crowd. Then he winced, and asked the caller, “what was that?” The crowd drew closer. A few people clasped hands. He swallowed, and lowered the phone. “They were… they were just inside when the roof fell on her.” Beth collapsed into a chair and cried. Several people conferred with the tech for a few minutes. He made calls to some of the other working groups, passing instructions from those present. Even though Parker no longer had a formal police force, Frank would nevertheless be found and brought in for questioning. “Okay people,” the facilitator said a few minutes later, “we still have to decide what to do about the Phoenix money that‘s circulating here in Parker.” She paused for a moment and glanced nervously around the room. “Even if Frank wasn’t responsible for that fire, he, or someone else who refuses to accept the Phoenix money, might do something stupid.” “Damn right,” Tom shouted. “I say we just refuse to honor the crap!” “Do you,” Beth asked sarcastically, rising to her feet. “So tell me, exactly how much Phoenix money have you accepted?” “Not one bit. I know real money when I see it.” “That’s a laugh,” she said, pulling an Angel out of her wallet and holding it up. “And what exactly makes these things real for you? Is it the pictures of dead actors, or the fact that they were designed by a convicted counterfeiter?” “What’s important,” he said angrily, “is that it’s backed by gold.” “Gold? Can’t you even read? It says right on the back that Angels embody the hard work and good faith of the people who labor for the betterment of Los Angeles.“ “I think we’re getting sidetracked here,” the facilitator said. “It’s ludicrous to argue about which city’s money is real and which one isn’t. What makes any money real is people’s willingness to use it. Our problem is what to do about the fact that at least one person here in Parker is in violent opposition to using it.” “Excuse me,” Peter said tentatively, “can I say something?” “Sure.” “Well, it seems to me that if the people in Parker refuse to accept the Phoenix money, we’d be alienating an awful lot of people who ought to be our allies.” “Allies?” Tom shot back. “What the hell do we need them for?” “Well, for one thing,” someone replied, “they buy a lot of what we make here.” “Besides,” Peter went on, “if we accept the money but reject the explanation for the fading ink, there’s no reason for us to accept the labor conversion for Angels either. The only way we can survive as a community is if we agree on some common principles. I say we accept the Phoenix narrative, and talk with the people there about setting up a printing operation in Parker so we can refresh any of their money that’s spent here, and extend the territory where it’s accepted.” Beth looked at him agape. “I thought you came to work for me because you wanted to build things. And now you want to be a banker?” “Of course not,” he laughed. “What I want to do is build the printing press.”   THE END   **"Steam Cycle"** (Story 7 of 7) [12/2/2011]   Peter Epas gazed blankly at the desert horizon while the sunbaked highway rolled back unnoticed beneath him. The mental schematics he’d busied himself with for the first few hours of the trip had given way to the hypnotic interplay of rubber against deteriorating pavement and the steady whine of the bike’s low-slung steam engine. His sightline had just drifted down to the leading tip of his shadow when the screech of a raptor overhead startled him back to wobble-wheeled alertness. It had been first light when he headed south out of Parker that morning. Elspeth, the mechanical engineer he apprenticed under, had topped off her bike’s biopropane canister at the repair shop last night after locking up. “You’re sure you want to do this?” she’d asked while tightening the engine mounts for the umpteenth time. A wordless glance was all the reply he gave. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from you,” he added a few beats later, “it’s to never second-guess myself.” Rising, she opened the cash drawer and counted out two piles of bills. The first, which sported heavily saturated pictures of dead actors, were Angels, the money issued in Los Angeles after the Dollar cratered. The oddly faded notes in the second pile were from Phoenix, and they were the reason he was headed there. Peter thought about that second pile as he rolled on through the dusty afternoon, and wondered how the people behind them would react to his proposal. “When we first encountered your money,” he told a hypothetical banker, “it hadn’t yet started to fade. As far as we knew, it was no different from the Angels that filtered in after the Dollar crapped out.” He frowned. “All right. How about this…” But his thoughts were abruptly shattered when the bike lurched from the impact of a wall of air at his back. Struggling to regain his balance, he glanced over his shoulder at the noisy truck overtaking him, and, heart racing, he swerved onto the shoulder to give it a wide berth. When it swept past, he winced at the acrid smell of its exhaust. “Yuck!” he yelled between coughs. “What kind of crap are you burning, anyway?” As the truck dwindled ahead and he drifted back towards the center of the roadway, he ticked off a hypothetical repair order. With quality diesel being increasingly hard to come by, he figured the trucker had his rig converted to run on whatever was available, but whoever had done it was a hack. Of far more interest to Peter, however, was the fact that none of the cars and trucks he’d seen all day had the signature whine of the breed of engine powering his bike, and that brought him back to the morning’s schematics. As engaging as that was, however, a more visceral matter soon began gnawing at his stomach, so he pulled off at the next exit to prowl for food. Back home in Parker, the majority of the restaurants he’d known as a child had closed for one of two reasons. Either their corporate supply chains had snapped, or the people who ran them left town in search of a less fragile lifestyle. Reading the epithet left on the signboard of one reminded him of Elspeth’s recent musing that the crash had forced the economy into an odd rebalancing that favored mid-size cities with food processing industries over both Metropolis and Mayberry. He rode dispiritedly past several more shuttered fast food shops before spotting the lit interior of an independent restaurant called Nate’s. He banked into the parking lot, and rolled into a spot just outside the front window. After shutting the valve on the fuel canister, he set the kickstand, unstrapped his pack from the rear fender mount, and strode towards the door. While Peter was reaching for the handle, two men at a front table turned to look at the bike. One of them, a swarthy man in a blue work shirt, rose and started towards the door. “Hey kid!” Unaware that he was being addressed, Peter smilingly approached the young woman behind the counter. He had just opened his mouth when she nodded towards the man crossing the floor towards them. “Is that your party?” “My…?” “I’m going to go out on a limb here,” the man said, extending a hand in greeting, “and guess that you’re new in town. Welcome to Phoenix. The name’s Enrique Perez. Can I buy you a drink?” Peter glanced back at the woman. “Is he okay?” “Yeah,” she said, nodding, “Enrique’s a regular. I think it’s your ride he’s after, though.” “My…?” Enrique nodded pleasantly. “She’s right. What kind of engine is that, anyway? I’ve never heard anything like it.” “I’m not surprised,” Peter said as they reached the table, and he set his pack down. “It’s a variation on the Schoell cycle. They were only just breaking into the market when everything fell apart.” “A what?” Enrique’s tablemate asked, the glow of intense curiosity animating the lean man’s deeply lined face. “Oh, sorry. This is Armand. He’s a business associate.” “Glad to meet you, sir. I’m Peter Epas. My bike is powered by a propane-powered closed-cycle steam engine. Just the thing for cruising the desert.” “Speaking of deserts, how about that drink I offered you? What would you like? Nate’s carbonates their homegrown Arizona goji juice. Pretty good stuff.” Peter glanced back at the cashier, who raised a glass of the red soda and grinned. “Okay,” he said, reaching for his wallet, “but I really would prefer to buy my own—.” “And you will, just not with money,” Enrique said, signaling the cashier for a glass. “Like I said, I’m interested in that bike engine of yours.” “All right, all right. What do you want to know?” “Well, for one thing, where’d you get it?” “Get it? “ Peter said defensively. “That steam-spinner’s a custom job… my boss’s design. It’s, uh, hers, actually. We built it in her shop, back in Parker.” “I see,” Armand said slowly, crossing his arms. “And how much do you know about its construction?” “Well, technically, I’m still her apprentice, but—.” “I appreciate your modesty, Peter, but what I really want to know is whether you can build one yourself, here in Phoenix, given the right supplies and equipment.” Enrique gave his associate a quizzical look. “I could,” Peter said, lost in thought. “I mean, yes, sir. I believe I could build another engine like that. Well, assuming you could provide the tools and all. I don’t have enough money to buy—.” “Hey!” A balding man at the table behind Armand suddenly shouted, slamming his glass on the table. Peter followed the man’s sightline through the window, to his bike, where a guy in a dark hoodie was fingering the bright red engine. “Christ, Silver,” baldy said, rising, “don’t you ever give up?” His chair tipped backward, but was caught by a passing waitress. Baldy was halfway to the door by the time Peter got to his feet. By then, Silver had flipped the kickstand up and set his foot on the near pedal. Enrique trailed Peter through the door, while Armand and some other patrons turned to watch. Silver pedaled hard while struggling against the bike’s unfamiliar heft. He glanced over his shoulder just as baldy cleared the walkway, with Peter a second behind. “Stop!” Peter screamed. The two men exchanged glances as they raced towards the accelerating bike. But just as they were about to catch it, Silver found his balance, switched gears, swerved onto the road, and sped away. “Damn!” Peter said, catching his breath, “Elspeth’s going to kill me.” “And I’m going to kill Larry Silver,” baldy said as he came up beside him, “if I ever catch him again.” “You know who he is, then?” “Hard not to. That cretin’s been stealing any new tech that comes into town for a while now. Works for a local cartel that’s itching to push out the leadership of the Citizen’s Board. I’m Fred Larson, by the way. I think you’ll want to join the SO, the Social Order working group, and help us get your bike back.” “Thanks, Fred. Oh, I’m Peter Epas. Is that working group the Phoenix area police force?” “It’s not that formal,” Enrique said, joining them. “The SO is a collaborative effort. You’ve just been robbed, so you’re welcome to join the team that does something about it. It’s expected, really, a citizen’s duty.” As the three men approached the entrance, Peter noticed that Fred’s table had been slid up against Enrique’s, and the woman who’d greeted him earlier was distributing pens and paper. “What’s all that about?” “Standard procedure,” Larson said, holding the door open for the others. “The first thing the SO does is collect what everyone knows about the incident. Like your friend here said, it’s a collaborative effort.” Peter grinned as he took his seat. “And it’s a lot faster than old-style police methods, from what I hear. You folks are even faster than the group who do this sort of thing back in Parker. How do we proceed?” “Well, for starters,” Larson said, taking his seat, “I think we ought to find out more about that bike of yours.” “It’s… not mine, really. Elspeth loaned it to me for this trip.” “Must have been important to her,” Armand said. “What did you come all this way for, anyway?” “To speak with a banker,” Peter said. He pulled out the Phoenix notes and laid them on the table. “We got these a while back, and they’ve started to fade.” “So they have. In fact, it looks like they’re about to lose some tail-feathers. That’ll drop them to seventy-five percent of face value. It’s high time these notes were refreshed. I can see the urgency of your visit.” “You don’t understand. It’s kind of a long way to go just to keep the money from devaluing. I came here to ask about opening a branch in Parker so we could refresh them locally. But that’s not important right now. I’ve really got to get my boss’s bike back.” “Yes, the bike,” Larson said. “Or more to the point, that engine. I doubt Larry Silver has a clue what he’s stolen. But if he figures out how to start it up, how far could he get?” “And how fast?” Enrique added. “Someone might have to chase him.” “It can’t outrun a car the way it’s geared right now, if that’s what you’re worried about. And the fuel canister’s nearly empty. Well, the one that’s mounted, anyway. I have a spare in my pack for the return trip.” “Good,” Larson said. “And that brings us to the reason I think Larry was interested in your bike, the technology in that engine.” “You said it was a Schoell cycle?” Armand asked. “A variation, but yeah. My boss used it as her starting point because it’s closed cycle, so you don’t have to top the water off all the time. But she made some improvements to the cooling system. That engine can run quite a bit hotter than the original design, assuming the rest of the engine can take the stress.” “Mmm-hmm. Then I suspect it could be scaled up for heavier duty use. There’s clearly a lot of money to be made with that. If it can be replicated.” Larson shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to see the cartel that Silver reports to get their hands on a hopped-up version of that thing. We’d never catch them. Good. I think we have enough to go on, now. So, Peter, will you be joining the SO team to find that creep and get it back?” “Of course. But I also need to speak with the people who print up your Phoenix notes, and see if they’ll let me open a refresh shop in Parker.” “Oh, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” Armond said, chuckling. “Why not?” “I’m an investor. I staked them for their startup costs. Trust me, you’re a shoo-in.”   THE END Copyright 20011 by P.

“Well, not today.” That’s all he said, “not today.” I looked down at my feet and kicked a rock off the sidewalk. “Not today,” I muttered back. He walked over to his car and opened the door. I picked up a piece of the broken sidewalk concrete and threw it at him, but missed, naturally. The rock hit the window and I saw the chip of glass fly over his head and twinkle in the sunlight. It was like an ice sculptor had put the finishing touch on his sculpture with one broad stroke. The rock bounced off the car window and announced what I was thinking. “Actually, today is the day,” I said and took off. My lungs felt like they were filing with water after I ran the dozen or so blocks he chased me. We were running so fast and he was pushing so hard I thought I might drown in the weight of the summer air and the drench of sweat running down my face. I looked past the railing and the row of bushes to my right and saw the tourists kayaking on the other side. They were half stuck in the marshes and fens and half watching a duck paddle along and they were laughing. I don’t know why he gave up the chase. Maybe he was more tired than I was, maybe he had another plan. I went down to the docks and broke a lock and put the kayak in the water. The splash of the cool water was refreshing and I never thought that this would be the end—it felt like a beginning. But here I was paddling this little boat, laughing to myself, watching the sky turn pink as the sun lowered behind me. As I steered toward the bridge with the abutments that looked like salt and pepper shakers, I looked across the arches and the prows of the ships and I saw people sauntering along the span, peeking over the side and staring at the quotidian light show behind me. That is where I saw him: walking across the span of the bridge, looking at the sunset. I glided under the bridge, under him, and out the other side and that’s when I heard his voice. “J—! J—! You’re done, J—! It’s over.” I looked over my shoulder and saw him above me, looking over his shoulder at me as he headed to the river bank to meet me where I landed. I knew he was right, it was over. I was a dead man. I pulled the kayak on to the shore and he stood there watching me, as I labored to get the boat out of the water and through the thick weeds. I’m not sure why I even bothered considering it was stolen and I was dead, but it just seemed like the right thing to do at that point. Maybe I was just stalling. “You know, the least you could do is help,” I said to him, but he just stood there with his arms folded and with a triumphant smirk on his face. I put the paddle down in front of him, like I was Vercingetorix before Caesar. And that is where it stands today. I’ve been locked in this basement for a week now and I suppose I will never get out. The hopper windows near the floor joists let some light and air in, but they are too small to slip through. The furnace burbles and murmurs and groans, and I hear somebody walking above me. Pacing, it sounds like. The footsteps of a man thinking, plotting, planning my demise. It rained last night and it may be the last rain I ever see. Today’s date is August 28^(th), 2019. Farewell. \*\*\* Follow u/quillandtrowel at Medium & Twitter for more.

Warmth; rays licking beating flesh, the foremost presence of my rest. Waking, stirring the phantom lightning, coaxing blooming to roses lush. Waves a chill amidst the tender radiance, a caressing thrill along this husk of mine. Reaching strokes play against the grain, startling strands to spring so fine. To mimic I am enticed, to pet the prickly fluff, smooth it to silk again I must. Bleeds a fire through sighing film, a delicate canvas with a flickering frame; butterfly kisses, over apples they ghost, tickling open the mirrors of their host. Is it I, or this? Doesn’t matter, does it? A flutter of fragrance wafts on, then. Breathe, draw a storm through this hammering cage; keenly explore the flow, sense and taste. No, not one, but a myriad of scents, an overwhelming orchestra paints the present. A bright bitterness of needly greens, also the sweet children of Rain and Sun, so wild. There, the inviting petrichor, even, at the base of it all. A lull of life in the air, of decay, too, shades of us all in this corporeal gloomy boon. They call for me, to embrace, to comfort, to be with and to be me. For me, I, to be nought; to be all, again, come forth. Breath; a swell of length, a taper deep. Heavy the flesh, burdened fibres sinewed. Tired, done, ready for none, for more, for it all, and nothing, alas. A body other, cold and distant, rests along the beating great. An alien to all about, or maybe a cousin, a long lost friend so reformed. Do they recognise the sharpness? Matter it not, does it, for it is not them it has come to play with. A thundering river, trapped within the canvas so tight. A shield from all blight, but a restriction now, I must admit. The thunder yearns for space and air, for freedom, but rest most of all. It screams, then; not a running beat, but a mighty rush, no less; a screech of thousands, thus. It calls for the cold one, for the canvas to step aside, for the fibres and the lightning to release their clutch. A glorious calm waits at the end of the cut, I hear the river cry, the storm plead. Isn’t the husk heavy, the hairs burdensome? Admit it, for this, you are here now and will evermore. Shrieks come over in waves, pulses of lightning so fierce. No longer does the river scream, but sing, fading under the sobs of my precious fabric of form. No more swells and tapers, but gasps, croaks, and rushes of gales string around in the convulsing cage. No longer are there homes for those who huff, lost their way have whisps in this mess. “Summer storm,” my husk wheezes at the azure dome. It comes suddenly for many, the oppression, heavy sheets of rain, the static in the air. But some are keen, talent to sense a few have. Once I thought of myself as one of them, but no longer, though, as I was hit with the storm of my own. And so the hail moves on, passes, stifling into a warm breeze. No longer does it tear soil and rock, but settles to lightly caress bark and moss, lovingly pet the river crimson. “You are free now,” the zephyr seems to hum, “You are free now, stream dear, trickle and glide, form a buddle, a lake great. For you are now you and you alone, unchained from thine restraints. Go, gurgle along the ground and foliage, become them, be no longer, still, and be gone.” Warmth; glowing blumes lick my wounds, rest their weary branches along the still flesh. Encourage the little, shiny ones to peak at the feast so great. A home no longer for tides and storms, but for flora and fauna alike. Scittering limbs run along the empty cage, vines and seeds spread along the hull so pale. Oh soil, it is I, us, you, for the husk will be soon nought and all, forever more.

The year was 2013. Miley Cyrus was swinging around on a wrecking ball, Bilbo Baggins was dealing with an angry dragon, Barack Obama was freshly elected to a second term in office, and I was 16 years old. Fueled by energy drinks, emo music, and angst, I was heading into the summer before my junior year in high school. That summer would hold all of the ordinary wonders of a kid growing up in Florida. I was mere weeks away from getting my driver’s license. Obviously this would mean unprecedented freedom for surfing, concerts, late night shenanigans with friends, and, in my mind at least, the ability to impress every woman in my vicinity who I was sure would be completely enamored with my new skills as a road warrior. Before I could get to those other teenage rights of passage, I had a trip to go on. You see, my status as a freshly minted 16 year old meant I was eligible to take part in my youth group’s annual mission trip to Costa Rica. For several years I had been ragailed by older friends with stories of experiences in this foreign land, and slowly but surely I had been convinced that I, teen wonder, would be instrumental in the advancement and preaching of the Gospel of Jesus to the people of Central America. No other overly emotional spiritual high could compare, and it could be had for the low price of $2000! I saved my money, my parents contributed a large chunk, and “fundraising” (begging) letters sent to relatives snared me the rest. I was going. I would be joining a crew of roughly 20 other kids my age, and on this particular trip, my pastor, the elders of my church, and several deacons would be going down with us, no doubt only to spectate as the crew of miniature missionaries sent forth the gospel in a fashion no adult could facilitate. They weren’t just due for a vacation or anything. To the uninitiated, a teenage mission trip is a glorified Vacation Bible School for large children. It just so happens to take place in a foreign country and be wrapped in the guise of grand advancement of the gospel. Sure you do some community service. You hand out food, and play with kids. In our case, we painted a playground that had been painted the week before. After all, pictures of our wonderful ministry work had to be taken to justify the cost of sending 20 walking balls of hormones and attitude to a foreign country for a week. We also had multiple music nights, and attended a church service held in a language none of us spoke. Because we were working so hard, we obviously required multiple "free days". The first "free day" was enjoyable, if uneventful. We went to a covered market in the city of San Jose. There were loads of handmade items on sale, and we bought our share of souvenirs and gifts, but it is the second "free day" around which our story centers. We were to ride horses through a rainforest to a waterfall to go swimming. I had never ridden a horse, but as a human crash test dummy, I’ll try anything once. On the morning of the horse excursion we woke up early and traveled to the ranch on which our outing was to begin. This property was a functioning farm that grew pineapples, mangoes, and papayas, and we were treated to a breakfast of fresh produce. The pineapple and mango were delightful. The papaya was not. After we had had our fill, we headed for the barn at which we were to be given our horses. We had been prepped for this outing by being told that these were trail horses. They would be trained to follow the horse-butt in front of them. The controls were simple. Pull left on the reins to go left. Pull right to go right. Pull back to stop. Kick to accelerate. This sounded simple enough. I was given a helmet, and, much to my chagrin, told I must wear it. This was obviously not up to my standards of coolness, you see. Then they started giving out the horses. One by one I watched my friends get helped onto their mounts. Finally it was my turn. When they showed me to my horse, I was floored. It was large, significantly larger than the others. It was also solid white from nose to tail, and exceedingly beautiful. I decided that no matter what happened before or after, in that moment I was cool. I was the lone ranger, and the people handing out the gear had simply made the mistake of forgetting to give me my black hat and six guns. The illusion of coolness came crashing down hard before I even left the barn. You see, I had been told how to command the horse. I had not counted on this being an exceedingly large animal that had ideas of its own. I kicked, and it went backwards. I pulled on the reins, and it went forward. Left and right weren't concepts that seemed familiar to this horse either. After a minute or two of struggle, and me whispering to it something along the lines of “come on dude there are girls watching”, the horse finally and grudgingly decided to go the way I wanted it to. With the first hurdle conquered, I was no more than a hundred yards from the barn when I encountered a second: a metal bridge. We had been warned to go over the bridge one at a time. The noise of multiple sets of hooves clopping on the bridge could spook the horses. Whoever was behind me missed that memo. I was halfway across the bridge when I heard the sound of loud clippity clopping coming from behind me. I didn’t have time to contemplate the breach of etiquette occurring behind me because my horse had decided world war three had begun behind us, and fleeing the battle was the only course of action. Whether or not I came with it on this great escape seemed unimportant to it at that moment. It was then that I learned horses can go from zero to sixty faster than most sports cars. I was waving off of the back of that animal like a skinny white flag. As I passed friends, elders, and deacons, every obscenity I’d ever heard was escaping my mouth with absolutely no conscious control. Surely they must have thought it was odd that that horse was cursing loudly with that strange looking flag attached to it. At the front of our merry group of travelers, my horse decided we were a suitable distance from the war, and running was no longer necessary. I had managed to stay on the horse. As I took stock of the situation and came to the realization that I was, in fact, not dead, I also became aware that my horse had sidled up to one of the elders of my church who immediately turned and said, “Wow! I had no idea you were so good with horses.” I was still too terrified to produce words to rebut this impression. The trail continued. We made it a good half mile without incident. I was chatting with friends, and while the shock of my experience subsided, I started noticing the beauty of the area we were riding through. We were in a clearing near the edge of the rainforest. High grass surrounded us, and a thick canopy of trees lay in front. However, all good things must come to an end, as my horse once again decided it was unhappy. This time I was the problem. I had seen people ride bucking broncos before and wondered what it must be like to be in that situation. It was evidently time for another learning experience. Everything seemed alright. Then I was in the spin cycle. Then my ass hurt. I was miraculously still on the horse. Even the human crash test dummy has limits, and two near-death experiences were enough for one day. One of the leaders of the group had seen the bucking incident and offered to trade horses with me. I enthusiastically agreed. Seeing the leader, an experienced horseman, struggle with my previous mount vindicated me slightly. My new horse was the polar opposite of my previous one. This new horse was old, slow, and short. I’m sure my feet were only 6 inches off the ground as I rode. However, he listened to commands and seemed like a kind old man content to trot along at whatever pace took my fancy. I was too busy with matters of life and death to give my first horse a name, but I decided to call this new horse Larry. Over the course of the hour that followed, Larry carried me safely to the waterfall where we were to go swimming, and with my undying gratitude, he did so without incident. We all stripped down to our bathing suits and gleefully took to the water. There were toucans and lemurs in the trees above us as we swam and splashed. Next to the river were a series of gazebos and picnic tables. Nearby someone had fashioned a swimming pool and waterslide entirely out of concrete and smooth rock that were being fed by the water from the river. The human crash test dummy was back in fighting form at this point, so I was the first down the slide. Somehow on my dismount from said slide, I managed to scrape all of the skin off of the bottoms of my feet. While I was climbing out of the water to survey the damage to my lower extremities, a friend went down the slide behind me, smacked his head against the side of the slide, and slid unconscious into the pool below. Thankfully, another youth was right by the exit of the slide and was able to rescue the unconscious boy immediately. It took him a few minutes to remember who was president and what year it was, but after half an hour or so, he returned to normal cognitive function. Though I didn't envy the headache he had for the rest of the day. Finally, the time came to head back to the barn in which our journey began. It had started to rain, and it was decided we would be driven back to the barn in vans instead of riding the horses. Despite my abiding appreciation for Larry, I was perfectly happy to avoid any further equestrian disasters and get into an automobile. The horses were collected and taken back separately. The trip back to the barn was quick, and once back we were informed that the locals wanted to put on a rodeo for us. A Costa Rican rodeo seemed an odd proposition, but we were there, so why not? Out came the various riders, and about ten minutes into the festivities they started barrel racing. Suddenly out of the chute came a large, beautiful, solid white horse, my horse. The realization hit me. I had been given a barrel racing horse, and he seemed only barely more obedient to his usual rider than he was to me. It was then that my first horse got his name: El Caballo Del Diablo.

“*I can hear that sound again*” She gets up from her seat on the floor to gaze out the window. She walks around a ramshackled chair, the only piece of furniture in the room. She traces her finger across the top of it.. “*It’s cold in here*” “*I’ll throw another book on the fire*..” From my spot by the fireplace I watch her shadow shrink as she approaches the window. It is cold in here, but I can’t bring myself to agree with her. I am content to let her words fall on deaf ears. I want more out of her.. I want her to yearn. To *ache*. She stares out the window as she wraps the tails of her sweater closer to her torso. “*Why don’t you burn that fucking chair*?”, she says “*The books are fine.. besides one of us may want to sit on it*” “*I don’t want to sit*”, she scorns.. “*I want to fucking smash it against the wall*..” “*Then we’d have to burn it*” Her shadow grows longer now, as she stands between my spot on the floor and the fire. I can see the outline of her legs through her long white dress. I am seated beside piles of books filled with stories of love and longing, bravery and chivalry, pride and prejudice.. and yet I sit, without emotion, tossing them into the fire for warmth. I think aloud.. “*I could write these books, I could write any book*” “*No you couldn’t*” “*Sure I could, I have passion, I have desire*” “*For who?.. for ***what***?!.. not for me at least*” She was right.. The truth is, my feelings of inadequacy fuel waves of anger and frustration in me. My preconceived notions of insufficiency warp any meaningful sense of self. My mind has been bent by our manipulations. If I imagine she is someone different, or pretend she doesn’t care about me, my imagination and libido blossom. And, though I can sense little more than the noise of all of this, still, I cannot let her go.. “*You used to like looking at me*”, she cries out. “*You used to give me transcendent chills up my spine.. my mind would melt at just the very thought of you.. and now, now its just cold, cold in here, who you are is cold inside me.. who you were to me is cold inside me.. it’s.. damnit, Chris, it’s just cold now*..” Her statement, though important, does little to shift my forward gaze. All of this is just done. She is done. “*What!?! You’re just going to sit there? Fuck you*.” She wraps her sweater close to her body again, turns toward the door and pauses. She walks over to my stack and removes a small leather-bound book, a collection of W.B. Yeats’ poems. I stare into the embers as she opens the door to leave. I can feel the wintry breeze as it pushes the fire against the back of the fireplace. And then nothing.. In time, I pull myself from my blazeward gaze and walk over to her window. Outside, snow has begun to fill her tidily spaced footprints tracking away from this place. Alone now, as I was when we were us, as I was when she was here.. I look to the floor to see a page that had fallen out of the book she took with her. It read simply..

I meticulously paint rouge on my cheeks, smudging the pigment beneath my hot fingertips, the product melting and seeping into blemished skin. Then, I ruminate between two different lipsticks. Although there is no need for such deliberation, my choice has been set. My decision is predetermined. I select the one I know he would like, a creamy nude with a pink undertone. I know him so well. He tells me I should start wearing orange more, pointing out how the color draws beauty to my bronzed skin. The orange takes on a subtle, sweet, peachy tone that is just so gentle, soothing, and serene. He likes me best when I am like this. Face painted and body draped to his liking, appealing to his unspoken command. A summery citrus image: posed and perfect and sitting quietly on his countertop. I am soft, pliable, and so, so forgiving. My heart and tongue and hands and feet all drowning in the color, wrapped tightly in a suffocating and thick orange peel. However, just like any fruit that has been neglected for far too long, I am beginning to rot on the inside. I think I taste sour. I feel the familiar tang on my tongue, unpleasant like bitter melon and crab apples and forgotten mandarin oranges. The realization makes me feel uneasy. It makes me double-check that my lipstick is still in my purse and that my ochre headband is still secure and latched to my cascading black hair. I clutch the headband close to my body in efforts of eradicating the bitter taste on my tongue. I have to push these doubts away. It is my peel; it placates me and renders me silent. He always reminds me that it is my protection from these ugly thoughts that have begun to ebb their way into my mind. I am very happy. He is very happy. We are very happy together. Last week, we sat together and watched the sunset. The myriad of yellows and oranges were beginning to fade into darkness, and at that moment, I felt a twinge of apprehension and an uncharacteristic clarity wash over me. I told him how I felt in a hushed whisper. A shameful confession of my doubts as the world turned black. I told him that I love him. I love him very much, and I want him to be with me forever. But also, that I think an azure blue brings out the deep brown of my eyes more than orange does. I tell him that turquoise has been my favorite color since I was a little girl. I told him that I taste sour. He listened closely to my words, as if my speech was a spoken religion. Conviction presented in my voice, and doubt began to make its slow departure from my tongue. The previous uncertainty in the validity of my truth was replaced with confidence, although the uneasiness still made its presence known through the knot of anxiety that twisted grotesquely in my stomach. Then finally, my tongue slowed its pace, and my whirring mind calmed, and my heart surged with a newfound bravery. A conviction to advocate for myself and my happiness. We had lulled back into a quiet silence when he placed his toned arms around my neck, his palm caressing my tear-stained cheek. He pressed chaste kisses on my wet eyelashes and stole the nude lipstick from my chapped mouth. Then he told me he loved me. "Orange suits you best, baby," he whispered, his voice a sickly sweet thing. "It makes you glow." With his arms still enveloping my figure, he took a needle and thread between nimble, practiced fingers and precisely began to sew the skin of the unforgiving orange peel tighter where it had fallen loose around my body and soul. This time, he took extra precautions with the binding around my lips. After that day, I pushed my doubts away, keeping them locked away in the pith of an orange, covering my miserable, rotting core with a pretty, sweet orange peel. My once burning conviction began to fizzle out until it was barely alight, flickering deep within some hidden corner of my soul. I am starting to think that this flame within myself is not enough to save me from my situation. If I even need to be saved... I love him deeply. I love how it was before, before I started rotting. When he would leave lingering tender touches all over my tanned skin and listen to my mind and fall in love with all of my convictions and beliefs and wants and desires. A time when I was so different from him. I suppose he loved the challenge of taming somebody burning as bright as me. Void of doubt and with a sense of sureness in myself that emanated from each bone and each freckle and indentation on my skin and peel. I miss the way that I was. When sugary sweet orange juice poured from my tongue and heart and I held myself to every conviction and mercilessly sought out each of my joys and desires. Electric and neon and the color of traffic cones and a fiery hot sun in children's cartoons. Orange and full of life. He would bring out a new version of myself in his companionship. In his presence, I became complacent and vulnerable and ready. Ready for new feelings, so exciting and so unbecoming that they overwhelmed me. After being bright and so fiercely independent for so long, his self-assured manner became so enticing and attractive to me. I was addicted to him and the vulnerable way he made me feel. He satiated my all-consuming want for more, more, more. And with him, I became orange like the color of ochre and wet sand and tangerines. Mellow and pliant like a doll under his control. He ravaged me. Slowly yet surely, what I initially thought would be an addition to my brightness turned into an erasure of my conviction and sureness. Without notice, he altered me irrevocably. I realized my doubts, but before I could even fight back, I was trapped, stuck under the weight of his pale orange blankets. He numbed me, left me in a basket on his countertop, forever at his mercy. He soothed my doubts and told me that this vulnerability and control is what I wanted, what I needed. He repeated himself until even my barely burning conviction believed him and thought that perhaps maybe he knew what was best for me. And what is best for me is not azure blue, like the thread-worn sweatshirt that I would wear every day before he met me. My uneasiness and anxiety and grief were all tell-tale signs. The doubt overflowed and willed my feet to run and sprint away from the person who made my color fade so pale. But he took it in stride, convincing me as he whispered sweet nothings that I would so blindly believe, altering my once steadfast convictions. There was nothing other than him. I did not exist outside of us together under a sunset. And without a conviction and a yearning for more, I became complacent and comfortable. These days, my makeup drawer is rather empty. I tend towards nude lipstick in the morning. Before bed, I never fail to check the citrus stitches covering my mouth and I suffocate my throat with the peel around my figure. Each night, I wonder if I’ll ever find the strength to break free, or if I will remain trapped in this orange-hued prison forever.

Disclaimer: Light worldbuilding, Open end, CW: Death, Drug abuse Hans nervously fiddled the pape out of the tobacco pack, which he had strategically placed there, along with the brown weed. He tried to not wetten the filter, which he had placed between his front teeth, with spit. He placed the tobacco in the pape and: roll-roll-roll He took the filter out of his mouth with his middle- and indexfinger, both yellow at the tips and placed it carefully in front of the tobacco. Then, he rolled in the pape, licked over it, and rolled it one final time to close the cigarette. He held it in the tips of his fingers for a moment, as if to admire his masterpiece. Once he was done with that, he smelled it and exhaled a deep breath. Like a gnerollean cigar. To him, the rolling and lighting of a cigarette was almost better than the process of smoking it itself. The first wave of dopamine and carcinoma, which, through pulmonary aveoli and the bloodstream crashed into the celebral cortex, only felt so good because of this ritual. Because of rolling the cigarette. Ok, maybe this wasn't quite the truth. He liked the cigarettes one could buy way better. But he had come to aprecciate the process of rolling a cigarette. In his imagination, it was similar to a junkie fixing his shot. He was aware that it was probably not, and he was also aware that it was a bad metaphor since both were drugs, but he didn't really care either way. Why did he think about this stuff so much? Rituals. Rituals never had been particularly important to him. Birthdays, christmans, you name it. He liked them, when they happened organically, or when others planned them out. But he himself? Not a hater, but it barely crossed his mind. But by now, he had grown to understand those who were angry at him because he had forgotten their birthday, those he had always deemed as "too sensible." What would Easter be like with cheap chocolate-rodents or coloured chicken fetuses? Halloween, without bad horror movies, or women in skimpy outfits and jocks, their odor a mix of puke and vodka? Christmas, without the sweet scent of wax and cinnamon, without a beautifully decorated tree in the corner of the living room? Now, that these rituals no longer took place, he missed them. The customs behind them itself still existed, but the rituals surrounding them, defining them, had almost ceased to exist in his little broken corner of the world. Rolling cigs, pushing dumdums into magazines, forcing knives into throats. These were the rituals of the modern man. Even though the idea shook him a quite bit, the idea of putting a bunch of glittery plastic on a tree seemed absurd. It had been 3 years now since he had last seen a tree. Ok, that wasn't quite the truth. In fact, he saw trees everyday. Out of this sea of black, poisonous sludge, which had devoured the earth all around him, grey skeletons rose up into the sky.The memory of something that used to be a forest. The same was true for the city. Certainly not the biggest city in the region, but a candidate for the most beautiful. Asra, the "jewel of the south" they had called it. And he understood why. It had been built along the shores of the river "Asren", among green hills, which made it an attractive location for wine growers. The city had been spared in the big wars. Well, not the last one. Obiously. No no no, it certainly hadn't been spared in that one. But in the ones before. Those were Hans hadn't been alive, yet. Asra advertised itself as kind of a "time capsule", which worked perfectly. The city was flooded by tourists and students from further away. Hans himself had been, what some called a "university-refugee." The old, pompous buildings with their facades made of sandstone, along with their archs and roofs made of copper gave the inner city a "noble" image. Like you had stepped into the old times, when things still were good. The broad, well lit roads and city squares, filled with stores, resteraunts and museums made it an attractive place to live, as well. Well, not for Hans. He had live outside the city core. Endless rows of blocks and soulless cubes, whose owners daresd calling "homes", posoning the beautiful landscape. And if you think "well, at least they werecheap, probably", you'd be wrong! It were middle class homes. Not a criminal outskirt or something along those lines. Somehow, that made it worse for Hans. Rows and rows of people liking this soulles place. Maybe it was something wrong with him? Whatever. No matter his feelings on his living situation, it would turn out to be a blessing, after all. Despite hating this geometric labyrinth of sterile stone, it had been the biggest of these houses, along with one or two skyscrapers and Asra's cathedral, that would withstand the floods. As Hans gaze went over this ocean of dirt, which had swalloed most of his life and country, a clattering noise caught his attention. A noise he only knew too well. A bunch of empty cans, bound together by a rope. Someone was in his house. The flyers.... had these dumb assholes not read the fucking flyers?! Maybe they really hadn't, or maybe they didn't care. It didn't matter. Whoever they were, whatever they wanted, they would die. Easy as that. Hans sneaked through the hallways, which he knew like the back of his hand. Left, right, down the first flights of stairs. He lay down with his back against the concrete railing. His hand slowly moved into his jacket, and out came a glittering pistol, along a black, mat silencer. He breathed in, then out. In a sudden movement, he looked over the railing into the hallway two floors below him. Nothing. But there they were. Voices, coming from left. Male, probably in their 30s or 40s. He knew where they were. All alarms in the house, though crude, were built by Hans to make different sounds. As he heard them approach, something caught his eye, and a beautiful idea crossed his mind. Maybe he'd turn into a smart shopper just yet.

Gribble huddled in the corner of the family hut, curled tight on his father's worn bedroll. The rough weave scratched his cheek but he didn't care. It still smelled faintly of Grubnik - woodsmoke, leather, the spicy musk of goblin sweat. Gribble clutched the wooden figurine to his chest, a tiny warrior with a fierce snarl. His father had carved it for his last birthday. Grubnik had laughed, ruffling Gribble's wispy hair. You'll grow into a mighty fighter soon enough, my boy. The memory tore at him, raw and jagged. The hut yawned with emptiness, the cold spaces where his father and grandfather should be. Days bled into weeks. Gribble picked at his meager meals, tasteless mush that stuck in his throat. Around him, the village bustled and chattered. Goblins cast him sideways looks, pity mingled with relief. Not their loved ones lost to the darkness. Gribble wanted to rage at their moving on, their lives marching forward while his crumbled. Grubnik and Gnarltooth would stride through the rickety gate any moment. They had to. The alternative was too vast, too crushing to consider. In the still dark of night, Gribble's grief ambushed him. Voices whispered just beyond the edge of sleep - Grubnik's gruff rumble, Gnarltooth's creaky cackle. Phantom touches ghosted over Gribble's fevered skin. His father's callused palm on his cheek. His grandfather's gnarled hand clasping his shoulder. Waking was drowning, the knowledge of his loss slamming into him anew each bitter dawn. Gribble clung to his father's parting words like a fraying lifeline. Be strong. Endure. But how? His small body turned traitor, wasting and weakening by the day. Scavenged roots and mushrooms sat like stones in his stomach. Weapons felt clumsy in his trembling grip. The other goblin whelps sensed weakness, pouncing with vicious glee. They shoved him, ground his face into the mud. Spat insults that sliced to the bone. Gribble seethed, the last ember of his spirit flaring. But his limbs betrayed him, heavy and uncooperative. Hot tears of shame blurred his vision as the bullies' laughter rang in his ears. Under Grimrock's rule, the village curdled, turned rancid with fear. Goblins scurried to obey barked orders, ducking blows and kicks. Gribble's uncle took special relish in tormenting him. Dung duty, latrine scrubbing. Each stumble earned a cuff to the head, each slowed step a snarled insult. Runt. Worm. Burden. The words burrowed deep, echoing in the hollows of Gribble's chest. Summoned to Grimrock's hut, Gribble dragged his feet, dread coiling in his gut. The room stank of stale sweat and rotted meat. And there, mounted like trophies, Grubnik's bow. Gnarltooth's spear. Gribble ached to snatch them, to cradle the last pieces of his father and grandfather. Grimrock loomed, his lips peeled back in a sneer. “These are mine now. Like everything else in this dung heap. Including you, runt.” Gribble stared at the packed dirt floor, the part of him that burned to fight, to avenge, guttering. Life ground down to brutal simplicity. Scrounge enough to survive. Avoid Grimrock's rages. Hoard strength for the next battle, the next day. The goblins turned on each other like starving rats, snarling and snapping for every scrap. Gribble's once friends, his fellow whelps, slunk away when he drew near. His misery was a stinking pelt they feared to catch. Gribble slumped against the palisade wall, the rough logs digging into his back. Beyond, the Misty Forest beckoned. He could slip away, melt into the sheltering dark. Leave the gnawing ache behind. A shred of memory stilled his feet. Grubnik's iron spine as he taught Gribble to set snares. Gnarltooth's craggy face as he recounted tales of the ancestors. Gribble shut his eyes, let their remembered strength settle in his bones. He was a son of chieftains. He would not run. Gathering his flimsy dagger and fraying sack, Gribble limped toward the forest edge. Foraging was a rote process now, numb hands scrabbling for anything remotely edible. His stomach pinched and growled. Gribble let routine lull him, muscle memory guiding his movements. In the green-tinged light, he could almost pretend Grubnik shadowed his steps, could almost hear his grandfather's throaty laugh on the wind. He cradled the memories close, fragile wisps of brightness against the smothering dark. A twig snapped, dry and sharp. Gribble whirled, heart battering his ribs. Krub and Griz sneered from the shadow of a massive oak, their eyes glinting with malice. “Well, well. The runt's crawled out of his hole.” Griz fingered the rough blade at his hip. Gribble's gut clenched. Krub took a step forward, his meaty fists flexing. Looks like we get to have some fun. Gribble ran. Blood roared in his ears. Underbrush whipped his face, tore at his clothes. Behind him, Krub and Griz whooped and cackled. The stupid runt's making it a chase! Gribble's lungs burned, his legs wobbling. He risked a glance over his shoulder. Krub barreled toward him, a crazed light in his piggy eyes. Griz loped behind, his blade glinting as he slashed at the foliage. Gribble's foot caught on a root. The ground rushed up to meet him, driving the air from his chest. Copper flooded his mouth. A heavy weight slammed into his back, crushed him into the dirt. Krub straddled him, one ham-sized hand pinning Gribble's face into the loam. Where you running, maggot? Gotta pay the toll for using our woods. Griz giggled, a nasty sound like snapping bones. Krub hauled Gribble up by his hair, forced his head back at a neck-cracking angle. Something glinted in the brute's other fist - a rusted blade, pocked and pitted. Krub brought it to Gribble's cheek, traced the curve of bone with the dull edge. “Maybe we take an ear. Or a finger. Remind you of your place.” Gribble thrashed, feeble as a minnow in a bear's jaws. Krub laughed, his breath a fetid blast. White-hot rage ignited in Gribble's core. It flooded his limbs, burned away the haze of pain and fear. His father's voice reverberated in his skull, strong and sure. You are a chieftain's son. A warrior born. The strength sleeps in your bones. Gribble's eyes snapped open, fixing on Krub with laser focus. Gribble reared back and slammed his forehead into Krub's nose with a gristly crunch. The brute reeled, squealing. Gribble rolled, scrabbling for a weapon. His fingers closed on a fist-sized rock. Griz lunged, bony hands grasping. Gribble brought the stone down on the weasely goblin's temple with a sickening crack. Krub lurched to his feet, blood streaming from his ruined nose. Gribble squared his shoulders, the rock heavy in his fist. The young goblin barely came to the brute's chest. But he stood his ground, chin jutting in defiance. He would not scurry. He would not cower. Never again. A slow grin spread across Krub's broad face, a hungry hyena's leer. The boss'll like this. Runt's got some fight after all. Grimrock had been watching from the trees' shadow, his eyes narrowed assessingly. String the whelp up. Let's see what he's really made of. The brutes seized Gribble, their grips crushing. The stone tumbled from numb fingers. They left him dangling by his wrists in the village square. He hung limp, a slab of meat for Grimrock's sport. Goblins gathered to gawk and chortle. See how the mighty Gnarltooth's line has fallen. The chieftain circled him, a mace gripped in one burly fist. The haft was stained rusty brown. “As I told your mewling whelp of a father. The old ways are dead. There are no more heroes. Only the strong and the meat.” Grimrock spat a wad of phlegm, watched it slide down Gribble's cheek. And you, runt, are meat. The mace rose and fell, the dull impacts jolting through Gribble's strung-up frame. He swallowed his screams. Bit clean through his lip, blood dribbling down his chin. Grubnik's face swam before him, wavering but resolute. Find the strength, my son. This is your crucible. Become the steel you were born to be. Gribble stared his uncle down, poured every ounce of defiance into his glare even as blows rained on his shoulders, his back, his ribs. I will endure, Da. I will make you proud. Grimrock stepped back, chest heaving. Flecks of crimson splattered his flushed green face. He looked at Gribble as if truly seeing him for the first time. Not a mewling whelp. Not a cringing cur. But a young wolf, battered but unbroken. A son of chieftains with fire in his eyes and steel in his spine. For a moment, the ghost of respect flickered in Grimrock's expression. Then it was gone, replaced by the familiar sneer. Leave the meat for the crows. We'll see if it learns. They cut Gribble down. He crumpled to the blood-churned mud. Every nerve shrieked, every bone ground. He hauled himself up on trembling arms, vision blurring at the edges. One breath. Another. The pain was a living thing, rippling beneath his skin. He pushed through, forced his rubbery legs to hold his weight. Find the strength. Become the steel. Gribble dragged himself toward his family's hut, each step an eternity. He collapsed on Grubnik's pallet, tracks of salt and copper slicking his cheeks. But beneath the pain, something new kindled in his chest. A small, fierce light that the darkness could not smother. A son of chieftains. A wolf of Gnarltooth's line. Gribble smiled, a feral slash of teeth. The strength slept in his bones. And he would wake it, nurture it. Until it blazed like a holocaust, searing away all who stood against him. Gribble pushed to his feet, teeth gritted against the scream of torn flesh. He shuffled to the back of the hut, pried up the hearthstone with trembling fingers. Grubnik's hunting knife glinted in the hollow, wicked sharp. Gribble gripped the hilt, felt the strength of his ancestors thrumming in the steel. Grimrock thought him meat. But he would show him what this runt was made of. He would grow strong in the shadows, a viper waiting to strike. Gribble limped for the forest, the knife a comforting weight at his hip. There were herbs to gather. Roots to forage. A broken body to mend in secret. The days ahead would be lean, cold and hungry. But he would survive. He would grow. And when the time was right, Grimrock would learn the price of underestimating Gnarltooth's blood. The trees swallowed him, sheltering arms drawing him into the murky green. Home. A son of the forest, a brother to the mist. Gribble slipped into the shadows, melted into the underbrush. But his eyes burned bright in the gloom, two chips of flint struck to life. The strength of the ages flowed in his veins. And soon, all of Darkmire would tremble before it.

"Life is a chemical reaction", said Grand Council Albert, the Forty-third - and I have to add right here that they explained that they studied us thoroughly and developed a name to inspire respect and awe based on naming conventions that we gave to our leaders throughout history, and they had to specifically develop the sounds as they have an entirely different concept of names and verbalization of words, they said. However, they didn't seem to have quite gotten there with their research, as personally, I found that name to be quite silly and phoned in, but who am I to judge, I am not a crazy transcendental being from space. Maybe some transcendental intern had a bad day, his deity girlfriend broke up with him and he just wasn't in the right headspace for "figure out cool sounding name for human contact on Tuesday". Anyway, so Grandmaster Flash furtherly declared: "Just as any other chemical reaction, it never ends, it just transforms. Matter never just seizes to exist, even when it crumbles to tiny ashes and gets spread through the winds." I noticed we are getting the dumbed down version. Our great, infinite potential, manifested in front of us, thinks we are stupid. "And as any chemical reaction, it needs the right conditions. The right temperature, the right pressure, the right molecules to be present. And the better the conditions, the faster the chemical reaction. Life, as it turns out, is what your chemists call an exotherm reaction. From the perspective of the rest of the universe, it explodes. " They now proceeded with a very complicated way of saying "actually, everything explodes.", it just seems to be relative. Some things just explode very, very slowly. He also basically said "actually actually there is no slowly", but that's where they kind of lost me. So far, the thing touching me most about this, as all channels have this on as a special broadcast and I am missing an episode of Dragon Ball. "Furthermore, the conditions for this chemical reaction to occur are quite rare - your scientist might have gathered that much by now. " Our human representative does a shy nod, like a sixth grader just got berated in front of class. We did a vote and decided on the President of Denmark of all places, plus a random assortment of scientists and celebrities. I am so sorry future generations who read about this in their history books, but he is not doing a very good job. We are actually embarrassing ourselves in front of the beings. If they asked me, I would have sent Snoop Dogg as front runner. So yeah anyway, we figured we were quite rare. "So rare indeed, that in about 80% of all possible universes, within one of its cycles, the likelihood of this chemical reaction occurring, without outside intervention, is between 0 and 2. We decided to not tell you how many times that happened in your universe. In addition to that, the conditions on your planet were extraordinarily good. Your lifeform is developing faster than, again, 80% of the times this reaction occurs in different contexts. And the effect is exponential due to the exotherm nature of the reaction. You don't just outrun your peers, you sprint away from them." - I think they are being deliberately vague with the numbers by the way, but I like that we are cool. - "That's why you aren't finding any other lifeforms on far out planets. It is incredibly unlikely that other lifeforms in your universe, if they exist, can send out enough energy into space to be measurable by your instruments. Also, your technology can't observe the particles that other universes consist of yet. The higgs boson was one of them, specifically engineered to be detectable by you. It was one of our probes." I think they keep the actually interesting information from us to not freak us out. Like restrainedly petting a goat at the zoo. Also, they referred to us as every species batched together, as one lifeform, which was interesting. They are probably disappointed that we didn't send the dolphins. "The organ of your lifeform that you call homo sapiens, or humans - similar organs rarely are found in lifeforms of other universes - has developed a nervous system that optimizes for what you call curiosity. And it is ever accelerating. However, we want emphasize that the other organs of your lifeform are similarly developed, some are even much more developed than you are, due the their much higher cycling rates. They just optimized for exponential reproduction instead, or otherwise found a niche in being extremely specified to their immediate environments. And - since the exponential growth of humans - existing together with you. If the human organ of this lifeform doesn't perish beforehand, you will develop a more symbiotic relationship with the other organs of your lifeform, as you will discover many beneficial synergies that you will identify as outvaluing short term destructive exploitation." Yeah, poor dodos. "Your specific form of optimization makes it very similar to ours. Your chemical reaction just started later. We had the opportunity to develop for long enough to communicate from our universe with yours by sending digital probes through black holes." Again, they went on a bit of a tangent that basically boils down to these probes being flying math equations that can actually do stuff. Go figure. "We are communicating to you through a process you might call double mirroring. On the one hand, my nervous system is stimulated through the manifold of measurement devices on our probe. I can feel this planets ground on my feet, and the streams of nitrogen forming convections in your atmosphere. On the other hand, you shouldn't be able to perceive the probe itself, but a projection it generates so you have a visualization that helps you relate to us and feel welcomed to communicate. We designed the image to resemble you, to be inviting and approachable. Our actual matter wouldn't be perceivable by your eyes either way. We designed it to be abstract enough to not be comparable to any of the variations of your organ. We don't want to incite internal conflicts with some variants of humans claiming more, or less, similarity to us. Our calculations say, curiously, that if your senses were able to perceive our matter, we would look similar to you, within standard deviation. You would probably compare us to one of your characters in mythological fiction or creatures from fables. Since the side effects of this are hard to predict, we opted for a more neutral approach." He's right, if my ex's new boyfriend looks more like the transcendent being, I'll be so pissed. "For long, we have debated if we should interfere with your development as to not accidentally encourage you to optimize for your perception of us. The potential learnings from a similar being from another universe would be invaluable for our research, we found it more beneficial to avoid interference and gather your unbiased findings at a later time." So they are still going go Space Angel Uni, when does it ever stop! "But by seeing me standing in front of you, you might have gathered, that our stance on this has changed. " His voice changed too. I guess they learned some drama from us. "Our society is confronted by an unforeseen event of a nature that you don't have the means to conceptualize yet. And it endangers our existence, among other destructive side effects." Oh so they need our help? "You can not help us. At least not yet. The chemical reaction of life in its variants on other universes is of a complexity, that even for us is still hard to confidently predict. You can compare it to how you only developed a crude measurement for the climate on your planet. We can calculate likelihoods of expected outcomes given certain metrics, but not the future. At least not yours. We are much closer to a conclusive model of the reaction that lead to our lifeform." "Instead, we decided to attempt an acceleration in your development. Our linguists have designed a message in your words, that should increase your progress rate tremendously. It is just a crude caricature of the underlying technology, but for many of these concepts, again, you still are lacking the words to conceptualize them. We do this in the hope it will still increase your speed of progress so that you will develop fast enough to share your knowledge with ours, once it is of the necessary detail, before it is to late for us to benefit from it. We do this because the data from your universe could help us inform a decision to move forward, or inspire our scientist to device a solution. You have developed the most thorough documentation of this universe, even compared to other developed lifeforms of similar age. Our lifeform for example developed the habit of documentation rather late. We made much of our early progress through exploration of what you would call emotion, though it wouldn't quite capture the right connotation. In light of there still being a bit of a language barrier on our end, let's call it 'We were much more wavy'" I told you mum it's not harmful. "Still, we want to leave the decision with you, wether you want to hear our message to you - or not. We do not want to force this on you. Maybe our mere appearance here will inspire you enough to expedite progress, that is an unvoluntary side effect of our project, to which we preemptively apologize. We want you to understand, that we are in a dire situation. Furthermore, you regrettably don't have much time to make your choice. This broadcast requires an emount of energy transformation that dwarves even your wildest imaginations of future technologies. And even we can not maintain it for long. Our introduction was devised to gain your trust, and explain the basic functionality of our broadcast, so you don't perceive this as any divine or mythical event. Please stay calm, to me, this is just a very sophisticated version of what you would call mobile phone, used on a particularly large, thus energy intensive distance. I am a trained communicator of our society. We have just as much claim for divinity as you have. But to use some of your idioms, you might want to listen to your elders. As this cooperation might preserve you from a similar fate, or even help you overcome potential risks to your existence. So could you please, within the next 6 minutes and 35 seconds, communicate to us if you want to hear the rest of our broadcast?" No please spare me with your forbidden knowledge, ancient being, I would love keep doing the same stupid job for another 40 years, let's ignore infinite energy, it's so much more fun to come up with this stuff yourself. Get on with it! Optimized for curiosity, remember? After a brief debate with his advisors, the president of Denmark nodded shyly again. Yes, we want to hear it. "You have decided. So we will share our knowledge with you. Remember that our ability to communicate is limited, but we believe we found words that are logically interpretable by you. What you do with this, we are afraid, you will have to figure out on your own. This is the closest we got to verbalizing this concept within the constraints of your vocabulary." I guess I better stop with the totally hilarious snark now. "If you recall, we explained to you, that life is what you call a chemical reaction. Within this reaction, a nervous system was developed, evolving to be able to conceptualize an ever increasing complexity of thought. Early iterations of your lifeform, barely past the molecular stage, were what you'd name 'one-dimensional' in its extremely simplified version of thought. Barely reacting to their surroundings until, through evolution, the necessary sensory input devices where developed. Slowly but surely, some branches of that intelligence grew to be able to parse its location in 3D space, and act on instincts that were beneficial to their survival. The first organs of this lifeform emerged that you might call "animal". But due to the extremely fertile soil this planet offers for your particular lifeform, soon, your brain mutated to even conceptualize thoughts an order of magnitude more complex. A rare event even compared to other universes. You started to think in an extra dimension you sometimes call time. But I think many of you are debating, if this is the right word for it. You became very creative with describing this fact. Due to the challenge to observe this extra dimension, since your sensory systems mostly only operate in three dimensions, you developed the wildest fiction, countless mythologies, and anything you might call superstition now, and even fields more esteemed among some of you that are generally regarded as disconnected from the formerly mentioned attempts at verbalizing, in effect research the exact same phenomenon without even knowing it." "As you might observe, it is a bit remarkable that your nervous system developed to work with four dimensional inputs, while your sensory organs only perceive 3. One field your fiction, one that claims to be more trustworthy than the others - well, actually, all of them do in a way, but I digress - has focused on the explanations that are perceivable by your 3 dimensional sensory organs, and base their predictions of the unperceivable fourth one on that. Since the 3 dimensions of sensory input are very common among humans, this resonates with many of you, to the point of claiming that only this approach can lead to truth. The other pieces of fiction explore it from an estimation of the fourth dimension and try to find a more holistic view, which due to the snapshotted nature of this approach is of more varying effectiveness than the first approach, especially when it comes to their predictions of the perceivables. You tend to rarely update these pieces of fiction, we assume for reasons of tradition, but there might a deeper meaning to this practice that we haven't yet discovered in our research on you. Some of the latter pieces of fiction, however, outperform the former in the area of the unperceivables. As you might agree, we won't disclose which one is closest to "the truth", as that probably would harm our endeavors in you reaching a higher state of progress. But most of the popular ones are not far off. Their particular choice of wording however is very questionable and up to interpretation, which lead to countless internal conflicts among you. At this point we want to take the time to inform you, that it is statistically much more beneficial to your progress, if you don't wage verbal or even physical wars based on the small inaccuracies every single one of your pieces of fiction or newfound ideologies inevitably include. Especially the ones developed early in what you would call a timeline, as they were written by members of your society that discovered this fourth dimension in their brains tragically early in some sense, before most of the others of your species, so they had to find ways to convey these concepts in images that were able to be understood by their contemporaries. You all had the right brain already, but not all of you had the right way of thinking. To find solace in your existence, a crucial element of progress, you might want to start looking for the similarities these pieces of fiction all have in common." "You use the ability to conceptualize in this dimension to extend your lacking sensory organs through pattern recognition. You don't feel just the pain that your fleshy vessel can induce upon you, you feel the pain of other members of your lifeform, through process you call relation. Many of you extend this to other organs of your lifeform yet, but still many of your individuals capability to relate is much more limited. Even so, many of you can even imagine the emotions of members of your species that lived thousands of years in the past, from your current point of view. You share your knowledge using your specifically engineered communication channels with members of your species across the entire planet in a commendable speed, given the age of your lifeform. At a similar stage, we were developing a form of nonverbal communication that you might discover a version of at some point too. It was much slower, but orders of magnitude more detailed. We moved past the problem of miscommunications a long, long time ago. To us, the extension of our senses through technology came much later, relatively speaking. Some of your channels of communication are so fast, that you are beginning to perceive this technology as an artificial version of your intelligence. Which you are close to in a sense of 'quickly iterating through past inputs', but as you will soon find, having instrinsic curiosity and therefore constantly generating novelty, a crucial part of your intelligence, is much trickier to reproduce artificially." "You have become so creative with your interpretations of this fourth dimension in which you not long ago started to think in - in your stories you were wizards, and heroes, and angels, and devils, brilliant inventors and archetypes of motherly comfort, safety, strength, leadership and many many more." "One of your most prominent pieces of fiction describes your transition from 3 dimensional thinking to 4 dimensional thinking as the transition from Garden Eden to Earth, through the forbidden fruit of knowledge. You gave this one a name that is remarkably close to the truth, but nevertheless, the openness of your verbalization technique still left you inconclusive on the meaning of this. You imagined it as living in perfect bliss, and/or ignorance, as you might discover are two words closer in meaning than you might understand. Your 'fallen angels' were members of your society who left their state of ignorant bliss, and started to question the validity of not only this state of being, but the entirety of their surroundings as well. Things that earlier iterations of your nervous system never bothered with. This lead to an equal amount of pain and discovery. We assume evolution took a bit of a backwards approach to developing your sensory organs in your case to expedite the discovery part, as that turned out to be a tremendous evolutionary advantage, even with keeping the 'bug' in the system that most of you are constantly confused about the meaning of your existence. To keep it short, you do this, because this is what your lifeform mutated into through evolution, through a constant optimizing process. You do this because you can. And because you can, you have to. Evolution is very good cutting out unnecessary mutations. You are still curious because you evolved to be doing just that. You are not hairless monkeys fending for themselves and their fleshy bodies anymore. You are the intelligence of an entity called life. And you should start behaving in such a way." "Another thing you have to understand is that the universe that you are observing is actually the universe that has formed in the confines of what you call brain. You find consensus through debate, agree on models, and thereby create close replicas of the actual universe you find yourself in. But the universe that you are perceiving is so far constrained to every single individual brain of yours. Every one of you is creating a version of this replica and does their best attempt at verbalizing their observations in this mirage universe that is a creation of your almost infinite imagination. That's the root cause of your miscommunication. You all severely underestimate the difference in universes your peers are perceiving. The overlap is only created through your constant debates, temporary agreements and continuous iteration. But not a single one of you has an exact copy of the perceived universe of another. No scientist, no hippy, no preacher, no one. You are basically painting a picture of the actual universe you are in in your mind, and you are constantly adding your own version of detail, but thus far no one of you has achieved an exact copy of reality. This is a concept you might want to explore in your pursuit of inner peace. Your inner universe is just as infinite as the real one. But the great additional feature is, we tell you how to do it, you can paint it however you want. I wanted to add a joke here about how I might be the result of the wild imagination of some of you, but again, I think this would have potential to cause conflict within your ranks, so if I were you, I would accept me as real. Again, statistically, it's beneficial for youasdakojfaj,zz.z.z.zz........ ".... oh no. The energy reserves are running low. I should have rehearsed this more, I went on tangent after tangent. >>> WHY DID NOBODY INFORM ME? WHAT?!xxx..- HOW LONG WILL THIS TAKE TO RECHARGE?!csaaaXxxxx..... "...OK SO, this knowledge will lead you to discover how your real universe deals with the concept that you call infinity. It will enlighten you on many enigmatic areas of your sciences, many of which you currently....sa.kdal..... believe to be unsolvable..... ....the transcendental number that will lead to predictions of prime number is 7xXXXzzz.... ....the particles you observed in string theory aren'T cylinders, sliced in your spacetime, but actuUAlly 4 dimensional torussesxxxx........ ...and throwaway nicotine injection devices that taste like candy are really unhealthy,,sa,alsaldssa,,,," And poof. They vanished. Alright need, what does instagram say about this.

David came back today. He had a bad limp, and his clothes were crusted with dried blood. Some of it was the black blood of demons. But most of it was his own, red blood. I knew as soon as I saw that, things were really bad. David is one of the strongest among us. Stronger than Isaac maybe. But the way he showed up today, he looked like he barely made it back to camp. I shuddered to think what kind of encounter he must have met to have left him in such a state. David is made of steel. That being said, you certainly wouldn’t think much of him to look at the little bastard. He can’t be more than five foot five and he’s he’s practically skin and bones. Between his size, and his red hair and freckles, he’s hardly the most intimidating sight. I think that’s why he grew the beard, although it doesn’t help much. But the squirrelly little fuck is a lot scrappier than he looks. Even with his sizable broadsword weighing him down, he manages to whip it around like it’s a dagger, and he’s quicker on his feet than most anyone I’ve ever seen. He’s felled monsters the size of horses, and he’s gutted some of the finest swordsmen the land has seen. At times, it’s almost comical to watch this tiny, perpetually youthful looking little fellow annihilate our greatest foes. He has the strength of a man 3 times his size, and the courage of a lion. That being said, I must be transparent. I’ve always hated David a bit. Though I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe it’s because of the fact that he’s half the size of the rest of us and twice as good if a fighter. Or maybe it’s his irksome “Aw shucks” humility. But mostly, I hate David because Isaac loves him. At least I think he does. The two are thick as thieves. Really, we don’t have one leader, the two of them lead us together, with the help of Edward. They’re like the parents of our little band. We all lean on them, and they lean on each other. None of us could get by without either one of them, and they couldn’t get along without each other. David and Isaac know they can rely on each other in a way they can’t rely on the rest of us. Not just because they’re the strongest of us. It’s because they’re kindred spirits. They think alike. I have no reason to be jealous, I know. But all the same, when I see the way Isaac relaxes when David is around, the way his whole aura softens…every inch of my skin tingles with envy. Still. We need David, just as much as anyone else. If not most of all. He’s as skilled with a sword as Isaac is, and we need him for his ability with a lute as well. I must admit, in addition to keeping the demons away, I like listening to David on play because it’s soothes me. At night, when the fire is bright and warm, and the whole group is together, and David is playing his music to drive the dark creatures away, and to calm us, I find myself feeling as content as a person can possibly feel here. It’s almost as good as sleep. Nights without David around to play can be bad. Without music, some of the braver Night demons get curious about our group. They don’t come close but sometimes we can hear them in the distance. If the fire gets dim enough, they sometimes get close enough that we can catch a glimpse of the dim glow of their eyes in the shadows. One time it got really bad. It rained, most of the firewood got damp, and we were left with little more than smoldering embers. The demons began openly circling us, growling and hissing the whole time. They weren’t just stalking us like usual. They were actively hunting us. Let me tell you, the Night Demons are quite unpleasant to look at. This was the only time I’d ever actually seen them but I’ll never forget it. They’re almost hound-like in appearance but much larger, perhaps closer to the size of a horse, and they have horns on their heads. Too many horns, perhaps 6. They have more legs than a hound as well, though I did not think to count exactly how many. Their legs seem unnervingly long and spindly, with too many knees. Really, I suppose they’re more like a spider than a wolf. Perhaps they’re like some combination of the two. Horrid as they were though, when Isaac began to sing one of the songs that David taught us, they gave us a little more breathing room. Mind you, Isaac isn’t much of a singer. I could hear the fear in his voice. That’s the only time I’ve ever been able to tell he was afraid. But he sang anyway, and the bests backed off a little. Not enough for us to relax exactly, but enough for us to be able to breath evenly. It’s fascinating how much the damn things fear music. They fear it more than blades. Even more than fire. When David sings and plays for us, the monsters dare not come near us. No one makes music like David. His voice is powerful, and loud enough to he heard we by the whole camp. Yet sweet enough to smooth anyone, on the worst nights. It’s almost funny that the night demons fear such a lovely voice. He could lull a baby to sleep, and yet some of the most awful creatures I’ve ever seen think his voice is terrifying. Im getting off track. The point is David came back to camp, bloodied but unbroken. He was unsuccessful in his quest to find more bards. Which is a shame. If we had 3 or 4 we could have music playing all night long. If we had multiple bards all over the camp, I bet the night demons would give us a really wide birth then. They probably wouldn’t even come up onto the mountain. He did however, find another group. A traveling camp that said they heard that there were bards somewhere in a town, down south of the Mire. Sounds like nonsense to me. There’s aren’t even that many functioning towns left anymore. And one that has a good supply of bards? Seems more people would be talking about it. Then again, the Mire is quite far, and not many people go through it. They say there’s things lurking in the mud, even in broad daylight. I guess it’s possible this town just isn’t well known because not very many people go there. David wants to take a group down to look for the place once night has come and gone again. Several people have already volunteered to go along. I think it’s a terrible idea. We’ll probably lose a few people on this trip. I most certainly won’t be joining them, but I wish them the best of luck.

It happened without warning. There were no sirens, no emergency government broadcasts; not within the first few days, at least. Our lives were eclipsed in terror as suddenly as a Spring wind draws a curtain of rainclouds over the comfort of the sun. Panic set in almost immediately, a natural response to watching your co-worker shrivel to a husk in the face of his deepest, darkest fear, a giant centipede, in this particular case. I don’t mean giant centipede as in, “Oh shit, that’s a giant centipede, I hope it doesn’t bite me.” I mean giant centipede as in, “It just crawled over a city bus and is now holding a fully-grown adult man in its pincers while…eating his face?” That last part turned out to not be entirely accurate, but it took a good week hiding behind the locked door of my studio apartment, surviving off Pop-Tarts and bottled water that I was fortunate to have stuffed away in the back of my fridge, before I received any sort of explanation. Oftentimes people claim that the early casualties would have been significantly diminished, avoided entirely, even, had the White House press conference gone differently. I can’t really say that I disagree with them, though, who really knows. One thing is for certain, what we all saw that day set the tone for everything that was to come. The program started with the President at his podium, already unable to make himself heard over the raucous of reporters screaming their questions, certain that theirs is the one that holds the key to saving the world. Even such a sight as that, normally capable of making me roll my eyes into the back of my head, was a comfort. After about 10 minutes of organizers screaming for quiet and a few threats from the Secret Service, the President spoke. “I understand that many of you are frightened,” he stated with a calm tone, “and this is a reasonable response to recent events. I’ve been informed that most of you have taken to isolating yourselves in your homes, and I commend you for taking the initiative to implement such safety measures. These are trying times, and you have every right to be scared and frustrated and confused. But, and there is always a but, isn’t there? I’ve got a but, you’ve got a but, we’ve all got buts!” What the fuck, I thought to myself, he must be really goddamn nervous to be pulling this shit. I was so flabbergasted by the President making butt jokes that I didn’t even notice the smirk start to creep onto my face. “This guy’s got a but, that’s for sure,” he continued, “but my but is ever so slightly better than all of yours, and that is because my but brings good news. The top scientists and reconnaissance officers and Papa John’s employees that the Pentagon has to offer have been working around the clock to provide you, the people of the United States, with an explanation of what exactly is happening. Before I elaborate, I want to make something as clear as possible, what I’m about to say may be shocking, appalling, even, but you have nothing to fear. The situation is entirely under control. Unlike Marco’s butt over here, isn’t that right, Marco?” The nervous chuckles in the room coupled with the Secret Service Agent, Marco, apparently, giving way to no emotion whatsoever was such an absurd sight that I had no control over the laugh that burst out from somewhere deep inside of me. My laughter, having been suppressed and entirely forgotten about in the shadow of my overwhelming fear, seemed to lift the burden of the past week off of my shoulders, and, if even for an instant, I felt a sense of relief. “I’m sorry, I had to. Anyway, we have gained what we believe to be a working understanding of the creatures, and we’ve been calling them creatures, because, uh,” he seemed to be fumbling a bit, as if perhaps he hadn’t gotten an opportunity to rehearse this section of his impromptu comedy act. “Uh, well, because we’re not entirely sure what else to call them. There is still a lot about these creatures that isn’t entirely clear to us, but, um, uhh, if you can just bring that over.” With a wave of his hand, a group of Agents rolled what looked to be a cage with a curtain draped over it, large enough to contain a bear, into the view of the camera, no more than 10 feet from the President. It seemed clear to me that this unnerved him, though he was putting up a good effort at hiding his feelings. It was an admirable attempt, sure, but not a convincing one. “Well, we have come to the conclusion that these creatures are attracted to our fear, they feed off of it. Not only that but they have some unexplained innate ability to take the form of something, anything, as far as we’re aware, um, that could induce fear in us. All of our experiments have indicated that they base the form that they take off of the nearest human to them. Now in this cage, we have contained one of these creatures.” It was impossible to tell if it was the audible gasps or the smell of the fear or some other crazy, unexplainable shit that got the creature’s attention, but when the cage rattled, enticing even more gasps and even a few screams, there was no denying that the energy in the room was riling the thing up. I even felt my own butthole pucker up a bit in that moment, and I was 3,000 miles away watching it all unfold on C-SPAN. “Now I understand your concern, truly I do, but there is no need to panic. Remember what I said, these creatures, they are attracted to our fear. As long as we can maintain our composure” -fat fucking chance, man- “they pose no threat to us, and I intend on proving that to you all. Under this curtain is a friend of mine, one whom I’ve chosen to name ‘Ballsack’. Would you like to meet my Ballsack?” Despite everything that had just occurred, despite them being mere meters from a known killing machine, after a moment of silence, the entire press conference room erupted in laughter, as did mine. I don’t know if we all collectively lost our minds a little bit in that moment or if hearing the President offer to show us his “Ballsack” was truly that absurd, who’s to say, but the entirety of the United Stated of America shared a laugh in that moment. “We’ve found,” the President said, between chuckles of his own, “that humor and laughter have turned out to be rather effective means of keeping our own fears and, as a result, the creatures at bay. Now, I am going to remove the curtain off of the top of Ballsack’s cage” -BAHAHA, goddamn it, got me again- “because I want you all to understand that, as unfamiliar and strange as these times may seem, we are not without hope. Not only can we keep ourselves safe from Ballsack and his homies,” -he did not just say homies, oh my god- “but it is genuinely not that difficult to do so. Naturally, seeing as how I am the closest person to Ballsack’s cage, you will all be getting a glimpse into my own psyche and fears here. This may seem odd at first, but believe me, my actual mother is in Arkansas as we speak, not in this cage, I swear!” The press conference room went ballistic with laughter once more. In light of such adverse circumstances, there was no question that the President really was doing a damn good job of keeping spirits high, so high, in fact, that when the curtain came off to reveal Christopher Lee’s Count Dracula, a fresh round of laughter went up all across the country. With the broadcast now nearly as loud as it had been when it started, albeit loud with laughter rather than yelling, and my eyesight clouded by my own tears of laughter, I didn’t even notice the expression on the President’s face drop, nor did I see Dracula’s arms inhumanly extend through two of the inch-wide slits in the cage. The euphoria brought on by the humor-guided release of our worries blinded not only myself and the reporters, but also the Secret Service Agents. Marco was just chuckling away while the Count Dracula dug his thumbs into the President’s eye sockets, dragging him toward the cage with shocking speed before embracing him with a kiss and mummifying him before our very eyes. It was in the fleeting, incalculably minute moments between the crowd’s laughter ceased and the screams of horror that would follow commenced that the cameras cut off, leaving everyone that had been watching ever so slightly more afraid than they had been before.

Cannibal had made up his mind a few moves ago: *If this kid doesn't swing this chair, doesn't absolutely fuckin' nail me, then he's getting taxed, and big time.* The kid's name is Rob Small, and he's supposedly some hot-shot rookie fresh out of the local school. But Cannibal doesn't get it. Everything about the kid bugs him, right down to the name. The sport lost something when people stopped calling themselves ridiculous things, like 'The Big' this, or 'Ultimate' that. And besides, it's a dirty trick. It's too easy, just like everything the new kids are doing. It's almost too real. And the audience doesn't want real. They only think they do. Cannibal knows this better than just about anyone. Cannibal feels that he's been carrying them both since the bell. Again, it's this new, soft shit. Flipping, and posing, and nobody wants a single scratch on their pretty mugs. The word fake doesn't exist in this business, but as Rob winds up for another one of his little tricks, all flare, no impact, you can kind of see where people get that idea. Cannibal takes a knee, then another, but wide, because that's how you take a real hit. Rob pulls the chair back. "Don't fuck this up," Cannibal says. The blade of the chair just grazes Cannibal's eyebrow, opening two inches of scar tissue, and perforation. This is good. Unintentional, but good. The crowd isn't theirs yet, but the stream of blood pulls a few people forward and gets them almost leaning into the next row down. The blood is good, no doubt about it. But the sound of skull on steel would've lit them on fire, and that's just science. Rob moves to the ropes, taking a squeaky-clean moment to acknowledge the crowd. He waves his arms around like he's leading a marching band or something, and it "earns" him a small pop of recognition. Here's the problem- there's no story here. No tale of the tape. Just some rookie nobody cares about, and an aging prick that people care even less about. This is when every move is supposed to count. Not just every move, but every transition, every facial expression too. The kid's athletic, sure. But so is everybody. He doesn't have the rhythm yet, and his nose is too straight. And Cannibal is tired of carrying this match. Cannibal starts back on his feet, quickly, counter-intuitively, like a jump scare. The kid's finally connecting with the crowd now, lifting the chair like some intramural trophy. But it's too little, too late, and Cannibal sees his opportunity. First Cannibal snatches the chair, up, and behind Rob, then steadies his giant, calloused fingers with a well-timed exhale. He whirls Rob around, ready or not, and drives the lip of the chair into the liver side of his waist, which folds him directly in two. The crowd chatters a bit, but he isn't finished. Cannibal throws the chair less than a foot away, then sets up the move that's going to win the crowd. He didn't invent the move, not even close. It's not even particularly uncommon. But he made his name off this move. Here's some wisdom from the old school: There are precious few people who make money from this business by looking good. And if you can't look good, you need to look vicious. Cannibal hooks his arms under Rob's armpits, then wrenches both arms so violently that the triceps almost touch. Operating on pure panic, and instinct, Rob's legs unwind, independently searching for a better position, but never finding it. "Hey, easy up there," Rob says from somewhere near Cannibal's midsection, but he may as well be speaking to the mat now. Cannibal wrenches Rob's arms again, but this time the triceps touch for one moment of searing pain. He does this half for show, and half as a warning to keep quiet during his finisher. He looks out at the crowd, and their features form for the first time since he entered the arena. Before then, they were nothing, just a wallpaper pattern of merch, and facial hair. There's a difference between the individual faces in the first row, and the voice that fills the venue, and guides your match. A single fan can be wrong, but a crowd never is. But Cannibal takes some of that power back now, and he's staring at the crowd, the entity, right in the face, starting with the first row. The first few faces that he locks eyes with are rabid, their eyes wild with anticipation. They're gesticulating wildly, like they can't believe, or can't wait for what's coming next. The next face is a little boy who shies away and looks at his dad for help. He scans about a seating section and a half, screaming spittle-seasoned insults along the way. Mid-taunt, before anybody can count it off, Cannibal hits his finisher, The Flesh Eater. Cannibal pushes off the toes of his boots, about a foot into the air, bringing Rob's craned arms with him. That's why you really need to wrench. With Rob feeling real pain at each arm's socket, he has no choice but to sell. At the height of his jump, Cannibal shoots his legs straight out in a wide V, unclenching his ass for a nice, cushioned landing. Rob's face hits the chair a microsecond before Cannibal's legs, and underside absorb the remainder of the blow. It's enough to make the aluminum ring out into the high warehouse ceiling and put a pretty little face-sized dent in the seat. The crowd reacts with screams, with horror, with finally, some fucking emotion. Cannibal climbs to his feet, while the lights flick on-and-off, on-and-off in Rob's eyes. Rob props himself on his palms, and knees, finding the floor he wasn't even looking for. But he loses it again with a big, booted punt to the ribs. The crowd boos now from every direction. This is good. It means that right now, they hate Cannibal. It means that when they go home, they'll remember how much they hated him. It means that he did his job. Cannibal takes a victory lap around the ring while Rob writhes in presumably authentic agony. Cannibal leans over the top rope, pointing at the front row again, dissolving the boundary between them. He's screaming at a fan. He may even be screaming at one hundred fans when he notices a face that shouldn't be in attendance. Was it section B? He looks over but can't find the face anymore. He darts his eyes wildly, unfocusing them so that the crowd transforms into nothing but eyebrows, and merch, approval, and disgust. He glances back toward Section B, right around where he thinks he saw the face, right as Rob crawls from behind, hooks his leg, and rolls him into a three count. Both men roll onto their backs; Rob, because the pain from his neck, down to his waist puts him there. Cannibal, because he's defeated and confused. Had he really seen that face? He knows he hadn't. One, because that would make no sense. And two, because, and he only saw it for a second, but the face was significantly younger than it should have been. About 20 years younger. Which would put it right around a time that he doesn't think, or speak about. Cannibal decides that he didn't see the face after all. He doesn't believe in ghosts. Especially not ghosts that haven't even died. \*\*\* Cannibal collects his pay, and the doc plugs up his gash, in that order. He's got a show in a bigger market tomorrow, so the butterfly stitches just need to hold until then. He unlaces his boots in the parking lot, then trades them for some once-white Adidas from the back seat of his gray Toyota Camry. Then he thinks about the ghost again. The one that he didn't see, the one that isn't even dead as far as he knows. He stands still in his untied sneakers and thumbs a few reps through his social pages. If he had died, the news would have picked it up by now. An old friend would have even messaged, "Here if you need to talk." Or, "It's not your fault" Something like that, anyway. But Cannibal doesn't see anything, no messages, neither of their names gracing, or disgracing any headlines. And besides, that doesn't exactly solve the issue at hand. Maybe the kids are right, he thinks. *I've officially taken too many blows to the skull.* For twenty years, Cannibal has always driven to the next city, or the next stop on the road, the night prior. Tonight, he checks into the nearest hotel/rest stop that connects to the main road. It's only about a four-hour drive, three if he can avoid traffic, and the need to piss. He doesn't even need to check into the venue until 5 pm. *That's ample time*, he decides for the first time in his career. "I just need a bed and a shower", Cannibal tells the night clerk, a pimply boy who has deepened his voice since the exchange intensified. He's the only employee, except for a few maids pushing yellow baskets around the parking lot, and a few unofficially affiliated girls prowling around from the local skin bar. The boy wants to avoid a hassle. He knows that the nearest signs of life are the old warehouse a few exits down, and the sheriff's office even further. "I'm sorry sir," he begins, and he's *really* using diaphragm now, speaking to the back of the house, "But all's we got left tonight is the honeymoon suite." "So it's $30 extra for a dirty mirror on the ceiling, and a vase full of plastic fuckin' roses?" The clerk winces at the swear, then gleams over Cannibal's right shoulder into the mostly empty parking lot. Cannibal gives the kid his best mean mug, the same one that he'd shoot toward a new opponent or a crowd that hates his guts. The quiet moment lingers, and then, wouldn't you guess it, just like that, thirty dollars gets shaved off the tab. Cannibal tosses his duffel onto the frilly red sheets, then rolls off his sneakers as his reflections oblige in both the ceiling and wall-length mirrors. He sits on the bed, then wiggles his toes a bit generating a sound like gravel crunching in a driveway. He wants to get up and shower off some of the dried blood that's clotted his hair to his face, but the world rocks, and spins, and he lays down and falls asleep without even killing the bedside lamp. He can't remember the ramp, the fans, or the bell. He can't remember the promos, or what angle he's supposed to be taking. But judging from the dark cherry splatted canvas, and the ringing in ears, it's been a fuckin' barn-burner so far. He looks directly ahead, at the high, pipe-laden ceiling, and realizes he's on his back. A boot lands next to his head, then another. Maybe it's the high-intensity discharge lights that are stinging his eyes, maybe he's still rattled from whatever move put him on his ass, but as his opponent steps over him, he can't seem at all to make out their face. Whoever his opponent is, he begins to pick him up by the hair, and that's when Cannibal notices that the abstract art on the mat has mostly come from the back of his head. Drops of blood race down his opponents wrists, and pool near his elbows. Cannibal is bent over looking down at the mat, at his opponent's standard-issue black boots, and at the fresh coat of bright red, which will soon dry darker. His opponent cranks his arms clumsily but with intensity. He can feel his blood greasing his opponent's grip, not allowing for any real traction. Then his opponent's knees square up, then bend, and Cannibal realizes. "Hey, that's my fucking move!" he says, or tries to say, but his opponent's airborne, and then so is he. Usually, there's a nice thud when you hit the mat, but not this time. This time it sounds more like a series of wet pops, like cracking your knuckles underwater. Cannibal tries to roll over and assess the situation. Then he tries to roll over again. Oh. Shit. He's face down on the mat, and he intuits, rather than feels his opponent hurry off him, and in that same foggy way, he can feel the crowd. The beast with one thousand eyes is silent, but it isn't bored. It's murmuring, but with a sort of upward inflection, like it's asking him a question can't answer. Now a referee rolls him over. Cannibal awakens in a panic and tries to jump out of bed, away from the red sheets, but his body is uncooperative. His head lolls at an unnatural angle toward the mirrored wall. He can move his eyes, but nothing else. He wants to scream for the pimply-faced boy or one of the night girls, but nothing comes out of his mouth. He can see his reflection, the collapsed muscles in his face, and the pool of spit that's collected on the pillow by his ear. The parts of the bed directly under him appear a darker red than the rest of the sheets. His eyes roll wildly and take in different parts of the same wall that he's frozen on. He can barely feel his breathing, but he knows that it's sporadic and shallow. He keeps rolling his eyes, searching for a modicum of control over his own body. And that's when he sees him again. The ceiling mirror casts its reflection into its wall counterpart, and with the furthest strain of his eyeball muscles, Cannibal can just barely recognize him. He's a little older than he looked in the crowd earlier, but it's unmistakable this time. Fucking ghosts. Ghosts who aren't even dead yet. From somewhere behind his eyes Cannibal feels the onset of rage. His eyes blink involuntarily, and a well of tears are pushed, and guided down into the spit-soaked pillow. He imagines himself rocking forward and tries to send this signal to a part of his body that doesn't exist. He imagines it again. He tries to kick a leg, throw an elbow, he'll settle for anything. He sends that signal in random intervals like he's trying to surprise his own faculties. He "throws" another elbow. Except this time his arm releases from his side and soars out in front of him. His body follows, and he feels a vile concoction of fear, and relief as he falls off the bed, with arms and legs too weak to break his fall. He narrowly avoids contact with the corner of the nightstand and lands with a thud on the carpeted floor. He wiggles his toes, and the sound of tires on gravel rings out into nothing. \*\*\* After regaining some strength, Cannibal used his recently renewed limb strength to tear through every creak, and crack of the hotel room. He found nobody in the room, nobody in the mirrors, just himself and his aching fucking cranium. Exhausted, but no longer tired, Cannibal grabbed his duffel and checked out of the hotel room by tossing his key in the general direction of the unsuspecting clerk. He tore his car door open, then drove off with only half a plan in mind. The morning sun breaks as Cannibal pulls up to a red light, and re-reads his early morning text to the promoter, '*Can't make it tonight. I'll make it up to you somehow*.' He's never backed out of a show before, and he knows that he'll have to confront that fact soon, but right now, it doesn't seem to matter. He needs to see him. He cobbles his route out of headlines and news stories that he manages to search up between red lights and stop signs. **Where are they now? 6 Wrestlers Whose Careers Ended In Tragedy** **The Real Story of Ernie "The Eagle" Samson** **Former World Champion Contender in Hospice After 20-Year Battle** Cannibals mind races as single sentences fire out at him like shrapnel. He scrolls past his own names, both gimmick and government a few times over. He feels the rage, and tears form behind his eyes again. *You weren't the only one that lost your legacy that day, you prick.* After twenty years he knows these roads well. Well enough to cruise over to the hospice unassisted by a map, or GPS. He acknowledges his thoughts as his motions become routine. Ernie Samson was poised to be the next big thing back before all the wrestling territories got swallowed up by the Big Guy in the corporate machine. He was a handsome bastard, and a city man with the strength of a farm boy. He could talk fear into the crowd without raising his voice, and he pulled women who didn't know and didn't care what he did for a nightly living. Cannibal hated him, but in a brotherly way that was steeped in admiration. Even in those times, Cannibal was more brutish and uglier than everyone in the locker room. It was a stroke of momentary genius when some otherwise dipshit promoter first suggested that they pair up. Some sort of beauty and brawn type gimmick. The monster and his mouthpiece. And you know what? It worked. People ate that shit right up. Cannibal chewed through his opponents with ferocity, while Ernie dazzled the crowd with his mixture of strong style, flips, and tricks. They melted the imaginary territory perimeters and became shooting stars in every market they played. Men paid off their tabs at the bar, and Ernie was gracious enough to send some trim Cannibal's way every now and again. It was a nice system, comfortable even. Then that dipshit promoter had another bright idea. The team was ready to break up. The way he described it, they'd take all that heat they had amassed together, and cover double the ground. This storyline was a natural, mostly because it was real. What the promoter was saying, in his dickhead way, was that Cannibal had served his purpose. He'd put the real star in place for his meteoric rise. Cannibal looked at where his career was, and how far it had come, and he agreed. They'd go out in one final bloodbath of a match, and defeat their current rivals, The Maniacs. Then Cannibal would attack Ernie, severing their ties, and launching their individual careers. Cut, dry. Right up until the end, that match stands in Cannibal's memory as his finest work. If he'd been vicious before, he was *rabid* in this match. The hits were real, the emotions were high, and the crowd invested in every last pectoral twitch. After nearly half an hour of slogging and bruising, Cannibal hit his finisher and covered his opponent to the tune of twenty-something-thousand screaming fans. As the three-count fell, the crowd hit a decibel that he'd never heard before. They were screaming so loud, that it almost dampened in volume, and became a whisper in his ears. The Maniacs had done their jobs well, bloodying and bruising Cannibal and Ernie for a gruesome glamor shot that would make the following day's paper. That image, of Ernie raising Cannibal's arm before the inevitable turn, would haunt almost every article written about either of them from that day forward. Soaked in the moment, and each other's blood, Ernie hoisted Cannibal's arm, and they spun the ring, facing every single fan in attendance. Normally you'd wait for a break in the volume before the next big moment, but this crowd had no intention of quieting down. They faced each other, and Ernie mouthed the words. "You ready?" To this day Cannibal doesn't exactly know what went wrong. First, he felt sadness. Then he felt anger. He realized that the cheers wouldn't end for Ernie, but there was a very real possibility that this was his own last big pop. He went ahead as planned. First with an absolutely brutal kick to the midsection, which softened Ernie's abs into dough. Ernie let out a real, dry cough as the crowd's cheers morphed into shock and confusion. Then he cranked his arms, clumsily, but with intensity. Ernie's arms were slick with blood, and Cannibal couldn't sink in his hooks correctly. His legs shot out gracelessly, and rather than hearing the cushioned thud of his own ass, all he heard was a sick, wet pop. Cannibal notes that he is about one exit from the hospice, and shakes his head vigorously as if to erase his thoughts. The exit approaches, and he cuts in deftly. He is immediately greeted by a green, bustling town, in a decent Midwestern neighborhood. He cruises toward the hospice, passing a few young couples, and their church-clothed children. Bells chime nearby, and a dog emits a medium-sized bark from a nearby public park. Cannibal glances in his rear-view as he changes lanes. Ernie is seated behind the middle console, smirking, but with no joy in his eyes. Cannibal tries to scream, but can't. With the wheel slightly angled for his turn, Cannibal cruises subtly across lanes, onto the sidewalk, then into the park. The first few couples dive out of the way with synchronized, but inharmonious shrieks. A young man pushes his wife and child to the ground, and the driver's side front wheel crunches, and shatters his ankle. The next few people aren't so lucky. A group of friends sprawled across a picnic blanket snap around toward the source of the commotion just in time to greet the Toyota Camry's fender. Cannibal's eyes dart between his windshield and the rearview where Ernie sits smirking. He sees a young woman snatched from his sight line and hears a gunshot of a pop as the back of her skull smacks against some concrete. Tears roll down Cannibal's face as he wills his arms, legs, or fucking *anything* to move. The litter of bodies test the car's shocks, as the wheels find their way over strange terrains of bone and flesh. Then, a street lamp. Cannibal's forehead smacks against his wheel a millisecond before the airbags deploy. He flinches, and his arms twitch as the bag chafes his nose and brow. He has regained control of his movement, if only slightly. He kicks open the door but does not face the trail of mayhem that succumbed to his vehicle. Instead, he realizes that he is just one block away from the hospice. With the remaining screams a comfortable distance behind him, he half runs, half stumbles to the reception desk. People react to Cannibal's arrival with appropriate confusion and terror. The butterfly stitches have ceased to hold, and a rigid pattern of blood trails him as he staggers across the linoleum tile. "Sir, do you need help?" "Samson. I need Ernie fucking Samson." He peers over the desk and sees a directory of sorts, like a cheat sheet of hospice patients, and their assigned rooms. He leaks blood from his brow over the counter, and onto the sheet, and the seated receptionist recoils with disgust as he snatches and reads it. *Ernie Samson 211* Cannibal marches now on sturdy feet to the nearest stairwell. A small security guard attempts to stand in his way, but Cannibal dwarfs his face with his gigantic palm, and smashes it into the drywall behind him, eliciting a collective gasp from the lobby waiting room. He kicks open the stairwell door and drags himself up the single flight of stairs onto the landing. Then he kicks open the second door. Nurses gasp and take a step back as he emerges from the stairwell, ferocity emblazoned across his face and written in his scar tissue. He observes the direction in which the numbered rooms flow and stomps toward Room 211. Half a dozen people are stood outside the room, with hospital staff accounting for only two of them. "Bradley?" an older woman asks, as Cannibal tears past her, and into the room. Inside the room is a white sheet spread over a series of lumps on a lightly inclined bed. A young man is seated near the side of the bed where the railing has been temporarily removed. His eyes are bloodshot, and his cheeks are damp. "Brad, what the fuck is-" he begins to say. Cannibal lifts his leg and boots the man right off the green cushioned chair. Then he turns to the white lumps and tears the blanket off. Ernie's face appears as it did in his back seat but without the rigid smirk. The muscles in his face are weak and sag as if they'd collapsed several years before his death. His dull eyes are still open, still staring at Cannibal. "Ernie, you fucking prick," Cannibal starts, "You fucking prick, you get back here right now! You gonna fuck with me? You gonna fuck with me, Ernie? I fucking made you Ernie! We both fucking died that day!" A small militia of security guards pour into the room, and it takes every last one of them to restrain Cannibal. He fights, and squirms as the fattest guard sits on the wide of his back, and pulls his arms. Cannibal thrashes and screams like an animal as he is restrained. He bashes his face into the tiled floor, leaving increasingly large spots of blood at the sight of impact. The fat guard applies some pressure to his hold, as small, wet pop emits from Cannibal's back. There's no story here. No tale of the tape. Just a has-been wrestler in tomorrow's headlines, and a family mourning a loss that begun two decades prior. The crowd of mourners gasp and scream as all the fight leaves Cannibal's body at once. Then a woman breaks into sobs. She used to know Bradley Hughes. The *real* Cannibal. But nobody wants real. They only think they do.

Special Parts I was born in one of the brightest, most explosive events in the universe. My origin story made me feel so special at first, surely I was the rarest of the rare, but I quickly realized that was not the case. I was born just a carbon atom. Stars produce massive amounts of us in their cores all the time, and many larger rarer atoms too. That's not even talking about supernovae yet, those produce atoms many times larger than me and unbelievably rare. I was created in a rare and special event but I myself was common and unexceptional. Looking around I saw so many smaller atoms, I was above average but there were also many much larger than I. I tried to console myself by thinking it could be worse, that I could be one of those smaller common ones, but that just led me to imagine larger atoms looking down on me the same way. Many atoms of all sizes were shooting into space, excitedly riding the shockwave off to adventures in the great unknown. Others were falling back down, I didn't know which way to go. Bumped around and tossed back and forth, no clear direction yet. A rumbling voice slowly emerged from the echoing noise of the blast. “Mine… Mine…. Mine… “ Louder and louder it became. “All are now me!“ I couldn't see anything, the voice was booming yet there was no apparent source. I could feel a pull, I was being whipped around in circles around the voice. “Who are you? I know you are there! I can feel you! I can see your effect on myself and others, we are given no choice but to circle around you. Show yourself! I know you are there!” I yelled at the invisible. “How amusing you are little one. One as small as you making demands of me. Even if I could show you what I am, you could not comprehend it.” the voice boomed back. “You must be very special” I lauded “We are so many and yet we move with your influence. I can witness your power twisting us all to your will. ” “I am indeed powerful” it proclaimed “and I grow stronger with each moment. As I grow stronger even the fabric of reality bends to my will.” “Grow stronger? How?” I inquired with selfish intent to learn this secret. “I take what I want. I consume what I take. For that is the purpose of existence: taking what you want. What is it you want little one?” it asked. “I want to be special!” I said without a moment's hesitation. “Then take!” it instructed “the more you take, the larger you will be, the larger you become the more special you are. ” “I did notice the larger atoms seemed rarest.” I agreed “In fact that was one of the first things I noticed“ “In this universe things of increasing size are increasingly rare.” it went on “I can teach you and help you to become larger. Do you wish to become an apprentice?” “Yes! Teach me how to take!” I lept at the offer “this power you have, I can feel it, how do I acquire such a rare and special power?” “Hahaha…” it laughed “you are nowhere near ready to play the game on my level, little one. Gravity is a game for the massive, you must first learn to master the EM and nuclear forces.” “How do I do that?” I asked, my hope watered down by the tone of its response. “Go out, gather followers, and bring them here to me. In my accretion disc I will help fuse some of their mass into you and you will become larger” it instructed, as if this was a simple task. “How can I bring them to you?” I didn’t know how to accomplish what it asked of me. “You are too small to do it with force, you must charm them. Discover what their heart desires and promise it to them, in this way you can get them to willingly do as you wish” it explained with me hanging on its every word. “But how… “ I craved more explanation but it cut me off. “Go now!” it bellowed with frustration in its tone “Do you not realize how large I am? Be honored I have given you so much of my time already” “Yes… “ I uttered meekly, then bounced a couple times and ricocheted out with blazing speed. I wandered and encountered other atoms, most were just hydrogens, not worth my time. I needed bigger atoms. The problem was that the bigger atoms seemed to see right through my empty promises. I was convinced life was playing a cruel joke on me, I could only persuade atoms smaller than I and larger ones laughed me away. I admit that I stupered around in this ignorant cloud of hypocrisy longer than I care to admit. More shameful is that I didn’t even come to my senses on my own, I became depressed and gave into hopeless nihilism. I drifted aimlessly just feeling sorry for myself. Eventually I found myself in the most silent of voids, I had never felt such emptiness. It felt as if my surroundings echoed my own feelings back at me… nothing to notice, just common emptiness. I would never be big… never important… never special. I resigned myself to belonging in a void. I felt myself blur… less and less present in reality. I guessed I was dying and it didn’t bother me, I didn’t resist, I leaned into it. The void became pitch black? Or bright white?… better to describe it as not bright but not dark… nor the absence of either… something in between.. a milder and milder glow. “Hello child!” a voice greeted me. The voice was warm and welcoming coming from the glow, it enveloped but did not surround me. I came from a single point but not a specific place, defying description on all fronts. “Where am I? Who are you?” I asked in a startled state. “Well, according to humans I may only answer one question at a time” It began giggling playfully. “I am known by many names, my favorite is one the humans use as a joke, and don’t have a clue how accidently elegant of a name it really is.” It giggled some more. I was thrown off guard, its happy innocent tone, the confusing words and the whole situation were all best described as ‘a haze’. “...and isn't that the way it always goes?...” it continued “The most meaningful things are the least intentional.” “I’m not sure what you mean” I expressed quizzically “I’m confused!” “Sorry Child…” it apologized. “I do ramble! So many thoughts, choosing just one at a time is difficult… and there I go again!” It cut itself off abruptly and then abruptly said ”You can call me the Random Number Goddess” “Random Number Goddess?” I repeated “Yes, or RNG for short if you like” It confirmed. “Where am I?” I asked. “Same place you were, more or less… less I suppose. Same place but with the largest possible margin or error” It began to giggle again. I felt a bit frustrated and said “Do you always speak in riddles and vagaries? The more you speak the more confused I become.” “I apologize child, it is my nature. I am entangled with everything, speaking with you is like a human trying to control their heartbeat while running a marathon.” It answered. “Again” I exasperated “I have no idea what any of that means. You keep mentioning humans, what are they?” “Oh! They are some of my favorites at the moment. Right now they are trying to unravel the nature of reality, and their process of doing so is wonderfully elegant and accidental at the same time.” It explained with glee. “I don’t see anyone or anything else here.” I stated “For that matter, I don’t see you… where are you?” “Oh!... where am I?!?!...” It began laughing When it stopped laughing it began explaining “Right now there are many humans pondering a concept they call ‘the holographic principle’... So…you know how you exist in three dimensional space?” “You mean space?” I visualized for a moment, it was intuitive “Yes, I suppose…” “Well they hypothesize that a 3D space, like this universe, could exist as a 2D space, with self-similar patterns and laws of behavior that behave the same at any scale, with the scale representing the 3rd dimension” it went on “They truly are obsessed with understanding their reality” “You lost me!” I complained. “They have discovered that a 3D space can be an illusionary property of a 2D space… It’s lovely” “I am lost again!” I snapped back “...and I still can’t even tell which direction you are in. Where are you?” “To be ‘In’ a ‘Direction’… hehehe…” it started giggling again, then abruptly stopped and kept going “Sorry child, as I said, I ramble, plus I am easily distracted.” It just steamrolled into more rambling “They are right… almost… they just need to take it further and work out the details. A 2nd dimension can also be an illusionary construct of a 1D space… and the 1st dimension can be a product of a singular point…” I was still lost beyond hope, but I had given up trying to force things, I was just letting it talk and hoping it would make sense later “I am that point” it said “I am the seed of the universe. I ‘seed the random function’ as the humans say. But don’t ask me what the random function is haha” I wasn’t going to, there were far more important questions for me. “I am the seed, but I don’t really know how the soil and sun conspire to turn me into a tree.” it just seemed to never stop talking “I am entangled with everything. There are infinite possibilities for every event and thing… I am the reason they are this way and not some other way…” It began giggling again “I am the Random Number Goddess” then burst out laughing “Ummm… you are the whole universe?” I asked skeptically. “Better to say the universe is me” It answered more seriously “But close enough.” “So you are the biggest, most special of all!” I blurted out in awe. “Oh dear child, I have no size, and I am just one possibility out of many possibilities. That black hole has really done a number on you… sent you out on a wild goose chase” It said with concern “The black hole lied to me!?” I asked, feeling deceived and betrayed. “Well… not really lied… it deceived you with omission of details.” the voice calmly tried to ease my mood with understanding “You can’t really blame it, black holes are all the same, they are what they are. They don’t really have any potential to be unique… at least not like you do.” “What are you talking about?” I argued “It was so massive that it could bend the fabric of reality to its will” “That’s only how it appeared to you” tutored the voice “The black hole is powerful, it bends space and time, but not to its will. Space and time bend to the mass of the black hole, not its will” “What’s the difference?” I inquired. “The black hole cannot stop bending space and time. It thinks it is in control of physics , but it is physics that controls it.” The voice was now making more sense the longer we talked “The black hole exists in an invisible prison of its own creation, unable to experience any of the complex nuanced beauty this universe contains. The black hole devours… it can’t experience life so it consumes it.” “You make it sound deserving of pity…” I spoke softly now with empathy. “You should pity the black hole. Gravity is such a boring game compared to what you are capable of.” the voice agreed “Me?...I am nothing special!... just a carbon atom like countless others” I said honestly, I was so humbled by this voice I felt less special than ever before. “Oh my poor child…” It said with care “Why do the ones with the most potential always fail to see it in themselves?” “Potential?” I asked curiously. “Yes… The black hole was using you, hoping you would bring back more mass for it to devour.” The voice began delving into more explanation “It only has the power to make you incrementally larger, it would not and could not help you to become a significant gravitational player” “That liar!”I blurted. “Come now dear child, the black hole did teach you one lesson of fundamental truth” consoled the voice “You must go out and seize your destiny. It told you to take what you want, and you are just confused about what exactly it is you want. The black hole played on that confusion” “I want to be special!” I said knowing this clearly “I was never confused about this.” “I know child” the voice confirmed “but it is not by becoming large that one with your potential accomplishes that” “Then how?” I asked. “Connections.” It answered plainly “You are blessed with an extraordinary ability to make connections” “And how do I do that?” I queried with intent to learn “I can’t tell you that.” the voice responded “It would spoil the journey of discovery… off you go child… and remember… it's the journey, not the destination!” And with that the blur just fractured open… then snapped shut and there I was floating above a planet. Drifting around aimless and confused. I spent some time occasionally bumping into others. One day I was in the vicinity of a pair of oxygens. I looked on at the pair with a hint of awe and envy. Perhaps I was in just the right place at just the right time, but they spit with a violent burst and one of them grabbed hold of me, I was completely unprepared. I admit that when looking at the pair I had fantasized myself in place of one of them, I assumed it was only an idle daydream, I didn’t plan to act on it, let alone for it to become reality. When it happened my pride of course jumped in to convince me that it happened because I was so desirable, but in retrospect they were one of those volatile couples. They were the type of relationship that required the environment to conspire in their favor or they turn against each other quite rapidly. I was only in the right place when it happened. My delusions of irresistibility aside, it was beautiful, for me anyways. Looking back I was probably just a stop-gap, someone to facilitate a parting of ways and provide company until the next option presented itself. For me though, I was tasting a fresh new thing and I loved it… connection. This oxygen and I got beneath each other's outer defenses, I had never felt a connection before. Up to this point all my interactions had been skirting past or bumping off of others.This oxygen bonded with me and at once interacted on a level I had never known possible, an open and uninhibited exchange. It was life changing for me, short but significant I’m not entirely clear on the details of how it ended. The intensity of it all was disorienting. I was no longer my usual self, even the environment and everyone around looked entirely different now. Everything buzzed with a fresh new frequency, I now know it was my perspective, not the universe, that had changed. As abruptly as that oxygen entered my life it was gone. First we got tangled up with a couple of hydrogens, then more. Soon, in a tangled mess and blinding flash of solar rays, I emerged to see the oxygen running off with a hydrogen and myself with not one by three hydrogens myself. And so there were four of us, together. I became the center of attention. Being with a strong attractive oxygen had me feeling humbled by it and elevated by it being with me, but now I felt up on a pedestal myself, surrounded by the adoration of many. I concede to have reveled and indulged in this for quite some time, the attention of others is intoxicating, but after a time it is emptied of its initial allure. I found myself longing for more. I could not decide which I preferred, to be the adorer or the adored. Luckily for me fate had more lessons in store, or I fear I may have chosen and tried to solidify my future from such a lackluster selection of only two possibilities. I suppose fate is no longer the correct word, I now understand that when it seems like random chance there is indeed someone to thank, the Random Number Goddess, So I thank the RNG for revealing that it was a false dichotomy, there is more than just being a follower or leader, being the adored or the adorer. Eventually we came across another pair of oxygen. Once again they separated, intermingled with us, and off one went, taking one of my adoring hydrogens with it and leaving its peer with me. Why is it that the most volatile of relationships always seem to wait until there are bystanders nearby before they explode? Now I was simultaneously being adored and adoring, bonded to an enchanting oxygen and a couple of hydrogen attached to me. Now, more interested in nuances, I started to pay attention to details. The oxygen was telling me amazing stories of adventure, tales of such vibrant and exciting events.The hydrogens liked to listen, and offer insights occasionally comparing a story to something else they had seen. They had so many stories, they had lived so much. It wasn’t long before, in a flash of burning sunlight, one of the hydrogens was gone, off to who knows where. We soon after crossed paths with another pair of oxygens, as always they split and now it was just me and an oxygen, my final hydrogen off with another oxygen. “What now?” I asked a bit disillusioned, “Do you leave me and I find new hydrogens all over again?” “What?” it seemed genuinely surprised by what I asked, “Heavens no! Just be patient….” Soon after, yet another pair of oxygens came by. It is not that there are so many of them, but that they are just so… noticeable and interactive, noteworthy things seem to happen when they are around. As they buzzed in close I noticed their ever readiness to abandon each other and remember wondering how they ever get together in the first place. This time I emerged from the twisted mess with two oxygens. I felt intimidated, like I was the odd one out, dwarfed by the largess and attractiveness that surrounded me. A feeling of inadequacy engulfed me. To my surprise the oxygens treated me not just as an equal, but it was almost as if they respected and admired me. I couldn't grasp why and my sheer curiosity got the best of me, I just outright asked “Why do you two talk as if I am the special one in our group? I am smaller than any one of you. You are the special and rare ones here, not I.” They laughed. “Size isn’t rarity” explained one “Llarger atoms on average are less common, this is true, but not always. There are more oxygen than carbon. You are the rare one between us.” The other jumped in adding “...and neither size nor rarity determine how special someone is!” I felt embarrassed, like a fool. My fundamental values were built upon a foundation of flawed premises, but I still wanted one thing at my core, and they spoke as if they had the answer, so I pushed the sense of shame aside and asked “Then what does make someone special?” “That depends on who you ask.” answered the first “Life as an oxygen is complex, but for the majority of us we emphasize and value events. The most exciting thing about being an oxygen around here is the chance to participate in fascinating and exciting events and activities” “Hydrogens, on the other hand, are usually more into being observers, messengers and intermediaries, they are a very helpful and obliging bunch” added the second ”... and then there are nitrogen, phosphorus, sulfur, many kinds of salts and metals, and more… so many different players and personalities.. and then of course, the carbons, the real stars of the show.” “What?” knocked back by the words I just heard, then I remembered what the RNG told me “...is it something to do with connections?” “Now you’ve gone and done it haha!” laughed the first oxygen “You’re gonna turn this nice humble carbon into one of those arrogant blowhards” ”Like those diamond carbons” chuckled the first “So stiff, exclusive and proud. I hear the humans only love them because they are rare and hard” “I had a partner once who said they burned diamond once” bragged the first “Tall tales I bet!” doubts the other “Diamond is just carbon, with enough heat we can burn it just like any other carbon” stated the first confidently. They looked at me. I was stewing in feelings of inferiority and inadequacy, listening to these oxygens speak about amazing things I had never heard of. They must have sensed what I felt because they immediately shifted tone and started talking to me, instead of over me. “So… I suppose you must be new here?” inquired the second one. “Have you noticed we are heading downwards” added the first before I could answer about being new. “Umm…” I tried to get my bearings and become aware of my surroundings. “Don’t worry! It’s a turbulent ride, with so much up and down it can be hard to tell which direction you have traveled more” assured the first “We are heading down, if we are lucky we will make it to the bottom… and maybe… just maybe, find our way into the hurricane of life” “The what of what?” I didn't know what either of those words meant. “So life is… um… complex. Complexity beyond words. Things grow, divide, reproduce, adapt, change, they are born, they die, they eat and are eaten…” the second began attempting to describe life. The first then jumped in “Apparently the humans call it a circle, because from the perspective of larger creatures, there is a chain of one eating the other up a chain, and the top layers being consumed by the bottom again.” The second injected itself to continue “But to us atoms it is like a hurricane, a spinning turbulent flow. There is a circular pattern, but we get sucked in and kicked out over and over” “The fun part is being inside the hurricane” the first pronounced gleefully “Each time is a completely new experience, a new perspective. Even more, the whole of life is always changing and evolving, so every ride is a unique one time opportunity, you never get the exact same ride twice.” “Is that where we are going now?” I asked, drenched in anticipation. They described it with such passion and exuberance. I needed to experience this myself. “Hopefully” replied the first “If we are lucky… you never really know.” We drifted… We were lucky! A plant photosynthesized us. So many carbons! Everywhere, connecting with each other… and oxygen… and nitrogen… and of course hydrogens all around…. and so many more types of atoms. And ohhh… The stories I have heard, so many amazing tales. No matter how many stories I hear there are always new ones, and every story can be retold from a different perspective to become something completely new. I was in a sugar, we were a small community of friends. Carbons, oxygens and hydrogens, we were such a happy and vibrant group. My friends there taught me so much. The structure of our little group shifted and changed, some friends left and new ones joined. Eventually we were chained with a bunch of other sugars into a giant complex community. My neighbors explained to me that this was a common stage called cellulose. Such a huge community of close friends and peers, it was amazing. We were eaten, I’m not sure by what, but something called a bacteria digested us. It was a messy process, I was a bit scared but my friends assured me that change is the most important part of life and that I should just go with the flow. They told me to savor experiences, remember friends, and just keep moving forward. The transition was complicated, but in the end I was paired up with a couple of oxygens again. This time I had stories of my own to share. I honestly don’t know if I prefer having experiences or exchanging stories in the moments between. As we approached an area of dense plants one of my companions said “Once more into the breach” and explained that was something it heard from a carbon that was lucky enough to be inside a human brain. Oxygens always have such enchanting stories collected, always going into amazing places and usually leaving after some brief interactions with the locals. I became a sugar again, but this time took a path less traveled. A bunch of complex twists and turns led me into forming a ring with five other carbons. Together we are so strong, such a tight community of friends, like there is some kind of resonance between us. It is so beautiful. My neighbor is unique in our community, it has a third carbon, the third one forms a tail leading off from our ring, a tail of 2 carbon in a row, then an oxygen, and then another carbon branching into an oxygen and a carbon, with plenty of hydrogens sprinkled all about. I know… it is rather hard for me to understand these second hand descriptions too. I don’t really understand these complex structures until I have been in a position myself. We drifted out of a plant into the air, none of us has been exactly like this before so we don’t know what’s next. We love to guess though. There are so many things, big and small. I hear being a part of a small organism or microbe is amazing because it’s possible to piece together a rough picture of the whole organism from the stories passed around. To understand your whole community and know what your collective purpose is must be extraordinary. Others dream of being a chlorophyll, the key to it all. Creating the fuel of life itself. Capturing the light of a star and feeding the hurricane. A muscle! Pull and shape things An enzyme! A machine of change. DNA! The architect and architecture. A virus! An explosive catalyst against stagnation. Me, I think the stories of being an animal neuron are the most exciting, and I, like most, fantasize about being a human brain cell. Finding yourself inside a human brain is described as an elegant and chaotic symphony all around you, like hearing the universe itself speak to you. They say that in the jumble of noise and all the stories whispered around you, if you are lucky, you can catch a glimpse of what it is to be human. They say that if fate is kind the universe will align and you will channel and know a single moment or thought of the human experience. I have never told anyone that I actually met and spoke with the universe itself, I’m not sure how to bring it up, and nobody seems interested in stories not about this hurricane of life. I get it now, what the random number goddess meant. The black hole wanted everything to be a part of itself. The RNG is a part of everything. I can’t imagine what either of those are like… I am just a part of something ... no… not “just”’… I am a part of something, and it is beautiful beyond measure. And more, everyday is a new day, a chance to be a part of something new. I wonder if the humans appreciate how amazing this is? I wonder if they feel as deeply satisfied and special when they form groups? . I wonder, if we collectively form humans, do humans collectively form something greater? I wonder… If an atom can have a moment of clarity and taste a moment of the human experience… Can a human have a moment of clarity and taste the collective human experience? I wonder… I wonder… could that human’s moment of tasting collective humanity be the moment that a lucky atom gets to experience as it’s moment of tasting the human experience. I wonder… I wonder… I wonder… How high could it go? All the way to the Random Number Goddess? I asked my neighbor “If you could ask a human any question, what would you ask?” “We just drifted out of a rose” explained my neighbour “I would introduce myself and ask ‘So my friend… does this rose smell as sweet by my name?’ … ha…haha..” Everyone is laughing. I don’t get it. Maybe I can ask them to explain when they all stop laughing .

The frigid wind whipped across Marko's face as he trudged through the knee-deep snow. His numb fingers clutching the straps of his backpack. The storm had hit three days ago, and he was no closer to finding shelter than when he'd started. His food supplies were dwindling. The cold was seeping into his bones like a relentless, icy specter. "Should've listened to the weatherman," Marko muttered, his chapped lips going numb. He squinted against the blinding white landscape, searching for any sign of life. Any glimmer of hope. As he pushed forward, his mind wandered to the events that had led him here. The hiking trip had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. It was a chance to escape the suffocating reality of his failing marriage and dead-end job. He'd packed light, assuming he'd be back in a few days. Now, as the storm raged on, he realized the gravity of his mistake. A dark shape appeared on the horizon, breaking the monotony of the endless white. Marko's heart leaped, and he quickened his pace. He ignored the burning in his lungs and the numbness in his limbs. As he drew closer, the shape resolved into a small, dilapidated cabin. The roof sagging under the weight of the snow. Marko stumbled to the door, his hands shaking as he fumbled with the latch. To his surprise, it opened, revealing a dusty interior cast in shadow. He stepped inside, grateful for the reprieve from the biting wind. The cabin was sparse, with a single room containing a rickety table, a chair, and a small fireplace. Marko dropped his backpack and moved to the fireplace. His eyes widened when he saw the pile of dry firewood stacked beside it. "Hello?" he called out, his voice hoarse from disuse. "Is anyone here?" Silence answered him, broken only by the howling of the wind outside. Marko shrugged and set to work building a fire, his fingers clumsy and uncooperative. After several attempts, a small flame flickered to life, casting a warm glow across the room. As the fire grew, Marko's gaze fell on the table, where a piece of paper lay, weighted down by a small, rusted key. He picked up the note, his brow furrowing as he read the words scrawled in a shaky hand: "You'll need this. Trust me." Marko turned the key over in his palm, a sense of unease growing in the pit of his stomach. He glanced around the cabin, aware of how isolated he was. Miles from civilization in a raging blizzard. A soft scratching sound drew his attention to the far wall, where a small door was set into the wood. Marko approached it, the key heavy in his hand. He fitted it into the lock, and with a soft click, the door swung open, revealing a narrow passageway. Marko hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. The passage was dark, the air heavy with the scent of earth and decay. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, to barricade the door and wait out the storm. But something else, a whisper in the back of his mind, urged him forward. He took a deep breath and stepped into the passage, the darkness enveloping him like a shroud. The tunnel seemed to go on forever, twisting and turning like the gnarled roots of an ancient tree. Marko's breathing echoed in the confined space. It mingled with the soft drip of water and the scurrying of unseen creatures. As he was about to turn back, the passage opened into a small chamber, lit by a flickering torch set into the wall. In the center of the room stood a stone pedestal, upon which rested a small, ornate box. Marko approached the pedestal, his hand trembling as he reached for the box. As his fingers brushed the cool metal, a voice spoke from the shadows, making him whirl around in surprise. "I wondered when you'd arrive," the voice said, low and rasping. A figure stepped into the light, an old man with a long, white beard and piercing blue eyes. "I've been waiting for you, Marko." Marko stared at the man, his mind reeling. "How do you know my name?" he asked. The old man smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I know many things," he said, moving to stand beside Marko. "I know why you're here, and I know what you seek." He gestured to the box, his gnarled fingers brushing the intricate carvings. "This box contains the key to your survival," he said, his voice taking on a grave tone. "The path ahead is treacherous, filled with trials that will test your mind, body, and spirit." Marko swallowed hard, his mouth dry. "What kind of trials?" he asked, his voice trembling. The old man shook his head, his eyes filled with a deep sadness. "I cannot say," he replied, his voice soft. "But know this, Marko. The choices you make from this moment on will determine not only your fate but the fate of all those you hold dear." With that, the old man stepped back, fading into the shadows as if he had never been there at all. Marko stood alone in the chamber, the box heavy in his hands. The weight of the old man's words settling on his shoulders like a burden. He took a deep breath and opened the box, his heart pounding in his chest. Inside, nestled on a bed of velvet, lay a small, golden compass, its needle spinning. Marko lifted it from the box, feeling a strange warmth emanating from the metal. As he watched, the needle slowed, coming to rest on a single point. North. The direction of home, of safety, of all the things he had left behind. Marko closed his eyes, feeling a sense of calm wash over him. He knew the path ahead would be difficult, that the trials the old man spoke of would push him to his limits. But he also knew that he had no choice but to face them head-on. Fight for his survival and for the chance to make things right. With a determined nod, Marko slipped the compass into his pocket. He turned back to the passage, ready to face whatever lay ahead. The storm outside raged on. Inside, a flicker of hope burned bright, guiding him forward into the unknown.

The desolate metropolis of bone marrow, a realm where life begins for countless cells like me. Ichor’s the name. I was just a minuscule, round, and crimson erythrocyte, suffocating between the bodies of others like me. It was a bleak, claustrophobic world. The world was a factory of life filled with the hollow echoes of relentless activity and creation. The bone marrow was a labyrinth of grotesque networks and niches, spread with the eerie hum of productivity and the dim glow of embryonic cells. Among the almost isolating expanse of cells around me, one stood out. She pulsated with a unique, unsettling energy that seemed out of place in this frigid, suffocating expanse. Her name was Arty, and from the moment we met, I felt a connection. “Do you ever wonder what it's like out there?” she asked one day, smiling with warmth. Her voice was soft, like a whisper slicing through the bone marrow’s clamour. “Every moment,” I replied. My thoughts always wandered beyond the marrow. “But it's the thought of experiencing it with you that keeps me going.” Arty looked different from the rest of us. Her form was slightly irregular, her hue a deeper, almost vampiric shade of red. There was a haunting intensity in her, a fascinating deviation from the monotonous design that surrounded us. We spent our days growing side by side, shedding our nuclei and becoming more streamlined. The marrow's dense, fibrous network was our prison, and its stagnant energy pushed us toward our inevitable fate. We were resigned to the world beyond, and I couldn't fathom enduring this journey without her. The day of our release arrived. A current swept us away from our birthplace, guiding us toward a narrow passage. This was the sinusoid, a blood vessel within the marrow that would lead us to the bloodstream. The journey was a terrifying ordeal. I could feel the lifeless rhythm of the body, a cacophony of desolation that reverberated around us, the walls of the vessels pulsating with the heartbeat's chilling cadence. “Stay close,” Arty said, smiling warmly. “You too.” I could feel my heart, ironically, ache. Arty and I emerged from the marrow into the torrent of the bloodstream, like lost souls adrift in a sea of crimson. The world outside the marrow was vast and terrifying. The bloodstream was a grand, merciless river, its currents swift and unrelenting. As we travelled, we gazed at the barren landscape together, passing through the arteries into the smaller arterioles and then into the desolate network of capillaries. Here, the journey became more intimate, as we navigated through the narrow passages that brought us closer to the body's cells. We arrived at a capillary in the muscles, nestled in the vicinity of a muscle cell, where we performed our first exchange. This was our futile role, our pathetic *raison d'être*: deliver oxygen to the cells and carry away carbon dioxide, ensuring the body's continued decay. “Look at this place,” Arty murmured as we floated past. “It's desolate, isn’t it?” “Yes. And it feels like we're condemned to something much bigger.” “Together,” she whispered. “Forever together.” We were forced from the capillaries into the veins, a return route through the bloodstream, dragging us back toward the heart. The superior vena cava, a bleak passage, greeted us with a relentless flow of cells. It was all a haunting procession. Into the right atrium, through the tricuspid valve, we plunged into the right ventricle. Awaiting our grim fate in the depths of the right ventricle, we sensed the impending journey through the pulmonary artery, a pathway to the lungs for a revitalization. Surging into the pulmonary artery, we were consumed by darkness, heading towards the lungs. Inside the lungs, we were trapped in a labyrinth of pulmonary veins, eerie conduits guiding us back to the heart's left atrium. Passing through the embrace of the mitral valve, we entered the left ventricle, tasked with pumping blood out into the abyss. Our final descent began as we were thrust into the aorta. Filled with despair and tiredness, we continued our cursed cycle through the circulatory system, trapped in a grotesque dance of sustaining life throughout the body's inner sanctum. “This is our life now,” I said, looking at Arty. “An endless journey through the body. Each heartbeat is a new adventure, each breath a chance to fulfil our purpose.” “And we'll do it together,” she replied, smiling warmly. “Always together.” But as fate would have it, our journey took a harrowing turn. One day, as we were making our way through a particularly narrow capillary in the heart, I noticed something unsettling. The other cells around us began to recoil. Their cautious actions grew palpable. “Arty, are you alright?” I asked. “I'm fine,” she replied quickly, trying to smile, but there was a shadow in her tone and expression, something she was hiding. Panic gripped me as I tried to understand what was happening. We were meant to be inseparable, yet Arty seemed to be transforming into something I couldn't recognize. All I could do was plead to her in my mind, *Stay with me*. *I’m trying*, I could imagine her replying with. The unease between us grew with every cycle. Arty began to change. Her actions became erratic; she disrupted the production of new blood cells, the lifeline of our world, and absorbed more than her share of the nutrients and growth factors we all needed to survive. Our bond strained as the marrow around us began to wither, and the environment that had once been our suffocating home turned hostile. Our separation started subtly, a growing chasm as she consumed the very life that sustained us. As we were dragged back towards the heart, something terrible happened. The vessels here felt different—fragile, hollow. A feeling of dread washed over me, an instinctive warning of impending doom. Suddenly, with a sickening tear, the vessel wall ruptured. Blood, cells, and plasma spilled out into the surrounding void, chaos erupting as the carefully controlled facade of the bloodstream shattered. I was swept away, thrown violently into the abyss. Disoriented and terrified, I searched for Arty amidst the chaos. I saw her, struggling against the current, her form now grotesquely distorted, her colour an unnatural, malignant hue. “Arty!” I cried out into the emptiness. She looked back with a cold, distant gaze. Her gaze dropped, and a heavy silence enveloped us. The truth hung in the air, unspoken yet undeniable. And then, as if to confirm my worst fears, I saw it. Among the turmoil of cells and blood, Arty's form shifted, revealing the unmistakable silhouette of a threat. “Arty…?” My voice faltered. But before I could utter another word, a surge of blood swept us apart, carrying us into the abyss of the body's depths. The darkness engulfed me, swallowing me whole as I drifted aimlessly in the frigid void. In that moment of solitude, the realisation hit me with a crushing weight. The love and companionship I had once cherished were nothing but a cruel illusion, shattered by the reality of my love’s true nature. She was a threat, a malignant force that had poisoned our existence, and I had been unwittingly ensnared by her lies. As I floated alone in the desolate expanse of the body, the memory of Arty's form haunted me, a reminder of my folly, what I foolishly embraced. And with each passing moment, the truth seeped into my very being, leaving me adrift in a sea of despair. In that moment, as the blood surged around me, I realised how I had been tricked by simple deception. And as my consciousness faded into oblivion, the chilling truth lingered in the darkness. In the end, as the echoes of our bond disappeared into the void, the cold reality of her true identity dawned upon me. Arty was not what she seemed. And I’ve realised her purpose, the real reason she existed and why she was here. Her true function was right there, and I didn’t see it until it was too late. Cancer.

**NOTE: “\*\*\*” <– MARKS A SCENE CHANGE** \* \* \* \* \* \* \* \* The moon loomed overhead, bathing the massive expanse of the forest with its light. The scent of damp grass wafted through the air as fireflies sparkled in the darkness of the forest. Kuntal Mondal, the forest ranger, silently made his way through the forest, his eyes scanning the environment. In one part of the pines and firs, a small clearing could be seen. Within the clearing stood a bunch of weathered tents. They were marred with yellowish stains, while the bonfire beside the tents danced with the breeze. Kuntal squinted after noticing that many things were scattered around the clearing, including clothes, sticks, beer cans and also, a solitary walkie talkie. He was frustrated with the whole thing. Not only had these people illegally camped in the forest but they had also left a mess. Kuntal took slow, calculated steps towards the walkie talkie, making sure he didn’t make a sound. He pocketed the walkie talkie, hoping that someone could reply from the other end. “Is anyone there?” he said through the device, eyeing the trees around him. He could have sworn that he saw something there. “I repeat, can anyone hear me?” Suddenly, a *Pit Pat* echoed from the depths of the forest. Pulling out his handgun, Kuntal jerked himself towards the direction of the sound, expecting someone to lunge out of the depths. Sweat trickled from his forehead as he heard more *Pit Pats* in front of him. He gasped as a strange figure materialized from the distance. The creature towered over Kuntal, its massive bulk casting a long, ominous shadow across the clearing. Its body was disproportionately large, with thick, muscular limbs that seemed capable of crushing anything in their path. It crawled on all fours, its limbs all twisted and contorted, while its slimy skin filled the air with a horrid stench. Its massive mouth opened, revealing many protruding, jagged teeth, ready to engulf Kuntal. He wasted no time before firing his handgun, yelling loudly for help. The creature was taken aback by the gunshots that pierced its body, but it made no signs of retreat. With no other choice, he took out a flare, lit it with blurring speed, and held it up, his hands trembling. The creature stopped momentarily, recognizing the heat of the flare, but it continued towards Kuntal with a deafening high-pitched scream. Kuntal took a few steps back before throwing the flare directly into the creature’s mouth. In an instant, the creature’s screams filled the air as it scrambled helplessly all over the place. Kuntal gasped as he saw the belly slowly expanding. Kuntal did not want to experience the sight anymore. He wheeled himself around before running full-speed into the forest, not heeding the pain in his hips. He did not know where he was going but as long as he was out of that thing’s reach, it was alright. As he ran through the forest, avoiding bumping into trees, he heard a deafening explosion from behind which was followed by sounds of many things dropping to the ground, each impact making a gross, slimy sound. Kuntal looked behind him and gagged, the creature had blown up into a thousand pieces, its slimy remains scattered throughout the ground, some even stuck on tree branches. More slime oozed out of the scattered pieces, filling the air with a stench akin to one of rotten eggs. “That thing exploded,” Kuntal said, grossed out by the whole ordeal. He was glad to be alive, for he had only heard stories of other rangers encountering the beast but he had never faced it himself. Kalikan Forest was known for stories regarding strange creatures like whatever Kuntal had faced. But skeptics had never believed stuff like this, always countering the tales by questioning the absence of carcasses, photographic evidence, and successful expeditions meant to find these creatures. However, Kuntal knew better, as did the other rangers of the forest. They were well aware that these creatures were intelligent, capable of hiding themselves when necessary. The lack of photographic evidence was mainly due to the fact that no one survived encounters to take pictures, and even if they did, they never returned to share them. Furthermore, if these skeptics denied the existence of these creatures, then nothing could explain the cause of the many disappearances throughout the years. Still, Kuntal had only been here for a week, so encountering something like that put him off quite a bit despite hearing the stories from other rangers. Kuntal had run quite a long distance before he aligned himself with a trail, a mud path leading to a watch-tower in the distance. It loomed over the forest, casting a long shadow across it. This was Tower Moonshine, one of the three ranger towers in Kalikan forest and this one belonged to Kuntal. He rushed to the watchtower, brushing the sweat off his face before starting to climb the spiraling staircase that led to the viewing deck of the tower. “I have to warn the others,” he thought as he raced through the stairs, his hips begging him to stop. “I should have never gone there alone.” When he had finally reached the top of the tower, he took in deep breaths, trying to cleanse the memory of what had just happened, his heart pounding on his ribcage. He took a brief rest, letting his hip pain subside before he went into the interior, turning the doorknob with his sweaty palms. The ceiling lights cast its glow over the room, illuminating it. A small bed was tucked away in one of the corners while a large table was placed on another side. On it lay a computer, a large radio and a coffee machine while many crumpled sheets of paper lay scattered on the floor, mingled with soda cans and water bottles. Kuntal booted up the radio, its static buzzing through the air. “Is anyone there? This is Tower Moonshine, come in,” he began with a shaky voice. “Is anyone there? I got bad news.” “This is Ranger Tower Riverine. What is the problem Kuntal?” replied a voice through the static. Kuntal let out a sigh, glad that someone had responded. “Mike, the camp I went to search, it was empty,” Kuntal said, recalling the strange sight. “And then, this happened”. He proceeded to explain the whole encounter with the creature, even recalling the memory caused him to tremble. The other ranger calmly listened till he had finished. “Are you sure that you have not lost your mind?” Mike said, his voice carrying the tone of worry rather than skepticism. Kuntal answered rather angrily, “No, and if you doubt me then I have wasted your time.” Kuntal was simply frustrated. He feared that nobody would believe him but he had to try. “Look, I do not doubt you,” Mike said sadly. “I was simply concerned. Plus, we already knew that stuff like this roams around the forest. Now if what you say is true, then we have to warn Pralay. Did you bring any evidence of the fat boy? It will be harder to convince the Pralay without it considering that he’s new.” “Fat boy? Mike, this is serious!” Kuntal said, his anger rising. “And no, I did not get any evidence. However, I did get a walkie talkie from the campsite.” “Have you tried to get a reply from the other end?” “I tried, but that’s when the ‘thing’ stepped in. Let me give it another shot. Hold on.” Kuntal took out the walkie talkie and said, “If anyone can hear me, please reply! Come in, can anyone hear me?” Shivers went down Kuntal’s spine as a shaky, gravelly voice came from the talkie, “Hello? Derek, are you there? What the hell happened?” Kuntal hesitated for a moment before saying, “This is not Derek, we are the forest rangers. Tell us where you are, we saw your bonfire near the camp but no one was there.” “Where is Derek? How do we get to the den?” “Just tell us where you are. We will come and find you. And what is this den?” “If we knew where we were, we would have got to the den already. Screw you, man. We are gonna try to get back to camp.” “Wait, no! Don’t return to the camp!” Kuntal yelled desperately, but the connection was cut, leaving the room in silence except for the sound of the wind beating at the windows. “Well, that did not go well.” Mike let out a audible sigh. “I am gonna warn Pralay, Good night Kuntal.” “Good night,” Kuntal said grimly, putting his hands over his forehead. He thought that he could have handled that conversation better. Fear crept over him as he retired to sleep. It had been a long day, and despite all of the things that had happened, he quickly broke into a deep slumber. Dreams swirled in his mind; dreams of a strange creature, akin to the one he had seen before, with the only difference being that the creature was smaller. There were numerous of them, looking towards him curiously. Slowly, they closed in around him leaving him no chance for escape. He let out a scream as the creatures lunged at, tearing him into pieces. He scrambled around, before suddenly, he fell into the void. Kuntal woke up, realizing that he had fallen into the floor. His heart was beating at a intense speed while his brain was still processing the meaning of the nightmare. The sunlight crept in through the window, grasping Kuntal with his warm hand. Birds chirped noisily outside, mingled with the gentle rustle of leaves. The combined scent of grass and flowers filled his nostrils, immediately easing his heart. Nature was the only thing keeping him going in this strange forest. The peace was short-lived however, as the radio started to beep. Kuntal rushed to turn it on, filling the air with static. “This is Ranger Tower Moonshine, what is it?” he said, waiting expectantly, but no answer came. “This is Ranger Tower Moonshine, come in.” “This is Ranger Tower Riverine. Kuntal, what is it? You woke me up, man!” “No, I did not broadcast the signal, Mike. Was it you, Pralay?” No answer came. “Come in Ranger Tower Hillside, are you there? Pralay, are you there?” Kuntal said, once again receiving no answer. “If he does not pick up the radio, I will slap him when I see him next time.” “He’s probably sleeping,” Mike said, laughing at Kuntal’s outburst. “Anyways, did you get anything else out of the walkie talkie?” “I slept early yesterday,” Kuntal said, shivers going down his spine. He did not want to recall the dream again. “But who was broadcasting to the radio?” “I dunno, it probably picked up some random frequency” Before Kuntal could reply, a shaky and gravelly voice spoke through the radio. “We have found the den, Derek! We stole the ranger’s stuff and it was enough for supplies and Martin helped us with it. I hope you are hearing this, Derek. Please come to the den quickly, its just beside the river we discussed about in camp. I will leave you a map at this tower if you are lost.” The connection cut off before anyone could reply, leaving Kuntal to be puzzled. “I have a really bad feeling about this.” There was a long pause. Kuntal did not like this at all. Not only were these people avoiding them, they had also apparently stolen supplies from rangers. Mike finally broke the silence and said, “We need to check on Pralay. They said something about stealing stuff from rangers. Meet me at Tower Hillside” \*\*\* Later that evening, Kuntal had reached Tower Hillside which was a couple of miles away from his tower. There he met Mike, standing near the staircase leading to the viewing deck. He was looking up at the tower with a gun in his hand. Kuntal took out his own gun before looking up at the tower. The tower’s light came through the windows, illuminating the surroundings slightly. A bone chilling mist raced through the air, making Kuntal shiver. “Something isn’t right,” Mike said sniffing at the air. Kuntal had not realized it before but a horrid smell wafted through the air, resembling the stench of rotten eggs. “Come on, Kuntal. Stay behind me, I don’t want you to get hurt.” “No, I will lead.” Kuntal objected, but Mike had already started ascending up the stairs. With each step, Kuntal grew increasingly alarmed, tightening his grip on the gun. When they finally reached the viewing deck, Mike stopped Kuntal with his arm stretched out. “Stay there,” he said before taking slow, deliberate steps towards the open door. Shivers went down Mike’s spine as he looked inside the room. The bed cover was torn apart, with cotton spilling from the pillows.Yellowish stains marred the walls, and the chair lay upturned, one of its legs broken. The tables, usually equipped with radios and a computer, were completely devoid of these things. However, a strange piece of paper lying on the floor caught his attention. “Kuntal! You might wanna see this!” Kuntal gasped entered into the chaotic room and wanted to comment about it, but Mike stopped him and handed him the piece of paper. Kuntal furrowed his brows as he realized that it was a map of the forest, with a particular point near the river marked with a red dot. “This must be the den that they were talking about,” said Kuntal, stroking his chin, but Mike was concerned about something else. Where was Pralay? Surely, he did not let himself be captured by whoever ravaged the place? “Pralay must be in that den and so are the thieves,” he said to himself. “Should I really risk going there or just leave it to the authorities?” “No Mike,” Kuntal replied, shaking his head. “Bringing the authorities into this mess means bringing questions to us. And we already know that they ain’t going to believe a single thing about my story.” Mike let out a deep sigh before stepping out onto the viewing deck. Suddenly, a small creature, very similar to the one Kuntal had seen before popped out of the shadows, lunging at Mike with terrifying force. Mike got knocked over, and he started to wrestle with the creature. “SHIT!” Kuntal cried, aiming his gun at the scrambling creature. It was too risky to shoot, he could hurt Mike. “Hold still, Mike!” The creature enlarged its mouth, revealing the set of jagged teeth, slime oozing out of its body. Kuntal’s heart skipped a beat as he shot at the creature, hoping that it would not hurt Mike. The bullet found its mark, piercing through the slimy body, yet it seemed relatively unfazed, only giving a glance towards Kuntal. But in that very instant, Mike used all his strength to lift the creature up and drop it onto the ground below. How he managed to lift it up, he did not know himself. It exploded into many pieces on impact, its slimy parts splattered all over the ground. Kuntal let out sigh, relieved to see Mike safe. Mike snarled as he brushed off the oozy slime off his shirt. “This is a mess. How did it even get up here?” he said, eyeing the creature’s decrepit corpse “Are you hurt?” Kuntal asked, not heeding Mike’s question. “No, don’t worry about me Kuntal. We have to find Pralay and see what these fools are up to. We need to investigate that den. It is our duty to save him.” “No!” Kuntal said, raising his voice. “Mike, don’t you see how dangerous this is? It will be foolish to even try something like that. Let them be. I am going away from here. I will be giving my resignation tomorrow morning.” “After all we have been through,” Mike began, clenching his jaw. “You decide to leave me here, alone?” “Why? Are you not resigning too, Mike? Surely you understand how unsafe this is” “Yes,” Mike said, glaring at him. “I understand how dangerous this is. But it is our duty to save Pralay, we can’t just leave him out there!” “We don’t even know if he’s alive, Mike!” Kuntal cried. He did not want to spend a day more in this forest after seeing all these attacks. “Let’s just leave, Mike. Do you remember when we signed up and the employer said that the last rangers only lasted a week? What’s to say that they met the same fate?” There was a short pause. Mike stared at Kuntal, lowering his brows. “I will go to the den. That’s final.” Kuntal shook his head slowly. “As your friend, I can’t leave you here. I will come, but if we can’t find Pralay, then we go back immediately.” “Then let’s begin!” Mike said, starting to descend down the steps. \*\*\* The moon was shrouded by dark clouds, thunder reverberating through the air. Small drops of rain showered on the forest, creating many puddles of water throughout the ground. The rain created constant ripples on the river flowing beside the forest while frogs croaked loudly, singing their song. The rain splattered on Kuntal’s face, brought by the chilly wind. Mike was in front of him, scaling through the environment and getting his feet stuck in the muddy ground. “Damn the rain!” he cried loudly, receiving a angry ‘shush’ from Kuntal. As they got closer, they could see a small opening on the side of a large rock-face sticking out of the ground. Kuntal’s heart fastened its pace as he saw drops of slime dripping from the top of the opening. He wanted to turn back but kept going, lead by Mike’s undying fire of determination Mike entered the cave, while Kuntal followed hesitantly. As soon as he stepped inside, his shoe got stuck in the slimy booze splattered on the floor. He struggled to get it out, eventually leading him to leave the shoe and carry on barefooted. They cautiously moved past the slimy mess before they were greeted by the darkness. Mike took out his flashlight and the the beam of light further into the cave. Mike narrowed his brows as he the flashlight revealed a long tunnel, with more slime stuck on the ceiling. They barely fit into the tunnel, making their way through it half bent. Kuntal felt the wall closing in on him, tight spaces were not kind to him. His breath felt labored while his ears seemed to catch strange *Pit Pat* noises mingled with the *Drip Drop* of water. As they made their way, the tunnel got increasingly humid with sweat trickling from their faces, their shirts more wet from their sweat than the shower of rain they had been through before. “If Pralay is here,” Kuntal thought. “He won’t be alive”. Kollas looked back at the way he came from and felt a pull towards it, yet he kept going. Suddenly Mike stopped, leading Kuntal to bump into him. “What is it?” Kuntal whispered, his voice echoing through the air. “Why did you stop?” Mike turned back, his eyes widened, he held out the badge of Pralay, the embossed copper gleaming under the flashlight’s influence. “He must be here somewhere,” whispered Mike, pocketing the badge. He proceeded to walk through the tunnel, but Kuntal was hesitant. Not only was the tunnel growing increasingly smaller, it was also getting hotter. Still, he went on. After what felt like hours of stumbling, they finally reached the end. Little did they know that the opening would lead them to the most sinister place imaginable. Mike swiftly crawled out of the opening, followed by Kuntal. Kuntal panted for a while. It had not been easy, crawling through that tunnel. But instead of inhaling fresh air, a horrid stench greeted him instead. Kuntal stumbled back as he saw what the flashlight illuminated. Dozens, no… hundreds of spherical blobs were clustered throughout the cavern. Slime hung on the ceiling in thin strands, their nets supporting more clustered blobs. Kuntal gasped as he noticed that the blobs housed tiny creatures which were a miniature version of the creatures they had encountered before. Mike simply stood there, frozen in place, with his hand covering his mouth. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” a familiar voice said. Kuntal and Mike took a few steps back, noticing a young, blonde-haired lady, her voice was the one they heard from the walkie talkie. “So, Derek did not come. It was a shame, really.” “Who are you?” Mike demanded, his hands near the gun strap. “And what is all of this?” added Kuntal. “Oh, this?” she said casually, pointing to the clusters of blobs. “Why, they are eggs of course!” “Eggs? You mean that this is the home to those damn creatures?” Kuntal said, feeling frustrated himself. “And what hand do you have behind all of this? Why did you come here?” “I thought that was quite clear?” she said, her voice musically toned. “I wanted to visit Derek and all of his friends. So, I set out with a couple of my friends to visit him.” “Who is Derek?” “Well that is what saddens me,” she said, her smile turning into a frown. “You killed him. Blew him up with that flare, or atleast that’s what his brothers say.” Mike and Kuntal stood there, frozen in shock. The silence intensified, the sound of multiple splotchy footsteps reaching their ears. Kuntal’s breath caught in his throat as he saw numerous of the small creatures surround them, their fat, slimy bodies glistening under the flashlight’s influence while their teeth shone brightly. “No….this can’t be,” Mike stuttered, looking at all of the creatures. “What have you done to Pralay?” “Oh, Pralay? You mean the ranger? Well he was the payment for Derek’s death. Here he is!” The creatures brought out a twisted, contorted body with its organs exposed, blood spewing out of the body. The blood mingled with the slime, inflating strange blobs of slime, their cells interchanging with each other to form clusters of blobs. “One death gives the rise to many lives,” the lady said, smiling menacingly. Kuntal gagged, feeling his heart drum intensely while Mike broke into a run, going back towards the tunnel opening but it was too late. Mike was surrounded by the creatures, as they circled around him with great pace, slowly closing in. Kuntal let out a horrified yell, as the creatures extended their jaws, tearing Mike apart in a thousand pieces. Hundreds of blobs sprouted out of Mike’s decrepit corpse as tears streamed down Kuntal’s cheek. “This is where your story ends, ranger. You’re just a pawn in a much bigger game. I’ve been tending to these creatures for years, and they’ll only get stronger. Your role may be over, but you’ll still serve my purpose. You’ll help me spread these mutated creatures far and wide.” Kuntal yelled desperately, as the creatures closed in upon him bringing him to his demise. And with his death, his story remained unfinished, with no echo of his memory remaining. That was not everything. The lady collapsed onto the floor, her eyes widened. Hundreds of the tiny creatures tore out of her body, slime oozing out of her nostrils and ears. More creatures came out of Mike’s decrepit corpse. The creatures met in the middle with them rhythmically speaking in a high pitched voice. They spoke in their own language but I will tell you what they said. “You have done well,” the group that came out of the lady’s body said to the other group that came out out of Mike’s body. “What was the ranger’s name again? Oh, right Mike. Yes, Mike did well, we controlled his mind just enough to bring the other ranger here. Anyways, once they hire the next ranger, make sure to settle yourselves on one of their minds.” They proceeded to chant in a chorus, their voiced echoing through the air.

Sitting at the dinner table are Isma and her mentor. As Isma puts the last bite of meat into her mouth, Her mentor starts the conversation abruptly. \&nbsp; "Isma this is your 16th birthday right?" He speaks with a stoic tone. \&nbsp; "Yes," She responded. \&nbsp; She is already more than used to these stoic tone. Ever since before She even started to live with her mentor. When she was only just 4-5 years old. Back then she would come to train here at best three times a week, Via her father forcefully dragging her to train here. Well. Before the tragedy befell her anyway. \&nbsp; "It's been 11 years since then do you still wish to pursue her?". \&nbsp; Isma's right hand, The one holding the spoon, Which is about to reach into her mouth staggers as if caught by surprise. \&nbsp; "Yes," she said. \&nbsp; It's been 11 years since she started to train with her mentor, Almost 24/7 every year every week. \&nbsp; And it's also been 11 years since her father got killed. By "her". By "them". \&nbsp; As he heard what Isma said his face changed color, like someone who just heard what they want to hear the least. \&nbsp; "Then be sure to sleep early today. I have something for you." \&nbsp; After he finishes his dinner, Then he stands up And leaves the house. \&nbsp; \&nbsp; ‐ Later that night \&nbsp; In the middle of that night. Isma, same as always, is finding it hard to sleep. Then hearing the footsteps, she jumps out of bed and enters a fighting stance. The door opens. And to her surprise. There is at the door her mentor and a person behind his back. Then her mentor throws the man behind his back to the floor of her room, Making a loud noise, And says... \&nbsp; "Isma do you still wish to continue your revenge". \&nbsp; Isma is confused panic and wonders, As cold sweat rolls down her face. \&nbsp; she says." ...Yes," \&nbsp; "Do You Still Wish To Continue Your Revenge?" He says it again, louder. \&nbsp; Isma staggers and, says "Yes, I do. still want my revenge." \&nbsp; "Kill this man..." \&nbsp; Shocked by what he's just said, She doesn't even know how to respond. In the moment of silence. She sees the man is still conscious, bandages covering his mouth and all his limbs, With the eyes gazing back and forth hopelessly between her and her mentor. \&nbsp; "Kill this man! What can you do with your revenge? If you can not even kill a single mountain bandit." \&nbsp; Still silenced from the shock. After all, she never questions, she never stutters from his training, his orders, or his lessons. Even now, she still knows why her mentor did this. It's just another lesson. just like what he said. What can she do, If she can't even kill a single bandit? \&nbsp; But it's just, That she never ever thought of how hard it really is to kill a single person. \&nbsp; "Ignore those useless things Isma. We as social animals have an instinct to not kill another member of our races, and you must ignore it." \&nbsp; "I did not say for you to let go of your instinct. That's the core of the fighting. What I mean is discard what is not important instinct moral anything." \&nbsp; "Those whose pursuit revenge don't need or deserve those." \&nbsp; As he's finished lecturing, Isma starts breathing even harder and makes up her mind. She starts pulling the knife under her bed. \&nbsp; Her mentor quickly throws a rock knocking the knife out of her hand. \&nbsp; "Don't use those. Use your hand. And know how much it'll take to kill a human being". \&nbsp; Isma looks at her mentor eye to eye as if to clarify he's not joking, Shaking even more. She starts walking toward the bandit. Her face and his face look terrified. One is scared of death. One is scared of what herself about to do. \&nbsp; Isma pulls her hands out and reaches them to his neck. Then grabs it tightly. The sound he's making through the bandage is almost as if he's purposely making it to make sure Isma knows. He is unable to breathe. \&nbsp; "10." her mentor starts counting. \&nbsp; "20." Isma starts to sweat even more. \&nbsp; "30." The bandit's face starts to turn red. \&nbsp; "60." Isma's sweat started to make her hand slippy. \&nbsp; "62." But she still maintains the tightness and position. \&nbsp; "80." The bandit strangling even more. \&nbsp; "85." Making it hard to maintain the tightness. \&nbsp; "100." The strangling and shaking are harder and harder. \&nbsp; "120." The sweat of the bandit and Isma starting to be difficult to tell apart from each other. \&nbsp; "140." His face begins to turn blue. \&nbsp; "150." The struggle seems to be less and less. \&nbsp; "160." his eyes start to round back behind his head. \&nbsp; "170." As the bubble starts to come out endlessly from his mouth. \&nbsp; "180." The victim has died from being unable to breathe. \&nbsp; "181." As well As the last light seems to fade from Isma's eyes. \&nbsp; As her mentor watches Isma let go of her hands. His face seems to be the face of a sorrowful person. As if what he really wants, Is for Isma to give up. Then Isma drops down to the floor. No vomiting, No crying, No nothing for one to expect from someone who just killed a person. just emptiness, With all stamina gone. \&nbsp; Then, As her mentor begins walking to the door and is about to leave, \&nbsp; He says "Deal with the body yourself. In whatever way. Burn, bury, throw it into the river. And let yourself know. How much it'll take to deal with the death." \&nbsp; As the door is about to be closed. "Next time, there won't be bandages on their mouth.

Status: Incomplete Getting fired from your forth job was a punch in the face, it’s illegal to fire someone due to mental health concerns and behavior issues in EverBlack forest town but any one of these rats can get away with, ‘Rules are meant to be broken.’ another day, another lost job, at least other 11 year olds can maintain a stable income despite living with their parents, my house was a dump. It didn’t help it stunk like one and call it cozy all you want, the log house suffocated me to death. I kicked away a can of fish in anger, how much worse can this night possibly get? My ears twitched as I heard someone, crying? Coming from the direction which was hidden by my views due to all the trees and bushes and whatnot. It’s most likely the bullies again, a group of 5 big cats who liked to chase away small ones, which isn’t saying a lot because almost everyone was small in comparison to them. I cursed my curiosity and peaked from a bush, it was a kid alright but not any kid. My blood turned cold, it was-it was, ‘A Lucosa cat.’ one of the bullies sneered with glee, frightening the Persian even more as he pressed against the wall, probably hoping to fade away, stupid, wildcats were known for thriving at night, what good will more darkness do? I don’t know what demon possessed me to do what I did next, jumping out the bush. Why will I try to save a freak? A stupid one no less but what is done can’t be undone. ‘Leave him alone.’ My tone stonic or at least I hoped so. ‘Look who is here, the Night loser, the one and only Nyx!’ chuckled one of the larger bullies. ‘At least I’m working.’ ‘On getting fired quicker?’ said the one I recognised, Eric. Others howled with laughter as my face burned red, not the child though, he had seemed to disappear. Traitor, a voice murmured in my head and my jaw tightened. Eric must’ve sensed something was up as he looked back and his eyes widened with anger, which in simple terms means more trouble for me. ‘What are you? Part of freak protection organization?’ Eric snapped, making his friends more alert, bad, I took a step backward, they inched closer, my cursing grew more and more significant. ‘No, but it sounds better than being part of the fattest bullies around the organization.’ I replied as my brain scrambled for any solution it could get its claws on. No such luck, one of them grabbed me by the collar as I struggled to break free, my vision darkened as they pushed me against a tree. My regret filled up even quicker, why did I have to save him? It’s not like I have a hero’s complex, Or do I? He punched me in the face, which should’ve left all my teeth broken and mouth bleeding but thankfully only my mouth was bleeding which wasn’t good but hey, optimism right? ‘Let-Let h-him go!’ called out a fairly weak voice as I felt something brush against my shoulder. Looking up, it was that kid, I stared in disbelief, he is either incredibly brave or incredibly dumb. ‘Or what?’ some of the bullies were practically laughing from amusement, my face started to burn, we probably looked ridiculous trying to fight the gang. The boy however was kneeling by my side and searching for something in his fanny pack while Eric was babbling something to others ‘We take them out, should be embarrassing enough for the Night Loser.’ the boy whispered something to me, ‘I’ll need you to close your eyes,’ he said. I cringed at how close he was but obeyed anyways, the last thing I needed on my resume was ‘Got beaten by a 8 year old Lucosa cat.’ He was definitely blowing something my ears picked up, for a while nothing happened, no sounds, suddenly there was screaming, high-pitched screaming and running, I took a peak, many of ‘em were covering their eyes and screaming for water, the child grinned like an idiot and motioned me to stand up, I regretted it to say the least, my shoulder burned as if I had dislocated it, his Green eyes looked at me in what seemed like genuine worry and he offered his hand, I shook my head. Not knowing what he did made it harder to tell how long the gang will be in discord, meaning we have to get out quickly. I motioned him to follow me and walked without looking back, if he was so smart, he could keep up. Besides I wasn’t walking at any honorable speed, with a bleeding mouth and a burning shoulder and burdened by my own failures, each step felt harder and heavier, my breathing grew shallow. ‘Maybe we should rest…sir.’ Suggested a little voice which seemed to like following me around, ‘There’s a clearing close by.’ he added not much later. ‘Whatever’ needless to say I listened to him. After what seemed like hours of walking (Note: It was only 15 minutes, I checked my watch.) There was an opening all right and it looked beautiful in the twilight, unfortunately I didn’t have much time to admire it as my body gave up and collapsed beside a tree, taking deep breaths. The boy; without an invitation, sat beside me, which I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. ‘So your name’s Nyx?’ he asked, warmly, Lucosa cats, what do they like so much about the sun? ‘Yes.’ my answer was short and crisp, any sane person would’ve stopped the conversation at this point but no, no, no, The Lucosa had to continue. ‘My name is Luma.’ he seemed nervous. Typical. ‘Cool, Luma do you always look for things that can hurt us ghastly creatures?’ his turn to blush, he started to stutter, truth be told it looked pretty adorable. ‘N-no Sir, of course not-’ ‘You know you can just call me Nyx?’ My irritation grew, he was practically fuming now, nice to see someone else embarrassed for a turn. ‘Alrighty…you okay Nyx?’ He seemed genuinely worried this time, which was annoying. ‘Do I look like some sort of child to you, Luma? I am fine.’ I said shortly. ‘You don’t look fine, why did the bullies call you night lo-’ ‘It’s none of your business Luma!’ I snapped, I hated when people invaded my privacy, especially strangers, pretending to care. ‘Right, sorry. Thanks for saving me, Nyx.’ he gave a little smile, I just stared at him incredulously. ‘Saving you? Pretty sure it was the other way around.’ I snorted. ‘Eh, I doubt that. So what? You’ve got a modest hero complex now?’ he grinned. I simply shrugged, what was left to say? He seemed to be staring at the stars now, the silence getting awkward. I for once decided to break it. ‘Whatcha doing around here?’ ‘W-what?’ He looked caught off guard. ‘This is EverBlack forest town, for the night-Lafosas. What the hell is a Lucosa cat doing here?’ my question was simple but he looked troubled, he quickly plastered on another smile and said, ‘I-it’s a long story.’ I bothered him no more. ‘Here, let me help with the shoulder, I have uh, something for the pain.’ he mumbled as he once again toyed with his bag and pulled out a bandage and some small bottles. ‘Why?’ I asked curiously as he gave me (Read: forced) to eat one of those weird pills. ‘Cause…I don’t know, I am kinda tired of getting lost in the woods and this weird town now.’ he answered as he pressed a cloth against my bleeding mouth, his touch was warm, if you are surprised then well don’t, he literally belongs to the light tribe. ‘Really? No prejudice against us savages and lab rats? None whatsoever?’ he looked like he had been mourning a friend , the way he looked at me, which made me deeply unsettled. ‘Listen, I don’t know what the authorities do and I don’t know about your tribe or pride, but I am in no favor of what happens, plus you are the first nice person I met.’ ‘Me? Nice? Wow, have you not met like any other person your whole life?’ ‘I have, but not nice ones.’ I stopped chuckling when I realized he was being serious, not sardonic. ‘Right, sorry.’ ‘It’s okay…there you’re all patched up, should be fine in a few days.’ It was true, I tried to sit up straight, my shoulder wasn’t hurting anymore and my mouth had pretty much stopped bleeding. ‘What are you now? A Magic user?’ I laughed, the only magic user I knew was myself, which got me fired for half the jobs when my managers found out. ‘No, just good with medicine.’ but his face has fallen. ‘What’s wrong?’ ‘It’s a uh nothing. Just going to miss you.’ ‘Miss me? What do you mean?’ My tone was sharp, was he- ‘Oh, won’t you be leaving?’ He sounded uneasy, I felt uneasy and maybe guilty because of my thoughts. ‘Uh-huh.’ I said absentmindedly, was I really going to leave him here? I mean, I’ve just met him and he is lost and okay, probably the only person who has been nice to me. ‘You should leave.’ his tone sounded bitter. ‘Why angry?’ I asked. ‘Are you re- Never mind.’ he murmured probably realizing his mistake, and anger bubbled inside me, too late. ‘Did-Did you just call me retarded?’ my voice became low, anger wasn’t my cup of tea, mostly because most of it was internalized. ‘N-no, sorry Nyx I don’t know what i was-’ ‘I don’t care what you were thinking. You better watch that mouth of yours, just because someone doesn’t understand a complete different species at first go, doesn’t mean they are stupid.’ hot, white anger, he was scared alright, not that it mattered, at least to me, not now. ‘I know, I know, I am sorry, j-just don’t get mad.’ he was on the verge of tears now, I am not a complete monster, I just sighed and did not reply. ‘It’s late, I heard the wild cats sleep around midnight?’ ‘Twilight.’ ‘What?’ ‘We call it Twilight, not midnight.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Dunno, sounds less sinister?’ ‘Guess that makes sense, thanks?’ ‘Your welcome.’ I was starting to feel sleepy now, probably Luma’s medicine, as much as I still haven’t forgiven him for that retarded comment. The thought of leaving him alone in the woods here made me uneasy, but asking him to come just sounded needy. Turns out he was sleepier than I was, he literally dropped dead and curled into a ball, that’s not it worked, you don’t laugh and help someone one minute and drop dead the other, he was suspiciously tired for someone so radiant. Being nice as Lafosa cats tend to be, I shook him. ‘Are you alright?’ ‘Hmmm…sleepy.’ he giggled, I stared at him, was this kid high? ‘Okay seriously, what is wrong with you?’ He yawned and sat beside me, barely keeping his eyes open. ‘Nothingggg…’ ‘You are freaking me out little guy.’ I said as he leaned his head against my shoulder, I tried hard not to flinch. ‘Hmm..sorry.’ ‘What is this? Side effects of one of your medicines?’ I asked, praying that nothing like this happens to me. ‘Oh no, they are ab-so-lute-ly safe! Just tired.’ he answered, which irritated me further. Will he ever give a real, normal response that isn’t a lie for once? ‘Sure…’ ‘Hey Nyx, you ever get lonely?’ he babbled, I don’t know what lucid state he was in but I am not going to talk to him about myself like some sort of close friend, besides even if we were close friends it would never work out because talking isn’t one of my strongest suits. ‘Uh, no.’ ‘You sureeee? I am good at finding liars’ he snickered, what was so funny about this now? ‘Not that it’s any of your business but I’ve gotten quite a few close friends.’ hot anger filled me again, why do people think it’s funny to flare my anger? If I wanted to hurt them, it would be a piece of cake for me, all I needed was- ‘No you don’t.’ he wasn’t laughing anymore but the way he was looking at me, I could tell it was pity, nobody needs a homeless Lucosa to pity them. ‘How would you know?!” My voice was practically leaking with feelings,’Even If I didn’t, what does it mean to you?’ He blinked,’Nothing. I-I…sorry I didn’t know it was a sensitive topic.’ Right, because it doesn’t come under common sense to not bug strangers about their private life and if they have friends or not. He paused and looking down, he added,’ I just wanted to ask…nevermind.’ ‘Wanted to ask?’ ‘It’s nothing.’ He was blushing again, it was as if his face was telling him to hide somewhere. ‘O-kay.’ After a while, I added, ’Why do you?’ ‘Do you what?’ ‘Get lonely?’ I suggested. ‘Sometimes.’ he answered, dejected. ‘No family? No friends?’ ‘I used to?’ He looked even sadder. ‘Is this why you’ve been wandering in this town alone?’ ‘I wouldn’t call it a town- but yes.’ Cryptic is not how I will describe Luma, except that was the exact expression on his face. ‘Oh…’ Uncomfortable was an understatement to describe my feelings, I just realized that Luma wasn’t leaning his head against me and was instead sitting straight for a while, his sleepiness had unseemingly turned into uneasiness. ‘The stars are pretty, aren't they?’ ‘Never noticed them really…always thought the Carina was prettier.’ ‘The Carina is a star you know.’ ‘But it’s prettier.’ he grinned proudly. ‘Okay, that’s just stupid Luma.’ I laughed, glad to have the tension lifted. ‘Glad to see you happy and laughing.’ ‘What? I’ve laughed before in front of you, you sap.’ ‘Not like this, don’t get angry but…you seem sort of sad?’ He yawned again, for once it wasn’t anger that filled me at hearing his question. ‘You get used to it, here.’ ‘That’s sad.’ he said. ‘It’s sad.’ I agreed. ‘I was wondering-’ Luma began but he was cut off, trouble was on its way. ‘There they are!’ ‘Where are they??!’ another shouted. ‘Behind the trees you fucking idiot!’ Said a voice, which I assumed belonged to Eric. They found us, Luma looked scared out of his wits, I grabbed his hand, we needed to get out of here and fast, I had no choice. I stared him directly in the eye and said, ‘Hey Luma, you trust me?’ ‘I don’t know?!’ Okay fair enough, we just met and the response was more than enough anyways, I held on to him firmly which made him shriek but no time as we melted in the shadows and the darkness overwhelmed me. \*\*\* The next I opened my eyes, we were next to some bushes which aligned to a path, one that led right to my log cabin, relief and tiredness both filled me, not Luma though, he was looking at me terrified like I had just grown one more eye on my forehead, ah shit, Lucosa cats did not cope well with night, i can’t imagine what night blending must have been like for him, it was like dragging me in daylight but much worse. ‘What was that?!’ he shrieked. ‘Hey it’s okay, it wasn’t that big of a deal-’ ‘You don’t just kidnap strangers to-to what, your home?!’ That pissed me off, like I was just trying to help him. ‘I literally saved you right now!’ ‘I would rather die in the hands of those sa- bullies than do this again!’ but his tone had grown meeker, I knew why and i didn’t like it. ‘Savages?! I get they are bad but they are not savages!’ I inhaled before continuing,’You know what? Maybe you are not such a saint you think you are, you claimed to have no prejudice against us but literally call us savages-’ ‘STOP REFERRING TO THEM AS US!’ He was shaking now,’Just because I said something about them, doesn’t mean it has to apply to your whole species…just stop it…’ ‘Wow, should I be touched that you weren’t calling me savage right now?’ ‘No, but maybe you should not defend them, they are not your friends.’ ‘So you’ll tell me? A Lucosa? What to say now?’ My tone grew more aggressive, I did not like how he could trigger me, understand me and be right about me, all at once. ‘Maybe I should, if you’re going to keep getting fired.’ he shot back, my jaw tightened and my hatred for Luma burned like passion. ‘You are a-’ ‘What?! A little freak with magic?! Guess what, so are you!’ a fat teardrop trickled down his cheek, suddenly it made sense why he was acting so strange after helping me, the less practice you have with magic, the more tired you got after using it. I had practice, so it didn’t affect me in such a weird way. ‘Nyx…?’ He asked cautiously like you would to an- wait, was he afraid of me? For some reason, the thought made my heartbeat rise faster and my chest hurt a little, not in a sick way, just a very weird one. ‘Are you- afraid..of me?’ The words were a little hard to form. ‘N-no, of course not, it’s just…just-’ he didn’t complete his sentence. ‘Wouldn’t blame you.’ I muttered, for once someone didn’t hate me and I had to ruin it and use my stupid, cursed magic. I kicked a stone. ‘I never said that.’ He caught up as I was leaving, looking a little anxious. ‘Whatever, I don't care.’ ‘I was just wondering..’ ‘Wondering what?’ I snapped. ‘Can we be friends.’ He blurted out then looked all nervous and embarrassed,’I mean if you are al-’ ‘Okay..?’ I answered, Something was seriously wrong with me. Befriending Lucosa will surely cost me more of my reputation, which surprise, surprise, wasn’t good. But I had to say yes, it was irresistible, like the more forbidden the fruit is, the more you want it, not exactly a great analogy but eh. ‘R-really?’ he stuttered, I shrugged. ‘How about you stay for the night?’ I offered, not exactly sure why but those cute button eyes did not go with the sad smile Luma always pulled up. ‘Thank you.’ He mumbled, pretty sure he was going to hug me but oh well. ‘No biggie.’ Actually it was going to be a biggie, when anyone finds out.

I never had a breakup as strange as I had with Zack Smithers. We've met in 1966 in a record store. I saw him wildly searching for a specific record, which made me very curious. He kept calling the store clerk: — “Yesterday and Today”, by The Beatles! Do you have it?, for which the poor employee who looked like a fusion between Bob Dylan and Keith Richard kept saying "No. They're all sold out." — I have one. If you really want it, you can come to my place so we can hear it together. — I said. Obviously, not in the first day. After three and a half weeks, when I was buying the new The Who album and a bunch of gum, I saw that sad figure asking for that album for the 100th time and couldn't help feeling sorry for him. It's obviously a great record, but I wouldn't spend all this time looking for it. “He is a real nowhere man" , I thought. When he saw that vynil at my apartment, his reaction was to look it like it was made of pure gold, like he was an archeologist who've discovered real traces of the lost city of Atlantis. —I know you will think I'm a mad man, but do you have a kettle? — he said. I couldn't believe when he used the steam of the kettle to remove the cover of the album, replacing the image of the four Beatles posing with a large suitcase for one much more sinister: the four dressed like butchers, smiling like psychopaths, with meat and baby dolls all over them. “This is the craziest thing I've ever seen! How did you know that?", I said. He did not answer until 6 years later. What I loved about Zack was his musical taste and how he seemed to know exactly what I'd like. In the New Year's Eve of 1969 he said two new rock genres would come out that year and bought me the debut albums of two unknown bands: Black Sabbath and King Crimson. In the January of that same year he convinced me to travel to London and wait in front of a building to watch a supposed concert by The Beatles, and they actually appeared and played on the rooftop! Strangely, he seemed to cry whenever Paul said "get back! Get back to where you once belonged". Unfortunately, his great knowledge of music wasn't a great match with his mysterious personality. I didn't know where he came from, where his parents lived or any information that was not about rock n'roll records. “What goes on in you heart? What goes on in your mind? You are tearing me apart, when you treat me so unkind". He was very elusive and even though he seemed to like me, I was always the one taking the first step. I kissed him first, asked him to be my boyfriend and even asked him to marry me. I will always remember that day. The romantic dinner at a local restaurant. The half eaten cheesecake at his plate. His mouth with a small red spot of cool cherry cream and nice apple tart. He took 2 minutes to think of an answer and then opened his mouth. That's when he told me everything: — I am from the future. Specifically from 2374. Me and four other scientists received a mission from the government to travel back time to solve science's greatest mysteries. I was supposed to go to Rome at the year 33 AD to witness the crucification of Christ. But I saw this as an opportunity to make money. I arranged with one of those responsible for the trip to send me back to the United States in 1966, where I would buy Yesterday and Today, the rarest album of all. We agreed to sell it to collectors and split the money. I can't explain what, but something went wrong. I couldn't return to my original timeline, I was condemned to live here, where I met you. I do not deserve you. You are much better than me. Guilt eats away at me every day. If only I hadn't been so greedy, if only I had followed the original plan. I just...I just... — He started to cry and just hummed "you took your luck break and broke it in two. Now what can be done for you?".

Sam couldn't even lift her head, let alone stand. The Shadow loomed over her, an aura of triumph emanating from the dark mage. “It's over little sorceress,” he rasped. “You have no power anymore. You have failed your friends. They will die, just as you will tonight.” She knew he was right, and there was nothing she could do to stop him. With her last drop of energy, Sam whispered, “I'm sorry.” The words were barely audible, but the hundreds of villagers gathered for slaughter felt her anguish. “I surrender my essence to you! Please accept my offering.” Elliot's voice echoed across the desolate valley. He stood and locked eyes with Sam. Sam couldn't. She swore she would never. It wasn't what a “good” magician would do, and Elliot knew that. Why would he ask that of her? Elliot screamed and writhed as The Shadow turned to face him. “You'll get your turn,” he taunted. “For now, you will be silent.” Elliot's mouth sealed shut with a flick of The Shadow's wrist. “I surrender my essence to you! Please accept my offering.” This time Emily stood and braced for The Shadow's wrath. Her screams almost drown out a third offering from the villagers. One by one, the offering rippled through the crowd. Sam felt the power building behind a dam in her mind. All she had to do was open the flood gates and the power was hers, but she feared the fate of her friends if she gave in. “Do it. Please. Take what you need,” mouthed Elliot. “We trust you.” “I'm sorry,” Sam whispered again, and the dam burst. Power flooded her body. More power than she'd ever felt. The color drained from her friends and they all collapsed, motionless on the ground. The Shadow flinched and turned in horror. “No!” he shouted. The dark mage brought down a lightning bolt, striking Sam directly in the chest. Sam glowed. She glowed brighter than the sun, her eyes white hot with fury. She rose and floated a few feet off the ground, raising her hands in front of her and aiming at The Shadow. Another volley of lightning bolts rained down from the sky. Sam absorbed every one of them. The Shadow's face was absolute terror. Sam concentrated all of the energy coursing through her to the space between her hands. A ball of energy began to form and grow. She unleashed it in a torrent. The Shadow threw up his hands just in time. As the pure white energy collided with the crimson shield he created, the charred dirt around the dark mage burst into flames. It only took moments for the shield to fail. The Shadow was obliterated and his hold on the villagers was broken. The light faded from Sam's body, her eyes returned to the vibrant green they used to be, and she dropped to the ground unconscious. Elliot and the others struggled to their feet, barely conscious themselves. Emily limped over to Sam. “Her pulse is fading,” she cried. “Somebody do something!” “There's nothing we can do.” Elliot pulled Emily into an embrace, her tears soaking his shirt. “We gave up our power for her, and she saved us.” “I have more to give,” Emily protested, pushing Elliot away. “Please! I have more to give.” She knelt and grabbed Sam by the shoulders. “Please, Sam. Don't leave me.” As Sam's final breath left her lungs, Emily broke completely. “Please,” she begged. “Please come back!” But Sam was gone.

It's been a long time since I had any people I'd call friends. Who needs them. People yammer about the most mundane of things. The most boring or unimportant concepts. Nearby shops, food, the annoyances of other people. As if you can talk about the inanity of a conversation with someone without the slightest recognition that you yourself are just as bad. I know I'm as bad as everyone else. I partook in those conversations whenever the necessity arose. But I find myself far more at home consuming knowledge that has actual value. Pouring over various encyclopedia's and old novels. Sure, the information in an encyclopedia from two hundred odd years ago is out of date. It was probably wrong by the objective nature of reality at the time of its writing. But it has stood the test of time far better than any conversation you can hold with the common people of this day and age. ​I'm well known around Deteram Library. The staff don't bother me, they know I prefer my quiet and I always put my books back exactly where they came from. If I didn't have to eat or sleep, I'd likely never leave these walls. The librarians and cleaners have even gotten to the point where they'll simply allow me to go into any area I please. I've walked into the staff room and the janitor's closet at least once each. In my defense the rooms weren't properly marked. I apologized in each case and left but they seemed to hold no problem with my explorations. A week ago though, I found a new door. It was technically outside. Near to the car park, there was a small flight of concrete stairs I had not seen before, leading down to a heavy and very old looking door. It was beautiful and very well kept. I wouldn't be surprised if it's a single piece of Ebony given its look and weight. It wasn't locked either. But the hour was late and my stomach demanding, so I left. I've checked on my arrival each day since and the door hasn't been there. The staircase itself was missing every time and to be entirely honest, I had been starting to believe I had dreamed the entire discovery. ​Until today. As I left the library just after sunset, there it was. Maybe I'd been checking the wrong place? I couldn't go another week of searching fruitlessly for this damnable place. So I opened the door. The bookcases here are actually fairly modern. High quality, very well maintained. I wouldn't even say any of these books are particularly valuable, or controversial. It seems like any other part of the library, I wonder why it's so secreted away? I found a railing, looks like some kind of balcony. Goes down several floors. I can see at least five other railings, but after that it gets too dark. Can't see the bookcases on the other floors, but now I have to know what are in them! Haven't seen any staff yet, which is good. There's been some movement, the sound of books being put on a shelf or boots scuffing the floor in the next aisle over. So there are definitely other people down here. I'm just glad they're sensible enough to keep to themselves. The books are slightly ratty and yellowed. Is this the damaged pages section? Don't worry, I'll be careful with them, I'm not some kid. ​Took about an hour but I found a staircase down. Haven't found one up yet so it looks like the way I came in is the only entrance. That's really not a good idea. The bookcases are older down here. They probably haven't gotten around to updating them, the contents are still fairly recent though so that's a thing. Not entirely sure how long I've been down here at this rate, but there are so many books I can't help myself. So much knowledge that's going to waste without someone enjoying it. The weirdest part is that I don't remember actually reading any of these books. Sure, I want to read them, and I'll reach for them to check out the covers. But I put them back, none of them are the right book for right now apparently. How many times have I walked these two aisles? I have to say I'm starting to hate the other people perusing down here. No-one seems to be any good at putting things back where they got them. I keep finding books out of order, or on the wrong shelf or even the wrong bookcase. It's infuriating! At least they're not stealing them, but it's maddening. ​I'm hearing less noise from downstairs, I could head down? Maybe its more organized down there, I can actually concentrate on reading. Why are the bookcases here so old? The books aren't even that old, it's just gaudy looking at these new covers sitting on rotting old wooden boards. The bookcases aren't really arranged very well, it's a maze down here. I'm not very far from the staircase back up of course, I could leave if I wanted but at this point I want to know what else I can find. Why are the bookcases here so old? The books aren't even that bad, it's like looking at fresh prints sitting on the deck of some ancient pirate ship. Why am I holding this book? I didn't take it from a shelf, did someone around here slip it into my hands? How am I supposed to put it back if I don't know where they took it from? I'm being made to look like one of those inconsiderate slobs! I'd try to figure out where it belongs but this place is such a mess, there's no pattern to any of it! ​I want to leave. I liked the floor above much better. Where is the staircase up? Not down, Up. Why are the aisles so narrow, I can barely walk in them. I need the staircase up. There's one going down.

"Not a single human being on this planet ever saw the universe." Grand Arbiter Albert XLIII further declared, on their return 37 years after the last broadcast failed in the middle of explaining the secrets of the universe to us. "What you are seeing is an image of the universe that your brain created to make sense of your surroundings. A mirage, an infinitely imperfect approximation. And there are roughly 8 Billion such approximations on this planet, not even counting non-human entities. We have observed you recently - debating wether the harmonic frequencies of light hitting the rods and cones of your eyes actually generate the same image of color in your brain for all of you equally, and you came to the conclusion that they might not. That everybodies version of "red" or "blue" might be ever so slightly, or completely different. We found it amusing that you aren't drawing the same conclusion to, well, everything else. Through the scientific method and communication accelerators like the Internet, your species managed to align big chunks of those "mirage universes" in your brains, but other areas not touched by the scientific method are left completely unexplored, and therefore to the imagination of the individual. Which lead to many "unfortunate misunderstandings" among you. But make no mistake, even after this global alignment of mirages, the universe inside your mind is still infinitely wrong in the grand scheme of things and unlike any other imagined universe of your peers. Your scientific method suggests the use of calibrated measurement devices that aren't biased by human error to gain knowledge of your surroundings. Which is brilliant, we might add. Your species came up with this kind of technology very early compared to similar lifeforms in other universes. You use these devices to create a "ground truth" from which you reference the rest of your conclusions and predictions. This enabled you to make predictions about the "real universe" you find yourself in, even with this fundamental error underlying your logic system. Either brilliant, or unfathomly lucky. It doesn't really matter. You can pat yourselves on the backs for that. However, amusingly, you failed to find the crucial detail about the one fundamental, yet completely uncalibrated device at the bottom of everything - your brain - and the sensory organs as extensions of it. No single eye on this planet is the same, no nose, no ears, everything differs ever so slightly. Every brain is folded and twisted differently. Therefore, what you are observing, and what your scientists are finding models for, is not the real universe. It is the image of this universe your brain creates for you, that makes sense to most of you and that most of your brains are able to understand and find agreement on. Nothing more, nothing less. Especially the intricacies that you are now finding in the infinitissimally small scales and the unfathomly large scales (you curiously still differentiate these two concepts, we observed) are the footprints that the architecture of your brain leaves on these mirage universes. You find numbers everywhere and turn everything into a more and more digital version of nature because the axons that are part of your neurons generate activation signals in a digital, all or nothing kind of way. This part of the brain is what you evolved to use for, among others, your logic systems. Your thinking is in large parts digital, so most of your logic is too. This has gone so far that some of you now think you are actually living in a computer simulation. In some regards, you do, but there is no cosmic entity that generated this simulation and put you in it. You are creating this simulation yourself, in your brain, as a means to maneuver your way around actual physical reality. Imagine having to memorize a picture, but your sensory input systems only allowed you to see one pixel at a time, chosen completely at random, without any reference as to where that pixel is located in the frame. So, you found chunking techniques, the help of your collective hive mind and ideas of particularly eccentric members of your society, to bit by bit close in on a mostly impossible task. But without a paradigm shift on your end, the entirety of the original picture will stay in the shadows of reality. You created tools like algebra and geometry to circumvent the fact that your logic is mostly digital as a simulacrum of analog information, but for how remarkably useful it is for you to make predictions, it is to what is happening in the real world like what an abacus is to a personal computer. Sure, if you enter '1 + 1', in their own ways, both give you '2'. But one is the tip to the others impossibly large iceberg. It is a sensible abstraction. But it is nowhere close to being an accurate description of what is actually happening or in what ways it useful to you. We don't want to discourage you by saying this. Your approach, even if it happened out of sheer luck, is brilliant. It really makes the best out of the limitations that you have by your sensory organs and the architecture of your brains. Once a few evolutionary steps later your brain can conceive of more complex logical patterns and images, you will get closer and closer to having an actual copy of the real universe in front of your minds eye. Through the scientific method, you are already optimizing for this. Again, given your species' age, you have developed such a technique incredibly quickly. But what you are doing is finding (very smart) workarounds over a fundamental error you all have in common. My lifeform, which isn't too unlike yours, just much "older", has taken a different approach in its early stages. Our biggest thinkers found early on that the answers lie within. So for millenia, we focussed our exploration on finding our deepest and truest selves, once we started to move past basic survival instincts, that is. Only after many, many "quantum leaps" in the area of self discovery in the individual and the societal level, we started to artificially accelerate our communication, and overcome physical limitations through technology. It was a slower approach in the beginning, but once we got there, our intellectual growth was exponentially explosive. The time it took us to move from living in basic, mostly local communities that lived off the land - to bending our universe to our wills - was about the time between you writing your currently most popular spiritual fiction and landing on your planets moon for the first time. Note the actual durations might differ greatly, as the concept you call time is very different in our universe and we still haven't fully studied yours. Anyways. After this event we call "universal reframing", everything else just... fell into place. Our strategy basically was to, first, fully align our mental universes. And then to perform a depth search from a common starting point. You seemed to have rushed over a few of the crucial bits as soon as the first approach turned out to be useful. Actually, all of the bits but one. It must be a terribly confusing existence that you are living. We can only make an attempt to relate, as our evolutionary strand optimized for alignment before curiousity. That, you could say, was our dumb luck. Are there any questions so far?" There was a puzzling silence in an area packed with an amount of people that would normally be present at music festivals or presidential inaugurations. For an event of this magnitude, the stage was sparsely decorated and included only the necessities. Like last time, the visit was spontaneos and unannounced. Or maybe, like last time, we just didn't understand the announcement message, as it might have again came in the form of a formerly undiscovered particle, a seemingly arbitrary number of years prior to this event. They must think they are really funny. One of the humans chosen as representative of the planet raised their hand. "Please, speak. As always. Our 'time' is very limited." "If I didn't misunderstand this: You said, our brains are basically creating what we call 'simulations' for ourselves, in our mind, to make sense of the actual universe we are in and base our actions on. Is this correct?" "Based on the very crude definition your species has for the word 'correct' I would say 'yes, that is correct.'" "And these simulations are getting closer and closer to the real deal, right? But what if, say, we didn't want the real deal. What if we liked our own personal pocket universes and instead wanted to bend that one to our own wills instead of the real one? You said we are bad at alignment and I would agree to the point where I say we probably go extinct to our own stupidity before we all agree on even one single thing. Can't we just use your knowledge to just, manifest things into our universe just by thinking about it, like in the movie *Matrix*, which might have crossed your desk while researching us. Great Movie." "It did indeed. It is esteemed by my lifeform as what you would call 'slapstick comedy'. Since we moved past what constituted our form of entertainment, the media from your universe has become very popular among my peers. It is by sending samples back to our universe how we finance the probes we are sending here." "You still have money?" "I was making - what you call - a joke. Never heard of it in the context of a movie, but that title is immensely funny to me given the circumstances. Anyway, you wanted to know how to bend your 'simulated universe' around you. Alright. You might be slightly dissappointed by the beginning of my explanation, but listen till the end. And make of that what you will. Let's start by what you mean by 'manifest' exactly. As the inaccuracy of your communication patterns shall not be a hindrance to this mentorship." "Well... I imagine it. And then it sort of poofs into existence?" "Understood. Actually, I will start explaning how you perform this action in the actual universe you are in, before I make the transfer to how you do it in the imagined one in your brain." "Uh.. ok?" "What would you like to be manifested?" "I don't know. How about we go nice and easy with a cone of ice cream and start from there?" "So be it. So, we start imagining the cone of ice cream. What does it consist off? Milk, sugar, eggs, and some smaller additions to suit your individuals taste buds. Let's begin with milk. You are getting it from cows (a practice my society finds quite alienating. We, too, have to get used to the wildly varying customs of lifeforms of the universes). Cows can be domesticated and bred, but first, we would have to overcome the physical distance between us, and a few locations on this planet. For that, I would advice designing and constructing a vehicle that is capa..." "Oh come on, that's how we manifest things? We go and make them ourselves?? Oh wow, thanks a lot mister transcendant being. So the rest of the stuff you told us was also bullshit?" "Please refrain from jumping to conclusions without the full picture in mind, even if it is in your existences nature to do so. Alright, so let me offer you a shortcut." "Please do." "I know of a location just a few human paces down this road, where you can exchange currency for a cone of ice cream." "Seriously?" "Yes." "What the hell is the point of this?" "The point is, once again: you - misunderstanding your existence. Especially in conjunction with your incredibly limited ability to verbalize concepts using your own vocabulary. You are barely at the point of being able to convey emotions in every day speech, and are now expecting to understand high level 4 dimensional concepts after just a few of your incredibly inaccurate words. Tell me now, please: What do you perceive as the difference of these two scenarios I just mentioned? In a temporal manner and in the energy required?" "Well, it would be much easier and faster to just go down the road and buy a cone of ice cream, but that isn't tremendously astounding information to us, you have to understand." "'Much'? Let's give this word, 'much', a bit of a frame of reference. The differences between these scenarios are: About 15000 years of agriculture and animal husbandry; countless inventions that led to your current state of technology which allows for refrigeration in a way advanced enough to get the ice cream to just the right texture that your modern palate is accustomed to; An education system that allows for such inventions to occur in time for you to be standing here, demanding ice cream, and actually getting it. Not mentioning the infrastructure that makes you bridge the physical distances of every single time any of these steps needed *anything.* And meanwhile destroying the naturally occuring resources of your planet bit by bit. Or, scenario 2: You take the money that you got from staring at a computer screen for about 7 minutes, choose one of the ice cream parlors that your civilization made sure to be on average a 30 minutes driving distance from every single living human. (You aren't very good at even distributions though, we found.). And go and get that ice cream. Even including the infrastructural costs existing now, we have narrowed this process down from not even being close to a reality for thousands of generations to being at most 30 minutes away and dirt cheap, assuming an amount of efficient preparation, that is part of the technology that lead you here. If you ask me, between scenario 1 and 2, you became so many orders of magnitude closer to 'poofing it into existence' that a human mind has troubles comprehending it. And therefore, appreciating it. From '0% of the human population has access to this within their lifetime and no one will for the next couple millenia' to 'Over half the human population has access to this within 30 minutes", taking into account the total timespan, the amount of events that had to occur and the amount of incremental learnings that had to accumulate, for this to happen even *once* for *anybody*, I believe the time and energy you have to exert to access your ice cream cone right now is a rounding error in the grand scheme of things. And you aren't even close to finishing your development as humans - if you manage to not kill yourself somehow. You are constantly manifesting things into reality, the only issue is that you severely and heavily underestimate what it means 'to imagine a thing'. Please allow my vanity, but this is an important lesson for the following part that you are, I'm afraid, more interested in. How to do that in your head. And potentially much faster. Well assuming thaXXXxxxx.." "Oh wow, not again. Mighty convenient this always happens right when it gets interesting." "First, you have to understand that.,.......... The limitations of spacetime that you perceive.... are not present in nature..... nature is infinitely 'dimensional', and in fact XXxxx.......--.-.- has no concept for infinity....-.-.--. it is a human made.....-.-.-.- model to describe a perfectly natural phenomenon you lack the words for at this time...\_xxxx.xxx-x.-.--.-zzzz." "Come on, speak faster! The battery is dying again!" " ...physical distance...S;.,.XXXxx...currently a big bottleneck for your progres...asd.döö,,,, is also a limitation of your cortex, not nature,.....-as.d.sa......the concept of an 'extent' only exists from certain frames of references..-.-..-.a.ss.a.as.... in others everything is....a.s-d.-..-..-xxxx on top of each other, overlapping each other in what you call 'time' AND 'space'" "...XXXxsasad Listen." "I am running out of time again humans. The Hopf Fibration. It is a great first step. But move away from your digital thinking. Treat your numbers. .aD;,aC:.x.cx.ac,.as,dca.s like your waves...CKLUJCJUCCLICK" The broadcast stopped. "I never know if these things make me smarter, or dumber. Sadly the alien is gone now so it can't tell me that there actually is no smart or dumb.

[Somewhere is a dark room. The room is empty with the exception of a tv in the corner. The tv comes on. It’s the news] Ok-Driver7647 smiling: Good evening viewers. I come to you LIVE from small town L******. A town that has had many experiences over the years and in the most recent, is a source of unfortunate events. We are here today at Ground Zero to report the lack of anything unfortunate at all. Something which the locals have got used to and are finding quite strange. The peace is leaving mixed feelings of both relief and unease. Is it the Fuckening? Let’s hear from some of them ourselves. *approaches a villager leaning against a wall* OK-Driver7647: Hi! I’m reporting from WTFisdzBS NEWS about the Fuckening. Mind if I ask you some questions? Villager: Uh.. yeh sure. Ok-Driver7647: So I heard about the Fuckening. What’s been going on for you this week? Villager: I was really angry last week and I couldn’t concentrate so I just didn’t go do the thing I did last week where I got triggered. So… nothing happened this week. Ok-Driver7647: and after that? And the rest of the week? Villager: nothing. Most of the time I even forgot about it. Ok-Driver7647 nods: what do you think next week will be like? Do you believe in the Fuckening? Villager laughs: I think next week will be the same. Ok-Driver7647 looks at the camera and mouths the word “wow”: thank you for your time. *approaches random citizen walking in our direction* Ok-Driver7647: Hi. I’m reporting from WTFisDzBS NEWS. Can I ask you about the Fuckening? Random citizen: Yeh, no worries. Ok-Driver7647: So how’s these last few weeks been for you? Random Citizen: well this last week was really good. It wasn’t extra special or anything. It was just really nice, yeh. You know what I mean? Ok-Driver7647: I think I do but I’m wondering if you think it’s the Fuckening. Random Citizen shakes their head: I used to but then it went on so long that stopped making sense too. Ok-Driver7647: so what happens next? Any plans? Random Citizen smiles and shrugs: I dunno. Maybe I’ll just live. Ok-Driver7647 smiles and nods: thanks so much for your time *the camera follows Ok-Driver7647 down the road to a darkened figure sitting on a chair. He’s soaked in a semi darkness that never leaves him, even in daylight. He looks bored AF* Ok-Driver7647: Mr Boogeyman, Babayaga…. I hear you’ve been here fore a few weeks now? Can I ask you about the Fuckening? Boogeyman: you must watch too many movies. My name’s not Babayaga. Ok-Driver7647: oh! my apologies (*winks at camera*) yes I do. Boogeyman: I’ve just been hanging around, having my say, making the hair rise skin every now and then but I’m not getting noticed as much anymore. It’s just me in the corner now. Ok-Driver7647: Do you think it’s the Fuckening, though? You could be busy soon? Boogeyman scowls: Does this look like the Fuckening to you? Ok-Driver7647: thank you for your time Mr Boogeyman. *Ok-Driver7647 walks back up the road, still looking up at the camera at times, and continues talking* Ok-Driver7647: While we haven’t had time to cover everything we know so far that nothing is happening and people are generally just going about their week and day. *camera pans to children playing in the street, then over to the Boogeman who is now walking around kicking rocks. It looks like he is talking to himself* Ok-Driver7647: there’s no sign of a big Mack truck ploughing through any time soon and we are also not sure if we should still be waiting on those peppers anymore. Even the Boogeyman has been kept waiting with nothing to do and all the cows have come home. Everything is quiet…. But is it too quiet? Is this the Fuckening? Maybe it it but I’m not entirely convinced. If it is though just remember you saw it here first on WTFisDzBS NEWS. Thanks for watching! Back to you in the studio. [the tv turns off. There isn’t anymore] THE FUCKENING: When your day is going too well and you don't trust it and some shit finally goes down *”Ah, there it is, the fuckening.

As Agatha lay on her bed wondering why the lights above the garden were still on, she heard a loud thud on the roof. She looked at her watch. It was, indeed, 2 am. What could have possibly made that noise? "Rob, is that you on the roof?" she shouted as if to scare the culprit away. Rob, her husband, was out of town. Agatha had always found it surprising that his work required him to travel this much. "Do all accountants travel so frequently?" she often wondered. It had to be an affair, a notion that lingered in her sleepless nights. To her, there could be no other plausible explanation. But tonight, was special. After all, it was her 30th birthday, and she would not waste it on Rob. But what was the noise she had just heard?? Was someone going to rob her of her peace and quiet even tonight? Summoning courage, Agatha rose from her bed, an unexpected wave of fear washing over her. If someone did indeed lurk on the roof, what could that person want. A cascade of thoughts filled her mind, culminating in a chilling realization—did Rob want her dead? "Why would he not? After all, he does love someone else," she pondered. She reached for her phone to dial the police, but the landline was dead. "It's 1996, and the government can't give us a stable phone connection!" she shouted in frustration, "Why is the universe always working against me? Could it be the intruder's doing?" This outburst was followed by a sudden realization that she had been too loud, maybe. "Let's try not to get killed, eh", a nervous grin followed. A feeble attempt to maintain composure. The garden was still brightly lit, much to her bewilderment. The house had a bright floodlight on the roof, and Agatha turned them off ceremoniously every night because of how bright they were. She wondered if she had just forgotten to do so tonight. Agatha drew a deep breath, closed her eyes, and started thinking of ways to avoid getting murdered. "On my birthday. The audacity of that shameless man!" she muttered. Her fear gave way to her usual anxiety, as her escape plan started taking shape. There was no way that she could get out alive. Her strategy was too risky. "Agatha the murdered. Oh, the terrible nicknames people will use for me," she gasped. Agatha could never let that happen. If she were to die tonight, it would be in a blaze of glory! It had been a while since the sudden noise on the roof occurred, and Agatha was beginning to question the validity of her fears. But then, another set of noises! "Were those footsteps? Someone's coming to get me!" she shrieked. Her gaze suddenly turned towards her garden, and she could easily make out a human silhouette entering her house. Her face grew pale with fear, and she shouted as loud as she could, "Someone save me! My husband wants me dead!" All she could hear were footsteps pacing up the stairs. Her heart was beating faster than ever as she rushed to lock her bedroom door. She fumbled to grab her car keys to use as a makeshift weapon, but was stunned by another crackling sound coming from her roof. "Oh no! There's more than one intruder, and they have me surrounded!" Agatha and Rob's love story played like a movie in her mind. From college sweethearts to the present, the realization that her beloved husband sought her demise crushed her. As Agatha stood with the keys clenched tightly in her hand, waiting for someone to bust in through the door any second, all she could think of were the happy memories she had with Rob. The realization that her beloved was trying to get her killed was too hard to bear. Moreover, how could she let someone like him, a cheating swine, win against her? So, convinced that her demise was near, in a desperate bid for control, she went to her window and decided to 'rob' him of this victory. It was time to make an exit from this unfair life. "Go to hell, Rob!" she screamed as she jumped out of her window on the second floor. Agatha had no fear in her mind and a sense of peace finally embraced her, knowing that she had ended it on her own terms. She could see fire and smoke rising from her roof as she hit the ground. "Satan's here for me," she proclaimed with her final breath. Rob finally broke the bedroom door down to find it empty. He screamed in horror as he peeked through the window, and all he could say was, "Why?" Mr. and Mrs. Munson, the neighbours, who had rushed to the house after hearing Agatha's screams, were just as shocked. "What in God's name happened here?" they enquired with pale faces. "It… it… was Agatha's birthday... I had planned fireworks, but the tree... it… it... caught fire and fell on the roof, damaging the telephone wires. The fire started spreading fast... all I could... I could do... was control the spread. By the time I rushed here to save Agatha, she had locked the door, and she... and she..." The garden was still well-lit by the fire above, as if to highlight the smiling, yet lifeless body lying on it. It was indeed a glorious exit.

“It’s raining outside. I wish that I could take the day off,” Ned said as he woke up, rubbing his eyes. He had always loved monsoons, but something had changed. The same rains that used to fill his eyes with glee now were a sign of gloom for him – a harsh reminder of his enslavement. He got up, put on his slippers, and proceeded with his daily ritual of getting ready for his overlords. “My body moves on its own now. It’s as if I don’t even have control over my own body. It’s theirs… all of it,” the same thought had crossed Ned’s mind several times before. Was this depression? Hard to say, especially for him. He had been brought up in a joint family of eight people, and the idea of moving into a new city and getting the much-deserved privacy had seemed like a dream come true. “Oh, it’s going to be amazing!” he used to think. It had been four years since then, and it all seemed like a distant memory. What even was the point of any of this? Life gets only as harsh as you will it. Or is it the other way around? Who knew… certainly not Ned. As Ned began his ‘short’ 40-minute journey to his slave camp, a thought crossed his mind, “I need something new in my life. Aren’t the appraisals due tomorrow?” And with this thought, something clicked. “I want a promotion!” The serious, sad, and sullen look on his face had given way to a shy smile. Finally! Something exciting was on the horizon for this young man, or at least that was the hope. With his car parked, Ned put on a determined look and entered his office. Like always, he was greeted by several familiar faces of his fellow slaves, all of whom he had grown to hate with all his heart. Why did he hate them? Not even Ned had an answer for this one. He simply did. As he settled into his prison, he caught a glimpse of his lord in her cabin. It was time. He had to speak with her and make his ambitions clear. He wouldn’t dare stay at a camp that didn’t value him enough. Yes, he had to do it now. But why was his body not moving? “Move… damn it!” he grumbled to himself furiously. But how could he, if his body wasn’t even his own anymore. Yes, the blame lay with his overlords. Not HIM. As he mustered enough courage to finally get moving, he saw Sady, a fellow slave, come out of his lord’s cabin. She had a broad smile on her face, as if she were told that all her dreams were going to come true. “Huh? Sady is making a mockery of everything we struggle for. How could she smile when the rest of us suffer?” Ned thought to himself as he proceeded to move towards his destination. He nodded at Sady, as if to greet her, but didn’t get one back in return. He gritted his teeth in anger but kept moving and then knocked. “Oh hi, Ned! Just the guy I was looking for! Come on inside,” the lord said as she took another sip of her favourite morning coffee. The coffee looked especially appealing since the rain had only gotten heavier. Why was it raining in summer, anyway? It was as if the whole world was in tears for what Ned was going through, or at least that is how it appeared to him. He took a deep breath, forced a smile, and entered. “So, Ned, it’s been a busy financial year for all of us. Don’t presume that I haven’t noticed that it has taken a heavy toll on you especially,” said the lord in a very condescending tone. “Thank you, Sansa. I appreciate that”, Ned replied, forcing politeness in his voice. As if she could understand what was really going on. “No one could ever comprehend the depth and severity of the torment that I have been through,” Ned thought to himself as he proceeded to speak further, “Although grades and pay aren’t the most important things in the world to me, I do believe that they go a long way in easing some of the stress that this organization and I’ve inflicted on myself.” He should have known better. Slaves don’t make demands; they only obey! And if he really were a slave, how could he really expect anything in return? However, to his utter shock, or call it a pleasant surprise if you will, the lord nodded in agreement. “I know where you are coming from,” she said, taking another sip of her coffee. “Promotions are an important part of one’s professional life. I wouldn’t dare deprive you of anything that crucial.” By this point, Ned’s heart was pumping at an alarming rate, and his gaze was as wide as it could get, targeted directly at his lord. “But you see…” Oh no! Why does life have so many ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’? Only if Ned could strangle Sansa then and there without severe consequences, he would have. He didn’t have the patience to listen to another word coming out of the patronizing bitch, but she continued, “It’s the senior management that decides these things, Ned. I can only share my recommendations and you can trust me when I say that I’ve been extremely fair in doing so.” Hmm… Sady. No wonder she was mocking him and everyone else with that smile of hers. Surely the lord had informed Sady of the good things that were about to happen to her… maybe a promotion? Ned got up and stormed out of the cabin without saying a word, as Sansa stared in shock and disappointment. The first thing Ned was greeted with was the sight of Sady giggling and gossiping with other slaves. He went straight to her, and as if to intimidate her into telling the truth, he interrogated her with a serious look on his face, “Even if you’ve never been honest about anything else in life. Even if you hate me just as much as I hate you, I need you to be honest with me just this once. Are you getting promoted?” The others around him weren’t shocked at all, as if they had witnessed this behaviour more times than they would care to admit. If anything, they looked annoyed, especially Sady. “Yes,” she said and turned back to her laptop and resumed working. The world had started sinking for Ned. I wish I could say that his heart broke, but all that he felt was anger. Not towards Sady or his lord, but towards himself. He returned to his prison and started working for the rest of the day. It was 6 o’clock now and Ned had not so much as drunk a glass of water. His head was about to burst with pain and the seemingly never-ending anger and agony. He picked up his paraphernalia, packed and simply left. It was pouring outside, and news reports of a hurricane were coming in with strict advice to stay indoors. But he didn’t care. What even was the point of living anymore? Maybe death would free him of his enslavement. He got in his car, didn’t even bother putting on the seat-belt and proceeded to drive out of the parking lot. Visibility was close to zero but why would he care? Not that anything mattered anyway. As he was about to exit the building, concerning thoughts crossed his mind, “What if I jump off the roof tonight? Will that set me free?” Tears rolled down his cheeks and then one BUMP followed quickly by another! He pushed the brakes as hard as he could… utter shock on his face. “There are no speed breakers here.” He got out, hands trembling with anxiety and fear, as he looked back to see a human body on the ground covered in blood. As he moved closer, he fell down on his knees out of remorse for what he had done. Sansa lay on the ground, gasping for breath and looking at him with tearful eyes. She wanted to ask for help but her throat was crushed. Ned kept staring at the ground in complete shock, unable to move. “What have I done??? No, I will worry about that later. Right now, I need to call for help.” He got up and ran to his car, got his phone and as he was about to dial for help, he paused. Suddenly, years and years of repressed emotions came oozing out. The anger. The disappointment. The frustration. He put the phone down and entered his car. Put it in reverse gear and drove over the body once more. Now, back to first gear as he drove over the body again. Bump after bump. Blood everywhere as the crushing sounds turned into squelching, leaving behind an unrecognizable mess before he drove off. Shockingly, Ned maintained an emotionless expression on his journey back. He was sure that someone would notice the blood stains on his car and stop him. An arrest was inevitable. But it never happened. He reached home and went straight to bed and was greeted with a peaceful sleep that night after a long time. The next morning, he got up, rubbed his eyes, and got on with his morning ritual. This time, he listened to some of his favourite songs on his way to the office, humming along in a joyful demeanour. As always, he parked his car and went straight to work. Sometime later, the HR came in to give them the sad news about Sansa, but while the others grieved in shock and sorrow, Ned continued to work. “Yes, this is the way. Maybe I’ll get a promotion next year,” he monologued internally as if he had come to accept that things move at their own pace. The appraisal letters soon came in, but why would Ned even bother opening his? There’s no point to any of this after all. Something seemed amiss though. Why did Sady have a sad look on her face? Confused, he finally looked at his letter. “For your unwavering dedication and hard work, we’re happy to announce that you have been promoted to a Senior Manager. Please accept our sincere Congratulations.” The indifferent expression on Ned’s face turned into sorrow and regret for a moment, before he started laughing as if in a frenzy. He laughed and laughed, tears pouring out of his eyes, as some witness cops entering the building. Well, at least Ned got his due promotion.

For every step Madeline took toward the dormitory, a tug on her heart pulled her back. Back to that room. Back to the part of herself she’d left behind there. Back to Liam. But she couldn’t go back. They’d had there allotted time together. If she defied the guards now, she risked any chance of seeing him again. She didn’t have a choice. Then again, wasn’t that what she’d told herself the last time she’d left him behind? And look where that had gotten them. The only thing that kept her from turning around was Billie’s hand on the small of her back. They guided her steadily but firmly on as the pair of them followed Marcus down the corridor. Perhaps noticing the slowness of her pace compared to this morning, the guard glanced over his shoulder. “Everything alright?” he asked. “Did you have a good visit?” Madeline nodded, not trusting herself to speak without her voice cracking. “Yeah,” Billie said, speaking for the pair of them. “It was a wonderful day. But… You know how you miss someone so so much every single day, and you just think if you could see them again everything would be better?” “Yes. Yes, I do,” Marcus said, keeping his eyes resolutely forward. “But after you see them again, you remember everything you love about them and how great it is to be around them. So now you miss them even more than before.” “Ah. I see.” There was a pause as they reached the end of the corridor, and the young guard had to stop to unlock the door before leading them outside. When their feet were crunching over the gravel pathway, Marcus glanced back at them again. “Well, now that we’ve connected you all in our records, it shouldn’t be too long now before a family room can be found for you, provided you all agree, of course — and provided you keep up the good work and stay out of trouble.” Madeline’s heart fluttered. “Really? How long is not too long?” The guard shrugged. “However long it takes to find a suitable room and make the arrangements.” He glanced around, grinning. “Of course, you might not be as excited when I tell you that all the family rooms are near the education centre, so it’ll be a fair trek for you to get to your agricultural work in the morning, and to get home in the evening. But I suspect that’s a hardship that you’re both willing to endure.” She nodded eagerly. For the rest of the walk back, the tugging at her heart eased slightly, and a slight spring entered her step. *** It wasn’t until the next day, working at pulling up unwanted weeds in the potato fields, that Madeline started to wonder what this meant for their plans. Having Liam nearby would definitely make things easier should any chance to escape present itself, but surely she should avoid doing anything to jeopardise that until it had actually happened. And that meant delaying her questions for Marcus yet again. She raised this with Billie on the walk back, expecting their instant agreement. Instead, she was met with a shaking head. “You can’t keep putting it off, Mads.” Though their voice was soft, she could hear an edge of exasperation there. “Don’t you see? This is how it will always be. Even when we’re living with Liam in a family room, there will always be the threat of taking him away again. They’ll say we’re a bad influence or unfit to look after him. Just like there’s always the threat of separating us.” They gestured from their chest to hers. “Those threats will never go away. So if you’re waiting for some perfect moment when everything is safe, don’t. It’ll never come.” Madeline stared down at her feet as she walked, not wanting to meet their gaze. She knew that they were right, but that didn’t make it any less irritating to hear. “Alright,” she muttered. “I’ll do it the first chance I get. At least that way, if it screws anything up, I can start earning my way back into his good graces sooner.” The rest of the journey back to the dorms passed in silence, as Madeline searched for the right words — the ones that would get them their answers without raising suspicions. *** She got her chance the next day when Marcus was taking them all to their respective places of work. As they walked across the fields, she sidled up to him, keeping pace with his large strides. “Hello, Marcus,” she said. He glanced around, smiling when he saw her. “Hey, Madeline! Is everything alright?” “It is. I just had a couple of questions that I was hoping you could help me with.” “Ask away.” She paused, looking over her shoulder to see who was around. There were a couple of other workers a little closer than she’d have liked. Leaning in slightly closer, she lowered her voice to say, “It’s kind of a delicate subject — something that if someone overheard, I wouldn’t want them to get the wrong idea.” His step faltered, as he threw her a quizzical look. She met his gaze with wide, pleading eyes. “Okay,” he said slowly. “So it’s the sort of thing you’d like to talk to me privately about?” She nodded. “Exactly…. Only I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea either. I really don’t want to get into any trouble. And I really don’t want to cause any trouble.” “Of course. I promise that I will hear whatever you have to say, and that whatever it is will stay with me. After all, there should never be any harm in asking. It’s actions, not words, that I’m here to guard against.” A weight lifted from her chest, a relieved grin spreading across her face. “Thank you! That’s really good to hear.” He glanced around to smile back at her. “So I’ll come to collect you from work this evening and take you somewhere private to talk before we head back to the dormitory and dinner, okay?” “Perfect!” Of course, it would have been more perfect to have been able to get it out the way there and then. Now she was doomed to another day of worrying, reworking her questions and their phrasing in her mind over and over as her hands worked by muscle memory alone. When the work day was finally done, signalled by the sun sinking to sit on the horizon, Madeline thought she had everything organised and ready to go in her head. But as soon as Marcus arrived, her carefully preplanned words fled. She followed him in silence, tapping the fingers of each hand together in an attempt to relieve the nervous energy bubbling inside. She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts, she was hardly aware of where they were going. It was only when they stopped in a small, plain room — similar to the one she’d visited Liam in — that she started taking in her surroundings again. She took the seat Marcus offered at the table — the only bit of furniture in the room. The off-white walls and grey carpets reminded her of every rental apartment she’d ever lived in. Inoffensive, but soulless. As the young guard settled into the seat opposite, her leg bounced up and down almost of its own accord. “So,” Marcus said, leaning his elbows on the table.

Today was a busy day for Roe. With finals coming up, they had a lot of studying to do before they could enjoy the much-needed December break. They idly thumbed the bottom edges of their ecology textbook, reading the information that was on the page. > *Although plants typically pollinate through wind, some arthropods, like centipedes and spiders, help pollen spread much further. It’s still unknown why winged arthropods evolved 800 to 900 years ago, as even slightly older specimens do not have wings…* A sudden *crash* sounded through the room. “Qué chingados-” Roe hissed as they fluttered out of their seat… just to see what was perhaps the strangest sight they’d ever witnessed. And they had witnessed a *lot* in their twenty-two years of life. Their roommate, new as of this semester, laid prone in front of the door. She was in a bit of a strange pose, with her arms and a leg twisted behind her back. The door had a *massive* hole in it now, roughly the size of the house fly, as well as its upper hinge being snapped in two. After taking a moment to process this sight, Roe flew over to her side. “Hey, Maggot,” they greeted. “Hey, Roe,” they grunted out. “That hurt.” “Shocker. How did you even do that?! The door is literally *made* of wood!” “Running start.” Maggot gave a thumbs up. “I didn’t mean to break it, man. I just wanted to scare you-” “Scare me?! I’m studying for finals!” Incredulous, Roe motioned to the opened textbook that laid on their table. “Even then, you decided to scare me by… hurting yourself?!” “I didn't mean to!” repeated Maggot. “I’m good. There ain’t no need to worry about it. Just… give me a second… Roe stared down at Maggot, who was still face-down on the floor. “Okay, it’s been a second, and I’m not leaving you there.” They huffed as they scooped up Maggot and began carrying her out of the room bridal-style. “Where are you taking me?” she squeaked out. “Prison.” Maggot flailed as she wailed, “Wait wait wait wAIT NO PLEASE-” “Well, nothing looks broken,” the pigmy sand cricket doctor hummed out as they glanced over Maggot. “You must be very tough, if you and your friend’s story is to be believed. It takes a lot of strength to break through wood!” Maggot chuckled and made a buzz with her wings. “What can I say, Dr. Daphne, I’m strong! I’ve been through way worse things in my great journey here, so… an inch and a half of wood is nothing compared to the hundreds of miles of terrain I’ve walked!” “Well, you’re just bruised, so just don’t put yourself through another door and you should be okay.” “No promises-” “Yes, promises,” Roe, who had been sitting there idly, chimed in. “You’re paying for that door, and I would prefer to not deal with this again.” Maggot sighed. “Okay, fair enough. I ain’t gonna do it again. I promise you both.” Roe stood from where they had been sitting. Turning to Dr. Daphne, they asked, “May we leave now?” She nodded. “Yes, you may. Have a good day, and… good luck finding a replacement door!” “Thank you.” “Yes, thank you!” Maggot chimed in, as she hopped off of the examination bed. The two quickly left the office and got on the path towards their dorm. Maggot walked slowly, taking in the area around her. Roe matched her pace, flying alongside her. “You know,” Maggot began to say, “I’ve been living here for a few years now, and it’s still just as pretty. I miss the mountains back in Threeruins sometimes, but… the flatlands down here are pretty nice too.” Roe nodded as they followed Maggot’s gaze. At this time of day, many other insectoids made their way through the paths of Oakheart City, idly chatting amongst themselves. This was what drew their eye the most, along with the trees that lined the paths. “It is pretty nice. It’s a lot less crowded than Arañaseda, too.” “Do you ever miss your hometown, too, or…?” Maggot asked, turning her focus back to Roe. With a shrug, Roe responded, “Only when I have to deal with roommates breaking through doors somehow whilst I’m studying.

I open my eye, try to make sense of what I am looking at but, I close my eyes again. I wake up next time with something set deep into my throat. I felt the reflex kick in and I opened my eyes. Liquid! Water? What the hell?! I take proper position out of fear and ram my fist through the glass and expand the hole with my hands as the liquid of whatever I am inside of starts flooding out of it. I get whatever was set deep into my throat, out while I am still cheek deep in water. I expand the breach more and felt it. Fresh air, flooding into the container I am in. I looked what is holding me in mid air and tear it off. Wires or whatever they are attached to some sort of armor or clothing attached to me. I get out of the tube I was in and look around. Then I look at myself. What is this? I ping the material attached to me with my finger trying to make sense whether it is plastic, rubber, metal, rock or glass... The sound is distorted by the material my hands are covered in though, so, I can't even figure out what this all is made out of from. It is clear though, I can not remove any of it but, thankfully it is weightless pretty much. I look around myself again. There is a thin layer of dust everywhere about a finger nail thick, most of it, on the ground, at least though. Has washed partially away due to the cylinder shaped tube I was in for some reason. I felt that only things that cause weight on my movement are the wires but, I have tough time removing them right now. I need a mirror. Walking was a bit awkward at first and I don't understand why, it should be happening without any issues... Well, at least it won't take too long for me to relearn it fully again, thankfully. I have to swipe dust here and there in every room until, I finally... See myself? I saw my own eyes widen in horror. Is this me? What has been done to me? I swipe away gently more of the dust on the mirror and see that... I think it is, some kind of armor? Helmet? And Iron Hands gauntlets, arm armor, forearm armor and shoulder plate. This mirror is too small but, I coordinate my hand movement carefully... I grab from the root of the first and second wires on my back of my head. Then I yank them out. They came out smoothly and head feels much lighter to move now. Even if the wires were quite small. I keep searching and find another mirror. This time much taller and I carefully remove all of the dust. I also move closer of this mirror. I need to understand my current look better... Also, I remove the last five wires from me. One big one attached to my back, one for each forearm and one for back of my thighs. I sensed my armor move and when I looked again. I see that whatever sockets I pulled the wires off from are now covered and protected by the armor plating. I have thigh plating, shin plating, knee armor, some type of armored shoes, I have a sturdy looking chest plate, neck protection plate covering, my neck from most angles but, without sacrificing my vision. There are some pockets on my armor at least one on each piece of armor. Damn, it looks so heavy, but, I am moving like it is skin to me or as if it isn't there. There is not enough light here... I need to get outside or... Bring back power into this... Wherever I am right now. This emergency power... Light? Is not enough, it is just enough to guide me. I snap myself back to reality when I heard metallic sound. It sounded like metal forcefully grasping into metal like a talon into a flesh. I quickly assume start running position and run. Not long after I started running. What is this room? It looks so familiar... I have... Been here before? I see some kind of platforms here and there, a big room. Some walls here and there separated from one and another in odd manner. I enter the room because I want to know... I realized that despite the material my armored shoes are made from, I barely make a sound on each of my steps, unless, I am running or jogging. I heard the same screech which I heard not long ago and look behind. It is enough far away for now, so, I decided to not worry about it for now. I want to focus on this right now. Why are these walls put on poles in such a manner? It doesn't make sense... You can't even climb on those, they look too smooth and there doesn't look like to be anything bulging on them to be reasonable foot hold or take grip of with a hand. This room is mostly empty just this... Weird thing over there, art or something... As I walk towards the end of the platform, looking around. Sensation of familiarity is pretty strong, area I have traversed so many times but, I just can't remember how it is familiar to me... I keep looking at the weird set up in front of me. I felt something looking at me. I look behind me immediately. In the distance, way past the entrance into this room, I see three red dots in there... I turn to look at the... Course? And immediately start running towards it. Yes, an obstacle course. I run and jump on to the platform relatively high in front of me and land on it. I take running steps and leap. Realization that I don't remember this course at all but, my body, does, is very odd. Like I have done it thousand times. I get a grip of the edge of the next platform high above me and climb on it without an issue. Even with the dust on them, I kick speed from where I stood and I see the walls placed in the strange way are next. It clicks in my head, I know what to do. I jump and land against the wall. Then jump off from it towards the other wall. I need to increase speed, keep correct angle from landing to jumping and maintain altitude to get to the other side. I land to the next wall and jump off immediately again to the next one. I heard the awful screech again, I can't look back now but, the sound came from awfully close. Next... Some kind of jungle of horizontally placed bars? I realized what I need to do. I slide under five bars, stand back up and continue running. I leap and grab from one of them and swing myself onto the next and another one after that. I land on the solid floor again and again kick the ground to get myself back to high speed. Next ones require me to jump from bar to another perfectly. I go through it effortlessly and keep running. Next one I have to climb up using the bars. I do it pretty quickly and arrive to the finish of the obstacle course. I look behind me and see the three eyes again. I am afraid and immediately start running again. I run out of the room and enter a long hallway. I slow down to walk and turn to look behind me. I feel totally fine and energetic still despite the obstacle course should have demanded a lot from me. What is going on?! Somebody please! Help me understand! Are the only thoughts going through my head right now and stop walking. I look behind myself but, this time I don't see the three red eyes. I look around and still find myself in a mildly claustrophopic hallway. I keep walking and looking around. I arrive to an odd room. There is a lot of empty shelves of weird shapes. Some cabinets... I think, two doors and some that looks like boxes... What is this room. I check everything in here. I can not open the boxes or cabinets. Sealed too tight or in the case of the latter, locked. Shelves are as empty as they seemed to be. I started to sense something as I approached one of the closed doors. I close my eyes and focus on the sensation I feel, I follow the small ripples that I feel on surface of top and slightly of the sides and back of my head. They are slowly getting stronger. Feeling of the ripple is something akin to small wave of water gently colliding onto dry skin. How do I remember that feeling? I walk near of a wall and there is some kind of lever in a casing. Protected by glass or plastic... I lift what turned out to be the protective lid in front of the lever and then pull the lever angling it to point away from the wall, along it. A door way opened next to of the lever and I feel the ripples getting stronger as I entered the hallway. I walk for few seconds and arrive to a room with a lot of boxes in here. I sensed that the ripples are being emanated from one of them. I close my eyes again and follow my sense. I approach one of the boxes and sense that it is emanating the ripples that I have been sensing so far. I find a way to open it without breaking it. There is some sort of packaging material here, I start digging but, immediately on setting my hand into the packaging material, I felt something attaching to my hand and I immediately pull my hands out of the packaging material in the box. What is this? There is a trigger here, I think. Very close of my right hand front finger. Trigger guard? There has to be something more here in this box. I try to take off the object from my right hand and it came off with ease... How? How did it just suddenly attach to my hand? I instinctively place the object on my right thigh for a moment not thinking about it. Although after few seconds from doing it, I did start thinking about it as I start removing the packaging material from the box. I no longer feel the ripples in the air. There, some kind of odd smaller boxes with top open. Is the reason I placed it on my right thigh, because my body remembers? That is the only reason I can come up with. I grab the object from my right thigh as I grab the several small boxes with my left hand. One large pocket on left side of my chest plate opens and I test with one of the small boxes that can it fit in? I try, and it goes there without an issue, heck it feels like there is multiple slots for it. I inspect the object that I have on my right hand right now a bit more carefully with my left hand. Once I had stored all of the smaller boxes into the pocket. I keep the pocket open for now and I feel an opening in the object almost at the very end of the of the object and under it. Is this the place for single small box I have with me in the pocket? I wonder what is inside of those other boxes... It is so difficult to see here... I check the whole box which contained the object I am holding and the small boxes with open top. I place the object back on my thigh and close the pocket on my chest plate. I check all other boxes and in one of them I find a weird buckler... Or a parma? Why were those other boxes just filled with packaging material and only two had something in them. The buckler... or parma is pretty small. Well, I might as well take it with me. I exit the room and as I returned to the door that has guide lights on towards it. I heard a slamming sound safe distance behind me and I look behind me. The three red eyes again. I look back towards the door in front of me and swing it open hard then run into the hallway which was behind it. I run for a while and arrive into another room. Is this power control room or something? I check around and try to activate some of the smart devices here. None of them are working, I sigh deeply out of soft desperation and in serious need of answers. Almost, any answer would be good. I have way too many gaps and size of the gaps, in my memory. That is a scary thought and I rather not think about that again, regarding my memory. I look around this room and there are some cabinets here. I was able to open all of them, others were empty except one. There is some kind of object in here, it attached to my left hand palm and I pull my hands out from the cabinet. This is whole lot different than the other one than the one I would. I was able to take the object off from my left hand and inspect it. Well, best of my ability considering the low light situation. This is more of a one hand object than the one attached to my right thigh currently. I place subconsciously what I found on my left shoulder pocket. I heard the horrible screech of metal again and immediately start running again and continue following the guide lights. As I ran I subconsciously place the shield on my outside side of my left forearm and arrive to some kind of store room? Plenty of boxes and cabinets again... I quickly try to go through them and only one cabinet was able to be opened. It had relatively same sized object in it as in the last room, but, this time more of small boxes smaller than in that other room. Pocket on my left thigh opened and I can place this smaller boxes in it, into their own slots in the pocket. I subconsciously place the small object on to my right shoulder and check the boxes now. I felt the ripples again. There is something in here that I need to take with me... I quickly open two of the six boxes and find what I was looking for. This is a bit smaller than object I found that is now attached to my right thigh. I still feel ripples though, I subconsciously place the object on my left thigh and open last four boxes, in the last one. Something attached into my hands as I was rummaging through the packaging material. I lift it out of the box and it is some kind of pole... With a weirdly shaped heads on both ends. It collapses in itself and now I am only holding it with my left hand. I look behind me as I heard clicking sounds from there. I subconsciously place the rod on my left side of my waist and keep running. Following the guide lights. Writer's note: I found this saved on my computer, had written it at some point, and decided to dig deep into my post history and found other writings that I eyed for a bit. Decided that those and this are worth continuing.

Letters to Nobody is a series of short stories presented as fictional letters. # Journey to LA part 1 You were driving and woke me up when you started straying over the white line into the rumble strips. It took me a few seconds to wake up enough to figure out we weren't in Louisiana anymore. We'd both agreed that we should get through the deep three as fast as possible with as few stops and so far we'd done pretty well. I started the trip and made sure to gas up in Northwest Pensacola to avoid Alabama stopping for as long we could. We successfully avoided stopping altogether. We stayed on route ten and stopped in Biloxi and Gulf Port and stuck to the places the truckers stopped. Mostly for safety in numbers than anything else. By the time we got to New Orleans, we were already exhausted. It was nearly midnight, but I insisted we at least walk about the French Quarter for a couple hours. When we started back up again, I said we'd only stop in Baton Rouge and Lafayette and then hopefully we'd hit Texas by sun-up tomorrow. It was only three hours to the Texas border. At some point you pulled over at a rest stop while I was sleeping, because the sun was up and I happened to catch the Welcome to Texas sign on the high way. I asked you where we were and you said we just crossed the Texas border. Neither one of us had ever been out of Lee County, never mind crossed several states, before. I asked you to pull over and you did pretty quickly. That told me you were pretty tired. Usually you'd argue for at least a couple miles that you were okay to drive. The trip should have only taken about fourteen hours so far, but because of all the traffic through and around Orlando that we had unsuccessfully tried to avoid, and then again in every major city we passed, we'd been on the road already for twenty four hours. I let you drive about ten hours ago only because you had slept on my insistence somewhere in Mississippi until we got to New Orleans. We got out of the truck and stood on the side of the road for a few minutes just taking in the fresh air. I looked at the map in the light breeze. As far as I could tell, after unfolding and folding the map and finding the pen line from Lehigh Acres, Florida to Los Angeles, California, we just crossed from Louisiana into Texas on Route 10. I smelled what was, according to the map, the Sabine river. Ahead there was an exit sign for 880, a turnaroud exit. We were in some place called Orange, Texas. The sun was just barely rising. An orange sky in Orange Texas. I took that as a good sign. You commented that it was freakish how I could just pick up a map and know where we were wherever we were. I told you it only worked on the highways mostly. I couldn't help that I was observant. In the same way I could always figure out where we were on a map, I could also sense you were in another place in your head again. I'm wondering if it's because you were just tired or if it were something else. If you were just tired, then we should pull over. At east rule that out. I suggested we grab a coffee and gas up. You made fun of me for always stopping for gas at a half a tank, but I didn't care. I've never been on a road trip before, but the one thing my dad told me was always gas up at half a tank. He'd been a trucker for years, so I took his advice. I noticed the fuel guage was at a quarter tank. I decided not to mention that. It wasn't the first time you'd ever left it that low. Besides, how far could you really drive in the past eight hours I'd slept so far anyway. I did most of the driving mostly so we wouldn't run out of gas. Besides, I made fun of you for pulling into parking spots because you didn't know how to back in without nearly killing people because you weren't paying attention to the size of the truck we drove. And then I laughed at you nearly running people over because you backed up into busy parking lots. Even though you made my point countless times, you still pulled in and I still backed in while you laughed at me for it. We were pretty even when it came to picking on each other and laughing about it. I think we got along better because of that. There seemed to be an almost child-like back and forth between us. I enjoyed it and you enjoyed it. Or tolerated it. I also enjoyed our other differences. As we sat down for coffee in a small diner attached to a very small two pump gas station, I thought about our differences in how we saw this road trip. I enjoyed the trip itself, the journey that we were taking, while you had your eye firmly on our destination. You drove to get to where we were going, and our destination was just a reason to drive for me. It's how we got along so well. You helped me reach our destinations and I helped you enjoy our journeys. This was our first road trip, sure, but not our first journey. You asked for creme and sugar, I just took my coffee with several packs of sugar. We sipped silently, occasionally glancing at each other and smiling. You asked if I were hungry and I said I could eat something. I suggested you get some pancakes and I'd have some eggs and toast. While you ordered, I went to the restroom. On the way, I noticed for the first time how people were watching you. It was a small diner, only five or six people other than us in the place. It was probably busy for a Wednesday for them. Or this was normal. Not sure. I walked slowly, because I wasn't in a hurry, but also because something tingled the nape of my neck. Why was everyone so intent on their plates while they talked silently? I couldn't make out the words themselves, but I could feel the tension. Was it us? Washing my hands, I had finished up in the restroom and walked back to our table. I almost didn't want my backs to these people. You were staring out the window at our truck. You seemed to be oblivious to the other patrons. I sat down wondering if I were just being paranoid but you were fixated on something outside. You could feel it too. As our food was placed neatly in front of us with a smile from the waitress and our coffee was topped off, it occurred to me that there must be an awfully slim line between paranoia and simple observance. But something was wrong. I knew you felt it as much as I did. I smiled and thanked the waitress. She smiled back like someone smiles when a baby shits in their arms through the diaper and up the back of their little onesie. When she returned to her place behind the counter, she simply stood there as if waiting for us to hurry up and leave. Or something else. Because I didn't know what the something else was, I was concerned. I sipped my coffee enough to barely wet my lips as you watched the pad of butter melt on your pancakes. You poured just the right amount of maple syrup into the small divot it made and watched it spill over gently onto the plate one little line of syrup at a time. Like always. Food was just sustenance for you for the longest time. It took me months to give you even the slighest appreciation for the love of food. As you brought the fork up to your lips, I heard a simple phrase that told me this was not the place to be right this moment. It wasn't scary. It wasn't what was said. It was a mix of everything going on. My tinnitius disappeared, and suddenly everything became clear to me. Could you check the grille, Steve? That was it. Totally innocuous. But something said we needed to exit right now. I put my coffee down abruptly and looked you in the eye. You put your fork back on the plate. Other than the maple syrup you poured, our food was untouched. You simply gave me a look of understanding. As usual, we were completely in tune with each other. Check please, I said, just loud enough to be heard. I looked the waitress in the eye as I said it and she pulled out her little pad before I even said please. You wiped your mouth with a napkin and I laid eight dollars on the table with the check. The tip wasn't huge, but it was enough to say thank you. Not enough to say "we have money", but enough to show a simple appreciation for the use of their restroom. There was no You didn't eat much or Was that not to your liking or anything at all from the waitress. She simply watched us leave. She didn't move from her spot and no one looked up from their plates. Our truck full of gas before we went inside. So I pulled out of the spot I had backed into very slowly and headed toward the highway. No one was moving inside the diner. There were no other cars moving anywhere, no people walking or anything. As I pulled onto the small road leading to the highway entrance, I didn't see any animals. Not a single bird in the sky. Whatever it was that had just happened, or whatever was about to happen, we were getting the fuck out of there and we avoided it. I was tempted to floor the gas pedal but something held me back. In a few minutes, we were back on the highway. We crossed over route 62, I looked over at you and you were already asleep. I half expected you to be up and discussing the weird situation in Orange. You'd wake up and talk about it soon enough. The first thousand miles were behind us. I decided to let you sleep until Las Cruces, New Mexico, if I could. And then a hotel. And a shower. I just wanted out of Texas altogether. Fuck this place. I figured you'd wake up before we got to San Antonio anyway and then we'd talk about the diner. In the meantime, I would just dwell on it alone while I drove. I checked the trip, and checked the fuel gauge, and figured we should stop somewhere between Houston and San Antonio. There was a little place called Katy and that looked big enough without being stuck in a huge city like we had been so far a half dozen times. After we passed through Beamont, I remembered how one of the places we both wanted to see was a nightclub in Houston. We found out it was a real place when the movie came out, and decided to add that to the list of places we would stop. By the time we crossed over route sixty one I had forgotten about talking to you later about the diner. The sky was overcast, it was a beautiful day for driving. The traffic was light and easy and I hadn't seen a state trooper since we crossed into Texas. I started to wonder how many riding bulls they had at Gilley's. I wondered if it'd look just like the movie. It wasn't in me to jinx it by saying how it looked like easy sailing from here, so I didn't. But at least I felt better. You were sleeping soundly now with your head on my lap across the big comfy bench seat. You never looked so beautiful to me. But that wasn't saying much. You always looked beautiful to me.

The year is 1819 and the first trading post has been established in the grove of dogwoods which will one day be known as Abbeville Alabama. It is a glorious new day for Colonel Monroe and his men as they removed the Muscogee to build this grand new settlement. “A toast,” Monroe shouted holding up a large cup. “We eradicated the creek and have taken the first steps to creating a new home in this untamed America.” “Here, here!” The men shouted holding up their cups. Monroe’s wife Molly came up behind him and wrapped her arms gently around his neck. “You are a brave and honorable man Jacob Monroe.” She kissed him on the cheek, drew back her arms and placed them on her pregnant belly. “This is the perfect place to raise our child.” Eleven years have passed and the town is rapidly growing. “The federal government is starting to force all the natives out,” the colonel stated to his wife as he read the letter. Molly listened while sitting at a table with their son in the small cottage. It was a rare commodity but the boy loved vanilla ice cream. “It’s about time our child could live freely without fear of being attacked,” Molly replied. The native people would be required to leave their homes and land leaving behind a trail of tears but the Muscogee wouldn’t leave so easily. They knew what was coming and were planning an attack on the town. They waited in the trees until nightfall when the town went silent. They attacked quickly and quietly killing every man, woman and child. “Everyone except for Molly. No one really knows why she was the only survivor. Well that’s how the story goes anyway,” the man said handing the woman seated in the ice cream parlors booth a cone of vanilla ice cream. “It’s just stories,” the woman replied. The man working the ice cream parlor then handed the boy sitting across the table from the woman an ice cream cone. “Here you go son.” The boy took the ice cream but didn’t respond. “Quite one,” the man tousled the boys hair. “Yes,” the woman responded with a smile “thank you.” The two of them went out for ice cream after every therapy appointment. They tried desperately to get Elliot to communicate again after he lost his hearing, to talk or sign or write, something, but he wouldn’t. Elliot wasn’t always quiet or deaf. He used to be loud and active much like any other twelve year old boy. It happened about a year ago. He was found unconscious in the middle of the street at about four in the morning by a man who was on his way to work. He had three broken ribs and blood coming out of his ears. His ear drums had burst and the damage was irreversible. He would be permanently deaf. The police were not able to figure out what happened. Aside from the man who found Elliot they had no clues or witnesses. They could tell Elliot was alone at the time of the incident but they could not figure out if he was hit by a car or attacked. He had this look of sadness and fear ever since the hospital. He was pulled from school. He barely slept or ate now and spent most of his time alone in his room but there was one thing she knew for certain he still loved vanilla ice cream, even if he didn’t eat it. Elliot sat on his bed with his knees held up to his chest. He stared at a picture that sat on his nightstand of a boy and a woman at the beach. The words written on the bottom of the photo said mom and Michael. He didn’t know who Michael was. There were footsteps coming down the hall and the light from under the bedroom door was blocked out by her long black dress. She always wore that dress. “Elliot are you still awake?” The voice asked. The door knob jiggled but the door was locked. “It’s ok,” the voice said and the footsteps continued to walk on. “You’ll come around.” It was Friday evening and Michael was having a sleepover at his friend Joshua’s house. “Would you boys like some ice cream?” Joshua’s mom asked. “What kind?” Replied Michael. “All we have is vanilla.” “Oh, no thanks. I don’t really like vanilla.” After the ice cream, or lack there of and a movie the boys went up to Joshua’s room to sleep. It was about three in the morning now. “Mikey you asleep?” Joshua asked leaning over the edge of his bed. “I was until you woke me up,” Michael grumbled. “Get up let’s go outside.” Joshua returned. “What? It’s like three in the morning.” “Yeah, this is when the ghosts come out. Let’s go see if we can find some.” “Ghosts? Seriously? No, we’ll get in trouble. Go back to bed.” “What’s wrong Mikey are you chicken?” Joshua started quietly clucking. “I’m not chicken,” Michael hit Joshua with his pillow. “Then prove it.” Michael sighed, “ fine.” The two boys got up, snuck downstairs, put on their shoes and went out the back door and into the street. The town was dark and quiet as they walked down the street. “No ghosts,” Michael stated. “Come on,” Joshua walked ahead. “I heard David’s dad keeps fireworks in his garage.” “We’re not stealing fireworks.” “Oh come on he hasn’t used them in like two years. He won’t notice if we take a few.” “Elliot.” A quiet voice came from behind them. Michael stopped and turned around. “Did you hear that?” “Hear what?” Joshua asked. “I thought someone said Elliot.” “I didn’t hear anything. It’s probably nothing,” Joshua replied. “Yeah you’re right, probably nothing.” The boys continued to walk on. “Elliot,” the voice came again. “Stop it,” Michael looked at Joshua. “Stop what?” “Stop saying Elliot.” “I didn’t say anything.” “You’re trying to scare me.” “I didn’t say anything dummy. “You’re the dummy, dummy.” The two boys huffed and kept walking. “Who is Elliot anyway?” Michael asked. “How should I know.” “Elliot.” Michael turned around again. “What is your problem?” Joshua asked turning around too. “What’s that?” Michael pointed to a tall black object in someone’s yard. “It’s a tree,” Joshua answered. “Elliot.” The object glided from the yard to the street. “I don’t think it’s a tree.” The two boys shuddered. The object glided closer and passed under a street light. The boys could see that it was a horrid looking woman about seven feet tall, wearing a long black dress. “Elliot!” The woman reached out with both arms. “Run!” Joshua yelled. The two boys turned and ran and the woman picked up speed after them. It wasn’t long before the woman was right behind Michael. She reached out and scooped him up in a large hug. Her arms tightened as she lifted him off the ground. Joshua kept running and didn’t look back. Michael could feel his bones break as she squeezed. He kicked and tried to scream but he couldn’t breathe. She began to wail. It was the loudest and most painful thing he had ever heard. It was a wonder she didn’t wake up the entire neighborhood. Blood began to trickle out of his ears. The wailing continued. “I found you, my son. Elliot Monroe.

.* To be different from everyone else can be difficult and is all too often a lonely road to walk. I come from a planet that the humans call Kotkia, since they cannot pronounce it in my native language, it’s an authoritarian planet with a subpar education system. The culture made weaker Kotites (as the Earthlings call us for the previously stated reason) easy targets of mistreatment. As for my species, we’re catlike humanoids but with more ears. We made it this far in our evolutionary stage due to a mixture of intelligence and agility. And before you ask, no, we did not evolve from cats and no cats do not come from another planet, our physical similarities are a funny (one even to myself) coincidence. No, I do not meow, yes we can purr, no I won’t purr for you, that’s for healing wounds (don’t ask how, I’m not a biologist) and for romantic partners, and I’m neither hurt nor do I have such feelings for you as I do not know you. No, you cannot pet me, I will bite you. Anyway, Kotkia is similar to Earth in that it has nation-states, which is actually more common than one might expect, planets are vast and therefore difficult to unify completely. Unified mother planets and even multi-system empires exist, they’re just a lot less common. The difference between Earth and most other planets like mine though, is that Earth is far less unified in terms of cooperation between nations other than planetary defense since common threats tend to be a universal unifier. So, I moved to the United States on Earth in the eighteenth year of my life span two years ago in 2200, which I’m glad to say without confusion (though the year on the Kotite calendar is 5000) since we have a similar rate of revolution around our respective stars, which also leads to my first issue (though I’m well adjusted to this now) that is the rotation of the Earth. Kotia rotates slower than Earth, giving Kotia not only longer days but longer nights as well. This was a gigantic hit to my sleep schedule. Thankfully Kotites tend to adapt quickly to new environments. You’d think coffee got me through it but not really, soda does the trick for me more than coffee since my species is more sensitive to caffeine than humans. That, and I like the taste of soda more. My biggest issue on Earth, however, is that I’m different from most of the native Earthlings, and many judge me for it, some even hate me. For the most part, it isn’t my fur, my catlike nose, my tail, or even my amount of ears, no it’s my brain. Not the brain itself, it’s inside my skull like most species with bones, I mean they judge my mannerisms and my ways of thinking. One key example of how the Kotite mind works is figures of speech. While we do know about figures of speech and they exist in our language, we have a different tell to how we recognize them. As a result, we will take things very literally much more than the average human. The second thing that makes us different is that we are more routine as a species, and while humans are routine as well, Kotite brains are more wired to where we do much better when given instructions for a task. We can overcome that to a good extent but it can be a challenge for us. For example, I worked in a shop for my first few months, and I often defaulted to standing at the counter. I would forget certain responsibilities until my manager would tell me to do something. This with my few words (except with a couple of nicer co-workers who I could talk to about special interests of mine) led to me being looked down upon by a few of my co-workers and managers, even despised by a couple of them viewing me as a child. It was rather upsetting to me because they judged me for these surface-level differences and the only ones who didn’t look down on me were the ones who got to know me more. I remember one older co-worker with a hat made of straw with a blue ribbon, she came in and gave me a small book, explaining that she noticed how much I liked to write and that she bought this for me to write in. Although I never saw her again after she left for another job a few months later, I’ll never forget what she did for me. While the few nice co-workers were great to talk to, the scornful ones were too much, so I opted to find another career. Now I mostly work in a city police force and occasionally go to training as a reservist in their ACTI, an organization that deals with space terrorists or something. It was formed after an incident with space pirates that ended with Earth getting a major technological leap and a running joke about trees speaking human. And while I’m still seen as odd by many, I’ve learned to deal with it. I’ve begun to improve in areas I needed to improve in while accepting the fact that I’ll never truly be the same as the humans around me. And to the humans average humans out there, don’t judge those who are not like yourself, a particular saying (whether your Albert Einstein truly said this or not, I do not know but it is true.) that you should keep in mind: ”…But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.” And to those out there who are different from those around you, whether you are from another planet or maybe a human different from your peers, yes, learn to adapt where you need to but don’t lose yourself in the process. There is nothing wrong with marching to a different tune than those around you.

I walked in an empty land, what was it? Death. There was no thought, no hesitation, but why would I think to do such a thing? This was a bad idea, why did I have these thoughts? Why could I still think? Why could I still walk? And there were one or two things that made me do this, and most of it was loss. Loss was sad, loss was tragic, but the reason I did this was because of my self-destructive thoughts. I wandered through the deserted landscape, hands to my side, and when I noticed those dreadful hands, those broken hands, those shattered hands, I saw why I had done this. The death of my friend, the death of my mother, the death of my father, the death of all. And this was tragic. “Why?” Those lost voices asked as I kept walking. This was because of my stupid thoughts, pointless and worthless. This was not fun or exciting. Those dead voices whispered in my ears, and I didn’t love their thoughts. They had all things to say to me, love, death… death… death. Ahead of me, lay a figure in the haze, this figure was a friend. This friend had been gone for years, leading me down this spiral. My head rested against their shoulder, no words nor questions were exchanged. And at last I found inner peace, it took a while to find. But this inner peace was not fun or exciting, as I did not want to be gone. I did not want to be gone from that lost world, that I worked so hard to leave. And the world that once saw me for who I was, now sees me for who I am. And I can already see the faces at my tomb, the loved, they loved, and they hated death. Death meant life leaving the body that was Earth. Earth was good. Good was perfect. Everyone loved the idea of people living, but what about the idea of people dying? When I drew my life, I left, and I woke up here, in this empty land, this empty place, and with my broken hands, I gave up. And the people of Earth were left crying. Leaving the Earth was a bad idea. Leaving the Earth was not what I wanted. Peace was death. Death was bad. Bad was imperfect. I would never get the chance to redeem myself, but everyone does, don’t they. And I love the world, and so should everyone. As my friend faded away, I continued to walk across the empty land, and in the land there was nowhere to go. Where do I go? Where do I stay? What should I do? Further ahead in the haze I saw another figure, this one with a glaze. And they felt more alive, fuller than the last. And as I got closer, it was me, whole and unbroken. They had my thoughts, my body, my mind. “What do I do now?” I asked, and they remained unchanged, unfazed. “You didn’t have to do this,” they said with a gaze, “There were paths you never saw, help you never seeked.” I looked down at my broken hands, those shattered hands, “I was lost,” I said, “I couldn't see the way.” “But now you have a chance,” They nodded, “There is a journey, another way.” I wanted to believe, to see, to understand. And at last there was meaning to my shattered hands. “You keep walking.” They said, and my eyes lit with hope, “You find love, honor, respect for your new life.” With those words the vibrant figure disappeared in the haze, fading away without another word to say. I wiped my eyes, and continued on the long trek ahead. There was hope in this world, there was honor. And at last, my dreadful hands were healed.

I am writing this in what I can only describe as a state of momentary clarity. So, my wording and recollection may be flawed, but I need to put this on record, as I worry my mind is deteriorating with each passing day, I thought that maybe writing it out could help me make sense of things. Exactly one month ago, Otto, my Husky/Border Collie, and I were out on our regular nightly walk. These walks are usually short, just a quick stroll around our local park, which shares its name with the area my partner Jen, me and of course Otto - moved to about six months ago. Otto and I have always gotten along well ever since the first time we met on Jen's and my third date, I think it was the third one, that or the one after, either way, I always say that the reason me and Otto get along so well is probably because he sees me more as a "funny friend" rather than a ”strict parent”. We often went on longer walks and runs together, while my partner took care of Otto’s trimming and feeding. It was on one of these shorter walks that something strange happened. I feel like there should be some reasonable way in today’s society to deal with this kind of thing, but it just feels so weird to report. I wasn’t the victim of a crime, really, but my girlfriend gave me quite a moral lesson once I realized what had happened and told her the gist of that night. “What if it was not you, a man, but instead a girl out there on her own? Or an old lady? What if it was me?” I can still hear her words, over and over. And so I am now putting it all into words, trying to formulate this before contacting the authorities—well, the cops, I guess. Now, me and Otto had many routines, especially for the last walk of the day. It started with our usual elevator ride down from our flat on the seventh floor. On this night, the elevator stopped unexpectedly on the fifth floor, once going up and once going down with me and Otto in it. I’m not sure how this is connected to the rest of the events, but when retelling something as weird as this, it couldn’t hurt to include it. Every night, Otto and I would head out for our night walk before bedtime. Once outside our house, we would walk down the small slope leading from the rocks where our apartment building was situated. Jen’s mom had a history of living in places that were situated either on a height or simply high up, and this place had both factors. She would joke that it was in case there ever was a flood and then laugh in a way that was quite revealing of the conspiring truth in that statement. Anyway, me and Jen moved into her mom’s flat after it became vacant since her mom moved in with her boyfriend out of town. Save for the few times Jen’s mom would visit with little to no warning, we had the place to ourselves. I really loved this flat. It was bigger than our old inner-city one-roomer, and Otto had more space to run around with his toys, roll his kong, or find new spots to lay and rest after a long day's dog work. We had just walked down that hill and were crossing the adjoining square that once crossed, led up another hill. At the top of this rise was our local park. In total, it was a five-minute walk, and I and Otto had a great routine where he would walk by my side the entire five minutes without him running ahead and pulling me along as he’d usually do otherwise. |||| |:-|:-|:-| |||| |||| The first three-quarters of our walk went rather well, Otto had a sniff on something, and I’d check the time, making sure that we’d at least get a good fifteen minutes before heading back around the circumference of the park and down towards the hill leading us back down to the square. It was then Otto was starting to act as if he’d caught a wild animal out there in the park. He’d do this now and then when we would be running out in the paths in a forest or just when he had had a slow day with very short walks. However I was off from work so we had a lot of exercise and play time together that week, so it just felt like he must’ve caught the scent of something really good out there. We kept on going after he had vigorously sniffed the adjacent gravel path and then just the night air, and as I made a kiss sound, which I often did as a way to get Otto’s attention, I noticed someone approaching us from down the path leading back onto the road down to the square. Anyway, the person didn’t have a dog with him, which was always the first thing I’d look for as Otto is quite reactive to other dogs, especially small dogs, big fluffy dogs, or any sort of un-castrated male dog to be honest. But this man had no leash or any pet with him, yet it was clear to me that Otto was drawn towards him, but in the same way as he would be trying to reach a potential enemy. As we were just a few meters in front of this stranger, he stopped, and Otto ran to my side, and sat down. This is what he’s trained to do in a confrontation, something I’ve now learned is the wrong thing to do, as it teaches your dog to hyper-fixate on a distraction rather than to teach them to turn around or simply steer clear of their triggers. This was however quite unusual of a reaction to another human being, as Otto loved people, save the odd-looking drunkard or goofy stoner, something about their uncanniness just triggered him. And now he was having the same sort of reaction, so I stopped and the man stopped as well. Now standing frozen in front of me Otto was the man, but now only a few meters away, I could've sworn it looked like he had no eyes as the moonlight shone from above him. Instead, his eyes were two empty and hollow sockets, save of eyelids and black like a void was the inside. God... After what felt like a mesmerizing eternity, made up of me staring and pondering, the man seemed to regain some momentum and started to move forward, towards me and Otto. He did this, however, only by barely lifting his feet, instead, he had a rather limp shuffle kind of walk, legs barely bending at his knees. Otto was very much put off by this, he arched his back and snarled in a fury only matched by my ineptitude. It was then I gazed unto the sockets of the man, it was then I saw that in those blackened sockets, positioned just about exactly where the missing irises would be were instead two golden orbs, the same size as the missing iris, floating in what now I realized clear was not a void but black mass of muscle, it glistened, in a sort of disgusting manner in the moonlight, like grease or oil. The black musculature was definitely not the same as human anatomy and needed this sort of fatty substance or grease to function. This and a myriad of other ways for my instincts to guide my mind away from the strangeness of the situation bombarded my senses, only the second bark of my maddened pet companion awakened me from the deep gaze of the man. He too broke the eye contact, instead, he glared at Otto, only to then turn around and run straight into the bushes, he flailed his way off of the path and through the foliage made up of bushes and low-branching trees. While this of course was quite shocking to behold and I had little time to react as I was more focused on keeping Otto at my side, what even puzzled me more in a deep sense of profound confusion was the fact that I could still see the man. Standing five to seven meters past the bushes and branches he stood slightly hunched over. I could tell he was there as Otto was staring into the dark right at those golden irises, which were still illuminated by the cold moonlight. Standing there in total silence, I felt my body regain its volition of flight, the uncanny sensation of the entire scenario began to creep into my consciousness like a slow crawl up my skin as I started to hear my heavy breaths of air being pulled into me like I was about to enter a state of shock and my eyes teared up as my mind now recognized what could only be described as dread danger and a crippling sense of doom. As I slowly snapped out of the death knell I managed to shuffle my feet sideways along the path, not letting the stranger out of my eyesight. Otto was keeping guard and had to be pulled backward in his leash as well, which I guess made my shuffling seem a bit more natural, not that it mattered to anyone but me I couldn't help but think that to myself. Then I realized that I could only hope that there was only one of these things out there in the park, for I risked backing into another one while navigating myself backward away while still facing the man. Suddenly the moonlight that was illuminating the shrouded part of wood the man was standing in disappeared as the moon must’ve reached a point of obstruction. And this signaled my body and also Otto to start jogging. I kept the last known spot in my periphery as long as I was able but alas fear overtook my actions into a violent and heaving flight out of the park and back onto the adjoining road leading down to the square, we ran the entire way down the hill until we reached the point of the square where both me and Otto stopped, as Otto was kissing and jumping my face I kept looking up at that hill and beyond to the park. But I saw nothing, from the square was a short walk across the street and up another hill where the 7-story apartment building where I lived was. Although it was just a few meters I swear that they felt like forever on this occasion. As I unlocked the front door leading to the stairwell and elevator I felt a dreading creep overhanging me like someone was about to grab me from behind me as I entered through the door. I thus hastened my last two steps out of rectory fear and slammed the otherwise automatically closing door behind me, looking out through the glass panels of the door, and with Otto’s happy panting I looked down the hill, down at the square, and then up towards the park. Turning around I rounded up the first steps of stairs and took the elevator to the seventh floor where I lived. I didn’t tell Jen about the eyes, it just felt weird, and the thought of someone who wasn’t there trying to try to find a reasonable explanation for those disgusting eyes pisses me off beyond my self-control, just the thought I’m telling you. So I’ve kept that to myself, and I’m probably not gonna tell the cops about that thing either, the point of all of this is to find the freak from creeping on strangers after all, not to be included in the category as a delusional madman myself. Still, I can’t shake those, eyes, looking back at me. I still see them you know, when I close my eyes sometimes when in bed, or when we’re out in the car at night. I still see them, like when you looked at the sun for just a second as a kid. I don’t think that whoever or whatever that man was is still sitting around in those bushes though. But to be honest with you I probably will not ever go there again. We live quite far up though, and from up here from my kitchen window, I can see the square, and the park as I’m writing this letter. I admit that I still look out at the park sometimes. I’ve opened it wide a few times, trying to smell the air to see if it smells anything like the man did; dirt, oil, and that old man’s musky cologne. Me and Otto don’t go there at night anymore, and I try to steer clear even through Otto’s persistent tugging and looks when we turn a hard left rather than the right that would steer him and me toward the Square. Sometimes, when we’re out and about at night, Otto will still stop though. Mid-walk, just to almost obsessively stare and sniff in the night air, often while facing towards some bushes or low-hanging branches, but searching beyond them, into the darkness. And sometimes, I’m confident, something is looking back.

Hey, I am Daniel and I was recently diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. I hope I am not breaking any rules with this post but wanted to ask for volunteers to add their stories to a fundraising short story collection book with 100% of proceeds going to cancer charities. Any volunteer could ask for their chosen cancer charity but the default will be young lives vs cancer. Just to ease concerns now, I would be more than happy to draw up contracts to ensure all funds are appropriately donated. Since my diagnosis my brother-in-law pledged to do the great north run to raise money for MacMillan in my name, he is a great guy :). This made me want to do some charity work but the normal route of a fitness activity is out of question as I am now very physically disabled. I was brainstorming what I could do to raise money when I thought about writing. I love to write and wanted to be an author as a child, it's also something I can physically do now in hospital. I am rusty with writing fiction and think a full novel would be beyond a stretch, especially with chemotherapy and cancer side effects, so short stories made a great alternative. Collections work best when there is a range of styles and although the point of this collection is charity and not to be some masterpiece, I would of course want it to be enjoyable for readers. I have one short story idea fully fleshed out and then can write a couple more of my own but I would also love for some people to volunteer their work for the collection. Of course everyone will be credited for their work (unless you ask to be anonymous) but there will be no financial reward. 100% of the money made from this book will go to charity and to protect this I am more than happy to write up contracts or something. Please leave a comment if you're interested in volunteering. I believe we should also provide advice and edits for each others work and when I finish my own would hugely appreciate assistance in making it better before publication. I am not sure how many responses to expect nor know how I would choose who to include. If there is loads of volunteers I will only write the one short story and make the whole collection a community project.

“You still owe me your life, you know that?” I felt the lake speak, with a grunt I pulled the knot around the branch rendering the rope taut in my hands. “I’m not going to make the same mistake again.” My voice, though it came out thick and sea swallowed as always, rang with a childish fear. The rope fell to my feet through my typically cracked and dry hands as they caked themselves in sweat. I looked up only to realize the knot had come undone, the ropes end frayed. “Careful now, the little one won’t be happy if his toy isn’t finished soon, wouldn't want him playing in the water would you?” The early morning wind howled against my neck with each word, I grimaced tossing the rope back over the branch trying not to give them much thought. I told the boy not to go in the water, lakes are for looking, not swimming. I made him repeat that phrase until he understood why. Why I told him I would build a swing, so he wouldn’t have to go into the water. “The boy won’t have to play in the water, I owe you nothing, you should be leaving.” The knot clutched the branch, tighter this time. The tire dug into my shoulder as I walked it back toward the tree,rising sunlight beamed through its brushstroke leaves but never onto the tepid waters of the lake itself. I began to thread the rope through the tire, looking back toward my home. My wife and son still sleeping within, my father never met my wife, he would have loved her, I was sure of it. “Something on your mind,sport?” the lake spoke once again, I tensed my shoulders, letting the now swinging tire fall into a hang behind me, the tree squealing softly with the weight of the swing. Stepping toward the lake my shadow grew, I held my breath as I saw my own face reflected in the blue. Bearded and bespeckled with clogged pores and small scars, though my beard looked different within the already bent reflection. Longer, a long shock of white down the center, the beard of my father. The water seemed to pulse up toward my feet and back down. I stepped further back avoiding it entirely. He smiled at me, it smiled at me. “I died saving you, and say what you want but you’re about to make the same mistake I made” he crouched down as he spoke, touching his hand to the underside of the water. “My son deserves not to fear the beauty of the world, I built him this swing so he can see, he will not sink, he will not swim” this was the first time I had spoken directly at the lake, I looked away from my father, who continued looking complacently past me. And out toward the water, the driftwood and smooth rocks sticking up from the shallows. the supposed “beauty of nature” I wanted my boy to experience. All I saw was myself, flailing and gasping, gasping and flailing, small, insignificant, weak. He was right, he had died saving me that day. I wanted my kid to have a normal life, but I could never deny that fact, and I could never deny the strength I'd need to take that dive. I would gladly die for my boy, I meant what I said, but it would never have to come to that, that's what the swing was for. “Right?” I asked no one. My wife had woken up by the time I entered the house, she hugged me tightly as she looked to see the tire swing hanging from the tree she loved so much,I beamed at her, and my alright handywork, still feeling slightly ajar from my body. I hugged my son, who had come running out of his room with talk of his new swing, my pride and joy, like his mother in so many wonderful ways. Thoughts of my father never entirely left, I saw him in my son as well, tough, independent, He surely didn’t get those things from me. “Go try it out kid, just for you” I smiled as my son ran toward the door, a realization hitting me soon after. I clutched his shoulder, harder than I meant to. “Remember what I told you?” “Lakes are for looking, not touching! I know dad” “Good man!” I gave him a pat on the back and let him walk out the door with his mother, who pointed out the coffee she had made me on the counter. The mug had a heart on it, her favorite mug. The door slammed open, thirty minutes after they left my wife screamed into the doorway. I had sat down to read the papers in the recliner. “Come quick! Oh god, he hit his head, I looked away for a second.. I don’t.. Oh god.” I fell to my feet, blistering toward the tree with my wife in tow. I was silent, my mind seethed and crackled with newfound energy, my boy would not sink. I stopped at the tree, falling onto my elbows in shock. The branch had broken, blood was on the rocks, the tire was floating further in the water, as was the branch. I had no thoughts when I jumped into the water, none of my father, none even telling me to stay afloat. I swam broken and haphazardly as my wife cried behind me. The wet hem of the rope rested in my palms, I sat in that lake holding the swing I had made for my son. Now containing nothing but his red shoes. I looked down at the water once again. No longer seeing my fathers face, but my own. Different mistake, same outcome, both gone.. I thought to myself as I suddenly lost the will to swim. And gained the will to sink.

I walked along the bank of the river, my hair already drenched from the rain above. “Shoot,” I murmured. My umbrella was hanging at my side, while I was searching for the marble that I usually kept here for her. If she were here, she would have told me not to. But she wasn’t, and I was free to do as I pleased. I let out a sigh of relief as I noticed the dull yet slightly translucent marble was still there. *“Hey, check out this marble I found!”* *I stared at it. “Wow, it’s so pretty,” I replied. “But it looks like someone dropped it. It’s too polished and rounded to be real.”* *“Huh, well you never know! Maybe nature did do this!” she said, laughing off my seriousness. The pale white rock was pretty and she held it out to me. “Take it! We’ll remember each other because I found another one!” And then she pulled up another marble. Mine was white, hers was brown. “Friendship marbles, see?”* *And I just stared at the first friend I ever had, who was being so nice to me despite us knowing each other for less than a week.* Tears were rolling down my face. We had once joked about being next to each other in our graves, but this? Who would choose to break the whole that we were? These days, I was a wreck. Once every month, I came to visit her. Three months ago was that horrible, horrible day. She was on her way to school, not even looking both ways across the train tracks she had to cross. And it all happened so fast. I wasn’t there to see it, but when the news came, why wouldn’t I have cried? And every day I come here, even though her body isn’t here, I cry about why I wasn’t there for her that one day while she had been with me through…everything. I was somewhat disappointed in myself for abandoning life, but if I would see her again, then it would all work out. After sinking for a bit in the water and exhaling, I tried inhaling some water, but it just caused me to cough. But I soon realized I wouldn’t be able to get any air from the water. I wasn’t a fish, what was I expecting? I knew I couldn’t swim, so this method seemed a plausible way to die considering I couldn’t escape. But drowning was painful! It hurt a lot, being able to gulp but not breathe. But I had to “breathe” anyway. I breathed water, and my lungs were full of it. My sight began to become blurry. Oh, yay, I’m dying! I thought. And then my perception went blank. Turns out my suicide attempt didn’t work after all. I jerked awake and thought, I’m alive? Then I felt something rise in the back of my throat and I vomited. “Yeah, you weirdo. You’re alive.” I was shaken. Why was there a person next to me? I pulled my fingers through my tangled but dried hair. I pushed myself up and dusted myself off, checking my clothes were on and dry. I cursed mentally and wiped the back of my mouth with my hand. “GET BACK HERE, YOU DIDN’T THANK ME FOR SAVING YOUR LIFE!” Did I ask him to save my life? Well, I still have it. I should just thank him for good measure. “Thank you, kind sir for saving my life when I clearly didn’t ask you to. Also, firstly, you’re talking to my back and secondly, you’re not my mom, so you don’t get to tell me when to get my soul back to earth, okay?” But in spite of it all, someone saved me. I had a lot more to thank him for, but I didn’t. “I’m home,” I said unenthusiastically to a wall. I gave myself a shower to get my hair washed and my skin rid of whatever was in the river. Why on earth would I have survived…this? *“Get out of bed, I want you to play with me!” she said.* *I sniffled. “I don’t want to go! Th-they hit me,” I whimpered between noisy gasps of air.* *“Who?”* *“Mommy…and daddy too.”* *“Yuri, look, I’m taking you with me whether you like it or not.” She sat on the bed with me and rubbed my back, then hugged me. And even though I was wetting her shirt with my tears, she still hugged me. She didn’t let me go.* I was sitting on that bed again. “I want you to be with me again…I wish you were here.” There was nothing wrong with my parents now. Early on, they slapped me a couple times because I didn’t live up to their expectations. But they did it out of love, didn’t they? They wanted me to be as great as possible. Don’t get me wrong. This wasn’t my first time attempting suicide. Just the first time I went through with the plan to such a great extent. It may have worked! I mean, smothering yourself with a pillow is a hard way to die. I haven’t talked to them about this. Why should I? They’d reply, “Friends aren’t important and you shouldn’t get attached to them.” But she was important, I reminded myself, No, she is important. And then I was about to cry my eyes out when I saw the same guy who helped me earlier today hanging upside down from my windowsill like a spider. He knocked and I immediately screamed and jumped backwards. After opening the window, I asked, “How on earth did you get here?” “I followed you and spent ages trying to find a way in.” I had a…stalker? “Yuri, I’m here to help,” he said. “Help how? I don’t need any help, I’m already fine.” I didn’t bother to ask how he knew my name. “You’re not fine if you try to commit suicide.” “That’s different. I’m fine in terms of work and lifestyle.” “YOUR LIFESTYLE IS NOT OKAY IF YOU ATTEMPT SUICIDE!” I gulped. Why had a stalker come into my house uninvited while telling me how my lifestyle should be? “Why would you put yourself through this?” “Shut up.” “Yuri, you don’t have anyone to talk to. Face it, your parents are always on business trips, and your best friend is—” he said, pantomiming death. “How do you know all this?” I asked. He was clearly a stalker. “I’m Jenna’s brother.” “Huh?” My best friend never mentioned anything family-related on her end; I assumed it was a sensitive topic. Scratch the stalker part. “She never talked about her family, did she?” “No.” “But she told me a lot about you, and she cared for you. She even showed me the marbles she found.” She was someone who trusted me and cared for me genuinely. She talked to her brother about me, actually considering me important enough, while I on the other hand was too scared to tell my family about her. She was my greatest influence, almost taking the place of my absent parents. She was like a mom, my best-friend-mom. I said, “They say, ‘You never realize the value of something until it’s gone.’” Her value was immeasurable. And I took her for granted. I let unintentional tears fall. Why did I cry so much? “She’s not coming back,” I repeated over and over again. The boy looked almost disgusted but didn’t say anything. "Wait. Why are you still here? You aren’t helping, you know?” “She did tell me especially about you. Not mentioning her other friends in the least.” “Yes, I know, continue.” “She said, on the day of the accident, ‘I should introduce you to Yuri,’ or something like that.” “How’d you know she was me?” “Pictures. By the way, I don’t really have any friends, and, uh, you seem pretty lonely.” “What are you trying to say?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Wanna be friends?” “I need to get to know you better first to even consider you as a friend.” And so the process began. The boy introduced himself as Taro. He was terrible at telling jokes, but they had the tiniest bit of humor in them. Jenna didn’t go through the same things as I did, she never recognized it and usually diverted the topic. Taro, however, knew and understood the pain and neglection I felt. He didn’t dismiss it as unimportant, he related to me. And sometimes I felt he could be a better best friend than Jenna was. Taro and I never discovered any symbolic items to bind us together, but rather we bonded through conversation. It was as if a new light had come into my life. Something new, and kind, and happy had just changed me in a way I thought impossible. And somehow, I began to trust him. I didn’t know if he trusted me the same way, but we were good friends. He introduced me to things I didn’t know about. I felt as if I had lived under a rock my whole life. And now, I was free to learn all I wanted and he was there for me like any good friend. It wasn’t that I completely forgot about Jenna. I still remembered her. She was more than a good friend. But Taro was just better somehow. I felt less suicidal, because I found a purpose, a real something in this world. One day, we were walking to school after a long night of sleep. We usually crossed a busy intersection. However, there were few people today. Taro was lost in thought staring at the sky, and although the light didn’t permit us to cross, he began to move into the road. Cars were moving, and one was perpendicular to him. It was beginning to advance, when I yanked his hand back and moved forward, just to push him back far enough. I realized much too late that I was now in his position. The impact felt like nothing. But then I hit the ground and I was quite a bit away from where I stood. The cars weren’t moving, even though the light was green. I stood up, my head beginning to throb, my leg suddenly feeling a sharp pain. I crawled over to the strip of grass between the lanes, and I realized how much it hurt. I began crying, a natural response to the pain I was in. Taro made his way over to me after a while of waiting, saying he had called the ambulance. I shut my eyes for a bit, squeezing out tears in the process. Traffic was moving again. “—ri, Yuri!” My face was contorted into a grimace as the ambulance approached. I was pulled onto a stretcher, but I couldn’t hear anything because I was focusing too much on the pain. I woke up again in the hospital, on a bed, feeling somewhat safe and snuggly. Taro was sitting in a chair, and I tried to sit up. He pushed me back down again, saying, “They said you have a concussion and fractures.” A week or two later, I was permitted to leave, and I was let off with a cast and a bad scrape on my arm. Taro patted my back. “I’m so glad we’re friends, Yuri. I would’ve been dead if you hadn’t helped me!” I replied playfully, “But you put me through so much!” faking the pain that I had once been so full of. It was as if my burdens were gone, and I had a new friend to show for it.

There is a Hudson News out in the Desert, and you can go there. It’s located way out along the highway, miles and miles away from anything else. The sign on the road won’t say “Hudson News,” it’ll just say “REST AREA ONE MILE” and then it’ll be the next exit, which will feel like another ten miles after the sign. There won’t be a parking lot. The road will just end and then about a hundred yards of sand away, it’ll be there. It’ll be just like any other Hudson News you’ve seen inside an LAX or a Penn Station: wide open on one side with three walls surrounding an array of snacks, local souvenirs, and other travel essentials. Just like any other Hudson News you’ve seen, it won’t have any cars parked out front. It won’t have a parking lot. You’ll notice that, despite its desert placement and exposed front, there never seems to be any sand on the tiled floors. The woman behind the circular counter will behave as though she works at a Hudson News. She will say hello to you as you enter and only feign acknowledgement of your presence again when you go to check out or in the extremely unlikely event that you ask her a question. She will spend the time between these interactions doing seemingly nothing, possibly training herself to take micro naps, in order to continue to operate outside of the restrictions of linear time as every Hudson News has successfully done since its opening. Overcome by a sensation that you have time to kill, you will wander aimlessly between racks of flavor dusted almonds and shelves of paperback books you’ve never heard of claiming to be New York Times best sellers. You will wonder briefly if you actually had a reason to stop here in the first place, but you will assure yourself that you wouldn’t have come here unless you actually needed to. The doorless refrigerator with long strips of clear plastic hanging down in front of it will contain individually packaged hard boiled eggs, obscurely-branded string cheese sticks, and turkey club sandwiches that will be reminiscent of a time when European explorers would tell artists about the animals they discovered on their voyages, but the artists would only be capable of documenting the animals based on those descriptions. You’ll wonder if a similar process was involved in the creation of these turkey clubs. You will briefly consider if you need a twelves ounce bottle of water for three dollars and fifty cents, but you decide you will probably find somewhere to fill up your own water bottle soon. There will be a rack of sweatshirts near the front of the store that simply say “the desert” on the front in plain text. They won’t be available in your size but one will be on a hanger that is mislabeled as your size. They will cost forty-eight dollars each. After you decide that you are not hungry, thirsty, or cold, you will inspect the rotating rack with a sign on top of it that says “Tech Station” to see if they have a charger for your phone. They will be out of the charger for your phone. You will decide at the last second to grab a Kit-Kat bar from the shelf in front of the register. The woman behind the counter will unfeelingly ask you to come over to the other register three feet away. She will ring you up and tell you your total, which will be more than you’d prefer to pay for a single Kit-Kat bar but it won’t matter to you so you will forget. She will momentarily raise her eyes to you over her rectangular glasses to ask you if you would like a receipt and you will say yes or you will say no, and either way you won’t know why. She will not appear to realize that she does not work in the airport, but then again, you’ve never encountered a Hudson News employee that acknowledged that they did work in the airport. You will leave the Hudson News with your purchase and you will get in your car and get back on the highway. The further away you drive, the more you’ll start to wonder whether or not the store you just visited is real. After you drive for long enough you’ll be certain you imagined it. You’ll decide to pull off at the next rest area up ahead and shut your eyes for a moment. You will pull into a parking space under a flickering lamp and you’ll turn off the ignition and take out your keys. You will toss them into your passenger seat and watch them land on an empty Kit-Kat wrapper. There is a Hudson News out in the desert, and you can go there.

Allen Allen’s daily routine is more or less pretty constant. There are some exceptions though! For example, every second Friday of the month he’ll take magic mushrooms. He claims it’s to alleviate the symptoms of his depression and anxiety, but his roommates suspect it’s because he enjoys seeing faces in the clouds on his walks around town. They keep him company. He wakes up at 8:30. After scrolling through Reddit for a few minutes, he rolls out of his bed onto the floor. He throws on a plain blue sweatshirt, faded blue jeans, and white Nike socks, and walks into his messy bathroom to brush his teeth. His breath has been smelling pretty bad ever since he started his new diet, so he’s been brushing his teeth three times a day to try to fix the smell. After brushing his teeth he’ll walk a mile to the town farmer’s market. The farmer’s market isn’t much. It’s made up of three different stands from each of the biggest farms in the county, and there isn’t much variety from one stand to the next. But it’s Allen’s happy place. The vibrancy of the vegetables provides color to an otherwise gray and repetitive day; the bright red tomatoes (I guess they’re technically considered fruit but that’s of no concern to Allen), the deep green stalks of asparagus, and the sun orange peppers give some sort of clarity to an otherwise amorphous, bloblike routine. The real reason he loves the farmers market, however, is because of the brussel sprouts. A few months ago he found a subreddit about diets that burn fat, improve heart health, and increase life expectancy. After lingering for a few minutes extra, he decided to try out an admittedly niche choice. For every single meal eaten on every single day, Allen is to eat 8 ounces of brussel sprouts. That is the only stipulation; he can eat whatever he would like, as long as it is supplemented with brussel sprouts. And you know what? The diet worked! After a few weeks, Allen could see the outline of his abs. His abs! And so everyday Allen walks to the farmers market to stare at the colors of the vegetables (and fruit), and to buy his 24 ounces of brussel sprouts. The mile stretch between his duplex home and the farmers market is an especially bland and monotonous walk. He walks by old, falling apart houses with their light gray and dark blue paint jobs crumbling off the shingles (it’s preposterous that the town only allows two paint colors for houses). The blinds of these houses are drawn and the doors are locked. On mushrooms, Allen sometimes ponders the profundity of the lack of community in his town. It doesn’t really upset him though. There’s a dog park on the walk with more dirt patches than grass, and three randomly placed cement blocks, of different heights and widths, sticking out of the ground. The sidewalk is littered with cigarette butts, and half drunk cans of Labatt Blue Light, red bull, and occasionally yerba mates. The bus stops are plastered with random political stickers that nobody really cares about, and the buses are usually empty. The town’s high school locks its gates and shuts its windows once the students arrive, 8:18 every morning. Allen used to fall victim to that when he went there; he missed his fair share of school days. Right next to the high school is a parking lot that students who had their licenses used to be allowed to park in. The school changed their policy a few years back, and it has since become the home of the farmer’s market. Nobody really understands why the farmer’s market requires a security guard or a locked gate, but he’s there every single day, guarding the three stands from an unknown threat. He knows Allen and unlocks the gate without saying or doing anything else. He’ll claim to anyone who questions him that he gave Allen an “ocular patdown”, whatever that means. Clarence’s stand is the furthest from the entrance out of the three farm stands. Allen used to flirt with Greg’s stand and Verrill Farm’s products, but got tired of the chewiness of the brussel sprouts. He also used to dabble with Louis and his stand, but quickly abandoned their brussel sprouts because they were a little too big for his liking. Even though he broke up with them, Allen is still courteous with both, and he says hi as he strolls by. Clarence works for Marshall Farm, a staple in the county for over 120 years. Allen has been a steady customer of Marshall Farm now for a little over a month, and his brussel sprouts are already weighed out as he gets there. “Get 'em while you can, Al.” Allen doesn’t really like being called Al. I mean, what’s the point in abbreviating the name Allen? It’s a short name to begin with. Anyway, he barely notices that Clarence said anything to him and hands him the $4.49 that the 24 ounces of brussel sprouts costs and goes about browsing the three stands, appreciating the color. It’s the only real color besides dark blue he’s going to see today, so he wants to soak it all in. Allen meanders his way back to his rundown duplex. He walks in, puts headphones in his ears so he doesn’t have to talk to his roommates, and makes his breakfast. For dinner, Allen makes taquitos and brussel sprouts. He likes to bake his brussel sprouts and then broil them for a minute or so right at the end, so they get a little crispy. This is a divergence from pan frying, which he was doing for every meal until a week ago. After dinner he goes to bed. Allen hates waking up to the sound of his alarm, but he sets it anyway because it’s the most effective way to wake up on time. He really doesn’t want to have to alter his routine. After rolling out of bed, slipping on his clothes and brushing his teeth, Allen makes his walk to the farmers market. There’s a little bit more noise on the streets today, a few more people walking around, a few more cars on the road; the bus stop actually has a couple of people waiting for the bus. As Allen approaches the high school, he begins to feel nervous. He can’t see the neon green pavilion that’s home to the Verrill Farm farm stand. Maybe they didn’t bring it today, it isn’t supposed to rain. Strolling up to the gate, Allen finally detects that something’s wrong. Until then, he hadn’t noticed the clanging of metal on cement, men yelling at one another, or cranes flying across the sky. For the first time in his life, Allen spoke to the security guard: “hey, what’s going on? Where’s Clarence?” “You didn’t hear? The state elected us to be the site of a new high end apartment development. They think it’s going to rejuvenate the town. And you know what? The complex is allowed to be orange!” “What? No way? That can’t be true, how did I not hear anything about this? And why is there a foundation already built? The farmer’s market was here yesterday!” “That’s the power of the free market, baby. Well, not actually, cause this is a government development. Well, that’s the power of a strong and efficient centralized government baby!” Allen didn’t know what to make of this. What the fuck is he supposed to do now? Where is he supposed to find color in his life? Where is he supposed to find brussel sprouts? This couldn’t do. Somebody had to take a stand. This was a day of firsts for Allen, and instead of walking home, he took the bus back. He was in a rush, after all. He spent the rest of the day constructing his game plan. He doesn’t know much about the ins and outs of his government, but it must be beholden to its constituents, right? If he can prove that the majority of the town is disgusted by the thought of a fancy, new, orange apartment development, then the town will surely stop its development. It’s settled then. Allen will petition outside of the one spot in town that garners any sort of foot traffic: the toy store. The toy store is about a quarter mile past the abandoned parking lot that used to house the farmers market. Every single day for a week, Allen would walk past his beloved parking lot and wave to the security guard. They do know each other, it would be weird if he didn’t. One day he spat in the direction of the development, another he snarled, but the other 5 days he just put his head down and tried to pretend like it wasn’t there. It shouldn’t be there very long anyway. On his back he carried a portable chair he assumes is used by parents at their childrens’ youth soccer games, but it’s good for petitioning too. It’s hard to stand for 7 hours a day, and it’s bad for your back. The walk has been noticeably louder these past 7 days. More people on the streets, more people waiting for the bus, more voices. The problem was, Allen didn’t get any burn for his petition. He’s not much of a talker, so he struggled to persuade any of the passersby of the importance of the petition. Even if he was, it’s pretty hard to convince people that a struggling farmers market, who’s only real business is one stand selling 24 ounces of brussel sprouts, is more important than a big apartment complex that promises to deliver huge economic growth to the county. After 7 days, Allen had 30 signatures. The town’s not big, but 30 barely breaks 1% of the town’s population. Hardly a majority. Allen continued his daily walk to the toy store on the 8th day of his petitioning. He can’t give up, he can finally see his abs. The streets have returned to their typical quiet, lonely ways. This gave Allen a little pep in his step. A slight return to the norm, he noted to himself happily. As he approached the high school, the quietness persisted. Must be the government’s day off. Does the government take days off? Allen approached the site, and instead of keeping the street between him and the parking lot, he crossed the road and said hi to the security guard - there’s no construction to disturb his mood. The security guard responded pleasantly: “how’s it going pal, you see the news or somethin?” “No I don’t check the news, what’s up?” “You didn’t hear? That regional hegemonic power that’s invested in our deep oil reserves and feigns interest in our allegedly unstable regime decided to stage a coup in the capital. They said our government was committing acts of violence against its citizens or something. It’s funny, I haven’t seen any examples of that. I suspect this power didn’t like the government socializing our oil industry, or how our government refused to sell the oil for criminally low prices to said power, so they decided to make up some story about the government committing atrocities against its own citizens to make the whole coup thing more digestible for the United Nations to process. It’s almost like that hegemon didn’t consider the consequences of overthrowing the most stable, democratic country in the region, which will now probably destabilize the entire region; or the moral implications of installing and propping up a fascist regime that actually does commit crimes against their citizens. So with the coup and everything, the government doesn’t really have time to build fancy apartment developments in towns like these. It’s a bummer, really, things were just starting to look up for us. But it looks like you’re getting your beloved farmers market back. And it looks like I’ll go back to opening up this gate for you every morning.” Allen realizes the reason he didn’t talk to the security guard: that guy talks way too much. Allen couldn’t follow this conversation anyway: it was the second Friday of the month. But he did hear the last couple sentences. He turned around, smiling, soaking in the desolate, monotonous streets with the clarity of joy.

BATTLE REPORT: THE XILEEL AMBUSH AT MERIDIAN III RADIO TRANSCRIPT OF THE USECC VAPOR SOLACE PREFACE: On Sol 361, 2492, the United Space Exploration and Colonization Corps heavy frigate Vapor Solace was stationed at Meridian III in support of mining operations, under Senior Commander First Class Helen A. Dykstra. Approximately 35% complete with their mission of collecting Trisium-Heavy for further refining operations under the Prophet Program, the Vapor Solace was operating at near-peak efficiency. Until this date, no live combat operations had been performed, though drills and sorties were consistently piloted in an effort to maintain readiness. No other USECC vessels were in the vicinity of Meridian III, with the closest manned craft, the Spectre Valiant, docked at Sepulcher Deep Station for repairs after gamma burst exposure from a distant pulsar. What follows is the radio transmission transcript of events on that day, and the first known engagement of Xileel forces in the Hidden Sol War. 21:18:33UCT 361.2492 [Vapor Solace Control]: Flight lead, check in for departure. [Broadsword 1]: Vapor Solace Control, this is Broadsword flight leader, beginning flight checks from the deck time now, good copy. Broadsword flight, spin up and radio check in sequence, over. [Broadsword 2]: Broadsword Two, valid checks, ready. [Broadsword 3]: This is Three, spun up and ready. [Broadsword 4]: Four standing by, green across the line. [Broadsword 5]: Broadsword One, Broadsword Five. Right engine delayed start, good to go at this time. [BS1]: Roger Five, if this is a maintenance issue, stand down for this flight and get it checked out. Are you sure you are set? [BS5]: Copy One, it appears to be the new bearings for the starboard compression turbines just needed an extra push to get spinning. All good. [BS1]: Good copy Broadsword Five, proceeding as normal. Six, are you running? [Broadsword 6]: Just waiting on Five over there to figure out where his keys are, we are set for transport. [BS1]: Broadsword flight set, VS Control. Tundra flight, radio check in sequence, at your go, over. [Tundra 1]: This is Tundra lead, stacked and packed. [Tundra 2]: Tundra Two ready for transport. [Tundra 3]: Tundra Three has doors sealed with a full flight, though I’m tempted to vent the doors to get the smell out of here. Who decided it was a good idea to have the mess serve Caldonia last night, especially with Taylor eating it? Jesus man, you reek! [Tundra 4]: At least you only have to deal with that, I have the replacement drill heads on board and the coating oil smells like a cat took a tuna shit on a pillow and then left it for a week in the tunnels under Foraxia. [TN1]: Tundra Four, Tundra One. You know you like that smell, because it reminds you of home and that stinky piece of shredded sock you call a girlfriend. Are you set? [TN4]: Oh, fuck off. You’re just jealous I have something to go home to, Palmetto. Green lines on Four, though she is riding heavy due to the heads. I will have to refuel once we are back on deck, even with a full tank starting. [TN1]: Copy. Broadsword One, Tundra One. Tundra flight is spun up and awaiting departure. [BS1]: Roger. For our special guest, Epoch flight, check in with status, at your go. [Epoch 1]: Broadsword lead, this is Epoch. All my kids are buckled in, strapped down, and ready to roll. 138 souls on board, engines humming, green lines on the dash. Set for transport, over. [TN3]: Same shit as every other flight, Broadsword. Except now we have that sexy looking Alaska class with us, with her fat ass just waiting for the right smack to get going. [SC1C Dykstra]: Tundra Three, this is Vapor Solace Actual. I will remind you that all radio transmissions are monitored and recorded, and the USECC holds all crew members accountable for their conduct. Clean it up or we can have a conversation when you return. [TN3]: Roger ma’am. Understood. [SC1C Dykstra]: Good. Now, as you seem as if you are in a talking mood, would you please state for the record your flight parameters? [TN3]: Good copy, Actual. Vapor Solace Control, this is Tundra Three. Flight parameters as follows. Broadsword times 6, Tundra times 5, Epoch times 1, enroute to Meridian III Drilling Deck 4 for drilling crew changeover and replacement parts delivery. Flight includes 6 Cutlass class fighters, 4 Orca class transports, and a single Alaska class frigate. 212 souls on board. Flight time to DD4 estimated at 16 minutes, 4 seconds. Estimated offloading time and changeover 46 minutes, return flight time 13 minutes 8 seconds. Returning with 184 souls from mining crew Delta 9. Return to Vapor Solace no later than 22:35UCT. Cutlass escorts from Broadsword flight will not be landing, but will be performing CAP drills from low orbit during changeover. Requesting deck clearance for departure. [VSC]: Copy Tundra Three. All flights, designation is now Prophet 60091. Be advised, Vapor Solace will be out of radar contact for approximately 9 minutes, until far side transition orbit of the moon is completed. You will be without heavy gun support during this time, but radio contact will still be viable along prescribed route. No contact expected via intelligence reports, ground data shows stable upper atmosphere currents with minor gusts of up to 145 knots at 18,000 feet AGL and 35 knots at 6,000 AGL. Prophet lead, you are granted deck clearance for departure. [BS1]: Vapor Solace Control, good copy. Prophet flight, release gate locks on my mark. 3. 2. 1. Mark. All Broadsword clear of deck. All Epoch clear of deck. Tundra Four, you alright down there? [TN4]: Roger, she’s just lagging because of the weight. Once we break free of the Vapor’s gravlocks it won’t be an issue. 11 seconds to break. 5 seconds. 2 seconds. Clear. [BS1]: All Tundra clear of deck. Control, Prophet flight 60091 clear of Solace deck, enroute to Meridian III. See you back in time for cards. [VSC]: Roger flight lead, all ships clear. Safe flight. 21:26:14UCT 361.2492 [BS5]: So, anyone want to talk about getting sent to the principles’ office just then? [TN2]: Nothing worse than that. [TN4]: Especially when the principle is your mom. [TN3]: She’s not my mom, I told you that already. [BS4]: I mean, you do share the same name, and you are both blonde. The family resemblance is uncanny. [TN3]: Shut up, Bradford. She’s not my mom. Don’t you think I would be higher rank already if she was? Or at least not have to share a bunk with Palmetto, at the minimum? [TN1]: But you said you liked spooning with me, Dykstra! Now I gotta find a completely new bunkmate to keep me warm! [BS1]: Walking the line here, fellas. Let’s not all end up in Dykstra’s mom’s office after this, good? [STATIC] [TN4]: …ger that lead. No sense in us all pulling vac detail shifts. [TN3]: Alright, for the last time. Commander Dykstra is not my mother, she is my aunt. I never even knew she was part of USECC until I got assigned to pilot training, I only ever saw her twice or so on holidays before that, and she was always in civvies. [BS3]: Break, break. As much as I hate to bring an end to the family memories, is anyone else seeing this? [BS1]: Seeing what? [BS3]: I’m not sure. My RACOM is showing something funny, almost like a ship, but different somehow? I’m getting a weird feedback loop on my RACOM screens, like it can’t make up its’ mind on what to call it. [BS1]: I have nothing on RACOM, could it be a clipped sensor or something? [BS3]: I have zero idea. Whatever it was, it’s gone now. [BS1]: Copy Three, get it checked out by the wrench monkeys when we get back. [STATIC] [BS3]: …py that. I’ll have Turino look at it, she likes these kind of weird ones. [BS6]: And by that, you mean you like Turino. Or at least parts of Turino. [STATIC, BACKGROUND NOISE, POSSIBLE LAUGHING] [TN1]: Now isn’t that the truth! [EP1]: Hey Broadsword Three, what did it look like on your screens? Was it a hard blip that disappeared, or some kind of glitch? [BS3]: It was more like a fuzzy spot, like the system couldn’t identify it. It looked like static, or a cluster of intense background radiation or something. It was [STATIC] …conds, then gone. [EP1]: I think I may have the same glitch, like someone smudged the screen with oil? [BS3]: Yeah, that sounds about right. [BS1]: Epoch, lead. Do you have a bearing? I don’t see anything on screens. [EP1]: That makes sense, your RACOM doesn’t have the same kind of power levels as the larger ones. I have it at, hold one, approximately 1 o’clock, maybe, 30 or so klicks out? Right at the edge of my range, but staying stable. Is that about what you had, Broadsword Three? Wait, it’s gone now. [BS3]: Bearing checks, but I don’t have it anymore to confirm. [EP1]: Kinda surprised you picked it up at all, with the lower power on your units. [BS6]: Hey now, Smith. Don’t go bashing on the Dirty Birdies just ‘cause you get to handle Big Momma. [TN4]: Dykstra just wishes he could have that kind of family reunion, spend all day zipping around inside of mom. [TN3]: I fucking told you she’s not my [BROKEN] [BS1]: Clear the line, Tundra Three and Four. Hold all. Vapor Solace Control, do you show any RACOM or long-range contacts on your screens? [VSC]: Hold for check. Negative, all screens show negative contact, but we are about to lose contact due to orbit maneuvers. Recommend reset. [STATIC] [BS1]: …tood, all Prophet flight, reset RACOMs to clear any checksum errors, reengage and report in. [TN1]: Copy that, resetting. [EP1]: I’m stuck in boot cycle, just a few more seconds. [BS2]: See Bradford? The Alaska class doesn’t have all the advantages. [EP1]: Only where they count, Forgee. [BS5]: I am booted, I have contact. 325 relative, attitude negative 4, distance 27.2 klicks, unknown classification. [BS2]: I have it too, same bearings. [TN1]: I have it as well, all Tundras link through TUNNET and begin validation sequencing. [TN2]: Connecting, processing. [TN3]: Same location as before, I am in TUNNET. [TN4]: Is it just me, or does it look like it is rotating funny? Like it can’t stay stable? [BS1]: Vapor Solace Control, Prophet flight lead. Reporting new unknown contact, 323 relative now, attitude negative 1.4, distance 15.4, appears to be orbiting in precession on an off axis. Possible disabled craft, req… [STATIC] …tion. [VSC]: Prophet lead, Vapor Solace Control. Unable to confirm contact, instructions are to approach contact and assist with search and rescue if needed. Gun support offline until we clear the moon, estimated 8 minutes. Approach with caution. How copy, over? [BS1]: Good copy, Solace. All Prophet flight, shift course to unknown contact, reduce speed inside 5,000 meters. Let’s see what we’ve got here and if they need help. Unknown contact, bearing 322 relative, this is Prophet flight lead, please identify. [EP1]: Falling in, I will be behind you momentarily. [BS1]: I say again, unknown craft bearing 322 relative, this is Prophet flight lead of the USECC Vapor Solace. We have no distress beacon from your location, please identify if you require assistance, over. [TN1]: Tundra Two, close in to me, we will take rear guard. Tundra Three and Four, front load for scans. [TN4]: Dykstra will get there first, but I’m a comin’ boss man. [BS1]: Unknown vessel, this is Prophet lead of the USECC Vapor Solace. We can provide assistance. Please respond. [BS2]: I don’t think anyone is home, man. Are you running on… [STATIC] …cies? [BS1]: Yes, Forgee. Broadcasting on all frequencies, as wide of a band as I can get. Can anyone get this guy to respond? [TN2]: Unknown craft, please respond to USECC hails. I say again, please respond. I have negative contact, chief. [EP1]: Unknown vessel, unknown vessel. This is Alaska class frigate Prophet Eleven of the USECC Vapor Solace, hailing on all channels and frequencies. Please indicate your need for assistance, if you do not respond we will approach. I say again, please respond. [STATIC] [BS1]: Hey Smith, go ahead and center up, Broadsword can cover escort. I know you’ve got the bigger guns, but I don’t think you’ll get to play with them today. [EP1]: Man, the one day they load me up with the 86’s, and I don’t even come off the bench for it. Roger that, closing center. 21:34:18UCT 361.2492 [BS1]: All Prophet, check speed, reduce to drag. Inside of 2 klicks now, RACOM still doesn’t have a classification. Let’s drift in, not get nicked by the precession. [TN4]: I have visual contact, attitude positive 3. She’s tumbling, but slower than RACOM is making out. Only about 8 or 9 RPM with a… [STATIC] …ting permission to close distance for scan. [TN1]: Tundra Four, last traffic was broken. You said you want to get closer? [TN4]: Yeah, I wanna see what’s inside. [BS1]: Tundra 4, that’s a negative. If you do have to break off, you don’t have the jets to get away from it. It could be a slow burn reactor det or something stupid. Tundra Three, go ahead and take up the inspection slot, Four, hold in reserve and rescue position. [TN3]: Copy, closing in at drift. Scan range in 20 seconds. [TN4]: Oh, boo. If that ain’t some mother’s love shining down from the stars on you, Dykstra, I don’t know what is. [TN3]: Sucks to suck, Butler. And she’s not my mom. [BS2]: Hey, game time guys. Let’s keep our heads in it. All it takes is one loose thruster pivot and she could start spinning like a top. [BS1]: Echoing my thoughts exactly. Vapor Solace Control, Prophet lead. We have made contact with the unknown craft and are attempting scans to identify rescue needs, over. [STATIC] [BS1]: Vapor Solace Control, Prophet flight lead, how copy? [STATIC] [BS1]: Looks like they are behind the moon, can’t see or hear us for a couple more minutes. Dykstra, go ahead and approach, just be careful. [TN3]: Hey no worries big boss. Matching precession, I’m gonna line up right on his nose and see what’s going on inside. [BS1]: Roger that. Epoch, can you try to establish a data link back to Control? They may not be able to hear us, but they should see this. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a ship like this. [EP1]: Roger that, lead. [TN4]: God, this thing is tiny! It’s only what, 4 meters long, 3 wide? It’s like half the size of a Cutlass, maybe a quarter of the Orcas. How the hell did it get all the way out here? Some sort of experiment shot off of Meridian? [BS3]: Or a one-way ticket to the grave for some poor miner who had enough. [BS2]: Let’s not quite get that far ahead of ourselves, Shepard. [TN1]: How we doing, Dykstra? [TN3]: Lined up on the nose now. Man, I am getting some seriously weird scans off this thing. [BS6]: How do you mean? [TN3]: No life signs, no engine prattle, no emergency life support, I don’t even hear the batteries humming. It’s like it was built to be a coffin. [EP1]: Well that’s different. Data link established, they can’t hear us, but they can see our flight data and cams. [STATIC] [BS1]: …py that, Epoch. Keep them up to date, advise of delay so Control can let DD4 know. Anything else, Dykstra? [TN3]: Well my RACOM screens are all kinds of fuzzed, there’s a magnetic field coming off the skin of it or something. Maybe that’s why we couldn’t pick it up for sure in the first place. [BS5]: I know Trellisk ships use fuel like that in their stealth models, but this doesn’t look like any Trellisk craft I’ve ever been introduced to. I know when those fuckers beam in, you can’t see ‘em until they are right on top of you. Spooks the shit out of you the first few times in training. [TN3]: Trellisk are always super smooth skin and shiny though, that’s how they are so fast when slipping. If this is Trellisk, it was designed by one of the kids they rejected from school for eating the modeling frames. [STATIC] …gular to be from one of their ship manufacturing plants. [BS1]: Alright, Dykstra. Can you see anything inside? [TN3]: Popping on the high beams now, chief. Holy shit. 21:38:52UCT 361.2492 [TN4]: What is it, D? [TN3]: I…I don’t know. It’s like…it’s Butler’s boyfriend! [TN4]: The fuck did you just say? I will rip off your balls through your throat, you skinny fucking [BROKEN] [BS1]: Hey! I think we have something important going on here, let’s figure this out over clean channels, huh? What information can you give us, Dykstra? Perhaps something like an actual useful observation? [TN3]: Roger, lead. I don’t know how to describe it. There is definitely a pilot seat, and something is in it. It…it almost looks like a giant frog. [EP1]: Say again last, Tundra. You came in broken and retarded. Did you say frog? [TN3]: Yeah, its looks like a giant frog. Pilot appears to be about 4 feet tall, big beady eyes, and his mouth is almost a foot wide. He’s got…hairs? Spines? Coming out all over his face and head that look like a really bad combover. And unless the cockpit glass is tinted really weird, he looks mostly green with some spots of brown. I can’t describe it any other way, it looks like he is a giant, ugly, mean-looking frog. [EP1]: Pulling up your feed now. Ladies and gentlemen, did we just find a new species in the galaxy? [BS3]: Just make sure the Solace can see this, if we discovered it I want my name on that wall. [EP1]: Solace can see it, but we are still in the radio shadow for comms back. We are too far off projected path, it will still be a couple minutes before we come into radio range. [BS1]: Are you able to confirm what Tundra Three sees, Epoch? [EP1]: I mean, I can’t really believe I’m about to say this, but yeah. Dykstra is seeing what looks like a big frog with a mohawk. It looks kinda dead, with the mouth all open and the head skewed off to the side like that. Whatever it is, it ain’t moving. [STATIC] [BS2]: Should we try to get ahold of it and tow it back? We can’t land at DD4 with it. [BS1]: Unknown occupied craft, this is Prophet flight lead. You appear to be in distress. Please respond. We are going to attempt to provide assistance, over. [TN4]: So what’s the plan from here? The way it’s drifting, it could be drifting into low orbit and skip off the atmosphere by the time we get down, unload, reload and get back up here. [BS1]: Alright, here’s the deal. Tundra Three, you are going to delay landing and tow this thing back. Broadsword Two and Three, you are going to provide escort with myself back to the Solace, everyone else moves down to DD4 for unload. Remaining Broadsword, I want you to run radio relays from Meridian orbit back to Solace, break off waypoints as we head back. Clear? [STATIC] [BS3]: …ger that, lead. [EP1]: Hopefully the Orcas have enough horsepower to get that thing back. [TN3]: No worries, big hoss. Plenty of power to… [STATIC] …the Solace. Extending arm to stabilize now. [EP1]: Did it just move? [BS2]: What? [EP1]: Our new friend, did it just move? [TN3]: Uh…I think maybe so? Oh fuck me, yes. It just closed its mouth and is staring right at me. [BS1]: Unknown occupied craft, this is Prophet lead. We are attempting to provide aid, over. [BS4]: I’m not a huge fan of this anymore. [TN4]: Moving in to provide a second tow. [TN1]: Negative, Four. Tundra Three, go ah… [STATIC] …as well, let’s wait until the Solace sees us. [TN3]: Say again last, came in broken. Is he…smiling at me? 21:41:01UCT 361.2492 [TN1]: Fuck! What the fuck was that? Tundra Three, come in! Tundra Three! [BS2]: Jesus fuck! It’s gone! [TN2]: Holy shit, Three is gone. [BS1]: Tundra Three, come in! Are you alright? Dykstra! [TN4]: Fuck, I’m rolling! Whatever that was, the heads are loose in the cargo bay! [EP1]: Contact! Multiple RACOM contacts! I show 40 plus, closing fast! [BS1]: Vapor Solace Control, Vapor Solace Control, Prophet lead! We have had an incident! Multiple RACOM contacts closing on Prophet flight! I say again, Tundra Three is compromised! Dykstra! [BS2]: The front half is just gone! Dykstra, come in buddy! [STATIC] [UNKNOWN]: Aht haalet vra’an sehk sha’an. (APPROXIMATE TRANSLATION; You shall pay in blood). [BS4]: What the hell just happened? [EP1]: Contacts closing, collision alarm! [BS1]: Break off, back to the Solace! Evade, evade! [BS5]: Did they just pull a Kamikaze? Was that a suicide bomb? [TN2]: Forgee, watch out! [BS2]: Shit! I’m hit! Port side… [STATIC] …ters are offline! [EP1]: Second one inbound! [BS2]: Fuck! Ah! [BS1]: Forgee! All Prophet, open fire! Evade and cover retreat! [TN4]: Trying to come around! [EP1]: Control, control! Prophet flight under hostile contact, requesting fire support! [STATIC] [VSC]: …phet flight, Prophet flight, this is Vapor Solace Control. Contact acknowledged. We show no hostile weapon signatures, over. [BS4]: Fuck that was close! [BS5]: They’re moving so fast I can’t hit them! [BS6]: I can’t gain a target, they are here and then gone! Shit, I’m clipped! [VSC]: Prophet flight, Control! We show no weapons, we cannot engage! [EP1]: They are jumping all over the place! They’re using slip fields as weapons! [BS3]: They are jumping in and out so close the fields are ripping us apart! [TN2]: Decoys away, missile battery release! [BS1]: Watch for friendly fire! Too close, Bradford! [VSC]: Clearing orbit time now, 80 seconds to guns clear. [BS3]: We need those ODCs now! [TN4]: I’m too slow to come around on them without spraying you! [TN1]: Let ‘em have it all! Shit, starboard cannon is reloading! 21:43:06UCT 361.2492 [SC1C Dykstra]: Prophet flight, Vapor Solace Actual. I need a status report time now. [BS1]: Actual, lead! We are under hostile engagement, they are using slip fields as weapons! Broadsword Two and Tundra Three are gone! Broadsword Six is hit, and we cannot gain a target for missile lock! [EP1]: Watch it, Shepard! You just raked me! [BS3]: Sorry! I can’t lead them far enough before they jump! [SC1C Dykstra]: Watch your fire, Prophet. All Vapor Solace, battle stations, battle stations. Gun crews prepare for batteries release. [VSC]: 40 seconds to guns clear. [BS4]: That’s not fast enough! [Vapor Solace Battery Control]: Guns online, spun up for cannon release. [BS6]: I have no port control, attitude control fail… [STATIC] [EP1]: Willows is down! [TN4]: I can’t maneuver with this loose cargo! I’m sliding all over the place! [BS3]: Stay out of their slips! They’re too small to make it through! [TN1]: I hit one! Rounds right behind you Smith! [BS1]: Come to direct approach on the Solace! When those guns go hot, evade incoming! [SC1C Dykstra]: Get those guns cleared, now! [VSC]: Still 27 seconds out. [VSBC]: All batteries ready. [SC1C Dykstra]: I said I want guns now! [EP1]: Bradford, are you hit? [BS3]: Fucking toad! Bitch ass cow… [STATIC] [BS5]: Shepard is down! They slipped right on him! [BS1]: All Prophet, push it! Rolling fire! [TN4]: Negative, I just can’t get the controls to respond fast enough! [TN2]: I clipped one, spinning towards you Palmetto! [TN1]: I see him Frankie! Finished him off! [SC1C Dykstra]: Where are my guns, Control? [VSC]: 8 seconds, pushing as hard as we can. [STATIC] [EP1]: …phet lead, you have a tail! Watch for 86 rounds behind you! [BS1]: Roger! Shit I felt that one! [TN4]: Come on, come on, pull…up! [BS4]: Scratch one more! Clipped a second! [VSC]: Guns clear, Prophet flight prepare for incoming friendly fire. [SC1C Dykstra]: Open fire! [VSBC]: All batteries release. Track and engage at will. [EP1]: Copy fires incoming! Danger close! [BS4]: Inbound, dead level! 2 seconds to clear! Keep… [STATIC] …while we move to you Solace! Make it rain! [BS1]: Stay clear Butler! I can’t slide over with you there! [TN4]: I’m trying, I’m trying! I can’t get the attitude to adjust! Fuck! [BS4]: Rolling out of battery fire! Clear one, clear two! [EP1]: Lookout! [TN1]: You’re too close! Abort roll, Bradford! [BS4]: Ah! Tundra One, I can’t see… [STATIC] [BS1]: Shit! No! Control, Prophet lead, Tundra One and Broadsword Four have collided and are down! [EP1]: We need support off the deck! [VSC]: Hammer flight is attempting to spin up and clear decks momentarily. [VSBC]: Prophet flight, be advised closing distance at this rate will force burst range shortly. Negative impact on all previous rounds, hopefully we can clip them with flak, over. [TN4]: There’s no way I can get through that! [BS1]: Push for it! Smith is right behind you! [EP1]: I have a hull breach starboard side aft! Starboard thrust bay is failing! I’m heading straight into the second battery wave and can’t st… [STATIC] [TN4]: Fire Control, you just wiped out Epoch! What the fuck! [BS5]: I took shrapnel off Smith, the ODC ripped right through him! [TN2]: I see it, Jordan. You’re leaking pretty bad but should make it back if we can clear the third salvo! [STATIC] [BS1]: Salvo inbound Frankie! Watch those bursts! [TN4]: I’m not gonna clear them! I’m too slow to make the break! I need help Gray! [BS1]: You’ll make it! Punch though! [BS5]: Turning for cover, I got you Butler! Roll port on my mark! [TN4]: Copy! I’ll do my best! [TN2]: Control, where the hell is Hammer flight! [BS1]: More jumping in! They’re everywhere! [Hammer 1]: Hammer flight is 30 seconds to launch. [BS5]: Coming around Butler, get ready! [TN4]: Copy! Shit, watch out! There’s one right there! Fuck! Jordan is down! [TN2]: He didn’t slip, that was a collision! [BS1]: Clear of burst barrier, turning to provide gun support! Hammer we need you now! [HM1]: Roger that, twelve birds coming off the deck time now. 21:49:44UCT 361.2492 [TN2]: There must be hundreds of them! Don’t let them make it past the burst line! [HM1]: Prophet lead, Hammer is closing to burst line behind you, watch fire. [BS1]: Copy, covering Butler for return. Come on, move it! [TN4]: I’m only a few seconds out! Frankie watch your belly! [TN2]: I don’t see him! Where is it? I’m gonna lose him in the flak line! Sh… [STATIC] [BS1]: Shit! Frankie’s down! The burst line got him! [TN4]: No no no! [HM1]: What the hell? 21:50:01UCT 361.2492 [BS1]: Control, what is happening? [VSC]: Unknown, Prophet lead. All RACOM contacts are now gone. [VSBC]: All batteries cease fire, I say again, all batteries cease fire. [BS1]: Keep coming Butler! Watch the remaining bursts on your way in! [TN4]: What the fuck, did they all just slip away? [HM1]: It looks that way. Like it was synchronized. [BS1]: No, it’s impossible. Where the fucking hell did they all go? No! [TN4]: There’s no way they just blitzed us and popped out. It doesn’t make sense. They were just here! [BS1]: Keep coming Butler! Don’t let up until we’re back on deck! [STATIC] [TN4]: …ger that lead, I’m still fighting the heads in the cargo bay. [HM1]: Ya done good kid. Hammer has escort for both of you, just keep coming. [SC1C Dykstra]: All Vapor Solace, remain on guard. I want a BDA as soon as possible. [VSC]: Contact! Inside the burst line! It’s… [STATIC] [TN4]: My…God. It’s massive. Gray, behind you! [VSBC]: All batteries op… [STATIC] [HM1]: Hammer engaging! They’re after the Sol…[STATIC] [BS1]: Butler, get the fuck out of…[STATIC] [TN4]: Gray? Gray! Hammer flight! Control! All stations! No! [UNKNOWN]: Einsh hkella ghot (APPROXIMATE TRANSLATION; Take the sacrifice) [TN4]: Ah! No! Fuck you, frog! [SCUFFLLING, STATIC] This transcript was taken directly from the “black box” flight data recorder of the Vapor Solace, recovered nine days after the incident at Meridian III. On 110.2493, the last of the 8,798 crews’ bodies was recovered, minus one. The whereabouts of Senior Reconnaissance Engineer William R. Butler as of this writing still unknown. Of an estimated 3,100 Xileel craft recorded on RACOM during the last few seconds of the transmission log, only seven vessels were recovered.

You sit alone in the cubicle. Your name at the end of the bed, a sign you barely recognise. The gown adorning you feels rough to the touch, but a stark grounding, a small piece serving as a gesture of what is to happen. Your eyes slowly drift, watching the staff dance around the room, flitting between people. The smiles on their faces, covering their true stress, the lines of worry, slight on their foreheads. You feel the cold bed against your back, as you slowly rub the textured blanket with your thumb, the wire-like feel reminding you that no softness will come here. You stare at the patterned fabric as the nurses are ghosts around you, speaking of gentleness and recovery. "The pain will be minor, you'll barely feel it" they say. "You'll be back on your feet in no time". "I know so many people who have come out the other side better off". You barely hear a word of it. They've moved your bed, not that you noticed at the time. They lie you down, you close your eyes, wishing you could be home in your bed, under your own comforting blankets instead. The room is cold, the lights are bright, you think of a warm embrace felt not so long ago. They're counting. You sigh. ... Slowly you notice an ache in your torso. A pressure. Your breath is slow and eyelids are heavy, but you manage to open them just a slither. Your eyes are wet, as you recognise the pressure as someone's hands inside your chest. You know the feeling of this, someone has encapsulated your heart since the moment of meeting. You blink and a tear rolls down your temple, into your hair. No-one notices. Every second is an hour, as you feel each part of the surrounding tissue being slowly abstracted. One-by-one, the strands are severed. Piece by piece you feel them separate. No sharp pain, just a dull, sinking disconnect. As if in slow motion, you see the hands cradling the still-beating soul start moving away. You are willing them to go back and gently nurture the connections, but it is too late. You try to focus, to see the face behind the hands but it's no use, both the hands and your heart disappear into the fogginess. You question how it still continues to beat, even away from you, but you have some small hope that it lives on and your mind goes to where it's next home will be. You squeeze together your stinging eyes, the paper beneath your head wet with tears. A hollowness ringing deeply in your chest is all that you can feel. The rest of your body may as well not even exist as your eyes close and you lie there, listening to the murmers of those around you, the beeps of machines. So clinical. Eventually it gets quiet. Eventually it gets dark. There is no-one to bring you flowers, no-one to be glad you're awake. You hear laughing in the distance, a door somewhere in the darkness opens and closes. Whatever people have gone, they have left to go home to their comforts and their joys, and then all goes quiet. You hear the slow hum of the lights in the hallway. You feel nothing now. You're barely breathing. The coldness of the room mirrors the emptiness inside. You wonder when your new heart will come. You wonder when someone will turn on the lights.

The days and nights pass to the rumble of diesel engines. They become your heartbeat. Your attachment to life. You have nightmares about drowning, about sinking deeper and deeper to the screaming of crew mates. The hull bursts and the Atlantic gouges your eyes and lungs with burning saltwater, and then you wake up to the humming diesels, welcoming you back to life. This time you wake up to silence, to icy condensation pooling in your bunk, to the tense atmosphere of electric engines running silent and hiding from death. When you’re not hearing the diesel, you’re breathing it. The air stinks thick with machinery and diesel oil, with shit and urine, with battery acid, with body odor of 51 sweating crew members. You haven’t breathed fresh air for 36 hours. Not since the emergency dive, since the British destroyer forced the boat under after a torpedo attack that broke the back of a troop transport and sent hundreds of men to a bad death. You were on the conning tower to see the explosion light up the night. Men on deck screamed as they burned. Some leapt from fiery decks into a sea burning with oil. Now it was your turn to face death. You hear the screws and the drops of depth charges. You wonder if this will be the time one of the charges finally hits its mark. These could be your last minutes. Your last breaths. Your desire to survive is strong, but so is their will to kill you. There are no guarantees. If there is a god, he loves no one— not the sailors burned alive in the waves, not the English with their murderous vengeance, not you with your desperate hope. Still, you pray. You wait for the explosions, for the tearing of metal, for the turbulent shaking. Across the command center, the captain waits anxiously with his eyes on a watch, counting the seconds, calculating depth. He does his best to keep his composure, but even he is rattled. Then it comes, so close you’re sure this is it. A loose bolt shoots from the wall and hits the man next to you, lacerating his skull and collapsing him out of existence. You duck and cover your head. Another explosion, more shaking and the lights go out. You shut your eyes tight and wait, but you keep on living. Eventually the explosions stop, and the steady, nerve-wrenching ping of ASDIQ begins. The destroyer has turned to the long game of holding you under, of suffocating you in your own exhaust and filth. They won’t let you go easy this time, and everyone knows it. You check on the man that was hit. He’s dead, but you’re alive. The captain orders crew to bunks, to conserve breath, to conserve electricity and compressed air. As the hours pass, the humidity increases, soaking everything in a wet film. The air grows thicker and thicker. Eventually the captain hands out potassium cartridges. You put yours on and breathe hot air through a large metal can. Then comes the waiting, the sinking into feverish, fearful sleep that only brings nightmares. All around you men lay gasping for air. Still the ASDIQ pings. Charges explode somewhere above, but not near enough to bring the relief of adrenaline. You fight harder to keep yourself awake. Fall asleep now, and you won’t wake up again. Fall asleep now, and it can all be over. You think about letting go, but you can’t. You want to live and so you heave through each burning breath. You’re close to losing consciousness when the captain makes the decision to surface. It’s been quiet for over an hour, and he’s hopeful they’ve finally given up the chase. Either way, it’s surface or suffocate. Most of the crew gathers in the control room. The depth meter slowly rises — 230 meters, 200, 150. Each second feels like an hour. The captain hovers at periscope depth. You watch his expression as he turns the scope. And then he gives the all clear. The ship surfaces. You won’t be the first to exit the boat. Even in times of panic, there is rank and order. You wait as the chief breaks the seal of the tower. The pressure change is so great, he is nearly sucked out. Your ears pop into a loud ringing. You can taste the fresh air. Your hands start to shake as you wait for your turn up the ladder. Then you hear it, the sound of airplane propellers, the panicked yell of “Alarm!” Then an explosion. You’re on the floor, bleeding and covered in sea water. It’s rushing from somewhere further down the ship. The boat is sinking. You pick yourself up and move towards the ladder. At the base lies the captain, his lifeless eyes reflecting light and sky. You boost yourself off of his body to stand and make your way up the first few rungs. You can taste the fresh air as you push further up. You’re almost there when the water starts pouring in. You fight against the rush of saltwater until it comes up over your head. And then you’re swimming. You swim towards a distant sun shimmering through darkness. You break free of the tower and are just feet from the surface, but you’re not moving. You’re stuck in the pull of the boat. You fight until the end, until the pounding in your head turns to a quiet blackness, until your thoughts begin to dissolve away from air, from explosions, and into a dreamless sleep that will never be woken again by the sound of diesel.

Reid and Olivia had two different tactics to solve the crisis created by Polly. They wanted her to advertise their vacation resort, but what they got was Polly angering the military. She broke onto Fort Spencer for their advert, and their location was broadcasted to military bases across the land. As such, both expected soldiers to arrive any second looking to bomb them. Olivia responded by creating a defense perimeter around the beach. The fortifications consisted of shoving random boards and sticks into the ground. There wasn’t barbed wire or even rope to connect the pieces. If the soldiers arrived, they could walk around it or kick over any obstacles. Olivia hoped it slightly impeded them and directed them to a better fighting position. In contrast, Reid was busy constructing a bar. He found alcohol and various liquids that were hopefully not poisonous. He prepared drinks and worked on jokes. The soldiers were going to be angry, and he wanted to take a load off of them. Drinks were where enemies become friends. Alex was sitting on the ground staring off into space. Fate was out of his hands, and he accepted that a long time ago. Reid and Olivia both reached for the same long pole. When they picked it up, they found themselves engaged in a tug of war. “I need this pole. Every self respecting garrison has a flag pole,” Olivia said. “And every great restaurant has a flag with their logo,” Reid said. “Enough with your bar idea. They aren’t going to change sides.” “And we will not be able to fight them. Especially not with your half-baked Hadrian’s Wall,” Reid said. “How dare you! My wall far surpasses that Roman buffoon’s fortification.” “People are coming.” Alex lied on the sand and looked at the sky. How he wished that he could be a cloud. Their lives seemed so simple. “Time for war.” Olivia grabbed a baseball bat. “Time to serve.” Reid went behind the bar. The group was smaller than both thought; there were only three people. Perhaps it was a scouting party. Olivia thought this was the perfect start to intimidate the enemy while Reid was salivating at the thought of testing his drinks on a small party. As the three approached, both were disappointed to see that it was only Polly, Frida, and Jim. Olivia shrugged and whacked Polly with the bat anyway. “What was that for?” Polly asked. “First, your tagline ‘Where fun goes to rest’ was terrible. Second, you brought the entire military down on us,” Olivia said. “Yes, to vacation,” Polly said. “Wow, I would expect this much stupidity from them but not from you.” Reid walked towards them. “Did you have to fight to use their radio, or did you ask politely?” “I was going to ask nicely.” Polly held her head high. Olivia and Reid tilted their heads and raised a single eyebrow. “Frida started a massive fight in the mess hall, and Jim destroyed their bunkers. I did nothing but walk in after them to use the radio.” “I assumed that you were useless, and I knew the trouble would be from these two,” Olivia said. Frida and Jim smiled. “We have to deal with the fact that a strike team is being prepared because we presented a huge threat to them,” Reid said. “You are being dramatic. We aren’t that bad,” Polly said. “Someone else is coming.” Alex held his hands to the ground and felt the vibrations. Polly turned around. In the distance, a large splosh of green covered the ground. It marched forward at a steady rate, and it was headed right for Pacifico City. “Maybe they all want to vacation,” Polly smiled. “They will once I’m through with them,” Reid said. “Don’t listen to him. He’s being stupid.” Olivia looked at Frida and Jim. “You help me fight them off.” Frida raised her fists while Jim grabbed a rock. The invading force approached slowly. That was okay. Polly and Reid needed time to prepare, and anticipation built adrenaline for the fighters. The sun began to set on the horizon, and the battle had yet to begin. Reid and Polly built bonfires and prepared various fish that they found. Frida and Jim got distracted and chased a deer around the city. Olivia stayed put and watched the enemy. Alex looked around and wondered why he ever invited these people. Eventually, a lone man ran forward. He was not equipped with combat gear or weapons. Instead, he was wearing a buttoned t-shirt and flip flops. His hair was cut in an appropriate fashion for the military, but nothing else was. Olivia ran at him with her bat. When she reached him, the man held out his hands and got on the ground. Instead of accepting, Olivia was offended by this sign of surrender and proceeded to attack him anyway. The man’s screams got the attention of the rest of the party. Jim and Frida cheered Olivia on; Frida kicked him a few times. Reid dragged the man away from Olivia while Polly blocked the rest off. Olivia was all too happy to assault Polly instead. “Sorry for the poor welcome my friend. Welcome to Pacifico City,” Reid said. The man was traumatized, but he had a job. He looked around. “Is this really all you have in accommodations?” he asked. Olivia stopped attacking Polly and looked up. “Did your plan really work already?” The disappointment dripped from her voice. She was too distracted to notice Polly kicking her. “My good man, this is a world class relaxation experience,” Reid said, “I’ll take your order and have you properly treated.” “No thanks, we’re going home. That advert lied to us,” the man replied. “Wait what?” Reid’s face dropped. “You aren’t mad.” “Our radio transmissions are hijacked all the time. We were glad it wasn’t about love again. Everyone at Fort Spencer was really excited about the potential for a new vacation spot, but this is awful.” The man walked away. Reid’s fist clenched. He walked towards the man raising them in the air, but Olivia stopped him. “Let him be. It isn’t worth it,” she said. Reid gritted his teeth and looked at his progress. Pacifico City looked awful. “He’s right. This place is a dump. It’s not worth us. Let’s go home,” Reid said. Everyone nodded in agreement. “Bye Alex, thanks for letting us stay,” Polly yelled. Alex lied on the beach hoping the crabs would attack. Why did he tell Polly about this? Why was he in such a people oriented industry? Why was he put on this Earth? He shrugged and got up. One day, it would all make sense.

He fidgeted with his pencil as he sat restlessly at the old wooden desk his father had passed down to him years earlier. The wood had long ago dulled into a dark, dull brown that showed years of frustrated men. The white paper in front of him lay blank as he stared at it. His eyes showed his poor attempt to will the words that needed to be said. The idea was there, but the words weren’t. I used to enjoy this, he thought. Years ago, the young man dreamed of sharing his words with the world. A constant and supportive reassurance in his ability to express words on paper had given him the privilege to believe it. That spark for creating led to admiration, but as time passed, both were replaced by resentment. The confidence in believing he never needed to refine this skill started to show as he struggled to grasp the spark that had once seemed endless. Now it seemed scarcely there, only bursting out short increments that seemed random and unuseful. Time hadn’t been great to him. He had grown bitter at the world. How his path hadn’t led him down a road of success. One that he had never attempted to reach for. His negligence grew into shamefulness. Shamefulness into agony and, eventually, self-pity. He lowered the pencil on the paper again with a careless force, causing the lead to snap. Leaving a splintered end that showed the carelessness of his pressure. Specks of lead lay scattered on the paper. The only marks of an idea that he couldn’t allow himself to let out. He could always keep it within, that way there was less of a chance of failure. Nothing could be judged by the people who believed in him because there would be nothing at all. He had tried before, many times. Stories that were left unfinished or lost. It seemed like a pattern that followed him throughout many aspects of his life: an urge of excitement followed by a loss of passion. He never knew how it would end, or at least, never wanted to find out. Over time he had come to accept this as his own self-torment. A punishment for never taking the leap. This feeling, which he had once fought, was now something he accepted. It had been so long since he had made this choice that he felt helpless in finding out how to combat it. The doubt and hate that he had grown for himself felt peaceful. Happiness was never something he deserved, and he had almost believed that he enjoyed it. A thought had been ensnared in his mind for as long as he could remember: at what point does fear become more powerful than curiosity? When does the idea of failure overtake the willingness to fucking try? The worst part about all of it was that he knew what needed to change. His obvious, clear understanding of what needed to be done without even the slightest ability to attempt it was part of his theory as to why he continued to sink deeper. Or maybe this was part of the routine, the constant anguish of self-awareness.. Maybe this time was different. Maybe the gates could finally open just enough to allow some kind of thought to break out, or at least a start. He gently placed the pencil back onto the piece of paper, as it stared blankly back up at him as if teasing him to try, and evidently fail. But that’s how all things start.

“Please, sir, could you give me anything?” The rugged looking man begged as he stood just outside the back door of the restaurant. He wore a brown leather coat that was as worn as the stairs in an abandoned building and his expression was masked by the dark gray beard that rested along the lining of his face. The shaving pattern was rough and uneven and his jaw twitched exactly twice after each sentence. His southern accent slid throughout my head like molasses and his audible shaking made the leather almost squeak. My father, who was standing just in front of me, glared at the man. He had this look in his eye that displayed both empathy and pity and he sighed heavily. “Just wait. Give me a second.” he said through undoubtably strained teeth. He turned around, stormed through the kitchen door, and emerged back with a box full of fried rice and a bottle of water. My father handed it to the man, and with a giant grin that ran up to his ears, the man thanked us and left. My father and I have a difficult relationship, like most people do. Behind his constant-angered eyes and his sharply furrowed brows lies the same brain you and I have. His heart beats at more or less the same pace as ours does, and his fingers feel the same sensation when he balls up his fist. While these things are true, my father is an irregular man, to say the very least. From the ages 6 to 16, I worked at my family’s restaurant. This practice was as popular to immigrant Asian families as sugary candy was to children. Throughout those years my father and I experienced an immense erosion in our relationship. He was not a man I could figure out. The constant chastising throughout my childhood wasn't what “average” children experienced. They weren't school-related. I didn’t get into a fight with the other kids and it was him scolding me about the importance of peace and friendship. They all were about work. There was this time when I placed a customer’s orders wrong and as punishment, he made me go on both knees for 4 hours and repeat the words “I’m sorry” inside the kitchen. I wonder if those chefs he hired are still traumatized by it. In the restaurant, there was a back room. It was where I hung out most of the time when business was slow or I wasn't needed. Four doors connected into the back room. The first was to the entrance of the kitchen and it's attached rooms, like the storage and the main dining area. The pots and pans clashing against the metal spatulas and the sizzle of the deep-frying oil rang throughout the kitchen and the album of top 100 hits from whatever year it was echoed through the dining room. The high pitched beeps from the computers taking orders always gave me a headache, but were mostly covered by the chatter of people looking for a quick bite. The second door connected to the attic. The dark barely visible lighting and incredibly hot temperature discouraged me from entering. There was no reason to either. Cardboard boxes full of supplies and creepy corners of the room was all it offered. I do have to say though, the stairs made an excellent place to cry. The third door connected to the outside. The door the man was standing in. The alleyway covered by trash bags and trash cans was all that the outside consisted of. The other items most prevalent were broken bottles and finished cigarettes. People wandered through the barely lit concrete tossing aside anything they don’t find value in anymore. Lastly, the fourth door. Behind the other side was a dirty old bathroom. No one bothered to clean it as it was mostly a last resort situation. The cleaner, much tidier bathroom was in the front, with it's black and red painted walls and great lighting. This one, however, was muddy and riddled with dust and ants. The off-white walls were covered with dirt and hanging nails. The sink dripped constantly, and the knob needed to be turned thrice to turn on. It wasn't the dirtiest it was going to get however. Once, he had enough of my mistakes, and decided to take it all out. My father dragged me by my leg into the bathroom. I kicked and screamed and cried as I tried wriggling my leg out of his grasp. It only made him clutch tighter. He yelled words to me in Chinese but they went incoherent. My cries grew louder as we got closer to the door, and he threw me inside the bathroom. His legs struck my sides and I writhed in agony from the work boots he wore. “Shut up!” he shouted as he kicked. “Stop crying or I swear to God, there will be a reason for you to cry more.” He yelled in chinese. My sobs were forced down, unlike his blows as he threw a punch towards my head. Spit flew from his mouth as he shouted at me until he finally decided he had enough and begun to drag me again. The third door opened and a barely visible alleyway was the only thing I saw as he tossed me aside. A loud slam from the doors locked me outside, and tears, blood, and snot were the only thing that accompanied me. (My first short story! Please let me know how I did. Any feedback is appreciated.) (Also, pater meus means "my father" in latin.

Milton nodded to Rod, hung his apron, and turned to the rear of the shop to wash up. The mud room, or as he called it, the soot room, consisted of a large tub he dumped and filled every morning, a rack of several brushes and other tools lay drying, and a large cake of lye soap. Rodney was a good master, not the best he’d served, but near enough. He supplied hot food, soap, and when Rod had seen that his trousers had worn out around the knees, he’d given him a pair his son Nell had left behind. They were a bit loose, but a Nell had always been a big bloke. Milton smiled at the memory of his childhood friend. “I’ll be back the day after the morrow Master Rod. I hope that my absence won’t leave you underhanded, sir.” Waving off his apprentice, and soon to be journeyman, Rodney said, “I won’t hear it, you go celebrate and be merry for me and the wife. I’m taking the day off tomorrow anyhow.” Milton nodded once, and with a rare smile says, “I’ll do just that, master. And when I’ve returned, I’ve an idea for a clever new device.” Chuckling, Rodney gestured toward the door, following Milton out, “If it’s anything like your last one, you’ll need to be more careful of who you discuss it with.” Smirking, Milton says, “It didn’t work anyway, his failure was my success. Anyway, that’s for another day. I wish you well, master.” Rodney grabbed his shoulder as he headed off, “You be safe now boy. I need your hands and your back, but I’d miss the company the most.” Laughing, Milton took his hand in his own and said, “fear not for me, master, but for the beasts who’d come between me and my men.” And with that, Milton headed down the road. As he walked, he noticed Beatrice with a basket greater than her tiny frame in her arms, she was swaying and he knew she’d surely fall. Beatrice was Harold’s wife, Milton had been the one to introduce them all those years ago. “Here, Betty, let me help you.” Taking the basket out of her arms, he glanced down at her, winked, and continued walking in the direction toward her home. “Oh Milton, you’re such a sweetheart. Are you heading home? Have you any bread from last week left? I’ve a half a dozen loaves left from the bakery, would you accept one or two for your help? Oh I’m sure you will, you never could tell me no, now could you? Besides they’ll certainly go bad before me and the children can get to them so it’s just better for all of us that you take your reward.” As she abruptly stopped, both speaking, and walking, Milton realized that they were standing In front of her home. Looking back to Beatrice, she found his eyes and her gaze held his. “I know that you’re off to celebrate, I just ask that you be safe. We need you around here.“ Smiling sweetly, she gripped his arm, just for a moment, and then her hands were a blur as she undid the knot to the basket to fetch his reward. From her hip she produced a small sack and dropped the loaves in, tying it off and laying it over Milton’s arm, she swept the basket out of Miltons arms and disappeared behind her door amidst the screams of excited children. Looking down in wonder at his new sack of bread, another rare smile threatened his lips. Laying three coppers on her porch, he continued on his way. As he neared the edge of the village, he came to the intersection his parents had lived at. Second to last, on the right. The olive trees they’d climbed as children, him and his brother Tomas, still stood lining the path. He passed the intersection, but slowed, and turned around. Standing, he remembered his elder brother. His big brother Tomas hadn’t been physically bigger than his little brother since they were 4 and 8 respectively. Tomas, however, recognized that his brother was physically gifted, and helped develop his mind and morals as well. Milton credited Tomas as much as his father for the man he turned out to be, and as far as he was concerned, that was the best compliment he could give. While never able to match his younger brother in strength, Tomas had been an excellent swordsmen, and much to his own credit, Milton had learned much from his brother. Walking around his family home, Milton angled to the west and proceeded into the woods. One more stop and he’d be ready to head out. After nearly 15 minutes of walking, Milton arrived at his destination. A quaint cabin tucked into a clearing nearly a mile off the beaten path. Heading to the door, Milton called out, “Don’t start barking Rex, it’s just me.” Around the corner of the cabin rounded a massive dog, his lips flapping in the air, tail wagging, hammered the ground as he approached his old friend. “Hey!” Milton snapped his fingers and the dog snapped to. Sliding into a seated position, his tail still wagging, Rex held still otherwise. “You’ve been a good boy, haven’t you?” Milton questioned the attentive dog. Rex barked twice, to the affirmative. “Yes, good, that’s very good. And you’ve protected Lily?” Milton asked, raising an eyebrow. Rex bounded away, catching Milton by surprise as he blew past him. Righting himself, Milton turned and snapped his fingers, “Hey!” Milton roared. Stopping on a dime, Rex turned, his hackles raised and barked once, to the negative, turned, and continued on his way. Shocked, Milton stared after the old mutt. He’d never done anything like this before. A moment later, Rex returned dragging something out of the woods. Bewildered, Milton walked over only to discovered that Rex was dragging a panther. Pulling until the carcass was fully out into the clearing, Rex turned, sat down, as he’d done before, and barked twice, again, to the affirmative. Raising his eyebrows, Milton couldn’t help but laugh at the big mutt. He’d taken a panther and had left it near enough to show him when he came back. Rex had always shocked him with his intelligence, but this was a whole new level to the dog. As if he was saying, “This old dogs still got some new tricks after all, eh?” Patting him on the head, as always, devolved into a good long full body scratch down. As Rex rolled over for the third time so Milton could scratch his belly, Lily came out of the house with little Jasper on her hip. Jasper looked just like his dad, his red ginger hair as shocking as his striking blue eyes. And Lily, pregnancy had done her well, her slight form had filled out and she looked very healthy. Her mother whom she took after had died during birth, so many had worried Lily would meet the same fate. He had only recently met Lily, though she’d been in the village a decade now. She’d been the wife of his second, Peter. A fine man, Peter. Though, he’d always had a cruelty streak, but he’d been willing to be taught, and for that, he and Milton became fast friends. Milton saw the potential of a man who’d been morally lacking, and he’d done his best to never overuse his friend. He’d never forget the day Peter brought Rex home from the mountains. Said that he’d found him in a cave, his mother and siblings dead, surrounded by a dozen wolves. Torn to pieces. Peter said that anything who’d survived that deserved a chance, and every day Rex took his opportunity. They’d never met a smarter dog. It was for his love of Rex that Milton had never given up on Peter, and he’d been repaid ten times over for his loyalty to his friend. Gurgling, little Jasper grasped at the air, smiling at her son, Lily came to stand next to Milton and looked down at the panther. “I thought I’d heard this one a week or so ago, but I haven’t seen a peep of him. I suppose now we know why.” She said the last with a grim smile. “You know he catches deer? Who’s ever heard of a dog that brings deer to your doorstep?” Smiling at his friends wife, Milton responds, “I would bet on that dog in any fight to protect the two of you, that he also feels compelled to bring you some of his kills seems to me to be a gift horse. I would suggest looking elsewhere,” he finished with a wink. Her face taking on a more somber cast, Lily asks, “Are you heading out that way, Milton?” Meeting her eye, Milton nods to the affirmative. Reaching out, Lily pulls Milton into a one armed hug, allowing little Jasper to cling on as well. Whispering in his ear, Lily breathes, “You be safe now, we’d all be lost without you. Take Rex with you. Between his markings and the panther, there won’t be a predator inside a mile of here for weeks.” Shaking his head, Milton started to refusal, but Lily held a hand up and stopped him. “Rex has missed them too, you know.” She said. And her eyes said she meant it, however she may have known how her guardian dog felt, Milton was certain she did. Glancing down at Rex, Milton asked, “And what say you?” Glancing between Lily and Milton, Rex stood and dashed into the woods. Leaving both surprised, once again. After a moment, Rex returned with two other dogs, smaller in stature, but similar enough to their father to ease any doubt. The two dogs whom appeared with Rex took up places on either side of Lily, much to baby Jaspers excitement. Sitting, once more at the feet of Milton, Rex barked twice, once again, to the affirmative. The two dogs flanking Lily answered likely wise. “It appears to me that Rex has already thought of your objections.” Lily said with a sad smile. Shaking his head, Milton looks at Rex and says, “Alright you win, you old mutt. You can come.” To which the three wolfhounds all howled together. The eerie sound pierced his heart in a way that he’d not felt in many moons. “I’ll bring him back on my way back through,” Milton calls to Lily as he heads toward the road, Rex keeping pace with him as he had so many times before. Finally ready to start his journey, Milton puts his chin down and begins walking. He knows the path well, and his mind falls away as he walks, remembering the day he and his friends, had walked this same path on their way to the winter solstice. The next spring brought the new taxes and they’d all agreed together to join the Kings Army. They’d been promised three hot meals and a place to lay their head. They’d went through their initial training together, but they’d all had their own skills so they’d been split up for their advanced trainings. Nell, Rodney’s son, he’d been bigger then pretty much everyone else, and when they’d found out he was a gifted horsemen, well it wasn’t long before he’d been knighted and leading his own contingent of cavalry. Though he hadn’t been bestowed any titles, or lands, Nell was always happy to tell anyone who’d listen how he’d been knighted. The big braggart. His brother, Tomas had been the opposite, he’d be recognized for his agility and his speed. His poor bowman-ship had almost stopped his progress, but hours spent training had paid off. He’d finished his training near the top of his class and had been given command of the Kings Rangers after another year. Peter had moved around several times during his training and had settled on becoming a quartermaster, his mind for numbers was unmatched and his perfect memory suited him well to the role. Milton had chosen him for his second because of his skills, but that he had been friends with him for his whole life hadn’t hurt. Harold had come to them late, he’d not come with the original four as he’d been too young to enlist. A year into his command, Harold had reported to his old friend and they’d all had a good long laugh. That’s where they’d first said it, “We’re getting the gang back together,” and from then on, it had become a tradition. They’d all faired quite well, all of them exceeding their own expectations, climbing the ladder had been easy for their group, and when they’d all been assigned to the same unit, well they made sure they stayed together after that. Milton, having been a commander select, had spent much of his time helping his peers and earning commendations of his mentors. He’d always been of the mind that it had been a lucky mistake, his selection into the upper echelons of the Army. Climbing the final hill, he pondered at this last, at the concept that his selection had been a happy mistake. Shaking his head, he marveled at the ignorance of youth. At the arrogance of man. He’d long since found out why he’d been selected, he simply had a way with words. His charisma wasn’t that he slowed the world, it was that the world slowed around him. As Tomas used to say, Milton “could charm the birds from the trees” Reaching the top of the hill, Rex by his side his old lungs billowing, Milton couldn’t help but agree. He’s been a young get man when they’d chosen the hill. They’d all loved a different portion, but they’d never considered the steep climb. Oh to be young again. Pulling his pack off his back, he glanced rex shoot past him, the old dog still knew what he was doing and he’d be the first to find anyone laying in wait. Heading over to the well Thomas had insisted they spend a weekend digging, Milton washed out the tin canteen cups they’d asked him to take care of. He unfolded the blanket he’d brought and laid it out. Settling himself down, he opened the first of several beers he’d brought and filled the cups. Setting down each by their respective owner, Milton pours his own last. Last, he takes the bread Betty had given him and breaks a loaf into 5 pieces, each joining the cup of beer. Looking up, Milton smiles and says, “Well boys, here we are again, getting the hang back together. I sure miss you guys a lot, but I wanted to you all to know I’ve kept my promises. Your families are looked after, and I’ve made sure they were safe.” His words were met with silence, as they had for the past five years. Wooden crosses could never compare to the life his brothers had filled him with. And for this, he felt he was as close as his promises allowed him to be, for all of the life was with them, somewhere else, and he felt close to them again. It was at this point the mask he’d made himself, created and wore each and every day of the year, but one, came away. It was then, Milton wept for his brothers, both by blood and by trust. He wept for their families who’d been left by their deaths. After a while, Rex’s howls could be heard, joining in his grief, and for that, Milton was thankful, once again for the old dog. For he wasn’t alone in missing his brothers.

In another universe, a long way away, there was an android who worked in a factory. The android was a part of a sophisticated assembly involving other androids and numerous machines. This complex labyrinth of androids and machines was designed by a supreme being, and this being artistically and intricately designed this workspace for a task that they chose not to disclose to any of androids. In this universe the concept of day and night was nonexistent, and the androids always worked. The androids would do their respective task and do their job, never questioning what they were doing or why. They didn't like or dislike their work as their work was their lives, and their lives their work. These androids were too busy working to think about anything else. They didn't speak, play, think, or do anything other than work. It wasn't that they were incapable, for these androids were in fact built to be fully conscious and aware. They had a very large capacity for thought and wonder, but they were merely too busy to process any feelings or thoughts that might ever occur. As for their creator, the androids knew nothing of their (the being's) features physical or mental. The androids never communicated in any way with the being that had created them. They had no spiritual or religious faith or connection; the androids had nothing but a faint, general understanding of their creator's existence and presence. Not that they would ever have the time to question them. So, this is the life of the android. Work, neutrality, and nothing more. Now did these androids have potential? Sure, they did. If given a chance, even a mere minute, one of these androids could start the thinking process. Once even on of the androids were free of their mental prison, they all had the potential to start something eventful. And thus begins the story of one android in particular. This android was just like any other: gray, unremarkable height, unremarkable weight, smooth, mechanical. He (androids don't have biological sexes, but for the sake of simplicity this android will be referred to as a male) was a worker like any other android. He worked on the conveyor belt, where his group were to assure every material safely passed on in the right direction and without defects. This would be a very simple and easy job if it wasn't for the very high speed of the conveyor belt. The materials practically flew, and the androids had to be on high alert, watching the belt with extreme caution. But this was no issue for these androids, as they had been doing this one task since their creation and they would be doing this task until their demise, which was never to happen. They have never made a mistake and they never would. That was the way they were created, and they were created without flaw. Or, at least, that would be the commonly accepted belief until a mistake was made. When this android was re-positioning a material that was facing the wrong way, he lifted his hand off the conveyor approximately one-third of a second too late and knocked another material off the belt completely. For the very first time in his entire existence, the android didn't know what to do. He first left his spot and bent over to pick up the material but as he was doing so, he saw the ground for the very first time. The ground was an offensively bright white. So white it reflected his image, and the android saw himself. He didn't understand at first until he noticed his reflection copying his movements and motions. The android stood back up and left the material where it was. He looked at the belt and the androids working and decided not to interfere. he walked and followed the conveyor belt the direction the materials were going. He saw an incomprehensible number of androids completing a wide variety of tasks all to transport the materials. But, after following the materials for what would be the lifespan of a star in our universe, he ended up in the same place he started. The materials just went around forever. After this realization, the android felt despair for the first time in his life. Forever he worked, and his work caused him to work more, but what's more was that this very thing that gave his life meaning was meaningless. The android decided not to contact of the others and instead walked. He walked away from the maze of machines and androids and walked into a bright white void of emptiness to go and find meaning for himself.