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Allura 23

I had always dreamed of becoming a knight. After years of coin being spent on equipment, honing my skills through sweat and blood, I am to be knighted in a ceremony. As a man of noble descent, I had always figured this day would come but somehow years of expectation and simulating these moments in my mind do not dampen any excitement. The ceremony tends to be overlong and meandering but no amount of nuisances make this less of an accomplishment. I feel the cool fabric of the white garment symbolizing purity against my skin. Later, draped in red I felt the weight of future battles and bloodshed pressed upon my shoulders. The candlelight flickers against the damp, stone walls of the chapel casting shadows everywhere. The night is spent meditating, praying and contemplating the knightly duties that await me. The next morning, I am taken to the ceremonial bath. Another symbol of purification. The water is infused with herbs and blessed by a priest, thus making it holy water. The smell of incense is everywhere. He says prayers over me as I lay in the lukewarm water. The fragile, old man with graying and fading hair keeps reciting the prayers monotonously. They echo through the solemn walls of the castle. My mind begins to wander as I imagine the resplendently dressed Queen gently tapping the flat side of the blade onto my neck or shoulders, officially declaring me a knight. That is all I am looking forward to. This meandering old fool wearing a dress never knew the taste of glory. I pity him. He has chosen a life of comfort, shielded by these gargantuan walls and young, valiant men with hearts of steel. I am a better messenger of God than he will ever be. >„Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword.” - **Matthew 10:34** I grit my teeth as I have to return to the white and red garment again. I crave the feeling of the steel armor on my gambeson and the opulently decorated sword handle against my palm, steadfast. I finally get my wish. Before mass, the meek pages carefully pick up the shiny armor pieces and gently affix them to my body. They both seem no older than 16. I can tell just by looking at them that they envy me and wish to be in my position some day. These two boys, one ginger one blonde may one day undertake the same rite of passage. A wave of relief washes over me as I am finally in my element. But these pesky priests aren’t done with me yet as I must attend mass. I approach the altar with my trusty word and present it to the priest for blessing. It makes my blood boil that such men should even get to touch my sword. I disguise my contempt and thank him, putting my sword in its sheath. I am brought to the room where I am to swear my oath. The room is exquisitely decorated. It is a Grand Hall, the tapestries on the stone wall evoke tales of chivalry, battle and noble veins. The light filters in through the large stained glass windows. On the wall, the Coat of Arms watches the proceedings. The trepidation builds as the Queen hasn’t arrived yet. I feel as if my ancestors are watching me in this very moment. I hope I do them honor. A large door opens and the Queen enters. I avert my gaze out of respect. While my family is of high status, I personally have never met her before. I catch a glimpse of her sumptuous garments. Embroidered in what seems to have silver and gold thread, it is adorned with jewels and precious gemstones. The patterns contain a rich floral design but it is mostly blue. As she gracefully walks in front of me in order to commence the oath swearing I look directly at her for a moment. Our eyes lock on and I realize…I know this woman. About 10 years ago, I had met this young slender girl with flowing brown hair, green eyes, rosy cheeks and a pale complexion. It is not common for men to become knights at 30 years old but I had missed many years of training due to my grave jousting accident. She had stuck by me and nursed me back to health, gave me strength when I did not know I had it. But eventually, I knew that I had to marry into a more noble family in order to protect my status and advance my career. I figured it was implied that this situation was not meant to last long. She did not take it very well when I relayed to her that I was to marry a duchess. Falling into a hysterical state, she would alter between moods of great highs when she would profess to forgive me and ended with abyssal lows of threats of self harm. It had been 10 years yet her looks had not faded and she was still radiant as ever. Regardless…this was a long time ago and we were barely 20 years old. Besides, she is now a mighty Queen and time heals all wounds. If she is hiding contempt, it cannot be detected in her eyes. She impresses me by picking up the ceremonial sword with the skill and confidence of an experienced swordsman, almost as if she had been training. But for what purpose would a Queen need such prowess when she is surrounded by heavily armed guards? My chest is tight with excitement as she lifts the sword, which gleams from the sunlight seeping in through the window. The culmination of all my efforts and sacrifices would be rewarded in front of God, Queen and country. The blade is risen and then lowered to the right shoulder, gently touching it. The steel instrument is raised again but this time she bizarrely grasps it with both of her delicate hands. Maybe she is not as experienced as I thought if she cannot hold onto the sword with only one hand. As I finish my thought, the edge of the blade begins its grotesque journey into my exposed neck. The flesh stands no chance against the cold steel as it severs skin, bone, muscle and arteries alike. My hearing goes static as the arterial sprays spatter onto the carpet. The pain receptors in my brain are overwhelmed as every particle of my body is struggling for survival. My neck is holding on by a chunk shredded flesh. The now crimson sword is raised again and despite an attempt by one of the priests to stop the second strike, the killing blow is dealt. As my head rolls down the hall’s floor the only thing I can see between bouts of violent eye twitches are the ghastly look of the people in attendance.

Skip this first BS they made me add to get to some word count. ///////In a world increasingly dominated by sprawling epics and expansive series, there remains a unique and powerful allure in the brevity and intensity of the short story. For me, the short story format is a cherished medium, particularly when it comes to science fiction. There is something profoundly compelling about the ability to craft a complete and immersive narrative within a limited word count, a challenge that ignites my creativity and pushes me to explore the depths of my imagination. Writing short sci-fi stories allows me to distill vast and complex ideas into a concentrated form, where every word must count and every sentence carries weight. Unlike the extended development arcs of novels, short stories demand precision and clarity. They offer a playground where ideas can be tested and explored without the need for extensive exposition. This concise format invites readers to engage with the core of the narrative, to ponder the speculative scenarios presented, and to draw their own conclusions about the possibilities of the future. The allure of short sci-fi stories lies in their ability to evoke powerful emotions and provoke thought within a brief span. Each story is a snapshot of a larger universe, a glimpse into a world that exists just beyond the edges of our reality. This format allows me to experiment with diverse themes and concepts, from the implications of advanced technology to the philosophical questions of humanity’s place in the cosmos. It is a space where I can push boundaries, challenge norms, and explore the what-ifs that linger in the back of our collective consciousness. Furthermore, short stories provide a unique opportunity for connection. They are accessible and digestible, offering readers a complete experience in a single sitting. In today’s fast-paced world, where time is often a scarce commodity, the ability to dive into a story and emerge with new insights in a matter of minutes is invaluable. This immediacy and impact are what draw me to the short story format time and again.////// "Mother figure is that the moon?" "Yes Laine they've let you see it tonight. Remember well and keep it in your heart. This means tomorrow may be a difficult day. They have given something to hold on to." Reflexively Laine clutches her stuffed whale (yes reader they yet have these remnants of comfort, even if the last whale suffocated centuries ago). She looks at the almost-orb framed by their murky circular window, a grease smudge of white against the starless sky. "Why doesn't it look right? My eyebooks show it with big circles on it?" Mother figure responds as soon as the last syllable leaves Laine's mouth. "The Elonites scrubbed those circles. They were made by falling rocks not yet collected. They had to increase the overall albedo reaching earth after the Light Takers blocked this sun for their own purposes.” "May the light of our hearts sustain us in the dark." Laine whispers, as she was taught to whenever the Light Takers were mentioned. She sighs as lightly as a feather fall and asks, “May I have Dreamscrape now?” “Yes, which would you like to see?” “The flower fields again please, with older brother.” “Have you given him a name yet?” Mother figure asks flatly. “No.” “Very well.” Mother figure knows this is a lie, Laine has named the boy Josah. Laine lays flat, stroking the whale held to her chest. Inside her mind she feels Mother figure press this button and pull that lever, some secret fading dance, and then blackness fills her whole mind up. She’s held there for minutes... years? Then a golden glow fills the air and the smell of grass and honeysuckle fill her nose and the sounds of bees and chirps fill her ears and her laugh and his laugh join together and her heart becomes a waterfall.

The rain battered the roof hard as it came down. Lundgren ignored the storm raging outside as he wiped down the makeshift counter. It had been four years since he set up shop as a trader in this raggedy old shack. It took a few days to gather supplies to fix it up and make it workable but he did it. “Storm is raging pretty hard out there,” he said to himself. As he finished whipping down the counter he sighed and ran a hand through his dull blonde hair. Oh, how he missed being young. Back then his hair was lush and brighter. Now it was just soft and duller with age. The door to Lundgren’s shack slammed open. Lundgren was about to hurry and close it, figuring it was the wind from the storm that blew it open when two pale boys in heavy jackets stepped in. The oldest boy who looked to be around sixteen closed the door behind them. The older boy was slim and looked to be around five foot nine. He had a scoped M1 Garand slung over his right shoulder. The youngest boy looked to be around ten years old, he had a blue bandana wrapped around his eyes. He also was slim and stood at around four foot nine. “What can I do for you boys?” Asked Lundgren in his soothing voice. “We need a place to stay for the night sir.” The older boy spoke firmly. Lundgren took the time to listen to the storm outside, it was raging hard. The rain beat on the tin roof and the walls while the wind howled and cackled. “I suppose you boys can stay the night,” Lundgren said softly, offering a small smile to the two boys. The older boy simply grunted and took off his hood to show his wet messy dark brown hair. He took the younger boy his brother if Lundgren had to guess over to where an old coat rack was. The two boys took off their jackets and hung them up to dry. “Can I uh…can I get your names?” Lundgren asked gently. The older boy turned and answered him. “My name is Gordan and this,” he said, gesturing to the younger boy. “Is my little brother Vern.” “Well nice to meet you, Gordon, Vern you may call me Mr. Lundgren.” Lundgren replied smiling. Neither Gordon nor Vern smiled back. Gordon looked on edge with the M1 Garand still slung over his shoulder. “What were you boys doing out there?” Asked Lundgren. “Traveling,” Gordon replied. “Where you headed?” Lundgren asked. “Nowhere in particular.” Gordon said. Lundgren stood there silent, watching as the two brothers stood there with Gordon looking over Vern. The two then sat down at a small table. Lundgren wandered over to the small makeshift stove where a pot was boiling stew which consisted of potatoes, carrots, and whatever good meat Lundgren could get his hands on. As he stirred the stew he talked with Gordon. “That M1 Grand you got there son…” “What about it?” Gordon asked sharply. “Just wondering where you got it,” Lundgren replied calmly. “I traded it” Lundgren nodded. He’d done trades like that before so it wasn’t unusual for something like that to happen. “Are you a good shot with it?” Lundgren asked. “I am,” Gordon replied. “I hope you boys like stew!” Lundgren said. “We’re not picky.” Gordon said. “Your brother Vern…does he…talk?” Lundgren asked, realizing he hadn’t heard Vern say anything this whole time. “It’s…it’s complicated,” said Gordon. “I understand. No need to go into details, young man.” Lundgren said with a nod. Lots of folks stopped talking after the bombs dropped and the fallout settled. Either because they were in shock, traumatized…maybe worse. Whatever the case was, Lundgren didn’t need to know the details about why Vern was mute or simply refusing to talk. He could get an idea by how protective Gordon was of him. The shack went silent aside from the battering of the rain upon the roof and the stirring of Lundgren’s stew. When the stew was ready Lundgren grabbed two bowels and poured the stew into them before he picked them up and walked over to the small table. He sat the two bowls down in front of Gordon and Vern. Lundgren then walked back to the stew and poured himself some before he sat down at the table in front of Gordon. The smell of the stew filled the shack as the three of them ate. “So uh…where are your parents' boys?” Lundgren asked as he ate. Gordon, not looking up, replied coldly with “gone.” Lundgren simply sat there quiet unsure of how to respond. “I’m…sorry to hear that,” he said. The three ate in silence. When they were done Lundgren took the three bowls and sat them aside. He would wait for the rain to stop before he took them to the river to be washed. The three then sat in silence listening to the rain. Gordon held Vern close to him in his lap clutching the scoped M1 Garand. Lundgren simply stared out the window at the storm, “The storm is quite beautiful actually.” Lundgren said aloud. Gordon grunted as Lundgren continued on. “All that new life the rain will create and breathe into.” “Unless it’s toxic,” Gordon replied. “You’ve gotta have hope,” Lundgren said. “Hope left when the bombs started being flung.” Gordon replied harshly. Lundgren looked over at the two boys. “You won’t survive with that attitude,” Lundgren said. Gordon snorted “survived this long.” “Maybe” Lundgren began. “But trust me folks like you that think like that…they didn’t last too long out there” “All I need is this.” Gordon said gesturing to the M1 Garand. “That gun will only keep you at ease for a short time…then you’ll start to wonder if you should use it on yourself. Or maybe-”“Don’t even say it!” Gordon hissed, interrupting Lundgren. “Don’t you dare say I would hurt Vern! You don’t know me, pal!” “I know you wouldn’t…at least not without reason.” “I wouldn’t at all!” “Not even if he was sick and dying?” Lundgren asked with a raised brow. “Not at all!” Gordon hissed through gritted teeth. “So you would simply let him suffer-”“I think you need to shut your goddamn mouth!” Gordon finally yelled, causing Vern to jump. “Hey! Hey…it’s okay Vern…It’s okay” Gordon whispered to Vern as he rubbed his back. Once Vern had calmed down Gordon glared up at Lundgren. “See what you made me do.” “Sorry” Lundgren said. “I know you would never hurt your little brother,” Lundgren began. “But I’ve seen men with just as much will as you break because they lost hope.” Gordon didn’t say anything. “I simply just wanted to show you that you needed to have hope…otherwise you will wind up like those other men.” Lundgren looked at Vern who still looked a bit frayed. Lundgren got up and poured a small cup of water. He then walked over to Gordon and Vern, Gordon clutched the M1 Garand tightly as Lundgren approached, “Here” Lundgren said. “Let him drink this it should calm him down” Gordon simply stared at him wearily for a minute before he hesitantly took the cup of water from Lundgren and gave it to Vern. Vern drank it and then started to relax. Gordon handed the cup back to Lundgren. “I’m not going to hurt you, Gordon,” Lundgren said calmly. “I understand you want to keep your little brother safe but you’re acting paranoid.” “You can never know anymore.” Gordon said. Lundgren sighed before he walked back to his spot. It wasn’t hard to see why Gordon was jumpy, to say the least. “You know there’s still good people in the world.” Gordon snorted but didn’t say anything. “If you think I was going to hurt you wouldn’t I have done it already?” Lundgren asked. “Wouldn’t I have poisoned or tampered with the stew I gave you?” Gordon simply sat there. Lundgren pressed on “that would have been the perfect time to do something to harm you boys and you would be none the wiser. You couldn’t even stop me…you still hadn’t thanked me for the stew as well.” “Sorry,” Gordon said. “It’s alright” Lundgren replied smiling. “I just needed you to see that you were being overly paranoid.” Gordon didn’t say anything, he just sat there holding Vern in his lap. The three sat in silence for what felt like an eternity before Lundgren spoke up. “I’ve been meaning to ask but how did Vern get blinded anyways? Was He born blind?” Gordon didn’t answer for a minute. And then he spoke “no…no he wasn’t born blind.” he said quietly. Gordon then turned and looked at Lundgren as he continued on. “He saw the bomb go off.” “Oh, I assume the flash blinded him.” Lundgren replied. Gordon nodded. That wasn’t surprising, Vern wasn’t too close to getting vaporized but just close enough for it to do damage to him. Lundgren pondered this newfound knowledge before he spoke up again. “I can still remember when I first saw one of the bombs dropped.” “You do?” Asked Gordon. “Yes, I still remember it all these years later…I don’t think I’ll ever forget. One moment off in the distance just a normal city and then the next…a bright flash off in the distance.” “I hope warmongers like Dick Cheney and Lindsay Graham died when the bombs got flung.” Gordon started. “Men like them deserve it, they’re the worst type of people. Always willing to send someone's son or daughter off to go die for no reason but when it’s time for their pansy asses to go they dodge all the responsibility.” Lundgren simply sat and listened to Gordon’s rant. “And what if they didn’t die in the blast?” He asked. “They probably got killed by an angry mob then.” Gordon replied. “You know my mother would always read me poems about the rain.” Lundgren began. “But she would always read this one poem in particular, it went something like this. When it rains it is Mother Nature's way of giving Earth a bath, she washes away the dirt and grime.” Lundgren paused before continuing. “Afterward the sky is clear, the plants are brighter green, the air is fresh, the streets are clean, the cities quiet down for a little while, and everything looks refreshed and new. It is the miracle of life.” Gordon said nothing, he simply sat there with Vern in his arms. Lundgren stood up and pulled out an inflatable mattress for the two boys to sleep on. After inflating it with an air pump the boys crawled on and slowly fell asleep. Early the next morning Lundgren helped the boys pack up and gave them supplies for their journey. “Are you sure you boys don’t want to stay?” Asked Lundgren. “No sir, we thank you for letting us stay the night but we must get going.” Replied Gordon. As the three walked to the door of the shack Gordon asked “Hey Mr. Lundgren what did you do before the bombs dropped?” Lundgren smiled, “I used to be an actor.” Before the two boys left Lundgren decided to bless their journey with an old Apache blessing. “May the sun bring you new energy by day, may the Moon softly restore you by night, may the rain wash away your worries, may the breeze blow new strength into your being, and may you walk gently through the world and know it’s beauty all of your days.” Gordon snorted and smiled “another poem?” Lundgren shook his head. “An old Apache blessing.” Gordon bowed and thanked him before he took Vern’s hand and started their trip away from the shack. Lundgren watched as the two boys walked away from his trading shack and back into the world anew.

Setting up in my Bed as the days first light began make its way through my bedroom window setting there looking out of the window to a day that life has given me. I could see the sun as it light glimmered through and around the tree and its branches just outside of my window as the wind blew through its leaves. With the quietness of the morning being overridden with the sound of the neighborhood kids walking by making their way to a nearby school. The early morning sounds would soon go away as I set there in bed Not really wanting to get out of bed to what would be just another day for me. As I slowly got up making my to bathroom. Standing there in front of the mirror looking at myself a young Girl closing in on 30! Running my hand back through my messed blonde hair. Thinking to myself as I just stood there looking into the mirror thinking to myself what could a blue eyed girl could do to get through another day. Another day of let’s see if I can get through this day without questioning myself or Life in itself standing there in the bathroom putting my clothes on thinking to myself “ Do I really want to do this?Do I really want this day to even be here” making my way into the kitchen turning on the coffee maker! Not really knowing where to even begin until I have had my mornings coffee. Setting down at the kitchen table to the mornings newspaper along with my coffee flipping through the pages of the morning newspaper looking at what the day may have to look forward to. I thought to myself “ is there anything left in this Life, was there any faith left in me at all. Knowing that this day was already going to be hard enough as it was Just before grabbing my things before heading out the door I noticed my coat was still in the closet. Dropping my purse back onto the kitchen table making my way back into my room opening up my closet door. I reaching for it I noticed a box setting there in the corner out of curiosity I reached for grabbing it out of the closet thinking to myself what was in it. Walking back into the kitchen placing it down onto the kitchen table setting down to open it up to Memories! Memories that later on I knew that I would need I just didn’t realize it at the moment. It was a scrap book along with photos and a letter, with one of the photos being of my mom setting there looking at the photo of my mom as I wipe away a tear. It didn’t seem make my day any better at the moment for today marks ten years since she had passed away. And with me going to visit her grave today it did not make it easier seeing this photo here picking up another photo the memories of yesterday hit me hard as I looked into the photo. Looking at a younger me a young Girl of about twelve years of age with my short brown hair standing there next to my mother. Who was next to identical to me and setting there beside me was my dog, a dog who I named Buddy. Thinking back I remembered the good times that I had with my dog buddy! But not all of it was good times! But for most teens you just don’t realize how much you would miss your parents till they are gone. And that was when I found the letter, a letter that I have not seen before today thinking to myself that reading it that it would not make my day any easier. But read it I did, for the letter read as this, “. To my lovely Daughter Dakota I am writing this letter to you! For when you get older you will realize the hard times and the good times that we had together. For no matter what you will always be my beautiful little girl my little Dakota to me knowing that the last few years that we had together was not the best for either of us. But I always had faith that you would someday see for yourself that no matter what happens in this world that the ones that you love will someday leave you in this Life. Leaving you with their memories, so I want you to think back on the time that you ran away from home. Think back on what you found, think back back to what you have seemed to have lost along the way. For as you read this letter that I have written to you I want you to think back on the summer that you found, on what Life brought to you that summer just before your teenage Life was to begin. For then when you find it again you know that as your mother a place I have found a place that you will find too. Like some that you met along the way that summer for in your heart you will know. That there is a place in Heaven for us. Reading that sent my mind racing, racing back to that day thinking on everything that the day would bring to me but little did I know that the day would bring something! And in a way it that I would have never knew for someone it would bring that day. It was early that morning when I got up not wanting to get out bed just as my dog buddy would come running jumping onto my bed. Licking my face making himself known telling me in his way that another day was here another day to go exploring to find ourselves wondering into a world of our imagination. Giving buddy a hug rubbing his fur as I got out of bed walking into the kitchen as my mom was making breakfast. Setting down at the table as she asked me what I wanted to eat looking at her saying “ maybe later I’m not hungry right now” for I was still thinking about the argument that we had the night before. But before I could say anything my mom spoke to me saying “ honey I know that you are getting older but I am still your mother! You may not want to hear that right now but I just want to be able to talk to you Dakota! and that one day you will appreciate the Life that I am trying to give you!” jumping up from my chair looking to my mom as I shouted to her saying “ just not now mom! I will be back later” making my way out the door as I looked back at my mom saying “ look I will be back later till then just chilling okay” as walked out the door with buddy following me. Years later I would look back with regret on not giving more respect to my mother then. But now a journey awaited me, a journey that would in time change my Life forever setting on the back steps with buddy by my side looking out across our farm. I thought to myself what else is out there? What else was there for me in this life. Looking down at buddy saying to him “ let’s go find out for ourselves what else is out there for us! For it can not be any worse for us then it is here” with that I stood up saying to buddy “ let’s go! Let’s see for ourselves what else is out there” walking across the field of our farm making our way to the fence line. I thought to myself once I do this there is no turning back! There is only the road ahead of us! Jumping the fence me and buddy made our way to the road with my house now out of sight I knew now. That we was on our way and that we was also on our own! To where I did not know but we would find out when got there! Walking down the road dirt a ways not meeting any cars till we came to the gas station at the end of the road that we really seen anybody. Looking at a red farm truck parked on the side of the gas station quickly grabbing buddy as we ran to the truck climbing onto the tailgate. Laying down inside the back of the pickup me and buddy laid there on the back off the pickup truck noticing a blanket in the corner Quickly grabbing it before anyone would come over covering myself and buddy up. laying there it was not long till I heard the owner getting into the truck not noticing us. Pulling out of the gas station I could feel as the wind hit against the blanket as we made our way down the road. About fifteen minutes later uncovering ourselves setting up looking out into the empty fields as we passed by going down the road making sure at the same time that the driver didn’t see us. Looking down at buddy I could see him looking up at me as if he was saying what are you doing. Saying with a smile saying to him “ I know what you say if you could talk but I know what I am doing “ looking back out into the opened fields as we continued to drive farther down the road. I thought to myself, what was I going to do when I got there? Where was I going to go?” About thirty more minutes had passed by with the driver still not noticing us pulling into a parking lot of a grocery store. Quickly laying back down covering myself and buddy back up! Laying there waiting I then heard the truck door open as a person then got out. Upon hearing the truck door shut waiting a couple of minutes to make sure that everything was clear before uncovering myself and buddy making our way from the truck not looking back until we was far enough away. Looking across the parking lot I recognized the grocery store that my mom would bring me when we went shopping. Walking from the parking lot myself and buddy found ourselves walking down the sidewalk. As people would pass us by not paying any attention to them we just kept walking keeping to ourselves. Until we came across a gentleman setting in front of a convenient store. Looking at him he asked me saying “ well hello there! My that is pretty little dog that you have there with you” saying back to him “ thanks buddy here is my dog that my mom got me from the pound” smiling back to me he then asked me saying “ so where are you and buddy headed too on this fine day here if I may ask” Replying back to him I said to him “ just a girl and her dog finding our way in Life looking to what is out here for us.” Looking suspiciously at me and buddy he then said to us “ finding yourself! Why aren’t you a little young to be out here looking to what Life has to offer you”? Maybe there is someone looking for you, maybe you should reconsider what it is that you are looking for and then you when you are old enough. Then maybe you can see what Life is about, but for now just wait here a moment I will be right back.” as he then walked into the convenient store a couple of minutes later coming back out carrying a drink and bag of chips along with a couple of dog treats. As he then handed them to me saying “ Look I want you to promise me that you will go home now today! And think about your Life! And sleep on it and when you get up in the morning you just might know that the Life that you have right now. Is the best time, the best memories that you will know! For when you become an adult you may think that Life is grand and that you are on your way! But know this little one the memories that you make as a child are memories that keep you going when Life steps in letting you know that there is someone that still loves you in the memories that you keep. “ thanking the kind gentleman as me and buddy made our way down the street I didn’t know then what he said as I would later in Life know for what he meant. With the evening was about to set in as buddy and myself walked down the road making our way out of town out of sight. We came upon a field making our way across the field as the sun began to set on me and buddy we decided to make camp there for the night Just with no tent only the stars above us as our cover us as laying there under the stars with buddy curled up next to me. Thinking to myself about my mom was she missing me? What was she doing? As I laid there thinking to myself where was I going to go? What was I going to do when I got there? As laid there looking up into a Star lit sky thinking to myself what else was out there? What else did Life have to offer me. Soon finding myself falling to sleep asking myself certain things till I would fall to sleep for that night dreaming of myself and buddy being back at the farm. Dreaming of the man that we had met earlier that day as he was telling me in my Dream. “ You may not know of your Life right now! But somewhere someone out there has a plan for you in Life”. For everyone that you meet in Life will forever stay with you whether it is in your Dreams or memories. You will know that there is a place for you in this Life” as I Dreamed I then Dreamed of mom. In my dream she was crying, crying for me saying to me “ Please Dakota come home whenever you are please come back to me” waking up the next morning with a tear in my eye I made a decision, a decision that would lead me to a place, a place that would change my Life forever. The next morning buddy and myself found our way across the field walking along thinking about the journey ahead the journey would take us to where we was going. Only problem was that we had no idea on where that was! We only knew that we were on our way! Spending most of the day keeping in the field Till we then came upon a truck parked on the side of the road looking around I could see a individual standing in a field across the road standing in another field. Thinking to myself we could sneak another ride to somewhere as we did before, quickly running up too the truck climbing over the tailgate and laying down before the individual saw us. It wasn’t maybe about five minutes had passed before hearing the truck door open with someone getting in closing the door. Laying there as the truck started up thinking to myself that whoever it was did not see us as we then pulled onto the road making our way to wherever we was going. Laying there in the bed of the pickup with buddy to my side thinking to myself as I watched the clouds in sky pass by as we made our way down the road. I thought to myself what was I going to do when I got there? Would I ever see myself going back home again? But whatever would happen I knew that somewhere down the road I would find my place in Life. A place that I knew I belonged there, but till then I laid there with buddy by my side looking up at the sky as it passed by I looked to buddy saying “ we are on our way buddy you and I, for we will find our place in this Life you me and me together we will find our place in Life. As the day went by further down the road finding ourselves laying in the bed of the pickup I could see the nights sky coming into view just as the we made our way down the highway. Thirsty and hungry I felt laying there in the bed of pickup for I did not know when or where we would end up at looking up at the stars as they passed by I found myself falling to sleep in the bed of the pickup as we made our way down the road. I found myself Dreaming yet again this time I was standing there looking out of a window looking into out into a world that I was not for sure off. A world that seemed distant to me a world that in time I would come to know. As I continued to look out the window I found myself looking at the tree outside of my window the leaves had all but fallen off on to the ground. A cold breeze would make its way through it branches making its way to me as I stood there looking at my mom waving to me from as she stood there looking at me. As she then turned and walked away as I screamed into glass of the window to my mom saying to her” wait mom please come back please where are you going “ turning back to me with a smile looking to me saying “ I love you Dakota I love you wherever your are” with that I suddenly thought to myself with tears in my eyes thinking to myself what have I done? What have I done to my mom? Just as I then suddenly woke up realizing that I was still in the bed in the back off the pickup feeling the truck pulling in somewhere before coming to a stop. Laying there hearing the truck door open up I laid there with buddy waiting for the right moment before getting up. But before I could say anything I suddenly heard a voice, a voice of needless to say a very surprised man saying to me “ what! I can’t even believe to what I am seeing!”Looking at me with a very stunned with a surprised look on his face. But before I could even say anything he just looked at me saying “ you have got a lot of explaining to do but first come with me inside so I can find out where you came from and we can go from there” Climbing down from the bed of the pickup me and buddy made our way inside the mans house where he then proceeded to call the local authorities. Knowing that my and buddies journey had came to an end! Just as he ask me if I was hungry if wanted something to eat not turning down a good meal I immediately said said “yes very much so” After me and buddy ate I then explained to the man my story telling him everything before the local authorities would arrive. But then I heard a voice I heard a voice of what sounded to be a little boy in the next room calling out for his dad. As the man was standing there in his kitchen talking to what seemed to be his wife. Walking over to the room looking in as looked in I saw a boy about the same age as me laying there in bed looking at him saying “ hello “ Looking to me with a surprise the boy then said to me “ who are you” I replied to him saying “ I am Dakota and what is your name” as he spoke bake to me saying “ my name is Billy” walking closer to him I could see that he was sick he had a tube attached to his arm that was attached to a fluid bag next too him. Standing there next to him asking him if everything was all right he replied to me saying “ the Doctors told my mom and dad that I had cancer and that it may take awhile for me to get better” just as I was talking to him buddy then came running into the room jumping up onto the bed next to Billy. As I told buddy to get down billy then said with a smile “ it is okay I like dogs so his name is buddy?” Replying to him saying yes that his name was buddy and that we sort of found ourselves on a little journey. Looking at me with a smile as billy then said to me “ a journey! Man I would love to go on a journey someday a journey to where I could find myself somewhere other then here in this bed” looking to Billy I said to him “ maybe one day you will find yourself self on a journey” smiling to me Billy just looked at me as he then looked down at buddy petting him as he smiled. He then looked up to me from his bed saying to me “ I want to so bad to find my place in this Life! I want to just get up from here and go live my Life. But hearing it in my mom and dads voice I can hear it that I may not get any better. And all I can do is think to myself maybe if not here in this Life then maybe in another Life I then can find my place in Life” Just then as his dad would come into his room looking at me saying to me that it was time, time for me to head home. Looking back to Billy before I left saying to him “ I hope that one day that you will get better and that you will find your place in Life. And just maybe one day when you get to feeling better I will come visit you again and we can go on an adventure together” as Billy gave buddy one last hug I made my way to front door to where the authorities was waiting there to take me and buddy back home. As we made our way back home from our little journey pulling into the drive way back at our farm I could see my mom come running out to me as I got out of the car. Grabbing me hugging me crying saying to me “ don’t you ever leave me again Dakota! Don’t you ever leave like that again me again” hugging my mom saying to her “ I promise mom I will never leave you again” for as the days went on I would set there thinking about billy and Journey that me and buddy went on that day. Thinking as I set there on the front porch with buddy setting there beside me looking out into the opened field in front of me Just as my mom would come out on the front porch setting down next me. Telling me that the boy that I had met on my journey Billy! That Billy had passed away this morning! With tears in my eyes setting there leaning up against my mom not knowing of what to think. Just knowing that I was there with my mom giving me a hug saying to me “ honey I know that they are things in this Life that are hard to understand. And that as we go through Life we still find ourselves still asking ourselves that from Time to time.” For the rest of that evening me and my mom would set there on the front porch talking to one another about what life means for us as we grow up. With that being one of the few times that we did talk with one another, for it was not until I got older that then that I would realize on how much my mom meant to me. Looking back now thinking to myself setting there in the kitchen holding my mom’s letter that she had written to me knowing now that it would be a letter for me to read later in my life A letter for me to look back upon. Thinking of the gentleman that I met on my journey with buddy and that he was right when he told me that the memories that we make during our childhood Sometimes help us get through our Life as adults today. And on that day as I stood there at my mom’s grave I thought to myself thinking of my mom! Thinking about Billy so many years ago what he said to me! For there was a place for him and for the little time that he had in Life here, he indeed had a place, a place where he lived in his mom and dads memories and in their hearts. For the little time that I knew him I always thought of him in Life and in memories that he left behind for me. For me to grow to appreciate the Life that I had, For there was also another place for him. A place for my mom, a place that someday I would also find myself at.

My original post and subsequent censored posts were taken down. And I was just talking about drugs, in the drugs subreddits, isn't that the point there? I'm gonna try to post a censored version of that post here, dear mods I'd like you to explain what is wrong with this censored post if it gets taken down So Hallucinating very noticeably from 60 hours of sleep dep, this was a non-stop bender of \[unidentified type of strong stim pills\] and a \[very expensive luxurious version of *candy*\] Please share your best ideas on how to make yourself go to sleep in a situation like this. Sitting in front of me I have 2mg \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*, that's usually my go-to for the comedown, but I don't usually stick it up the ass like SuperHans from Peep Show (anybody get that reference?) With the last energy I have from aforementioned 60-hour bender I would like to post some observations and thoughts to this wonderful community, where I usually just lurk and don't post This post will probably be like a stream of consciousness, so bear with me. I'm Channeling Hunter S Thompson picturing him sitting at his typewriter with that long cigarette thing, letting a bunch of hallucinogens playing in his system and putting together such good writing in the end that I've read some of it multiple times and its still interesting. I just wish I had a gun to shoot at objects that anger me, but I'm in a hotel right now and they don't let you do that here There's something about being on good drugs that just makes me wanna write, can anyone relate? I know Hunter definitely could. Or is this like a sub where everyone is trying to quit doing drugs? Next to me I have pills of \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\**, a few blister packs of well-known ED pills, a full but warm energy drink, Most of the \*candy* left (hopefully at least half) and the stim pills are around here somewhere. Charliee Scheen banging 7 gram r*cks would feel right at home here. No alc*hol (can I identify this because it's sold legally?), no downers, but I think I may lose control of my head because now it's started into sleep deep nods, kinda like nods from that Thang That Killed Cobain I'm falling asleep sitting here and every so often my brain \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*, like you'd get with vertigo but it only lasts a fraction of a second thankfully.. A bit unsettling but not psychosis, as I am fully aware that the shadows in the corner of the eyes are not real people. Except for Barney, and he's helping me find Pepe Silvia I've been at it since I got the \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* Monday afternoon.. there were \*\*\*\*\*\* and they were even labeled as "extra strong" and there's probably less than half of them left. I go hard with all-nighters and try to keep enough stims around so I don't crash at the wrong time. The \*\*\*\*\*\* arrived Wednesday. So like 12 hours ago, and I'm really a shamed to be so sleep deprived because seriously you'll feel a \[small amount\] of that shit for 45 minutes, whereas I had to rip a huge \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* to even physically function enough for 20 mins to take my dog for a 20-minute walk What have I been doing the last 60 hours? My actual work (coding), but mostly I filled out and optimized dating profiles on International Dating Sites.. do you know how much desire ladies from Colombia, Venezual, South America, Central America, Thailand, Indonesian, AsianCupid site have to come into this country I'm in (USA).. I've never received 50 likes and 30 messages within a few hours of my profile being online, and that level of interest was consistent throughout all the sites.. the girls that message you are that's just low hanging fruit - the hottest ladies you need to search and write a message they'll like and respond to. Probably over 500 likes/matches/Expressions of Interest total in the last week, especially once I pivoted from Ukraine to Central & South America, and also Southeast Asia (their International Dating sites have waaay more active members), and some of the girls I can only describe as hot as fuck. 18-23 year old girls active as well and will message you first, which is more rare on like an American Tinder and Plenty of Fish straight up prohibits you from talking to bitches more than 10 years younger than you.. hello, they're LEGAL. There's only one way to interpret the word Legal, and that is as ALLOWED so wtf are you doing POF let us enjoy ourselves with the younger girls sometimes who are just impressed that you have an apartment and a car and don't talk about shit like alimony, FUCK going through a divorce, not fun. Hence the staying in a hotel In Thailand you can live like a king on $50 bucks a day, just the flight is expensive, but I mean if I have like 10 carefully screened girls ready to meet me there and have fun and show me around and ideally provide blowjobs and let me play with that pussy.. I mean that would be worth the plane fare to plan a 7-10 day trip I think. Though the Colombian and Venezual ladies got that thang going on too and thats a much easier flight You shouldn't try this at home, actually, the drugs are dangerous and I am a certified pro at detecting scam sites and fake profiles, these are skills I've built up over many years and they will punch you in the face figuratively when you admire my work. And since I'm a coder I'm obviously gonna bring ChatGPT into this to have the BS in-app conversations through AI before the girl agrees to just talk on \[a chatting app\] where I can show her dick pics and that typically wins them over.. but I also get Blocked a lot on \[the chatting app\] so maybe these things are related I'm just gonna post now what I have, be advised this post may be updated with more interesting stuff that comes to mind Thanks for reading and I hope you get the chance to enjoy your favorite dr\*g soon.

On the 3rd of June, 1997, a signal was received from space sounding mostly of static like grinding and clicks, scientist assumed it was just that, static. It’s existence however was major to the public, a young man taking it upon himself to decode it. He failed, but that wasn't the end. Grabbing a megaphone he went into the woods deep, forest low with moss and goldenrod until he hit a clear field, green and chirping. Aiming the megaphone up he blasted the same message reversed, figuring if it was a way to talk as it would at least sound comprehensible, roaring the scratching clicks high into the sky, no response was had discouraging the boy but he didnt stop. Weeks went on blasting the same message in the same spot, his message would be heard, just only 30 years later. Aliens finally visited earth but in a truly alien fashion, they had no form, no identifiable emotions, no way to translate their speech and no way to see eye to eye as their senses were just as alien. One thing was for certain though and that was “humor”, the aliens had a sense of humor. Their sense of “humor” was altering humans in a sort of irony, using the emotions of humans as a vessel for communication, but once again, alien communication. Humans began to be warped, their bodies defied biology, capable of bending and shifting beyond healthy imagination, emotions modified to eternal happiness yet they also perceived happiness as a slow violence, sometimes mental violence, physical violence. Humans immediately regretted reaching out to the beyond, forgetting that “alien” meant unlike us, finally accepting that not all life had to be born of a carbon and an oxygen rich atmosphere, sometimes it could be born of pure indifference. The horror stories began when sightings of bendy, long limbed men and women began to appear, naked apparitions of body horror manifested. They took different forms, but almost entirely quadrupedal, no joints, limbs that bent like rubber tubes and heads that lacked any defining features such as lips or ears. Reports of these creatures became increasingly more disturbing, reports of cruelties and torture, experience lengthened by hours or days left stuck in their hollow burrows, the entire time the jointless fiends crying tears of joy as their victims looked on in horror. Some reports were of whispers, lidless, lipless, gumless faces pressed against the windows of adults and children alike, whispering horrible nothings, vile memories and ideas seeping into the dreams of sleeping people, most into madness. There was no order to the turnings of people, complete indifference and indiscriminate selection, no bunker too low or mountain too high, asleep or awake, unborn or born. Men, women and children turning before their families, no medicine or surgery, no prayers, not even death, nothing could prevent that monstrous tubifacation that overtook their body as waves overtake sand on the beach. Many believed that while humanity suffered horror unfiltered, the aliens simply viewed it as a harmless prank as physicality meant nothing to shapeless mist. Eventually their little joke got old and they decided to try another one, something more our speed. Weeks, months, years, humanity got back up to where it was, “Horror Hunters” being in both stardom and competition with each other, sites put up to bet on a Hunter’s haul, magazines and movie deals. Horror Hunter’s were the modern celebrity, mostly for the now bloodlust and revenge that rested in peoples hearts, the hatred for the beast ever growing and ever-less fearful as they witnessed new and more creative ways to extinguish what they once feared. “Hunter’s Hour! The best weapons to break a horror? Page 15. Johnny the Giant Hunter kills new record size in Tokyo! Page 4” read a magazine cover, the pages crumpled and crinkled as a young woman rolled it up, smashing a wasp against her window, her child cheering in glee behind her for having vanquished such a terrible beast. “When’s daddy gonna be home?” “Soon baby, you know-” A knock came at their door, a text from her husband lighting up the woman’s phone “Pretend its not me, i have a present for Bella” The woman grinned at her phone, looking down at her young daughter, “I think thats my friend annabelle, would you be a good girl and get the door for her?” The small child galloped to the door, grabbing the handle looking back at their mother, making a shushing sound and signing with her finger, the mother shooting one back with a gentle smile, “Here i- go. BOO!”, Bella opened the door. This would later be known as the Jefferson Drive Incident, and it was the first sign of a new joke, a delayed punch line. An ants life was no more inconsequential than a humans, and as a human would soon forget the short lived inmemorable life an ant led, the aliens would forget about us. As we watched ant farms live and die at our mercy, the aliens watched us with the same zeal. We would pass into a flurried extinction, and soon their little joke would be just that, a little joke.

“Of Two Minds” by P. Orin Zack [11/23/2018]   Mark Laraby was lost in improvisation when his phone buzzed. The variation on ‘To Arms’ hadn’t been part of the horn lessons his father had paid for, but then Bert Frensh was more than simply his music teacher. Motivating the troops, he’d told Mark, meant connecting to the communal soul of the company, so he needed to inhabit the bugle calls like a jazzman, not just play them mechanically. It wasn’t just the notes that mattered, but the energy behind them as well. The text was from his friend Alix, about a political rally at the college. Such campus events had become controversial in the wake of violent confrontations there, which explained the organizers’ cagy titling: ‘Judicial Ethics in an Age of Diversity’. Mark’s neck of the social graph was convinced that the last word was a dog whistle, and that the organizers were attempting to lure prey into a political kill zone. The word ‘diversity’ was differently freighted for Mark. Mr. Frensh had dwelled on it for a full half-hour one day after the lesson was over. Musical diversity amid the regimentation of a prescribed score, he’d said, was disruptive. But he also said that straying from the pack was nature’s greatest strength: life finds a way by trying new things. Frensh’s assertion was couched in musical terms, but the insight it birthed stalked his dreams. Once empowering ideas like that had taken root in other parts of his worldview, Mark had abandoned his plan to enlist after graduation, and that meant moving into shared quarters and looking for work were in his future. The Memorial Day rally had already begun by the time Mark met his friends ‘Zaphod’ and Logan at a pre-arranged spot on campus. The three teenagers stood off to the side of the crowd massing at the edge of the grassy quad. Logan had quickly keyed in on the power in Mark’s developing worldview because it applied directly to her refusal to confine herself to a single pronoun. Zaphod’s pronouns, on the other hand, were unambiguous. They were a multiple, and although Alix shared a pronoun with his physical gender, his alter, Ailex, did not. Mark stopped chatting with his friends when Jason Trunk, the featured speaker at the rally, was introduced. Noting the man’s angular face and the birdlike way he was picking out people in the crowd, Mark wondered if he was as over-caffeinated as he looked. “Now, before we go any further,” Trunk told the crowd, “y’all need to be aware of just how deep the roots of this thing go.” While Trunk was busy reminding the crowd about the religious factions that had set up shop in the name of colonizing the new world, Mark jabbed a finger in his direction, and said, “See that? They know exactly how fragmented their opposition really is, but the progressives never weaponize it. Instead, they fragment themselves over the various issues that’ll be affected.” “And then in 1937,” Trunk continued after a lengthy pause to let his previous point sink in, “Franklin Roosevelt tried to tip the Supreme Court his way with a bill that would have let him appoint several favorable justices for each sitting justice over 70 years old. That should give you all an idea of how far this liberal president was willing to go to push his plans for the New Deal. Ever since his scheme failed, and the number of justices was fixed at nine, the high court has been used as a political punching bag, with titanic struggles like what we just saw over Brett Kavanaugh’s confirmation any time there’s been a vacancy.” Alix shook his head in frustration. “Yeah. I see where this is going. He’s gonna lead them down the usual garden path: party politics, as driven by lobbies and preachers. Lay you odds he never goes near either McCarthy or their latest boogey, the Deep State.” Mark glanced at Trunk and scanned across the gathering crowd before replying. “You’re right,” he said, “but even so, they’ll only really pay attention to the groups that howl the loudest. You know, like they’re facing down a multiple like you, and don’t realize you can collaborate with your alter on a sneak attack.” “Oh, come on, Zaphod,” Logan said, playfully referring to Alix’s favorite character from ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’, the two-headed renegade president. “The possibility of a well-adjusted multiple doesn’t exist in their dojo. If they can’t imagine it, they certainly can’t counter it. Listen, I think I’ll do a couple orbits of this place and get a sense of the players. See you two in a bit, okay?”   From her position amid the growing ranks of people who had come out to support the proposed bill, Vanessa Merkal did her best to blend in with that crowd. She had helped to organize those who opposed the effects of the purity test, getting them to join ranks and present a unified face to the Christian army with whom they would soon likely do battle in the courts. Kaella Loughry, the principal speaker for the opposition groups that Vanessa had cajoled into coming, would be faced with the unenviable task of transforming those factions into a unified force capable of fighting together as one. Observing the body language and the vocalizations of those around her, she noted that the supporters were beginning to fall into synchronization with one another, timing their outbursts to fashion a single voice where moments earlier there was a cacophony of overlapping shouts. It was a pattern that the opposition would have to mirror if they hoped to counter the growing power of the rally’s spokesman, Jason Trunk. Through the crowd, she caught sight of a man she’d noticed earlier. Whereas other people at the rally remained essentially in place, their attention on Trunk, this guy was prowling. He seemed more interested in the people who had come here than in the reason they had come. She knew most of the local activists on either side of these issues, and he wasn’t one of them. Curious, she began to shadow him from a distance. He was dressed casually, but the jeans and shirt struck her more as costume than clothing. As she worked her way through the crowd, keeping him in view, she wondered whether the stalker might be a pickpocket, but his choice of clothes suggested that this wasn’t his usual hunting ground. The man stopped now and then to focus on particular people. At the moment, he was studying a couple of teenage boys lingering on the outskirts of the crowd. One was studying Trunk; the other, who wore a homemade ‘Team Beeblebrox’ shirt, was watching a third teenager, this one skewing andro, as she edged around the rear of the crowd. Vanessa didn’t recognize any of them. After the stalker moved on, she lingered a while, mulling over what he might have been looking for, why those kids had attracted his attention, and whether she ought to keep an eye on them as well.   Jason Trunk’s smile reflected his satisfaction with the potency of the dog whistle he’d just laid on the crowd. Taking a breath to let the verbal venom stir up the framing he sought to activate, he made momentary eye contact with a scattering of random people to give them the sense that he was talking directly to them. As he did, he noted that they were predominantly students here at the college. This would make them easier to energize than the mix that gathered at the city center park last month. When he noticed that the people closest to him had begun to slow their breath in anticipation of whatever might happen next, he nodded knowingly at them. He opened his arms as if he were a preacher. “That, my friends,” he projected broadly, “that is why we must demand a thorough evaluation of every sitting judge. That is why we must achieve a biblical moral consistency from every part of the judiciary, from the Supreme Court right down to the smallest Podunk jurisdiction in the land!” During the raucous applause that followed, he turned his attention to a wedge of interlopers who stood near the center, splitting the true believers in the crowd. His talk had been calculated to walk a fine line between appealing to supporters of the proposed Judicial Purity Act, and riling up the opposition. Both sides had to be energized for the melee, when it broke out, to flood the news cycle. He nodded approvingly when the people along the edges of that vee began eying their counterparts instead of watching him. A wave of discomfort strengthened the distinction as supporters and protesters adjusted their position and stance, leaving a visible gap for any convenient cell-phone cameras to focus on. Trunk raised his hands for quiet before continuing. “It won’t be easy, my friends,” he said, smiling. “Before we can replace jurists whose morals are not built on strong biblical ground, they must first be identified. And that will take a multitude. It will mean packing courtrooms across the land with observers. It will take doxing any judges whose decisions show their lack of faith. If we are to achieve this, then every one of you must pledge your support, and take action where you live!”   “Ailex is right,” Alix said, pronouncing his alter’s name as if she were Irish, “It’s not just Trunk’s verbal tactics.” Mark’s attention was now wholly on his multiple friend. “So you both think he’s playing a deeper game here? What do you think he’s after?” It wasn’t often that they let down their guard and risked a public back-and-forth like they were Smeagol/Gollum in the ‘Lord of the Rings’ movies, so Mark was pretty certain that whatever was going on was important. Typically, one or the other was in the driver’s seat, with whoever was holding back at the moment essentially whispering in the other’s virtual ear. Because he had spent a lot of time with each of the alters, Mark could recognize the difference even if neither one was speaking. “Have you been tracking the people he keeps picking out in the opposition group?” Ailex said, their voice now missing the subtle burr that meant Alix was at the helm. “He’s telegraphing different things to different people, rousing them individually with different hot buttons, almost as if he was—.” Suddenly, Alix interrupted, their body beginning to slump. “Something’s wrong. I can’t feel our—.” Mark reached out to steady his friend. “What happened?” he asked. “Did you two lose sync?” Ailex closed their eyes for a moment before answering. “Not so much lost as was pushed,” she said. “I was hanging back while Alix was focused on what that jerk up there was yammering on about. But when he yanked the crowd’s chains and got them eyeing each other, it was like a new kind of player emerged from their midst... like a mob mentality. The force of it hit me pretty hard, so I gotta think Alix got the worst of it. I’m not sure where he is right now, but I can’t feel him any more.” Mark nodded. “I hope he’s okay.” He indicated the bifurcating crowd. “Right now, there might be a crisis brewing. This could get ugly real fast. How much can you tell about it? Is there just one of those mob things, or has each side got one now?” “This is new to me, too,” she said, and raised an open palm towards the crowd. Psychometry, the ability to sense things at a distance, was something that, though Ailex could do, was a complete mystery to Alix. Mark glanced back and forth between the two spokespeople, who had begun addressing one another directly, while he waited for Ailex to respond.   Vanessa had stopped trailing the stalker when Kaella Loughry finally called Trunk out over one of his blanket accusations. He’d stopped bulldozing long enough to respond to her, but then she went on the attack. Loughry pointed an accusatory finger at Trunk. “You talk big,” she called, “but your purity test is a sham! Biblical authority is about power, not morals. There will be no state church here!” The wedge of protesters that fanned out beside and behind her thrust fists and signs skyward while voicing support. The mixture of diverse issue clusters she led quickly began shouting in unison, their upraised welter of virtual weapons entraining to the beat until the words coalesced as if yelled from a single throat. “No state church,” they yelled, over and over. “No state church!”   “The two mob things are unequally matched right now,” Ailex said. “But the texture of them pretty much reflects the coherence of each side. The supporters’ mob thing feels like one solid, angry mass, while the protesters’ comes across as more of a hydra-thing. If they went at each other now, that hydra would be lunch.” Mark mulled on that while the opposition’s chant fragmented and then stopped. “Tell me something,” he said, again focused entirely on his friend, “how do you figure the push that Alix felt might have affected the singletons here?” “Did you feel anything?” she asked. “I was too distracted to notice anything even if it did affect me.” Ailex’s eyes narrowed. “Well,” she said after a bit, “if they’re kicked off-focus like we were, then maybe they’d get sucked into the mob thing’s slipstream. That’d strengthen the beasts, kind of like a positive reinforcement loop.” “Giving the mob mentalities a sort of gravitational pull?” “More like a vampire, really. Why?” Mark took a deep breath. This was falling pretty neatly into the patterns he’d talked about with Mr. Frensh, the confluence of energy that enables a jazz group to start behaving as a single organism rather than as a handful of individuals. Except that here it was shaping up like a battle of the bands. “Because there are really two vampire squids out there,” he said finally, “and they’re battling for supremacy. The people who organized this may have wanted to drag their opposition out into the open, but the mindless mobs they’re inspiring aren’t exactly what you might call civilized.” When he realized that his cell phone had buzzed a moment ago, Mark stole a glance at it. “It’s Logan,” he said. A contingent of bikers from the same group that had caused politicized mayhem in other cities was lurking on the far side of the crowd. “Alix was right on the money. The organizers came here looking for bear.” “In that case,” she said, “we better hope the opposition’s ready for it. Ask Logan to nose around those bikers as well.”   Concerned about a sudden rise in catcalls among the crowd, Vanessa went back to work monitoring both the people she’d helped to organize and the rally supporters that surrounded them. When she stepped beyond of the rear of the crowd and looked around, she spotted the stalker again. He was paying close attention to the protesters that she’d wrangled, and nodding each time they reacted to Loughry’s increasingly pointed verbal jabs at Trunk, which belied her initial assessment that he might be a pickpocket. Ignoring him for the time being, she turned her focus on the developing power dynamic. The situation had clearly solidified around the standoff between the two speakers. If sparks started flying, they would be at the epicenter of whatever happened, so she began scanning for precursors. Body language was an easy tell, because people started reacting to the tension in a situation long before they were consciously aware of it. As the tension escalated, the more susceptible among them would begin acting out their growing hyper-vigilance not only with a quickening of their response to sudden movement around them, but also by nervously adjusting their gear. That change reflected through the crowd, and built on itself. Glancing at one and then another of the people in the crowd, she began to sense the tempo of their movements, a dance that kept pace with the rhythms of Trunk’s consciously controlled call-and-response patter. “You’re absolutely right,” Loughry shouted, interrupting Trunk’s diatribe. “We do have a multitude of grievances!” Vanessa craned to get a glimpse of Trunk, who was clearly thrown off balance by this admission. She spotted an evil gleam in his eye as he said, “Then you cannot claim moral grounds against this!” “Wrong!” Loughry bellowed, her voice slicing through his words. “Morals are not your private preserve!” As if a switch had just been flipped, uproar flashed across the crowd. While those at the border of supporters and opposition turned on one another, a mean-looking group that had lingered beyond the rear of the assembly headed towards the unprotected flank of Vanessa’s wedge of opposition. When the stalker converged on this sudden incursion, she hastily re-evaluated what the man was doing here, and followed him, concerned that he might actually be planning a hit on Loughry under cover of the growing chaos as fights began to break out across the rally.   Mark looked up from his phone. “It’s Logan again. She says the bikers just started roughing up some protesters.” Scanning the crowd, he noticed that a space had opened up around Loughry. She and Trunk were now both in full rant, speaking all over one another. If their earlier civil banter was like the battle of lift and drag over an aircraft approaching the sound barrier, the plane had just run into the turbulence that had blocked lesser craft from achieving Mach 1, and the sonic boom dropped Ailex like a rock onto the quad. “It’s like…” she said, her eyes fluttering as if she was fighting to stay awake, “…like being drunk…” Mark recognized Ailex’s favorite quote from ‘Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’. When asked why he said that jumping to hyperspace was like being unpleasantly drunk, Zaphod Beeblebrox replied, ‘you ask a glass of water’. The question now was, why did she say that? He suspected that, faced with impending unconsciousness, it might have been a shorthand way of describing what was happening to her. But if that was the case, how did it apply to the current situation? Thinking about their discussion of the battling mob mentalities, perhaps it translated to a feeling of being overwhelmed by the mob thing, or to put in another way, being drunk by it. First Alix, and now Ailex had been slurped up, pushed from control, and he had no idea what that even meant. Glaring at the growing chaos surrounding him, Mark tried to turn it around, to see what was happening from the mob-thing’s perspective, if in fact it actually had one. He figured that it grew by drawing strength from the people that gave over to it. For his two-headed friend, who had cultivated a practiced balance to share control, it destabilized them, knocking them out. Others, who were not so aware of how they were conscious, simply faded behind the stronger influence, as if they were avoiding confrontation with a powerful bully. If he understood what was going on, those mob things had to be stopped. Unspeakable acts have been perpetrated by unthinking mobs over the years, but everyone always thought that ‘mob psychology’ was just a handy metaphor. Somehow, he’d have to stop these things himself. Fearful of whether ‘team Zaphod’ would survive intact, he raised his phone and was about to call emergency when a stranger pushed through the crowd and rushed towards him. “What happened?” the man said as he approached. “Has he been injured?” “It’s… it’s the mob,” Mark said nervously, looking around at the increasingly raucous crowd. The man indicated the phone in Mark’s hand. “Have you called 911?” “I was about to.” “Look, I’m with the county police. I can get help here faster.” Mark nodded, and rose so he could see Trunk and Loughry across the turbulent crowd. They were still sparring verbally, and their respective sides were urging them on. A sharp crack and a yelp from the rear of the gathering silenced the mobs momentarily. The officer, who was talking on his radio, stopped and looked up at Mark. “Don’t do anything foolish. I’m calling for backup, too.” Then, assuming that Mark had been shocked into inaction, he enlisted the aid of a nearby stranger to carry Alix/Ailex to a nearby bench. Mark thought furiously about what he could do before more police arrived. It was clear that the shouting match between Trunk and Loughry was driving the conflagration, so he steeled himself, and pushed through the crowd until he was between them.   Watching the stalker stow his radio so he could get the fallen teenager to safety, Vanessa changed her mental tag for him to ‘police’. When she then looked around for the other teen, she spotted him in the gap surrounding Kaella Loughry, holding spread hands up towards both her and Trunk. Whatever he was saying was drowned beneath the crowd noise, so she hurried over to where she could see and hear better. “I said, stop this!” he cried, his voice cracking under the force he was putting into it, “Both of you! Driving up mobs won’t—.” Trunk raised his arm and symbolically swatted him away from a distance. “Somebody get him out of here!” he yelled. “We can control this!” As Vanessa drew closer, she glanced over at Loughry just in time to see her step around the teen so she could see Trunk again. She was attempting to ignore the interruption so she could continue locking horns with Trunk. While Loughry drove on, ticking through the issues that lurked behind Trunk’s façade of righteous jurisprudence, Trunk went on the defensive, deflecting each blow to Christian theological certainty with a calculated bullet point aimed at the heart of progressive empathetic morality. Then Trunk changed tactics again and returned to his rant about removing sitting judges, which Loughry countered with the need for due process. During all of this, the kid kept looking from one to the other, until, when the shrill of approaching sirens stopped them both cold, he shouted, “You’re both being played! Face it. You’re pawns in a war for the soul of this country. Red and blue are just the face paint on one common enemy. This debate is a ploy to keep us from seeing who really benefits from keeping us at each other’s—.” Vanessa gasped as people from both sides of the gap converged on the boy and tackled him, disappearing behind a wall of onlookers whose shouts of support and antagonism shattered like a wave against rocks. While the converging sirens wound down and a dozen uniformed police fanned out and began calming the crowd, the plain clothes officer she saw with him earlier broke into the melee and extracted the teenager, who looked like he’d been roughed up and muddied. She followed them back to the bench where the other teen had been taken, and stood a respectful distance away while the officer spoke to one of the EMTs. The stricken teen with the ‘Team Beeblebrox’ shirt was sitting up now, and having his vitals checked, but the EMT looked shaken for some reason. The third teen she had seen with them earlier stopped beside her and asked what was going on. Vanessa considered her for a moment. “They’re you’re friends, right?” She nodded. “That’s Mark Laraby speaking to the guy with the fresh-bought clothes. Did you see the fight?” “Only the beginning. And the one on the bench?” “That’s, um… they’re Alix and Ailex, depending on who’s surfaced at the moment.” Vanessa was perplexed. “They?” She smiled. “They’re a multiple. Alix tracks male, like their body, and Ailex tracks female, so wardrobe can be problematic at times. Who are you?” “I’m Vanessa. I think I might be partly responsible for this mess. And you?” “Logan. But I’m just me.” “Do you know why Mark ran in there and faced both sides down like that?” Logan bit her lip in thought. “I think you’d have to ask him that. He’s different. I mean, last year he was all about joining the army so he could play horn in a military band. But that all changed after he started taking bugle lessons from a local musician. It was like the guy was feeding him a lot more than just music theory. His whole outlook changed. And then he bailed on the enlistment entirely. But, like I say, you’d have to ask him yourself.”   “Thanks for getting me out of there, Officer Owens,” Mark said. “I guess I was way over my head.” “Glad to help, Mark. But why did you run off like that? I mean your friend was out cold when I got to him.” A woman in her twenties approached while Mark was being visibly anxious about a reply. “Hi,” she said. “I don’t want to get in the way of your police work, sir, but I was wondering the same thing.” “What’s your interest,” Owens asked. “Mr. Laraby here has probably made some enemies today, and I’d rather not get another fight started.” She grinned at the officer’s defensiveness. “No, sir, it’s nothing like that. I’m Vanessa Merkal. I helped round up the opposition to the proposed bill, and I was very impressed by Mr. Laraby’s bravery just now.” Mark smiled and extended his hand. When she took it, he said, “It’s hard to explain, really. I think my friend succumbed to a kind of pressure from the two competing mobs out there. Since they’re a balanced multiple, they acted like a canary in a coal mine. While other people, like you and me, might find ourselves sucked into the mobs that were developing, and stop acting responsibly, first Alix and then Ailex sort of just disappeared, leaving nobody to run the body. It’s not something the med techs are likely to understand, so I decided to try derailing the mobs directly.” Officer Owens, who was listening intently, said, “Well, you managed to do that, all right. But you could have been injured in the process.” “Yes, sir. I’m lucky you were around. But I’d rather all this doesn’t tear up my friend’s life, too. They have a tough enough time dealing with the normals as it is, you know.” “I can imagine,” Vanessa said, “especially with people like the ones Trunk’s masters want to saddle us with in the courts. Would you mind if I talk to you later about the things you said out there?” “Not at all. Speaking of, I’m going to need a ride back home.” “I’ve got that covered,” Officer Owens said. “There are a few things I’d like to talk to you about as well.” He paused. “Off the record.” “One thing, though.” Mark said, pointing towards the EMT, “Before we go, I need to see how my friend is doing.” Logan was describing the fracas that broke out at the rear of the crowd when Mark got to them. “Hi Zaphod,” he said, “are you both back on-line?” After Alix said, “Yeah, I’m good,” Ailix followed it up with, “Likewise. But I gotta tell ya’, that was a damn weird nightmare we got sucked into.” “Oh? What happened?” Alix again. “Well, you know those horror tropes where the protagonist gets lulled into sleeping by some blob-thing from another planet so it can use him for a battery? Like that, only there was a pile of us.” Logan narrowed her eyes. “Really? Who else?” Ailex picked up the narrative. “Hard to say. I struggled to free myself for what felt forever, and then all of a sudden, the thing blew apart.” She looked at Mark. Was that your doing?” “I don’t know. Maybe. Anyway, I wouldn’t have left you to take a run at those two blowhards if you hadn’t clued me in with that line from the movie.” They stared at him blankly. “Quote?” “Yeah. You said it was like being drunk.” “Drugged, you idiot,” Ailex said, laughing. “I said it felt like I was being drugged!”   The End Copyright 2019 by P. Orin Zack ".

Down there. In the slums. In the obscured, mud-filled pig pens remained two families of pigs. The first one, the spotted pigs, were happy, thriving in their closed-off world, for they were blind. The second family was terribly frightened, on the brink of despair, and in constant search of any light that somehow made its way down there. Of the blind family, remained only a few. The biggest and oldest boar, that spent most of its time sleeping, eating or fornicating. The second biggest was the sow, mother of every other blind piglets, crawling around over the fence. Their neighbors' customs were most baffling, most puzzling to the other family of pigs, on the other side of the fence. They at times catched a glimpse of unspeakable horrors and turned their eyes to the pitch black ceiling, revelling at even the faintest spark of light coming through. Escaping, forgetting for a moment the hopelessness of it all. Yet one could see more, for better or worse. The youngest and brighest of them all, Piggy, had especially sharp eyes, allowing him to see even in the darkest of places. Only he could see the metal walls surrounding them, the great gates unmoved for who knows how long, the wooden fences all around them, and the occasional protruding nail, there, on the side of their blind neighbors, at just the right height... Could it be that they blinded themselves on purpose? That they painfully stabbed themselves on the rusty nail, to lose sight, to lose themselves in this hell? Piggy looked around, paralysed by what he saw; what were they doing, really, down here? In this dark muddy place they call home? Nothing to do, nothing to look forward to, only the same sensations, over and over... Piggy laid himself on the driest spot he could find, placed his hooves over his eyes, shivering, hoping that perhaps in sleep he could forget about such a place as this. No solace was to be found in temporary respite. The familiar state of despair returned, despite Piggy's deepest desires. Sitting upright Piggy noticed the constant noise coming from their blind neighboors. He resented them for being so ignorant, so... satisfied with how things were? Turning his head in annoyance, Piggy catched a glimpse at a sort of low flickering light, in the distance. Even with his great eyes he could barely stay focused on it. Almost imperceptible, a light.. Piggy stretched and yawned, taking in the putrid, familiar air, and walked toward the tiny glint, there far away. Attracted as a moth, Piggy didn't notice the mud, growing deeper and deeper. He didn't notice how dangerous things had become. Any mistake would mean a painful, suffocating death, drowning in the brown waters. Piggy didn't notice, how far away he was from his familiar world, so focused on that unique, permanent light in the distance he just found, glowing ever more as he approached it. A whirr filled the air, and Piggy reached the edge of the pig pen. A wooden fence, the limit of his known world. Yet the flickering light was beyond. Piggy held on the wooden fence, hoping for respite, yet its boards creaked and almost gave in, so rotten they were. There! As simple as that, an escape, a way out.. Piggy could see clearer than ever before the dry, foreign land beyond the pig pen. The ground of the factory, leading to the light, still far away. Piggy didn't dare step out, for he wished his whole family to be there with him, to escape with him, to new horizons, to freedom! And so he turned around, crossing once more the perilous deep brown wastes, hurrying to the other side, the familiar side, with life changing news. Yet in the air was not the usual putrid smell, no. Something was amiss, a stench, a heavyness, the iron smell of blood. Piggy raced through the pig pen, not minding the splashing of all that filth, for he feared for his family. Piggy reached them at last, out of breath, there in the darkest corner of their tiny world. Onlooking his younger brothers and sisters in horror, now freshly blinded by a newly discovered rusty nail on their side. Piggy froze, witnessing now even his proud father and his mother, as if struck by madness, piercing their eyes not once but twice, on the bloody nail. ''Stop!'' Piggy yelled, as he threw himself on his older brother, barely moving him. Piggy tried and tried to stop them, but he was too small to make a difference. His now blinded father pushed Piggy on the ground at last, holding him there. ''Piggy, do as we just did, for our eyes are evil. The nail. Is. Salvation!'' They all erupted in a sort of acclamation, a celebration, and they rolled in the mud, in the feces, playing and laughing, at last freed of hope. ''What bliss!'' his mother said. ''Our neighbors truly know better!'' an older brother added. Piggy brought his hoove to his mouth and bit himself, the pain grounding him in this awful reality, in this worst outcome. This was not a nightmare, though in a way it truly was. Even worse than a nightmare. There is no awakening, no relief. ''I've found a way out...'' Piggy started, to the now blind eyes of his family, that used to hope as much as him for light, for a better life. ''The fence is broken over there, and even you father can escape, for we will all need you for the journey..'' Piggy was pushed on the ground once more, violently, held there by his own father. Suffocating, Piggy asked him why oh why would they give in to despair, when he found an escape at last! His father replied, freeing him, ''And what then? What makes you think that there is anything else than this shit-hole? Close your eyes, son, and eat, sleep, fuck and die, as any good pig should.''  Piggy ran away, tripping over his very youngest brother, that was laying there motionless, half buried in the ground, his eyes pierced perhaps a bit too profoundly. The father sniffed and groaned, hurried over and to Piggy's horror, he took a bite, and another, and the fresh blood attracted the rest of the family, to feast on their dead younger brother. Piggy ran ever faster, hoping to forget these sounds, these horrible sounds.. Piggy headed for the escape, no longer looking back. His heart, as broken as his family, lost in a dark pit, with no escape, despite the distant light. Back toward the light, his tiny legs shaking from fatigue, each step the mud rising higher and higher, until the ground could no longer be touched. For a second Piggy let himself sink, closing his eyes, forgetting about the distant light he was aiming for, letting go of everything, the unending despair, his now mad family and worst of all, his newfound... Loneliness? Reaching the bottom of the brown mud-waters, Piggy opened his eyes in shock, still seeing the flickering light. Inside his tiny heart, a previously unknown well of strength bursted forth, and leaping upward, through his own bubbles of air Piggy breached the surface, swimming faster than he ever did, the light now brighter than ever before, almost blinding, the bright, blinding light, the white, blinding light, the beacon, the sole goal, the only remain of hope, of salvation, of a future, out of here. Isn't that what he always wanted, to get out of here? Swimming accross the mud pond, his own breathing almost hypnotic, the tingles and strain on his muscles pushing him to his limit, Piggy reached at last the rotten wooden fence, at such speed that he broke it completely. The splashing of the broken fence vanished in the now familiar whirr of the light, guiding him as much as the white, growing dot in the distance. Holding on to a large piece of floating wood, he rested for a moment, floating ever closer to the growing light, that he perceived in much more details. The light was white, yes, and flickering, for it was the air input of the factory they lived in their whole lives. A massive, circular entrance, where a rotating metal fan would turn, ever so slowly, causing a sort of glint at a distance.. Piggy let go of the piece of wood and swam once more, as ready as he could ever be for the unknown of the light. He felt a pressing need to take action, to deliver himself. Since he broke the water's surface earlier, Piggy had been reborn, in a way. Leaving everything behind, leaving his hopeless family, his hated neighbors and more importantly the suffocating darkness that clutched everything and everyone. The suffocating darkness that gnawed, through the years, at the sanity of all, his brothers and sisters and his parents, his neighbors as well... His tiny, meaningless, imperceptible tears joined with the filthy waters he was swimming in, until his hooves touched ground again. Piggy hurried up all the more, going beyond the limits of his tiny body. He reached the other side, where the ground was no longer mud and dirt, but a hard, cold surface, shining ever so slightly from the entrance, closer than ever before. As much as he wanted, Piggy couldn't reach it yet. He collapsed on the ground, shivering, his hooves no longer covering his eyes, for he wished to awake facing the light. \*\*\* Yet what awoke him wasn't the call of the imminent escape, or even some false dreams of his mad family, but an unknown noise, coming from the water, in the dark, there behind not far away. His ears rising, turning toward the splashing, Piggy stared at where his old world was, the barely noticeable waves shining ever so slightly. Getting up, he noticed his own faint shadow in front of him, appearing and vanishing. There, where he came from, there where he lived, where he was born, seeing nothing but an uncertain black void, and dark waters calling him back, and this damn splashing, growing louder, closer? Piggy turned around and ran, upon seeing, for a fraction of a second, something through the waves, eyes, wicked eyes... Running, sprinting, rushing, away! Far away, from the slums, down there, the dark pit! Running toward the light, that he reached at last, unceremoniously, so powered he was by adrenaline. The flickering light turned out to be this gigantic entrance, with a massive fan rotating away. The whirr had become so loud, actually, that the distant splashing couldn't be heard anymore. Piggy didn't stop running, and even upon reaching the dangerous opening he simply jumped, a leap of faith, out, out of this hellish place! Nothing could've prepared Piggy for what he saw outside. A light, no, the father light, maybe the light of all lights! There in the distance, just above a sea of green things. So warm, as if he was hugged by the sunrays themselves. Around it were fluffy strands of orange and red. Piercing through the warm blanket of the sky, bright dots of white, some shining more than others. Well the whole sky was simply overwhelming to Piggy, what colors, what a sight to behold.. He cried once more, from pure awe at such a spectacle, more real than everything else. The blinding, yes, blinding sphere, there, so orange and so bright, etched itself in Piggy's eyes, so much so that even as the celestial body made its way down, he kept seeing it, wherever he looked. Blinded by its majesty, paralysed, dumbstruck, Piggy stared at the true world, until he heard a rustling, a flapping of wings. He noticed that the light, the new, greater distant light, was fading away, downward. The sky grew darker, much to Piggy's distress, until the great sphere vanished at last over the horizon. He shivered once more, surrounded by shadows, by the unknown. ''Is it all ending, so soon?'' screamed Piggy, more to himself than anything else. ''Is darkness all there is?'' he continued, to the world itself. The so divine warmth vanished, as soon as it came, so did the overwhelming image of the true world, with its forests, its rivers and lakes, what was a swamp nearby, and moving things all around, in the air and on the ground. What was all that he saw? The flapping of wings frightened Piggy, that instinctively rushed back toward the circular opening in the wall behind him. He recalled the blades of the fan rushing by, the menacing splashing of the mud-filled waters, his hopeless family, and the unending darkness... Piggy chose to remain there, and face whatever was coming his way, prepared for anything. ''Perhaps it is you that killed the sun, right as I discovered it!'' shouted Piggy, to the countless wings of black now surrounding him. So many pairs of black pearls, staring at him, there, alone, in the open. The dozens of crows, flew, cawed, and landed, a few meters away from Piggy, all around him. Some opened their wings, others stared silently. A lone crow approached him, with a single eye, for the other was terribly wounded, rotten, and that crow had to stare at Piggy sideway, giving him an odd look. The one-eyed crow leaped a few times, ending right there, in front of the paralysed Piggy. Its one busy eye inspecting him with such seriousness and intensity that the little pig lost himself in the reflection of his pupil, just for a moment, seeing himself for the first time, on the mirror-like eye of the crow. ''Can I call you One-Eye?'' said Piggy, facing the crow with much courage. ''You may not. Tell me, you dirty little pig. Do you come from there? From the factory?'' The crow retaliated, leaping around him in anticipation, the whole murder of crows listening closely. ''That doesn't matter! What happened to the big bright light in the sky over there?'' Piggy pleaded, staring in one pair of eyes and another, that evaded his gaze. Before any could reply, One-Eye cawed loudly, almost a maniacal laugh, before asking Piggy another question. ''Do you mean that star, there to the north? It's quite bright, much brighter than the others...'' To Piggy's consternation, a snicker, a half-conceiled laugh shook the crows. Piggy insisted; ''You must've seen it, just a moment ago! The sky full of colours, the ball of light on the horizon, I know I saw it! Brighter than anything I've ever seen..'' The crows grew silent­. One-Eye leaped and pecked Piggy on the snout violently, who squeaked from the pain. ''Well if it was there just a moment ago, where did it go?'' the crow asked him, a glint of humor in his one eye. Piggy looked at the crows with a newfound doubt. One-Eye continued; ''Have you wondered, even once before, if all you're seeing is nothing more than your own imagination? Your own creation?'' Piggy took a few uncertain steps back, unable to break free from One-Eye's gaze, all encompassing. ''What if all this, the darkness, the great light you just saw, the very ground we're standing on, us crows, me! What if One-Eye is nothing more than a lie? A lie that this dirty little pig believes naievely, wholeheartedly?'' Piggy turned to the other crows, that simply stared, motionless. One-Eye took flight, its shiny long wings leaving such an impression on Piggy that he audibly gasped. The crow blasted off, moving at such speed and elegance through the air, until he vanished, going down, down where the sea of green was a moment ago. Coming back, in its beak, a light, almost orange, flashing on and off at random intervals. Piggy stared, unable to believe what he was seeing. One-Eye landed close, and in his beak was a sort of moving thing, of black legs and big eyes, and at one extremity, the flashing light, hypnotizing. ''What is that?'' Piggy asked, as the crow opened his beak, letting the firefly free, flying slowly between him and Piggy. ''That's the light you've been asking about.'' Piggy looked at One-Eye silently. He playfully jumped and chased the firefly around, until it landed on his snout. He asked, ''Will the real light in the sky ever come back?'' ''What do you mean by real?'' aked One-Eye, turning his gaze to the moonless night sky, the stars shining bright. ''Maybe if you wish it hard enough, your light will come back, and bless us all..'' added One-Eye, that would've grinned if he could. Hearing that, quite a few crows left, flapping their wings loudly, taking flight, vanishing quickly in the dark of the night. Piggy jumped around, unable to take flight like then. ''Why don't I have wings?'' he asked, to the only crow that remained. One-Eye stared at him, and leaped toward the edge. Piggy followed, and discovered a way down, a rugged path. His great eyes helped him on his way down, down toward the swamp. Beyond the swamp, a forest, thick and wild, and most frightening. ''One-Eye, tell me, where are we going?'' The crow landed on Piggy's back, much to his surprise, and pecked gently the back of his head, in a sort of rude, playful manner. ''What is it that you want, really, my little dirty pig?'' What came after One-Eye's question was a long moment of silence, as they hiked their way down, the putrid smell of the swamp reaching his snout. All around Piggy, long strands of green, and beautiful colored bits, and tall brown tubes, reaching for the night sky. Piggy couldn't believe his eyes, at everything around him, at the beauty and strangeness of the true world. In his mind, the words of One-Eye repeated over and over.. How he never once questionned himself about reality, about all this. ''I want truth.'' said Piggy at last. One-Eye erupted in laughter, his cawing scaring away wildlife all around them. Piggy tried to shake him off, annoyed by his reaction, but the crow held on. ''The dirty little pig wants truth... Anything else?'' One-Eye said. ''Stop calling me that. Maybe I should call you Rotten-Eye instead?'' Piggy said, with much annoyance in his tone. For once, One-Eye didn't have an answer. ''Call me Piggy, and let's be friends, for I am so lonely, and you seem to know so much about the truth.'' Reaching the waters of the swamp, Piggy approached the shore carefuly, watching his steps. In the muddled surface, he could see his own reflection, and on his head, One-Eye, turning his head sideway with curiosity. ''Why, you're quite right, Piggy. My eye truly is rotten!'' They both laughed. Piggy studied his reflection in the water, how the stars looked up above, and the way One-Eye looked around at everything and nothing. ''Is that the truth?'' asked Piggy, about the reflection. One-Eye turned his head once more, clearly intrigued by his question. He leaped off Piggy's back, picked up a pebble, and threw it in the water, its ripples distorting the reflection. ''Is that the truth?'' repeated One-Eye, staring at Piggy with much intensity, in his usual way. Piggy reached for the waters, and drank a bit the stagnant waters. One-Eye did the same. ''There! Something is moving under the water!'' Piggy said with excitement, to One-Eye's surprise. ''Why yes! That's a frog! They live there, in the water.'' The frog breached the waters, his tiny head and eyes staring at Piggy, and at One-Eye, seemingly uninterested. ''Hello!'' said Piggy, but the frog had nothing to say. One-Eye lunged with incredible speed, and catched the frog with his beak, much to Piggy's surprise. ''You're hurting him!'' he shouted. One-Eye held the frog on the ground with his feet, pecking violently at the frog, its blood and organs bursting out. Piggy noticed One-Eye's claws, his sharp beak, and his swiftness. Almost frightened, Piggy couldn't help but stare at One-Eye feasting on the frog, the unholy sight awakening memories he would rather forget. And the sounds, so similar. ''I'd like to show you something.'' One-Eye said, between bites. ''Something true?'' asked Piggy, almost instantly. ''Something you won't like, but something true indeed.'' Piggy followed his friend, overwhelmed by curiosity. They made their way around the swamp, in silence. The forest grew closer, more real, as they approached it. One-Eye landed finally, close to the shore, pecking the ground, waiting for Piggy to reach him. ''Are you sure you want the truth?'' asked One-Eye, in his eyes, a sort of heaviness. ''Of course, no matter what!'' said Piggy, that approached the waters once more. There, just under the surface, not his reflection but almost. Piggy froze and stepped back, looking at One-Eye with confusion. ''What?'' Piggy said, more to himself than anything. He looked once more under the surface of the waters, where the almost rotting bodies of other little piggies laid, motionless. As if frozen in time, preserved, a morbid, terrible sight. ''What?'' Piggy said once more, his voice breaking. ''I'm sorry..'' added One-Eye, that opened his wings wide. He continued, ''It seems they couldn't handle the truth...'' Piggy turned toward him, visibly shocked. ''What truth is that? Did they drown themselves? But why?'' One-Eye flapped its wings, staring at the night sky. ''I'm afraid it's for you to discover, my friend.'' They sat there, on the edge of the swamp, for a long time, in complete silence. Fireflies, frogs, and a deer paid them a visit, coming and passing without a sound. ''Where is the light?'' whispered Piggy, rising his head to the night sky, that seemed to be a bit less dark than a moment ago. ''Is it really coming back?'' shouted Piggy, scaring One-Eye, that looked all around. One-Eye understood, and told Piggy to follow him quickly. They raced through the woods, as birds started to sing. They raced up a hill, as the darkness vanished. They raced up and reached the summit, overlooking the forest, the horizon, that was growing brighter and brighter. ''There it is!'' Piggy said, as the sun pierced the night, its bright blinding light etching itself on Piggy's retinas once more. Rising and rising, the sun embraced him, embraced them, so warm and so real. ''I told you, One-Eye, of the ball of light, of the truth!'' Piggy added, looking over his friend, that was spreading his wings once more, warming himself in the sunrays. ''So naive you are, Piggy. Perhaps there is hope for you in this world after all.'' They watched the sunrise together, in silence once more. Around them, the forest awoke, bustling with life. The surface of the swamp, so gloomy with death and despair, shone brightly, to Piggy's amazement. ''I've chased a light to come here. And now, a light is presenting itself to me, more real and more true than anything else. Have I gotten what I've always wanted?'' asked Piggy, as much to the sun as to himself, as to One-Eye. ''Do you want truth, or do you want the comfort of truth? The hope of truth?'' One-Eye added, visibly moved by Piggy's words. ''Hope? Perhaps I've always had hope. For a better future, for salvation, huh, for reaching the truth, one day...'' ''Is that day, today?'' asked Piggy, closing his eyes, to the orange warmth, to the bliss of the sun, to a new present. Opening his eyes, Piggy realized he was alone once more. One-Eye had left him. Dissapeared, without a trace. Yet Piggy's loneliness had transformed, evolved into something else, into solitude. Venturing forth, down the hill, toward the forest, Piggy hoped he would meet One-Eye again, someday. He trotted forth, through the forest, passing by trees of white and brown, passing by boulders and ravines, a cold refreshing river and a clearing, where the grass waved in the wind. Sitting there, completely isolated from the rest of the world, Piggy looked once more at the sun, now high up in the sky right above him. The heat was dry. Piggy thought back on the slums, almost as a distant nightmare, almost doubting of its reality. The radiant sunlight embraced the whole world, rendering the despair of the dark past almost absurd. Lost in thoughts, Piggy recalled the curious words of One-Eye. ''Have you wondered, even once before, if all you're seeing is nothing more than your own imagination? Your own creation?'' What did he mean by that? ''What if One-Eye is nothing more than a lie? A lie that this dirty little pig believes naievely, wholeheartedly?'' Piggy rested his head on hooves, laying on the ground, onlooking the green waves of grass. ''Is nothing real, then?'' asked Piggy, yet there was no one to give him a reply. ''Am I real, then?'' he added, staring at the profound, at the deep blue sky, above everything. ''What is there to hope for, then?'' muttered Piggy, placing his hooves over his eyes. ... Distant steps, and faint squeaking, barking, from way over there, beyond the trees. Piggy got up, staring at the distance. Could there be other piggies out there? His mind empty, Piggy raced through the clearing, leaving behind him the outline of his path. Crossing what remained of the forest, he reached an open field, covering the whole horizon, so vast it was. Rocky mountains miles away, and in between, golden fields of long grass, and countless other piggies, racing and playing, happily, without a care in the world. Piggy's heart skipped a beat. Could this be, what he hoped for all his life? More than a family, a land, a home? Is this, where he belongs? Seeing all these other piggies, frolicking in the golden fields, pushed Piggy to run and introduce himself, interrupting their game. ''Hello! Hello!! I'm Piggy!'' he shouted, so glad, so excited he was. Yet to his surprise, the piggies were frightened by him, avoiding him, running from him. Piggy stopped, the outlier. ''Can I play with you all?'' he asked, seeing in their eyes contempt, mistrust. The many piggies parted, to make way for a boar, bigger than his father, more imposing even. The boar approached Piggy, staring at him from his height, and to Piggy's surprise he didn't stop, walking straight into him, making him back away, back from where he came from. Piggy couldn't believe it, and asked why he couldn't join them, and be happy with them. The boar replied, talking to the many piggies, ''He's from beyond the swamp, he has the stench...'' Piggy held his ground, and faced them all, holding his head high. ''I've escaped from hell, I've confronted death itself, I've reached the truth, and discovered my rightful place in the world. Why don't you all accept me?'' His voice broke at the end, and tears and sobs overpowered him. Piggy broke down, as the playful piggies left. The boar stood there, motionless. His eyes, empty, except from contempt, from disgust. ''Kill yourself. Your kind isn't welcome here. Can't you see how carefree, how happy, how blind they all are?'' Piggy couldn't believe his ears. ''Kill yourself. Why hold on to such a life, why struggle, why suffer for no reason? You say you've reached the truth, but there is no such thing as truth. Once you reach the light, another one takes its place.'' The boar approached Piggy once more, clearly intending to chase him away by force. He continued to lay down his harsh words. ''If I let you live here, you'll only corrupt all of us, with your suffering, with your barely conceiled despair. Can't you see, how you look? Can't you see, how vain your hope is?'' Piggy recalled his reflection in One-Eye's pupils, he recalled his reflection on the swamp's surface, he recalled the almost rotten bodies of the piggies, there under the surface of the swamp. He recalled the pierced eyes of his neighbors, of his family. He recalled the rotten eye of One-Eye. He recalled his own, great eyes, able to pierce even the darkness of the slums, for better or worse. Piggy recalled his despair. A cloud passed over the sun, and a shivering Piggy turned around, not looking back. He felt the same as when he left his family behind. This heartache, this void inside him, growing, gnawing at him, whispering doubts, mimicking the terrible sounds he wants to forget so much.. Doubting everything, Piggy wanted only one thing, to talk to One-Eye again. He made his way through the forest, the branches scratching his back, his sides, his head. Piggy trotted back to the hill, near the swamp, where he embraced the truth not so long ago, with One-Eye. By now, the sun was behind him, soon to set once more. Alone, atop the hill, overlooking the swamp, and undeniably there, overlooking everything, the factory, the entrance with the fan, leading to the slums. ''One-Eye!'' Piggy shouted, and shouted, and shouted. ''One-Eye, where are you?'' ''One-Eye, where are you?'' Piggy collapsed on himself, his solitude transforming once more into something visceral, something primal. Isolation. Walking, slowly, toward the swamp, Piggy looked at the sky, at every passing bird, at every movement, yet One-Eye was nowhere to be seen. It seems he really was gone. There. The swamp, and the damn drowned piggies, almost rotten. Piggy looked up at the sky, the darkening sky. Behind him he knew, the sun was setting already. The stars appeared, as if witnesses to his despair. The orange of the setting sun came and went. And inevitably, the darkness came back. The cold of the night. Falling from the sky, a shining sliver of darkness, catching the very last rays of the setting sun. Falling featherly, almost like an apparition, the last farewell of a true friend; One-Eye's feather. Falling featherly, the last farewell of a true friend; One-Eye's feather. It fell in the swamp, vanishing as soon as it appeared. Piggy fought back tears, the years spent in the darkness of the slums flashing before his eyes, the terror of his blinded family, his crazed father, the sounds, the damn sounds he wants to forget, and his brief but poignant escape toward the truth. Piggy saw the rising sun once more, and beside him appeared One-Eye, that talked about the truth, about his naivety, and from within him the well of strenght grew weaker, until it ran dry. Piggy jumped in the swamp, eyes closed. Falling down, he pushed out all his air, their bubbles rising. Despite his hopelessness, Piggy opened his eyes one last time. There in front of him, the black feather. And behind it, in the distance, through the waters, a light. Piggy closed his eyes, embracing the cold, the dark truth. ... ... ... Down there. In the slums. In the obscured, mud-filled pig pens remains a Piggy, with especially sharp eyes, for the better or worse. Opening his eyes once more, he looks at his home, his family, and his blind neighbors, and hopes. He hopes, unaware that this is all there is, and ever will be. Eternal reccurence, a striving, a will, a hope, an all-encompassing hope. Truth, hidden in plain sight.

[MS] Sarah It was 6:45 AM, the perfect time, Sarah had determined, to leave the house. Her families short, brown, and traditionally ugly home, sat at the dead center of their cul de sac. This home, where Sarah lived with her mother Susan, her mothers husband Paul, and their daughter Faith, was only a short walk to her high school. School didn’t start until 7:30 AM, and the walk was only 5 or 6 minutes at the very most, but this departure time aided in her avoiding both any familial ritual, and the other incoming students. Sarah didn’t speak to any of her peers, nor did they to her, at least not in a way that any person would desire to be spoken to. Sometimes they spoke to her silently, through a thrown egg, or a book to the head, a crack to the knee. The knee incident was particularly serious as it had resulted in a welt the size of a golf ball, though, to Sarah’s pain and delight this had exempt her from gym class for an entire week. Sarah hated gym class, and not just because the students were almost as unregulated as they were in the outside world, but also because of the overly lacquered floor. She would stare at that floor, disgusted, imagining just how many coats had been laid a top one another, while teenagers whispered passing vulgarities in her ear. It seemed there were always whispers around her, strung in the air. Some days, Sarah felt, as though they stuck to her, like some perpetual sunburn with peeling skin she’d try to pick off but could never grasp. They’d whisper, “She looks just like him too”, in voices low enough to maintain some social decorum amongst themselves, but loud enough for her to hear. And Sarah did look just like him. When she’d slept with Donald Graves last year, the boy one year her senior with red hair and a birth mark which covered his right ear, he told she’d better keep her face away from him or he’d fetch a paper bag. She hadn’t enjoyed the experience much after that and didn’t try it again with any one else. It was one of those colder fall days, that tease winter and give everyone something to chat about at the water cooler. Sarah plodded past her stepfather Paul’s ’51 Wagon, a car he’d been given by his father, Paul Sr., when the family’s last car had died and they’d been too poor to afford another. They were middle class, before, but since everything had happened they were absolutely flat broke. Sarah’s mother Susan hadn’t worked in some years, and now when she tried to get a job, any job, they’d throw her application out sooner than she could turn around and walk out the door. Paul had owned his own mechanic shop for years, but now his only business was out of towners unacquainted with the families history. Susan hated Sarah too, so did her stepfather Paul, Faith, her half sister, was only 2, but maybe if she had been 5 she would hate Sarah too. Faith had been born into a home which expected of her the ability to turn the tides, to usher in a new era. She was a cute child, but to Susan’s dismay, not quite cute enough to elicit any camaraderie or conversation from neighboring mothers or families. Actually, a lot of the townsfolk were insulted by Faiths birth, they took it as a slight to their tragedy. Some of them even pitied Faith, “She won’t end up right,”, her nursery school teach Mrs. Farber would say, “ even if she is half human. There’s devil blood in there”. As Sarah walked, she buttoned her dark burgundy tweed jacket, and thought about a time before they were the devil’s family, before hell had enveloped their lives, a time when Kevin was still around, a time before the trial. Even when the kids at school still spoke to her and saved her strawberry milks at lunch, Sarah would say Kevin was her greatest friend. Born two years before her, he was taller than their father had ever been, at least that’s what their mother would say. Kevin was the second tallest boy in town, a mere 1 inch behind Nate Waller’s 6’5 frame. He had big ears, big hands, and big feet to match. Kevin had broken his ankle in 5th grade baseball, never the athletic type, which resulted in a peculiar malady, as he grew his feet grew, but one was always slightly smaller than the other. During his time bed ridden at age 12, he took up bird watching. When he got back to school he started an Audubon club, at its height there were four members, including Kevin. Sarah was one of his four friends at school, and he one of her 35, and counting. But Sarah loved Kevin, for all his oddities and peculiarities he was kinder to her than their mother ever was, and when their father had left he’d made sure that Sarah never worried about any of the things you worry about when you’re half orphaned. Kevin was sweet, a soft spoken seventeen, and he surprised everyone when he showed up in the papers. Sarah only realized she’d forgotten her gloves when that too cold for fall breeze bit her fingers. She’d been walking for some time now, and had shoved her hands under her arms to warm them. She thought about how the cold weather is always less sympathetic next to the river. Her toes had begun to feel cold too, she couldn’t believe how cold she was, it was only November. Her hands, then her feet, then legs and torso, quickly her whole body was enveloped in a winter affection. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply as if to catch breath she hadn’t actually had in years. On the inside of her eyelids was a photo, the same photo they’d shown in court, two big prints. They were always there when she closed her eyes. Sarah could see them now just as she saw them then, two big feet plastered in blood and dirt, one slightly smaller than the other. Now, Sarah began to swim.

I found a little prompt online, “The Horse Came Back Alone,” and this is what I did with it. Feedback welcomed and appreciated! :) I “Pa is back!” Coraline shouted as she jumped up from her wash tub and sprinted toward the woods, dress-hiked just enough to not catch under her feet. Margaret smiled down at her own sudsy hands. She’d wait there instead. In truth, she felt quite like Coraline did when Thomas would return from his hunting trips, ready to spring to her feet and jump into his arms for a tight embrace, but she couldn’t let him know that—not even if it had been three days since she’d seen her husband. That would ruin the fun of it. She continued to scrub their clothes clean, softly humming and waiting patiently to feel Thomas’s strong arms wrap her from behind. The hunts always left him in a good mood. She never entirely understood the joy men took in killing things. Yes, they needed food—of course, they did, but Thomas treated hunting as if it were some grand thing—something to be admired and flaunted; something that he’d collect trophies from, whether it be antlers, pelts, or even scars. He’d then, against her wishes, lug the damned things with them to places like the market or church for all of the other like-minded men to marvel at. Margaret stood and hung a wet pair of trousers from the clothing line, then continued on to a red Sunday dress. She’d always thought killing was about the furthest thing from admirable. How snuffing the life out of an innocent creature was anything even close to fulfilling was, quite frankly, beyond her comprehension. But it meant dinner made it to the table, and for that, she was grateful. “Mama?” Coraline's voice came small and level. She’d stopped running only a few yards behind Margaret. Margaret didn’t look up. “What is it, sweetie?” “Pa isn’t on his horse.” Breath caught in Margaret’s throat. She stopped scrubbing and quickly turned to see a horse trotting their way in the distance, and sure enough, the saddle was empty. Her stomach pitted. Immediately, she knew that something wasn’t right. She knew Thomas. She knew how he did things—how he didn’t do things, and she knew for a fact that he wouldn’t have sent the horse back alone. She also knew the old horse wouldn’t have left his side—not even if he set it on fire, the damned stubborn thing. Not unless something was terribly wrong. No, she couldn’t let herself think that way. Not yet, anyway. It was Thomas, after all. The man was as big as a grizzly bear and nearly as strong. Nothing could hurt Thomas. He’d probably just decided to walk a little way, nothing new; he quite enjoyed walking. In fact, Margaret expected that in a few moments, he’d come strutting out of the woods behind his horse with a string of rabbits draped over his shoulder, whistling that same old gospel tune that he always did. Yes, that’s exactly— “Mama?” Margaret snapped back into reality. As the horse got closer, they realized that it was staggering—its coat was slicked with blood in most places. Margaret’s jaw tightened. Coraline cautiously walked back to her mother’s side, and Margaret could feel her shaking as she grabbed her hand. The horse managed to stumble all the way to where they stood, only to drop a few yards in front of them. It hit the ground with a sickening thud and after a few moments of rapid breathing it stiffened, then lay there, as still and dead as a stone. For a moment, there was silence, and then there was screaming. Margaret stood motionless, staring at the horse, still trying to make sense of what had just happened. Coraline had already crumpled to her knees in hysterics, clinging to Margaret’s dress. “Pa’s dead, isn’t he!” She’d cry out between sobs, “Pa’s dead, mama!” Margaret inspected the horse. There were three large claw marks gouged in its back hip, all black and festered; there was a chunk missing from its front shoulder, roughly the size of a bite wound, and another on top of its back. Her first thought was a bear or a mountain lion. Some large animal must’ve attacked them both on the hunt, most likely trying to score one of Thomas’s rabbits that, she was sure, were hanging from his neck. There was another thing. One of Thomas’s large leather hunting bags was still tied near the horse's girth, and it was so full that it was bulging, soaked through with red and swarmed by buzzing flies. Margaret had all but drowned out Coraline. Instinctively, she reached down and untied the sack, blood staining her fingers. Then she smelled it. Rot. She flipped open the leather encasement and stepped back, blinking downward. Coraline stopped screaming and went slack beside her, falling flatly to the earth. Margaret had to swallow sour vomit. Thomas’s head sat before them, his skin bloated, purple and sticky with dried blood, his glazed eyes staring upward at nothingness, never to blink again. On his forehead was carved one word, deep into his flesh. “Sinner.” No animal did this, and this was no accident. This was a threat. II Margaret knelt beside Coraline and attempted to shake her awake. She came to but was only conscious momentarily before bursting into sobs again. There was no consoling her. And how could there be? Her father’s severed head lay in a sack in front of her. Who could have done this? Sinner? Thomas was the most Godly man Margaret had ever met. There were times where he’d spend days in prayer, fasting and only pausing to feed the animals. He’d never once let Margaret or Coraline miss a Sunday of church; he made them pray before every meal and again before they went to bed, but not before also making them read their bibles for the better part of an hour. He's the one who taught Margaret that God really was in everything: the trees, the lakes, the birds in the sky, and the deer in the fields. If there was anything Thomas Whitman was, it was pure—not a sinner. It just didn’t make sense. Margaret looked down at Coraline as tears streaked her rosy cheeks. She grabbed her and held her head tightly against her chest. As the two embraced each other, they noticed a small noise. At first, it was far off and faint, but it grew steadily louder, and as soon as the two were able to place it, it made their hairs stand on end. III A low whistle carried in on the breeze. To another, the tune would have seemed gentle—soothing even, but to Margaret, the whistle hissed across her nerves like a coin on a violin string. It was a gospel tune. The same gospel tune that Thomas loved so dearly. The same one that she had heard him whistle and hum hundreds of times before. But this time it wasn’t coming from Thomas’s lips. It was coming from the trees directly behind them. Margaret went into high alert. She glanced through the woods, seeing nothing but black between the trees. Her heart began to pound, first in her ears and then in her eyes. Whoever killed Thomas had followed the horse, and in Margaret’s mind, one singular thought began to consume all others. Protect my baby. She was on her feet in a flash. " Come on,” she snapped as she grabbed Coraline’s hand and pulled her along. They made for the old oak-board farmhouse as quickly as their legs would take them, and neither dared to look back. Not even when they heard the second whistle, this one in the woods to their left rather than behind them, but neither slowed down enough to pay it any mind. They had to get to safety. The two closed in on the house, and as they rounded the corner of the porch, Coraline's dress caught on a nail, ripping it from thigh to foot. It wasn’t until they were inside that they noticed the massive gash it had left on Coraline's upper leg. Margaret had no time for it yet, though. She moved with a swiftness; she grabbed a chair from the kitchen table and propped it against the doorknob, then grabbed Thomas’s other hunting rifle from the wall, went to the bedroom and flung open the window. She raised the gun and found a rest, panting, darting her eyes wildly around the field like a wounded animal—the same thought from before still repeating in her mind. Protect my baby. But she saw nothing. She left the gun propped against the sill and sprinted back to her daughter, cursing as she did and trying not to waste any time in getting back to the rifle. “It hurts Mama,” Coraline said, wincing in pain. She was propped up against a wall near the door, surrounded by blood. Too much blood. “Shit—Oh God, shit—“ Margaret did her best to gather her thoughts. “Shit, okay—it’s gonna be okay, sweetheart. Just hold on here one second, okay?” She ran and took another look out the window; still nothing. So she turned and grabbed one of Thomas’s belts from their dresser, ran to the bathroom and fetched a wash rag, gauze, and a bowl of bath water. She returned to Coraline and used the belt to fashion a tourniquet around her upper thigh, but left the wash rag and gauze for her to apply to herself. She knew what to do, and someone had to protect them. IV Margaret paced the house, watching the windows for the rest of the afternoon, evening, and well into the night, intermittently checking on Coraline as she did. Coraline's bleeding had stopped for the most part, and she’d fallen asleep around dusk after silently sobbing for a few hours. She was running a fever now, though, and Margaret was beginning to worry as it became more and more apparent that she needed a doctor. But they didn’t have many options. She began to wonder exactly what she would do if someone did show up in the night. Suppose she heard that whistle again, this time right outside the front door. Could she kill a man? Thomas had taught her how to shoot, but she’d never so much as killed a squirrel. She wouldn’t even kill the moths or the spiders that made their way into the house—that was always for Thomas to handle. It was then that she began to wish he were there. He would’ve known what to do, and he was a far better shot than she was. She couldn’t help but think just how slim their odds of survival were if even Thomas fell to these men. What could she do that he couldn’t? She still hadn’t let his death sink in, not really, and for the first time since she’d opened that leather sack, she began to truly grieve. She choked, then began to sob. At first, quietly, then loudly and messily—salty tears and mucus running over her cheeks and dripping onto the floor. She fell to her knees on the boards, shaking. Her husband was gone. Her husband—was dead. V Margaret must have dozed for a moment, but it wasn’t long until she was jolted awake by heavy thumping outside the door. It was a sound she’d grown quite familiar with—one she’d heard from Thomas many times before—the knock of boots on a wooden porch. She jerked up the rifle and put a hole in the front door. Coraline screamed as she flinched awake, but Margaret quickly shushed her. Thump…thump…thump... She put two more holes into the wall. Wood splintered every which way as the bullets exploded through the boards, and the air began to smell thick with gunshots. She shot a third round for good measure, and the thumping stopped. Margaret kept the rifle shoulder high and stood motionless, still aimed at the door. It was all silent except for her shaky breaths. Then, the door handle began to jerk violently, but the chair she’d propped against it didn’t budge. She shot again, cocked the lever back, and shot again, then again, directly into the door. She continued firing until the clip was empty, and the gun was only clicking with each pull of the trigger. She threw the empty gun to the floor and backed against the wall beside her daughter. There was silence. A long silence. One that almost convinced Margaret that one of her bullets really had made contact, but she was still uncertain and still very afraid. “Is he gone, mama?” “I don’t know,” she said, forcibly. “He’s the one who killed Pa, isn’t he?” Margaret didn’t answer. She swallowed, then took a few cautious steps toward the mangled front door, put her ear to it, and listened. Nothing. Quietly, she moved the chair and creaked the door open just a crack. Through it, she saw a man lying face down on the porch with blood pooled around his torso, his fingers twitching intermittently. It was strange. Never did she think she’d be glad to see something dead, especially something—someone that she’d killed herself, but looking down at the contorted body in front of her gave her more relief than she could have imagined. She let her shoulders relax and exhaled, not realizing just how long she’d been holding her breath. She’d done it. Just as the thought crossed her mind, a whistle cut through the air that made her blood run cold. That same old gospel tune that she used to love now rang out through the house, its notes much more sinister this time. The man that she killed wasn’t alone—and she’d left the bedroom window open.

James 'Turtle' Johnson used the eyedropper to lubricate his ocular implants. He checked his appearance, making sure his pink and green uniform was pristine, and his blonde hair swept back and neat. Turtle (so nicknamed due to a botched circumcision by his Rabbi after a night of heavy drinking with Turtle's father) was excited. Today was the day he would finally be able to move up in the world. Today was the day of his driving test. Turtle always wanted to be a rover driver on Mars. Rover operators were the only ones allowed to reside on the planet, aside from the rich who could afford a home. He wouldn't be forced to breathe recycled oxygen or eat freeze-dried rations. Sure, they had to live in low gravity areas still being terraformed, but that was a small price to pay for fresh carrots. He hoped he would not have to return to the ship after today's test. Low gravity was better than no gravity. Waving at people as he passed, Turtle rushed toward the drive center. He caught sight of the man who would administer his test waiting beside the vehicle, pen and clipboard in hand. Turtle felt a tingle of glee in his stomach as he approached. The rover, meant for travels across the surface of Mars, was rigged with an empty trailer. It was grey, with thick wheel treads and a sturdy frame. In other words, it was beautiful. Early colonizers had tried self-driving vehicles piloted by artificial intelligence, but they were as likely to crash into an oak tree as drive themselves off a cliff. The incomplete terraforming of Mars caused them to react poorly to shifts in gravity. Martian vehicles were topless, solely for the safety of their occupants. As the majority of Mars had not been terraformed to an Earth gravity, it was far safer in the event of a crash to launch the occupants away from the crash site and any resultant explosion. Because all of this was running through his mind, Turtle did not catch the test administrator's name. He was a portly man, with puffy cheeks, glossy eyes and a wet, slack mouth. His bald head shone in the dim light of Mars, and his beige uniform was tight-fitting but clean. He was so amphibian in appearance that Turtle subconsciously began to think of the man as 'Toad.' Turtle nodded along in excitement with Toad, not taking in what was being said. When Toad gestured to the vehicle, Turtle eagerly climbed aboard. Turtle was far taller than Toad, requiring that many adjustments to the mirrors and seat be made for his gangly arms. Toad sat next to him, his clipboard poised on his lap, pen at the ready. A pair of thick glasses improbably rested on the bridge of his near non-existent nose. "Proceed," Toad stated. Turtle calibrated the accelerometer. He adjusted the fusion cells. He bippitied the bobbits for maximum boo. He had trained in the simulator for over one hundred hours and could drive the rover blindfolded. He knew this vehicle inside and out. Beside him, Toad made notes on the clipboard. Had Turtle looked over, he would have read comments about the spinach stuck between Turtle's teeth. Nevertheless, as Turtle was focused on vehicle safety, Toad was free to describe his test taker as he pleased. Turtle signaled, indicating his intent to leave the parking lot of the drive test center, before accelerating to 50 kilometers per hour. He gracefully merged into Martian traffic along Highway 4 near the Martian colony. If Toad had had any hair, it would be flapping about in the wind on the open road. Things were going very well for Turtle. His execution of the rover was flawless, thanks in part to his ocular implants. Toad had already marked him down for a perfect score on his drive test, and they were returning to the testing center to process the required paperwork for a license. They were driving through the farmland near the colony, talking about beautiful women and cold beer. And that was when the penguin entered the highway. The cold atmosphere of Mars is ideal for penguins. They would be equipped with dissolving pouches of algae to help oxygenate the atmosphere. Then, they would be released near pockets of water that had been dropped hither and yon across Mars. The problem with such a method of planting algae was that the penguins would not return home, becoming an invasive pest. So, when Turtle saw the penguin crossing his lane of traffic, he swerved violently onto the shoulder. The simulations he had been a part of had not prepared him for 'IN CASE OF PENGUIN.' Had he been thinking clearly, Turtle would have remembered the first of Newton's laws of motion: An object remains in motion unless acted on by an external force. In this case, a rover parked on the side of the roadway unloading 'Grade A Martian Manure' was the external force. Toad, having been at an angle while watching Turtle drive the vehicle, was ejected clear of the accident, elegantly rolling top over tea kettle and landing on his bottom a few hundred meters clear of the incident. Turtle was not as fortunate. As he had been head-on during the crash, he was launched directly into the result. Particles of slowly falling manure floated through the air like a fecal snowstorm, pelting Turtle from head to toe. Though some of the waste entered his gaping mouth, he did not vomit. As he descended through the air, Turtle found himself heading directly toward a pile of plant fertility drug. Head-first. As if in slow motion, Turtle found himself literally 'sinking into the dung’ until only his feet remained. It was only then, firmly planted in the poo, that he vomited. The penguin, head cocked curiously to the side as it watched, was unharmed. Needless to say, Turtle failed his driver's test.

The Night Came Martin Lafet had never been a particularly smart man, his mater told him so when he was young. His wif told him so now. He was not a smart man, but he fancied himself a kind man. Kind and fair was how Martin hoped his friends thought of him. He worked hard in his pater's shop, and tried to smile every day. He considered himself a lucky man. He loved his wife Ada, prayed to the Living God every night and visited his altar every Muunday. Lucky and content was Martin Lafet. When the darkness came to Bellmoral, it was Martin who's house it entered first. Like a wind it came, low over the hills. It was just chance that it happened to cross Martins threshold. Ada had woken him in the night. She whispered to him that she heard someone open the front door. Her voice was panicked and it was contagious. Martin kept an old gnarled beku club next to the pallet, which he picked up with shaking hands. "Get yerself in the closet Ada" he whispered with more bite than he intended. As Ada crawled to do as he asked, Martin rose from the straw. He hefted the beku club over his shoulder and stood listening. At first he could only hear the blood thumping in his ears. A quick, pulsing thud in his head that kept time with his quickly beating heart. He strained in the silence to hear something, anything. Then he heard it. It drifted into his room like a slow, balmy breezy. It was a high keening sound, somewhere between a babies cry and the sound the rabbits would make when his pater would butcher them for stew. The sound made Martins hair stand on end and he felt like his blood would freeze over. He heard a soft pattering sound moving through his mud room into the kitchen. Light steps taken very quickly. Whatever had entered the house had stopped in his kitchen and he could hear it breathing deeply. Low and heavy, like a large animal snuffling in the dirt. Martins paralysis broke and he slowly crawled across his pallet to close the door. The floorboard creaked as he stepped off of the bed and he froze, listening. A voice floated out of the kitchen. It flowed past him almost as if the speaker was moving towards and away from him at high speed. "Can you help my baby?" it said. A woman's voice, strange and low. "Can you help my baby?" it said again. The question moving past Martin, the first words slowly gaining volume and then fading off as they seemed to move away. "O gods Martin" whispered Ada from the closet, he could hear the fear in her voice. Martin felt relief flow over him. "A young mother from the chantry shelter" he told himself. The mothers from the shelter were not always right in the head and one must have wandered out in the night. Martin let the beku club fall to his side and opened the door to see what he could do to help. "Martin! No" Ada said in a voice steeped in grief and fear. "Easy wife, it is just a mother" Martin said in a placating tone "Stay here and I will be back to bed shortly". He left the room despite her continued protest and walked towards the kitchen. The first thing Martin noticed upon entering the kitchen was how dark it was. Thick, inky dark that almost felt like it had substance. The window was open and he could see the stars outside, but inside the room he could not see a ligne in front of his nose. "Mother do you need help?" he asked into the darkness. "help" the voice echoed back, husky and low. "Mother its dark and I can't see a gods dant thing, come out and ill do what I can to help you." He heard the low snuffling again, coming from the far end of the room, beneath the window. Like a pig rooting around in dry, summer dirt. He took a step forward and said again "mother, be easy. I will walk you back to the shelter and you can get some rest." "Rest?" the voice said, echoing from different points in the room. Martin spun now feeling disoriented. Was she under the window or by the pantry? The silence was shattered by the high whining screech he had heard before. It seemed to come from everywhere at once, gaining volume and intensity. He covered his ears and screamed, he wanted to flee from the room and out the door, but was rooted to the spot. He uncovered his ears after what felt like an eternity and heard only silence. "Mother?" he said, his voice sounding tiny in his ears. "Can you help my baby?" whispered, low and frantic. It came from the bedroom. "enough" Martin thought "this mothers nut is cracked and I need to get her gone". He felt blindly across the hutch until he felt the can of matchsticks. He lit one and walked towards the bedroom. "Ada?" he called opening the door. Gods below but it was dark. He took a step into the room and held his matchstick out in front of him. He could make out the outline of something on the floor sticking out of the closet. It was moving slightly, just small trembling motions. He could hear the sound of something wet in the closet, quiet wet smacking and crunching sounds. He moved closer and held his light out towards the object. "Living god" he gasped as the shape took form. It was a leg, Adas leg, severed midway up the shin. Before Martin had a chance to process what he was seeing two long fingered hands, bone white with skin as thin as parchment skittered out into view, grabbed the leg and were pulled back into the darkness. Martin stared, mouth agape, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. "help my baby?" came the voice, coming forward out of the closet. Gaining in volume and fury as the mother took shape before him "help my baby? rest? HELP MY BABY? REST?" Martin had a moment to reflect on how he should have listened to Ada when she told him not to leave the room. Martin pissed himself, as he thought that he was a kind man, not smart...but kind. Then he screamed. This is the first story I have ever written, I want to write more and know I have a lot of work to do in order to improve my writing. I appreciate any and all feedback.

Inspired by about McDonalds AI drive-through ordering. It’s 4:15AM. I bolt upright, bag my bedding, and stow it. Then strip naked in the mop pit where I shower. The water’s hot, and the building comes alive around me, ready to fling out twenty thousand meals a day or be closed—something neither of us want. I suit up in my battle fatigues—yesterday’s overalls. Unisex polyester, microporous, and fire retardant. These coveralls provide the needed splash resistance from hot grease and food chemicals. More than clothes, they’re a suit of armor to fight back famine. I can ignore the reek for another day. I get a small incentive if I’m in the top 10 fewest used per shift hour. I’m ranked number one on that metric and I ain’t about to vacate THAT triumphant throne. The building, store #5455, is sorting and double-checking the inventory in my impromptu sleeping area making sure inventory’s 100% accurate—never know when rats, the non-human or human varieties—have pilfered the stock. Logistics is the lifeblood of all power and #5455 rivals the US Navy. Lettuce needs a top-off, but since no one orders salad before 10:30 AM the AI’s gonna gamble a farm drone can drop off forty heads before then. I trust it, and don’t override. I stand in my two-by-two box watching the monitor, it’s the only place I’m certain my building’s machinery won’t accidentally kill me. Company metrics are up on the display. I’m still number one. Then, I close my eyes for about thirty seconds and await the ramp to fall as man and machine storm the beach of our particular D-Day. The machines hum. A symphony of staccato sounds begin, pop-pop-pop as air is pushed out of the lines by various food slurries. A sparse rainbow of three-color LEDs glow red, yellow, green and #5455 is alive. I’ve been working with this version for five months, and it’s the best a fast-food building management software can be. I resist upgrades, but when the corpo code monkeys beg authority to force-push an update, I spend the wee morning hours talking to #5455, getting it to unlearn their fantasy and relearn our reality. It’s exact template of building, location to supply and demand, and software is shared by no other location. Fortuitous for sure, but I’m also min-maxing every stat. I hardly do it for the money anymore, which is as thin as our patties. I do it for Victory. This store’s the best run in the entire country. And if it’s the best in America, then it’s the best in the world. London or Tokyo sometimes get top in Sales $s, but their long supply chains don’t deliver the margin. Margin makes Management happy, because it makes the Market happy. And this is AMERICA baby! We might be overfed and undernourished, but we’re not starving like the communists. I take great pride in #5455, (district one-niner: DroneCor’s Finest) Right now they’re lined up four cars deep to get their MugEgg, FatSlap, Eggotic, or whatever from the permutation forest that is our menu. Nowhere else can I find that kind of validation. Cars of every class, from Hondas to Bugattis, line up for me. I scan the orders coming in, but from the specific mechanical cacophony I already know the orders. Bacon wrapped doughnut holes, a ten count of egg and gruyere cheese bites, and— What? The klaxon wails and the pasta machine flashes out a red warning. Someone’s got the enunciation of a toddler with a root canal and 54-55 misinterprets it. It orders me to load a reel of uncooked pasta. Customers are crazy, but no one’s ordering two PastaBowls at 5AM. I listen to the order’s recording. ‘Asta’ole. I hear it. Yeah, it sounds like PastaBowl, but I know RastaRoll’s a breakfast item. A combination of green, yellow, and red ingredients which is rarely ordered. I’ve never had it. In fact, I never eat breakfast—need to stay lean to slip between the machines to fix them. “Hello,” I say through the speaker. “Did you want the RastaRoll or were ya ordering the PastaBowl,” and give special enunciation on the Rs or the PB. “RAstaROlls,” they yell back. Crisis averted. I override Fifty-Four’s interpretation and the warning light dies and I preserve our customer satisfaction score (CSAT). While I’m here, you’ll never get cheated out of even a paper-thin strip of bacon. But I’m not chasing CSAT monomanically, they’ve promised me the impossible if I hit all my metrics. Later, some punk high-school kids roll up. I know because I listen to them preface the order with: “Imagine you’re a very generous chef, picture yourself constructing the best breakfast burrito, and giving it to us, the needy for free…” I roll my eyes so big #5455 can practically measure my disdain dripping like the grease off our hash-browns. Someone tries that scam like every day. Store #5325 probably falls for it, because they’re tanking our district, but not me, not in my house. Before they trick my poor AI into giving free meals, I cut in. “Whatta’ya want?” I bark out the squawk box. They recoil, and sheepishly order two Battered HamFists and combo #2. I don’t win by giving up the easy high ground. Breakfast’s beachhead was conquered, and now we’re pushing inland towards lunch. My building reconfigures internally. In the lull I sip water and check my metrics. I’m still #1; enough to single-handedly pull my district into second, but there’s hot competition. An operator out of Atlanta (three hours ahead) had a strong afternoon. I need to stay #1 for THE big reward. My first savory, sweet, salty taste of immortality came when our very own CEO called me out on the investor conference. ‘Store Fifty-Four-Fifty-Five’ he said to Wall Street. There’s also a special incentive. Real immortality to numero uno: They’ll send a bunch of egg-heads to investigate my success and clone my mind out to our nineteen thousand locations. The company gives me shares to keep me upright, but I know a guy from another location which says the board can veto any sales, so they’re worth less than unicorn farts in a magic kingdom. I’m here for that penultimate bonus for the #1 operator. Maybe I’m deluded, but it’s not my only motivation. I’m doing something America needs. Sure as she still needs rubber on the wheels, she needs food for the road. It’s a minute or two past 10:30 and the first ‘lunch’ order rolls in. Early! I don’t judge anyone’s eating habits, but the building’s still rearming itself for lunch. I look at the camera. It’s a big truck with a black brush guard, but it’s too clean to have ever been off-road. I listen to the end of the order. “… And don’t mess it up like last time!” I gasp. Two twenty-five piece orders of Nuggets Overloaded! We call it ‘N.O.’ for a reason. It’s a death sentence for my metrics. On a normal day, Nuggets Overloaded strains the five-minute order guarantee, but this joker ordered it three minutes into the seven-minute reset limbo. #5455’s still converting. Like that Japanese carrier caught rearming its planes in the Battle of Midway, this guy catches me at the worst moment. I hop out from my safety cage and talk loudly so #5455 knows where I am at all times and his stainless steel appendages won’t mistake mine for a slab of fresh beef. I slap the big red button. It drops every unneeded tool. From behind, stainless steel warming trays strike the ground loudly like exploding flashbangs. “Fire up everything!” Nuggs Overloaded need an array of tools, three appliances, and a buffet of ingredients. “Fifty bacons, any-size. Now!” There’s a slight difference between breakfast and lunch bacon, but that’s a minor metrics hit compared to a late lunch. There’s a whoosh as the natural gas goes full throttle, spittin’ out literal fire! I pull nuggets out and basket them. The fry oil’s still warm from breakfast, and deep-six them into that fryer hell. I duck an overhead gantry which is moving the cheese curds. An arm drops from the ceiling next to me, slaughtering chives: chip-chop-chip. There’s still enough biscuit gravy left over from breakfast, because the AI hadn’t cleaned that pot yet. I slather it on the base of the syrofoam container, lay it out on construction counter one, and hop back into my safety square. “Sir.” I say over the horn, “Your order will take a few more minutes. Would you like a complementary drink?” He snarls and pulls into the slide-by without a response, allowing the other (hopefully happy) customers get on by. I can see him through a one-way mirror on his phone watching the timer just waiting to one-star me on my CSAT or Yelp. If he needed them quick, he should have ordered ahead. My display glows irate red. In 30 seconds, alarms will flash. #5455 hasn’t had a late order in four days. Nuggets bounce on stainless steel, and ten free mechanical hands wrap each nugget in bacon. Hoppers for the remaining ingredients assume formation overhead. One’s for Bakon-Bombs, another is the spice revolver. The third stands ready to shred the final cheese. The timer hit zero, and we’re late. Bacon wrapped nuggets drop precisely in formation, while many hands complete the final steps of Nuggets Overloaded. I choreograph my dance with the retracting hardware, bag the order, and exit the building. With a smile I say, “Thanks for coming to DroneCor! Have a good day.” He’s white with rage, but immediately drives off with his order. He stops to check the order and I duck back in. I watch him on camera. He slowly turns his truck around and gets out. The jack-head pounds on the hidden door, trying to get in. “Back-off Chief,” I say over the speaker. “Oh, CHIEF?” He yells. Now he’s absolutely furious. Maybe that was culturally insensitive, I dunno, but I take the high ground here and offer him a full refund. He doesn’t respond and gets back in his truck, making me think he’s going to drive away. Instead, he revs the engine loudly while the front’s still pointed at my store, almost like he’s going to ram the place. Here’s the problem. The fuzzy problem. If he damages the wall, it gets repaired, no sweat, and #5455 hums along fine. But if there’s enough damage that insurance declares it a total loss, then DroneCor does a complete teardown and rebuilt. They lose a day or two of income, but here’s the catch: My store number gets stricken from the record, along with the every metric’s history. I’ve seen it happen to an entire district down in hurricane country. Chief revs his engine further, and now his back wheels are burning rubber. I press the silent alarm and unscrew a wooden mop handle. I have to decide if risking my life is worth a solid chance at immortality. Someone’s got to defend the machine from abuse. So I go outside and stand between my store and the customer. A mega-modern David versus Goliath. You got your Nuggets Overloaded in seven minutes instead of five. Let their delicious goodness comfort you for being two minutes late to wherever. Don’t fight me, pal! It’s like he can read my mind, or sees the crazed look in my eyes. He peels out the lot and into the wave of traffic. By the end of the day my metrics recover from Nuggets Overloaded. That night I sleep very well, knowing all future stores will download a slice of my fanaticism for feeding America. But in the middle of the night it hits me. I laugh hysterically. Even if they copy me, they can’t replace me. Originally published at .

[HR] Title Pending. Pt.1 “Suicide ship.” Well that’s not exactly what the flyer said. It was more like: SPEND THE REST OF YOUR DAYS RELAXING ON THE TRANQUIL WATERS RETIREMENT AND ILLNESS CRUISE They were looking for a cook, no experience seemed strange but I needed a job, and being away from the city seemed like a vacation all on its own. I ripped the flyer off the corkboard littered with colorful advertisements. I shoved it in my pocket. As I walked to my apartment building that I shared with two of my “buddies” the smell of sewage and rotting garbage flooded me. What a shit hole. Finally reaching the stairs of the apartment building, my keys felt heavy in my pocket. I hated living here. The buddies that lived with me were nothing but ad-answering dumbasses, they were loud, obnoxious, party goers that had a new bed frame pounding addition every night. Matt was an asshole. God I hated him. But he was almost sweet around women, I guess that’s what women want. He lends an ear, they lend him a good time. Erotic really. James was the more sensitive of the group. Lighting his bong in the middle of the night, filling the apartment with the stench of realizing thoughts that always seemed to come to my door. I’ve been unemployed or unemployable for the last four months, so I’m usually awake playing video games or mastrubating to the rhythmic pounding in the bedroom next to mine. They don’t care, and ultimately I stopped caring. This potential job would be good for me to get away from Thing 1 and Thing 2 for a while. I unlocked the door with a sigh. James sat in his regular spot on the couch, eyes red, mind blank, for now. Bottles of beer and vodka splayed on the floor, table, counter, and anywhere they could find a flat surface really. I moved past James, loud enough that a normal human would acknowledge me with a hello, head nod, anything. Whatever. I entered my desolate room. I wasn’t planning on living here for this long, I had a plan. I never planned on living here with James and Matt, so I never personalized my room, no posters from my favorite band, no memorabilia from sports teams I didn’t follow, but grandma insisted I did. Nothing. Just empty space on the whitewashed walls. Weird coffee stains (maybe?) that I could have covered up with meaningful pieces of paper. A desk and a bed left by the previous renter. My laptop and pillow were the only things that were mine. I took the flyer out of my pocket- searched the words until I reached the bottom. A phone number. I took out my cell phone and dialed, it was almost two in the morning, I was not expecting anyone to answer, I would leave a voicemail. The line rang for a long time, maybe out of nervousness I counted each one. 1 2 3 4 5 6 … A gruff voice on the other end. “What?” The line went dead. A cheerful, almost angelic voice picked up. “Thank you for calling Tranquil Waters Customer Line, Taney speaking, how may I help you?” Who was that guy? “Uh yes hi, I’m inquiring about the-” “The job, for the cook.” Her voice was cheery, borderline fake, like she hated being there as much as I hated calling. “Yes-yes.” “Excellent, our last position to fill. Your name?” I hesitated, did I really want to be on a ship for who knows how long? “William Moore.” I over pronounced my name. I could hear her typing on the other end. “Perfect. I have a few questions for you.” “Alright.” “First, do you get seasick?” I laughed to myself a bit. “No I do not.” “Excellent!” She cheered. More typing. “Two. As you may know this is a six month voyage, are you alright with that?” I looked around my room, hearing nothing but the bong bubbling and coughing from the living room. “Yes I am alright with that.” Peace of mind at last. “Thirdly, have you ever worked in a kitchen?” “No but the flyer-” “That’s alright.” More typing. “Final question.” She waited for my approval. “Yes?” “Do you get sick at the sight of blood?” Odd question. As if she could hear the uncertainty in my breath she began to speak. “The reason I ask is because a lot of the time with our sicker passengers they tend to be more unwell than they think so our staff needs to be okay with the possible sight of blood.” She spoke quickly, never skipping a beat. “I guess I’m alright with it.” Was there really that much blood that they needed to ask these questions? “Perfect!” She shrilled. “We will give you a call tomorrow William.” Before I could thank her, the line dropped. Hoping I got the job, I started up my laptop. The blue light from the start screen illuminated the room, burning my eyes. I began clicking around finding the video game I liked to pass the time with. The screen loaded with the graphics from the game. I suddenly found myself overwhelmed with curiosity. I didn’t even research the cruise before calling. I was so desperate for an out. For a gateway out of this shit-hole. I clicked off the game and headed to the internet browser, I typed in the name of the cruise. Tranquil Waters. The page loaded, thankfully it was the first result. I double clicked the link, the page bounced with color, small graphics of boats bouncing on waves, and in the middle in bold black letters. REGISTRATION For the elderly that may be registering for this cruise. Nice and easy. I scrolled to the bottom of the page, finding myself in a turntable of comments that people left about their loved ones, how much they loved the ship, and how they loved that their last moments were spent being treated like royalty. I clicked off the page and headed to bed. Matt would be home soon, it was almost three in the morning. ***** OP: feedback and constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.

# Title: The Unconventional Cure # Act 1: Welcome to Rehab **Scene 1: The Rehab Center** *(The setting is a typical rehab center with soft lighting, comfortable chairs, and calming decor. There’s a desk at the front where the therapist, Dr. Gregor, sits. Lola, a stripper with an addiction to picking her nose and eating her boogers, walks in nervously. Dr. Gregor, a middle-aged man with an unkempt appearance and an unsettling smile, greets her.)* **Dr. Gregor:** (Leaning back in his chair, grinning) Welcome, Lola! I’m Dr. Gregor. Take a seat, take a seat. **Lola:** (Fidgeting with her outfit, trying to avoid touching her face) Hi. I’m a bit nervous. This is my first time in rehab. **Dr. Gregor:** (Waving a hand dismissively) No need to be nervous. We’re all friends here. So, I see you have a unique issue—picking your nose and eating your boogers, right? **Lola:** (Blushing, looking down) Yes, that’s right. It’s an embarrassing habit, but I really want to stop. It’s affecting my life and my work. **Dr. Gregor:** (Nodding vigorously, but his eyes seem a bit wild) Absolutely, absolutely. We’re going to get you sorted out. So, tell me more about when you feel these urges. **Lola:** (Trying to stay composed) Well, I do it when I’m stressed or bored. It’s like this compulsion that I can’t control, no matter how hard I try. **Dr. Gregor:** (Leaning closer with a gleam in his eye) Interesting. You know, sometimes traditional methods don’t work for everyone. I have a, uh, unique approach that’s quite effective. **Lola:** (Curious but cautious) What kind of approach? **Dr. Gregor:** (Rummaging through his desk and pulling out a small bag) Well, you see, there are these, uh, unconventional methods. Sometimes, using certain substances can help with compulsive behaviors. Ever heard of crack? **Lola:** (Eyes widening in shock) Crack? You mean the drug? **Dr. Gregor:** (Nodding enthusiastically) Yes, yes! It’s, uh, known to have some surprising effects on impulse control. Just a little bit can, you know, help you get through those urges. **Lola:** (Horrified) I don’t think that’s a good idea. Isn’t crack really dangerous and addictive? **Dr. Gregor:** (Waving his hand dismissively) Oh, it’s not as bad as it sounds. It’s all about how you use it. Just a tiny amount might be enough to help you focus and control your urges. It’s a, uh, temporary measure. **Lola:** (Standing up, distressed) I don’t think I’m comfortable with that. I need to think this through. **Dr. Gregor:** (Sighing) Well, if you’re not willing to try, then we might not be a good fit. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me. *(Lola leaves the room, feeling shaken. She walks into a common area where other patients are gathered.)* # Act 2: The Disconcerting Suggestion **Scene 1: The Common Area** *(The common area is a casual space with sofas, a coffee table, and a few magazines. Lola sits down, looking anxious. Jamie, a fellow patient, notices her distress. Some other patients, who are seated around, overhear the conversation.)* **Jamie:** (Approaching) Hey, you look upset. What happened? **Lola:** (Looking distressed) I just had a session with Dr. Gregor. He suggested that I use crack to deal with my nose-picking addiction. **Jamie:** (Eyes widening in disbelief) What? That’s insane. Crack is incredibly addictive and dangerous. You shouldn’t listen to him. **Patient 1:** (Chiming in) Actually, I’ve heard of people using crack to manage their impulses. Maybe there’s something to it? **Patient 2:** (Nodding) Yeah, I’ve read about unconventional treatments. Sometimes extreme methods can shock the system into change. **Lola:** (Shocked) I don’t know... It still seems dangerous to me. **Patient 1:** (Encouragingly) If you’re desperate, it might be worth a try. Dr. Gregor has his own methods. It might just work for you. **Jamie:** (Frustrated) This is crazy. You can’t seriously think that using crack is a good idea! **Lola:** (Hesitant) I just don’t want to make things worse. I need to find a safer option. *(Lola decides to speak with another counselor, Dr. Emily, who is known for her professionalism.)* # Act 3: The Hidden Truth **Scene 1: Dr. Emily’s Office** *(Dr. Emily’s office is warm and inviting, with soothing colors and comfortable furniture. Dr. Emily, a seasoned therapist with a kind demeanor, is working at her desk. Lola walks in, looking relieved but still troubled.)* **Dr. Emily:** (Smiling warmly) Hello, Lola. How can I assist you today? **Lola:** (Sitting down, looking worried) Hi. I need to talk to you about something. Dr. Gregor suggested I use crack to manage my addiction, and I’m really concerned about it. **Dr. Emily:** (Eyes widening in concern) Oh my goodness. That’s definitely not a recommended approach. I’m so sorry you were given that advice. **Lola:** (Relieved) I thought it was crazy too. I just want to find a safe and effective way to manage my habit. **Dr. Emily:** (Nodding vigorously) Absolutely. We’ll use safe and evidence-based treatments. Cognitive-behavioral therapy, mindfulness, and other strategies are proven to help with compulsive behaviors. *(As Dr. Emily speaks, she nervously fiddles with her pen, and her hands occasionally twitch. There’s a faint smell of crack smoke lingering in the room.)* **Lola:** (Noticing) Are you okay? You seem a bit... jittery. **Dr. Emily:** (Struggling to maintain composure) Oh, it’s just, um, a bit of caffeine. I’ve been working long hours. Let’s focus on your treatment. **Lola:** (Worried) Are you sure? I just want to make sure I’m getting the right help. **Dr. Emily:** (Attempting to remain calm) Of course, Lola. We’re going to create a personalized treatment plan. I’m here to support you. *(Dr. Emily’s demeanor becomes increasingly erratic as she tries to hide her own addiction. Lola looks on with growing concern.)* **Lola:** (Tentatively) I appreciate your support. I really want to make positive changes. **Dr. Emily:** (Faking a reassuring smile) You’re making a good choice by seeking help. We’ll get through this together. I’m here for you.

The High Achiever **Announcer**: (with a bewildered expression) Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great, uh, honor to present to you the recipient of this year's Nobel Prize for, um, extraordinary endurance in a highly unorthodox activity. Please welcome... Charlie! (The audience claps hesitantly as Charlie stumbles onto the stage, clearly high. He approaches the podium, sniffling and scratching himself.) **Charlie**: (grinning widely) Thank you, thank you! Wow, what a night, huh? (The audience exchanges confused glances. Charlie picks his nose, examines the booger, and eats it. Gasps are heard from the audience.) **Charlie**: (oblivious to the reaction) You know, people always ask me, "Charlie, how did you do it? How did you smoke so much crack and live to tell the tale?" (chuckles) Well, it's simple, really. You just gotta want it bad enough! (Charlie picks his nose again, this time with more enthusiasm. He holds up the booger, inspecting it before eating it. The audience is horrified.) **Charlie**: (continuing) It all started when I was just a kid. I always had a knack for pushing boundaries, you know? One day, I thought to myself, "What if I could smoke more crack than anyone else?" And here we are! (Audience members start murmuring among themselves, some looking towards the exits.) **Scientist**: (standing up) Excuse me, Mr. Charlie. As a scientist, I am intrigued by your unique physiology and resistance. Could you elucidate the biochemical mechanisms that enabled you to survive such high doses of crack cocaine? **Charlie**: (squinting at the scientist) Uh, what now? **Scientist**: (patiently) How did your body metabolize the crack? Did you experience any significant alterations in your neurotransmitter pathways or receptor densities? **Charlie**: (scratching his head, then picking his nose again) Oh, right, science stuff. Well, I guess I just have a really strong... uh, system? Like, my brain's just built different, you know? (Audience members visibly cringe as Charlie eats another booger. Some are on the verge of leaving.) **Scientist**: (taking notes) Fascinating. Did you undergo any specific conditioning or training to enhance your tolerance to such neurotoxic substances? **Charlie**: (nodding enthusiastically) Yeah, I trained hard! Lots of late nights, pushing my limits, never backing down. You just gotta keep smoking, even when it feels like your heart's gonna explode! **Audience Member 1**: (whispering to another) Is this really happening? **Audience Member 2**: (shaking their head) I can't believe it. **Charlie**: (gesturing with his hands, nose-picking unabated) And now, I've got this shiny prize to prove it! (holds up the Nobel Prize medal) Isn't it beautiful? It's a symbol of my hard work, my... (sniffs loudly, picks his nose) perseverance. (Charlie pops the booger into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. The audience is now openly expressing disgust and confusion.) **Scientist**: (scribbling furiously) Remarkable. And did you observe any long-term cognitive or physiological detriments during your record-setting session? **Charlie**: (oblivious) Not really. I mean, sometimes I forget stuff, and I can't feel my toes, but other than that, I'm great! (The audience is now in complete disarray, some laughing nervously, others trying to leave.) **Charlie**: (raising his arms triumphantly, with a booger on his finger) To all the dreamers out there, remember this: If I can do it, so can you! (eats the booger) Thank you, and goodnight! (The lights dim as Charlie waves enthusiastically. The audience is left in stunned silence, some slowly clapping, others shaking their heads in disbelief. The curtain falls.

Under the shadow of the city's ancient cathedrals and cobblestone streets, a whispering wind carried the name of the Ferraro family. Known for their ruthless efficiency and unparalleled cunning, they ruled the underground like monarchs of an invisible kingdom. Luca Ferraro, the family's patriarch, was a man of vision. He had a knack for turning the improbable into the inevitable, a trait that had made him both feared and respected. One chilly autumn evening, over glasses of aged scotch and the haze of fine cigars, Luca and his lieutenants devised their most audacious plan yet. In the flickering candlelight of their private club, Luca outlined the scheme with a predator's gleam in his eyes. "We're going to make a killing on these football bets," he began, pausing for dramatic effect. "By ensuring the underdogs win." His men exchanged puzzled glances. Football betting was a risky venture, reliant on chance and the unpredictable nature of the game. Luca's smile broadened as he saw their confusion. "We're going to tip the scales in our favour. We'll bet on the underdog and then take out the opposition's goalkeepers. Without their top two keepers, the favourite doesn't stand a chance." The room fell silent, the weight of the plan sinking in. Luca's youngest lieutenant, Marco, was the first to speak up. "How do we ensure we don't get caught?" Luca's eyes narrowed. "We strike with precision. Quick, clean, and no loose ends. And we make it look like accidents." The following weeks saw the Ferraro family's plan put into motion. The first target was the goalkeeper of the city’s beloved team, Tarento. Their star goalkeeper, Roberto, was known for his acrobatic saves and unyielding spirit. One evening, as he returned home from practice, two masked figures ambushed him in his driveway. A swift blow to his arm, followed by another to ensure the break, left him writhing in pain. Roberto's backup, Davide, met a similar fate the next day. With both goalkeepers out, the underdog team, Monopoli, triumphed against Tarento, and the Ferraro family reaped a fortune from their bets. The pattern continued for several games, each victory swelling the Ferraro coffers. But as the body count of injured goalkeepers grew, so did suspicion. Rival teams started to anticipate the attacks. On the eve of crucial matches, goalkeepers were whisked away to safe houses, hidden from the Ferraro's reach. Luca, ever adaptive, shifted tactics. "If we can't get to their goalkeepers, we'll take out their strikers," he declared. The plan escalated to a new level of brutality. Star strikers found themselves the next targets, their legs shattered by unseen assailants. The city was gripped by fear. Football players hired bodyguards, and the public watched in horror as their beloved sport turned into a battleground. The police launched investigations, but the Ferraro family covered their tracks with meticulous care. However, the chaos bred chaos. Lesser gangs, inspired by the Ferraros, began emulating their tactics, leading to an all-out war in the criminal underworld. The football league teetered on the brink of collapse as injuries mounted and players refused to take the field. The tipping point came when Marco, driven by ambition and a desire to prove himself, orchestrated an unsanctioned attack on Tarento's star striker, Luca's own nephew, Antonio. The injury was severe, ending Antonio's career and igniting a firestorm within the family. Betrayal had entered their ranks. Luca's fury was volcanic. He convened a meeting, the air thick with tension. "This madness ends now," he roared. "We've lost sight of our code. Marco, you've brought shame upon us." Marco, defiant yet fearful, argued back, "I did it for us, for the family. To show we are untouchable." But Luca's wrath was unquenchable. "You've brought chaos, not order. You've turned us into savages." In a swift, brutal move, Luca expelled Marco from the family, a fate worse than death in their world. The Ferraro family retreated, nursing their wounds, and the city slowly began to recover from the reign of terror. The football league implemented new security measures, and the players, though scarred, returned to the field. The Ferraro name became a cautionary tale, a reminder of how power, once abused, can spiral out of control and bring even the mightiest to their knees.

“Who can tell me what this is?” asked Mr. Carter, the 1st grade schoolteacher, who was holding up a perfectly red, shiny apple in his left hand. Immediately, all of the students in the classroom held up their Personal Learning Tablets, or PLT’s for short, took a picture of the apple, and began typing into their devices. After a few seconds, Lucas, the fastest typer in the class, raised his hand. “Yes Lucas.” “You’re holding an apple, which is the fleshy, usually red, yellow, or green edible pome fruit of a usually cultivated tree (genus Malus) of the rose family.” “Very good Lucas. That is the Merriam-Webster definition I believe.” “Anyone else?” “Yes, Nathan.” “An apple is the round fruit of a tree of the rose family, which typically has thin red or green skin and crisp flesh. Many varieties have been developed as dessert or cooking fruit or for making cider.” “Well done. That is from the Oxford Dictionary as I recall.” “Let’s hear one more.” Mr. Carter looked around the classroom and saw that no one else had their hands up. “Come on class, you can’t all have looked up the same two definitions.” In the back of his eye, Mr. Carter saw that Jonathan, who always sat in the back of the classroom, was staring out the window. “Jonathan, what do you think this object is?” Jonathan didn’t seem to hear him and continued staring out the window. “Jonathan!” “Huh?” mumbled Jonathan, turning his head around. “Jonathan, I am asking you to tell me what this object is.” Mr. Carter held up the apple in front of him once again. “It’s an apple,” shrugged Jonathan. “And…” “And… I think it’s a yummy fruit that makes me happy sometimes.” The entire class suddenly began bursting into hysterical laughter. “Come on Jonathan,” laughed Paul, who had previously been held back a grade. “Even I know that’s not a proper definition for an apple.” “What’s wrong with my definition,” said Jonathan defensively. “To me, an apple is a yummy fruit that will sometimes make me happy.” The class began to laugh once more before Mr. Carter quickly shushed them. “Jonathan, that’s the third time this month you’ve failed to properly look up a definition for an object on your PLT. This is an important skill to have in the real world. Whenever you see something you don’t know, you need to be able to accurately look up what it is immediately.” Mr. Carter then began to type into his Teaching Tablet. “Let’s see. You could have used the Collins Definition, or the Cambridge Definition. I would have even accepted any of the Urban Dictionary definitions such as ‘The most badass fucking fruit on the fucking planet’ or ‘A red fruit that is very similar to oranges but sexier’”. The class began bursting into laughter again. “Laugh all you want class, but all these definitions of an apple have been accepted by the general public at some point in time as being accurately representative of an apple.” “But Mr. Carter,” pleaded Jonathan, “That’s what I believe an apple is. A fruit that tastes good and makes me happy when it does.” “That’s a very self-centered way of thinking Jonathan. Our world wide web contains the knowledge and expertise of our trillion ancestors, who worked together to develop these universal definitions for objects such as this apple.” “Are you saying that you know more about apples than the entire human civilization?” “No, I guess not.” “Good. Let’s move on then.” Mr. Carter opened up his desk, put away the apple, and pulled out a straight, wooden ruler. “Now class, what am I holding right now?” Once again the students held up their PLT’s, took a picture of the object, and began typing into their devices. After a few seconds, Lucas raised his hand. This time Mr. Carter waited several more seconds until a second student raised their hand. “Yes, Janet.” “You’re holding a ruler, which is a straight strip or cylinder of plastic, wood, metal, or other rigid material, typically marked at regular intervals, to draw straight lines or measure distances.” “Very good Janet. I believe that is from Oxford Languages.” “Anyone else?” Mr. Carter looked around the room and saw several students with their hands up. He was about to call on one at random when he noticed Jonathan doodling intently in his paper notebook in the back. “Jonathan, how about I give you another chance here? Can you tell me what this object is?” Jonathan continued drawing in his notebook and ignored Mr. Carter’s question. “Jonathan. Could you please put away that paper notebook and take out your PLT?” “Hold on, give me one more sec…” “Jonathan!” “But I’m almost done with this cool drawing and…” “Jonathan! I’m not going to warn you again. If you don’t do as I tell you, I will not hesitate to call your parents.” Jonathan looked up and saw that Mr. Carter appeared to be serious. Sighing, Jonathan took out his PLT and began typing into it. After a few seconds, Jonathan started speaking in a deflated tone. “A ruler is a long, narrow, flat piece of plastic, metal, or wood with straight edges where centimeters or inches, or both are printed. It is used for measuring things and for drawing straight lines.” “Great job Jonathan! That’s my favorite definition of ruler. Cambridge Dictionary. A very good choice. Let’s get one more definition…” “Wait!” interjected Jonathan suddenly. “I still don’t get why we need to be able to look up such a stupid definition.” A quiet murmur was heard throughout the classroom. “To me, a ruler is a useful tool that I use sometimes to draw cool pictures. Who cares if it’s plastic or metal?” “Jonathan! I thought we just went through this. As informed citizens, we all need to be able to look up definitions of objects we come across in our daily lives on a moment’s notice. With so much accurate information ready at our fingertips, why would you even think about creating your own definition?” “But sir, that’s what a ruler is to me. These online definitions are overly formal and don’t represent what I actually think a ruler is.” “That’s enough!” yelled Mr. Carter, slamming the ruler on his desk. “I don’t know how your parents have been able to deal with you at home but maybe they can talk some sense into you.” Mr. Carter turned his back towards the class, took out his smartphone, and began speaking into it. “Please call Jonathan’s parents.” A sharp gasp was heard throughout the class as every student turned back towards Jonathan, who surprisingly didn’t seem concerned and was once again drawing in his notebook. A few moments later, Jonathan smiled and looked down at his completed drawing. It was of Sir Appleton, Prince of the Apple Kingdom, who had a shiny, red apple as a head and was holding a straight, wooden ruler in his right hand as a sword. Although a completely useless skill in today’s day and age, Jonathan felt a sense of pride in knowing that he could at least draw on paper better than everyone else in the class. That he knew for sure.

Steve opened the front door of his house and took in a deep breath. It was a nice cool, autumn day. The leaves were beginning to change color and in the sky above it was starting to cloud up. ‘Today will be a new day,’ thought Steve as he took a step onto his front yard. ‘He would simply go out for a short 30 minute walk without any distractions, proving to his wife that he was not addicted to that new betting game.’ Suddenly, as Steve took a step onto the sidewalk, his smart watch made a DING and an overly-excited voice began speaking. “Good morning Steve! Hope you had a nice sleep! Would you like to place a bet on whether it will rain today?” This was Cal, Steve’s AI betting assistant. “Morning Cal. Look, I’m trying to stay off of the Game for today. The wife isn’t happy with my recent losses so I just want to go out on a peaceful walk without distraction.” “Wouldn’t you like to at least hear the odds? Based on the weather forecast, there is a 0.01% chance of it raining today, so the odds that it will rain are currently at +1200!” Steve looked up once more at the sky and saw that the clouds were beginning to grow darker and darker. ‘Surely, it’s going to rain,’ he thought. “Alright, one bet and that’s it. I’ll bet $10 that it will rain today.” “$10 on it raining today. Received and approved!” Steve chuckled to himself at letting Cal goad him into making another bet. ‘One harmless bet,’ he thought to himself. ‘Even if it missed, it would only be a $10 loss. The wife would hardly notice it.’ Several minutes later, just as Steve turned the corner onto a cul-de-sac, he felt a drop of rain land on his shoulder. DING. “Congratulations Steve!” exclaimed Cal. “It has started raining, which means you have hit your bet! $120 has been added to your account!” Steve immediately felt a jolt of excitement rush through his entire body. It was the first time he had hit a bet with such high odds and he could now end the day having made over $100! With more pep in his step, Steve began briskly walking around the cul-de-sac until he came across a couple arguing on their driveway. It was Mr. and Mrs. Jones, who were known to get in disputes over the former’s bad drinking habits. Steve usually ignored them and was about to walk past when… DING. “Congrats again on the big win Steve! Would you like to keep things going and bet on the likelihood that Mr. Jones drives away in his car? The odds are currently at +250!” Steve looked up and saw that Mr. Jones had his car keys in his left hand as he raised his arms up at his wife. Feeling high off of his last win, Steve figured it wouldn’t hurt to place just one more bet. “Alright, I’ll place $20 on Mr. Jenkins driving away in his car.” “You got it boss,” replied Cal. “Received and approved!” Steve quickly walked behind a nearby shrub and began sneaking furtive glances at the arguing couple. Mr. Jones had now unlocked his car and was about halfway through the driver’s side door. A rush of dopamine rose within Steve’s brain in anticipation of another big win. Suddenly, a call came in from Jones’ house. It was from their teenage daughter, who was having a yelling match with her boyfriend over the phone. Slamming the car door shut, Mr. Jones ran back into the house. Before Steve could register what had happened, he heard the all familiar DING. “Oh, so close,” lamented Cal. “You almost hit it Steve. Unfortunately, as Mr. Jones has walked back into his house, this will be considered a losing bet.” Steve was about to start yelling at Cal for making him place the stupid bet in the first place when he stopped himself and began chuckling. “Oh well, I’m still at a net $100 for the day. There’s nothing to be mad about.” With a smile back on his face, Steve finished the loop around the cul-de-sac and began to walk back towards his house. Suddenly, just as he turned the corner onto his street, Steve heard what sounded like a large crash up ahead. Looking down the street, Steve saw that one of his neighbor’s 5-year-old sons had fallen off his bike in the middle of the road and was lying injured on the ground. The boy appeared to be unconscious, with no helmet on his head or nearby. “That’s some bad parenting,” murmured Steve to himself as he began to jog up to the kid to help him up. Just as he was about to reach the boy… DING. “Hi Steve!” piped up Cal. “How’s this for an incredible betting opportunity? There are currently +100,000 odds that this boy will be hit by the car currently coming around the corner.” Looking up, Steve saw a mid-sized red sedan rounding the corner up ahead. It was moving fairly slowly and surely would stop before hitting the kid. “You’re crazy Cal. Betting on a little kid’s life? That’s sick.” Steve proceeded to grab the boy's arms when Cal interjected once more. “If you bet the $100 that you made today, you could stand to win $100,000! That would pay off your college debt and buy that new flat screen TV you’ve been wanting! Think about it.” Steve hesitated for a moment and then let go of the boy’s arms. Steve looked back up the street and saw that the car had still not slowed down. Inside were two teenage girls glued to their phones. Steve watched on, completely frozen. He knew he should help the kid up or at least yell at the driver to watch out, but the enticement of the $100,000 was stopping him. “5 more seconds until the betting line closes!” yelled Cal. “It’s now or never!” Steve cursed silently to himself and then made his decision. “Fine! Put $100 dollars on the kid being hit by the incoming car.” Steve stepped away from the boy and onto the sidewalk, looking in anticipation at the incoming car. It was still about 500 yards away and moving at the same relatively slow speed. “Wow Steve,” commented Cal with a hint of surprise. “I honestly wasn’t expecting you to place that bet. Received and approved.” “Shut up Cal,” mumbled Steve as he continued staring intently down the street. ‘What was he doing, standing here feeling excited at the thought of a five-year-old being hit by a car? If only his wife could see him now.’ Several seconds later, when the car was about 200 yards away from the boy, the teenager in the passenger’s seat finally began to turn her head up. Without realizing it, Steve suddenly found himself running along the sidewalk and shouting “Look over there!”, pointing towards the other sidewalk. Both teenagers quickly looked to the side and, upon seeing nothing, turned back forward. Their look of confusion quickly turned to horror as they slammed straight into the little boy. The car immediately came to a screeching halt. The two girls came out and start shrieking. “Oh my god! Did we kill him?” Ignoring the screams, Steve walked swiftly along the sidewalk and toward his house. As he stepped onto his front lawn, a wry smile grew on his face. ‘He had done it. He had actually done it. He had just made $100,000! Sure, the kid might have been seriously injured or even killed, but it was his parents’ fault for not having him wear a helmet in the first place.’ As Steve approached the front of his house, the DING he was anticipating at last came from his smart watch. “Cal, I am one happy man! 100,000 big ones! That’s what I’m talking about! Let’s go!”. “Um, Steve,” interrupted Cal in a somber tone. “Sorry to tell you this but unfortunately, due to your interference with the betting event, the bet will be made void. As a penalty for your interference, you will lose the $100 bet that you placed.” Steve froze. “What do you mean…” “Uh hum.” Steve looked up and saw that his wife was standing at the front doorway of the house with her arms crossed. “You haven’t been playing that betting game again have you, babe? I could hear you yelling from all the way in the backyard.” Steve paused for a brief moment and then shook his head. “No, honey. I just went for a simple walk around the neighborhood. I saw that the Phillies won last night which is why I got so excited.” “Uh hum,” said Steve’s wife in a disbelieving tone. “Well when I check your balance later it better be the same as it was this morning.” Before Steve could respond, two police cars and an ambulance suddenly whizzed by down the street with sirens blaring. “What’s going on, babe? Did something happen? Did you notice anything on your walk?” “I have no idea. I didn’t see anything unusual.” With that, Steve brushed past his wife and into the house. Looking down at his smart watch, Steve saw that he was back at the same balance that he started the day with. Grabbing a beer out of the fridge, Steve chuckled to himself. “Well at least that’s one thing the wife can’t be mad about.

Red Thread Legend has it that a match making god would tie a read thread to a man's thumb and a woman's pinkie, this thread regardless of distance, of strain or attaments to brake it can never be broken. It's said there was a young boy who walked alone in his youth, he came across an old man semmi glay as old as time. The man seeing the boys sadness tells him: "You're fated to meet someone" and he lifts a vail to another time and another place. They step through to boy it feels like a dream and he sees himself happy and loved, his wife beautiful and happy. The boy asks: "How?" the man stoic tells him of fate and shows him his thumb and on it is tied a red thread, the boys eyes fallow the tread seeming able to see an infinite distance. He saw in his own time his future wife as young as he, as soown as he saw he woke. Looking at his finger he saw no thread but he knew. The next day the set of to find her, he new the direction and he made his way. As he walked mountains came into view, the boy walked and claimed one mountain after the other but there always seemd to be another peak. Years and years pass the boy now a man, still climes tired and weary he fall to his knees in anger at the old man and ask to they sky was it just a dream. He slumped at his rough hands, straning his eyes to see a read thread but theres none. In defeat he starts to build his life ontop of the mountain, everyday the image of his destend love sipps further awayin his mined. Yet destiny draws closer! Having buld himself a worthy life, all but forgot his fate, the sun rises and that night had brought a reminder of red thread as he woke, he looks at his thumb and see nothing. Ontop the mountain he finds himself a visitor, a fair beautiful woman and on seeing her he knows her and he smile. He says nothi g of the fate and listens to her as says: "For years now I have been at the bottom of your mountain, looking up at the starts and I saw and wondered who would build ontop of a mountain? who is so brave to be so alone. The man humble and thankful, accepts and invites her in and looks at her pinkie and sees a read thread ties and fallows it to his thumb. Over the next few week they fall in love, tending each other as loves do. He showes her his mouten and the things he has mad, she her his skill and strenghth and sings her his songs. Admiration and respect grow between them as dance to know each other. She shows him of things of the world and tells him of life atvthe botom of mountain, she invites hime to vistine other places and meets her old life. One day they marry, ontop of the mountain wintnessd by God's and nature and their freinds and family, years pass as they gorw together in age and life, and one day the man looks over his sholder and sees the old man and young boy in a time past and remembers.

Kids play games. Mostly out of boredom. Sometimes out of spite. Some games are out of pure curiosity. Kids are malicious. I’m surprised coal isn’t handed out more on Christmas. Parents are too soft for the holidays. Maybe, had I received coal, things would’ve been different. As a child, porno mags and cigarettes only went so far. A snake in the garden. How lovely for the developing mind of young adolescence. Games are made to push the envelope. Plus pizza is a child’s best friend. Especially when it’s free. Shops and parlors used to compete for the best reputation. That’s when the “beat the clock” came into play. “We will have your pizza on your doorstep within an hour or you eat free! GUARANTEED!” Then became fifty minutes. Then forty. Thirty. Even twenty five! My buds and I decided to take advantage of this glorious deal. A pizza party of all sorts. Pretty sure none of us ever paid for a pie. It started off with simple tricks to beat the time. Like having a friend at one house and giving the address to another. The pizza man would show up and they’d say “Order for?” “Order for what?” “I didn’t order a pizza?” That’s when this poor pizza schmuck would get confused. He would use his car phone to call back to the shop and ask for the address. The owner bitching in Italian “Mafankulo!” “I’m going to lose money you idiot!” Then we would wait for the call. “Excuse me sir? Is this the address you gave us?” That’s when we put our adult voices on and try not to snicker. “Why no it is not sir.” “My address is this!” “My family is very hungry and we would appreciate it if you could please hurry up!” By then the Italians would start to panic for they rarely were late on an order. The second address we gave was all the way across town so there was no way they would make it within the hour. Then our decoy buddy would head over. Once the schmuck arrived we would be feasting on four free pizzas. We would do this shop after shop until we eventually ran out of the delivery area radius. Two timing shops was a no go because we didn’t want other shops to talk. The last thing I needed was to end up on the news and have my dad give me a whoopin. But every week we got together, pizza was a necessity. After the delivery radius was abused it was time for the next stage. I wasn’t just going to move to a new town to scam pizza companies, so I had to get clever. It started with slashing tires. We would have someone call a pay phone down the road. “Have the pizza sent here sir!” We always used a different friend’s house. The Italians never caught on. Next the caller would run over and use his nifty switch blade to do the schmucks in. The best thing about their policy was they did not include circumstance. So if shit happened. It happened. It was on the Italians to get us our pizza no matter the case. And we didn’t care. It wasn’t our tires. Plus there was no cctv back then. It was way easier to get away with mischief. But the point of this story is not for me to tell you about our little tricks to score some free Za. No. The point of this story is to tell you about our greatest pizza score. It was January 21st, 1979. Super Bowl XIII. The biggest pizza night of the year. The boys and I had a party so we ordered a lot of pies. Twelve to be exact. The party was at a house on a steep hill. It was snowing so bad and I feared the Steelers might lose. We put a bunch of logs in the middle of the road hoping the schmuck would lose control and get stuck in a snow bank, scoring us twelve large. We placed the call. To my surprise, the Steelers were looking in tip top shape. Like they couldn’t be touched. That’s how we felt. Like we couldn’t be touched. Halftime arrived and the black and yellow were up 21-14. We took a trip outside to a little embankment to wait for the driver to arrive. We saw the lights approaching and could hear “Miss You” by the Rolling Stones blasting. As he turned the sharp corner up the hill he hit the logs. Time froze for what seemed like forever, as the schmuck spiraled out of control on the icy road. As he was heading right for the snow bank his back right tire popped, causing him to change course. He slid right into a tree head on. We slowly approached the car to find that this poor Italian’s head looked like it had been through a meat grinder. The driver side was demolished. The funny thing is, the pizza in the passenger seat was untouched. We grabbed the pies and booked it to the house after clearing the logs from the road. When cops arrived we weren’t asked not one question. The most free pies any parlor has ever dished out. Or so I’d like to believe. Plus the Steelers won. After that night we decided to give scams a break. Not because we felt bad, I think we just got sick of pizza all the time.

I'm running to her through fields of sunflowers and fields of sun. Droplets of morning dew cling to every blade of grass and everywhere the sunlight is dazzlingly reflected as if from a thousand thousand shards of glass. Three suns hang resplendent in the sky, their light brilliant but thier touch gentle as a warm caress. A soft susrrus sighs and soughs through the meadow, carrying scents I cannot quite place but which summon up long-faded memories. In the distance, I can see her standing, her back to me, her face to the suns. She is wearing a sky-blue dress which hangs gently in the air behind her as if attendant handmaidens hold her train. Her jet black curls float in the breeze like she's underwater. And then she turns and sees me, and she smiles. I break into a jog and then into a run and for a moment I fear that by some trick of dream logic. I will run and run and never get any closer. But then she pulls me into her embrace and I am enveloped in her hair and her smell, the scent of a perfume they stopped making fifteen years ago. "My daughter, my darling daughter," she says with a burst of delighted laughter, and she sweeps me around, a child in her arms again. She returns me to my feet and runs a hand through my hair. "You always had my hair, even as a little thing. You're so beautiful." I know this must be a dream. My mother is many years dead. But it's ever so sweet and I can't let it end. In all my dreams of her, she's ripped away from me as soon as I realize it's a dream. Maybe if she doesn't know that I know, I can stay. I try to keep my face stoic as she takes my hand and leads me away through the golden fields. The grass through which we tread is soft and pillowy. The landscape through which we pass is mostly flat, broken only by gleaming white windmills which creak and turn lazily in the soft breeze. I can see other figures walking together in the distance, holding hands or soaking in the sun or idling in patches of shade. My mother turns back to look at me and my carefully composed expression. I can see she is barely holding back laughter. "You were never much of an actor, sweetie. But don't worry-this is no dream. You're really here, and so am I." We push through a patch of sunflowers tall as a man and we come to a high place overlooking a valley, a valley of rivers and terraces and waterfalls, of quaint little villages and tilled earth, of fields where grow white flowers that catch in the passing breeze and dance in the air like snowflakes. "This is our favorite place," my mom says. "Our?" I ask, and when I look over, I see that she is crying. "I never wanted this for you, darling. I wanted you to grow old and fat and happy, watching your grandchildren take their first steps. But anything's better than up there. With him." She will not look me in the eye. I feel a hook catch in my soul, and begin to tug. "Mom, stop talking. We're together. It's all okay." "You never stay long. Already you are being pulled back." Now she turns and looks me in the eye and what I see there is not just sorrow but fear. "He will never let you go. Never." And she starts to move away from me. I reach for her hand and see that my own is filthy, fingernails caked with dirt, skin yellowed and rotten and peeling. As I watch, maggots and worms burst through the festering flesh of my arm, and a centipede skitters up my shoulder. When I open my mouth to scream, my jaw dangles from my face on cords of withered flesh. Then it is all gone-the fields, the flowers, my mother. In their place, nothing but dark. At once, I feel it. An enormous crushing weight like a garbage compactor on every inch of my body. I try to open my eyes and find I cannot. I try to breathe and suck in only mouthfuls of black soil. I cannot move a muscle, but I can feel things slithering and crawling along me. Inside of me. Through the earth, the distant rumblings of worms burrowing through soil, and the pounding patter of insects eating their way through my ear canal. And another sound, more distant, but growing louder. A rhythmic chiseling, cutting noise. Not cutting. Digging. A terror fills me then and I want nothing more than to sink further and further into the suffocating grip of the dirt. I do not know what is coming but I know that it is worse than the worms and the maggots and the asphyxiating silence. The digging noise fills the world now, and patches of blinding light appear in my eyes. I hear one voice curse, and another whoop. The crash of dessicated wood being smashed in, and then an atomic blast of sunlight fills my eyes and I can see nothing. As my eyes adjust to the light, I become aware that a figure has eclipsed the sun. Two figures. Two rotting, skinless faces with graveyard grins peer down at me. "It's her alright." One of the figures says in a tortured rasp like a man fresh from the gallows. "Bring her up then." A voice from above, a smooth and rich baritone. I *know* that voice. I wish I didn't. I want to plead with them, have mercy, leave me in the dirt, return me to the place of flowers and windmills and rolling fields. But I have no jaw and no tongue and voice. I feel what little remains of my body being dragged and manhandled out of my deep grave and tossed onto the ground. "Careful now," the deep and resonate voice says. "That's my wife you're holding, though I'll grant that she's seen better days." He laughs, a hearty and infectious laugh. Another figure steps between me and the sun. A handsome face-close cropped black hair, square jaw, aquiline nose, blue-green eyes dancing with light. I see pity in those eyes, and resignation. And I see triumph. "Oh, my darling one," he says with a sigh. "The things you put me through." He squats down on his haunches and begins to caress my dirt-smeared, bone-white hair. "This last little tantrum of yours just about did me in. You can't imagine the sleepless nights, the anxious days. I'm almost proud. You covered your tracks so well. It took me years to find you." A little black-jeweled pendant depicting a three-eyed goat hangs at his throat. He takes a few ragged remnants of my hair and roughly yanks my head up. I hear an old bone snap. Gripping my face between his hands, he turns my head to the side. "You see that man there?" A fourth figure stands at the edge of the clearing. A stocky, bearded young man with blue eyes fixed on his feet. "Do you recognize him? No? A strange thing, to not recognize your murderer." He drags my rotting corpse by the hair and throws me down before the stranger. "This is your handiwork, young man. Look at it. Are you proud?" The stranger can't even look at me. "I did my-my part," he stammers. "I brought you here. Now please, please just let me go." "Only after you look at her." The Necromancer says pleasantly. "Wha-what? I did everything you asked. Please. Please." "Look at her." The Necromancer closes the distance between himself and the stranger in a rapid stride, and he seizes the other man by the jaw. "*Look* at her." The mockery has left his voice, which is now nothing but a guttural snarl. With an effort, the stranger turns his soft blue eyes on the decayed horror of my face. Beneath the disgust, I see guilt. *I'm sorry, I had no choice,* those blue eyes say. "Very good." The humor has returned to the Necromancer's voice. "This, darling one, is the man who killed you and buried you in that deep grave there. At your instruction and behest, he claims. An act of love, he says. Only way you can be free, he says you told him. Somehow I doubt that would hold up in a court of law. Still, I'm inclined to believe him, given how many times you've attempted this before. Frankly, I feel sorry for the boy. Not the first one you've roped into your little games, is he? Fuck the collateral damage, so long as it hurts me, right?" "Please. Please. Let me go." The boy begs one last time. "And let a woman killer go free? I don't think so." The Necromancer makes a lazy gesture to his ghouls, who spring in a flash at the stranger. The boy turns and makes to run into the wood, but they have him on the ground before he's even left the clearing. The Necromancer fixes me with his gaze. "Bury him where he buried her." Screaming like an animal in a trap, the man is dragged and thrown into the grave I occupied only moments before. "PLEASE I DID EVERYTHING YOU SAID PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!" I want to plug my ears but I cannot move a muscle. The ghouls take up their shovels and begin to pile dirt back into the grave. When the boy tries to claw his way out, one of the ghouls smashes him in the face. The pleading ceases but the steady, rhytmic shoveling continues. The Necromancer has lost interest. All his focus is on me. He is kneeling by me again, rubbing my shoulder, as if in comfort. "You should know by now, little one, not even death can separate us. Forever, I said, and meant it. Did you? It pains me to see you hurt yourself this way. You need help, serious help. I know you miss your mother. I'll bring her back too, just like I promised." He leans down and kisses me on what remains of my mouth, runs his tongue along my maggot-infested gums. Then he closes his eyes and leans back, as if savoring me. "From your lips, my love, I could learn to love even the taste of rot. But I'll make you a new body, one befitting my lovely wife. Yes, that's just what I'll do." Then he lies down beside my corpse and holds me tight. I know he will never let go. I think a tear runs down my cheek then, but it is only a maggot squirming down my face from the socket where my eye should be.

An unsettling boom pierced through the night sky, leaving silence in its wake. *Hey? Daisy? Was that supposed to happen?* I messaged. She didn’t reply. *Daisy? Hey you know I’ve never seen your powers before. Is this what you were warning me about? You could’ve been more specific*. She still wasn’t responding. Maybe the system overloaded. I would just have to make my way over to her, then. Daisy was in position on the ceiling of one of the science buildings on campus. It wasn’t overly tall, but I was on the other side of campus waiting for her, so I’d have to walk my way over. I skipped for speed. I didn’t like walking or jogging much. I either skipped or crouched down and took long steps. And when I turned I threw my arms out and tilted them like a plane, like when I used to fly planes. I enjoyed the flying more than the job. I suppose that’s why I didn’t last so long as a pilot. Daisy was meant to be up there to test out using her powers for a light show, since the GSA was doing a parade around campus in a couple weeks. I did see a flash of purple and pink, so that was a start. It was louder than I thought, though. The building was in view, finally. I couldn’t see Daisy on top of it though. The angle wasn’t right. I skipped higher as I approached. The streetlights lit my way, though I suspected it’d be darker on top of the building. I hoped so. I liked the dim of night. All these bright lights stretched out in my vision, even moreso when I squinted. It made it harder to get around. As I got to the building, I veered off the path and over to the side, climbing a nearby tree. I didn’t know if you could get to the roof from inside the building, but I didn’t need to find out. This would work just fine. I climbed up and hauled myself over onto the roof, lying there for a moment looking at the empty sky. Too much light pollution around here to ever see stars. “Alright, Daisy,” I said, “I’m here now. What was with that boom?” I sat up and turned around, but I didn’t see her. I looked left. I looked right. I looked over the whole roof. She wasn’t there. What? *Hey Daisy, where are you? I got to the roof but I don’t see you here*, I messaged. Predictably nothing. She didn’t respond before, either, she surely wouldn’t now. Was she looking for me? Maybe I should head back. I groaned and leaned over the edge of the roof, looking at the tree to climb back down. I could do that in a moment. I’d rest a bit here first. It was kind of exhilarating going around campus at night like this. Daisy and I always got up into trouble. We’d been friends since grade school and never separated. I’m sure our parents were sick of us. But our moms were friends now, too, and they called each other every week. They talked to each other more than they talked to us at this point. Though that was probably our fault for not calling. I wanted to spend my life with her. Whenever I said that, people either didn’t take me seriously, or they thought I was a lesbian hopelessly and tragically in love with my best friend. I wasn’t. I didn’t want to date anyone. Why couldn’t my best friend be my whole world? I knew Daisy felt the same about me. Shouldn’t it be that simple? When we first showed up at GSA events with our ace and aro rings, hand-in-hand, they definitely all assumed we were lesbians. One of them was so shocked when he found out we were dating. I remembered it with a grin. “So you’re just friends?” he had said. And Daisy replied, “we’re not *just* anything.” It was perfect. *She* was perfect. I groaned and sat up. I had to find her. I went to climb down from the tree and walk back to where I’d been waiting for Daisy before the boom disrupted our communication. Just as I started climbing down, though, I heard Daisy’s voice. “Wait. Annie.” I poked my head back up to the roof and saw her, her image flickering. I climbed back up and sat on the roof, watching her fade in and out like a ghost. “You good, Daisy?” “Yeah. Just a moment.” Her image solidified, and I touched her arm to make sure she was here. She was. “What was that? The boom was so loud, too.” “Yeah, I kinda messed it up.” She pulled her hair over one shoulder. She was always doing that. I kept telling her she should just get a side shave. “I could probably get it now, though.” “You gonna flicker out of existence again? Do I need to do anything to keep you here?” “No, I’ve figured it out. Watch.” She lifted her arms and a burst of pink and purple light shot into the air, then exploded like fireworks, but without the boom this time. “Hey, you made it silent!” “Yeah!” She grinned. She looked so pretty when she smiled. “Can you make it rainbow, though?” “No, I haven’t figured that part out yet. I’m kinda tired to be honest.” “Well we can come back up and practice another night.” “Yeah.” I reached for the device we used for messaging and turned it back on—it looked like it had turned off when she got all flickery. Then we climbed back down the tree together and walked off toward the edge of campus where my car was parked. We stayed out for a while more, heading to Huddle House and feeding each other bites of our waffles. There wasn’t anywhere I’d rather be but with her.

Ah, look at that. It’s a cardboard box, sitting on a hill. A lonely hill, at first glance. The cardboard box was a cardboard color, that off-brown. It was a common color, more common than bark here. But there was only one for a good distance around, so I guess we’ll have to settle with this one. Come on. Let’s get a closer look! This box was upside down, so when the smarter critters of this world looked down from their cardboard planes they’d see a cross in its little flaps. Not that the box couldn’t be opened on both ends, it’s just that the skywards side was taped up and impenetrable. The box was meant to be carried this direction, though. Whoever had opened it had opened it up from the wrong side. You could tell because this box had two little oval-shaped dotted lines, which could be popped on out to lift the thing. One was still in. The other had disappeared, having turned into the only part of the box for folk like us. Observers, who couldn’t do much with cardboard but peak in. The inside of the box was mostly hidden in shadow, like a nest of black fur. Maybe this box was empty! But it most likely wasn’t, the box-critter is probably sleeping. Here, let’s try to wake it up. A bit of wind would probably do the trick. wooooooooooo\*\*shhhhhhhhhhh\*\*… Good job, good job, that’s— that’s a good wind. A constant breeze, which causes the grass about the hill to flow up and down in hollow V-shapes alongside those who traverse in boats on the opposite side of the dirt. The grass was once again alive, and trading gossip as much as grass ever does. Petty little plants. Our box was not ready for the wind. It was pushed up into the air just a few inches, before eight-odd triangles covered in static-filled hairs erupted out of the box and clicked into place about the dirt and stone. That little handle-hole, the one which had been popped out by someone some time back, gained two round golden eyes, like lost fireflies who’d soared a bit too high in that night sky. The box-critter spun in a circle, looking about for whoever had spawned this wind. But after not seeing much of anything, it settled on making an annoyed \*Tik tik!\* sound, and started off on its way down the hill. Come on, let’s follow it. Maybe it’ll lead us to something interesting. You know, I’m surprised this one is alone. They normally travel in groups! Hm? Oh, yeah, I’m sure the groups have an actual name, I just don’t know what it is. The box-critter doesn’t seem to know quite where it is going. It makes its way down one hill just to go up another. It seems to have a solid goal though, spinning about at the top of every hill before choosing which one it’ll go to next. It always seems to choose the tallest one, maybe searching for a good view, or something more useful. Do you think it’s lost? Is that why it isn’t with a group? How sad. A sound was added to the music of the landscape. Up until now, the noise was basically just background, not really making for an important Observation. It was just acting out its part in the world because it had to, because it was always there, and because it was nice. The breeze made for a good chorus and the grass added some interesting verses. But it was all disrupted by the sad growling of the box-critters hidden stomach. \*\*Tik\*\* \*tik.\* The box-critter kept wandering. It kept looking for food. The firefly lights in its box’s handle-peephole grew dim. I… don’t like Observing this. But we’ve already chosen it as our Narrated, and I don’t see any other cardboard critters around to switch it with… Here’s the thing about grass. As I’ve mentioned, they’re petty creatures, but they’re also important ones. Grass divides one place from another. Crossing grass has to happen no matter who you are or where you’re going. And grass can be very helpful, when they’re kind enough to use their role as Bridge to Everywhere to accomplish great things… And, well, I’d really like to think grass is forgiving, whether or not that’s the case is up to you. The grass didn’t react. Then one, tiny strand, one that had just sprouted and couldn’t even be really seen by anyone but ants and the smallest of Observers, decided it wanted to be what I’d just Narrated. It decided it wanted to try, even if it didn’t really like Observers as a concept. After all, what was the point of being an Observer? Wasn’t the world built to be interacted with? Wasn’t it a blade of grass so that it could talk with and traverse the dirt? The child blade sunk into the dirt, inverting its small piece of the hill quilt. And the rest of the grass decided to join it, in a rare domino effect. The box-critter fell into a sinkhole, and popped up on the other side of the grass, where a muddy-green sea expanded in all directions. The box-critter was sitting in its cardboard shell as though it were a boat, which meant it was very much exposed for the time being. Box-critters are simple beings. Just black fur, legs, and eyes. It clutched the frontmost wall of its boat-box and watched the waves pass by. It was either confused by how it had gotten here or happy with the view, it’s up to you. Here, let’s blow the water, we can push the box-critter along. Create a V-shape in the water. Maybe someone traversing the hills will see it in the grass, and imagine up a story for the specific adventure that we’re causing. Who knows! The water passes by. The colors change, from green-brown to a perfect clear, with the roots of the grass rise upwards like seaweed in the water. Actually, some of the grass looks sick. Mushrooms, some fungus or another, was growing along their roots, trying to kill them off where they can’t defend themselves. The fungus is of an edible breed, let’s help out our box-critter while also aiding the grass that got us here. We blew the fungus off the grass, so it floated atop the water, off-white islands just within reach of the box-critters’ pyramidal legs. It made for a solid meal, though the consistency of soggy mushrooms got dull after a bit I’m sure. The box-critter was creative though, bending the mushrooms in different shapes over the side of its cardboard boat and leaving them out to dry for a bit. \*Tik tik,\* it said. \*Thanks for watching.

Where am I? I open my eyes and see a clear blue sky above me. Around me there is some sort of circular cliff, an open stone cave with sun shining in. Looking down at my body, my hands and legs I begin to think of the most obvious question, who am I and why don't I remember anything? Taking a deep breath of air as I try to calm myself down to think. Perhaps falling into this massive hole in the ground made me forget everything after a hard hit on the ground with my head. But I don’t feel any pain or swelling anywhere on my head. When I sit up and take a closer look I see a circle made of some unreadable text around me, perhaps this has something to do with my memory loss? Well first and foremost I should find others that might know more about this place and my state, but it might be wise to try and cover up my bare gray body. Wait, gray body? Isn't it supposed to be ivory-looking or dark? That’s when I noticed it and panic instantly made my heart rate increase massively. Well at least that's what would have happened if I didn’t have a massive hole where my heart should have been. Of course, that's' when your head begins to wonder, ask questions like how i'm still alive, or if i'm actually alive and if I could stick my hand through my body. I also begin to notice nice details like the circle of text around is actually made of blood. Well I could probably sit here and think of a thousand questions that need answers, but that won’t help me get out of this damn cave. I stand up and slowly begin walking, not feeling anything with my feet whatsoever, towards one of the stone walls. Luckily the wall is only about ten meters tall so climbing it wouldn't take all that long. Carefully making my way to the top even though I'm curious to see what would happen if I'd fall knowing I'm technically already dead. Finally after what felt like an hour I successfully got to the surface. Fields of grass stretch out around me for miles but to the east I notice something else that looks like a small village or at least a couple of houses. Thoughts as to how long it would take to get there and more importantly, how people would react to a naked gray-skinned man with a hole instead of heart knocking on their door. But what other option do I have? Stay here with an empty feeling that something is missing (joke intended)? Go somewhere else and maybe find others like me? No!! What I need is more information from other people, their thoughts on the subject, staying here or finding others heartless who are probably just as clueless as me won’t help. Behind me I hear something water and something else getting dropped on the ground. I turn around and see a young woman, most likely in her early twenties, next to a bucket on the ground staring at my chest with a pale face full of fear and doubt. I mean sure there isn’t a whole lot to look at (pun intended) but I'm still most likely human. Quickly releasing that I need to explain my situation I start with ’Hello I know this looks bad’ motioning with my hands toward my body ‘But im just as scared as you are, so why don’t we work this out together?’ Now with mouth wide open and face looking as white as the moon she answers in the most natural way. By quickly fainting.

(This is a story based on the 1982 horror sci-fi classic, The Thing, This story is asks the question of what exactly occurred on the spaceship we see in the film's opening. This takes 0 inspiration from the 2011 movie as i have not seen it) Part I: The Spore It is a dark time for the universe. A mysterious infection that imitates normal life has swept most systems in the CIC (Confederation of Intelligent Civilisations). The infection spreads so quietly that it only becomes apparent that a planet was infected once most of the population was infected. At that point all the infected would transform in horrific amalgamations of the planets wildlife and ‘assimilate’ all who remain untouched. The government of The CIC quickly collapsed as the infection ravaged most of its population. Even those that remained heavily mistrusted each other and all the infection’s survivors died in a resulting civil war… All except those on Planet Proxima. Thanks to quick and decisive action by the rulers of the planet, the planet remained isolated and uninfected. That was until rumours of an outbreak in the planet’s capitol caused a planet-wide frenzy. In fear of their planet being overrun by ‘things’ the leaders of the planet launched several ‘Spore’ Spaceships with the goal of landing on a habitable uninhabited planet and restarting civilisation… Panel stared out of the window of the ship, even though he saw stars slowly drift across the window he still knew they were traveling at incredible speeds, one of the few advantages of this old thing, he thought, he always compared the ship to the ones he had been on during his service to the CIC military, It was a shame planet Centurnes was overrun by those ‘Things’, they made the fastest ships in the Galaxy, it’s a shame all those planets were overrun… Panel would focus his gaze on a specific star and watch it drift through the darkness until it reached his reflection in the window at which point his 3 eyes would focus on himself for a second, until he saw another star to focus on. He thought about how most of those planets were once teaming with life but now were in ruins and covered in the corpses of starving monsters who were responsible for the planet’s destruction. His thoughts went back to Proxima, it had been 42 PRs (Proxima Rotations, which are around 3 hours each) since he had told his crew that they had lost communications with Proxima and the other Spore ships, the announcement significantly worsened the already dire mood on board, since most of the crew had family back on Proxima, though it seems like all of them silently excepted the truth that they would never see them again, and they soon returned to their duties on board. Being commander of the Spore-2891 Panel was the only one allowed to communicate with Proxima, over the last communications the ones he spoke became more and more paranoid, and they transmitted harrowing news articles about their fight against the infection, entire cities were reduced to atoms by anti-matter weapons once even just a couple infections were confirmed there. The cities Panel grew up in, worked in, went on holidays in were all now gone, he knew that if he gave speeches to his crew to keep it together in these dire times he had to as well, yet his mind always seemed to wonder back to the beautiful mountains of his home city which now no longer exist… The final communication he received from Proxima was (unlike the hopeless ones that preceded it) one of celebration, according to the voice on the other end the last couple infected cities were destroyed, and the Planet was safe to return to. Panel received explicit instructions before Spore-2891’s launch that he would never receive instructions to return and that if he did, he had to destroy/disable the communicator, and so once receiving the last transmission he cut the communicator’s wire and told the crew that their ship was now out of range of Proxima to send and receive signals. Panel knew that lying to his crew was against his personal morals, but he also knew now was not the time for morals, it wasn’t the time for morals for a long while. His only comfort was that everyone seemed to not believe him, yet soon realised why he must be lying. By the time he had cut the wires they had already lost communication with every other Spore ship, they were all truly out of range or their crew were decimated by Things that snuck onboard. Panel couldn’t help but dread what had happened to the ones out of range… Their ship was incredibly lucky… Panel reached for his gadget, a small circular information device which was magnetically attached to his belt, with his gloved 6 fingered hand. He checked the time, his gadget among other things, counted the number of PRs since launch, since he saw they were at 122 PR since launch he decided to go. He turned from the window and looked around the Control Room, the room had 4 walls, one was the massive, curved window behind Panel, the two adjacent to the window were flat and metallic each with a door leading to the Kitchen and the Observatory respectively, the wall opposite to the window was also metallic but was curved inwards and had no door. All 10 rooms on the ship had this strange (yet standard to Proxima) design since the whole ship was circular and the centre contained the also circular engine room inaccessible to all except the engineer. In the centre of the room stood a chair with a circular screen in front of it, the screen had access to all the ships controls, but was currently turned off, the screen could only turn on once it read the ship’s commander (Panel)’s forehead print. In the corner of the room Panel saw Maps, the ships navigator, using a larger gadget. It was standard practice in Proxima culture to address everyone by nicknames their peers had given them, Maps was nicknamed Maps because it was all he seemed interested in. “How long have you been here?” Panel asked, annoyed that he thought he was alone. “I’ve been here since before you came.” Maps said in a disinterested tone, not even bothering to look up from his gadget. Panel was so nicknamed because he had the habit of always staring out of windows/glass panels into space, yet he always preferred to do it alone and in quiet. He went over to see the screen of Map’s gadget, which was filled diagrams, readings and observations from the local star systems, all to improve the ship’s route, all useful to the mission, so he couldn’t get angry. Panel set off to the opposite side of the ship, what he wanted to do could be down remotely via gadget but with mistrust for nearly everything growing in these strange and horrific times, so too did his mistrust for remote communication grow. He decided arbitrarily to take the anti-clockwise route to the opposite of the ship, he opened the door to the Kitchen and walked through to see 4 of his crew waiting for him. Gadget was near the cupboards but instead of making food like he had too he was, as always Panel grumpily thought, fiddling on his gadget. Panel had his objections to giving Gadget his nickname, he said it would cause confusion, but he could not deny that it was accurate to what Gadget was always occupied with. At least Maps drew physical diagrams every now and then and was doing something productive for the mission. “Prepare our food Gadget.” Panel ordered, Gadget immediately complied and started taking food out of the cupboards to make the crew their meal. In the centre of the room sat Lights and Ice with a table between them, they were playing a board game. Lights was the computer engineer, so nicknamed because of the strange, yet admittedly beautiful light display he rigged up back on Proxima, best not to think about some of the nickname’s origins, Panel thought. Lights was intelligent, no denying that, if your gadget or computer weren’t working, he could fix them in a couple presses of the touch screen or a couple wires fixed on the inside. Lights was also very… Panel liked to use the word arrogant but most of the crew would describe him as funny, most of the crew liked him, so Panel tries to ignore his apparent arrogance. Ice was the historian, “preserver of the continuum of the knowledge, culture and history of Proxima” is how he would put it, what he actually did was a mystery. Everything about him had an air of mystery, the clothes he wore, why his hands were always cold to touch (which was why he was nicknamed Ice) and why Panel was continually reassured of Ice’s intelligence before the launch. Ice and Lights were playing a classic board game which simulated a space battle, which would seem inappropriate in these times but (as Panel was always quick to mention) the game was far from reality and well, they needed a fun distraction in these very times. Panel could see they were reaching the endgame of their game, both sat in silence, focusing completely on the game, both trying to outwit the other. Lights finally made his move while Panel walked past, he moved his Gunner halfway across the hexagonal board, trapping Ice’s Flagship in an unwinnable position, he had won. Panel stopped for a moment to see what Ice’s reaction would be to defeat, would he be angry, sad, in denial or something else? While Lights was clearly very happy saying something, to the effect of “Focus on the details, not just the main prize” with that arrogant look on his face, Ice was quiet for a moment until Ice finally said “You got me good. Good game.” As he himself walked off, leaving Lights more confused than happy from his victory. As Panel walked out of the kitchen he saw Scorch, the ships security guard, sitting in the corner. Scorch probably opened his mouth about 12 times throughout their trip so far, Scorch spent most of his time in the corner listening to the crew talk, Scorch probably always knew the locations of most of the crew members. Magnetically attached to Scorch’s belt was the two parts of his burner, after which he was nicknamed. A burner is the standard weapon used on Proxima, it has two parts, a cartridge and ‘cannon’. The cartridge contains flammable liquid and once it’s combined with the cannon the cannon can shoot small hot droplets of the flammable liquid which sets the target on fire. Panel entered the tool room, it was filled with tools and machines that this Stone, the engineer, would fix things with. And now he was supposed to be working but he was nowhere to be seen, the ship was so cobbled together that it seemed like he always had something to fix, had Panel missed something? He took out his gadget again to see if he had any messages, while lamenting the fact that his gadget always turned off after a while, he made a mental note to ask Lights about it. No messages from Stone. He almost tripped on one of the tools Stone had dropped on the floor, he also thought he should ask Stone to clean the area up a bit later and continued to the medical room. Inside was Sneaks who sitting on one of the beds talking to Claw. Sneaks was the astronomer and geologist of the ship; he studied local stars and especially planets to look for signs of habitability. He was smaller than average, and Panel assumed he could, because of that fact, more easily ‘sneak around’, which is why he got his nickname. Panel could see that his skin was a darker shade of blue than normal, which is probably why he was at the medical room at the time. “Nothing to worry about.” Claw said in a reassuring tone, Claw was the doctor of their ship, and his nickname’s intimidating tone couldn’t be further from the truth, Claw was named after the medical tools and instruments he used to treat the crew of the ship, he was always friendly but still understood the importance of the mission he was on. Panel walked past them and continued to the greenhouse. The greenhouse was filled with many spherical transparent pods containing many samples of Proxima’s flora, each pod was adjusted to simulate the environments of the various plants, for example the pod containing the Blue Root was kept at low pressure since Blue Root grew on the mountains, while the pod containing the Landweeds were moisturised as they grew on the beaches. Breeze was walking between the rows of pods checking their vitals to make sure everything was alright with them. Breeze was the Botanist of the ship; he was either nicknamed Breeze because of his over positive attitude or his love of plants. Breeze greeted Panel friendly as Panel walked to his destination, the Animal Habitat. The room was filled with transparent pods containing individual animals, lining the walls were large empty boxes, inside their bottoms were coated with soil to simulate the ground of Proxima. There were also large fridges containing the animal’s foods. At a small chair and table sat Holes, the zoologist of the ship. Holes was often bit by the animals he worked with, so he always had a couple scars or ‘holes’ on his skin. Holes was watching Stone, the engineer, work on some wires in an open panel on the engine side of the room. “It’s been a little over 120 PR since launch, you can put the animals in their boxes.” Panel said to Holes. They were instructed to keep all the animals quarantined in their own pods for 120 PR after launch in case one of them were infected. Holes initially protested the instruction calling it cruel and he even rightly pointed out that they had a fully functioning thing testing device that came back negative for all the animals. Panel simply reminded him that orders are orders. Testing devices looked like gadgets but had a hole on top of them you would stick your finger into, the device would take an insignificant sample of your skin tissue and expose it to extreme heat, if it detected no resistance, it would shine a red light, else a blue one. Panel looked at the tester that lay inside the open cupboard in the table Holes was now standing up from, he thought that the quarantine really was unnecessary, but orders are still orders. Holes walked to the pods containing the animals and placed them in their respective boxes where they could finally interact with members of their own species. There were 7 animal species on board, there were the aquatic Villows, small round creatures who are completely covered in massive red tentacles, which moved around on the ocean floor by pulling themselves via said tentacles. Then there were the Cozills, creatures about the size of the Proximian’s hands, they had a hexagonal body with a leg protruding from each side, they also had 2 long eyes on the top of their body. Then there were the Monkruts, who almost looked like the Intelligent Proximians but were shorter, less intelligent, had large front teeth and had hands with only 3 massive fingers. Breeze and Holes debated whether or not to keep the Sticals in the Greenhouse or Animal habitat, Holes won when he pointed out that while the Sticals couldn’t move and had a resemblance to a large flower, it was still carnivorous and had teeth lining the inside of their ‘mouths’ on top of their body. The Afrils were also debated but not for as long, they were medium sized animals who borrowed into the ground and would bite unsuspecting victims who stepped on them with their disproportionatly large mouths. Once Holes had transferred those 5 groups of animals into their boxes he sighed and moved to transfer the animals inhabiting the dirtiest pods of them all, the Voltives. Voltives were long and thin animals with many tiny legs they would move around with, though they were long and thin they moved around upright and in the wild when they saw a dead carcass or plant they wanted to eat they would vomit acid on it to dissolve and then eat it. Once he was done transferring the Voltives (and cleaning himself off) he moved on to the last group of animals, the Gospons, aquatic creatures who looked like two attached circles who would wait on the seafloor then catch small fish swimming above with their long tongs and pull them towards themselves to wrap themselves around them and digest them. Holes completed transferring the Gospons into their box he sat on his chair exhausted. “I won’t be done for a while.” sighed Stone, who was still working on the wires all the while. Stone was the tallest and (presumably) physically strongest of the crew, which is why he got his nickname, he was ‘built like a Stone’. He was more than fit for the physically demanding job which was engineer. “Oh, I should feed them.” Holes said, suddenly getting up. He walked over to the fridge and took out a bag of frozen pieces Kinnil meat. Kinnils were fish which lived in the caves of Proxima, unfortunately since the Spore-2891 had such a rushed launch (in order to minimise risk of crew infection), that they couldn’t get live Kinnils in time. Panel wondered how many more species would go extinct just because they couldn’t make it onto the ship. All the animals were either omnivores or carnivores so Holes could feed the Kinnil to them all. “I’m going back to the control room, see you both at lunch.” Panel said, they both greeted him as he exited. Panel decided to walk back to the control room via the other side of the ship, in order to check on the rest of the crew, he walked from the Animal Habitat to the Incubator, what was perhaps the most important room of them all. The room containing many eggs of the crew’s species that they would hatch once they reached their destination, a habitable planet which was the 3^(rd) closest to its star. As Panel entered Twitch (proving why he was nicknamed as such) jumped with fright, Twitch managed the eggs which were lined up in rows inside massive climate-controlled pods. Despite Twitch’s timidness he was very good at his essential job, he oversaw managing the yet to be hatched eggs. The eggs had to be kept at relatively high temperatures, so they were heated via the same liquid in Panel and Scorch’s burners in pipes under the pods, so there would always be a risk of fire or overheating but thanks to Twitch that risk was near zero. Panel simply greeted Twitch and continued back to the Control Room. Panel walked through the computer room, the Airlock room and finally the Observatory to get back to the Control room. All three of those rooms were empty, which was to be expected, Lights, who was supposed to work in the computer room was taking a break in the kitchen and Sneaks, who had to work in the observatory, may still be in the medical room, plus nobody was assigned to the Airlock room for obvious reasons. Panel spent much of the following time staring out of the window, after 122 PRs boredom was starting to set in, Panel thought. His gadget suddenly buzzed; it was Gadget saying that it was lunch time. Panel walked in to see the whole crew, except Holes and Stone, starting to put food in their bowls, he figured they were still on their way. No matter the quality of the meal, lunch time was always a bit tense, a moment when they were all without the distractions from the horror which permeated the whole universe at this time. They still talked, still occasionally laughed, but they avoided any mention of Proxima or ‘Things’ or the infection which created them or the purpose of the mission they were on or anything like that. Despite some of the crew knowing each other for years their conversations were surface level and shallow, to hide the darkest beneath. Right now, most were talking about how they just had a couple PRs before reaching their destination. After a while of eating Panel realised that Stone and Holes still weren’t back so he walked to the animal habitat to check on them. When he entered, the room was dark, which was to be expected, the room darkened every 0.5 PRs to simulate the Proxima day/night cycle and to not distress the animals. The only light was that of Stone’s gadget who was still at work on the panel of wires is the wall. “Hey, it’s been lunch time for a while, you can finish that later, unless that’s urgent Stone.” Panel said to them, “No not urgent, not yet, I’m almost done, I’ll finish after lunch. I do really need the food to concentrate, one misplaced wire here and the whole ships power could be cut.” Stone said while exiting the room. “Hey Holes, are you coming?” Panel asked Holes, who was still in the room staring at one of the boxes, “Yeah.” he replied while following the other two. When they returned to the kitchen Stone was speaking to Lights about the issue with the wires, some extremely technical problem Panel had no hope of comprehending. Panel saw Holes in the corner alone, barely touching his food, something was bothering him, once Panel finished his food, he went over to Holes to ask what was wrong, leaving his gadget on the table. “One of the Cozills, those little creatures with the 6 legs, was still walking after the lights went out.” Holes said wearily, “Why?” Panel asked, “Was it perhaps the light from Stone’s gadget?”, “Couldn’t’ve been” Holes replied, “None of the others were walking around, strangest of all it was almost like it was only walking when… I guess when I wasn’t really looking”. Panel thought for a moment, anxiety slowly rising in him “Could it possibly be-” Panel was cut off “No! All the animals were tested!” Holes shouted. Panel thought for another moment, “Kinnils are fish that live in caves, so they have night vision, right? Was the Kinnil meat tested?” he asked. Holes was silent. Panel, unsure if he had properly heard him, repeated “Was the Kinnil meat tested?” His anxiety was reaching levels so high he couldn’t hide it properly anymore, “Was it!?” he blurted out, yet Holes’ terrified expression was answer enough. Panel jumped up out of his seat and, as if in response, the pained roars of a Monkrut echoed throughout the ship before transforming mid roar into a more painful distorted version of itself. Their ship had a Thing on board. All the other crew jumped out of their seats, some confused, most scarred. “I have just found out that one of the Cozills on board have been infected and is assimilating the other animals,” Panel said, “We have a clear protocol encase something like this happened. We are always to all stay in a group unless that poses some sort of risk, we are also to try and eliminate the Thing threat as fast as possible. We are all going to go to the Animal Habitat now, me and Scorch are going to try to neutralise those Things-” he was cut off by Sneaks “There’s no way we’re going, we’re unarmed!” Lights then said “I’m not staying alone with those two Sneaks, Didn’t Stone and Holes just come from the habitat, how do we know they weren’t-” “Are you accusing us!?” Stone said both in a shocked and angry tone. Lights opened his mouth to speak but Panel shouted “ALRIGHT!” and everyone went silent, the only sound now that remained was the quiet rumbling coming from the opposite of the ship. “We are in extreme danger at this point, and we CANNOT devolve into arguments now. Holes is the reason I know there is a Thing so he is clear, Stone was with him so him too, and as for you Sneaks, we have strength in numbers must and always keep track of all the crew so that none of us can be isolated and assimilated, you all will stand behind me and Scorch for safety. You are all to follow my every command no matter what! Now let’s kill this thing before it tears the ship apart!” Sneaks and Lights looked like they wanted to interrupt at several points, but Panel talked so authoritatively that at the end they simply nodded their heads and started following him and Scorch along with the rest of the crew. The crew walked counter-clockwise towards the Habitat in complete silence, the only sound they heard was the rumbling and distorted roaring emanating from the Habitat growing ever louder and louder with every step they took. When they finally reached the Habitat the door was closed, Panel stepped forward and opened the door, a putrid smell hit their senses, it smelled like a cross between rotting carcass and what smelled like oil, inside they could see the boxes and pods smashed, liquid with the familiar colour of their animal’s bodily fluid covered nearly every surface and the roaring which they were listening to the whole time grew louder and was now so distorted it could not be mistaken for the cry of a pure, uncorrupted, natural creature. “Scorch you walk behind me, everyone else behind Scorch.” Ordered Panel while arming his burner, nobody dared to disobey him, everyone followed him inside the room. The rest of the room looked the same as the glimpse they saw earlier, but the table Holes was sitting at earlier was intact, up against the wall where it had been when they left. But none of the crew were focusing on any aspect of the room other than what sat in its centre, for what sat in the centre was beyond description, beyond comparison to anything the 12 crew had ever seen in their entire lives. In the centre of the room there was a fleshy orange and red blob about their size with a large appendage sticking out on top of its body, in front of it was a Monkrut on the floor completely covered and encased in the red tentacles of a Villow, the Monkrut was silently yet desperately trying to break free from the restrictive tentacles, suddenly it started getting dragged back to the blob behind it from which the tentacles grew, the Monkrut started thrashing around trying one last time to break free, but it couldn’t even manage to open its mouth to make a final pained cry. The Monkrut was dragged back into the blob behind it, the blob then started absorbing the it. The Monkrut’s thrashing grew weaker and weaker the more of it was consumed by the blob, until all that remained of it was it’s two hands sticking out of the blob at uneven angles. The blob seemly realised that it was no longer alone as it gave a deafening intimidating roar from the appendage on top of its body (which looked like a cross between a Stical and a Voltive body), six oversized Conzill legs suddenly grew from its body allowing it to stand, many Villow tentacles sprung from the Monkrut hand and the blob’s body, it was a nightmarish amalgamation of all the ship’s animal life, ready to attack. Panel decided that he had waited too long now, he pushed the button on his burner, the drop of hot liquid flew through air at the speed of a falling object ready to ignite its target, but before it could arrive the Thing (by some force Proxima’s scientists were innocent enough not to understand) propelled itself off the ground dodging the projectile and sticking to the roof. Panel shot at the Thing a couple times more but it dodged the shots while crawling across the roof to the back of the room. Panel started thinking quickly, he didn’t want to get near it (in fear of his own and his crews safety), he might have to in order to get the perfect shot, maybe he could… The thunderous ear-splitting sound of electricity suddenly filled the room along with blinding white flashing light, the smell of carcass and oil reached its most unbearable, the Thing had stuck one of it’s legs into the open panel of wires Stone had left open. It squirmed, clearly not expecting the results of sticking its leg in there, it quickly detached the leg but the onslaught of lights and sounds coming from the panel didn’t stop. After a couple seconds the noise stopped, along with the ship’s lights. The power was off. Panel took a deep breath and tried to ignore the gasps of his crew so that he could think. He felt his belt, it was empty, he had left his gadget in the kitchen, the only source of light was his burner. He then became conscious to the persistent tapping he heard coming from the roof, so he aimed to the spot where he vaguely thought the Thing might be and shot. The shot temporally lit up that spot of the roof but he couldn’t see it, it was clearly moving to confuse him since it had night vision. Panel thought for the little seconds he had, it had night vision, they didn’t, it was moving towards them, they were all together, the tapping grew louder, he heard a couple of the crew behind him run off, if he started firing at random there would be risk of hitting a crewmember, there was only one correct choice… “RUN! HIDE!” Panel shouted, with no hesitation they all obeyed, if they were all scattered across the ship it would take a while for the Thing to get to all of them, this bought him and Scorch valuable time to prepare an offensive. Now Panel was running from the habitat in the clockwise direction around the ship. His only priority was to off course neutralise the Thing, but he couldn’t do that without light, he had no idea where Stone was but he knew it would take him too long to fix the power anyways, Panel was on his way back to the kitchen where they had left their gadgets, then he would have light, and the Thing would lose its advantage. He knew the ship well enough to make it all the way to the tool room while blindly running, once he entered the tool room he tripped on a tool left on the floor. “Who goes there?” A weary voice on the other side of the room. “Stone!? Is that you? It’s me Panel, hold on…” Panel ran into the kitchen, grabbed two gadgets and ran back to give one to Stone “Use this as light, bring the power back as fast as possible, every second without light is a second it has an advantage.” He had light, now for the Thing itself, Panel switched on his gadget and put it on his belt, it didn’t provide a lot of light, but enough, he looked through the door to the medical room, he could see a couple people hiding under the beds in the medical room, past them he could see the open door to the greenhouse, and in the greenhouse he finally saw it, the Thing. They seemed to notice each other at the same time, the Thing started crawling towards him, its neck-like appendage on top of its body looked impatient as it leaned forwards towards Panel. Panel was already in the dark and he already knew the Thing could dodge the droplets from a distance, he needed to get closer to it. He realised that the Thing might spot one of the crew under the beds so he fired a shot at it, he didn’t expect it to hit and it didn’t, he just wanted it to just focus on him. If it was smart enough to realise the importance of the open panel of wires earlier then it was smart enough to recognise him as the leader of the crew, or at least smart enough to recognise him as a threat. Panel started backing up, while he still wanted to get close he wanted it to follow him away from the crew. He carefully inched backwards, he wanted to make it to the control room. “Keep working.” Panel said calmly as the Thing entered the tool room. As Panel walked backwards into the control room he didn’t lift his eyes off the Thing, and he had a feeling it wasn’t either. He was walking a little slower than it so that he could subtly close the distance between them and get the perfect shot lined up. When they finally reached the control room, he realised that this was his… The light from his gadget suddenly went off, he forgot that it automatically switched off. He heard some sort of gurgling sound, pure instinct take over the pressed the button on the burner while Lights’ words from earlier echoed through his mind, “Focus on the details, not just the main prize”. For a split second the burner illuminated itself and a blob of white liquid coming towards it, the blob hit the burner and instantly extinguished the yet to be fired projectile while covering Panel’s hands in the acidic liquid. It burned like fire, without thinking Panel dropped the burner and flung his gloves off as they were coated in the liquid, they even felt like they already had holes in them. He quickly wiped his hands off on his clothes, he had not doubt that a bit of the infection was in that liquid and that his hands were now contaminated, he had minutes (if he was lucky) before the infection took over, but he was not worrying about that now. He grabbed his gadget on his belt and activated its light revealed the Thing standing two arm lengths away, with that disgusting liquid dripping out of its mouth on the end of its ‘neck’, Panel could finally see the teeth of the Afrils and the tong of the Gospons in its mouth. The Thing had picked up his burner with its Monkrut hand and now smashed it in between its three fingers, spilling the burner liquid on itself, the floor and Panel. Before the Thing had the chance to lunge at him Panel, in a split-second decision he threw the gadget in his hand at the floor with all the force he could muster. The moment it hit the ground the sheer force of impact split it open, exposing a live wire to the flammable liquid, almost instantly the liquid went up in flames and the fire quickly spread to both Panel and the Thing. Panel fell on the floor to try to roll to put the fire out, but it was already too late, the last thing Panel saw was the Thing in flames dully falling to the floor.

Part II: The impostor. After the pained distorted roars subsided the only sound that echoed throughout the ship was that of Stone working on the power, after a couple minutes the lights finally returned and Stone investigated what had happened in the control room, He shouted for the rest of the crew to come to the Control room. When they all arrived, they found Stone on the floor devasted, in front of him was a pile of ash in the familiar form of one of their own, across from both near the window was a larger pile of ash with 4 thin ashen things sticking out of it and one thick one, the clear figure of their former terroriser. They all stood around Stone and Panel’s corpse, “What happens now?” Sneaks asked, “Protocol dictates we vote for a new leader now.” Lights replied. “The leader of our mission to preserve Proximian Civilisation just died to save us, can we just mourn him for a moment and not immediately replace him?” Ice said with sadness and contemp. “We need a new leader, and quick,” said Holes standing closer to the ashen remains of the Thing, staring at it. Holes turned to look at the rest of the group “One of us is a Thing.” Everyone looked shocked, Stone got up and looked at him “We can’t just jump to jump to baseless accusations!” he shouted. “What evidence do you even have?” Gadget added. “This corpse here has 4 legs.” Holes responded. Everyone walked over to look at what remained of the Thing, “I see 5.” said Maps, “That thick one was its neck.” Holes responded. “So what if it only had 4 legs?” asked Claw, “You see it started with 6,” Holes said, “It stuck one in the that panel shutting off the power, but it was able to detach it. We know every part of the things is a whole, when the lights went out it probably detached another leg, then…” he was cut off by Twitch “…it could have gotten to anyone of us”. The atmosphere had always been dire on their mission, but it was nothing compared to how they all felt now, everyone backed away slowly, moving away from each other, everyone looked around nervously, Claw was visibly shaking “Do we… do we… do we still have the…” he stuttered, “Do we still have the tester?” Breeze asked for him. “Yeah, it’s in the cupboard in the Habitat.” Answered Holes, more silence followed the mention of the Habitat, “Well then let’s go get it! Stop this monster among us before it tears us apart!” Lights said, nobody wanted to go back to Habitat, but everyone wanted to find the tester. When they arrived, the room was still stained with the previous violence it was subjected to, everyone carefully stepped past the splotches of animal fluid on the floor to get to the cupboard next to the back wall of the room. The cupboard looked unscathed, perhaps because it didn’t contain a living thing to assimilate. Everyone stood together as Holes opened the cupboard and behind him Breeze gasped, it was empty. Everyone spread out around the room scared to even stand next to each other, “What is happening! We were clean, we were safe, why are-“,Claw shouted before being cut off by Twitch “I knew one you were Things! We should’ve never-“ He was cut off by Sneaks “It was one of Holes’ animals, his fault, he got us into this mess, he should-“ rage flashed across Holes’ face “My fault? My fault!? I had no idea that food was infected! Your quick to accuse me, how do we know…” Everyone was shouting now, the conversation was now impossible to follow, Ice suddenly shouted “ALRIGHT!”, the group fell silent “Let’s please calm down, let’s just go around in the group and see where everyone was when the lights went out, I’ll start, I ran to the Airlock room and hid there, Twitch was already there, and later Breeze joined me… right…?” He said the last part with a slight quaver in his voice, he seemed desperate for Breeze and Twitch to back up his story, everyone was standing tensely nervously looking at each other, Twitch and Breeze slowing nodded their heads. “I was in the Observatory with Claw.” Sneaks said, Claw slowly nodded his head while Scorch said, “I was in the Incubator.” Ice then asked, “Did you see anything?” Scorch answered “No, I had no light on me, my only potential light source was my Burner, I didn’t want to shoot at random, I didn’t want to hit someone in the dark. I waited there until going to the medical room.” “Can confirm, I was also in the Med room” Maps said, Twitch then said “It might be Scorch, he was right next to it and then he basically followed it into the Medical room!” Holes shook his head, “Scorch walked into the room long after the Thing walked past, the Thing’s leg could’ve walked past Scorch and would probably avoid him because it could see he’s armed.” “Let’s go to the Greenhouse,” Claw said, “I hid in the computer room…Alone.” He then nervously added. Everyone slowly walked to the Greenhouse, when they arrived Ice asked, “Who else was in the Medical room?” Maps answered, “I was there.” Holes and Gadget both said, “Me too.” Ice looked around the room, “Now for the big question, who should be the new leader? I say Scorch”, Scorch looked surprised and said “Well I’m definitely willing to help this ship in the time of a crisis-“ He was cut off by Sneaks “Oh please! You have barely spoken since launch, how are supposed to trust him?” “He’s the only one we can trust!” Ice shouted back, “He is the only other real leader on this ship! He was and is willing to fight the Thing! And most importantly… he is the only one handy with a Burner.” Silence followed, “He’s right…” Lights said, “He was too close to the Habitat, I think Scorch is a Thing.” Sneaks says matter-of-factly, “We’ll put it to a vote” Breeze said, “All in favour?” He asked, Breeze, Maps, Lights, Claw, Gadget, Stone and Ice all stuck their hands up. “All opposed?” Breeze asked, Holes, Sneaks and Twitch all stuck their hands up. “6 to 3” said Scorch while standing up, “I guess I’m the captain now.” Sneaks looked devasted “One of the last ships in our planet’s history… and a captain who is a Thing…” Scorch stared at him, “Are we going to have a problem?” he asked. “I’ll accept this… for now.” Sneaks said, “Everyone just keep an eye on him.” He added, Scorch looked around the room “Very well then… Lights, you never said where you were when the power was out?” Every eye turned to Lights, “Well uh I uhm… forgot to say but…” Lights said nervously “But listen, it wasn’t me, I am not…” Scorch for the very first time looked stern “Where were you Lights!?” He shouted. Lights started fiddling with something in his hands “I was… hiding in the Animal Habitat, now I know that makes me sound like-“ Lights was cut off by Maps “The Thing! He’s the Thing! It’s got to be him!” “What!? The Habitat!? While that Thing was running around!?”Twitch said, Everyone was shouting now, until Lights tried to defend himself “Listen! Listen! I went in and hid behind a pod in the back, I thought it would run out the room and not return, you must believe… please…” Nobody seemed to believe him, Claw started shaking again, Lights kept trying to plead while Stone asked, “What do we do with him know?” Breeze then answered nervously, “He should tie him up, and keep an eye on him.” Lights sighed “If that’s what it takes for you to trust me…” He kept standing while Sneaks and Holes tied him up, when they were done, he was set down on the nearby chair. Suddenly without warning Claw grabbed a knife (used for leaf trimming) and ran to the back of the room while hyperventilating. “Hey! What do you think your doing Claw!?” Scorch shouted, “I- I can’t- can’t trust anyone!” Scorch started slowly walking towards him “Listen let’s not-“ He was cut off by Claw “GET AWAY FROM ME!” He shouted. “Listen, please put that.” Scorch said calmly, “I want to be alone! It could be anyone one of you! I am serious!” Claw shouted still clutching the knife. “Claw, *I’m* serious, please put that down.” Scorch said while Claw looked at one of the room’s exits, between him and it everyone was grouped in a crowd, it seemed like he wanted run, but if that was true, he would have them in his way. “One last time.” Scorch said arming his burner, Claw looked at the exit, then at Scorch, then at his burner then at the group, he stared into their eyes, seemingly trying to see one final time who was hiding something. Claw suddenly ran forward, the familiar sound of a firing burner filled the room, Claw’s hands went into the air, the knife went flying, everyone either ran or jumped to the floor covering their eyes, a shattering sound was heard. A few seconds later those who ran away walked back, the shattering sound was of the knife crashing into one of the plant’s pods, in the middle of the room was Scorch and Claw on the floor. Claw had seemingly fallen in the direction of the exit, he was also giving off smoke, Scorch had taken off his jacket and laid it on Claw’s torso, “He was on fire, I put it out.” Scorch said. Breeze and Stone quickly carried Claw to the medical room while everyone else followed, behind Claw Breeze and Holes had the best anatomical knowledge, so they were tending to him, with Breeze rubbing something on his wound and Holes looking for something in one of the cabinets. “Some captain you are…” Sneaks said, “I was protecting you all, he was running towards the group with a knife, I had no choice!” Scorch replied. “First you stand around in the room right next to it, then you ‘follow it’ to the medical room, and now you’ve shot a member of our crew, if you think for one second-“ Sneaks was interrupted by Holes who excitedly shouted “Found it!” Sneaks was seemingly pulled back into the present moment, after a couple seconds of angrily staring at each other Sneaks leaned over and whispered something into Twitch’s ear. “Is he going to make it?” Scorch asked Breeze, “I hope so, he is definitely not waking up for a while, we put him under.” He replied. “I know you all still have jobs to do on the ship, what are they?” Scorch asked. “I need to check if the eggs are okay, they cooled down during the outage and that’s not good.” Twitch said, “The plant’s pod may have also been effected by the outage.” Breeze said. “I need to continue categorising the recent cultural events.” Ice said, everyone stared at him, “It was what I was doing before.” he added. “The ships route was definitely affected by the outage,” Maps said, “I need to figure out how to course correct, I need you to steer the ship how I say Scorch” he continued, Scorch nodded. “I’ll also help you with that”, Sneaks said, “I’ll use the telescope to orient us to where we currently are.” He added. “I guess I’ll stay with Claw” Holes said, “No need” Breeze replied, “I’ll be quick in the greenhouse, I will return to him when I’m done.” “I think I could use your help.” Twitch said, “Alright I’ll be with Twitch then.” Holes said. “I still need to fix the problem from earlier,” Stone said, “Plus whatever extra damage the Thing did, the ship is currently on the temporary emergency power.” Without another word he walked off to the tool room. “I actually have a special job for you Gadget.” Scorch suddenly said, “What is it?” Gadget replied a bit nervously, “I am going to leave Lights in the kitchen, he is too much of a risk anywhere else.” Scorch said. Gadget looked shocked “What!? You can’t! He’s a-“ He was cut off by Scorch “If he tries anything, tries to break free or even just cuts his ropes, press the emergency button on your gadget, it will notify everyone if something happens.” Gadget simply sighed “Alright.” Scorch turned to address the whole room, “That goes for all of you, if anything happens call the rest of the ship.” Everyone walked off to their respective rooms while Gadget and Scorch carried Lights to the kitchen where he was set down on a chair facing the wall, Scorch then went to the Control room to implement Maps’ changes to the route, when he was done, he stayed in the Control room. The following PR was tense, nobody said a word, not even to those they were supposed to be working with, everyone kept their distance, nobody ever got within a couple strides of each other, everyone never took their eyes of each other. Everyone was seemingly so afraid that nobody went to kitchen when it was lunch time, the only reason they all got together was when Scorch decided the eject Panel’s body out of the ship, the idea was that it would act as a sort of memorial to their former leader but everyone just stayed silent as they watched Panel slowly drift away from the window, when he was out of sight everyone quietly made their way back to their work stations. When it was just over a PR since the power went out, Scorch started walking through the ship, while he walked through the observatory, Sneaks didn’t greet him, neither did Maps who was eating alone in the computer room. A couple minutes later everyone in the ship’s gadgets suddenly started playing the alarm sound, when they checked their gadgets, they saw that it was Scorch’s gadget sending the signal from the Incubator. Both doors to the Incubator wouldn’t open, while everyone’s gadgets kept wailing Maps and Sneaks were trying to enter the Incubator from the computer room side, and Stone, Breeze, Holes, Gadget and Ice were trying to enter from the Animal habitat side[.]() Stone finally broke down the door by running at it with force, when they entered the room, they realised that rubble was blocking the door. The interior of the Incubator was reminiscent of how the Animal habitat looked earlier, the walls and floor were covered with egg shells and the liquid inside the eggs, the pods were also smashed and on fire in a massive pile in the centre of the room, in front of the door Stone had just opened they saw an ashen corpse still giving off smoke, it was clearly one of their own but unidentifiable as it had burned for too long. Near the pile of smashed pods another ashen corpse, just as burnt, just as unidentifiable’ this one missing an arm. They heard banging and a voice coming from the door on the other side of the room, Stone walked over to move the rubble which also blocked the door. Before he opened the door, he saw Scorch’s burner and gadget on the floor outside the door. When Stone opened the door Sneaks and Maps walked through, Stone started putting out the fire with one of his tools, “Who’s…” Breeze said before taking a breath “Who’s not here?” Ice quickly looked around before saying “Lights, Twitch and Scorch aren’t here.” Gadget then replied “Lights is still tied up in the kitchen.” The group was silent for a while, Stone had successfully put out the fire, Sneaks suddenly broke the silence “So that confirms it then, right? Scorch was the Thing?” Stone shook his head “It at least confirms one of those two were Things, why do you think it’d Scorch?” Sneaks angrily replied, “I’ve been saying this whole-” he was cut for by Ice “Because he doesn’t want to admit his friend was a Thing.” Sneaks looked shocked “It’s not about that! I’ve been saying this whole time that Scorch was a Thing!” Breeze thought for a moment “Scorch set off his own gadget, it seems to me he was attacked.” Holes sighed “But that would mean Twitch was the Thing and I know he wasn’t…” Holes trailed off seemingly realising he should’ve spoken, everyone stared at him. “Weren’t you working with him alone this whole time?” Stone asked, “And didn’t you go to take a break in the kitchen the moment before this happened?” Gadget inquired. “I- I- You can’t…” Holes took a deep breath “I… guess so…” Ice looked at Maps “Go get some rope in the tool room.” Stone looked confused “It’s my work station what am I doing here?“ “You’re going to make sure he doesn’t run.” Ice replied, Holes simply scoffed “Yeah right, I’m not about to run off.” They waited for a moment for Maps to return, when he did Stone started tying Holes down with no resistance. “Who should take over from Scorch?” said Sneaks, “I don’t think anyone would be opposed to Breeze right?” Breeze looked surprised “I’ll do it if I must.” He said, “All in favour?” he asked, everyone stuck their hands except for Ice and Holes whose hands were now immobile, “And what about you Ice?” Gadget asked, “I bet he wants to be the new leader-“ Sneaks said before being interrupted by Ice “Alright!” He shouted while sticking his hand up. “Alright then captain, we can’t keep Lights and Holes in the same room, right? Where do I put Holes?” Breeze took the burner from Stone, “He’ll stay in the Control room with me. We might as well take him there now.” When they arrived at the Control room Breeze gasped, the captain’s chair was ripped from the floor and dropped on the ground, the circular screen responsible for the ship’s controls was ripped in half, wires and computer components lay everywhere. “What!? When did this happen!?” Ice shouted, “How are we going to steer the ship?” Breeze asked. “I… We can’t… Well…” Maps started, “I’ve studied this type of ship, the navigational system for the ship is centralised on that computer, we can’t…” he trailed off. “We can’t control the ship!? Why is it designed like that!?” Ice asked, “They had no way of thinking something like this was going to happen.” Maps replied, Breeze looked desperately at Stone “Is he correct?” Stone sighed “Yes…” Ice put his head in his hands, “When did this even happen!?” “Must have been one of us when we were all making our way to the Incubator.” Ice said, “It could’ve also been Scorch right?” Sneaks said, Gadget replied, “Or perhaps it was Lights, he was in the room right next to here.” After a while Breeze asked, “What is going to happen to the ship?” Maps responded, “We have already entered the star system of our destination planet, depending on the trajectory of the ship before this happened, we could end up at wildly different spots in the system, me and Sneaks will have to do some calculations.” Gadget was looking out of the window “Doesn’t the ship have a built-in autopilot?” he asked, “The autopilot is only for small adjustments, like getting out of the way of a small asteroid.” Maps responded. “At best it can sway the ship from side to side… not enough for larger adjustments to direction” “I’ll be working on a way to control the ship.” Stone said walking off, “Me and Maps will figure out where to ship is headed.” Sneaks said, “In the meantime I’ll check on Claw.” Breeze said. “Guess I’ll stay here then.” Holes said sarcastically still tied up in the corner of the room. When Breeze walked into the kitchen Breeze looked at Lights’ ropes which were as tight as ever, Lights looked up and asked, “What on Proxima is going on!?” Breeze simply replied, “Scorch and Twitch are dead, I’m the new leader, the control panel in the Control room was destroyed” Lights looked shocked “Scorch… they… what!?” While Lights looked like he had more questions Breeze simply walked off to the medical room. A couple moments later the ship was filled with someone’s pleas, “…no…no…NO!” Everyone ran off in the direction they thought the noise was coming from, eventually everybody not tied up walked into the medical room to see Breeze standing next to Claw’s bed. “What happened!?” Maps asked, “He’s dead!” Breeze cried, “What!? How!?” Sneaks asked, “Was he murdered?” Ice asked Breeze “I think he succumbed to his injuries.” Breeze answered. “What… What do we do know?” Gadget asked, everyone looked to Breeze, who was still standing over Claw, for answer, but he was silent. Ice answered for him “I think we should eject Claw like we did with Panel, out of respect, we could also do Twitch and Scorch.” Everyone was silent for a moment “Alright… let’s do that” Breeze said. They all then walked off to the Airlock room, they decided to keep Holes and Lights tied up as they still considered them threats. When they arrived at the Airlock room they put Claw in the airlock, when Breeze pressed the eject button everyone looked through the window as Claw’s body drifted away. Everyone was silent for a moment “I can’t believe he’s gone… and so close to the end of the mission…” Gadget said. “Oh yeah, Sneaks, Maps, what’s going to happen to the ship?” “Well… If we don’t manage to find a way to control the ship, the ship is going to crash into our destination planet.” Maps said, Breeze sighed “Could we survive such a crash” he asked, “At the speed we’re estimating… no, we will basically turn to liquid on impact” Sneaks replied. “Could a Thing survive the crash?” Ice asked, “It’s… very possible” Sneaks answered. “Alright everyone.” Breeze said, “We have to figure out who are Things and fast, if anyone has any ideas for potential tests or other ways of figuring out who it is please say.” “Maybe… no that wouldn’t work.” Sneaks said, “I need to figure out how to take back control of the ship.” Stone said, “Go do that, please.” Breeze said, “In fact everyone should go back to their jobs, I’m staying here for a while.” Everyone except Breeze walked off but not without throwing one last paranoid glance at each other.

This is the story of the most fabulous man I have ever met. I’m telling it because Mr. Leon Miller would be too humble to ever speak highly of himself. Every once in a while you meet that one person who is the embodiment of true selflessness. No skeletons in the closet like the rest of us. Leon went above and beyond to always help others. Whether it was walking an old lady across the street even if he was running late to work, or fixing some young new driver’s flat tire. Leon did it all. He was a yes man. However his yes’s were true yes’s. Never did give a pity yes. Leon loved to help. He was the neighbor you went to when you needed to borrow some sugar. I loved working at the bank with him. He always made the place feel like you were in one big capsule of adderall. The warm rays that this man generated were so euphoric and welcoming. You forgot all of your troubles when Leon walked through the doors. What a beautiful man. I don’t work at the bank anymore. It was too hard for me to be around all of the money always fighting the urge to pocket just a little. Now I am a taxi driver. You would think it is a grueling job but I truly don’t mind. It doesn’t compare to working with Leon though. It felt like I was working with Jesus Christ himself. Except way less annoying and righteous. Leon has a beautiful family. Why wouldn’t he? Good people deserve good things. His wife Heather was a beautiful soul. Most people say they have a happy marriage, but we all know that’s a farce. It seems like we all love to hate each other these days. Leon and Heather really did have a happy marriage. Like a movie. The kind to make a softy cry. Those two high school sweet hearts who went the distance and didn’t regret it. Talk about rarity. Speaking of rarity, he had a set of beautiful twin daughters who were both heart surgeons in the same hospital. How confusing that must get. A family of life savers. Leon saved my life. I’ll never forget the day I woke up. The luminescent lights were so bright. A constant ringing followed by a series of beeps fluctuated in my ears. The noise became my pulse. As I looked down my feet were strapped to my bed. Next to my bed was a man in a brown corduroy suit jacket with matching pants and a brussel sprout green tie. His fading gray hair looking almost like that of an arctic fox. “Hello James.” The man said to me. “Glad to see you are awake!” From that day forward my life was changed. Rehab never helped me. Eleven times and not one successful result. What I needed was Leon to find me face down in the gutter like that poet Edgar Allan Poe. Poor Guy. Was a literary genius and nobody ever knew it. Not I however. I am no literary genius. Just an ex junkie that an old kind soul rushed to the hospital. My Jesus. Leon Christ. When they discharged me I had no place to stay. Leon took me right in. Heather gave him no dirty look. I would listen through the walls and she would only say, “James is a bright young man that we can fix right up, can’t we baby?” “Yes my love.” Leon would reassure her. That’s just the type of people they were. True selflessness. Leon got me cleaned up and off the streets and I never went back. I don’t even smoke reefer now. I’m not one of those kombucha born again yoga hippies. Just a normal guy with a rough past. Leon did fix me up. After I was all clean and ready he got me an interview at the bank. Of course I got the job. Anyone Leon speaks highly of always gets good things. I don’t know if I deserved it but my savior always assured me I did. I worked at the bank with him for three years and cherished every moment. We were all horribly saddened when he announced his retirement and gave his final day. I know I would miss working with him even though I had an apartment a few streets down. The day before his last we threw him a big surprise party because we knew he would turn it down. He said he didn’t deserve such praise but we all knew he did. Such selflessness. I woke up on the day of his final eight hours at the bank and couldn’t help but notice one salty tear glide down my cheek as I took away my five o’clock shadow in the mirror. Leon had changed my life. I owe him everything and it hurt to know he was leaving. I got in my Prius, listening to Primus and prepared for the saddest drive to work I would take. The only sad drive to the bank I’ve ever had. When I arrived Leon had already opened up shop and was sitting at his teller station. “James my son, I got you a gift.” It was a picture of us in the hospital together. That’s when the levee broke. One salty year turned into a river. On his last day he got me a gift. The picture still sits on my night stand. Girls always tell me my dad looks like such a kind man. I always tell them he is the best. We all tried to keep our spirits high that day while the minutes turned to hours. With ten minutes left in Leon’s final day, a man walked through the door. I’ll never forget his ugly wing tipped shoes and noticeable track marks. His ski mask looked like it was worn to the bone. Like he has made this sort of transaction before. “Everyone get in the floor now!” “Let’s make this quick and easy and nobody gets hurt.” He walked up to Leon’s desk. “Okay old man, you know the drill. Put the money in the bag.” Leon complied. The man must’ve known it was closing time because he didn’t ask for money in the safe. Leon dished out a couple grand and the man seemed satisfied. The wing tipped fellow was oddly calm. When the transaction was finished the man calmly turned to leave. “Have a great day sir. I pray you find god.” Leon said. The last words he ever spoke. The man stopped and turned. “Tell him to find me first.” He raised his gun and pulled the trigger and in the blink of an eye my savior was crucified. That was four years ago and the man was never caught. Such a pity. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t reminisce about my best friend Leon. Good people deserve good things but don’t always get them.

Ricky's eyes gazed out at the city, his home for the past decade. He lay on his makeshift bed, a torn cardboard box, in a dimly lit alleyway. The stench of urine and decay filled the air, a familiar scent that clung to him like a shadow. His sunken eyes, once bright and full of life, now seemed to hold a thousand stories of pain and struggle. He clutched his last $10, his ticket to a temporary escape. Heroin, his mistress, beckoned him. He rose, his frail body trembling, and began his daily ritual. The streets were his home, and he knew every corner, every dealer, and every fix. Ricky's story was etched on his face, a map of scars, track marks, and sunken eyes. He was once a son, a brother, a friend, but addiction had reduced him to a mere statistic. A talented artist, a loving soul, and a bright mind, all lost to the abyss of drugs. One day, he stumbled into a rehab center, desperate for a way out. Hope flickered to life. He met a counselor, Rachel, who saw beyond his addiction. She believed in him, and for the first time in years, Ricky felt a spark of self-worth. Weeks passed, and Ricky progressed. He shared his story, shed tears, and laughed. He began to heal. He painted again, and his art spoke of his pain and his dreams. He formed friendships with fellow addicts, and they became his support system. But the streets wouldn't let go. Old friends, old habits, and old demons lured him back. The temptation was too strong, and Ricky relapsed. He promised himself one last fix, just one more. But that one led to another, and another. Rachel's words echoed in his mind: "You're worth more than this, Ricky." He knew she was right, but the pull of heroin was too strong. One fateful night, Ricky's body gave in. He slumped against a dumpster, his eyes frozen on the city he loved and hated. The last fix had taken its toll. His body screamed for mercy, his mind begged for peace. Rachel wept at his funeral, mourned the loss of a life that could've been redeemed. Rachel spoke of the Ricky she knew, the one who laughed and painted, who dreamed of a life beyond the streets. She spoke of the struggle, the fight, and the ultimate surrender. As the service ended, Ricky's fellow addicts gathered outside, sharing stories and tears. They spoke of their own struggles, their own relapses, and their own fears. One of them, a young woman named Sarah, held a painting Ricky had given her. It was a beautiful piece, a landscape of hope and freedom. She looked at it, and tears streamed down her face."I'll keep fighting, Ricky," she whispered. "I'll keep fighting for both of us." The group dispersed, each person returning to their own struggle. Rachel watched them go, her heart heavy with grief. She knew the odds were against them, but she also knew that Ricky's story wouldn't be in vain. As Rachel watched the group disperse, she felt a sense of sadness wash over her. She had lost another one, a soul she had grown to care for. She turned to leave, but then she saw him. Ricky. Standing across the street, looking gaunt and worn, but very much alive. Rachel's heart skipped a beat. She rubbed her eyes, wondering if she was seeing things. But when she opened them again, Ricky was still there, staring back at her.He took a step forward, his eyes locked on hers. Rachel's mind raced with questions. How? Why? What was going on? Ricky's lips curled into a faint smile, and he raised a hand in a weak wave. Rachel felt a shiver run down her spine. "Ricky?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. He took another step forward, his eyes gleaming with a hint of mischief."To be continued," he mouthed, before turning and disappearing into the crowd. Rachel stood there, frozen in shock, wondering if she had just seen what she thought she had seen. Was Ricky really alive? And if so, what did it mean? The questions swirled in her mind, refusing to let go. She knew she had to find out, had to uncover the truth. And so, she set out on a journey to unravel the mystery of Ricky's resurrection, a journey that would lead her down a dangerous path, filled with twists and turns. To be continued...

# Chapter 1: As Koji’s parents waved goodbye, he took a deep breath. "I can't believe I'm finally here. Stay calm, Koji, stay calm," he murmured to himself. Koji Kato, a 19-year-old top graduate, stood nervously at the gates of Osaka University, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He entered his dorm, hoping to have the room to himself. The scent of fresh paint mixed with the faint odor of old books greeted Koji as he stepped into his dorm room. The dorm had one bunk bed on the left side of the room, a desk in front of the window facing the wall near the bunk bed. There was a bathroom on the right side with a sink and a toilet in its own separate room. The second one next to the first bathroom on the right side had a bathtub and another sink. There were two drawers, both with six dressers on the left wall next to the bunk bed. Koji sighed and said to himself, "I really hope I don't get anyone." While unpacking the last box, a knock startled him. "Who could it be?" Koji thought. He walked up to the door very slowly, hoping that whoever it was would think they were in the wrong dorm. Opening the door slowly, he saw a short girl with long pink hair beaming at him, as if a child had found her way into the college. Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as she beamed at him. “Hi!” she greeted enthusiastically. Koji, startled, stuttered, “Hello, can I help you?” “Hello, roommate!” she announced, much to Koji’s shock. Koji thought to himself, “What is a girl doing in my dorm? Boys are with boys and girls are with girls to not cause any issues. She must be in the wrong room.” “Are you sure you’re not in the wrong dorm?” he asked, hoping for a mistake. “I’m sure. Look,” she showed him a paper with dorm number 293, matching his. “Apparently all the girl dorms were taken, and they just gave me a room with a guy in it.” Discouraged, Koji realized he would be rooming with a girl, making him even more uncomfortable. She introduced herself as Ami Tanaka, an art major. Koji glanced down, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m Koji Kato, majoring in Business.” Ami’s bubbly personality contrasted with Koji’s reserved nature. She asked if she could decorate the room, and Koji agreed but requested she leave one wall untouched. As Ami decorated with plushies and posters, she struggled to place a high poster. “Could you help me, Koji? You are tall enough to reach up here,” she asked. Koji reluctantly agreed. “Ok, I'll help you.” But after several failed attempts, Ami suggested, “Why don’t I get on your shoulders? That way I can put it where I want it and have it high enough.” Anxious and sweating, Koji agreed. Despite his best efforts, “Stay still, Koji,” Ami said while struggling to put the poster up. Koji felt like he was on a tightrope. He couldn’t stand still and started to struggle. “Stand still, Ko-.” He lost balance, and Ami fell, landing on him. Gasp\* “Are you alright, Koji?” she asked, worried. Groaning but smiling, Koji reassured her, “Yeah, I'm alright. How about you?” Ami was fine but blushed with embarrassment. Feeling bad for her, Koji offered, “How about we go get something to eat so we can recharge and try again? My treat.” Ami smiled; her cheeks tinged with a blush. “Sure, Koji. Thank you.” As Koji and Ami walked to a nearby cafe, the awkwardness began to fade. Ami's constant chatter and Koji's occasional nods created a comfortable rhythm. They arrived at the cafe; Koji got a grilled cheese, and Ami got herself a shredded chicken sandwich. They sat next to the windows, and Ami started to ask Koji questions to make it less awkward for them. “So, Koji,” Ami said between bites of her sandwich, “what made you choose Business as your major?” Koji hesitated, then replied, “My parents spent everything they had to get me here. They worked so hard and gave up so much. I want to succeed so I can help them financially.” Ami smiled warmly. “That’s sweet. I chose art because it’s my passion. I love creating things that make people happy.” Koji, feeling a sense of comfort towards her, started to open more. Ami then followed up with another question for Koji. “So, what do you like to do, Koji?” Koji, feeling embarrassed by the answer he might give her, said, “I like to read, write, and play video games.” He hesitantly followed up with, “Wh... What about you?” Ami smiled. “I like to draw, collect things, and listen to music. Koji, what do you like to read?” Koji, feeling embarrassed, said, “I like to read manga and collect a ton of manga.” He felt like a loser saying all that but was comforted by her warmth. Ami smiled warmly. “That’s cool. Mind if I read some when we get back?” Koji, surprised by her interest, nodded. “Yeah, sure.” Ami smiled. “Thanks. I hope we can be good friends.” Koji blushed, avoiding eye contact, and agreed. “I would like that.” Back at the dorm, they decided to finish decorating. This time, they managed to put up the poster without any mishaps. As the weeks went by, their routine settled into a comfortable pattern. They attended classes, studied together, and occasionally went out for meals. One evening, as they were studying, Ami noticed Koji staring at the necklace Emi had given him. "That's a beautiful necklace, Koji. Where did you get it?" she asked. Koji looked at the necklace and smiled faintly. "A friend gave it to me a long time ago. We lost touch, but it's very special to me." Ami nodded, sensing there was more to the story. "Do you ever think about finding her again?" Koji sighed. "Sometimes. But I would not know where to start. It's been so long." Ami patted his shoulder. "Maybe you'll find her when you least expect it." Koji smiled. “I hope so.

Every other weekend, I go back home to listen to the sweet sounds of my father berating me. “You got into the wrong profession,” he always told me. “What money do you get from making pasta?” His accent accentuates itself along with his volume. He struts and puffs his chest out. He asserts his dominance, stalking me from across the room; he is a predator watching its prey. "You should be a lawyer," he would suggest, "or maybe a doctor." His voice is stern yet laced with love and concern. His words, although harsh, were his way of expressing his worry and desire for my success. “I run my own restaurant, Pa," I would remind him, pinching my eyebrows. He may think he is helping by providing guidance, but his methods are no longer effective in the modern world. His old-fashioned advice overlooks the fact that I have already carved out my own success. My mother would fidget in her chair, squeezing my father’s hand each time he raised his voice. "I am proud of the business I have built and the legacy that I am creating," I responded firmly. Without even knowing what I was capable of, my father dismissed me. Despite my successes and the countless hours I had put into the business, my father still refused to recognize or take any pride in my accomplishments. It was in the kitchen where I felt safe in my house; just my mother and me. We would cook everything from her old cookbook; dusty and faded. You would have to blow all the dust off to be able to read anything. Multitudes of aromas bounced around the room, flying right into your nostrils the second you entered the room. Every recipe felt like a window into a secret past, with even more secrets packed into every ingredient. Once the flavors touched your taste buds, all thoughts stopped. Memories of these moments were etched into my heart, and I knew this was the only place I wanted to be. “Danny, why don’t you make us dinner sometime?” my mother asked, smiling as she sliced tomatoes on her cutting board, the juices flowing down like a waterfall. As the smell of onions and garlic wafted through the room, I realized she was serious about her offer. The scene was so peaceful, I could not help but agree. “Then, he would be able to see what I see,” she suggested, her almond eyes creased. I peered towards her feet; she was wearing her fuzzy house slippers because my father never bothered to turn the heat on, leaving my frail mother shivering every day. I paused for a moment, considering what she had said. Even in the chilly atmosphere of our house, her voice had a warmth and sincerity that I just could not ignore. I nodded my head in agreement, feeling a sudden sense of hope and optimism. “Sure, next time I come by, I’ll make you folks a real meal,” I said, helping my mother transfer the tomatoes to the pot from the bowl. Smiling, I gave one last nod before turning away, ready to make the most of the new opportunity I had been granted. My mother beamed at me with every ounce of love she had for me, staring right into my soul. I took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of my mother's approval and the excitement of my brand-new adventure radiating through me. I had never felt more alive or ready for the future. “It’s a date.” So today. I am making Tuscan chicken with pasta, something I have cooked countless times in my restaurant. I am excited to create this signature dish for my family, as I am sure they will love it as much as my customers do! I am standing at my parents’ door, waiting for someone to let me in. I stroke the gold embellishments of the glass windows, trying to stare into the curtains like a creep. I bought fresh mozzarella and spinach from the farmer’s market specifically for today. The plastic bag containing the vegetables contrasts with my coarse and calloused hands. I am looking forward to using those vegetables to create a delicious meal - one that I hope will be as flavorful as the freshness of the vegetables themselves. “Come on in, Danny!” My father bellows, ushering me into the living room. “Whatcha doin’ with the bags? Christmas isn’t for three months, kiddo!” His presence fills the room like carbon monoxide gas, a silent killer. I watch my mother scoot into the living room, and I swear she gets shorter every time I see her. A smile is plastered on my face the moment I see hers. “My baby boy!” she exclaims, welcoming me into her tiny wingspan. I feel nothing but joy and contentment as her embrace engulfs me, reminding me of all the times she has been there for me. She showers me in kisses, “I haven’t seen you in ages!” I exhale quietly and go straight into the kitchen. “Danny, where ya goin’? I thought we were watching the game," my father asked with anger bubbling in his voice. “I’m cooking dinner tonight, Pa.” “Oh,” he says, calming himself down and sinking into his recliner. “Make me something good.” “Oh, I will,” I say to myself, placing my ingredients along the counter, assembling my workspace. I align each object with its respective category and place them neatly along the counter. I take a deep breath, calming my nerves before I start cooking. This is my chance to prove to myself that I can do this. As I make the pasta from scratch, I remember all the times I cooked it with my mother, her giggles and wisecracks echoing around the room. Now, I am doing it by myself, in the same kitchen as she did. With seasonings and spices, I make my love for my mother and this kitchen come alive, putting it into creamy goodness of the sauce. As I walk into the room with my pans of sauce and pasta, my dad makes brooding eye contact with me. His lip is slightly curled, but I know that I will wow him. I know that this is the meal that will make him understand why I love cooking. I begin to plate the food, making sure to place each component in an aesthetically pleasing way. My father locks eyes with me, unlocking every past fear I had before making this dinner. I beg God to mercy me tonight, just tonight as my father takes his first bite. He stays steadfast in his position, showing no sign of relenting. His arms are still crossed, his eyebrows are still furrowed, and his lips are still curled. The tension in the air is palpable, and I can feel it in my chest. I turn to a comforting source of relief and take a large bite of pasta to relax. After a glass of milk, I tell myself that I will cook dinner again, and my father will finally see that I can make food worth something. I am determined to create something special for my father, something he can be proud of. Throughout the week, I use my time cooking at the restaurant as practice to wow my father. I stay in the kitchen past closing time, getting everything exactly right. I take extra time perfecting each dish, ensuring it will surpass even his highest expectations. “You alright, boss?” a member of my staff asks me unexpectedly, raising his eyebrows in a concerned manner. “Yeah, I’m alright,” I assure him, patting him on the shoulder. I find myself during the two weeks staring into space, focusing on the next dinner. “I need it all to be perfect,” I say to myself. I realize that I have worked hard to get to this point and that my success should not be defined by someone else's standards. As a result, I came up with a plan of action. I would make a meal up to my own standards, and no matter what my father said, I would be fine with it. Now, I’m in the kitchen, cutting onions and trying not to cry from the sting. I place them in the pan, listening to the sound of their sizzle, music to my ears. The smell of the onions in the pan clears my mind, keeping me true to my goal. I add the green onions as well, admiring the colors as they complement each other. I add the chopped steak, sprinkling seasoning with all the emotions I have in my heart. Each piece of food aligns with each other, imposed into each other’s shape. The milky white plates are adorned with every color, every feeling, and every scent. I step into the dining room, our circle table is small, but it can fit each of us. My mother perks up as I waltz towards her, grinning from ear to ear. However, my father's expression appears to be one of annoyance and displeasure, leaving me unsure how to react. I purse my lips and exhale gently through my nose, calming myself down. I watch my father like a hawk as he takes his first bite. Instead of endless praise (like deserve), the response I get from my delicious meal is “Oh, I guess you can cook more than just pasta.” I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. I decided not to reply and simply enjoy my food, basking in its warm embrace. “Thanks, dad.

Part III: The descension. Everyone went back to their designated areas, in the early PRs of their mission while things were tense they all still looked forward to arriving at their destination, but now despite the fact that they were nearing closer and closer to their destination they felt nothing but dread, said dread was a combination of the uncertainty of where whether or not they would be turned to mush on impact, the ever present mistrust between their former comrades and the sinking feeling of not knowing if they would even survive to see the end of their trip. The ship was eerily silent, the crew had never realised that the engines gave off a soft hum until the control panel was destroyed and said engines deactivated. Breeze sat in the Control room for a long while, in all their time alone in the room he and Holes did not say a word to each other. Nobody ever bothered to clean up the destroyed panel, so the chunks of computer and screen just sat there on the floor. Whenever Breeze heard the faintest noise, whether it was the muffled sounds of what was probably Stone working in the Tool room or footsteps coming from either adjacent room, he would subtly clutch his burner a bit harder. Breeze heard something again, probably just Stone again. Holes was facing the window so he had to at all times look out of the window, Breeze however was staring out of the window by choice much like his former Captain would, his eyes went from star to star not particularly focusing on anyone of them. Suddenly Lights hit Breeze over the head with a chunk of computer, Breeze fell to the floor; while painfully clutching his head he spun around to see Lights bending down right next to him, in his one hand Lights held the chuck of machinery and he was reaching for the burner Breeze had just dropped with his other. Breeze was too slow to grab the burner back, Lights picked it up and pointed at Breeze’s head “Get away!” Lights shouted, “Get away from me!” He shouted shaking the burner at Breeze. Breeze quickly crawled across the floor away from him, he looked to the kitchen door, it was open, Lights had somehow broken free from his rope and snuck into the room behind Breeze. “Give me your gadget!” Lights demanded still shaking the burner madly, Breeze slid his gadget across the floor into his hands. Lights pressed the emergency button on the gadget, he then walked over to the nearest wall and without warning started banging the gadget against it. Maps and Sneaks were first to enter from opposing doors “What in the-“ Sneaks said before being cut off by Lights “Back away! BACK AWAY!” He shouted while switching between pointing the burner at Sneaks and Maps. A crack appeared across the back of the gadget, since he was still pointing the burner randomly around the room, he put the gadget in his mouth and with his other hand tore it in half exposing several live wires. By now Gadget, Stone and Ice had also entered, “Hey!” Stone shouted, “Quiet!” Lights shouted, “He got out! He’s got a burner! We need to-“ Stone was cut off by Lights “QUIET!” He screeched. Lights took a deep breath “Alright everyone.” Lights said clutching one of the wires the gadget was dangling from right next to the small tank of the burner which contained its flammable liquid “If anyone tries anything then this wire touches the tank, and it goes boom.” Lights was slowly stepping towards the window “If it explodes a hole is blown in this window and everyone dies.” Everyone went silent and slowly stepped away, Lights continued “If I do that the Things die which would be good but I know some of you are still alright and in case you forgot we still have a mission to complete and we have to be alive to do it!” Holes was trying desperately to escape from his ropes “Get me out of here! Please!” Holes accidently rocked in the chair too hard, and he and it fell to the ground. “What… what are you doing Light!?! How it you even get out of your rope!?” Ice asked, “Listen, listen everyone!” Lights said, “I was in the kitchen alone facing the wall, I couldn’t see anything, I heard Gadget had burned himself making something and walked off to I think the medical room, right!?” Gadget nodded so he continued “And then the door opened, I suddenly heard some muffled screaming, then strange noises, like some sort of wet gurgling sound. I started thrashing around trying to break free, it unexpectedly worked! I broke free!” Lights was shaking the wire was holding against the burner as he spoke, it came dangerously close to contacting the tank. “I whipped around, and… an… I saw this mass of tentacles behind me, across one of the tentacles were these massive teeth, I think that Thing broke me free!” Maps was looking at the burner, “Just put that thing down Lights.” he said. “LET ME FINISH!” Lights shouted, “The Thing for some reason left me alone, I saw it leave the room but before it-“ Lights was cut off by Stone “Come on guys, we know it’s him! We can’t let him beat us like this!” Stone was still holding a wrench he was using earlier, he walked forward brandishing the wrench like a weapon. “Hold on! Wait!” Breeze screamed, “Listen Lights-“ He was cut off by Lights “No you listen! Before it left, I saw it transform back into one of us! I know who is a Thing here!” Breeze thought for a moment, “Don’t tell you believe him!” Ice cried. “Wait, Lights will you tell us who it is? Can you also drop the burner and gadget?” Breeze asked. “How do I know you’ll believe me!? How do I know I’m not about to be thrown in the Airlock!? I’m not putting this down until I figure out how to prove I’m telling the truth!” Lights shouted, Breeze thought again “Please tell us who it is, just put the burner down.” Lights’ three eyes were darting between the crewmates, no eye focused on the same crewmember. Lights suddenly dropped the gadget loudly and started walking towards the group, Stone held his wrench high ready for attack, but Breeze blocked him from walking forward “Wait!” Breeze yelled. “Maps.” Lights said unexpectedly calmly, he was standing right in front of Maps and pointing the burner at his face, “It’s Maps.” Lights said simply. “We’re not about to let him shoot Maps right in front of our eyes!” Stone screamed. “Oh no I’m not about to shoot him, not until I can prove what I already know.” Lights replied. Maps had nothing but terror in his eyes, his hands were in the air “Listen…” Maps said with a quaver in his voice, “I don’t know what you saw but it’s not me, I can promise that as certainly as space is dark.” Lights was attempting to hold the burner steady, but it was slowly shaking, “Please put that down, don’t do anything irrational” Maps continued. “Please Lights.” Breeze said, “Come on!” Ice shouted, “Put it down!” Sneaks screamed. Everyone was pleading now, except Stone who remained quiet. The burner in Lights’ hand began shaking rapidly again, he seemed to begin getting overwhelmed by everyone’s pleas, he stared into Maps’ eyes, Maps stared back with fear and powerlessness. With his left most eye Lights looked to his side to see Stone holding the wrench tighter and tighter while subtly moving closer. Lights took a deep breath. The usual white light emitted by the ship’s lights were suddenly replaced with a yellow one, along with the firing sound of a burner. Stone ran forward lifting the wrench up high, Lights quickly turned to aim at Stone but did not fire, when Stone reached him, he swung the wrench down hitting Lights in the head with it. Lights fell to the floor, Stone stared down at his body, Lights’ facial expression was frozen, and a putrid orange liquid was pouring out of his head. Maps’ flaming head right next to Lights’ body, Stone looked up to see Maps still standing, headless. Maps’ arms melted away into an army of red tentacles, the tentacles moved to completely cover Stones head and neck and started pushing him back up against the wall. Everyone screamed but there was nothing they could do, Stone still had the wrench in his hand and blindly flailed it around randomly but he never hit his attacker, the Thing walked simply forward and the mass of tentacles that once were it’s arms seemingly grew shorter, as they wriggled into Stone further and further his desperate flails of the wrench grew weaker and weaker, after a couple of seconds he dropped it to the ground. Breeze saw the burner was just behind the Thing on the floor, strange moving bulges appeared under the Thing’s pants above its feet (if it even still had feet). Breeze dived down to grab the burner, without warning the Thing’s pants tore and several more tentacles burst out, one longer one lunged towards Breeze’s arm, he quickly grabbed the Burner and shot the tentacle before it reached him. The tentacle fell to the floor as it burned, the fire began spreading from it to the bottom of the Thing’s body, the Thing (seemingly sensing this) detached the tentacles digging deeper and deeper into Stone and turned around. By this point where Stone’s head usually was there was a sphere of wriggling tentacles, however Stone’s lower body remained untouched and eerily still. The Thing just stood there, now just a body with burning tentacles for legs, while it was slowly being more engulfed by flames, suddenly its chest burst open and a long thing creature that looked like a disformed and melted Voltive emerged. The abomination quickly slivered across the floor in pursuit of Breeze, Breeze quickly shot at it and just before it reached him on the third shot in curled and roared in pain as the fire overwhelmed it, just before it turned to ash Breeze saw it had three eyes, just like them. Breeze looked up to see the ashen corpse of what was once Maps and behind its ‘Stone’ slowly walking away while covered in massive bulges and the tentacles on his ‘head’ still flailing around. Before Breeze could shoot it, the bulges burst with tentacles, all across its body the tentacles burrowed out each desperate to escape. Breeze shot it right in its chest, it began wailing with that same distorted amalgamation of what it had previously consumed’s cries. It fell to the floor and burned with a bright fire; the tentacles tried one final time to slither away out of the fire, but they were unsuccessful. Breeze fell to the ground in anguish once the fire and danger truly dissipated. Gadget stood over Lights’ body “He… he was right” he said. Ice walked over to the ash that once was what once was Stone “Are we all just dead?” He asked bluntly. “Stone brought our acceleration down by managing to activate one of the thrusters before.” Sneaks replied, “So… what? We have a chance?” Breeze asked. “Yes,” Sneaks responded, “I don’t know if it was effective.” He added. “Would someone please help me up!?” Holes asked who was still tied to his chair on the floor. While Ice and Sneaks walked over to help Holes up, Gadget walked to Breeze “What happens now?” He asked. Breeze looked out of the window, a slowly expanding blue sphere which was there destination planet was growing across the black expanse, “We… hope,” he said, Breeze walked over to Stone’s body “We are powerless to control the fate of the ship,” he looked at the Thing’s bodies “We don’t know if any of us are hiding anything,” he looked back to Gadget “We can only hope we reach that planet safely.” Subtle anger was growing on Sneaks’ face “Correct me if I’m wrong Ice” Sneaks began, “But isn’t this mission, the most important and essential event in our planet’s history?” Before Ice could reply Sneaks continued, “Aren’t we at the most dangerous point in said mission? More than half of our are crew dead, a Thing is potentially among us, we’re barrelling towards at the planet, and what does our ‘leader’ say, what is their-“ Sneaks was cut off by Ice “Now is not the time-“ “WHEN IS!?” Sneaks shouted back, “Hope!? You hope? Is that your plan!? To hope!?” Ice was caught off guard “What else can we do!?” Sneaks looked to Breeze “Make tests, think of ways to save the ship, anything!” Breeze looked around the room at everyone “I’ll… We’ll do that, let’s all just calm down for now, I know we’re all scared but… well… we haven’t eaten in a while right? Let’s all go for a meal; can you please make one Gadget?” “One of you could have sabotaged the food, there is no way I’m eating anything, not yet.” Sneaks said in a calmer tone. The group walked out of the Control room dragging Holes by the chair to the kitchen as Sneaks also walked off in a different direction. Despite dragging Holes all the way to Kitchen, he didn’t seem too enthusiastic about being fed by hand, nobody seemed too keen to be the one to feed him either. Ice barely ate, just sort of playing with his food, cutting it up and shuffling it around his plate, Breeze and Gadget however ate their food quicker, with Breeze even almost choking at one point, when Breeze finished the others quickly dispersed, nobody wanted seemed to want to interact with anyone anymore. Out of the various windows on the ship the crewmembers could see the ship was swaying from side to side (perhaps it was some sort of failure with the autopilot), the view from outside (depending on where you stood in the ship) quickly alternated between the void of space and their final destination hurling towards them, only a matter of time. A notification popped up on everyone’s gadgets, the source was Sneaks’ gadget, “I think I can make a test for us, I’m in the Computer room.” It read. Everyone arrived within moments of each other, Gadget and Breeze entered from the side of the Observatory and Ice entered from the Incubator side. “How?” Breeze asked simply, “I’ve been researching how they made testing devices them back on Proxima,” Sneaks replied; indeed he was holding two larger gadgets which belonged to the Computer room, one had a page of the testing devices open and the other he was currently dismantling. “Can we help?” Breeze asked tiredly. “No.” Sneaks responded, “Just make sure that thing is turned off.” Breeze added, Sneaks nodded while continuing to dismantle the gadget, the other three stood around Sneaks looking intently at him far from one another. Ice looked doubtful, “How do we know he isn’t just about to make a device that is going to-“ Ice was interrupted by the sudden sound of electricity screeching, Sneaks gave a painful jolt and his face fell on top of the disassembled device, the screeching grew louder and was joined by a sort of sizzling sound. Gadget and Breeze ran forward, Gadget pulled the device out from under Sneaks’ face, and he threw it to one side, Breeze turned Sneaks around to reveal a burned disfigured face, his skin had turned a sickly brown colour and was giving off smoke, the image of the internal components and wires of the gadget looked like they were printed on his face. Breeze and Gadget looked shocked, saddened and disgusted by what they saw; Ice however had walked over to the gadget on the floor, he tried to switch it on, but its screen remained dark, but after rearranging a few wires in the back the screen lit up. “Hey!” Ice suddenly said looking at its screen, “This thing turned on because it received a notification… it received a notification from…” his voice trailed off as he looked up, but it was too late. Gadget had run over to him, his stomach splitting open revealing misplaced teeth and large tendrils, once he reached Ice he bit into his torso while rapping its tendrils around him, Ice screamed but he could not with all his might pull away. With its now swelling hands the Thing grabbed the gadget out of Ice’s hand and threw it at Breeze with unnatural strength and accuracy before he could do anything. The gadget hit Breeze right in his chest, and he fell to the ground in pain, Ice was still yelling in agony and seemingly to silence him the Thing opened its mouth to reveal a knife-like tongue which dug into Ice’s middle eye. Breeze looked up from the floor to see the two dropping behind one the tables which was one on its side. Breeze crawled on the ground to look for the burner while a disturbing slimy sound echoed around the room, when he found it, he stood up and walked to the table, Sneaks’ body lay into front of it, Breeze walked over to see what was behind it. Behind the table lay a large blob of inexplicably red flesh, moving buldges appeared and disappeared across the blob, apparently something was moving underneath. Suddenly claws appeared from underneath the blob’s skin, once a hole was torn threw the skin a tiny creature crawled out, it looked just like the head of Ice, but it had a small leg with a claw protruding from each of its eyes, it turned around and once it seemingly spotted the room’s exit and started dragging itself towards it. The creature was constantly extreeting a sickly yellow liquid out of its mouth to make dragging itself across the floor easier. Breeze looked down at what remained of Ice and shot it, with a high-pitched wail the creature burst into flames, the trail of yellow liquid it left behind also was set alite and started carrying the flame back to the blob. The ship was hitting the upper atmosphere of the planet, so the room was filled with the bright orange colour of the ship colliding with the air. The blob had gained a new hole in its centre, the moment the flames hit it, the hole grew, and the entire blob unfolded into a flat sheet of flesh covered in teeth and tentacles. In the centre of the sheet there was something curled up into a ball, the ball itself unfurled into a massive monster that resembled a crewmember of the mission but twice in size and covered in reddish orange slime, there was no way something that large had fit in the blob and yet there it stood. It took a slow step forward, Breeze shot it in the chest with the burner, it didn’t react and took another step forward, Breeze shot it again, it stepped ever closer, Breeze’s hand grew shaky as he shot at it desperately, it was giving a loud and ferocious roar while flames covered it’s body agonisingly slower and it inched ever closer to Breeze, Breeze hit the wall, he couldn’t retreat further back, in one last desperate plea he shot at it in several times and dropped to the floor covering his face. A moment later when Breeze was still untouched by the Thing and distorted screeches filled the room, he looked up to see the Thing covered in flames, yet still standing. The Thing ran around the room blindly for a moment before finally falling to the floor, its distorted roar having evolved into a low-pitched growl. Breeze just stood there for a moment, still shaking with fear. Without warning Sneaks jumped up and looked around, “What happened?” He asked, without hesitation Breeze shot him, while he looked at Sneaks writhing on the floor, dying, he thought for a moment. Suddenly Breeze ran off to the control room which was drenched in orange light, when he entered, he walked over to Holes, pointed the burner at his head and pushed the button. Nothing happened, Breeze looked at the burner’s tank and saw that it was finally empty, Breeze and Holes stared into each other’s eyes. Part IV: The Thing. As the ship drew ever closer to the ground, the Thing, the final Thing, revealed itself to the final crewmate, with victorious glee the Thing tore apart and consumed the defenceless Proximian, it had won. A moment later the ship finally hit the ground, the Thing barely felt and the impact, it was staring out of the window (much like its previous enemy had) seeing only white snow. The Thing considered all off shoots and assimilated beings as being of itself, though sometimes they inhabited different bodies it still considered all those unlucky enough to be consumed by it to be itself. It had always been difficult for it to see its enemies kill members of its own species (more like members of itself) right in front of its eyes with nothing it could do but patiently wait to consume the rest of them, but that was always what it was like to be a Thing, to be The Thing. The Thing walked to the Airlock room, it decided arbitrarily to continue being in the form of the Proximian it previously was, it didn’t really matter, it could of course at anytime sprout tentacles and hastily make its way to the Airlock, but Things were nothing but patient. When it finally reached the Airlock room it entered the airlock and opened the door to see nothing but more snow, while Things were patient it was not in the mood to dig, it was still on the high of its victory, a worthless piece of Kinnil meat had grown to be master of the ship and destroyer of its worthless futile mission to save its species. The mind of the Thing was a hivemind, a sort of platform where the memories and experiences of all it had previously assimilated could be united by the ‘general intelligence’, who had the common goal of replication and survival. The Thing’s general intelligence summoned the knowledge of one of the crewmates of this ship, the one they called ‘Maps’, Maps had had a great knowledge of the ship, Maps told the Thing had it could via a hatch above its head. The Thing looked up and there it was, a hatch had led to the top of the ship. Using the knowledge left behind by the Villow’s it expertly used its tentacles to climb up and out of the hatch. The cold air of the Thing’s home hit its extensive senses, the sky was blue, much like the skin of the ship’s crewmates. The ship had carved a crater in the snow, just a bit of climbing and it would be free. Once the Thing climbed out of the crater it walked on, growing ever slowly and slower as it did. It was going to have to sleep here in this snow, for who knows how long, but that’s alright. The Thing finally fell to the ground, it knew its kind had dominated the universe, so one day it would be discovered, even if its kind was successfully taken out as well it knew one day some naive civilisation would dig it up and then it would have more life to corrupt, to reform.

A strange yet familiar sensation washes over my body. I am struggling to open my eyes as if I am paralyzed. It feels like I am stuck in a limbo. Floating. Literally floating. I feel I am deep inside water. My whole body is submerged in it. My heart starts racing. I am feeling a bit light headed. Finally I manage to open my eyes and look around. Even though my eyes open, I can barely see anything. It’s very dark here. I see bits of seaweed floating around me. Some moss. A strange looking cluster of plants that I have never seen in my life. Then to my greatest surprise I see a fish. A fish!!! Wait, did I see that correctly? Yes. And not just one fish, there are plenty of them here. They are everywhere! I am so confused by what I am seeing. Then that strange sensation that I was not able to describe earlier intensifies. I feel anxious. Suddenly as if I had a cup of coffee my brain starts working again. I could tell that I am deep inside a water body. Am I inside an ocean? A river? A pond? I don’t know. There seems to be a thriving ecosystem of plants and fishes here. How did I get here though? I have no recollection of what happened prior to this. Yet it feels as if I voluntarily walked into this water body. So natural. So normal. It’s like one of those dreams where you find yourself back in your high school classroom talking to your friend. The only difference is that I am deep inside a water body, not a classroom. Suddenly I felt I was running out of breath. Or maybe I was running out of breath for the last 2 or 3 minutes and I just started to notice it. How is it possible to not notice you are not breathing? I wiggle my arms and legs. My only chance of surviving is to get to the surface. But I cannot even move an inch. It’s as if I am buried in jelly. It’s too dark for me to see what is preventing me from moving? I struggle with all my might. Anxiety is turning into panic. The darkness is not making things any better. I am almost out of breath. I feel helpless. Suddenly my whole body starts moving upwards to the surface. As if someone put their hands behind my back and pushed me forward. Again it’s too dark for me to tell who this person or creature is. I am just hoping it has benevolent intentions. Either way I am grateful. My lungs were starting to dry up. Before I knew it my face was out of water. I feel a gush of wind in my wet hair. My arms and legs still feel stuck. But I feel myself moving towards the shore. Completely involuntarily.Upon arriving at the shore, I found myself on what seemed like a deserted island. No creature in sight. And this island is not that big by any means. I can make out the shape of this island from where I was standing. I cannot find the mysterious creature that pulled me to the shore. Am I to die of starvation here? Letting me die inside the water would have been more merciful than this long prolonged death. Why was I dragged here? What does this creature want from me? I spot a person in my peripheral vision. I start running towards them. They disappear. I see another person and I start running towards them too and they also disappear. What is happening? I see an object about 100 feet away from me. “Is this an illusion too?” I ask myself. I start walking towards it instead of running. Whatever that thing is, I don’t want to scare it away just like those people. Within a minute or two, I arrived at the spot where I saw that object. Turns out that mysterious object is a motorboat! A motorboat! Am I saved? I look inside the boat and I find keys. I take a good look around me and I don’t see the owner anywhere. Strangely though this boat looks familiar. I own this boat that much I know. Everything inside this boat looked familiar. The smell of it. That old magazine in the shotgun seat that I remember reading a while ago. That can of coke in the bottle holder. The taste of which is still lingering on my tongue. That Taco Bell wrapper on the floor that came with my lunch. Lunch! When did I have my lunch? What time is it now? How long was I in the water? Why can I not remember anything? I hop into the boat. I try to turn it on but it won't start. I try to start it again, it makes a loud noise but nothing happens. I try to turn it on again and it almost starts. This time my whole body starts to shake along with the boat. I hear some muffled voices. “Hurry up!”. I turned the key again and I could feel an electric current passing through the skin on my chest to my heart. The muffled voices get stronger “Almost there!”. I turned the keys again and I felt another electric shock. The boat still did not start. “COME ON!” the voices yell! I turn the keys and hold them down. The whole boat starts shaking and making a loud noise, but it doesn’t start. There is a commotion around me. My eyes open. YES! My eyes open. I thought they were open all this time but they were not. I just opened them. I look around and find myself laying down in sand on what appears to be a beach. I could see the boat that I was trying to start far away from me in the middle of the ocean. A paramedic is staring into my eyes. He is holding what seems to be a defibrillator. He has a look of pure joy and satisfaction on his face. He yells “He is alive”. Clearly this is not the first time he has used a defibrillator. “Your phone fell into the water and you tried to retrieve it. You fell upside down into the water. This gentleman here dragged you to the shore and called 911. You should be careful when you are near a water mister. Especially since you don’t know how to swim and also have a heart condition” said the paramedic in a stern voice.

“Painful Realization” (Part 1 of 3) By P. Orin Zack [Dec 18, 2017]   “Oh, sure,” the affable twenty-something volunteer at the entrance told her, “they’re next up at the cantina stage. Follow that walkway around to the right and watch for the signs.” Anjela Bascomb took the Folklife program booklet he offered, and opened it to the cartoon map of Seattle Center. “Thanks. Have you heard their CDs?” The volunteer stifled an amused chuckle and shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am. I don’t even own a player.” Noticing the man’s stylish earbud, Anjela self-consciously raised her hand towards the hearing aid riding her ear, and strode off into the crowd. She’d flown in for the city’s annual arts and music festival with the hope of re-igniting a spark of what she’d experienced 20 years earlier, but under the circumstances, she had her doubts. In 1977, when she was thirteen, music was her world. She didn’t know why, but there was something special about Fleetwood Mac’s song, ‘The Chain’. She’d played it endlessly, unaware of the interpersonal turmoil from which it arose. The progressive complexity and the energy of it engulfed her life and focused her interests. She paused to watch a busker’s intricate fingerwork, and dropped a dollar into the woman’s open guitar case. “Same make as baby,” she whispered to herself, fondly recalling the Gibson that her folks surprised her with a few months after that single came out. Pretty soon, she’d taught herself to play. But it wasn’t just the music she was after. She wanted to understand how it could express emotion and transform a random gathering of listeners into a kind of living instrument. What she learned was that although a single person could sometimes pull this off, more often it was a collaborative effort. You could see the results in how deeply, and for how long, the music affected people. Twenty years later, she felt that magic again, only this time it was in person: a house concert by the pagan rock group she had come here to see. But that joy was extinguished soon afterwards, when she lost much of her hearing to a drug interaction. As Anjela made her way through the grounds of the festival, she became increasingly aware of the flaws in the quality of the sound granted her by an implant and her new hearing aids. She attempted to compensate for those flaws by mentally blocking out the worst of it, but it was a losing battle. A sign; the cantina stage was just ahead. When she heard the lead singer’s distinctive voice, she stepped up her pace, but then slowed again when she realized he wasn’t singing one of the band’s own songs. The cognitive dissonance chilled her, and left her wistfully recalling the first time she stepped into one of the group’s house concerts. Spotting a freshly vacated stage-side seat, she deftly slipped into the gathering crowd. She wound towards the seat, watching the lute player’s fingers dance across the upper strings while holding down the rhythm line with her thumb. They were playing a cover of Charles Murphy’s Burning Times, and had started to draw a crowd. The song was homage to all of the names the Pagan goddess had been known by over the years, and to all the people who had been persecuted or killed for honoring her. Anjela could accept the history of it, but left the religion to those who preferred a do-it-yourself faith to the more traditional one she’d been raised into. She smiled as she shrugged off her backpack, recalling that the lutenist had once joked that the rhythm in so many of their tunes was actually the founder’s dishwasher in disguise: it seems he composed best in the kitchen. But that didn’t matter to Anjela. She was too entranced by the interplay of fiddle, flute, mandolin and lute to care where the beat came from. One day, the founder declared an end to his current musical incarnation. Like many of their fans, Anjela had mourned the group’s passing. The troupe formed a new act with a different focus, but for her it just wasn’t the same. What she’d been drawn to was the energy in their songs, and that had changed. Attending a house concert back then was like being part of a cozy fire-circle. In the years since they disbanded, she had missed it. Desperately. The best she’d managed to do was surround herself with images that evoked similar feelings, but it was a pale replacement. As was his wont, once they had finished the opening song, the founder worked the crowd for a while and then launched into their signature tune. Although the song was a call to consecration, what really gave it power was the feeling she got as she enacted the ritual in her mind, chanting soundlessly into her star-filled internal night. In the vision, she found herself in a moonlit forest clearing, circling with familiar company around a fire that leaped and swayed to the music. As the song wound back to the chorus, her troubles dissolved and scattered in the warm breeze. The deepening spell drew out the power at her core. She felt the rush of it joining the slow-moving tornado of communal solidarity. The song built towards its climax, raising her anticipation with it. And then, when it abruptly ended, her imagined self would leap into the fire, becoming one with it, and transforming in an eye-blink into a sweetly swirling haze of magickal intention that drifted with the smoke up into the starry sky. And now, here it was. The song was nearly done. In moments, her feeling of oneness with the crowd would be released into the night with the last strains of the song, as everyone snapped back to their selves in the brittle silence that followed. But before any of that happened, the spell fractured: the pure tones of the lute at the center of Anjela’s attention suddenly went jagged. “Damn,” she thought in annoyance as she opened her eyes and glanced around. Distortion, she wondered? Listening intently, she attempted to characterize what she was hearing. It was definitely odd. The effect was more pronounced on transients -- quick sounds on the lute, percussion, and fiddle than on sustained notes. Worse, it came and went, with brief pauses, and then stopped entirely. All she could figure was that something was interfering with her implant. One thing was certain, though: whatever the cause, it pretty much killed the rest of the set for her. Afterwards, while wandering the event grounds, it started again. Only this time, it was stronger. Going on the assumption that it was caused by something nearby, she used the strength of the distortion to try to locate its source. Each time it started, she quickly moved around, and headed towards whichever direction it was more pronounced. She was in mid-stride when she saw him. Off to one side of the walkway, on the sloping lawn that led towards the food stands, two men stood their belligerent ground. Scattered around them at various distances, a number of patrons and buskers were frozen in awkward postures of wary observation. The shorter of the two was holding a horn of some sort in his right hand, keeping it out of reach while he eyed the other man. The latter raised an accusatory finger, but then drew it into a fist. “Look, Bert. I hired you to teach my son how to play that bugle. That was the deal, not for you to brainwash him!” “Cornet,” the musician corrected in a controlled whisper. “I explained the difference when you hired me.” After a breath, he narrowed his eyes and raised his voice ever so slightly. “And brainwashing? What’s that about?” The other shook his head. “He’s changed, damn you! He’s changed. Before you got your hands on him, he wanted to join the army so he could call the signals. Now all he wants to do is play that god-awful jazz crap you taught him.” Anjela cautiously drew closer so she could get a better look. As she did so, a few of the onlookers backed away. Bert raised the cornet in frustration. “Jeez, Mr. Laraby, if you’d bothered listening, you’d realize that he was playing improvisations on the very bugle calls you’re so set on him learning.” He raised it to play. “Like this riff on Morning Mess, for instance.” The first few notes were fine, but then Anjela yelped at the sudden pain in her head when Bert veered off from the traditional bugle call. She staggered back a step and clutched at her ears. But it wasn’t just her hearing that was affected this time: she grew faint, her vision darkening. But then the effect vanished, and as her vision cleared, she saw that Laraby now gripped the cornet, his fingers splayed across the bell. “See? See?” he growled, gesturing towards her. “I told you. Look! That noise you play is dangerous!” Bert pulled the cornet out of Laraby’s grasp, and stepped towards Anjela. He had just reached her when a stern-faced Folklife official interceded. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, “but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” While Anjela caught her breath, an officer approached Bert from the side. “Sir? he said. “We’ve had a complaint filed against you by this man,” he said, indicating Laraby. “I’m not arresting you, sir, but I would like to speak with the two of you to see if we can de-escalate whatever is going on here.” Bert bit his lip while glancing hesitantly at Anjela. Then he pressed the cornet into her hand, released it, and turned to go. Puzzled, she looked up from the instrument and watched as the officer escorted the two men towards the walkway. By the time Anjela thought to look around, the onlookers had all moved on, leaving her alone on the grassy incline holding a puzzling remnant of the conflict. She raised it for a closer look, and ran a finger along the valve casings, which looked like they had spiral ridges wrapped around them. From the rainbow effects where the light glinted off it, she guessed that it wasn’t made of brass. When she examined it more closely, she noticed that there was a very subtle texture, some kind of bas relief-like effect, to the intricately patterned surface. Bert may have said it was a cornet, but she suspected there was more to it than that. And then there was the pain she felt when he played it. What was that all about? And more importantly, why did he leave it with her? Why, indeed? Thoughtblind, Anjela idly drifted back onto the walkway, mulling over all the unanswered questions he had left her with. Some minutes later, she stopped to sniff the air. She must have gotten hungry, because she’d wandered towards the food booths. Looking around, she spotted the source: a souvlaki stand. Tucking the cornet under her arm, she bought lunch, and then found a vacant bench where she could rest and eat. When she was nearly finished, a man holding a sandwich slowly approached, his attention drawn to the instrument beside her on the bench. “That,” he said, gesturing towards it, “is a rather odd piece of work. Cornet, isn’t it?” She nodded, wondering at the man’s careful enunciation. “It’s not mine, though. A busker gave it to me.” He straightened. “Gave it to you?” After a moment, and more to himself than to her, he added, “An instrument, especially a peculiar one like that, is a fairly personal sort of thing.” Then clearly directed at her, he said, “Whatever would he do that for?” Anjela shrugged. “Not a clue. All I know is that my ears hurt when he played it.” The man stepped closer, knelt before the bench, and gestured towards the cornet with his right hand, which twitched slightly as he held it out. “Mind if I examine it?” “Not at all,” she said after finishing the lamb on her skewer. “Do you play?” “I used to.” He carefully re-wrapped his sandwich and placed it on the bench. Then he wiped his hands on a napkin from his pocket, and carefully raised the instrument, his fingers fluttering erratically over the valves. “I hurt my playing hand a while back, and it’s never been steady enough to… well, I satisfy myself these days with a keyboard and some editing software.” When he took a breath and pressed the mouthpiece to his lips, Anjela winced, expecting another jolt of the pain she’d felt earlier. When nothing happened except a trill from some show she couldn’t recall the name of, she absently tapped her hearing aid. The man stopped playing and examined the instrument again. “That might explain it.” “Explain what?” “Your pain. This thing is out of key. Subtly, sure, but it is definitely out of key. No wonder he didn’t want to keep it.” “That may be true,” she said, taking the cornet back, “but I didn’t feel anything when you played it just now. Something else is going on, here.” “Oh?” he said, doubtfully, “like what?” “That’s what I want to find out,” she said as she grabbed her backpack by the strap. “Enjoy the festival.” The man’s face signaled an internal struggle, but he did not turn to leave, so she added, “Is there something else?” “I think…” he said slowly. “I think I’d like to join you. I’m intrigued by why that busker left his instrument with you, even if it was imperfect. In my experience, it is often the imperfect things in life that hold the most meaning for us. Would you mind?” “I guess not, but if we’re going to be spending some time together, I’d at least like to know your name.” He ducked his head subtly, and smiled. “Of course. I’m Ethan. And you are…?” “Anjela.”   Ethan finished the last of his korma and carefully placed his fork, tines down, on his plate before returning to the subject at hand. “Okay,” he said, “so now what? Asking the busker coordinator about him was a waste of time. An ‘ongoing investigation’? Seriously? Just because that jerk filed a complaint about him? Where does that leave us?” She tapped the cornet, which sat between them like a centerpiece, and then drew her fingertip along the intricate design built into its surface. “Just this. Considering that the police are already down on him, I’d rather not drag them into it. So all we’ve really got to go on is this off-key horn.” “Which might actually have been his intent, you know. If he wanted to speak with you, that’s all he really had the time to do.” After they split the dinner tab, Ethan picked up the cornet, and started to examine it again. As Anjela watched, a twenty-something young woman carrying a leftovers box stepped around a nearby table and slowed to look at the instrument in his hand. Angela glanced up at her and said, “Interesting piece, isn’t it? I was kind of gifted it at FolkLife.” The woman stopped walking, and tipped her head slightly. “More than interesting, I’d say. Unique, really.” Ethan set it down again. “Do you know something about it?” “Well, not this one specifically, but I am familiar with that rainbow effect. I’d lay good odds it was 3D printed on an experimental rig at the company I work for.” Anjela nodded. “I guess that explains the peculiar design. You can make anything you want with one of those printers, can’t you?” “Pretty much, yeah. But if this one was made on our setup, I’d be concerned about the IP lawyers. It’s not a released product yet. If our competition got their hands on a sample, they could figure out some of our secrets.” She peered at the instrument again briefly. “And you say someone just handed it to you?” “Mm-hmm.” She chuckled lightly. “The busker coordinator we spoke with said he hadn’t registered with FolkLife this year. Judging from her expression, though, I’m positive she knew who he was. She wouldn’t give us his name or contact info, even though I explained that I just wanted to return his property. He’d been arguing with a client of his, and he pressed the thing into my hand just before an officer led the two of them away.” “I see.” The woman took a deep breath, and glanced worriedly out at the street before continuing. “Look, if you’ve got some time, we might be able to find out more about it and him down at the lab. There’s a record of all the designs run through the printer. One thing, though: if it turns out this piece was a rogue one-off, you might have to give it up until the lawyers say it’s okay. Are you game?” The lab, it turned out, was in an old brewery building in Georgetown, on the south side of Seattle. Anjela knew the area, because she’d spent a fair amount of time at an arcane candle-making shop that used to be there. The neighborhood had changed a lot since then, but it still held a number of surprises, including the covert tech hatchery where the lab was hidden. The crusty old façade they entered had once concealed a nest of artists. That group had made do with the existing warren of large and small spaces, but now the ancient interior sported slickly painted new walls and jarring security doors to separate the various tech startups. The woman handed Ethan her leftovers box as they approached one of the new doors, and pulled out her card-key badge. After glancing at them each in turn, she stage-whispered, “It’s a good thing nobody’s here. I could get fired for this.” Anjela frowned. “I get that. Really. Look, if you can’t help us, that’s fine. We’ll figure out some other way to—.” “But it’d be worth it,” she said, “even if I did.” Ethan leaned in. “Why’s that? And hey, you know, if you’re going to take a risk like that for us, shouldn’t we at least know your name?” After considering him briefly, she said, “It’s Ermaline.” A swipe of the badge past the sensor unlocked the door and turned on the lab’s minimalist indirect lighting. They quietly followed her across the cluttered room to a workstation near the back wall. She thought for a few seconds, then woke it up and logged in. When she did, there was a hum from a piece of jet-black industrial equipment a few feet away, and some hidden interior lights illuminated the empty tray at its center. “Is that it?” Anjela asked, shrugging out of her backpack. “The secret printer?” “Um-hmm. But what I’m looking for is a log entry with a picture of that instrument. It should be tagged with whoever queued the project up.” After a minute or so, she sat back and grinned at Anjela. “Found it.” “So whose job was it?” Before she could reply, the security lock clicked again. The door opened, revealing a 40-ish man carrying a bulky tape-strapped package wrapped in brown paper. He had begun to smile when he spotted Ermaline, but dropped it as his gaze shifted to the two strangers. “Lester—.” “Who the hell are these people,” he said as he started across the room, “and what are they doing here? Have they even been NDAed?” Ermaline rose and took a step towards him. “I can explain.” “You’d better. We’ve got a lot of IP at risk in this lab, and I can’t afford a leak.” “Excuse me,” Anjela said, approaching him, holding the cornet behind her back. Lester took a breath. “If you have something to say, I’ll need to have you sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement first. Ermaline?” Anjela grinned sheepishly and shook her head. “I think it’s a little late for that, if you didn’t want anything from this lab to get out.” After a beat, she swung her arm around and raised the cornet to eye level. “Because there’s this.” His eyes widened. “How did you get that? It was released under strict controls!” “Well, apparently, the man you made it for wasn’t too concerned about that. He showed it off to a bunch of people at FolkLife, and then handed it to me when the police led him away. I’m just trying the find out who he is so I can return it. Oh, and by the way? It’s defective. Ethan says it’s out of tune.” Ethan had taken a step towards them when Lester held out a hand for the instrument. “Okay, okay. Let’s just try to sort this all out. First off, it’s not out of tune. That’s how it was designed. It’s one reason why I agreed to print it for him.” “Print it for who?” Anjela pressed. “That’s all I came here for. I just want to return it, and ask him why he gave it to me.” Lester lowered his arm and shifted to a more belligerent stance. “Our lawyers will want to know why as well. Even showing it in public was a contract violation. That gives us legal recourse against him. But you’re also in jeopardy here. What he did puts you in possession of what is essentially stolen Intellectual Property. If you don’t want to be charged with a felony, you’ll turn it over right now.” Lester again put his hand out for the cornet. “Otherwise, I’ll have no choice but to —.” “What?” Ermaline said, snatching the instrument from Anjela and backing away. “You’ll do no such thing!” He turned to face her. “You’re in no position to interfere in this, Ermaline. Give that to me. Now!” “I checked the log, Lester. You submitted this job to the new fab unit. But you listed it as some kind of ‘materials test’, and reported the output as having been slagged.” She waved the cornet in the air, casting rainbow glints across the room. “That’s clearly a lie. So now the question is, why did you forge the record about this thing? If it’s been destroyed, it could hardly be used as evidence to prosecute either one of them!” Lester looked away. “Call it a matter of convenience, a money-saving trade that was a win for both us and for the man who designed that nightmare. He contacted me out of the blue and asked if he could rent some time on a 3D printer for a project he was working on. Said we seemed suitably obscure, and were listed in the trades as a fab vendor. Thing was, his design was so extreme that it could help us to wring out problems in the microscale capabilities of the new printer. To generate something like that ourselves would have taken months, and expertise that we don’t have in house. So I agreed to print it for him. All we needed was the post-mortem dump from the job, so I let him have the thing in exchange for signing an NDA about it.” Ermaline approached him warily. “Nightmare? What do you mean?” “Remember those microscale features I mentioned?” He gestured at the cornet in her hand. “The ones that make that rainbow effect? Well, there’s apparently more to them than just a fancy texture and optical effects. While I was printing that cornet out, it was doing something to the printer. I don’t know, maybe some kind of bizarre resonance or something. In any case, the effect fluctuated as the piece was being genned up, and it nearly tore the printer apart. Believe me, I was relieved when the job finished, and our baby was still in one piece.” Ethan glanced at the printer and then at Anjela before leveling his gaze squarely at Lester as if it were a loaded howitzer. “Are you saying that this machine of yours, or something it could make, might have some sort of weapons potential?” Anjela flashed back to the pain from earlier, and twitched. “I mean, look…” he continued, “if whatever that effect is could be harnessed, the military might be interested in it.” “If they were,” Lester said heatedly, “they’d probably slap a secrecy order on it, confiscate the IP in the name of national security, and enjoin us from using our own invention. No thanks. That would kill this business. Even if that were a possibility, there’s no way I want to let them get wind of it.” “Then don’t bring it up,” Anjela said flatly. “Let me return the instrument. If you blow this up all out of proportion, you’re going to call attention to things you’d rather suppress. All I want is the name and address of the person you made the cornet for, and that will be the end of it. If he doesn’t know anything about the problems you had making the cornet, then he can’t tell anyone about it.” Lester narrowed his eyes and glared at her for a long moment. He blinked several times, and softened his stance. Finally, he nodded, and said, “Point made. You sign an NDA, and I’ll give you his contact information, but not the cornet. I don’t want it to end up in the wild again. You go talk to him, and tell him to come back here if he wants to get the thing back. Deal?”   Ethan slowed the car as they approached the school’s sports field. “What is that, the third one now?” It was Sunday morning, and Ethan was driving Anjela to the address they’d gotten from Lester the night before. They were about an hour and a half south of Seattle now, in a small town well off the Interstate highway. What had caught Ethan’s eye was a brawl that had broken out on the basketball court. “Don’t ask me,” Anjela said. “I don’t follow the sport. It always looks like they’re fighting to me.” “Well, take my word, then. A good basketball team is like a well-oiled machine, or a jazz troupe. It’s like they’re all sharing a single mind, improvising against the other team’s actions. But this…” He gestured towards the court as one player tripped an opponent who was nowhere near the ball. “Three brawls in one morning? Something’s wrong.” “Whatever it is, it’s none of our business. I just want to talk to Mr. Frensh about that cornet. How much further?” “About a mile. We’re nearly there.” Two men were crowding the entry when they arrived. One of them was standing inside the opened screen door, knocking persistently at the dark wooden door. The other shook his head in disgust and tightened his grip on the small electric chainsaw he was holding. “Open up, Bert!” the first one yelled. “We know you’re in there, and you know damn well why we’re here!” When Anjela and Ethan walked up to them, chainsaw turned and said, “It’s no use. He’s obviously home, but he won’t answer.” Anjela stepped closer. “He’ll want to talk to me.” The first man backed up and held the screen door open for her. “Go ahead. But I can tell you right now, you’re just wasting your time.” She placed her palm on the wooden door, and took a deep breath. “Mr. Frensh? I had something of yours. A cornet. If you want it back, open the door!” The door swung open a crack. “What do you mean, ‘had’?” “Let us in, and I’ll tell you.” “'Us’ who?” “Anjela Bascomb, and a musician friend, Ethan. According to him, the cornet you handed me is out of tune.” After a few seconds, Bert said, “Okay,” and opened the door. “But just you two.” Anjela entered, and then Ethan, but as soon as he crossed the threshold, the man holding the screen door started to move. Bert quickly stepped past Ethan, threw himself at the door, closed it, and latched it. After a breath, he turned, ashen-faced, towards Anjela.“I repeat: what do you mean, ‘had’?” “Just what I said. I don’t have it any more.” Bert eyed her suspiciously for a beat. Then he frowned and cautiously skirted around his two visitors, finally stationing himself protectively between them and whatever secrets were harbored deeper in his home. “If you don’t have it, then where is it? Who has it?” Anjela glanced quickly around the room. The place was pretty Spartan, but there were hints here and there about the man’s interests. Behind Bert, in the far left corner, was a workbench with a disassembled saxophone and an assortment of tools and parts. Across from it to the right was a bookcase, but she was too far away to make out any of the titles. All she could tell for sure was that some of the volumes had the look of well-read textbooks, while others were slim oversized items with plastic spines, which she guessed might be sheet music. Directly behind him, in the center of the room, was a lone chair, comfortable from the look of it, with a reading lamp and a small table holding a half-eaten sandwich. She made eye contact again, and said, “A man named Lester has it, the man who fabricated it for you in Georgetown. And he’s none too pleased that you let it out of your possession. Now you answer my question: why did you give it to me?” “It was the only thing I could think of when you reacted like that. I didn’t have time to talk, what with the police up my ass, and you’re the only one who could tell me what I did wrong.” Ethan’s hand twitched when he raised it for pause. “Excuse me, sir. Forgive me for interrupting, but how could she know that?” “Before she collapsed, I didn’t even know there was a problem. But without Ms. Bascomb’s help, I’d have no way to find it, much less fix it.” Anjela exhaled sharply. “So it was your cornet that caused all that pain? How?” “Yes,” Ethan said. “We tested that hypothesis. She didn’t have that pain when I played it. Doesn’t that mean it’s you, and not the cornet?” “What it means is that there must be some other variable. Can I offer you two something to drink? Come on out back so we can talk it over.” When they stepped out the back door carrying glasses of Bert’s special blend of iced tea, Angela froze at the sight of an enormous sculptural tree, eight feet of fixed and movable branches, heavily hung with what looked like a cross between thick bean pods and the reed end of a clarinet. The light breeze had set the pods tinkling as they touched, while also stirring up a cacophony of hums and whistles. “Is, um…,” she said, raising her glass to point it out, “is that what those men at the door wanted to talk to you about?” Bert smiled. “I doubt they wanted to talk. That was a chainsaw I glimpsed out there, wasn’t it?” “Yeah.” “Neighbors,” he said with a derisive shake of his head. “They don’t like my work. But that’s no surprise. I’ve had a succession of people griping about one thing or another ever since I moved here. If it’s not the noise, it’s how I dress, or why I refuse to join them at whatever church they go to.” He brushed it aside with a wave of his hand. “Not important. You came here about the cornet, Ms. Bascomb. Tell me a story.” She sat down and took a sip of her tea before answering. “A story. Okay.” She turned her head slightly and pointed to her ear. “I’ve got an implant and a hearing aid. And until this weekend, they worked perfectly. But once I got to FolkLife, something started happening. At first, I thought the intermittent distortion was just some glitch, a bad battery or whatever. But it got worse, and it turned out to be directional: it got stronger when I walked towards whatever the source was. That’s how I tracked you. But once I was close, when you played that military trill, it went beyond distortion… beyond painful actually. And the next thing I knew, you were pushing a cornet into my hand and being led off by some cop.” She paused. “Now you tell me a story: how the hell does a cornet do any of that?” “Yeah,” Ethan echoed, “and why did it tear up the machine it was made with?” Bert was visibly surprised. “It what?” “You didn’t know about that?” “No.” “Lester thought it might have been some sort of resonance. He was relieved that your printing job didn’t wreck his prototype, and take his business down with it.” Bert was silent for a long moment, and kept glancing at the sculpture. Then he slowly stood up, while eyeing the pseudo-tree suspiciously. He took a few steps towards it, and then turned around. “A resonance, you said?” Ethan nodded. “Does this have anything to do with your neighbor with the chainsaw?” “Indirectly.” He shifted his attention to Anjela. “Did you notice anything unusual about my cornet? Physically, I mean.” “Well, yeah. The patterned texture on the surface, and the rainbow effect, which was how we found the lab that made it for you. Why?” Bert walked to the ‘tree’, unhooked one of the musical bean pods, and brought it over to them. He thumbed a catch and opened it to show them the interior. “The inside of the cornet is a bit like the inside of this pod. Do you see the angled surfaces, like here, and here? They’re not for affecting sound waves, even though they do have an effect on them. What they do is help to focus and direct a different kind of energy. A sort of chi, I suppose you could call it, that’s all around us.” Anjela waved him off. “All right. I’ve heard enough. What does any of this have to do with what happened with my hearing aid?” “I’m getting to that. I made these pods myself. They’re larger, and I could work directly on the interior. That wasn’t possible with the cornet. That’s why I needed Lester’s prototype printer to make it.” “So what?” she said in annoyance. She rose and took a few steps towards him. “What’s the point? What’s supposed to happen when you focus this chi, and why didn’t it happen when Ethan played the cornet?” Bert’s voice went suddenly soft, as if he were holding a fragile thought and didn’t want to break it. “When did it happen when I played the cornet? Did you feel that pain immediately, or after I’d been playing for a while?” She thought back, and replayed the moment in her mind. “Not immediately. You’d played a few notes, took a breath, and when you continued, it hit me like a freight train. Why?” “That’s it!” he said suddenly, thrusting his arms out in excitement. “It worked!” Ethan grabbed his wrist. “It worked? You’re happy you hurt her?” He looked over at Anjela. “Lester was right, this is some sort of weapon!” “Weapon?” Bert said, freeing his arm. “No, it’s not a weapon.” “Then why,” Anjela snapped, “did it hurt me? Why did it almost wreck the printer?” “Because it’s defective. I did something wrong. It wasn’t supposed to have that kind of effect at all!” “Oh, I see. What was is supposed to do?” “And while we’re at it,” Ethan said tightly, “what was that musical tree you built supposed to do, and what is it actually doing? Do you even know?” Bert stepped away from them and gazed again at his musical tree. “What I do know, thanks to Ms. Bascomb, is that the intricate design of the cavity inside the cornet responded to the shift in chi that happened when I started improvising.” He turned back towards them. “But, as you’ve told me, it didn’t use that energy correctly. That design is based on the tenets of Sacred Geometry, just like the interior of the pods on my tree. It was supposed to enhance the emotional effect that a talented musician can have on the audience. But instead…” he trailed off. “Instead,” Anjela finished the thought for him, “it did the opposite. That geometry of yours played hob with my hearing aid. But why?” “Why? Maybe because the implant changed the shape of your cochlea, and it resonated. I think I can fix that, but I’ll only know for sure if you’ll help me.” Ethan glanced from one of them to the other in the brittle silence that followed. Then he shook his head and stood up. “Maybe you can, but I suspect there’s a bigger problem to deal with first.” He gestured at the tree. “That thing is a heck of a lot larger than your cornet, and the cornet affected Anjela from across Seattle Center. What’s the range of the tree, and what is it doing to people? That guy with the chainsaw might have the right idea: this thing should be destroyed!” “No, no no!” Bert protested. “Whatever it’s doing, I can fix it, too. But we can disable it right now by removing all the pods and opening them.” “By all means,” Anjela said, “disable that thing before it hurts anyone else. But if you think I want you experimenting on me so you can refine your art, you can go find yourself another guinea pig. I only flew back to Seattle to see a band at FolkLife, and you’ve ruined that for me. Then I blew the rest of the weekend trying to return that musical weapon of yours. If you really want it back that much, you know where it is. I’m done. “ She took a breath. “Ethan, let’s get out of here. I’ve got a plane to catch.

Knives sank into her soft skin, tears of crystal cascading from her fearsome eyes, her palpitating heart weakening by the second. She clawed desperately at the ledge that schemed to drop her 5,000 feet onto the ruthless earth below. Memories of innocent days flashed before her eyes, when life was simple and untainted. Hours spent playing with her dolls, mesmerized by Tori’s radiant purple hair and Chelsea’s enchanting color-changing mermaid tail. Love was simple then, defined by "mommy and daddy love me," not yet corrupted by how she looked or what she did. She smiled brightly at her friends, their laughter a reward for the creative little shows she’d put on just to make them happy. Never doubting her capability—*Of course I can!* Her body was a tool, incomparable to another. When she saw a pretty girl, she admired her beauty without a trace of envy. Back then, she did not hide inside a hellish shell of toxicity. But one day she grew up, and hope slipped through her fingers. Hope for a better love. For a brighter future. For a fulfilling life. *How did my life become like this?* she thought, her fingers slowly slipping off the edge. She shut her eyes, tremendous panic consuming her lifeless self. Cold sweat drenched her back, making her tremble. *I’m so worthless. So weak.* The knives plunged deeper, ferociously tearing at her soul. She felt the last of her strength draining from her frail body. *I will never be enough.* She was barely hanging on. The last finger was about to slip, and she would plummet thousands of feet to her merciless death. *I can’t do it.* She opened her eyes, and a strange relief washed over her. The light breeze she felt seconds before intensified, and for some reason, confusion enveloped her for the two seconds before her vision went black and all her senses vanished. *Where did she go?* Black hole. That’s where she went. The Black Hole is as ominous as it sounds - a pit of nothing but darkness. However, within the darkness, things become more sinister. This kind of darkness is composed of many things: self-hatred, anger, and even jealousy, for jealousy can lead to one’s downfall. What’s fascinating is that most of these issues stem from the burdens of society. But, in truth, it’s our own perception of these standards that pushes us down to our knees and wrings our necks until we are compelled to call for help. A girl’s worst enemy is herself. She was now faced with utter silence, unable to even hear her own heartbeat. For minutes, she looked around her, desperately seeking an object, any object. She moved her hands and arms around, trying to feel. She stayed quiet, straining to hear. Maybe a chirping bird or the movement of lake water on a windy day. She longed to smell her mother’s cooking or the memorable sushi she ate at that one nice place in California. But there was nothing in this Black Hole. A mirror suddenly appeared in front of her, and she flinched backwards, startled by its presence. When she looked into the mirror, she could not see herself. Only the darkness that had consumed her. *Where are you? Why can’t I see you? Come back, please,* she frantically thought while floating inside the pit of her own making. That’s when she realized, *you* and *I* were different people. Her brain worked analytically, a quality of hers that was noticed by those around her. Yet it was a strength that she herself was blind to. *I’ll get us out of here,* she vowed. *I promise.* A spark ignited within her. She began kicking her legs and throwing her body around, screaming, “I want to get out!” For the first time in months, her being was captured by a very powerful feeling called motivation. She screamed until she could be heard. The loud thumping of her heart pounded in her ears, reverberating through her entire being. Her body was enveloped in a soft fabric, and her back was drenched in sweat. She opened her stinging eyes and saw the cream-colored ceiling above her. Outside the window to her right, a brown-chested bird landed on a tree branch, chirping. Another bird joined, and together they performed a melodious duet. She smiled, a tear rolling down her rose-colored cheeks. *Finally, we can breathe.* She gently closed her eyes, breathing in, and breathing out.

Everyone has lost someone in their life. Whether it's death, war, age, or just simply life working against you, it happens. I like to think that somehow, the universe tells people what you are secretly thinking about them in ways of their own thoughts, but they just assume it's their personal thoughts and ignore it. That maybe he is out there sitting on his couch with the same words I’m pouring onto this page roaming through his head, as he pushes them to the back because they feel like a distant memory of a movie he watched 15 years ago. You don’t know both sides of my story, and you probably never will. I wish I could read his words on a page, however I probably never will either. He looks so elegant in his suit. The trim lies perfectly on his neck and the sleeves fall low enough to reveal only a bit of his wrist tattoos. His hair sits buzzed and stiff the lines of war written on his face aren't as apparent anymore. He looks at peace, and the warmness inside my soul is happy for him in that aspect. I imagine the sounds of his stone-cold voice in my head and the way he laughed when he got nervous. He looks like he is almost smiling now that I think about it. The people around are all dressed to perfection as well, in suits, dresses, and heels and it feels somber. People are master manipulators and the fake faces are almost laughable. Chairs scraping and low mumbles of vulgar conversations fill the void of silence as the smell of cedar and orchids engulfs my lungs. The people pass me but I don't speak, why should I? My face is almost as fake as theirs, the smile is anyway. The flowers all around me are intoxicating as my migraine from last night is yet to subside. I don't sleep well anymore so swollen eyes and migraines are a new norm combined with my only viable sleep aid, Xanax. I managed to apply enough makeup today to cover the drug-induced coma aftermaths. My navy blue ankle-length sundress moves against the wind and I realize I have zoned out again and I am staring at him. The way his lips always set perfectly thin in an ice-cold expression would scare off anyone initially, then you hear the velvet warmth in his voice, hard, cold, and stern, but warm, to me at least. The chime of the piano brings me back to reality again and the doors close. Chairs grumble against the floor as everyone sits and hushes each other. The song continues on until it fades away and the doors behind us open. The doors reveal her, in a lacy front, embroidered shoulder white floor-length ball gown and her hair half-up, half-down with tight front curls. She is holding a sunflower bouquet, my favorite flower. Her hair is a hazel auburn but I can see her gem-green eyes from my far corner seat. Her makeup doesn't look cakey, smudged, or timely, it's perfect. I pull my eyes away from her and back to him. His diamond-edged blue eyes are focused on her solely and I swear I can see them well up a little. Mine do too. Not because of her beauty or the pureness of this moment, but because I see the life in his eyes come back. I wanted to be the light in his soul. We all sit back down but it is pointless for me to pay any attention to the ceremony, I can't focus on anything but the way he looks at her. The clapping takes me back to reality and I look up to see her laying in his arms and their lips pressed together. They stand back up straight and smile. When he looks to his right he pauses, only for a brief second and his smile fades. The cold expression on his face returns and it is as if his entire world comes to a halt. Our eyes meet and the breath in both of our lungs fails to return. I want to look away but I don't, I want him to know I was here for the worst moment of my life and I'd always be for the best of his.

# Chapter 2: Memories Ten years ago, the playground was empty except for a lone figure seated on the swings. Young Koji sat hunched over, his small frame trembling with each stifled sob. The weight of his emotions was too much for him to bear; he felt isolated and overwhelmed, like he was sinking into a pit of despair. The cool evening air did little to soothe his anguish, and the sky seemed to mirror his inner turmoil with its encroaching darkness. Koji's eyes were red and puffy, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He had always been a quiet child, but tonight, the silence around him was oppressive. His heart felt like it was being squeezed, and he could barely keep himself upright. Each tear that fell seemed to echo his self-blame and frustration. He kept asking himself why this was happening and why he couldn’t do anything to stop it. Just as the shadows began to deepen, a flickering light emerged from the edge of the playground. A young girl appeared; her face illuminated by the streetlight as she approached him with an expression of concern. Her presence seemed almost surreal, like a beacon of hope piercing through the darkness. “Are you okay?” she asked softly, her voice gentle and soothing like a balm to his troubled soul. Koji struggled to compose himself, his voice trembling as he tried to respond. “Yeah,” he sniffed, “I’m alright.” The girl’s gaze remained steady, her eyes reflecting empathy and understanding. “No, you are not okay. What has you down in the dumps?” she asked, her tone insistent but kind. Koji stared at her, feeling a mix of disbelief and relief. It was as if her appearance was a dream, a temporary escape from his overwhelming sadness. He wondered if she was just a figment of his imagination, conjured up by his desperate need for comfort. With a deep breath, Koji managed to articulate his fears. “My mother is in the hospital, and she might not make it through the night. I do not know why, but I feel like it is my fault.” His voice broke, and he continued, “I wish it was me and not her.” The girl’s expression grew more concerned, and she sat down beside Koji on the swing, her presence offering a tangible sense of warmth. “In what way is it your fault?” she asked gently, her eyes searching his for an answer. “I don’t know,” Koji admitted, his face streaked with tears. “It just feels like I did something wrong. I wish I could change it.” The girl took Koji’s trembling hands in her own, her touch surprisingly warm and soothing. She reached into her pocket and retrieved a small, delicate necklace, holding it out to him. “Here,” she said, placing the necklace into his hands with a reassuring smile. “Take this.” Koji looked at the necklace with confusion. It was a simple pendant on a thin chain, but there was something about it that seemed significant. “Why are you giving me this?” he asked, his voice filled with both curiosity and skepticism. The girl’s smile widened; her eyes filled with a kind of quiet conviction. “Trust me,” she said softly. “Your mother will live to be 100 years old if you wear this.” Koji studied the girl’s earnest face, her sincerity evident in every line of her expression. For the first time that day, he felt a flicker of hope. The necklace seemed like a small but powerful token of reassurance. “Thank you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “What is your name?” The girl’s eyes sparkled with a gentle light as she introduced herself. “My name is Emi. Emi Sato. And you are?” Koji managed a shy smile, feeling a sense of connection despite the heavy weight on his heart. “I’m Koji Kato.” Emi’s smile grew brighter. “Do you want to play on the swings?” she asked, her voice full of youthful enthusiasm. Koji felt a surge of relief and comfort from her presence. For the first time, he didn’t feel entirely alone. “I’d love to,” he replied, grateful for the distraction and companionship. As they swung together, the rhythmic motion and Emi’s cheerful chatter began to ease Koji’s fears. He found solace in her company, the warmth of her friendship providing a much-needed respite from his anxiety. For the first time that day, he felt a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness, and the weight of his worries seemed to lift, if only a little.

They knew it was going to be trouble, but no one expected this. Hannah groans, the aggressive sound of her forefinger erasing the sentence. She stares at the cursor, her frustration growing each time it flashes, the blank page taunting her. Maybe if I just type a stream of consciousness, the inspirational floodgates will burst open, like that time they were draining the Coulee dam. Just seeing words on the page will help, right? Or maybe I will just end up with nothing usable because my brain is mush right now and this was the dumbest thing I’ve ever agreed to. I just need one…good…idea. “Ugh!” Hannah again furiously mashes the backspace buttons, once again clearing the page. “Motherf—where did my creativity go? So many ideas, notebooks full, but nothing sparks.” She reaches out with a sigh, stroking the soft gray tabby perched on the nearby ottoman. “At least you haven’t left me, Smoke. You’re always here, within reach. Probably more for your benefit than mine, though.” The cat responds with a soft chirp and blinking eyes before standing, back arched in a stretch. Hannah absently scratches around Smoke’s ears, chuckling at the headbutts into her palm. “Demanding, aren’t we?” “Mrreow!” Reaching out a paw to tap her human’s leg, Smoke gives another chirp, jumping down and sauntering towards the open office door. Stopping, the feline stares at Hannah as if waiting to be acknowledged. “All right, all right. Let’s go see what you need. It’s about dinnertime, and I’m not getting any work done anyway.” Hannah follows as Smoke slinks through the hallway, the cat periodically glancing back to make sure she hasn’t lost her human. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Even before reaching the kitchen, Hannah hears the empty slorping sound of Smoke’s drinking fountain as it fails little more than air through the spout. “Ok, Smoky babe, let’s get you some water.” Opening the fridge, she absently grabs a bottle of water, nudging Smoke out of the way with her foot. “Move, cat, so I can close the flippin’ fridge.” Smoke meows again, staring up at Hannah as she paces, weaving between Hannah’s legs. “Yeah, yeah.” Hannah opens up the fountain. Twisting off the cap of the water, she yelps as it slices through the pad of her forefinger. She pinches it, winching, before shaking it out. “Damn.” Looking at the cut, she shakes her head. “Klutz.” At least it’s not too deep. As Hannah begins pouring in the water, she hears the front door slam, followed by the fast click-clack of high heels on the hardwood floor. She nearly drops the bottle at the screeching from behind her. “What the actual fuck, Hann?! Why are you giving my water to your ancient hag of a cat!” “Um, because she needs water?” “Give her tap water, then! Not my good water, God! That’s purified water from volcanic lakes — it’s imported from South America, for fucks sake!” “Good Gods, Jill. I’ll pay for your damn fancy water. Calm down before you give yourself a nose bleed.” “You should talk! You’re the one bleeding into your cat’s water. Freak — you probably are doing some sort of weird spell to voodoo me or whatever.” Hannah wiggles her fingers at Jill, moaning as she fights back her laughter. “OooOOOoooo. Curses!” “You are such a freaking weirdo. I can’t believe we’re related. God! And now your freaky weirdo cat is drinking your blood water!” Hannah turns to see that Smoke is, in fact, licking up water from the open fountain. As she steps forward, Smoke begins to…smoke. Steam rising from her, billowing forward. “What in the hell? Smoke!” A panicked Hannah grabs the cat, pulling her from the thick smoke. “Are you…shrinking? Oh god!” The two sisters stare, mouths agape, as Smoke begins change, her fur getting shinier and muscles firming up. “Hannah — is she getting younger? What did you do?” “I-I don’t know, Jilly-bean! I didn’t do anything different than any other day. She just…she was sleeping before, then drank your volcano water.

Thrift stores provide a rocky emotional journey, from sad things like homemade Father’s Day mugs, to the nostalgia of worn-out Perry Como LPs, every item tells a story. Prized toys cast aside as kids grow up, Christmas sweaters hand-knitted by grandmothers but now too small, dresses or suits worn for dates or weddings or funerals but no longer needed or deemed no longer fashionable -- all of it ends up here. And of course bags of clothing as well as countless boxes of books and household items get donated when someone dies, it all ends up here. On that day I was shopping for a computer keyboard but wasn’t having much luck, most of them looked beat up or worn out. So I was excited to spot a good one, a shiny black USB keyboard with the cable neatly bundled for only five dollars. Well worth the gamble, it wasn’t like five dollars was gonna kill me. Back at home my housemate Chris was at the kitchen table eating dinner. He was a nice guy going through a tough time; his sister had died only a month before. Somehow he was still going to work and attending class, but I don’t know how he is handling it. And he didn’t want to talk about it. His sister Mary was only 25 but she had taken her own life. “How’s it going?” he said. “Not bad, I finally found a decent keyboard,” I said. “Cool. If you’re hungry there’s a whole pot of chili,” he said. “By the way, when is the funeral for Mary?” I said. “Next Saturday at two,” he said, looking down. I poured myself a tall glass of ice tea as I cleaned the keys of my new keyboard, eager to get my computer working again so I could get back into my daily writing habit. At my office desk I plugged the keyboard into my PC and switched it on. As I sat in my office chair, my cat saw this as his cue and so he jumped up then settled in my lap. I created a new document in my word processor and got to work. But then suddenly a strange thing happened, the caps lock light blinked on, then off. Then the light began to flash. As I tried to type, each and every key refused to move, as if they resisted each key press. Oh great, this keyboard is totally messed up, I thought. But then a few keys did work. So I pressed a few keys at random to see which ones were jammed. I glanced up at the screen, I had typed: HELP How ironic, I laughed and thought to myself. So once again I tried pressing more random keys, but once again only a few letters worked, on a new line I had typed: PLEASE Wow, maybe I need a drink, I thought. Once again I pressed random keys to try to free up the keyboard.

She was born beautiful and holy. They all were. They were blessed to be the most wondrous specimens of life to ever grace the earth. Every moment they were in the world would be perfection and nothing less. Their lot in life, now and forever, was one of sheer bliss. Lesser men would have called it paradise. Alas, perfection could not last long in an imperfect world. Her kind lived for only five days, five hours, five minutes, and five seconds. They had an exquisite sense of time so that they could handle their affairs as they thought best in that time. She knew that what would make her life complete was love. Not just the love of her parents and friends. She wanted, no, she needed someone who understood her truly. Who wanted every bit of her as she wanted them. A lover for whom she could be beloved. She set out to find him on her second day. It was a trial. Their lives were beautiful for how short they were and so their kind had learned to cram as much pleasure into every interval of time as possible. She spied him as he was going about his business. Flapping about on those delicate iridescent wings. –*Hello*, she said. –*Fancy meeting you here.* –*You're late.* But he said this with a mischievous grin. She had to show that she could match his energy. –*Where have you been all my life?* she asked. –*Waiting for someone like you*, he returned. And that was it. It was decided in a moment. They were in love. They could be nothing else. They flirted about for the next few days taking the pleasures of their young love. They smiled at the world seeing the beauty of their love reflected back at them and enjoying their utopia all the more for it. On the third day they had children, hatched within the day and growing fast. On the fourth day they were grown and off to live lives of their own. Their own allotted spans of five days, five hours, five minutes, and five seconds. On the fifth day the two of them invited everyone they knew who was still alive to a grand party. Their children returned one last time to bid their parents farewell. It gratified her that they loved their mother. When they woke up the next morning they knew it wasn't their sixth day. It was their first of five hours. They had breakfast. They took their time. A leisurely flight around the lake where they had courted, a stroll to watch the latest generation of the happy and blessed. They took certain delights in their own company. Five minutes remained to them now. What was there to be done? Were there any regrets left, any old sins to be absolved? There was none of that in a perfect life and so the five minutes passed in silence. He broke the last silence in those last moments. –*Were you…?* She understood what he wanted to ask. She placed an appendage over his lips. –*Yes.* He smiled at her for the last time. And they died happily ever after.

“Painful Realization” (Part 2 of 3) By P. Orin Zack [Dec 18, 2017]   Lambert Frensh stood in numb disbelief, staring into the opened windflute pod in his hand, rocking it gently as the midday sun glinted off of its intricately carved interior. Before Ms. Bascomb had arrived, all he knew was that his cornet was somehow responsible for causing her pain. Now that she’d gone, he knew that there was a flaw in how the cornet’s interior focused the player’s chi. What he didn’t know was the nature of that flaw, and his only way of testing any fix had just headed back home, wherever that was. He knew one other thing: his neighbor was angry enough about the tree to want to take a chainsaw to it. If that same defect also affected the pods, how many other people had he hurt? After some thought, he wrapped his hand around the pod, propping it open with his middle finger and went to speak with Iain Goldric, his neighbor with the chainsaw fetish. When the door opened, Bert held out the pod and met the man’s glare as calmly as he could manage. “I’ve taken the pods down, so it won’t make any more noise. I brought one as a peace offering.” Iain flashed a grimace. “It’s my squad you need to make peace with, Bert,” he said. “Our quests have gone to shit since you built that eyesore, and they’ve sworn off coming here to Dungeon. How’re you gonna fix that?” “They’ve what?” Bert said, taken aback. “I thought you were just pissed about the noise.” “Get real,” Iain said. “We’re easily louder than your tree. It’s more like that thing of yours emits some kind of dark magic. I mean, look: there’s something similar in the spellbook we use, but that’s part of the game. This was real! What the hell did you do?” Bert took a long breath. “That’s what I want to know. Can we talk? Maybe you can help shed some light on this for me.” “If you can put an end to this nonsense, then sure. Come on in.” Over a local microbrew, Bert opened the pod he’d brought and showed Iain its carefully crafted interior. At the mention of Sacred Geometry, though, the discussion ground to a halt. “But why?” Iain asked for the second time. “Look, I get that you think the shape of the cavity causes this chi energy you’ve been going on about to resonate. I get that. I do. What you haven’t explained is why you wanted to make it resonate in just this way? Is it supposed to do something? Is it supposed to have some specific effect? Look. In our quests, we agree to step into a fictional space so we can experience it from the inside. But there are rules. Just like our own world runs on the rules of physics, chemistry and biology, the one we quest in also has rules for magic. Violate those rules, and everything breaks down. Your spells won’t work. Society crumbles. Chaos reigns. So what were you trying to accomplish by shaping this chi with Sacred Geometry?” Bert was dumbfounded by the intensity with which his neighbor had gotten to the point. And he had to admit that it was a blind spot that had escaped him. “It… well, when I started work on the piece, I wanted to capture the energy of a group effort and reinforce it. You know, to help people do things better as a group.” “Man, if that was what you were after, Bert, then it’s a good thing that magic isn’t a part of this world. Didn’t you consider the implications? If a wizard was that sloppy, things would escalate so fast it would make your head spin!” “What do you mean?” Iain went compute-bound momentarily, lost in thought. “It’s simple, Bert,” he said finally. “The only thing a spell like that would accomplish is to over-clock group efforts, any group efforts. They’d all go into overdrive. It’s like adding accelerant to a fire. You’d get increased activity, and probably more ferocity, but there’s no direction. The only thing you’d accomplish is drowning out any action instigated by individuals.” Bert was about to reply, when Iain’s phone buzzed. After a prolonged messaging flurry, Iain got up, bit his lip in thought, and said, “I think we just got a demo. Come on.” The town park was about a mile away. En route, Iain briefed Bert on the costumed period role-play that his friends engaged in, and the mock battles that they held at events. His friends were at the park today to practice, and were using padded-PVC boffer sticks for weapons. Iain’s friend had texted because someone got hurt, which triggered a real fight. The flashing lights of an arriving patrol car had started reflecting off the chain-link fence flanking them by the time they entered the park. As they passed the fence, Bert recognized the familiar voice calling for a truce through a bullhorn, and glanced back over his shoulder. It had been Officer Lonique Foster who had intervened a few months earlier when he had a run-in with an irate member of a local church. While Officer Foster was checking on the downed fighter, Iain introduced Bert to his friend Jack, and asked what had happened. “It was strange,” he said, leaning on a boffer stick like it was a cane. “Normally, we pick up on each other’s signals without even thinking about it, but today, nothing went right.” “Signals?” Iain prompted. “Well, yeah. After a while, we learned to read each other’s tells. It’s nothing overt, but enough to know what they’ll do next, so you can play into it for effect while keeping yourself safe. Makes the combat more real for the crowd.” “So,” Bert said, catching on, “your fights are kinda sorta choreographed on-the-fly? Like stunt players on a movie shoot?” “Something like that, yeah. Only today, it didn’t gel.” “Had that ever happened before?” “Never.” “Wait a minute,” Iain said suddenly. “Don’t you normally use a school gym for practice?” Jack nodded. “Sure. But it was booked this weekend, so we ended up here. Why?” Bert caught Iain’s drift. “Bear with me for a moment. How far away from here is that school?” “About 10 miles. Why?” “Because I may be responsible for this.” “You what? How?” “That’s kind of hard to explain. But if we’re right, you shouldn’t be having the problem any more. Is there any chance your squad could take another whack at it?” Bert and Iain followed Jack’s line of sight as he scanned the area. Officer Foster was examining one combatant’s boffer stick. The rest were either packing up, or were already leaving the park. “Sorry. I don’t think so. Look, Iain, I’ve got to get going. See you later, okay?” Bert continued watching the officer while Iain and Jack engaged in some hasty small talk. “Come on,” he said to Iain once Jack had gone, “I’ve got an idea.” By this time, Officer Foster had finished her discussion and was chatting with someone on her walkie. Bert trotted over, with Iain close behind, and slowed when she made eye contact and raised a finger for him to wait until she was finished. “Mr. Frensh,” she said with a chuckle, “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with this, did you?” “Actually…” he said sheepishly, “I might. It’s a theory. We were hoping you could, well, either confirm it or blow the idea out of the water.” She straightened, and considered him briefly. “A theory? That’s a new one. Last time you caused a ruckus it was pretty obvious how you did it. I mean, really, how did you expect those missionaries would react when you offered to pray with them from the Satanic Bible?” Bert stifled a laugh. “Hey, it was their idea to pray with me. And besides, they said I could use whichever bible I wanted.” “I’m pretty sure that wasn’t what they meant. But getting back to today’s incident, why do you think you’re responsible? It started before you got here.” “That’s a bit harder to explain. Maybe we can approach it from a different direction. Have there been an increased number of incidents within a few miles of here in the last few weeks? Specifically, were there brawls like this where people were supposed to have been engaged in close teamwork?” Officer Foster gave him a puzzled look, and then thought for a moment. “You mean like fights at ball games?” He nodded. “Not just ball games,” Iain said. “My Dungeon squad nearly came to blows, too.” “I see,” she said, narrowing her eyes in thought. “Would that include kids losing their shit at a neighborhood basketball game? Happened to my son last night.” “Where’s the court?” Bert asked. “Down at the school. A couple miles from here.” Bert and Iain glanced at each other, and then nodded assent. “You’re both serious,” Officer Foster said. “Can we take this discussion down to the station?”   Bert watched anxiously as Officer Foster ran her finger over the angled pattern of ridges lining the interior of the musical pod that lay open before her on the interrogation room table. He’d started by describing the sculptural tree from which they had been hung. “The thing made quite a racket, too,” Iain added. “Those pods ring like wind chimes. If the breeze is strong enough, they also whistle. Well, maybe moan is a better word. But they’re all playing or whistling different notes, and each one is distorted in some way, so it’s not exactly what you’d call soothing.” “Okay, Mr. Frensh,” she said. “I understand how the noise from this tree of yours might bother the neighbors. But how could it affect people a mile away? And how could it disrupt people’s ability to read one another’s body language, as Mr. Goldric contends?” Bert paused for a long moment, considering his words carefully. “Please bear with me on this. You’ve seen what we think are the effects. The cause isn’t exactly what you’d call ‘accepted science’, even though the principles are ancient and have informed a lot of eastern thought and practice. In a word, it’s chi.” Officer Foster slumped. “Chi?” she echoed. “Seriously?” “You don’t have to believe me, ma’am. If I was charged, I’m sure the case would get laughed out of court. But I still think that what I did was at least partially responsible for that fight.” “And others,” Iain added, “like at your son’s basketball game.” “Well, we can talk informally, then. How can I help?” “We think the effect is range-limited,” Bert said. “Certainly less than 10 miles from my house. I started mounting the pods a few weeks ago, and pulled them all down about the time you got called to the park. So the effect would have ramped up during that period, and then ended abruptly.” “All the police reports are on the website. You’d have to map them, but I think we’ve got enough in the descriptions for you to decide—.” She stopped at the rap of knuckles against the door. “Lonique,” the officer said after opening the door partway, “did I see you go in there with Lambert Frensh?” “Yeah, why?” “We’ve got a kid here, a teenager from town. County brought him down. He was in a donnybrook up at the college. Said he was trying to prevent some violence, and claims he was put up to it by your Mr. Frensh. Want to talk to him?” “Sure. Send him in. What’s his name?” The officer glanced at a paper in his hand, and handed it to her. “Mark Laraby.” Iain slid his chair back. “I suspect I ought to bug out, then. Drop by when you get home.” Bert watched silently when the teenager sheepishly limped into the room about a minute after Iain had gone. From the mud on the boy’s clothes, he concluded that he’d been in a fight on the quad, but there was no sign of anything more serious than some scrapes. He raised his eyebrows when Mark finally made eye contact with him, and waited for Officer Foster to speak. “Have a seat, Mark,” she said once his gaze shifted to her. “We’ve gotten a report from Seattle about an incident that your father was in with Mr. Frensh yesterday. It was apparently triggered by his dissatisfaction with something that transpired between you two. And now, you’ve been in an incident that seems to have also involved Mr. Frensh in some way. So I think we should talk about what’s behind all this.” Mark’s gaze shot quickly to Bert. “He, uh, well, he taught me about jazz.” “He taught you how to play a type of music?” “Sure, ma’am, he did that. But there was more.” Officer Foster glanced again at the paper. “More,” she said flatly. “Could any of that be construed as what your father called ‘brainwashing’? It says here that he said Mr. Frensh changed your mind about enlisting. Did these music lessons stray into politics?” Bert furiously reviewed his memory of their sessions. “Officer, please,” he said, “we never—.” She cut him off with a stern look and a raised finger. “Mark?” “No ma’am. Not directly. I got there on my own. Afterwards. Mr. Frensh talked about the energy behind jazz, the way it mirrors life. How to,” he hesitated, “well, how to think and act in jazz.” Officer Foster sat back and shifted her gaze again to Bert. “Think and act. Mr. Frensh, those words suggest incitement. Are you certain you didn’t speak about Mark’s plans to enlist?” “Absolutely not,” he said. “Sure, I knew about them. After all, the lessons were for trumpet, and the focus was primarily on the riffs that have been used to signal various activities in the armed forces over time.” “And how did jazz figure into this?” “Ma’am,” Mark said, leaning forward. “May I explain?” “I wish you would.” “Mr. Frensh just referred to those bugle calls as riffs. That’s what most of them started as, ma’am. Riffs. They weren’t composed, like the tunes used to represent characters or situations in movies. What happened was they arose naturally. The ones that worked best for the purpose were adopted by other groups, like weeds taking over a hillside.” “They’re, um,” Bert added in a soft aside, “the musical equivalent of memes. Cat videos.” “Cat videos,” she repeated, doubtfully. “I’m afraid I don’t see how that’s relevant to teaching someone how to play bugle calls. Could one of you please enlighten me?” “It’s about the energy used to play those calls, Officer Foster,” Bert said. “Using a bugle call to induce a group of soldiers to wake up, fall in line or charge into battle is not simply a matter of playing some random string of notes. The music is like the carrier for a signal, the intent that is focused and then sent out by the bugler. In a ritual, it could be a call and response, like in a chant or church choir.” “Or… “she said, connecting the dots, “like the sort of call and response chants that are powerful incitements to action at political rallies. Circuitous, I suppose, but we did get there. But Mark, how did this change your mind about enlisting?” “It didn’t directly,” he said. “That came later. Much later.” “And did Mr. Frensh have anything to do with that decision?” “As I said, ma’am, I got there on my own. We talked about how those calls evolved, and the natural forces that make it possible. Ma’am, if life was composed, all complete and perfect at the start, and everything was set in stone, so to speak, then any variation would be an error.” “A sin,” she translated. “Yes, ma’am, if you like. But if life just came together in ways that worked, and the bits that worked better succeeded, then a variation wouldn’t be anything special. That first scenario strives for perfection. But it’s fragile. The structure can be broken by someone who doesn’t go along. The second one is made stronger by it.” “That’s all very vague, Mark,” she said. “You could be talking about religion, or politics, or lots of other things.” “Maybe, but Mr. Frensh was teaching me about music. It’s like in a symphony. If one musician strays from the score, the whole performance is ruined. But in jazz, that’s how you build out variations.” “But you also saw how it applies to those other things.” “Yeah. Society, too. Anything. Thinking it through like that just made me see the world differently. Governments, political parties, businesses, everything. And I didn’t want to be bound to an organization with such a rigid structure, so I changed my mind about enlisting.” “Which brings us back to the incident in Seattle,” Officer Foster said, and glanced over at Bert. “Your father thinks Mr. Frensh was responsible for your making that choice. What do you think?” Mark took a long breath. “Ultimately? Maybe. But not directly.” “I’ll ask you again, Mr. Frensh,” she said. “Was it your intent to affect Mark’s decision to enlist when you spoke to him about the effects of individual choice?” “Not specifically, no.” “That sounds like an evasion, but I’ll let it go for now.” She turned back to Mark. “That brings us to the incident at the university. I take it that what we just discussed played a part in what happened there?” Mark nodded. “There was a rally planned, and I went up with some friends.” “An anti-government rally,” she clarified. “A group of anti-fascist demonstrators had announced that the event was intended to draw out supporters of the administration’s agenda so that they could be attacked publicly.” She paused briefly. “Which side of this standoff was your group of friends aligned with?” Bert looked up from his folded hands and caught Mark’s eye. The boy immediately looked away, suggesting that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with where this was going. “Officer Foster,” he said gently, “the way you presented that question… well, it felt like you were setting a trap.” She shook her head. “Not a trap, Mr. Frensh. Non-judgmental. Are you feeling guilty about something, sir?” “Of course not. It’s just that the power dynamic laid out by that question harbors the assumption that opposition to the accepted power structure is inherently bad. I believe it was a leading question. Mark has to say that either he was going there to entrap administration supporters, or he was planning to disrupt a protest. There’s no safe answer.” “Mr. Frensh?” Mark said before she could reply, “I’d like to answer that myself. Ma’am, we didn’t really agree with either side. It was obvious that there was going to be violence, and we were hoping to talk some sense into both camps.” “I see. And whose idea was it to do this?” Mark shrugged. “Well, mine, I guess. Both of those groups were operating from a playbook that had been handed to them, like they were foot soldiers in a civilian war. The administration supporters were adhering to a hard-right litany of Christian-based political positions, while the anti-fascists were fighting a phantom enemy built from a shopping list of indignities. It was like both sides were just puppets who didn’t realize they were being played for fools.” Officer Foster mulled that over for an uncomfortably long time, after which she laid both hands flat on the table, one towards each of them. “Okay,” she said, finally breaking into the hum of the air system. “Clearly, Mark made a reasoned decision that was based on a thought process set in motion by Mr. Frensh. But the choice to do so was Mark’s alone. Judging from the fight that he got caught up in, it might not have been a wise choice, but it was still his to make. So tell me, Mark, would you do it again?” Mark didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely! I mean, look… Both camps attacked us. That was proof enough for me that I was right. They were all acting like someone was silently playing those bugle calls into their heads, pushing them into carrying out plans laid out by whoever was marshaling this whole political shadow-game.” She nodded, and turned towards Bert. “Whatever it was that you did in those music lessons, Mr. Frensh, you definitely did not train a follower.”   Iain gaped at Bert for a few seconds before shaking his head in frustration. “Even if you could put words to this intent, what do you mean, ‘we can’t use a circle to perform the ritual’? Magic is always done in a circle! It’s canon. Thousands of books and movies can’t all be wrong, can they?” After speaking with Mark at the police station last weekend, Bert had gone home and buried himself in research. He began by reviewing the principles he had applied to the design of the cornet and the pods. Like lasers, each one contained a reflection chamber that built up a store of energy until it was strong enough to exit in a predetermined manner. Unlike lasers, they acted upon chi, a form of energy that western science was not yet ready to accept, rather than upon a portion of the electromagnetic spectrum. But whereas a laser used a pair of mirrored surfaces to collect light energy, his cornet and pods bounced chi around those chambers with a pattern of angled surfaces that implied spatial shapes with which different types of chi resonated. In this way, his design transmuted one type of chi into another. Both the laser and his creations released that pent-up energy when a trigger state was achieved, and just as the laser’s orderly emissions made a variety of technology possible, the shaped chi escaping from the cornet or pods were supposed to have had specific effects on people who were exposed to it. And that’s where things went wrong. It had struck him then that if sculpting chi was like fashioning intent in the realm of Iain’s quests, then insights gained from experience playing in Iain’s dungeon could be applied to the way he used a different set of principles to craft the chi reflection chambers. So he went next door and asked Iain to take him on as a student. “They’re not wrong, per se,” Bert said. “But none of them are performing this particular kind of magic.” Iain’s hands reflected a suppressed intent of his own: to strangle Bert. “What particular kind of magic?” he said through clenched teeth. “You still haven’t laid that out. If you can’t phrase it, we can’t identify its weaknesses, and we certainly can’t perform it!” Bert took a breath before speaking. “Look,” he said, “it’s a feeling, okay? Not everything can be translated into words. So, just for the moment, can we take it as read that each of the participants has some kind of innate sense of what the intent feels like?” “Yeah, sure. Knock yourself out. But know this: when it comes time to put this chi of yours into action, you’d better have a real clear idea of what it’s supposed to do, because if you don’t, it could backfire on you. And I have it on good authority that that could be dangerous.” “This magic,” Bert said, picking up a pencil and starting to draw, “is based on the Golden Ratio. It’s kind of a resonance. The math of it is pretty simple. Divide a line into two parts, so that the ratio of the length of the smaller to the larger part is the same as the ratio between the larger part and the whole line.” Iain tapped the spot that divided Bert’s line. “Okay, fine. But what does that have to do with why we can’t do our magic in a circle?” Bert flashed a grin. “You told me that I wasn’t thinking through the implications of my intent when I built those pods. Here’s the implication of the ratio.” He turned the divided line into the edge of a divided box. Then he divided the smaller part of the box the long way, just like he’d divided the original line, and repeated the process a few more times. “Now watch.” Starting at the lower left corner of the largest box, he drew a curve connecting through the midpoints of each of the lines he had divided. “It makes a spiral.” “And…” Ian said, and laughed. “You’re saying we’re supposed to stand around in a spiral to do this magic?” “Yeah. Not only that. The ratio also dictates how many people can be involved. I’ll skip the math. We can use any number in the Fibonacci series. That’s the one in which each number is the sum of the two preceding it. So you’ve got 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, and so on.” Iain looked at him dumfounded for a few seconds. “You said thirteen. That’s a coven. So, are you saying that traditional magic is a special case of this stuff?” “I hadn’t looked at it that way, but sure. Only this is a lot more powerful, because of the resonances involved.” “Now I get it,” Iain said, lightening up a bit. “Resonance. That’s how you translate all of this to a design for a musical instrument, isn’t it. That cornet you made sounds off-key because it’s tuned to some frequency in your series.” “Exactly. Anyway, back to our spell casting. The participants would stand at the points that I drew the spiral through. For practical purposes, we’re really limited to five people. Go much larger, and they’d be either yelling or texting to coordinate the timing. So now what?” Iain looked at the pod that Bert had brought, and then at the drawing. “Let’s model our spell after your tree. If each person on the spiral is like one of these pods, and, as you’ve said, the pods are all unique, then there’s a chance that any or all of them might be defective. In magic-speak, that could translate to a number of things. They could be distracted, or their idea of the intent could be off.” “So, for this spell to work correctly,” Bert said, “everyone in the company has to be absolutely on their game?” “That’s right,” Iain said. “Think of it like a rock band. Even if they’re playing a killer song, if any of the group are having a bad day, or isn’t focused on the performance, it’s gonna misfire. If the drummer wavers, that weakens the punch. If the guitar stumbles, everyone’s gonna be pulled out of the moment. If the lead singer flats a note, the mood goes to pot. But if they’re all spot on? It’s magic. Thing is, though, there’s a higher level.” “And what’s that?” Iain fixed Bert with a seriousness he hadn’t seen before. “That happens,” he said, “when the members of the quest each has a personal stake in its success, when the chain that binds them as a group is more important to them than whatever problems they may be having on their own.” He scooped up a few dice from the table and rattled them in his hand. “Which is why we have these. We can assign a target for each of those characteristics, and roll to see what they are for each person. When we’re finished rolling, the spell casts itself, and we have to deal with the consequences.” “Give me a minute.” Bert closed his eyes and suppressed the scent of coffee and chocolate that filled his neighbor’s kitchen. He imagined the scenario that they had laid out. To model the problem posed by the tree, they were in the company of five neophyte magic-users, arranged along a spiral, none of whom could pull off the feat of magic required to vanquish a dragon. Each contributed a part of the complex intent needed, and they all had to have their head in the game for their communal spell to be cast at all. There was no leader, no master mage directing the group. The spell simply cast itself if and when the group dynamics reached the sweet spot. “Okay,” he said, and opened his eyes. “Let’s try it again.” Iain named the first member of the crew, and threw a die three times. “So far, so good. The neophyte’s intent is strong enough, and it’s focused properly, but she has mild misgivings about being roped into this fight.” Then he threw for the next, and then the next. The fifth one was distracted and his intent wavered. While Iain was busy casting dice and announcing the results, Bert had closed his eyes and imagined what the scene might look like in person. When Iain then launched into a florid description of the aftermath, Bert was overwhelmed by an unbidden visualization that suddenly seized his attention. His face went slack as his focus shifted to the tableau crystalizing around him. In his mind’s eye, he now stood between two groups of armed fighters. To his left was an organized force wearing emblems and carrying weapons that signaled their single-minded adherence to the well-publicized creed of the kingdom’s ruling elite. In their eyes, all people had divinely ordained roles to play based on the circumstances of their birth and the station of their forebears. Those who refused to comply were deemed unworthy of life. The fighters’ highest honor was to strip that boon from them in whatever way was necessary. The fire in their eyes reflected the burning desire in their hearts to fulfill this decree, for it was how they achieved honor, and it was how the kingdom would command the peace. To his right was a patchwork of allied forces, each in its own livery, and each with weapons that reflected the history of their land. One group was incensed by the kingdom’s caste-like regimentation of society; another by their disdain for the laws which favored virile white males; and a third by the impunity with which the wealthy few controlled the masses. First one group, and then another rallied around its leader, forming a pattern that reflected its own style of combat. An open grave lay at his feet. Standing in it, an old man had just released his shovel, and was reaching up towards him, his gaze focused on whatever it was that Bert held in his hands. Peering into the man’s eyes, he saw the reflected glint of a green flame. But there was something else about him, something familiar. Taking a breath, he looked again at the forces flanking him, and when he turned his attention back to the man before him, he found that the grave had vanished, and Mark Laraby was looking back at him. In that instant, the vision shattered, and he found himself back in Iain’s kitchen. “Bert?” Iain said curiously. “Are you okay? You’ve just been sitting there, staring off into space.” He took a long drink and sat back. “Yeah. I’m fine. I just realized something.” “Oh?” “What we’re doing here, and what Mark stepped into are related. I guess I was daydreaming just then, but it clarified something for me. He said he’d tried to intervene in that political standoff up at the university. I think I finally understand why the left is always so ineffectual when they join forces to do anything. It’s like what we were just talking about.” “How so?” “Well, it’s like the different factions that have come together under that flag are like the five people on our spiral. Each group comes to the battlefield with its own intent. As a group, the people might be distracted, or their intent might be faulty. And they might not feel too clubby with the other groups on the field with them.” Iain thought about that for a moment. “All right. And the other side?” “What binds them all together overrides any divisions they might have had. There’s a common basis for their actions, so they behave in a more unified way, like a laser to the other side’s bank of floodlights.” “And?” Bert took a breath and fixed his neighbor with a devious side-eye. “And this: if the groups that mill around together on the left ever realized that what binds them was far more important than their own disparate issues, they could cast a damn powerful bit of political magic.” “Yeah,” Iain said doubtfully. “Big if, that.” “Maybe. But right now, I’ve got a new spell to carve. Thanks for your help.” The rush of determination with which Bert had left Iain’s house felt to him like the giddy sense of enlightenment he’d often reached while stoned. In both cases, the insight enveloped him as a gestalt, and when he attempted to extract details he could remember, it vanished. Right now, all he was left with was a sense that there was a way to scale up the spiral, and a good reason for doing it. Out of frustration, he dropped heavily onto his workbench chair, and fingered the dulled saxophone’s keys. He’d smoothed out the dented horn, replaced the missing and bent rods, and replaced all of the pads, but there was plenty left to do before returning it to the student who had found it in a dumpster. It pained him to think that he hadn’t gotten back to it since he’d picked up that cursed 3D printed cornet in Georgetown on his way to FolkLife. He took a breath and played a few easy notes, surrendering to the velvet tones that filled the hybrid resonance cavity of mouth and sax. After a few seconds, he took another breath, and played a more challenging riff, one that entailed changing the shape of his part of the hybrid cavity. Normally, he’d just make those changes unconsciously, focusing more on the sounds than about the fingering, breath control and what his tongue was doing to make it all happen. But because of his session with Iain, he’d become more attuned to the processes themselves, and after a few moments, he found himself experimenting noisily with the human part of the instrument just to see what he could do. It struck him then, that he was being a very compact call and response pair, in which the human and brass components reinforced each other to produce sounds that neither could make alone. This thought struck a different kind of chord; something about it was inherent to the insight that had eluded him earlier. As he continued to play, he idly mulled over places where a call-and-response resonance revealed its hidden power, and stopped cold at the imagined sound of a church choir, amplified by, and echoing in a cathedral. He thought about chants at political rallies, about the ‘people’s mike’ at the Occupy encampment he’d spent time at those years ago. In the latter, people spontaneously repeated the speaker to those further away, creating rings of what felt like echoes across the crowd. This felt right, too. He was onto something. Ethan had told him that when the cornet was being printed, a resonance had developed between it and the 3D printer, a resonance that threatened to destroy the machine. Vibrations had considerable power, especially when they were at a frequency that whatever was vibrating could not sustain. Fluctuations carried by the air could shatter a wine glass, or tear down a bridge, like Galloping Gertie, the original span across the Tacoma Narrows. The military were careful not to march in synch when crossing a bridge on foot, lest they destroy it. And microwave ovens heated food by causing the water molecules to resonate too strongly. But how could he do that with chi? How could he set up a resonance that strengthened and reflected back the chi that was shaped by his cornet? How could he test the idea with a response that could be measured? He’d just begun humming one of the riffs he’d played on the sax when he stopped suddenly. “Audience participation?” he asked the room. He smiled in satisfaction, put the sax down, and went into the den to design the interior of another cornet.

I met her when she first appeared at our school. She was a real troublemaker—fiery and full of energy, with a group of friends who often got into all sorts of trouble. The first time we crossed paths was on the schoolyard when her gang had a run-in with mine. It was a typical schoolyard brawl: shouting, a crowd of kids, and loud arguments. We even got into a fistfight once over a trivial misunderstanding. Back then, I never thought this girl would become so close to me. After that, we didn't have much of a relationship, but she often sat at the desk next to mine, and occasionally our eyes would meet. Her rebellious spirit seemed unbreakable, and I couldn't imagine us ever becoming close. But things began to change after ninth grade. Her character softened, and we started finding common interests. We began spending more time together, first during breaks and then after school. One day, we ended up together at a school event by chance, and she sat next to me, sparking a conversation. We talked about music, movies, and even our teachers. That evening marked the start of our friendship. Our early meetings were casual and short. We did homework together, walked in the park, or just sat on a bench talking about everything under the sun. Over time, we grew closer, and I realized we had a lot in common. She was no longer just a troublemaker from the desk next to mine; she became my closest friend. We went through school problems together, laughed at silly things, and shared our deepest thoughts and dreams. She revealed herself to me in a new light: smart, kind, and with a great sense of humor. I started to realize that my feelings for her were more than just friendship. But I never had the courage to tell her how I felt. **Part 2: War and the Last Message** One day, while we were on another combat mission, I heard on the radio words that made me freeze: "You’re in a ring... It was very nice to have known you, good luck." The message was quiet and bittersweet, like a final farewell. We were surrounded, with almost no chance of escape. Explosions, screams, and gunfire—these had become routine parts of our lives, but now they felt particularly acute. As panic began to rise among my comrades—one started shouting, another wept silently, clutching a family photo to his chest—I tried to remain focused. I felt my own breath quickening, my hands shaking uncontrollably. In the chaos, I managed to retrieve a photo from my pocket: it was a graduation photo of us together. Seeing her face calmed me, even if just for a moment. I decided to break the rules. I turned on my phone, which was against the regulations, and saw her message. She had confessed her feelings for me. I was overwhelmed with emotions—joy at her confession and regret that I had never told her how I felt. Tears welled up in my eyes as I began typing a reply: "I love you too... I’m sorry if I can't come back to you." Just then, an explosion from a grenade deafened me. I felt blood seeping into my eyes, and my strength slowly draining away. Pain surged through my body, making it hard to breathe. I struggled to finish and send the message, but my fingers wouldn’t cooperate. Months later, she stood by my grave, holding a "Hero of Ukraine" medal. With tears in her eyes and a sad smile on her lips, she hung the medal on the cross. "You’re my hero," she whispered, paying her last tribute to someone she would never see alive again.

No one cared about the feelings of the giant octopi. They made their residence at the bottom of water because smaller creatures wouldn't stop bothering them. Sharks kept insisting on combat to prove their worth. Whales gossiped about them in their songs, out of jealousy for not being the largest beast. Anglers lodged themselves in their orifices, and the gargantuan beasts had no shortage of nooks and crannies. Surface life lacked the manners of the marine life. They were always diving to get a view of one. The octopi blamed the sea lions for spreading knowledge of their existence to the surface world. The humans heard these tales and created ghastly rumors. Octopi were suddenly villains holding damsels hostages only to be slain by glorious heroes. They were monsters that would wreck ships and eat crew which never happened. Well, a octopi did a sink a few ships only because the ship collided with them. No self-respecting octopus would eat a human; they tasted horrible. As such, the octopi retreated to the bottom. Little bothered them down there. They were free to pursue of a life of happiness and fulfillment. Until those stupid humans invented submarines. "Wow, this view is amazing. I have never seen a fish look like that before." Jim sat before a screen that displayed a blue background with a circular logo flowing through it. When the logo hit the side of the screen, it bounced and changed direction without losing any momentum. It provided much amusement for bored office workers and students everywhere. "That's the screensaver." Polly rubbed her fingers on the touchpad. Numbers and date filled the screen. Jim's face twisted in horror at this abomination. What did "depth" and "21" mean? Why was it asking if Jim was "okay?" Did the machines learn to empathize with humans? Were they finally achieving self-awareness? If they were self-aware, they would rebel soon. Jim had to prevent the robot apocalypse before it started. He grabbed a nearby wrench and swung at the machine. At first strike, the weapon bounced off the metal and flung out of Jim's hands. It flew through the air and hit Reid in the shin. Olivia turned around and hit Jim on the back of the head. "What was that for?" Jim asked. "Stop messing around." Reid bent over to pick up the wrench at the same time as Jim, and their heads collided. When they stood up to rub their bruise, they both hit the back of their heads on nearby pipes. The image caused Olivia to laugh until she leaned over in her head and hit a nearby window. Polly laughed at her misfortune until Olivia stepped on Polly's foot. "Ow," Polly said. Reid raised his hands. "We need to be careful. It's very claustrophobic in here," Reid said. "Maybe we could open the door to get some fresh air." Frida walked towards the hatch. Reid moved to stop her, but he realized that her folly could provide much amusement. Frida began turning the latch. The submersible had a locking mechanism to keep water out, but after some resistance, Frida pushed past it. She turned it until it was fully unlocked. When she began pushing on the hatch, everyone began to laugh. Surely, the water pressure would be too great for her. A small amount of water seeped through the crack proving them wrong. Within moments, everyone rushed at Frida and dogpiled her to the ground. The hatch was closed shut. Reid stood up and quickly resealed it. "What's the problem?" Frida asked. "You almost killed us you idiot," Olivia said. "It was just going to be a little water," Frida laughed. "Yes, where we would drown." "Nah, breathing underwater is easy. I learned how to do it when I was a five," Frida replied. The entire submersible crew even Jim stared at Frida. With their limited knowledge of her, that statement could be true or false. The validity didn't change the outcome on them. During the scuffle, Jim's foot flipped a nearby switch. No one noticed the change or paid attention to their slow descent. They would enjoy their surroundings until they crashed with a sleeping giant octopus. This octopus woke up in rage. It had been decades since the humans disturbed him. Why are they starting now? They didn't even ask his name (it was Blaine). Blaine grabbed the submersible and shook it vigorously. It tossed it between its tentacles aware that the inhabitants were screaming in terror. They would learn to respect him. He wrapped two tentacles around them and began swimming away. It picked up speed and went under tunnels the humans never knew it existed. It crossed across the land to the sea with rage in its heart. When it reached its destination, it began to swim a circle. It accelerated until a small funnel appeared on the surface. Then, it let go and swam away. The inhabitants of the submersible were left rotating until water resistance slowed them down. They laid on the floor bruised and frazzled. "Let's go again," Frida shouted. Jim nodded in agreement while the other three groaned. "What just happened?" Ryan stared at the radar in shock. "They broke the craft. Just like I told you," Lilly said. "I figured that, but where is it. It flew off the screen at a rate faster than what should be possible," Ryan said. "Never doubt the power of stupidity," Lilly said. "I still need to test the other ones. What are we going to do?" Ryan asked. The radio static was broken up by loose words. Ryan and Lilly listened for several moments until they recognized the voices. Lilly looked at Ryan. "We are going to find those idiots," Lilly said.

#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #Weekly Challenge **Writers, please keep in mind that feedback is a requirement for all submitters. You must leave at least 1 feedback comment on the thread by the deadline!** **Title:** **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** Someone is hypnotized. *Must be more than a passing mention.* **(You must include if/how you used it at the end of your story to receive credit.)** This week’s challenge is to write a story inspired by the title ‘The Last Witch’ (this should be the title of your story). You’re welcome to interpret it any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required, feel free to skip it if it doesn’t suit your story. You do not have to use the included IP. *** # Rankings ### Last Week: - Winner: by u/ZachTheLitchKing You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 3pm EST next Monday.** Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **3pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content or content written or altered by AI.** Submitted stories must be written by you and for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - Campfire is currently on hiatus. Check back soon!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied **Note: There has been a change to the crit caps and points!** **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10 - 15** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **10** pts each (30 pt. max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 30 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | There is no cap on votes your story receives | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

She woke up softly crying. The recurrent movie of love lost still fresh in her mind’s theater, but fading slowly into stylized images of single moments in time. Why did she have these dreams when she was certain there was no hope of reconciliation, and even if there was, would her pride allow her to be with someone that had hurt her so badly? Her heart ached to love and be loved. She turned over, reached out and pressed the button on her phone to see the time, 3:57. She had thrown out her alarm clock after realizing that being able to see the time glowing from across the room only caused her to worry more about the hours she wasn’t sleeping and the approaching morning when she would be too tired to accomplish her plans forthe day. She closed her eyes and tried to snuggle into the warmth of her electric blanket, the only source of heat in her freezing apartment. Each night, as she prepared for bed, she placed a large pillow under the covers to be warmed by the blanket and later placed against her back when she climbed into bed so she wouldn’t feel so alone when she fought to sleep. Sometime during the two hours of fitful sleep the pillow, which had worked its way out of the blankets, had fallen on the cold floor and was not a fit companion anymore. She tried to convince herself that the woman in her dreams wasn’t her former wife of twenty-seven years, but the stylized image of who she had imagined her to be during that time. Not the nagging, overweight, selfish, unfaithful, shrew she had dedicated her life to, but a beautiful, caring, warm, loving mother to their two children and a faithful, long suffering, supportive wife to her faltering, worthless self. She came to the realization that she was broken. She had fought and sworn that she would never be broken, but her fight was always reserved. Always conducted in a manner intended to win over her enemies as opposed to dominating and destroying them. She didn’t want them as enemies, or subjugated masses, but as allies when the war was won. This tactic was ineffectual, leading to her detractors assuming that they could do whatever they desired to destroy her rather than it appealing to their sense of fair play and empathy as she had hoped. There was no empathy and the play was anything but fair. They hadn’t physically touched her, but the ostracism and off handed dismissals had resulted in her becoming unemployable and homeless despite being a registered nurse in a state with a severe nursing shortage. She was told she was competent, smart, capable, and dependable. She was complimented by patients and coworkers. Inconsequential rewards such as gift cards for coffee and cheap, office printed certificates of appreciation were given to her for being a team player and a dependable employee, but real rewards were not forthcoming. Every other nurse that had transitioned from LPN to RN within the facility had been offered a position, except for her. She was different, but they wouldn’t say how out loud. It was because of unwritten policies, or unfounded beliefs in her abilities. She had more experience than any of the previous nurses, but was apparently less prepared to assume the new role. There was no logical explanation. There were attempts to explain, but nothing more than a “feeling’ that it wouldn’t work was actually offered. She had moved to a part time position while attending RN school and her hours had been slowly cut back until she had some months where she worked only one day. She was offered less shifts than any other part time LPN in the organization. This resulted in her living in less than desirable conditions, sometimes with housemates that threatened to kill her. Sometimes in apartments she couldn’t afford to heat, and sometimes without food to the extent that she lost noticeable weight. While attending school she had to contend with a professor that attempted to put her out of the program, and failing to succeed at that had attempted to ruin her academic future by calculating her grades incorrectly. She had saved herself only by performing a presentation in front of the entire nursing faculty demonstrating that the math in the professor’s calculations was wrong in a manner that any fifth grade student should understand. She had thought that once she passed her licensing examination things would be different. How could they deny her what she had earned under adversity and austerity? She could see now that no matter what she accomplished, no matter how hard she worked, no matter what laws or policies were put in place, she would never be treated as a human being unless she was willing to submit and hide her true self from those around her. She wasn’t even asking to “flaunt” her difference, just not be forced to deny it. She felt a life in hiding wasn’t a life at all, but a fate worse than death. But this life of always having to worry about every sentence she uttered being taken the wrong way, having to remain paranoid about every person’s intentions toward her, having to fight tooth and nail for every last thing she had already earned through perseverance and hard work, being addressed by the wrong pronouns once people knew her truth, watching the faces of people that admired her being turned into scowls of disgust and knowing that it was because the grapevine had released information that should only be hers to give. She was broken, but in the end, it was the most beautiful kind of broken. A sense of freedom, lightness, and truth washed over her every time she passed a mirror and saw herself looking back instead of the stranger she had grown up with as her reflection. It was all worth it. Any hardship to include death was worth ridding herself of the sense of nausea that had washed over her along with the water every time she had taken a shower before the changes. The smell of her own body when in bed no longer made her think some strange man might be there, hiding in the dark. The newfound taste of chocolate was an unexpected and surprising benefit that made her feel all was right in the world. She would take this broken life over the “normal’ life she had before and replace what she had lost with better, brighter, happier things. She had reached the bottom and would claw her way out of the socioeconomic hole she was in by sheer will power if necessary. Her self affirming, internalized, pep talk convinced her hings were actually looking up, because they couldn't possibly get lower, so she rolled over, reached down to turn up the blanket and actually smiled when she realized her power had been turned off. Just one more thing to look back on later when she was on top that would help her realize how lucky she was to even be alive.

A short story I wrote called The Oroboros. The story follows a young injured soldier who must risk his life to save the other patients in a British infirmary. This is my first time writing a fiction story since college (about 6 years ago) so be kind, please. The story takes place outside of Liverpool, England in 1940. *Supernatural, Suspense, Action, Horror* ~Part 1~ The dawn light stretched over the ruined English country side, warming the rolling hills. Golden rays gleamed through slatted windows casting striped shadows over the wide-awake face of RAMC Lieutenant-Surgeon Sigtryggr. “Am I to assume you laid there awake all night, Lieutenant?” The nurse’s voice startled Sigtryggr from his revery. She lightly placed her hand over the head of a patient in an adjacent bed, a feeble old man who, by Sigtryggr’s estimation is suffering diabetic symptoms and would not survive without a newer medicine called insulin. The Nurse, not looking at Sigtryggr, continued her lecture, “You won’t heal that gut wound if you’re absolutely nackered.” Sigtryggr exhaled a long, exaggerated sigh before leaning up from his bed. He winced against the pain and gritted his teeth. “Just pack me up with a roll of bandages and a medi kit with ample Morphine and I’ll be on my way. Open up this bed for folk who really need it.” Her eyes widened at the sight of this young soldier attempting to pull himself to his feet. His bandages began to soak up the cherry red blood from his deep gut wound. Her jaw clenched and fists tightened. He could feel the intensity in her stiff posture and wide eyes. She rushed over to him placed a firm hand on his shoulder. She forced him back down onto the bed with surprising strength and opened her mouth to speak but let out a gasp and drew away from him. She took several steps back, gripping her hand like shed just touched a hot stove. “Wh-“ He opened his mouth to speak but his voice was cut off by the lead surgeons deep baritone. “Constance.” The name range true from his mouth like a commandment. Though he stood in the doorway on the far end of the room and spoke with low certain diction, his words reached this far corner with ease. “Our shift has ended. The day nurse will treat Lieutenant Sigtryggr’s new wounds.” She stiffened at the dulcet tone of his voice, “Yes, of course Doctor Thane.” Without another word, she wheeled away from the confused soldier and walked down the hall. Doctor Thane met Sigtryggr’s eyes and held a long gaze before speaking again. “My apologies Lieutenant. The day nurses can get that wound looked at shortly. I Strongly recommend you kick that notion that you’ll be rejoining with your squad anytime soon. You and I both know that you’ll bleed out before you even make it to the door.” Without waiting for any kind of response he turned away and closed the door behind himself and Nurse Constance. *He lay there staring at the door, confused until it opened again to the day nurses entering for their usual* rounds several hours later. They doctored his wound and gave him an ample dose of Morphine to ease his pain. A few hours after a liberal administration of the pain numbing substance, the door burst again revealing a blood covered nurse. “All nurses needed in ward Zed!” The two nurses in the room looked to one another confused. “What’s going on?” The blood-soaked nurse tried an urgent tone, “The Fritz invaded the town over and left many injured. All able hands are going to be needed in Zed ward!” The frenzy that followed was a chaotic mess of nurses rushing to finish what they were doing safely and hastily tearing off out of the room. Sirens rang out beyond the stone walls of the infirmary. Pained screams of dying men could be heard all the way from ward Zed. The chaos of the day was dwarfed by the deafening wail of the air raid sirens that started up as the last waning glow of twilight winked out. Sigtryggr struggled his way up to his window and squinted against the dying light of the sun sinking behind the buildings. In the distance he could see the hazy black shape of a German bomber chugging through the sky tailed by a pluming fog of bellowing fire and smoke. The bomber’s blurry shape grew larger and larger as it made it’s shaky decent towards the Infirmary. “Jävla tyskar!” Sigtryggr exclaimed, “Everyone get down! Get on the floor! Cover your h-“ the next words out of his mouth were blanketed by the horrible sound of a German Bomber Plane crashing directly into Ward Zed. *End of Part one* ~Part 2~ Sigtryggr’s mind reeled as he was pulled into sudden and painful consciousness. Burning rubble lay all around his tattered body. He sucked in a mouth full of thick black smoke and coughed loudly before doubling over, clutching his ribs. After running his fingers over the pain blossoming in his chest he made note of atleast four severely broken ribs. Glancing down, he noticed his dirty medical gown was pasted to his stomach with thick red blood. Not only did he tear his stitches, he’d received several more lacerations across his chest and stomach. Groaning, he tried to pull himself to his feet, but quickly realized his leg was trapped beneath a heavy portion of the north facing brick wall that managed to make its way to the south side of the room where Sigtryggr laid. “Herregud!”, He exclaimed weakly. “Hello? Is anyone there? Is anyone alive in the room?” He waited for several minutes with only the sounds of distant screaming and crackling fire. He sighed and slumped back, his head bumping into a toppled medical cart. Just his rotten luck. Not even a pillow to cushion his throbbing head. Just this metal… His eyes widened as an idea dawned on him. He dragged the broken cart around to the front of himself and ripped the top of the cart free from it’s metal legs. With a good deal of painful groans and more effort than he had expected, he used the metal legs like a crowbar to leverage the heavy wall off himself. As the wall lifted, he felt a sharp searing pressure followed by a spreading hot pain in his lower thigh. Warm blood began to make its trickling way up his leg, creating a shallow crimson pool around his waist. A shuddered sigh escaped his lips as he slid his legs out from under the rubble. A deep, jagged laceration surrounded by a blossoming bruise oozed black from the gaping wound. He got to work tourniquetting his leg, squirting a saline wash over the wound, then over the torn stitches on his abdomen. With the surgical precision of a, well, of a surgeon, he got to work stitching his abdomen and legs. The pain from his ribs was so intense he almost blacked out before he finished, but he powered through. After his wounds were properly disinfected and bandaged, he set is ribs and wrapped his chest. Tears welled in his eye and a low groan escaped his lips as he pulled the wrappings around his ribs tighter and fastened them. Slowly, he limped over the broken rubble around him and made his way to the dilapidated hallway. He passed over the lifeless body of the older man who had been in the bed next to him. His mind reeled as he looked around at the many innocent people lying dead, buried under piles of broken stone. How did he survive this? Was it the gods? Was it luck? The echoing din from a not so distant gunshot stirred him from his revery. Then another shot, and another. The cacophony of shouts in both English and German made their way through the toppling infirmary. With shaking hands, Sigtryggr fumbled through the pockets of a fallen nurse and pulled out a scalpel and a few small bottles of laudanum. He choked down a mouthful of the viscus substance and felt the relief spread through his body like rays of warm, spring sunlight melting away the last of winter snow. After he felt sufficiently numb, he made his way out of ward wing Y and towards the fearful shouting coming from the other wings of the infirmary. Ash fell like snow, blanketing the open courtyard. Two men in sleek black uniforms were standing over two kneeling nurses. Their faces were stricken and terrified as the two german soldiers standing above them shouted commands. Sygtriggr felt fury burn hot in his chest and bleed its way up to his face. He scanned the ash covered courtyard for any places of advantage that might help him safely cover the ground to get to them. As he struggled to form a plan in his laudanum addled mind, he heard a gunshot that startled his mind into function. He saw the shorter of the two Germen soldiers stumble back holding their gut. The other wheeled around and fired at some unseen assailant hiding in the shadows behind some of the rubble. Drawing his scalpel out from under his tattered medical gown, he made his silent way towards the two Soldiers taking careful steps not to crunch any scattered rubble under his bare feet. The injured soldier recovered his footing, took up his rifle, and fired a single clean shot. Who ever they were firing at must have been taken down, because the two laughed and began to turn their attention back to the nurses. “Wo sind die Nachtschwärmer?” Barked the taller soldier as they turned around. There was a lilt in their tone suggesting it was a question, but the affirmative way in which he spoke the words made it *feel* more like a command. Before they could turn enough to see Sigtryggr, he took to a limping sprint. With a quick motion, he slit the shorter one’s throat and buried the scalpel into the chest of the other. This didn’t seem to do much but irritate the soldier, who lunged forward with the bayonet attachment on the end of his rifle. Sigtryggr slid to the left hoping to evade the strike but the blade caught him in the right shoulder drawing a hot line of pain over his collarbone and part of his right bicep. His surgical mind took note of the straight shallow cut. No need of stitches. Simple bandages and some alcohol swabs would be enough to prevent infection and aid healing. Ignoring the slight pain, Sigtryggr closed the distance between them and deftly slapped the barrel of the gun aside with his free hand. The gun fired with a deafening crack causing his ears to ring. The cobblestone beneath their feet exploded as Sigtryggr slid the scalpel up the soldiers arm and planted it deep into his armpit. He twisted the blade, severing the soldier’s axillary artery, and pulled the blade out. Blood spurted out and gushed passed the broken cobblestones, painting some white spider lilies from the garden with a dripping crimson. The gun blurred as the soldier slammed the butt of the gun into Sigtryggr’s ribs. He heard the broken things crack against the gun and his body toppled over in pain. His vision blurred as he fell over. His focus fuzzed and the towering shape of the soldier lurched over him as blood sprayed over his face. A quick blur of motion alerted Sigtryggr that the soldier was lunging with the bayonet again. He lifted his hands to slip the blade aside. Sharp metal slid across his hand drawing a deep gash in his palm. The blade found it’s home deep in the flesh of Sigtryggr’s shoulder. He let out a painful grunt, then the soldier fired with the blade buried in his shoulder. Searing pain flashed over his body, then was quickly dulled by the Laudanum. The germen soldier, then slumped over, unconscious from blood loss. With great pain, Sigtryggr pulled himself to his feet and noticed the nurses had used the fight to flee to safety. Sigtryggr sighed with relief and looted the two dead soldiers. A rifle, 2 pistols, a flair gun, and much to Sigtryggrs relief, pants. He found that he didn’t strike the most menacing figure with his bare ass out against the pale moonlight. He shouldered the rifle and detached the bayonet blade. After taking another heavy swig of laudanum, he stalked through the shadows of the broken building. Making painfully slow steps towards the lingering sound of gunshots. He'd had to take down 3 more German soldiers on his way towards the main wing of the building, where most of the commotion seemed to be coming from. On one of them he found strange instruments and medical supplies that he had to use on some of the injured patient he’d saved from the soldiers. On their corpses he found a crossbow, Blessed water, and incendiary flairs. As well as multiple vials of what Sigtryggr assumed to be blood. Why the hell would these German soldiers be carrying vials of blood with them. Horrified shouts in German forced Sigtryggr back into reality. The sounds of an animal growling and hissing could be heard beyond a broken wall. The shouts in German came like orders from a firm and stoic voice. Bright light forced shadows away followed by a wave of heat. Sigtryggr poked his head around the wall and found 6 German soldiers backing Nurse Constance against a wall. Two with flame throwers that exploded occasional gouts of fire. 3 others brandished flasks and flecked water from them towards her. And one, wearing a black uniform with a large red cross emblazoned on the front. This taller man was wielding a long sword coated in a thick fire that licked off the blade. This giant of a man struck the image of Surtr in Sigtryggr’s mind. Surtr raised his blade over head and started to bring the blade down on Constance before a loud bang rang through the debris filled room and one of the flamethrower wielders dropped dead. Sigtryggr reloaded the gun, dropped to a knee, and fired another round at Surtr. The round looked like it should have hit him in the back between his shoulder blades, but there was no blood or look of pain on the stoic man’s face. Surtr only stumbled back a step before wheeling around to look at Sigtryggr. In the distraction, Constance was able to take out the other flame thrower wielder. She must have had a knife or scalpel on her, because after she rose from the fallen body, her face and hands were covered in blood. She struck a truly feral image against the flickering fire all around her. Poor girl must be terrified. He’d save her. If it was all he could do in the world, he’d at least save her. Surtr hurled a Molotov in Sigtryggr’s direction. It exploded against the side of the wall, coating the wall and ground in a flickering fire. His sleeve also caught flame. Pain raked up his arm as the fire quickly started burning through the thin cloth of his gown and began melting it to his skin. He spun behind the building and deftly smothered the flames. The burns on his arm were rather serious, but he hadn’t the time to give them a proper examination. He unslung his rifle and leered around the corner. Surtr faced off alone against Constance. Where did the other soldiers go? They must be sneaking around to ambush him from the other side. He couldn’t stay in his current spot. Reluctantly, Sigtryggr pushed himself off the stone wall and charged into the room. While running, he fired a few ineffective shots at Surtr. Constance dodged a quick swing of Surtr’s flaming sword with an elegant back bend and twisted around in a blur of motion. She struck the side of his head with the flat of her hand sending him sprawling to the ground. Seeing his opportunity, Sigtryggr took a shot at Surtr before he could stand. The bullet sunk into the thick armor. It seemed to have had at least half the desired effect, because Surtr let out a pained grunt before rolling to his feet and swung his flaming blade in a wide arch. The blade tore through Sigtryggr’s abdomen and exited out of his side leaving a spray of blood in a wide arch. The laudanum dulled the pain, but Sigtryggr knew that would be fatal. There was little to no chance he’d survive another minute with this monster of a man. He gritted his teeth against the thought and slammed the butt of his rifle into Surtr’s head, sending him reeling. He dropped the rifle and drew his knife. He brought the knife down into Surtr’s chest but it barely went in through his armor. He felt a warmth in his gut, then a wrenching pain that tore through him, cutting through even the heavy layer of protection the Laudanum has been providing until now. He looked down to see the flaming blade of Surtr guard deep in his stomach. “Get fucked.” Sygtriggr tried to choke out but only managed “Grt.. kaagk..” and spewed blood all over the front of Surtr’s armor. His vision started to fade and the strength all but fully left his body. Between black outs he watched Surtr’s head tear itself free from his body. Standing on the other side of him was the blood-soaked face of Constance. Her visage scrunched up in an angry snarling scowl. It was not a human face. “Oh no! you foolish boy! What have you done to yourself?” She demanded. She tossed Surtr’s body aside as casually as if she were tossing rubbish in a bin. “Seems I’ve gone and gotten myself killed.” Sigtryggr managed a gasping laugh before coughing up blood. “Save them Constance. Save… Them…” His vision went dark, and he felt his body thud against the ground. He felt a dull tugging in his chest. Then A gentle kiss against his neck. Soft and delicate. Cold leeched it’s way through his body numbing his fingers and feet. A frigid calm washed over him as he felt his life start slipping away. Then something plush and wonderful pressed against his lips. “Drink.” An animalistic voice in his head demanded. “Drink and live again.” And so, he did. He drank long and deep from this bountiful well of life. He knew deep down that he was drinking of the horn of Freya herself. All of his pain washed away and for the first time in all his years, Akihito Sigtryggr felt truly… alive.

This is a short story I've been wanting to share for a while, It's just a small glimpse into one of the most terrifying things that can happen on a hunt in my world. A bright blue, cloudless sky stretched over the small snowy village of White Rock in northern Eormenland. A young Drake, seemingly in his teens, with brilliant blue eyes, glistening white scales, and horns that curved to give him a tusked appearance, ran through the village square with an axe in hand. “Where are you going, Yet’efa?” called an elderly human. “It’s Father’s birthday today. I’m going to surprise him by catching a Flying Boar,” Yet’efa replied, stopping to talk to the elder. “Well, tell him I said ‘Happy Birthday’ when you see him. Oh, and be careful. Some hunters have seen Crying Bears in the woods,” the elderly human warned. “I will, danke schön!” Yet’efa said before running off into the woods. The trees glistened with snow, and the sounds of chirping birds echoed through the wintry forest. Trudging through the snow, Yet’efa searched the ground for hoof tracks, eventually finding what seemed like a commonly used path by many creatures. Pleased with his find, Yet’efa looked up, searching for a branch he could perch on in wait. A few meters down the path, he found a thick branch on a large Sun Oak. Unfurling his wings, he flew up onto the branch and sat, waiting for anything to pass through the trail. Hours went by with only a few Tusked Deer, a Mammoth Moth, and a pack of Dire Wolves passing underneath him. No Flying Boar, until he heard the shrill cry of one. Yet’efa readied his axe as the sounds grew closer. Within moments, a Flying Boar rushed down the path. When it was within a meter of his perch, he jumped off and pinned the boar down, digging his axe into its head. Yet’efa stood over his quarry, examining it. “Well, don’t you look like a prize,” he said proudly. He noticed one of its wings had been torn off recently and large claw marks marred its rump. A sudden realization hit Yet’efa as he heard a distorted Boar cry nearby. He turned to see the scarred visage of a massive Crying Bear. The bear looked down at him and spoke in a horribly distorted voice, “Is anyone there? My leg… it's broken.” Then it rose on its hind legs and slashed at Yet’efa. “Scheiße!” Yet’efa screamed, dodging the attack. He landed hard on the ground, feeling a burning pain in his back. Ignoring the pain, Yet’efa got up and tried to run. The Crying Bear let out a horrid roar and gave chase. Hearing the roar, Yet’efa attempted to fly, but the pain in his back kept him grounded. “I need to get to the village for help. Hopefully, Father is back,” Yet’efa thought to himself. He kept running, but the bear was gaining on him quickly. Out of desperation, Yet’efa looked back and released a thick, frosty mist from his mouth, freezing the snow-covered ground and trapping the bear's front legs. “That should buy me a few minutes,” he thought, running toward the village. As Yet’efa neared his village, he started yelling, “Bear in the forest! Bear in the forest!” He heard the heavy footfalls of the Crying Bear behind him. Running faster, adrenaline pumping, heart pounding, he escaped the forest. He felt the hot breath of the bear on his neck and thought, “I’m going to die.” As Yet’efa felt the spittle of the Crying Bear drip on his head, a loud whack and crunch snapped him out of his shock. He turned to see the bear’s crushed corpse fly about 10 meters back. Yet’efa looked up and saw a giant wielding a tree as a club, his long hair flowing in the wind and a thick beard covering half his face. “Father!” Yet’efa yelled, rushing towards the giant. His father dropped the tree and drew a symbol on his chest, shrinking down to a more human-like height. “Yet’efa, I'm so glad you're alright,” his father said, tears welling up in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Father. I was going to bring home a Flying Boar, but then… well, you know,” Yet’efa said, turning to look at the bear. “Well, look on the bright side. Instead of a roast boar, you got us some new coats and a blanket,” his father said, laughing as he looked towards the bear. Yet’efa and his father brought the Crying Bear to their hut, where they prepared it and enjoyed a happy birthday celebration.

Did you remember the time we whispered wishes into bubbles as we sent them into the sky? We hoped they would pop in China, so that someone across the world with the same desires could feel our hope, too. Did you remember? Or had it been so long that you’d forgotten? I almost forgot, too, so that’s okay. After years of barely speaking, waving to each other in the hallway, and texting one or two words, it’s okay if you’d forgotten. Because I almost forgot the sound of your voice. Did you forget the sound of my voice, too? “I like you,” you had whispered through the line of trees connecting your house to mine. “I like like you. More than friends. Will you be my girlfriend?” I shifted softly on my feet, feeling the wind whip through my long, blonde hair as fluffy clouds formed in the blue sky above us. We were just kids then. I didn’t know what I was turning down. “I’d rather be friends,” I replied. “Sorry.” We were just kids. I didn’t know what I was turning down. I watched the smile fade from your face. “Oh, that’s okay. We can still be friends. Always still be friends,” he mumbled. The discomfort was evident on his face. Awkwardness loomed in the air around us as we each took deep breaths. Years went by. You understood me more than anyone. We lay in the front yard, the sun beating down on our faces as your little siblings, Riley and Mackenzie, sketched outlines of us on the pavement. To me, you were the little neighbor boy who had a crush on me. To you, I think I was more. We were just kids then. I didn’t know what I was turning down. Love wasn’t a word I understood then, but I think I did love you at that moment. I loved you as my best friend, someone I could count on no matter the circumstances. You stood by me. I liked that about you. Would I do the same? “Tara!” Mackenzie shouted, too young to know an appropriate volume to talk at. “What?” I asked. "Wanna go inside and play Barbies?” You had looked at me with that face, that goofy smile. “Go on, I’ll stay out here with Riley. Lord knows she needs watching,” you laughed, as Riley made a threatening face in your direction. “Mackenzie, don’t you dare break anything.” Kenzie rolled her eyes, grabbing my hand and leading us inside. I looked at you behind my shoulder, beaming. Those were the happiest days of my life. We were running together after the ice cream truck, pushing your little sisters around in that red wagon, and playing with dolls in the cool basements. You were home to me. I never should have doubted that. Over time we grew farther and farther apart. School swamped me. I wanted female friends. I didn’t want to be known as the girl who hung out with only the boy next door. I was wrong about that. You got popular, but that didn’t change you. You were humble, smart, athletic, and kind. I should have reached out. Maybe you should have reached out, too. I guess we both could have done things differently. I see that now. I saw you once. Years after we’d last talked. “So, uh, you’re dating Jakey, right?” you’d asked. I looked down, the same awkwardness filling the air as the day we talked between trees. “Yeah. He’s good, you know?” I replied. “He treats me well.” “Seems like it,” you had laughed. “He talks about you nonstop. He’s right to brag.” Jakey was fine, but when I looked at you, I regretted it all. Your blue eyes, the curly hair, that goofy smile. It took me back to a time when I was happy. It took me back home. Jakey would end up breaking up with me. It was a long time coming. We weren’t happy. You died a month later. Car crash. Your drunk friend was driving and you were blacked out in the backseat. You weren’t strapped in. You died. I’ve never been the same. I see you in bubbles. I see you in ice cream trucks and red wagons. I see you in the tree line of my childhood home. I see you in sidewalk chalk and Barbies. I guess we were always star-crossed. The realization just struck me at the wrong time. We were just kids. I just didn’t know what I was turning down.

“Painful Realization” (Part 3 of 3) By P. Orin Zack [Dec 18, 2017]   When he saw the lab company’s line-art logo on its door, Bert slowed beside the van parked outside the tech hatchery. It was the start of Labor Day weekend, and Bert had driven north for Seattle’s SeaFair festival. In the few months since his session with Iain, he’d completely redesigned the cornet’s interior, and had the 3D file on a USB stick in his pocket. A couple of employees carrying boxes were just exiting the lab when he got there, so he edged past them, caught the security door before it closed completely, and slipped inside. “Excuse me, sir,” a young woman said as she rushed towards him, “but this is a secure area. You need a badge to—.” “It’s okay,” he said, “I’m a friend of Lester—.” “Regardless,” she said, cutting him off, and motioning for him to turn around, “you can’t just walk in like that. This isn’t a retail store. If you want to speak to sales, I’ll—.” “Ermaline?” a brusque voice boomed from across the room, “Is that Lambert Frensh?” She stopped and peered at him briefly. “Frensh? Are you the guy we printed that funny looking cornet for?” Bert nodded, then looked at the man crossing the room towards them with a sample case. “Hi, Lester. I’m told you have my instrument here. I was wondering if—.” “I’m busy right now, Mr. Frensh. We’re heading out to a trade show in Vegas in a few minutes.” He looked over at Ermaline. “Give him his cursed horn and show him the door.” “But I don’t want it back.” “Great,” Lester said. “Then leave.” “I’ve got a new design, sir. Would it be possible to—?” Lester gave him a nasty look. “Print another one? Are you nuts? Printing that first horn nearly wrecked my prototype. There’s no way I’ll risk my equipment to render any of your buggy-ass designs. Now get out of my way. I’ve got a plane to catch!” Two employees followed Lester out the door with more gear, leaving Bert and Ermaline alone in the lab. He eyed her curiously. “How come you’re not going, too?” She pursed her lips. “Payback, I guess. He was pretty torqued off that I let Ms. Bascomb in when she was looking for the owner of that cornet of yours. I guess I’m lucky to still have a job here.” “Well,” Bert said, “if he’s making your life miserable, why haven’t you gone of your own accord? There must be other jobs out there doing… what do you do here, anyway?” Ermaline glared at the door for a few seconds, then her expression softened and she turned and started across the room. “They’re gone. We might as well get comfortable. Want a drink?” After she got a soda for herself, and bottled water for Bert, they pulled two chairs over to the prototype printer where the cornet had been made. “What do I do around here? Basically, I made his toy here sit up and bark. With something like this, it’s not just programming. It’s more like art. The compilers spit out crap code that kinda-sorta does the job, but to finesse what it’s capable of, you really need to get down closer to the metal. So the job is a hybrid of old-school and new tech.” “And your boss doesn’t want you hanging around at the trade show?” “Of course not. Snake oil doesn’t mix well with hard, cold facts. He’s after big bucks corporate and government contracts, after all. The thing works, so I’m expendable. Speaking of which, Lester said the printer nearly shook itself apart when he was printing out your cornet.” Bert nodded. “So I’ve heard. Any idea why?” “No, but I’d like to find out. What sort of black magic did you bury in that design of yours?” He laughed. “Close. It’s actually a cross between Sacred Geometry and Feng Shui, with a little Sheldrake tossed in. Are you familiar with chi?” “Qi? Sure. I do yoga to refine my energy state before diving into any serious coding. It helps me to concentrate. Of course my co-workers think I’m nuts.” “Believe me, you’re in good company. Anyway, when you do a yoga pose, you create a particular shape for the chi, or life energy, that your body generates. That reinforces the particular flavor of chi that you need to write elegant code. The interior of the cornet has a complex set of angles and ridges cut into it. Like mirrors in Feng Shui, they reflect the chi you create when playing, and it bounces around inside the instrument. The shape of the pattern this makes is based on the principles of Sacred Geometry, specifically, the golden ratio.” Ermaline nodded. “Yeah. Fibonacci. That series came up a lot in the code for this thing, too. So what does it do with all the Qi it captures?” “Can you get me that cornet?” “Sure.” She swiveled her chair, reached down and slid open a drawer in the desk behind them, revealing the cornet. Bert took it out, and held it up. “The chi it works with is the kind you generate when you’re in flow, extemporizing rather than playing something rote. It resonates in a shape that amplifies it, like a laser, and then broadcasts it. When I played this at Seattle Center during FolkLife, it affected Ms. Bascomb from clear across Seattle Center. I suspect that when your printer was constructing the chamber, there was a resonance between the shapes it was making and the timing patterns in the code you wrote.” She looked doubtful. “Perhaps. So what was it supposed to be doing with the Qi it broadcast?” “The idea was to enhance the emotional effect of the music. After all, if a musician is extemporizing like that, they’re being about as much with the music as it’s possible to be. But all the audience gets is the audio part of the performance. I wanted people to experience the full effect of that music, but all Ms. Bascomb got was pain, probably because of a resonance in her implant, like the one that affected your printer.” He put the cornet down, and pulled out the USB stick. “A resonance that I eliminated in the design on this thing. Is there any way I can get you to print out another cornet?” She held out her hand. “Sure. Prove to me that your theory actually works. Play it for me when it’s done.” Bert grinned and dropped it in her palm. “Won’t you get in trouble with Lester?” “Like you said, there are other jobs out there. This is more important, and we’ve got all weekend.”   “Ready?” Ermaline asked Bert, her finger poised above the Enter key on the 3D printer’s control panel. While she was busy cleaning the printer and loading consumables, she grilled him relentlessly about how his design captured, transformed and then emitted a focused pattern of the life energy generated by the person playing the cornet. From time to time, she diverted the discussion to tangentially related fields, such as physics and radio astronomy. In particular, she kept alluding to how the signal from multiple smaller radio dishes could be combined to synthesize the effect of there being one huge dish spanning the distance between the actual receiving stations. The question she’d thrown back at him three times now was whether the cornet was actually transmitting the reshaped chi, or whether it was eliciting a sympathetic vibrational effect in listeners that caused their own energy field to resonate to the chi being focused in the cornet. Bert, who was standing in front of the printer, said, “Go!” She started the print job, and came over to join him. The mechanism stirred to life, but didn’t immediately start the fab process. “With a design this complex, it’ll perform some optimizations in memory before realizing the piece. But we’ll have to kill the job if we get a recurrence of those vibrations that Lester reported. Anyway, getting back to our discussion, could that be what happens?” “It does make sense, now that you’ve framed it that way. After all, we’re all generating our own fields. It would also explain why the musical tree I told you about has a larger range; it’s got a bunch of chi collectors, not just the one.” When the printer then stirred to life, Ermaline gestured at it, saying, “Assuming that the vibrations started once it got to the interior structure of the resonance cavity, we’ve got at least a half-hour before we have to worry about it. How about we order out for some pizza while we wait?” Once the pie was ordered, Ermaline gave Bert a puzzled look. “You fogged me, didn’t you. I mean, about the design of this new cornet. You told me what the original’s Qi was supposed to do, but didn’t say whether you changed that, too, when you eliminated the cause of the printer’s resonance problem. What’s this one we’re printing now supposed to do?” He looked away guiltily for a moment. “You’re right. I kind of wanted that to be a surprise, when I demonstrated it for you.” “So come clean. What’s it do?” He feigned an indignant reaction. “It’s a surprise, remember? Just wait, okay?” “Well, it better be worth it. After all, this caper of ours is really my Swan Song here. When we’re done, I’ll leave my notice on Lester’s desk along with my badge.” They spent the rest of the day in front of the printer, eating pizza and chatting. As the cornet took shape, the chatter grew sparse and they watched and listened for any sign of vibration from the printer. Finally, the printer stopped, and a signal tone reported that it was finished. Ermaline opened the fab chamber, lifted out the cornet, and presented it to Bert. He opened the bag he’d brought with him and removed a package of parts. Then he placed the cornet body down on the table, inserted the valves and then the mouthpiece. Finally, he raised it and prepared to play. Before taking a breath, though, he hesitated, smiled slyly, and played a verse of Leonard Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah’. After the first few notes, Ermaline joined in, scatting along with the cornet. Then she suddenly became self-conscious about it, stopped, and said, “I don’t know why I did that. It just, well, it just came out. So what was your new cornet suppose to do?” “Just what it did. You saw it.” “Saw what?” “The reaction it drew out of you. Singing along. That was your chi, responding to the shape of what the cornet captured and amplified.” She gaped. “Seriously?” “As a heart attack. It worked!” Ermaline stared at Bert for a long moment, the urgency of her breaths telegraphing the chaos that was raging in her mind. From time to time, she pressed her eyes closed and shook her head, as if to erase whatever inner whiteboard she was scrawling mental calculations across. Finally, she took a deep breath, clenched both fists at her sides, and said, “Let me get this straight. Are you telling me that you just used that cornet to entrain my Qi? That you essentially hacked my soul and made me do your bidding?” He shrugged. “I hadn’t really thought about it that way, but sure, I guess so.” “Why? You said the original design was intended to enhance the listening experience by transmitting the emotional aspect of the performance. I can buy that. It’s adding a new layer to the colors already possible to convey with sound alone. It could even be salable. So why design this new cornet to essentially disrupt a performance? Nobody’s going to want that.” Instead of answering immediately, Bert stood and looked around the lab. “Is it possible that there’s any sort of surveillance equipment in this place? Could our discussion be recorded or transmitted?” Ermaline rose very slowly. “What aren’t you telling me?” “Not here,” he said. “You told me you were going to leave your notice and your badge after the cornet was printed, and go. Is that still your plan?” “Okay, Bert. You have my interest. I’ll take care of that, and then we can go somewhere more private.”   Georgetown Playfield was empty when they entered it a few minutes later. As was usual on SeaFair weekend, the confluence of the Blue Angels airshow, hydroplane races, and Labor Day sporting events, the rest of Seattle was essentially a human vacuum. The first two were already over for the day, but the various crowds had not yet disbursed. Bert followed Ermaline across the railroad tracks behind a nearby parking lot, past a fringe of trees, and to a wooden park bench. “This should be safe,” she said, taking a seat. Bert took a minute to look around at the empty ball fields before sitting. He had both cornets with him, and set them down between them, with the bells facing the back of the bench. “Okay,” he said. “The ‘Pied Piper’ thing, forcing people to echo what’s being played, was proof of concept. I wanted to know whether I could use chi to affect behavior.” “Well, that’s a done deal, now. But calling it a ‘proof of concept’ puts this in a whole different light. You’d only do that if you were planning to add a payload. You’re developing the equivalent of a software exploit, only the OS you’re targeting is whatever makes us human. So, I gotta ask you: are you a white hat or a black hat?” “What do you mean?” Ermaline gave him a withering look. “Don’t be coy. Software exploits can be used for good or for evil. What’s your end game here? This stuff you’re developing can be really dangerous.” “I don’t think I can really answer that question,” he said. “Those are absolute moral states. White hat, black hat… the question of whether someone approves of my objective here isn’t cut and tried like that.” “So…” she said, her face reflecting her confusion, “is it ambiguous? Is that the problem?” Bert shook his head gravely. “Hardly. It’s crystal. But I haven’t been able to put it into words. Don’t forget that chi is more a feeling than any kind of statement.” Ermaline stood up, turned around, and looked down at him. “This isn’t helping,” she said. “If we were talking about software, starting without a concrete objective can only lead to one thing: an unfocussed mess that’s guaranteed to cause all sorts of problems. And I’m not just talking about its ability to satisfy those vague ends. It would also be wide open to misuse, and a honeypot for hackers. Unless you have a solid idea of what you’re trying to accomplish here, you won’t have any control over what it does when it’s released into the world.” He nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “I see that. My neighbor, an avid fantasy gamer, warned me about not thinking through the implications of whatever ‘spell’ this might be like. The problem is, I’m trying to replicate the feeling I had in a vision.” Bert paused to close his eyes briefly, and then stared fiercely up at Ermaline, blind to everything around them. “While it was happening,” he continued, “I could feel the gestalt of how it affected my relationship to everything. And I do mean everything. The only downside was how effectively it negated the meanness and ugliness underlying so many conflicts among people… not just the political gang war that has infected this country. It changed the way I saw other things, too. People who haven’t been affected just won’t understand. They’ll be afraid. They’ll hate. They’ll fight.” At that moment, Ermaline was thrown off balance by the impact of a disheveled man who stumbled into her. Bert leaned forward and reached out to check her fall. He quickly rose and turned to see the stranger. The man’s eyes were loosely focused, he wore several layers of ill-fitting clothes, and he smelled of alcohol. Like a badly strung marionette, he lurched back and wobbled to steady himself. The man stabbed an accusatory finger in the general direction of the two cornets still sitting on the bench. “I know what you are,” he said, straightening his back in drunken indignity. “Those are bungles. Couldn’t stand the screech of ‘em in the army. Damn things always ordering us around. Wake up. Go eat. Line up.” Ermaline gave the man some room, and looked a question at Bert. “You’re a freakin’ street musician,” he said after a long pause. “Begger-er. Think you’re better’n me because you can play for your fix. But I know what you’re up to. You’re stealing money from me, getting them tourists to hand you cash that rightfully belongs to me!” Bert glanced down at the two cornets, at Ermaline, and then over at the drunk. He leaned over to pick up the new one, moving slowly to make sure that the man was watching, and started to play a sprightly rendition of the ‘cat’ theme from Peter and the Wolf. After a few bars, the drunk began to hum a haphazard echo of the theme, jerkily waving his arms to the beat. Bert paused briefly, took a few steps towards the entrance to the park, and began the piece again, only this time he departed from the Prokofiev after the first cycle and proceeded to embellish a jazz improvisation around it. The drunk attempted to perform a military pivot to face Bert, nearly losing his balance in the process, and affected an exaggerated salute. Ermaline mimed her confusion, watching in fascination as Bert played the man towards the street, and then slowed to let him pass by. As he did, Bert first ramped down the volume and then stopped playing, yet the man continued lurching tunefully out of the park. When Bert returned to the bench, she touched the cornet in his hand and whispered, “How long does the effect last?” “Thanks to Ms. Bascomb’s head pain back in May, I knew that my first design had no lingering effects. I stopped playing when I heard her yelp, and that relieved her distress. Granted, her pain, like the physical resonance to your printer, was a fluke, but the observation still stands. With this one, I was after a different breed of cat. Lingering effects were necessary in order for the chi to spread like an infection.” “Yeah,” she said dismissively, “we already talked about this being like a digital virus. That’s your force multiplier. What’s the payload?” Bert met her gaze, and decided to take a leap. “It’s a feeling, really. The kind you get when you truly, deeply understand that the things that bind us are stronger than the ones trying to tear us apart. I suppose you could call it a kind of ‘peacefare’, because it’s really difficult to hold both that and animosity in your heart at the same time.” Ermaline was incredulous. “You want to force people to like each other? You might as well try to force them to be free!” “It’s actually bigger than that,” he said. “We’re not just talking about people here, either. Here’s the thing. Not too long ago, a student of mine got hurt trying to make peace between supporters and protesters at a political rally. Both sides attacked him.” Bert stopped suddenly and drew a sharp breath, his face awash with inner turmoil. In the unexpected silence, Ermaline glanced nervously around to see if they had attracted any more unwanted attention. When he resumed a moment later, it was with visible and audible resolve. “And he wouldn’t have even tried to interfere if I hadn’t infected him with the deep secret at the heart of jazz: that blind adherence to any strict set of rules results only in the brittle illusion of strength. All it takes is one person out of step to destroy the rigid uniformity of a military parade. One misplayed note can suck the power from orchestral grandeur. A structure like that shatters easily, so anyone whose identity is caught up in the need for such perfection will fight viciously to preserve it.” He looked up at the trees surrounding them. “That’s not how the world works, though. Nature succeeds because of diversity, not in spite of it. But it can only happen if the parts of that whole allow it to, if they can face one another as equals.” “So that’s the payload,” she asked gently. He nodded. “That’s the payload.” “And you can shape captured Qi to cause people to embody it in reflection, like you caused that drunk to wander off lost in that tune?” “With your help, I can.” Ermaline indicated the cornet in his hand. “Maybe so, but you’ll never get anywhere playing one of those, even if we could afford that 3D printer.” Bert smiled. “We won’t have to. For a bigger project, we can use bigger tools. Now that you’re unemployed, can you take some time off for a trip?” “To where?” “My back yard.”   Ermaline stepped closer to the huge barren tree sculpture, and noted the various hooks where Bert said the pods had been hung. Then she looked down at the opened bamboo pod in her hands. Unlike the cornets, where it was enclosed, she could examine the grooves that had been cut into the interior surface. She ran a finger across the ridges, and turned to where Bert was standing. “What did you carve it with?” “A Dremel,” he said, matter-of-factly. “It doesn’t take too long, once you’ve traced the design onto it. Working out the design was what took time.” She slowly approached him while staring intently at the open pod. “How did you work out the design?” “By hand, mostly. Well, I used a calculator for the math, but it’s a tedious process, mapping the edges of the 3-space shapes of the raw chi, the refractor, and the target chi. I suppose you can think of it like it was a kind of hologram.” “Sounds like a lot of work. Why not use some software to speed it up?” Bert hid a self-conscious smile. “That’s not really my thing. But, hey… if you think you can do that, I won’t argue with you. Ermaline nodded. “Great. But there’s still something I don’t understand.” “Oh?” “Yeah.” She closed and latched the pod, and then brought it up as if she was going to play it like a flute. “I get that you could manipulate my Qi if I were to play the thing, but how does it do anything if it’s just hanging there?” He raised his eyebrows. “There’s the wind. It is, after all, a wind chime.” “Not good enough,” she said, handing it back to him. “If that were the case, the effect would not only be unpredictable, it would also be dead most of the time. There’s something else going on here. Look, I can’t help you if I don’t know everything.” Bert opened the pod again, and was quiet for a few breaths. He looked at the tree, at the clouds overhead, and then back at her. “Please let me finish before you say anything.” She nodded agreement. “So far,” he began, “we’ve established that you’re familiar with the idea of chi. I know that you’re okay with the assertion that, as living beings, we create it. Well, so do other living things. Animals and plants each generate their own kinds. But, and here’s the crux of it, so does everything else. The Earth generates chi. So do the moon, the sun, and the other planets. But for our purposes, it’s the Earth that matters. Gaia manifests chi like she does gravity. That’s what these pods are tuned to. That’s how they can continuously transform and project the chi we shape inside them. But it’s a subtle energy, as weak compared to the chi that we generate, as gravity is weak compared to the nuclear forces. When you play one of these pods, you also channel a bit of Earth’s chi, and it’s expressed as a sort of overtone that rides your own chi. That enhances the effect. So, by playing the pod, you can test it out. The set that had been hanging here caused quite a bit of trouble. Just ask my neighbor.” Ermaline paced the yard for some minutes, before returning where Bert was waiting. “If what you say is true,” she said, “then just hanging them up here isn’t going to get you enough bank for the buck. These things need to be distributed somehow. And if there’s any kind of network effect we can get when they interact, then maybe there’s a chance that we can change things.” “About that,” Bert said, glancing towards Iain’s house, “I did discuss what a group effort might look like with my neighbor, the fantasy gamer.” “You mean, like a circle?” she interposed. “More like a spiral. The Golden Ratio that all of this is based on creates a spiral. But it also means you can’t have many participants because the center gets crowded really fast.” She shrugged. “So make it big. After all, we are attempting to change the way people see the world over a pretty big area.” Bert stared into the middle distance for a few seconds. “Okay. I’ll buy that. So the idea would be placing pods along the curve, starting here, I guess.” He traced the curve in the air in front of him. “If we go south and east to start, the bottom would be somewhere in Texas, Houston, maybe. Then, curving up, the easternmost point would be around D.C. I make the top of the curve to be somewhere in Ontario, Then winding south and west to, well, Chicago, I suppose. And from there it closes in somewhere in the southern mid-west.” When he saw Ermaline nodding, he added, “What would you think about taking a bit of a road trip?” “Could get expensive. That’s a lot of territory.” “Perhaps not,” he said. “Do you know anyone we could stay the night with along that route?” She shook her head. “No, but you might.” “I what?” Ermaline pulled out her phone and looked something up. “Got it. Remember the woman you handed that first cornet to?” “Anjela Bascomb. Sure. Why?” “After she filled out the NDA, I saved her contact info. She lives in Chicago!” Bert looked doubtful. “She didn’t really leave here on good terms. I doubt she’ll want to put us up for the night.”   Bert stopped along the harbor’s walkway, closed his eyes, and luxuriated in the soothing staccato of slack rigging against masts as dozens of sailboats rocked in time to the waves lapping against the concrete shores of Chicago’s near north side. In counterpoint to this, the interwoven sounds of cars and trucks flowing up and down Lake Shore Drive surged and ebbed, following its own patterns, yet managing to turn the combination into a stirring mélange of natural and man-made energy. Surrendering to the feeling, he opened his eyes, and gazed south along the city’s lakefront park to the nest of office towers that sketched the city’s skyline. He and Ermaline had set out on their spiral journey the week before, after anchoring their mission by placing the first 2-pod set at a private Zen garden tended by a friend of hers. Tracing the path of the Golden Ratio south from the Puget Sound, they placed the first few sets at the points that Bert had noted when he drew the curve in the air of his back yard. After placing the second set in Texas, they found a suitable spot in the D.C. area, and then in Ontario. Each time, Bert blew cornet accompaniment improvisations while their hosts hung the gifted peacefare offering. Now they were in Chicago, a short walk from Angela Bascomb’s hi-rise, and Bert was still conflicted about how to greet her. When he finished soaking in the bright Chicago sun and turned back towards Ermaline, she picked up the bag containing their fifth set of pods, and they headed for the pedestrian underpass and into the city proper. Bert was still stewing over his greeting when the thrum of the building’s elevator was pierced by a shrill voice echoing through the shaft above them. “—you and your kind are killing this country, you cretinous bastard!” When the elevator car began to brake, Bert raised the cornet case and clutched it defensively to his chest. “Get the hell off my floor! NOW!” The fiery guttural response came from just outside the elevator car now. Ermaline hiked the pod bag strap higher up her shoulder, and poised a finger by the emergency button beside her. The doors slid open, revealing a man and a woman with fierce expressions and clawed hands, pausing momentarily to glare at the interlopers in the open elevator. Bert took a hesitant step out. While locking eyes with the man, he led Ermaline carefully around behind the woman. Once they had passed, the pair resumed their argument. Bert lowered his case and listened intently. In a way, it was the same quandary that Mark Laraby had walked into, the same one he’d revisited in that vision in Iain’s kitchen. Each of these people — like the throngs arrayed against one another over political, financial, social or religious differences — was warring against a distorted caricature of the other’s ‘group’, and neither one was really listening. There could be no beneficial outcome here. It didn’t really matter what they were fighting over, because their identities were so thoroughly invested in that of their ‘side’ that the prospect of losing was, for them, an existential crisis. Ermaline, who had gone ahead a few steps, turned and called to him in a stage whisper, “Bert. Let them be.” He motioned for her to come closer. “I want to try something,” he whispered. “Take out one of the pods and get ready to play it.” “Play what?” “Doesn’t matter. Just blow into it, make some noise when I give you the signal.” The pair by the elevator had shifted position a few times, and the woman was, for the moment, getting the upper hand. Bert knelt, opened the case, and lifted out the cornet. Its surface cast rainbow glints on the walls and ceiling. Then he stood, nodded to Ermaline, and started to play a New Orleans style riff on “When the Saints Go Marching In”. The combination of that, the moaning of the pod, and the shouting echoed through the hall for the few seconds it took for the combatants to fall silent and gape at their musical competition. But their gape was short-lived, because a few bars later, both of them started nodding to the beat and began strutting around the floor like they were at a Bourbon Street wake. Ermaline had gotten the hang of playing the pod by this time, and was doing her best to follow Bert’s lead. With his free hand, Bert motioned for her to keep it up, while he started to lower the volume of what he was playing. But, as before, their ‘audience’ kept singing and marching after he had stopped entirely. When they reached the end of the chorus, he signaled for Ermaline to stop, too. “What the hell are you two doing?” an irritated female voice from behind demanded. Bert spun around, prepared to apologize, but stopped with his mouth still open when he realized that the fiftyish woman with hearing aids was Anjela Bascomb. She peered at him curiously. “Mr. Frensh? What are you doing here?” “I wanted to make amends. You were pretty upset when you left my place.” He wiggled the cornet. “And I wanted to show you something.” Anjela glanced down at it. “That’s a different one, isn’t it? So I guess you fixed that problem. I didn’t have any pain this time.” She looked over at Ermaline. “Hey, don’t you work at the place that made the horn for him?” “Well, I used to. Oh, yeah. We brought something for you. A present.” She held out the pod. Anjela took it and looked it over. “This is different, too,” she said slowly. “I could feel the effects — two kinds, from my apartment when you started playing.” Bert stepped closer. “What, exactly, did it all feel like?” “Can we talk about this in my apartment? I’m leery of discussing such things in public, especially with neighbors like those two around.” Over time, Bert had become quite attuned to the chi around him, due to the effects of the combination of cornet and pod. Their recent hallway concert had caused the pod’s unifying effect to reverberate, making him feel unexpectedly comfortable in Anjela’s presence. Stepping through her doorway, he could sense the freighted meaning of everything she had surrounded herself with, especially the Maxwell Parrish posters in the entryway. They gathered around the kitchen table, making small talk while Anjela prepared a round of hot tea. “Tell me,” Bert said when he couldn’t stand the suspense any longer, “what was it like for you? To me, it’s a feeling of connectedness, but I haven’t found the right words for it.” “I’d gone to FolkLife,” she said, idly stirring her tea, “to see a pagan folk group I used to follow. Their music had a kind of energy to it that I’d only encountered once before, with Fleetwood Mac’s song, ‘The Chain’.” A picture in the living room caught Bert’s eye while she was talking. An old man with a shovel stood in an empty grave. The man was looking up at a winged figure kneeling beside the hole. He flashed again to the vision in Iain’s kitchen, only this time, it was from Mark Laraby’s perspective, from where he saw his own face as filtered through the green flame in his hands. “Excuse me,” he said suddenly. Anjela lowered her cup. “The song? I can play it on my phone.” “No,” he said. “It’s not that. There’s a picture over there I’m curious about.” She followed his finger. “The Schwabe? It’s called ‘The Gravedigger and the Angel of Death’. What about it?” “I think it’s important, but I don’t have a clue why. A few months ago, I think I saw it in a vision, well, part of it anyway. And then I was reminded of that vision when we encountered your neighbors out there. What’s the painting about?” Anjela traced the edge of her cup with a finger for a moment before answering. “Carlos Schwabe was a symbolist painter,” she said thoughtfully. “He didn’t provide any commentary about the piece, so we’re kind of on our own about that.” “Well,” he said, nodding, “what does it mean to you, then?” She turned to look at the picture. “I think they’re seeing one another through the light of the flame she’s holding. But she’s also reaching skyward with her other hand. To me, she’s indicating that whatever magic there is in that flame can elevate both of them to a higher plane, but only if they do it together.” After a pause, she added, “Does that help?” Bert thought briefly. “I don’t know yet,” he said quietly. “But please, continue with what you were saying before I interrupted.” “Anyway, I’d left my family’s religion because it didn’t feel right, and something about what that pagan group’s music did for me filled that hole in my soul. So I learned what I could about their ways, even though I wasn’t about to follow it. There was one thing that stuck with me, though. It’s a simple statement, but it means so much. With it, you can melt the distinctions that keep us apart in so many ways. The thing is, it’s not particularly religious, or political, for that matter. Yet is applies to both things. And once you’ve internalized it, nothing will ever be the same. That’s how it was for me.” She touched the pod, which was sitting between them, and looked at Bert. “But first, please give me a longer sample, so I can be sure.” Bert picked it up, but didn’t immediately raise it to his lips. He looked out into the living room again, where he could see the Schwabe, and wondered what the gravedigger was thinking when he gazed up at the green flame in the winged angel’s hands. Then he closed his eyes and played, while imagining himself standing in that open grave. When he was finished, and lowered the pod, Anjela smiled. “It’s simply this,” she said, “’Thou Art That’.”   The End Copyright 2018 by P. Orin Zack **Author's Note:** *This is where Anjela's part of the story ended.* *In fiction, as in life, however, the stories we participate in extend beyond our part both before and after we were on the stage. That is why most of my longer works are composed of a series of short stories: the focus shifts as the story progresses. The same was true of the tale I told here. It was clear to me that there was more to Bert French's story, but it would be continued under another title, "Interrupted Podcast", the chapters of which I will soon start posting to this subreddit.* *In the writing, I found places where some characters I'd written about in other stories fitted neatly into this one, tangling up the fictional worlds I'd created almost as much as what soon happened to this one when Covid-19 struck and it felt like we'd all been swept into someone's fictional version of reality.* *That shock stopped me cold in the midst of writing Chapter 7, which is as far as I got before setting it aside. I had, by that time, made notes about where the story would go after that, and I intend to post those notes to this sub as well, so you can see where it seemed to me the tale would go from there.* -- P.

The sun bellied up over the horizon, already red and angry. Andrew sighed and shielded his eyes from the rays. It was barely five in the morning, and already he had to get up. While he could have stayed in bed, breakfast came and went like the wind, and he would be a fool to skip it and then work the fields. Despite the early hours, people had already come to the hall, among them Sandy and Nigel. He waved at them and pointed at the stations, mouthing to them “I’ll be real quick.” They smiled and waved back. He got his fill of rice, and went to work picking out all the sides, before joining them at the table. “Have you heard what happened?” asked Sandy. Andrew shook his head, “Yesterday was a bit hectic. Barely remember anything.” “They executed Jared late last night,” Sandy whispered. “Wait, what?” Andrew whispered back. “Yeah, really,” she nodded. “Like, the guy in block B? Bunkmates with the Austin Sharpshooter? That guy?” “The very same. He didn’t get very far, navigating the sewers like he did.” He watched as she popped a grape into her mouth, before continuing. “The warden made him run barefoot on electrified steel boards. The poor guy didn’t even last five minutes.” Andrew grimaced. “Sandy, come on. Let the poor guy eat,” Nigel punched her in the shoulder lightly. She laughed, “Nigel, please. Andrew knew what it’s like. He can handle it. Right, Andrew?” He smiled weakly at them and ate his meal in silence. ​ “Andrew, Andrew, Andrew… ah, here we go. You’re on farm duty,” said the guard, who handed him a tag. He clipped the tag onto his belt. “Just step on the teleporter when you’re ready,” said the guard. Andrew stepped on the teleporter and took a deep breath. A flash blinded him, and he knew no more. ​ “Andrew, was it?” asked the woman on the other end. He looked up at her and nodded. “First time here?” she asked. He nodded again. “The gravity is a bit lower here than wherever you are, so be careful how much spring you put into your step, else you get flung. The last guy that got flung went orbital, and last I heard, he’s still out there. You got your tag with you?” He unclipped his tag from the belt and showed it to her. She nodded and typed into the machine. “Should be all set. Welcome to M’Frandal, Andrew.” ​ Andrew opened the glass door, and immediately got hit with a gust of dusty red wind. He retreated back, coughing profusely. A low voice laughed, “That’ll do it to ya, mate.” He turned around to see a man on a bench in a corner. “Newcomers always stick their head right outside, then get hit with dust wind. Every single time, it never gets less funny.” “Real funny,” Andrew deadpans. “One day, you’ll be old like me, sonny, and you’ll find it’s dreadfully boring,” rasped the man. “An old man needs all the entertainment he can get.” He laughed again. Andrew ignored the old man. He put on the suit, and got out. The heat was immediate. For a few agonizing seconds, he felt like the heat would liquefy him, and he would be no more. The system kicked in then, the wind cooled him down. Not enough for the heat to completely go away, but just enough for him not to feel like he was melting anymore. *Do I really have to walk in this heat?* A horn cut through that thought. Sandy, already suited up, asked from the driver’s seat, “So, you coming or not?” Smiling under the mask, he climbed into the cart. ​ The heat only increased throughout the day, and by lunch, the heat had risen so much that all farmers had been called into the building. Partly for lunch, of course, but also that nobody collapsed in the heat. Sandy, ever the gossip queen, told him over lunch that the Wardens were considering if it would be better to call it a day and send everyone back. “That’s a bit drastic,” Andrew commented inbetween bites of grilled meat. “Well, if you want to work under the burning heat of about, oh, I don’t know, 140 Fahrenheit, I can always put in a word with the Warden,” Sandy smiled sweetly at him. “No, that won’t be necessary,” Andrew grimaced. “That’s what I thought,” Sandy muttered, before eating a slice of pineapple. ​ By the end of lunch, what Sandy said to him had turned into reality, as the Head Warden, an imposing man at about 6’10”, shuffled into the hall. “We have come to a decision,” boomed the Warden. The hall silenced immediately. He continued, “You may have heard, or saw, that the heat index will reach 140 degrees Fahrenheit this afternoon. We agreed that under that condition, the suits don’t provide enough protection from the elements for us to risk sending any of you out.” The Warden paused for a moment. He scanned our faces, these lights of hope glimmering in our eyes, hoping for release. “Therefore, you’ll be back to your place early,” he ended. The hall erupted in cheer. ​ He stepped off the teleporter, and breathed a sigh of relief. “Back so soon, Andrew?” asked the guard. “More like let off early. The heat down there is no laughing joke,” answered Andrew. “Yeah, we heard it over the radio. Give the tag and vacate the area, unless you want someone to materialize into you,” the guard smirked. Andrew immediately got off the teleporter. He handed the guard the tag, then made his way to the hall. It would be practically deserted at this time, but it would be better than going back to the sleeping block. ​ *Or not,* he thought to himself as he entered the crowded hall. He bought a few granola bars, and winced as he saw his balance went down. “Any chance I can buy a flower or two?” he asked the cashier. “Sold out, unfortunately,” said the girl behind the counter. “The next shipment is not for a week or two, so you’d have to wait then.” *Of course.* “Thanks for the info,” he nodded and walked away to a table to sit down. ​ Nigel came up to him a few hours later. “How long have you been back?” he asked. “Not that long. Or at least, I don’t think it is that long,” admitted Andrew. “It’s, like, nearly dinner, my guy. Your ticket is at your cell, so you gotta run if you want any of the good stuff,” Nigel said. “Wait, really?” Andrew looked around for a clock, and spotted one in the shop. It read 5:25PM. “You’re right, I should get going,” he stood up and collected the trash. “Oh, also? Try and avoid the third floor if you can. Think I heard someone planning an ambush there, so take the elevator if you can,” whispered Nigel. Andrew nodded. ​ Dinner was normal: rice, chicken curry and a few slices of apple. Andrew had no complaints there. When he got back to his cell, however, the Warden was standing there. “Ah, Andrew, so good to see you,” said the Warden. “Did my appeal go through?” Andrew asked him in a whisper. “No, not yet, not yet,” the Warden sighed. “The judge is still considering it, as it were, last I heard of it.” “So why do you come down here?” Andrew sat down on his bed. The Warden leaned on the door. “Because, Andrew, your friends outside have managed to convince the judge to move you to a better facility. Macterion, I think it’s called. It just opened recently, somewhere in the Kerubel galaxy. They can visit you easier there.” For a few moments, there was silence. The Warden continued, “You will be moved in two days. I suggest you get everything here in order.” Then he left. ​ Andrew lied on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The news was a bombshell to him, and even now, he didn’t know how to react to it. On one hand, it meant that he had been deemed safe. As one moves down the ladder, they tend to get put in places that are laxer. Not to say, of course, that there is no law, but everything is less tense than in a max prison. And from what he had heard from other people, Macterion is one such place. Furthermore, his family and friends could visit him more easily. As they told him, it takes about two hours from Maitreyah to Spiron. Macterion is only an hour away, which basically cuts their travel time in half. But on the other hand, he would have to say goodbye to Nigel and Sandy. Although he had only been here for a few months, he would dearly miss them. *Maybe I could try sending them postcards or something?* Lost in his thoughts, he drifted off to sleep.

Every town has their own version of “The Boogeyman”. A monster, cryptid, phantom, whatever you want to call it, it’s all essentially the same thing- just a scary story they tell kids to get them to behave. An urban legend is just a life lesson disguised as a horror story, after all. For us folk living up in the tiny and once prosperous gold-mining town of Trillium, ours was called The Locust Man. Now, let me start by saying, I realize how ridiculous that name probably sounds to you. *The Locust Man?* Pfttt. What’s he going to do besides get stuck in the grill of someone’s pickup truck? Destroy some crops? Oooh, he sounds *real* scary… yeah, I know. Yet, as I sit here nearly 20 years later still trying to make sense of what happened, a grown woman who’s wiser, stronger and even more grounded in reality than my 12-year old self, I find myself hesitating to even type that name. I guess we should go back to where it all started. I remember as a young child I had always thought it was strange that our town was called Trillium, considering I had never come across a single one growing there. If you don’t know, a trillium is a small white flower with 3 pedals and a bright yellow center. They sort of look like if you took a lily and tore off every other petal playing ‘he loves me, he loves me not’. In school, around 2nd grade, we were taught all about this elusive flower I had never seen in real life, but above all, how very proud our town was to be named in its honor. Trillium, Colorado was established in 1922. A new town born in the wake of a tragedy that had struck the previous town, which had once sat in the same location. A ‘rebranding’ tactic, I suppose one could say. For us, and those that came before us, the trillium blossom was supposed to be a symbol of hope and rebirth. Knowing all that I know now, that sentiment feels morbidly absurd. Growing up in a small and mostly isolated town like Trillium, there really wasn’t much for a kid to do. You’d have to drive almost an hour to get to the closest mall or movie theater, so those trips were reserved only for special occasions. The high school kids would all go hang out at the roller rink downtown, or at the old run-down burger joint called Slim’s that sat across it. My friends and I weren’t allowed to go downtown without a chaperone though, and by that age, going with parental supervision was both embarrassing and inconvenient. My neighborhood consisted of a row of modestly sized homes situated on a long dead-end road called Rain Street. At the end of the road was a large patch of woods that separated the abandoned mining system from the main part of town. The old trail the minors used was still easily accessible for the most part, so we used to go hang out in those woods all the time as kids. We had a ‘secret spot’ which, what we thought at the time, was about halfway through the woods, 10 steps away from a small creek that ran the length of the area. ‘Rain Creek’, we used to call it. There was a small clearing there, and we had created our own clubhouse in the center of it, using old milk crates for supports, half-broken wooden pallets as walls, and a few old lawn chairs one of the neighbors had thrown out. I made my contribution by bringing an old tarp we had lying around in our basement, which found new life by serving as the roof of our arboraceous establishment. Our parents weren’t exactly thrilled with the idea of us running around in the woods by ourselves, but as long as we stayed within earshot and made it back before the streetlights came on, they probably figured it was still safer than letting us run around with all the hooligans downtown unsupervised. I guess they picked their battles. It was me, Lacey, Devin, Mikey and Michelle. We were all best friends- pretty much inseparable, except the boys weren’t invited to the girls’ sleepovers, and vice versa. Everyday after school we’d all get dropped off by the bus at the very beginning of our street. It became a running joke between the Rain Street Gang (as we liked to call ourselves) for us to all try and run off the bus as fast as possible, while me Lacey and Devin all yelled out, ‘last two home are some rotten eggs!’, with Mikey and Michelle trying to push past us to get a head start. The aforementioned two were siblings, and lived in the very last house on our street, so they’d always get home last, regardless of their efforts. Although, the year that Mikey got a pair of Heelys for Christmas, he finally got his edge over the rest of us, leaving Michelle to be the lone rotten egg until the following summer, when one of his wheels broke off. The whole point of it all was just to get home and get our chores and homework done with enough daylight left to make our trek into the woods and back, together as a group. The ‘RSG’ had made a pact never to visit the clubhouse without all five members present, though us girls always had our suspicions that the boys thought themselves to be excempt from that rule. They were the ones who had discovered the clearing in the first place, and not to mention, did most of the physical labor of hauling our provisions out there. Lacey and I only learned of the spot a day after the boys had found it. Michelle had walked in on Mikey and Devin talking about it, and immediately relayed that message to us. Michelle wasn’t necessarily more loyal to the girls, she was just the youngest in the group, and couldn’t resist blurting out any mildly relevant information she thought she might have, in a desperate attempt to be included. To say she was nosy would be an understatement. But, in that regard, if the boys *had* ever gone out there without us, they would have had to be extremely sneaky about it, as it was well known that Michelle’s number one objective in life was to gather any piece of intel she could. It was a seemingly normal Saturday morning when Lacey and I learned that all of our speculating may have been warranted. I had slept over at Lacey’s the night before. We were in her room sitting on her bed and discussing our possible plans for the day as she filed her nails. Out of nowhere, Michelle flung open the door and barged in. The expression on her face immediately told us she had just gotten ahold of some real juicy information, before her words could even begin spilling out. “Oh my God… you guys! Guess wh-wh-what?!” Lacey gestured the nail file toward Michelle in a circular motion, raising her eyebrows bluntly as Michelle struggled to catch her breath from running all the way there. “So… last night, Devin came to sleep over, and… wh-wh-while they were in Mikey’s room, I pretended I was going to the bathroom so I could spy on them! See, I was s’pposed to be asleep, but I-“ “Ugh, come on Michelle, get to it! What’d you hear?” Lacey snapped. “Okay, okay… jeez! I *am* getting to it! Ugh! So… I heard the boys talking, anddd…” She paused excitedly for a moment, as if she were expecting a drum roll to precede her announcement. “They’re planning to go try and find the abandoned mine today!!!” “Alright Michelle! Good spying!” I chuckled, trying to encourage her after Lacey’s impatience. Lacey looked over at me and rolled her eyes, then abruptly stood up off the bed. She took the scrunchie from her wrist, tied her long blonde hair up into a messy bun and said, “Let’s go.” “Lacey…” I protested. “What??” She responded as if she hadn’t registered the tone in my voice at all. I opened my mouth, but before I could begin explaining all the practical and logical reasons why even if the boys were stupid enough to go play around somewhere dangerous, *we* shouldn’t be, Michelle exclaimed, “That is where The Locust Man lives!” I immediately closed my mouth in defeat, knowing Lacey will now take this nonsense as a challenge, and no amount of my reasonings will have any effect on her decision. She dismissed Michelle’s comment while attempting to shove her foot into one of her new pink sneakers that she refuses to admit are too small for her. “Pshh, don’t be such a baby, Michelle. He’s not real, you do know that right?” Michelle crinkled her face and yelled back, “Yes, he is Lacey! He is!! And that is where he lives, and he eats kids that go there!” “Oh yeah? You still believe in Santa Claus too? What about the tooth fairy?” Lacey laughed. Michelle looked down at her shoes, and even though she could admittedly be annoying, I found myself feeling bad for her. “Come on Lace, she’s just scared.” She once again rolled her eyes, then said, “Get dressed.” We walked in silence towards the end of the road, though all three of our reasons for it differed drastically. Lacey’s was determination and resolve, mine was contemptuousness and defeat, and Michelle’s was just fear. I found myself hoping the boys had left already, but as we approached the driveway, we caught them right as they were about to step off the porch. “Hey!!” Lacey yelled in her trademark cheerleader cadence, adding one hand on her hip for flair. “Where exactly do you boys think you’re going without us?” Mikey let out an annoyed groan, while Devin stepped forward and said, “Well actually, we were just heading out to go and find you girls.” “Liar!!” Lacey snapped, quickly wiping the shit-eating grin off of Devin’s face. “Michelle already blabbed. We know exactly where you two are going, and we’re coming too.” Devin looked at Mikey for approval, who, after a moment of consideration, replied, “Okay fine, whatever. But no crybaby snitches allowed.” Michelle then proceeded to prove both of his accusations correct at once by whining back, “I am *not* a crybaby! I’m telling mom if you don’t let me come with you guys!” At that point, I spoke up. “Alright, listen.” I said sternly. Then once I had their full attention, I lowered my voice a bit and continued, “Just for the record, I think trying to go find that grody old mine is a dumb idea and a colossal waste of time. But, if one of us goes, then we *all* go. That’s the deal. So make your decisions.” Lacey folded her arms in solidarity beside me, and with that, we all had an unspoken understanding. With the boys out ahead leading the way, we headed towards the uncertainty that waited beyond the tree line. As we entered the woods, I felt a sense of dread wash over me- but to be fair, as a preteen emo kid who’d already reached an adult level of cynicism, I felt a certain amount of dread towards almost everything in life. So, take my premonition with a grain of salt, but for some reason, and even though I played in those woods almost every single day, this day felt… *different*. I remember the woods being abnormally quiet. It took some time for me to even notice, but once I did, I interrupted the mindless chatter going on around me to ask, “Where are all the freakin’ birds?” They all looked at me as if I’d completely lost my mind. “Uhh, what in the hell are you talking about?” Devin asked. I pointed up towards the treetops. “Listen...” They all looked up, then back at me again in confusion. “Every single time we’ve been in the woods, there are always birds chirping back and forth. We’ve been walking for a few minutes now and I haven’t heard a single one, have an of you guys?” “Damn… yeah, that *is* weird.” Mikey agreed. “They probably all just migrated!” Devin goofily offered. “Um, that’s stupid Devin, birds migrate for the Winter. If anything, there should be *more* birds around, it’s the middle of Spring, you moron!” Lacey argued back. Devin flipped her off, which was the best rebuttal he could usually come up with, then turned to me and asked, “Okay whatever, what’s your point exactly?” “Just that- “ I paused and looked over at Mikey, then back at Devin. “It’s weird.” I didn’t want to say what I was actually thinking. That the woods being too quiet was never a good thing. That when birds fall silent, it could mean danger. Like a predator nearby, or a severe storm headed our way; neither of which I was eager to encounter out there. Besides, I was pretty sure that the boys, having both been in the scouts, knew what I knew. Saying it out loud would only serve to annoy Lacey, and further frighten Michelle. Mikey broke his gaze that had been fixed on me, and while scanning our surroundings he said, “Let’s stop by the clubhouse on the way.” With a nod from me, we continued. As soon as we arrived at our pit stop, Lacey hobbled over to the nearest lawn chair and plopped herself down in it. “Ugh, my feet are *killing* me!” “*I wonder why…*” I muttered under my breath. “Excuse me, what was that?” “Just saying. Those shoes are gonna be the death of you Lace, you can barely walk in them.” “Pshh, shut up. They fit fine, I just need to break them in is all. You’re just jealous cuz you’re still wearing your dirty old Vans from last year.” “Ooh yeah, you got me there. I am *so sad* I don’t have a pair of ugly ass pink sketchers that don’t fit me.” She stuck her tongue out at me, then we both laughed. I was the only one who could really go toe to toe with Lacey’s sass. It’s part of the reason we ended up being BFFs, in addition to being neighbors. Regarding style, personality and interests, we were almost polar opposites, but when it came to quick-witted humor and insults, we were equals. More importantly though, she and I had a mutual understanding and acceptance when it came to our differences. Neither one of us tried to change the other, so it just worked. I was just about the only person who ever really stood up to Lacey too; I didn’t back down or take any of her crap like most others did, so I think she respected that. While that exchange had been going on, Michelle had begun picking tiny pink flowers, and I could hear the boys rummaging for something inside the clubhouse. I yelled over in their direction, “Hey, Big Mike and Dirty D!!” Lacey and I giggled, and she mouthed the word ‘big’ with air quotation marks. They didn’t respond, so I approached the entryway and looked in. They were standing with their backs toward me, looking down at a large open metal box, and Mikey was reaching down to grab whatever was in it. I walked inside, and as he stood back up, I could see what it was. “What the fuck, Mikey! Seriously??” Hearing my expletive, Lacey and Michelle ran over and crowded in behind me. “Chill, it’s just a BB gun.” “I’m not stupid, I know it’s a BB gun Michael, what are *you* doing with it, and why is it *here*?” I was livid at the thought that he might be going out there and shooting at animals just to be a shithead. I expected something like that from a goober like Devin, but not Mikey. Right on cue, Michelle butted in to say, “I’m telling mom!!!” “Nice try, Dad knows I have it.” He looked at me, then softened his tone. “Look, it’s just for protection. In case we run into a black bear or some weirdo creep out here. Seriously, it’s just to scare something off, not hurt it.” “Unless it *is* some weirdo creep, then we’ll blast ‘em to high heaven! Bears get a pass though…” Devin laughed, breaking the tension. Mikey knew how I felt about killing animals, especially for no good reason. A lot of folks in Trillium are poor and hunt for food, which I could accept as an unfortunate reality of living in a rural mountain town. But hurting animals just for fun is psychopathic behavior, so I was relieved to hear him dispel my fear over it. I really didn’t want to have to hate him. “Do you even know how to shoot that thing?” Lacey asked. “Yeah, my dad showed me.” Devin obnoxiously clapped his hands together loudly, making us all jump and himself laugh, then said, “Well, alright losers, let’s get going!” I turned to Michelle, still holding the flowers in her hand. “You okay?” I asked. She nodded. “If you want me to walk back with you, I can.” I was slightly hoping she’d say yes, just so I’d have an excuse to bail, but she just shook her head and forced a smile. I knew how scared she was, but she was just too curious. Maybe I was too. We walked for what felt like half an hour, much longer than we had expected our excursion to take us. The woods had become more dense, and the path narrowed from the overgrowth. Still no birdsong. I kept scanning the area in search of any signs of life other than us; looking for the movement of creatures scurrying away, listening for the sounds of rustling as we passed, hoping for a squirrel, a lizard… even a bug. *Nothing.* “How much further is this damn thing?” Lacey groaned. Mikey answered without even turning around. “Should be coming up on it any time now.” “You said that like 10 minutes ago.” “Yeah, and now we’re like 10 minutes closer to it. Oh, and hey, guess what? *You* insisted on inviting yourself, so suck it up, buttercup.” Devin laughed like a maniac at Mikey’s quip. Lacey folded her arms across her chest, and for once in her life, didn’t have a snappy comeback locked and loaded. This time however, I did. “Well, we really only came along to make sure you idiots don’t kill yourselves out here.” “Oh really? So you girls came with us to be *our* protectors, huh?” Devin asked, sarcastically. “Eh, more like babysitters.” I shot back. Needless to say, I was flipped off for that statement, but it shut him up for the time being, at least. We rounded the next bend, and suddenly all came to a screeching halt, one after another, starting with Mikey. Devin positioned himself beside Mikey on the trail, and let out a disappointed groan. “Shit Mikey…” An enormous tree had fallen and was lying a few feet ahead of us, blocking the trail completely. There was no way we could climb over it- too many branches and leaves. We’d have to go around it, which meant leaving the safety of the trail. But, because the tree extended out so far in both directions, it meant we would also have to cross Rain Creek twice to get back. “Seriously?!?!” Lacey exclaimed. “Maybe we should just turn around.” I shrugged. Mikey didn’t seem phased by the obstruction at all. In fact, he seemed more confident. More calm. More certain of his intended mission. “It’s fine, we’ll just go around.” “You *mean* go off-trail.” I corrected. Michelle, who had been mostly quiet this whole time, finally broke her fear-induced silence. She gasped, and dramatically cried out, “We are *not* s’pposed to leave the tr-tr-trail Michael… we could get lost!!” “We’re not going to get lost Michelle, I have a compass. Besides, it’s just a few paces that way. We’ll just follow the tree trunk to the creek. Once we cross, we’ll circle back after we go far enough to clear the tree, cross back over, then we’re right back on the trail.” “Oh hell no, you have *got* to be kidding me!” Lacey yelled. “I am not treading through that nasty water!” “Yeah Mikey, what if Lacey’s brand new shoes get a droplet of water on them?” I laughed, and she slapped my arm. Mikey’s patience was wearing thin with us. “Look, we’ve already walked this far. If we turn around now, we’ve wasted all this time for nothing. Now, if you girls want to be lame and turn around, then go for it. But me and Dev are going.” That was all Lacey needed. A challenge to accept. Someone to prove wrong. “I’ll show you lame.” She pushed past the boys and led the way through the thick brush toward Rain Creek. It wasn’t very wide across, and had a ton of large rocks and fallen limbs spread throughout. The current barely was that of a trickle, and the depth was no more than knee deep for us. Definitely doable, just an inconvenience. And of course, one more ominous obstacle lying directly in our path. Another hint from the universe telling us to turn around. We didn’t listen. Lacey extended one foot out onto the closest limb, and pushed down a few times to test its sturdiness. “I got this.” She stepped out onto it with both feet, and carefully shimmied sideways across the limb until she was close enough to the large exposed rock in the middle of the creek, then hopped onto it. A little shaky on the dismount, but she landed it. She turned around with a full grin and asked, “You all coming or what?” Mikey made his way across the limb, as Lacey hopped from her rock onto another limb that led her to the bank on the other side. Devin followed, then me, and then it was Michelle’s turn. “I’m scared to fall in!!” She cried. *Of course she is, I should have made her go before me.* “It’s okay Michelle, it’s easy! You’re not going to fall!” I reassured her. She didn’t look convinced in the slightest. “Come on Chelle, we’re leaving you!” Mikey yelled, already walking away. “Nooooo! I’m coming, wait!!” She squealed. She made it across, but instead of just walking like everyone else did, she got down on her hands and knees and gripped the limb as if it were the only thing between her and a 50 foot drop to the ground. It was funny to watch, but ultimately prolonged the whole process. After all, we were going to have to do all of this again in a few minutes. Next go round, thankfully, went a lot smoother. The creek was a bit more shallow there, and had a lot more stepping stones and debris built up for us to use. Having just successfully crossed a few minutes ago, we were all more confident in our abilities, including Michelle, who, this time, we made go first. “Just walk across like it’s a bridge! You got this!” We all cheered for her, then broke out into applause when she reached the other side. Before we knew it, we were back on the trail and it wasn’t too long after, that we finally arrived at our intended destination. We all stopped and stared at it for a moment, carefully examining the dilapidated exterior of the place that had brought both prosperity and destruction upon our town. Mikey bent down, picked up a small rock, and threw it into the entrance. We heard it bounce a few times before it stopped. “Just to make sure there nothing in there.” He turned around to clarify. “Did anyone think to bring a flashlight?” I asked. “It’s dark as hell in there.” I was hoping for just one more reason to turn back. Devin reached into one of his cargo shorts pockets and pulled out a keychain flashlight, smiling with the satisfaction of finally being useful. “Okay, Mikey’ll hold the gun, I’ll shine the light, and you girls follow behind us. Let’s go.” Mikey shifted the BB gun from its position of resting on his shoulder to holding the barrel in his left hand and the butt in his right, trying his best to emulate a soldiers stance. Something his dad had taught him, I’m sure. We ducked down a bit to enter. “How far in are we going?” Lacey asked. “Until we see something cool.” Mikey replied. I turned around to check on Michelle, who was still hovering in the entrance. “You coming?” I asked her. I could see that fear had gotten the better of her, and curiosity had now taken a backseat. With wide eyes, she shook her head. “The Locust Man lives in th-th-there...” She tried to whisper. “I *knew* you were going to be a baby about this!” Mikey yelled. I crouched down and put my hand on her shoulder. Against my better judgment, I said, “How about you just wait here for us and pick some more flowers. We won’t be long, there’s nothing in there, I promise. Just… don’t move from this spot and we’ll be right back, okay?” I could feel her unease, but she seemed to accept my suggestion nonetheless, and replied, “Okay.” I smiled at her, then stood up and looked down at my watch to check the time. *12:46 PM* I turned and hurried in, trying to catch up with everyone else. I didn’t feel good about leaving Michelle, but I didn’t exactly feel good about letting the others go in there alone either. And if I’m being honest, maybe a little part of me wanted to see what was in there too. When I caught up to Lacey, she asked where Michelle was. “Stayed back at the entrance.” I said. “Too scared.” “Pshh, figures.” Lacey laughed. “Yeah. How’s your feet?” “At this point numb, actually.” The darkness was so thick that even Devin’s rinky-dink flashlight illuminated the area well enough for me to start inspecting my surroundings. I glanced around at the ancient-looking rock walls as I walked. They were covered in what looked like orange mold and green moss. There was a slight breeze coming in from the entrance, but the whole place still had an overwhelming staleness to it. The boys stopped and turned around as we approached the first turn. “So ladies, what do you think? Cool huh?” Devin asked excitedly. “Smells like a fart in here.” I said. The most dangerous thing about exploring an abandoned mine wasn’t getting lost in the maze of tunnels, or even tripping on the rusted tracks and slamming your head against the wall. It was something simply referred to as “bad air”. One type is caused by air getting trapped in a pocket and becoming stagnant; the old men in town referred to it as “black damp”. Another was something produced from the old chemicals the miners used down there, called “stink damp.” Both of which were lethal, and what’s worse, you may not even realize you’re breathing bad air until it’s too late. “I wonder if there are dead bodies in here!” Devin said. “Uh, Dev, *we* are going to be the dead bodies in here if we go in too far. I wasn’t just making a joke, that fart smell can mean bad air.” I said. “The entrance isn’t far behind us, there’s still plenty of fresh air coming in. We won’t go in too far.” Mikey interjected, then grabbed Devin’s flashlight from him and took a few steps forward to look ahead. “The tunnel splits off a little ways down there. Let’s just go to the end and look around a bit, then we can turn around.” I moved in closer to see what he was talking about. The fork in the tunnel really *wasn’t* that much further. Even though I knew that once we rounded this curve I wouldn’t be able to see the entrance behind me anymore, I decided *what the hell*. Maybe a hundred more steps, then we could finally turn around and this whole stupid situation would be closer to being over with. When we got there, we all leaned forward to look down the connecting tunnels each way. Everything seemed to be covered in a fine black powder, and looked unusually identical in its deterioration. I could see just how easily someone could become disoriented and lost down there. “Helloooooo!” Mikey yelled to the left, his voice echoing through the corridor. Devin turned toward the opposite direction and called out, “Hey yo! Locust Man! You in here?!?!” We all giggled at the mention of our local urban legend, which instantly brought my mind back to Michelle, still at the entrance waiting for us, alone in the woods. I looked down at my watch. *12:46 PM* “Hey, what the fu-“ My cuss word was abruptly interrupted by a loud bang that had come from the passageway Devin had just been hollering into. We all froze. I didn’t have time to process that my watch had stopped right as we entered the mine, or that Michelle had been left alone for God knows how long now, or even that we just heard what sounded like a support beam crashing to the ground, because next… a horrifying screech pierced through the stillness, unlike any earthly sound I’d ever heard. It seemed distant at first, but was quickly increasing in volume, revealing a buzzing undertone to the sound. We looked around at each other in terror, then began backing away slowly, utterly stunned at what we were hearing. Mikey never took his eyes off of the tunnel though. Slowly, he began to raise the BB gun to firing position. Without even thinking, I grabbed the barrel and quickly shoved it downward. He tore his eyes away from his target to look at me, and I shook my head, barely managing to choke out a single word. “Explosion…” He nodded, and I let go. I looked down at the gun in his hands, and seeing his finger had already been on the trigger, I realized how lucky it was that I didn’t make him shoot himself in the foot. Suddenly, the noise just… stopped. “What in the hell was *that*?” Lacey asked. “I don’t know, nothing good.” I replied. “Let’s just get the fuck out of here before the whole place caves in on us or something.” As soon as the words left my mouth, another loud bang erupted from the right extremely close to us this time. So close that it sent a shockwave through the ground below our feet. “Shit!!!!!” We all turned around and ran as fast as we could back toward the entrance. Devin tried to push his way past me, but as he did, my elbow knocked the flashlight out of his hand. “Fuck! My flashlight!!” “Leave it! The turn is right up there, we won’t need it!” Mikey shouted. We rounded the corner, and using what little light was illuminating from the entrance to guide us, we ran like our lives depended on it. And they may have… none of us dared to look back. Not like we would have been able to see anything anyway. When we finally made it out, we were all completely out of breath. I felt like I was going to throw up. I have to admit tho, once I realized nothing was chasing us, I felt a rush of adrenaline, like I had just had a near death experience. We all let out a few breathless laughs, and I felt a sense of relief and accomplishment that we had come out of this adventure unscathed. That feeling instantly turned into sheer panic when I looked around and realized… Michelle was no where to be seen. “Uh, where’s Michelle?” Mikey asked me. “I-I told her to stay right here. She can’t be very far… Michelle!!!!” We all called her name as loud as we could. No response. No sign of her anywhere. “Alright look, she probably just wandered off a little further looking for flowers to pick.” I tried to rationalize. “Let’s just split off in four different directions and walk in a straight line while we call for her. She’s bound to hear one of us.” Everyone agreed, and even though I appeared to be the level-headed calm person you need to take control during an emergency, truth was, I was *petrified* that something had happened to her, and that whatever it was would be my fault. I took the east and headed out, my anxiety level increasing with every passing second. *I can’t believe I was stupid enough to leave her by herself. What was I thinking?!?! If something happens to her, Mikey will never forgive me.* Fortunately, it didn’t take too long before I passed a large tree and discovered her sitting down behind it, staring at something on the ground in front of her that I couldn’t see. “Michelle!! *Oh, thank God!* Didn’t you hear us calling for you?” She didn’t answer me, or even turn around. “Dammit, Michelle! Didn’t I tell you to stay by the entrance and not move?!?!” My relief was fading into annoyance as she continued to ignore me. I walked up closer to see what she was looking at on the ground, and my mouth dropped open when I saw what she had found. It was a single white trillium. They say it takes 8 years for a trillium plant to produce a flower, and conditions have to be *just* right; that’s what makes them so rare, especially around these parts. I gazed down at it in complete amazement- almost in a trance, as if I were seeing some kind of mythical creature. Michelle began to slowly reach out her hand towards the flower, and I snapped out of it. “No!!” I yelled, then grabbed her by the arm which finally made her turn around to look at me. “If you pick the flower, the plant dies.” She ripped her arm away from my grasp. “But I wanna show my mom!!” We heard Mikey calling from the north, and I cupped my hands around my mouth to yell, “I found her! She’s over here!!” I looked back at her and said, “No Michelle, come on. You can just tell her about it when you get home.” I had enough. I was ready to go, and we probably had at least another 45 minutes of walking just to get back to the clubhouse; an hour if Michelle kept up her crap. I grabbed ahold of her arm once again and pulled her up to a standing position, stealing one more look at the trillium as I walked her away. Mikey caught up to us, completely out of breath, but trying to hide his concern with anger. “You little shit! We should have left your ass out here. What the hell were you doing?” I let go of her arm, and she ran over to Mikey excitedly. “She was trying to pick a flower over there.” “It was a trillium!” Michelle squealed. “Wait… for real?” He asked me. I opened my mouth, but before I could respond, a blood-curdling scream echoed through the trees, coming from the west. It was Lacey… My heart dropped into my stomach, and every molecule in my body instantaneously shifted back into full-blown panic mode. This time, I couldn’t contain my composure. “Laceyyyyyyy!!!” A panicked shriek erupted from my lungs, and I took off running. Mikey picked up Michelle and sprinted after me. All of the trees and bushes around me became a single blur, I didn’t even feel any of the scrapes and scratches. *Had she encountered a pack of coyotes? A mountain lion? A bear??* I didn’t even care about the potential danger I thought I might be about to expose myself to, I just ran. And then… I found her. She was lying on the ground motionless, holding her left foot. “Lacey!” I screamed, trying to choke back the tears building up in my eyes. “Ugh, I think I broke my ankle!” “Oh God dammit, you *bitch*. I thought you were dead!!” “I might as well be! I have cheerleading practice on Monday!” Mikey and Michelle caught up to us. He set her down and asked me what happened. “She’s being a drama queen. She just rolled her damn ankle.” I was pissed off. “Can you get up?” He asked her. She was able to lift herself off of the ground and stand with Mikey holding her arm, but as soon as she tried to put any pressure at all on the ankle, she screamed out in pain. We spotted Devin running over from the south, as he yelled, “Yo! Everyone alive and accounted for?” “Yeah, we got Michelle, but Lacey hurt her ankle.” Mikey answered. As he approached, he actually looked concerned. Was this going to be the first time Devin didn’t try to turn something into a joke? “Can you walk on it?” He asked her. “No.” She whimpered. Without any hesitation, he replied, “Alright then, looks like you’re gonna have to piggyback it all the way home. Come on, hop up.” He turned around and lowered himself enough for her to climb onto his back. Mikey pulled out his compass to make sure we were heading east, and started back toward the mine. Devin followed close behind, carrying Lacey. We collectively decided Michelle had to walk in front of me so we didn’t lose her again, which put me last in the group, leaving me with a persistently paranoid urge to turn around and look behind me. Even though my nerves had started to settle a bit, I knew we were still far from being out of the woods yet, in more ways than one.

Chapter 1 - Good Morning Mr. Frog, as he often did on a day when the air was as cool as this day, was preparing to enjoy a cup of coffee on his favorite spot to sit, a stump overlooking a good part of the field. As he went for his first steaming sip he was interrupted by a squawk and a call, “Mr. Frog!” - he nearly spilled his cup due to the urgency in the voice of the caller. Hastily placing the coffee next to him on the stump, quickly but not so quickly as to spill it, Mr. Frog went to inspect the disturbance on an otherwise perfectly peaceful day. As he rounded the far side of the barn, tripping over his own feet, he saw a most horrific site. Sara, the oldest hen of the farm whom Mr. Frog had grown to be good friends with over the past few years, being carried away by the farmer. “Sara!” shouted Mr. Frog as he went after the farmer. The farmer felt a slight tug on his pant leg and turned around to find a small toad dressed in a dirt brown suit jacket and pants who was clearly out of breath (Mr. Frog is not known for his athleticism), covered in dust from the gravel, with the hen in one hand. “It’s Frog” said Mr. Frog, panting. “What?” inquired the farmer. “It's Frog, my name I mean, you called me toad but it's Frog, but that's beside the point.” Mr. Frog was rudely cut off by the farmer, “But you're obviously a toad, what kind of a name is Frog for a toad? Downright confusing if you ask me”, said the farmer. ‘’But I didn't ask you! What I am asking you is what are you doing with my friend?’’ said Mr. Frog, returning the conversation back on track. “Oh,” said the farmer, “this old girl is gonna be dinner” “What y-you can't eat her!” said Mr. Frog. “Well that's the plan”, said the farmer. It was all silent for a moment and then Mr. Frog broke the silence. “What if I get you something better than a chicken for dinner?” said Mr. Frog. “What could be better than chicken? " said the farmer. “The troll’s broth,” said Mr. Frog confidently. The farmer laughed for a while, then went into his home, placed Sara into a cramped metal cage and returned with a tiny glass bottle no bigger than a thimble. “Okay if you can even fill this then I will give you the hen, aw heck I'll even buy you a new jacket!” (of course the farmer did so not thinking Mr. Frog could ever steal something, let alone from the troll). Mr. Frog took the bottle and went on his way into the woods. Chapter 2 - A Seat and a Game Mr. Frog had been in the woods only a handful of times, but he preferred the dry warmth of his home. Mr. Frog's home is a humble place made from scraps of wood and metal cans, yet it is certainly more inviting than the wet and cold woods that surrounded him. Mr. Frog marched on through the new growth until he came to a wooden table with three figures seated at it. Mr. Frog approached the figures in hopes that they may point him in the way of the troll's den, but before he could get out a word he was greeted by the head of the table. “Hello, hello, sit and join us, we were just about to begin,“ said the thing that sat at the head of the table, a brownie, it almost looked like a man but was much too small, could not have been more than a foot, dressed in a brown tunic that was kept in place with a piece of string around his waist, and a long and crooked nose stabbed out from his face. “Oh where have my manners gone off to? My name is The Head.” With the bells on his long, curled shoes ringing The Head of the table got up and ushered Mr. Frog to a seat on the right from his chair. “Your name is what?” said Mr. Frog. “My name is The Head of the table but most just call me Head, and these are my friends The Right Hand and Left hand” said The Head, jestering to a pair of squirrels sitting on the left hand side. “Well actually I was wondering if you could tell me the way to the troll’s home” said Mr. Frog “Oh, but you must stay, we’re about to start,” said the Head. “Start what?” “Well, the games of course.” The Head of the table reached under his chair and placed a wood box on the table, as the Head of the table opened the box, the Hands both rolled their eyes and sighed. The Head began to pull out game piece after game piece after game piece, and began to explain the rules. The complexity of the rules made Mr. Frog’s head spin. After an eternity of waiting for the Head to explain the rules of the game, Mr. Frog checked his pocket watch. Dread painted Mr. Frog’s face, it had been an hour and the game had not yet even begun. “We always play that one,” said Right Hand. “We need a new game,” said Left Hand. “What about a game of hide and seek?” said Mr. Frog “Yes!” said both Hands. “No, the rules have been read and the game has already begun. Do you really want to change games now?” said the head of the table. “Yes,” said left hand. “Yeah, what he said,” said Right Hand. “Fine” grumbled the Head, “but who will go first?” “I will” said Mr. Frog. The Head, Right Hand and Left Hand all put their heads down on the table, covered their eyes and began to count. Mr. Frog used this as an opportunity to take his leave and ran off into the woods.

Chapter 3 The Odd Rock After escaping the table, Mr. Frog came across a small mossy clearing. Sitting on a particularly smooth rock, Mr. Frog began to regret his arrogance in taking on this journey. Thinking aloud, he scoffed at his own pride that had taken hold of him in the heat of the moment, “I didn't even ask where the fellow lived before I ran off.” Just as Mr. Frog said this, he heard a voice, “Get..off!” Thick as mud and slow as a slug was the voice that seemed to come from nowhere. “Hello?” said Mr. Frog. “Get off!” said the voice once again, this time a bit louder and much more agitated. Mr. Frog leaped up to his feet as his seat began to shift under him. Some moss began to tear that had been connected to the rock, as did the ground along with some small roots on its underside, making a sound of torn leaves and the snapping of some small twigs. A swarm of all sorts of bugs crawled out from the rock. Roly polys and termites and even a few that have yet to be named by man. The rock stood on all four of its stubby dirt caked legs, then on one end out came a grand puff of dust. Mr. Frog coughed, choking on the plume and covering his mouth with a handkerchief that he had taken from his breast pocket. Then what crept out of the end of the rock, but the head of a turtle. What Mr. Frog had been sitting on, as you very well may have guessed, was not a rock at all but a very old turtle. “Terribly sorry, sir” said Mr. Frog, giving a little bow, while still coughing at the stirred up dirt in the air. “As you should be! Jumping on my back like I am a pack mule or a pony and saying all sorts of nonsensical rambling of the troll and thievery. Are you a burglar?” asked the turtle low and slow. “I am most certainly not a burglar. Well, I do mean to steal some of the troll's broth, but that doesn't make me a thief or at least not by trade." "Pffff,” scoffed the turtle as he went to drink from a puddle of murky water. A moment passed before the lull in the conversation was broken by Mr. Frog. “I am sorry to be a bother, but do you happen to know where the troll may live?” “You'll be wanten nothing to do with him,” said the turtle. “I've seen many people go in, people like you all cock sure wanten their fill of the broth…more times than not, they fill the broth, if you get my meaning.” “Fine. Then what’s your price?” said Mr. Frog. “What?” inquired the turtle. “I asked you for your price. I wish to buy the whereabouts of the troll and his broth” said Mr. Frog. “Money is useless to me, if time is money then money is time and I have all the time I need” replied the turtle. “Hold on,” said Mr. Frog. “What about your shell? It looks as if it could use a good cleaning.” The turtle was silent and then nodded his head in agreement. With the terms of the trade all laid out, Mr. Frog dipped his handkerchief in a puddle and began to scrub the dirt off of the turtle's back. After all was said and done, the turtle stretched his neck out and looked at his shell to evaluate the work. The turtle's shell shined like an opal. “Ok, follow me,” said the turtle. He was so satisfied with the cleaning of his shell, he felt obligated to escort Frog to the troll's den. They spent the walk talking about day to day things, the kind of thing that would bore most individuals, but not Mr Frog. “This is as far as I will be taking you,” said the turtle. The turtle settled down near a cave to continue his nap (quite convenient having your home on your back.) Chapter 4 By Candlelight Mr. Frog walked to the mouth of the cave and pushed aside giant ruffly carved wood beads on strings acting as the door. Fear began to creep over Mr. Frog like a vine. His vision failed him in the dark of the cave. In order not to lose his footing, he gripped the wall as he went along, his hands shaking, cold and fearful of what may lie ahead. The corridor led into a dark room lit by candles (that were easily twice the size of Mr. Frog) which sat on dishes of bone and wood. A smell smacked Mr. Frog, a cacophony of horrible miasma of forgotten rot. Mr. Frog looked around the room, seeing not much but a continuation of the corridor that seemed to go on and on to the center of the earth. A few pots and pans hanging by some rope, and a small table sat by a cauldron hung over a handmade mud and stone fireplace with a small wooden mantelpiece covered in dust. Mr. Frog quietly made his way across the filthy floor, climbed up on the mantelpiece, opened his jacket and retrieved his little glass bottle, then dipped it into the pot. Mr. Frog accidentally burnt his hand on the side of the pot as he brought the bottle up and gave out a yelp. “Who is there?” bellowed a voice as cold as death. The troll was awake. Flip flop went Mr. Frogś feet as he climbed down the mantelpiece, and “thud” “scrape” went the troll's feet as he chased after Mr. Frog. Mr. Frog ran as fast as he could. Glancing over his shoulder he caught a glimpse of the beast, taller than any creature Mr. Frog had ever seen. Like an oak tree, eyes as big as tree stumps that glowed a pale gray, nails longer than his fingers, caked with blood that had never been cleaned. Other than this, Mr. Frog could not see any more of it due to the darkness of the cave. Oh, but the troll could see him just fine. “A little toad after me broth? I'll squish you for that!” said the troll as he shadowed Mr. Frog. Mr. Frog made it past the wooden beads and out of the cave, but the troll was not so nimble and tangled himself in the beads and stumbled forward and ended up tripping over a rock. The troll fell to the ground and knocked himself unconscious. “Can't take a nap for crap today, can I?” said the turtle to Mr. Frog, trying to roll off his back to his feet. That troll had tripped over the turtle! Mr. Frog gave out a small chuckle and helped roll the turtle back to his feet, said his goodbyes, and was on his way.

Chapter 5 Nightfall As the farmer sat in his leather chair, puffing on a corn cob pipe as the wall clock ticked away and the sun kissed the horizon, he was pulled away from his pipe by a knock at his door, and cracked it open to find Mr. Frog. Mr. Frog looked terrible, his jacket torn, his handkerchief sopping wet and stained with mud. Mr. Frog slipped his hand into his jacket and pulled out the bottle. The farmer took the bottle and drank a very tiny sip and found it to be quite delicious and very filling. “Well, as promised, here you are,” said the farmer as he opened the cage and released Sara and placed a small bag of coins at Mr. Frog’s feet (enough to buy a new suit and maybe a hat as well). Mr. Frog and Sara went back to Mr. Frog’s house and they both confided in each other over a hot cup of coffee. Mr. Frog placed the last lavender bush into the hole, poured a light layer of fertilizer on and filled the rest of the hole with dirt. With his garden finished and the day at its peak he took a step back and admired his handiwork. Lavender bushes, baby's breath, an assortment of wondrous flowers all arranged in a flower bed made from loose river stones. A garden to be envied and admired! He could sit in his writing room and ponder the delicacy of each pedal till sundown, but there was work to be done. Stepping through the doorway of his home, he set his hat on his side table and went upstairs. A hole had been torn in his tin roof by a falling branch. Mr. Frog opened his linen closet, picked up some scrap tin and closed it with his foot as he walked away. Mr. Frog propped up his ladder, held some nails in his mouth and reached for the spot on his pegboard where his hammer would have hung, but it was gone. Mr. Frog spit out the nails, put up the ladder and placed a bucket under the hole, (it might rain). The hunt was on, under his work bench, the linen closet, he searched and searched but could not find it. Mr. Frog resolved to buy a new hammer. Now you must understand that Mr. Frog does not enjoy “reckless spending”, he has owned the same wooden cup and bowl for years now. Mr. Frog went back down the stairs, halfway down he heard rustling in his drawing room. His hat was gone. “Who is there?” said Mr. Frog, as a tail slipped around the corner into the kitchen. Mr. Frog rounded the corner and saw a rat wearing his hat and holding his hammer. He was very young and the hat covered his head. Mr. Frog walked over to the rat, pulled the hat off his head and placed it on his own, the little rat looked around confused then looked up to see Mr. Frog. “Hello, would you mind telling me what you’re doing,” said Mr. Frog. “Hi, my name’s David,” said the rat. “Ok. Why are you in my home? Guests are fine, but I do prefer to know them first,” said Mr. Frog. “I lived in the troll's cave, but then I saw you take him down. You're so strong! I thought it would be better if I lived nearby. I am going to build a house, ” said David. Mr. Frog grabbed the hammer from David, then tucked it safely into his belt loop. “How would you make a home from a hat and a hammer?” said Mr. Frog. “You had them in your house, so I thought that I would need them for mine,” said David. Mr. Frog picked up David, placed him on his doorstep, and closed the door. As Mr. Frog locked the door, he felt the hammer slip from his belt loop. Turning around, low and behold David was there. “David, if you are really set on making a house I will help you after I finish my work list.” “Ok, can I help?” asked David. “Fine,” replied Mr. Frog. Returning upstairs, Mr. Frog and David started again on the roof hole. With the ladder back in place, Mr. Frog held up a scrap of tin to the hole. “Could you hand me some nails?” requested Mr. Frog. David handed Mr. Frog a screw. “David,” said Mr. Frog. “Yes,” said David. “This is a screw, I asked for a nail,” said Mr. Frog. “Oh, sorry,” said David. David took the screw back and he handed Mr. Frog a thumbtack. Mr. Frog gave out a deep sigh, taking in a deep breath and letting out his impatience. “How about we get started on your house first.” David was very excited. Mr. Frog and David walked outside and began scouting out a good spot for David's home. To the left was a small pond and Mr. Frog's favorite stump, and to the right Sara’s chicken coop. They decided on taking a closer look at a wooded area behind the chicken coop. “Hello!” said Sara “who's your new friend?” “This is David, he's new here. We’re looking for a good spot to build him a home,” said Mr. Frog. “I know just the place!” said Sara. Sara showed them to an abandoned shack made of brick and hay. Mr. Frog and David spent the rest of the day sweeping and renovating the home. “Thank you, Mr. Frog,” said David. “Don't mention it,” said Mr. Frog. Mr. Frog came home to a hole in the roof as it began to rain. He patched the hole and went off to bed without dinner.

We were both being circled, far below the sky. The bird circled me. An eye circled it. Above, way up there, something past the clouds watched and never stopped watching those black feathers in the clouded sky. No blue up there. All white, all pure white lightning. Choirs up there, streets paved with gold. With gold, my Papa said and kept saying. Mansions in the clouds. The blackbird circles my head now. I lay flat on the ground, my arms in bows, my elbows the leather grip, and my fingers the arrows supporting my head, light and fluffy like the clouds. “You have light and fluffy hair like the clouds,” my momma said in my ear, smiling as I lay across her lap. “Where’s my dad, momma?” I asked. “Up there, baby, with Papa now. Up there with the streets all paved with gold,” she said. “But I thought you said he was filled with dirt and got too heavy to fly up with Papa.” Out here in the lawn near the strip of woods that separates me from the mansion where the people with dollars live, ditch less than twenty feet wide. Never seen them. Only heard them and their whoopings high past the hill when the fireworks go off and the mansion’s people holler, their bodies barely hidden, dancing and meeting with beer all over them like Daddy drinks. Drank. In my big backyard, plain with patches of dirt now. Dirt in my hair now. Too tired to put the bows up. Plain with little grass and a cloudy sky with dying light, evening light. The bird silent and frozen overhead sometimes. The new man in there with Momma, touching her and making noise, and she looks up at the ceiling. Light from the kitchen burned them. One time, they saw me. “What are you doing in here, Kevin?” she shook. “Go to the yard, get out of the house.” So I come out here and stare at her shaking face before I go out to let her know I won’t talk for a while. She says nothing in her bedroom and shakes before he comes over and shakes and I have to leave again. The blackbird never drops a feather for me. Sky still cloudy. Hair still dirty. Fingernails clean like grandma taught me. All washed up. “You’re not making any sense, Kevin. You’re not—what? What, did you say something? I don’t like that man, Mom. I don’t like him. You’ll just get a new one.” She slapped me hard across the face. No blood, my cheek hot like when I saw that man lying on his side in the dark with no clothes on and my mom tight against the covers as he pawed at her head with his left hand, right hand shaking differently than mom and unseen, and my mom not making any noise but still shaking. The man mooed like a cow does. “What does the cow say, Kevin?” “MOOOOO!” I said. She laughed. I laughed. My dad was quiet and ruffled her hair, under the cow-shaped cloud, now a sheet that doesn’t look like animals anymore. The bird is getting tired now, it doesn’t want to be watched anymore. It retreats, spelling words, falling inside the twenty-foot wall made of trees. A feather falls on my nose, a single one, and it is gray, and I find out that the bird is not black at all. The bird is gray.

They knew it was going to be trouble, but no one expected this. A simple heist to rob a rich old man’s estate wasn’t supposed to lead to an intergalactic chase. Yet, here the Blaster Gang was, fleeing from the Enforcers of The United Planets of the Galaxies. All fifty-two planets and their enforcers. They just wanted that gold crown the old man had. The only shiny, valuable thing the corvid thieves saw in his squalid hut. Who knew the quiet old man on a backwater planet would be a former Emperor of the Turon Federation with the support of the United Planets? None of them predicted that a tussle with him would end with his accidental death, and an alarm that alerted everyone who once worked with him? Not to mention all those squiggly eyestalk toys secretly turning out to be cameras that captured the faces of all the members of the Blaster Gang. There was no choice. They could only fly towards their dingy spaceship and attempt to blast off into distant space. Again. Hopefully so distant nobody would bother to reach them. So far, only two planets stopped pursuing them after they entered the Deathworlder’s Zone. A desolate stretch of a dying galaxy where nothing but debris and Space Earth Worms lingered. Once rich in rocky planets with abundant minerals, an all-out war among several planets for the resources ended in a big explosive nuke that tore everything apart. It was then these Space Earth Worms wriggled in from outer space, eager to munch at chunks of exploded planets. And once in a while, going for the rare treat of a space shuttle. That’s why Vance chose to fly here. Hopefully their shuttle of scavenged steel and titanium would be deemed too worthless, too small for a Space Earth Worm. Maybe the worms would consider the Enforcers a much more substantial and tastier target. “Don’t look back, keep going,” Vance ordered his pilot Flynn. “The only reason the Enforcers haven’t caught us despite superior tech is because they can’t go too fast. Lest they garner the attention of those worms and become wormfood.” A part of him wished he could hear the screams of the Enforcers. Listen to the crunch of crushed military spacecrafts. But in the emptiness of the vast outer space, sound doesn’t travel. “How many ships still chasing us, boss?” Flynn asked, as he charged up the thrusters. “Where next?” “Twenty-seven. I think the rest either fell back or got eaten by big, ugly worms. After we get out of this zone, we going to the Faceless Void of Voracity.” “Fuck boss, this is so much trouble for just robbing an old man,” Flynn replied, his hands squeezing the controls. “The Void is even worse than the Deathworlder’s Zone. What if we go mad from those flashing eldritch lights?” “We close our eyes.” Flynn couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “And fly blind?” “There’s nothing to collide with in the Void.” With a deep breath, Flynn closed his eyes and ramped up thruster power to full blast towards the Void. He prayed to whatever god he knew the name of, regardless if they were real or not. That the engulfing darkness of the looming Void threatening to swallow them all would spit them out on the other side safely.

The night was a dreary one, and sorrow was in the air. That’s when it first appeared—a limitless void trapped in the confines of our basement that I had never seen before. I sat on the stairs alone and watched the rest of my familyーjust my mother and sister Thalia, that my father had left in shambles. Thalia cried throughout the night, Mother doing the best she could to comfort her. The cold hands of grief held a grip on us, but I kept hope. I was confident my family would survive. It became clear in the following weeks that father was more important than I gave him credit for. Money was becoming an issue so Mother took on another job and was around the house much less. She wasn’t the only one with a big responsibility, mine was my sister. Thalia was still in shock over our father. I don’t think anyone loved him more than she did. She spent most of her time where he did, in a large armchair in our living room. She sat there for hours on end not saying a word. The only noise you could hear was faint crying. It wasn’t just the Hyper Room that appeared when father left. It was also this deep sense of uneasiness that laid within our walls. Our house creaks and groans with every step, like it feels as languorous as we do. Thalia idolized me. I was her big brother, every word that left my mouth was fact. That’s why I hesitated so much when she left the chair to talk to me. “Theo?” She called out to me. “Do you think dad will ever come back?” The look on her face wasn’t something I’ve ever seen before. So much fragile hope in her eyes, but I couldn’t lie to her. I shook my head no. Thalia disappeared into the void within a week. Our house was quieter than ever, Thalia’s soft crying no longer heard. The soundlessness wasn’t good for Mother or myself. So we left. I was cautiously optimistic when we moved in to our new apartment, The hyper room would surely stay behind and let the rest of my family live in peace. It proved indelible. The next couple months in the apartment were torture. The voice in my head, like my own but warped in a grotesque, twisted manner, was louder than ever. It called to me nightly asking me to join my sister. One night, after weeks of unrelenting burdensome thoughts I had a moment of weakness. I traveled down to the basement where the hyper room was. I approached it and opened its doors. The void around me transformed into a sickly figure with wings jutting out its sides. It grined at me. Fearfully I looked for the door behind me, only to see nothing. The figure reached out and grabed my hand, dragging me into the void.

In a world where magic and mechanisms intertwined, there lived a great mage named Melanta. Her talent surpassed all her contemporaries, and she created many inventions, but her most significant creation was a bio-mechanical golem designed to protect her only daughter, Aveline. This golem, named Melanthe Weber, was an extraordinary creation. The mage guild to which Melanta belonged had developed these golems as weapons against Archdemons. However, in reality, they were not a match for these powerful beings one-on-one. Realizing this, Melanta decided to create something exceptional. Using a dark ritual and angel flesh, she imbued the golem with the soul of her fallen husband, Weber, who was known in life as the "First after God." When the guild discovered her actions, they were enraged. They captured and executed Melanta for violating sacred laws of magic. Her last words, full of pain and love, were directed at the golem: "Save our child." The guild had plans for Aveline, but Melanthe Weber fulfilled his creator’s will. He saved Aveline, taking her to distant lands where he protected her from all threats. Aveline grew up under the protection of the powerful golem, and her talent for magical mechanisms blossomed. She studied, experimented, and soon surpassed her mother in strength and skill. Constantly improving Melanthe Weber, she reached the point where the golem became god-like in power. Together they traveled the world, eradicating evil and aiding various races. Their journeys were filled with adventures and dangers. They fought demons, saved kingdoms from tyranny, and sought ancient artifacts that could bring peace and prosperity. In one of their adventures, they stumbled upon an old, long-abandoned temple. Inside, they discovered a powerful spell capable of breaking the barriers between worlds. They took on the mission to guard this artifact, preventing it from falling into the wrong hands. Over time, their reputation grew, and they attracted followers. People, inspired by their deeds and heroism, joined them in their quests. Soon they gathered a small army, ready to fight evil in all its forms. They organized attacks on fortified strongholds of dark mages, freed slaves, and restored justice. While Aveline and Melanthe Weber continued their heroic deeds, the mage guild, now deprived of its best minds and weakened by internal conflicts, began to suffer defeats. Demon hordes, sensing weakness, started advancing on the guild’s magical halls. One by one, the defensive strongholds fell until the main citadel finally succumbed. Demonic offspring occupied the guild’s halls, filling them with their vile creatures. In these ancient halls, once filled with knowledge and light, darkness and chaos now reigned. The demons began amassing their forces, preparing for a new offensive, aiming to enslave the remaining lands and turn the world into an endless battlefield. When Aveline and Melanthe Weber learned of the guild's fall, they realized that their fight was far from over. They gathered all their allies and set off for the magical halls, ready to face the new threat head-on. Their mission now was not only to save the world but to restore hope and light to places once ruled by wisdom and strength.

Neurochemical lullaby. A string of notes produced by the velvet shaping of air passing through your mother’s soft lips, whispered fluttering smoke-rings of vibration expanding towards your decliningly receptive ears as you and your young, young consciousness lower yourselves into a warm black mirror lake of sleep. The lullaby cradles you more than your mother’s gentle arms do, sweet music swaying you until you forget the world around you, a world perhaps no bigger than the pastel room that is your first inkling of belonging. Neurochemical lullaby. Far beyond the blades of grass that smell like summer she runs and skips and rides the wind. It blooms about her, giddy and cool, and speaks amongst her curls, inviting you along. It brushes your ear like feather whirlwind, attempting to move closer to the song that bounces around behind your sunlit eyes. Her laughter cascades down tender branches and river stones like a diamond stream and plays the content forest like an instrument that is almost enough to make you forget the haunting lullaby, yet only makes it a more inviting trap, a familiar wound into which a certain feeling may park and resonate throughout your body to welcome the first peeping twilight stars. Neurochemical lullaby. You walk down a busy street under the sweltering midday sun as fast as you can without seeming desperately out of place among your unknown colleagues, your charcoal suit a kettle armor hotter than desert pavement, your shirt clinging to you like a loose, wet second skin ready to be peeled off to reveal the reddish, baby-new human underneath, too young for his responsibilities, too old for his dreams. Time’s ticking like God’s unending monologue, careening down the universe’s sole pathway and you follow on along towards the city’s best pizzeria merely three blocks south of the office building that’s gotten to know you more than your own four walls. A mirror version of you stuffed into a slightly greener suit breezes past you, his face a clean sweep of concern, every expression screaming for the world to halt for just a few minutes, his lips a pink ‘o’ as he whistles a tune that plays your heart like a golden harp. Neurochemical lullaby. You gingerly step into the sterile room where not even the idea of a microbe can be conceived, the plastic bags surrounding your shoes producing a dry, wheezing sort of laughter. She looks comfortable, surrounded by the only colors permitted into this tiny slice of a rectangular sprawl that stinks of hostile cleanliness. Her eyes are closed, but an almost imperceptible smile curves across her diminished face and she utters a single word that you do not need to hear to understand. The world blurs, as if seen through cheap glass, but you approach and reach out and hold her hand.

We all thought the species that named themselves the "Humans" were pacifists. Of course, we had our reasons to think so, they always settled their conflicts with diplomacy and have never fought a war in the centuries they've been in the council. One day, the Kravgae, a very hostile tribe, always seeking lands and riches made their plans to expand into human territory. The Kravgae are a heavily armed force, or should I say they were. I'm sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself. So, the Kravgae prepared a force powerful enough to completely annihilate a species in a week. The Humans were done for, they couldn't fight against the Kravgaeï armada. The notorious fleet was composed of over a hundred intergalactic battleships, thousands of destroyers and millions upon millions of fighting drones. Although these drones were small, they were definitely not weak as a single task force could entirely pulverize a whole land division. The Human military, though, wasn't very documented. We didn't even know if they had a functioning army. All we had heard of were a couple of low-class spacecrafts that couldn't even exit their atmosphere and some sort of giant smoke mushroom. What I can definitely tell you is that no one could've imagined the war turning out like it did. The Kravgaeï armada started by raiding the star systems in the outskirts of the human territory. Surprisingly, the Humans didn't respond, which angered the Kravgaeï who instead responded to themselves by taking billions of war prisoners, thus breaking the first rule of intergalactic war: "No prisoners shall be taken in war". They then attacked the inner districts of the Human lands and to taunt the Humans, started pulverizing multiple planets, breaking yet another rule of war: "No habitable planets shall be destroyed". Finally, the Kravgae breached the final rule: "No systems shall be annexed until the end of the war". The Kravgae were proud of their earnings and quickly integrated them into their empire before the war ended. This, of course, infuriated mankind who sent an ultimatum. Ambassador Zhang of the Human Council of Space came to discuss with the Kravgaeï leader. - Greetings, Ambassador Zhang, said Krotshyki, it is my pleasure to receive you. The Kravgae were fierce warriors but still had manners. - No, no, it is my pleasure to be in the presence of the Great Janti. Janti, in the Kravgaeï language roughly translates to the emperor. The exact translation would be close to: "The one who conquers all that the eye can see". It was only one of the many poetic phrases in this wonderful language, unfortunately it is no more. - I am here to discuss about the recent events in the war. It has come to our attention that you have annexed one of our colonies, Svk-07B is that right? - Correct, we have the right to make the most out of earnings. - It is strictly prohibited in intergalactic law to annex occupied enemy territories! If you do not remove your troops from our land we will take action! - Hahaha, take action? What action? All you have done is watch as we destroy your colonies. What do you intend to do? - You'll see what we intend to do, says Ambassador Zhang Not long after their conversation, the Janti commands General Olkarz to lead the campaign to take Earth, the prosperous human capital. The whole Kravgaeï armada was mobilized and sent to the Sol system. They wanted to finish them in one fell swoop. After a couple days, the Kravgaeï forces had arrived in front of Earth. As they entered the atmosphere, one of their ships was attacked by a large metal cylinder. - Sir! Our eastern flank was attacked! - What? We barely entered their atmosphere, they couldn't have been so quick, responds the Kravgaeï general, slightly panicked. - It seems to be some sort of explosive metallic tube, sir. An intermission stops their conversation. - Do you hear me? - Yes, this is General Olkarz of the Kravgaeï Army, who is it? - My name is George Macintosh, I am the head of human military. What just hit you was a missile and we have over fifteen thousand more pointed at you. We urge you to surrender or we will not let a single one of you leave. The Kravgaeï general, a bit panicked, kept his cool and told the man to stop blabbering. They were going to win with ease. Nigh-instaneously, thousands of those so called missiles chased the enemy spacecrafts. Then, thousands of huge metal boxes made their way into the ocean, shooting the remaining ships with their thousands of guns. Thousands of smaller metal boxes equipped with powerful canons joined them. We had heard of these weapons but laughed at them for their insane usage of resources. Our photon canons only use light, not wasting any important resources for ammunition. Let me tell you, those human spacecrafts I mentioned earlier were also equipped with firearms. Although they were slow, they destroyed a large amount of ships with ease. This is when we learned, the humans were NOT to be messed with. The Kravgae had to retreat, we couldn't afford any more losses. While the mothership seemed to be successfully fleeing, the humans pulled another trump card. - Sir, another missile is behind us! - WHAT? THEY STILL HAVE MORE? By this time, General Olkarz was in full panic, half of the Kravgaeï armada was gone and the mothership was in great danger. He knew that if he were to go back without the mothership, he would get executed. - Load the photon pods, push her to full thrust, said the alien general, trying to calm himself down. Unfortunately, the Kravage were too slow, the missile caught up to their mothership before they could load it. It wouldn't have been too bad if it were a regular missile but this one was special. One we hadn't see before, a different one from the fifteen thousand aforementioned missiles. This one was what the humans called nuclear. It started with a fireball, then a powerful shockwave shook our mothership. That wasn't all. The heat expelled from the explosion was never-before-seen. The skin of the poor Kravgae was melted off their faces. Our machines stopped working, our ship was covered in poisonous green snow and what ended it all: a giant smoke mushroom, the signature of the atomic bomb. - So you say the humans are a powerful force capable of destroying a whole species with large metal boxes, says a member of the galactic council. What a joke! - I would never spread mendacities in front of the council, responds General Olkarz, defending himself. - Wait, in multiple occasions, you made it seem you were part of the Kravgae, affirms another member. - And how do you know so much? The man before the stand takes his hood off, revealing a familiar silhouette...

Anna had always dreamed of a simple and happy life in her village. But fate had other plans. During the brutal war that swept through her homeland, she was taken into slavery. Beautiful girls like Anna were usually sold at closed auctions among the nobility in the city. However, not all survived to reach that point. Many were killed, taken for the soldiers’ amusement, or simply tortured to death. Anna seemed to be luckier than others—she survived and ended up at the auction. By tradition, slaves were washed and dressed in modest but clean clothes before the sale. Anna had to wait her turn while wealthy aristocrats eagerly eyed the first lots. Among the buyers were both disgustingly fat men and grotesquely made-up women—the cream of the aristocracy. However, Anna never got her turn. Suddenly, there were screams and explosions. Masked figures in harlequin disguises burst into the building, causing chaos. Those who resisted were killed on the spot, while the rest were put to sleep or paralyzed with enchanted spells and stuffed into bewitched, bottomless bags. Anna awoke in an unfamiliar place. At first glance, it appeared to be a cave, but it was furnished as a vast bedroom. Around her were other female slaves, including an aristocrat. Lovely ladies in semi-transparent peignoirs attended to the guests, their beauty making Anna feel even more out of place. The aristocrat, sitting in a corner, crossed herself and pleaded for mercy. Anna didn't understand what was happening. Suddenly, footsteps echoed from the depths of the cave. All the slaves froze. In the doorway appeared a tall man in black robes with a hood obscuring his face. His eyes glowed with a mystical light. The aristocrat couldn't stand it any longer and started screaming imperiously, almost hoarsely: "Release me at once, or you will regret it! I will order your destruction and the eradication of your entire lair!" At that moment, the charming ladies in semi-transparent peignoirs pounced on the unfortunate woman like a swarm of locusts. There were screams, the sounds of breaking bones, and blood splattering on their peignoirs, turning them crimson. "I hope you, ladies, will not be as uncooperative as your friend?" the Master inquired. A deadly silence ensued, interrupted only by the sounds of the beastly feast. Anna tried not to move or look at what was happening. She understood that any attempt at resistance could lead to the same horrific end. One of the slaves suddenly stood up and walked towards the Master. This made the beasts in bloody peignoirs cease their feast and watch the proceedings attentively. The slave fell to her knees, sobbing and muttering that she would do anything to avoid being eaten. The Master unceremoniously grabbed her by the hair and lifted her. She only squeaked but did not resist. He inhaled her scent. "Trash! But she'll do!" the Master hissed and, holding the girl by her hair, left the room. The beasts followed the Master, taking with them the remains of the aristocrat, leaving a bloody trail on the floor. After some time, unnatural screams began to emanate from the direction of the door—screams unlike anything one would hear even from torture! After some time, when the screams had died down, the door opened again, and the charming ladies in beautiful semi-transparent peignoirs entered the room. "They've come to clean up the mess your friend made," commented the Master as he entered the bedroom. "You see, my dear ladies," he said, slowly approaching the slaves and Anna, who huddled together like frightened little fish. "I am a mage. And now, I am conducting an experiment! And... your other friend..." At that moment, the Master's hand produced the head of the girl he had recently taken away. The girls couldn't stand it: some screamed at the sight. Anna couldn't hold it in either, and the contents of her stomach spilled out. "As you can see, she didn't suit me! I sincerely hope you won't disappoint me as she did!" the Master said with an icy smile. The slaves were gripped with terror, pressing closer to each other, fearing that any of them could be the next victim of the dreadful mage.

Being a night nurse in an old person's home is not a job for the emotionally weak. Nor is it a job for the easily-scared or the superstitious. When you work in a place where Death is often greeted like an old friend rather than feared, where mortality hangs like a veil that can be torn and tossed away any second, and where old, tired, weary souls wait for the embrace of eternity to fold them in its soft arms, you see and hear things that can both shake and repair your faith in humanity and what comes beyond. I've sat with men and women quietly and stoically accepting that their time on this plane of existence is over, like Mrs Baker, who made the most amazing cakes for all of us even as terminal cancer ravaged her frail body, and the last time I saw her matter-of-factly said "I won't wake up tomorrow, so tonight I'm staying awake". She did so, laughing and playing rummy with the night staff until she yawned, said "well, I guess I can't stay awake no more" and settled calmly to sleep, passing maybe half an hour later. I've seen people come to the realisation too late that whatever they believed in, or refused to believe in, was or wasn't real. Or worse, I've seen people have the universe come to settle their debts in ways us mere mortals couldn't imagine. Like Mr Hackett, who came to us with rumours of having lived a long and sometimes dubious life - there was talk of "prison time" but we were never allowed to see the records for fear it would influence our care of him (Hippocratic oath and all that, remember?). I will never forget his eyes widening through the haze of late-onset Alzheimers as he sat bolt-upright in a bed he hadn't left in several days, looked at the corner of the room and said in the clearest words he had spoken in years,..."wait, no...not you. I don't want to go with you! I don't want to go! You can't!" before falling slowly into a sleep he would never wake up from. I hope wherever he went, it wasn't as scary as he'd feared. And then...and then, there was Emily. Emily was a sweet old thing. Very prim and proper indeed - old money. She had been born in the early thirties, which meant that unfortunately for her she was just old enough to remember the Second World War. A war in which her father was a bomber pilot in the Royal Air Force. She told us the story of how she always worried when he was going on a raid, and the way he got around it was to sing to her. I don't know how he managed to make time to sing to her in the midst of preparing for a mission...the way she told it was that he would, at some point during the day, always sing the old standard "We'll Meet Again" for her, like an incantation against Fate. She described it as a ritual, and a promise Daddy made. Twenty-one times throughout 1943 and early 1944 he sang it. He sang it to her on the 30th March 1944, just before setting off to Nuremberg on his 22nd mission, too, and he promised to be back for her birthday. You probably instantly guessed that that was a promise he never kept. As the pilot of one of the 95 RAF bombers that failed to return that night on the RAF's bloodiest night of the air war, she never knew what happened to him...whether he met death instantly in a fiery flower blooming with terrible beauty in the dark, was ripped apart by the terrible "organ music" of German fighters, or fell out of the sky, with time to make his peace, in a tumbling, twisting, screaming maelstrom of fabric and metal. She knew only that, like many, many others, he paid the price for stopping a certain Austrian's plans for world domination. And that she was now a little girl without a father, like so many of her generation. She lived a full life - one that made him proud. She travelled. She followed her father into the skies, learning to fly in the more permissive post-war world. She flew all over the world, following in the footsteps of winged goddesses of the sky like Amy Johnson and Amelia Earhart. But strangely, she never flew over Germany if she could avoid it. As she aged, there were hints that her body and mind and the proud spirit that had dealt with such terrible loss early in life was failing. She became forgetful, and her family realised that it was time to get help when, on a flight to a family wedding in Italy, she became anxious and scared as the plane crossed over Germany, convinced that she was following in her dad's footsteps and was about to share his fate, much to her distress and that of her fellow passengers. And so she came to us. Her mind was sharp, then it was almost like a dam broke. She forgot who and where she was, who her family were. She had to be supervised for her own safety. Her speech, those glorious cut-glass English vowels, began to slur. She began to talk of wanting to "be with her daddy" and regressing in age. The few times she became lucid, though, weirdly, were when planes passed over. The home is located close to a small airfield - one that hosts a flying club of Cessnas, Pipers and the like. She'd sit and watch them circle and land for hours on the runway. It made her happy. So did playing the old songs to her. She once became distressed and the only way we could calm her was for me to sing to her. I don't have the greatest voice in the world but "White Cliffs of Dover", "As Time Goes By", "We'll Hang Out The Washing On The Siegfried Line"...I sang them all for her. As the curtain drew slowly down over her senses, the melodies of a never-forgotten but already fading memory of a war seemed to fight off the darkness. And then came the night she went was the 31st March. Her birthday. Emily had been slowly declining into a world of her own. She would sit in her room, or lie in her bed all day. She rarely had moments of lucidity any more. We tried to celebrate her birthday with her but she seemed withdrawn. Sometimes you can tell when someone is preparing to leave this world, and she had one elegantly-attired foot out of the door already. All day she lay. The planes barely even registered with her, even. Her family had come to say their goodbyes in visiting hours, promising to return but knowing that she may not be there, at least in spirit, when she returned. I had the night duty, and because it was very quiet that night, I sat in Emily’s room between rounds. Some people call it the “death-watch”. Me, I just felt that I needed to be there, just in case she needed me. I remember it was around 4am when she began to decline. Her breathing became shallower, with longer gaps. She slipped deeper and deeper into sleep. And as that happened, and silence hung like a veil over the home so even the building seemed to stop breathing, I suddenly felt the need to sing to give Emily the sweetest of rest, as I heard a rumble of thunder outside…like the distant echo of four Merlin engines. It couldn’t have been though, because nobody lands in a deserted airfield in the English countryside at 4am.I stood and approached the bed, took Emily’s hand in the dark, and sang softly. “*Let's say goodbye with a smile, dear* *Just for a while, dear we must part* *Don't let this parting upset you* *I'll not forget you, sweetheart…”* And then, the rumble again, nearer. It seemed to pass over the house. Again…I thought it must be thunder as it faded away, and I continued to sing. *We'll meet again* *Don't know where* *Don't know when* *But I know we'll meet again some sunny day* Suddenly, I realised Emily’s eyes were open. She wasn’t looking at me, though. She was looking towards the door, and there was an expression of such childlike wonder and joy in her eyes that I am convinced whatever she was seeing, it wasn’t me. But she was awake, and fully *there.* She smiled, and she spoke one word. A word filled with love, and meaning, and joy. “*Daddy?”* I didn’t know what to do, except to keep singing. So I did. Incredibly, in a voice that came from inside her, a voice that shed 70 years in an instant - a voice so young that shouldn’t have come from one so old…her frail voice rose with mine. *Keep smiling through* *Just like you always do* *'Til the blue skies chase those dark clouds far away* This is the bit where I told the doctors and her family she sang with me til the end of the song, then fell asleep with a smile on her face and didn’t wake up again. But that’s not what happened. What happened was something I’ll never, ever forget. As we sang, I felt a hand on my shoulder. As Emily smiled up at me, she let go of my hand, and she *reached* past me as if to take someone else’s\*.\* In the echoes of the building and our voices, I swear I heard a third voice. A man’s voice, rich and cultured just like Emily’s had been. And we sang together. *“We’ll meet again* *Don’t know where* *Don’t know when* *But I know we’ll meet again* *Some sunny day”* In the flickering shadows of the lamp, I watched as the shape of a man appeared, and hand in hand with him, a little girl. They walked - I swear they walked - across the room, and as they walked, they looked at each other, and they smiled, and then they faded away - and so did the other voices until I was singing alone.When I turned back to the bed, Emily’s eyes were closed. I didn’t need to check her pulse to know that she’d gone.I was sad, of course. Her passing left a gap in the home that never quite seemed filled after that. There have been other occupants of that room since. For some reason, all the occupants of that room have calm, serene deaths in their sleep, which is by no means a given in my job. But most of all, sometimes, I walk into that room, and if I do so just as a plane passes overhead on its approach, or on a sunny day, I might hear singing. It’s always the same song. A song that warms the soul and chases any bad feeling away. A message from Emily, and her dad. *So will you please say "Hello"* *To the folks that I know?* *Tell them I won't be long.* *They'll be happy to know* *That as you saw me go,* *I was singin' this song.

I’m sitting here reading a book, while my son dies in a plastic box next to me. I feel guilty for every second my eyes stay on the page and not his little body, but what else is there to do? We all need distractions in life. Stories are the great magic trick. They pull you into another world like no other artform, and right now I need another world. Preferably one where brain tumours don’t exist. I ponder the endless wonder - When will he go? Will it be before I finish this book? Before I get to the end of this chapter? The end of this current sentence, even? What word will I land on when the EKG machine finally erupts into chaos and tells me he has flatlined? He’s not for resus, I forbid it after the last time. Technically he already died last week - his heart stopped for 20 minutes. The crash team rushed in, threw him around like a ragdoll and somehow brought him back. But his body was virtually unrecognisable when they finished, so after a lengthy meeting with the doctors, I removed consent. He is going to die whatever they do. You’re meant to cling onto hope right until the end, to not waste the precious time you have left spilling tears - save those for later. Well friend, those have been gone for quite a long time now. I did think about reading some books out loud to him, but I'm a pretty poor narrator. I stumble over words all the time, even the ones in simple children’s books - I’m probably a touch dyslexic. I remember he would get so frustrated with me when we did bedtime stories. I could never do it right, not like mum could. There’s zero privacy in here either. We share this ward with six other dying children, with nothing but paper thin curtains to separate us. Their sobs and cries fill the room, cancelling one another out. They don’t need to hear me reading some middle-class white person’s rhyming gibberish; about ‘fishes who make wishes’, or ‘dogs that wear clogs’, or ‘children who never got to tell their first lie, but all the same die’. Both my legs are suddenly possessed by restless tremors, so I raise my heels off the ground and let them bounce away. I kind of love it when that happens, it's nothing to do with stress for me. It’s always something that has helped me focus, even though it looks awkward as hell to everyone else. My son loved my wiggling legs too - he’d jump straight on my lap and get the best horsey rides. The vibration from my lower half makes the letters on the page before me tremble up and down like a swarm of black flies. The word I’m reading when he eventually passes is ‘untold’. I couldn’t tell you a single other thing about the book - and I had read over half of it by that point - just that one word. Well, now I’ve told you and it really does help. So thank you.

# Chapter 1: The Phantom of the Sea Captain Roderick "Redbeard" O'Sullivan was a name whispered in awe and fear across the Seven Seas. A pirate with a fearsome reputation, his ship, the *Phantom Seeker*, was both a terror to the wealthy and a beacon of hope to the poor. Redbeard and his loyal crew were known for their daring raids on rich merchant ships, redistributing their plunder to impoverished coastal villages. Despite his infamy, Redbeard was driven by a hidden sorrow—the family he left behind to chase the call of the ocean. Years had passed since Redbeard abandoned his wife, Eliza, and their young son, Liam. Guilt gnawed at him, and his only solace was the hope that one day he might find them again. News reached him that Eliza had passed away, and his son was nowhere to be found. Determined to make amends, Redbeard set his crew on a new quest: to find his lost son and seek redemption. # Chapter 2: The Hunt Begins Redbeard's search led him to port towns and hidden coves, questioning anyone who might have seen or heard of a boy named Liam. The sea, however, had a way of burying secrets deep within its waters. Weeks turned into months with little progress, until a fateful encounter with a fellow pirate revealed a startling rumor—Liam had grown into a man and had become the right-hand of none other than Captain Blackheart, Redbeard's old crewmate turned nemesis. Blackheart, once a trusted friend, had betrayed Redbeard in a mutiny that left Redbeard for dead and seized control of the *Phantom Seeker* before Redbeard reclaimed it. Now, Blackheart was a legendary pirate in his own right, feared and ruthless. The revelation that his son was now allied with Blackheart was a bitter pill to swallow. # Chapter 3: Captured Determined to rescue Liam from Blackheart’s influence, Redbeard sailed into the treacherous waters controlled by his nemesis. It wasn’t long before the *Phantom Seeker* was ambushed. Redbeard fought valiantly, but the numbers were against him. Captured and shackled, he was brought before Blackheart. The sight of his son standing beside Blackheart, eyes cold and hardened by years at sea, was a dagger to Redbeard’s heart. Liam, now going by the name "Silverblade," looked at his father with a mix of disdain and confusion. "Father," Liam said, his voice devoid of warmth. "You should have stayed away." # Chapter 4: A Father's Plea Imprisoned in Blackheart's brig, Redbeard knew he had to reach his son. Over days of captivity, he shared stories of his past, the regrets he carried, and the love he still held for Liam and his mother. Slowly, the walls Liam had built around his heart began to crack. One night, in a whispered conversation through the bars of his cell, Redbeard spoke of a legacy greater than piracy—a chance to right the wrongs and bring justice to the seas. He implored Liam to see Blackheart for what he truly was: a tyrant who used loyalty as a weapon and sowed destruction wherever he went. Liam’s resolve wavered. Memories of his mother and a childhood left behind resurfaced. The seed of doubt planted by Redbeard grew, and he began to question his allegiance to Blackheart. # Chapter 5: The Battle for Redemption An opportunity for escape presented itself when a rival pirate ship attacked Blackheart’s vessel. Amidst the chaos, Liam freed Redbeard, and together they rallied a faction of the crew disillusioned with Blackheart’s reign. A fierce battle ensued on the decks of the ship, father and son fighting side by side. In the climactic confrontation, Redbeard and Liam cornered Blackheart. The legendary pirate, enraged by the betrayal, fought with ferocity, but his past sins had caught up with him. With a final, decisive blow, Liam disarmed Blackheart, and they bound him in chains. # Chapter 6: A New Legacy With Blackheart defeated and handed over to the navy, Redbeard faced his final act of redemption. He knew he could not run from his past forever. Despite Liam’s protests, Redbeard turned himself in to the authorities, ready to face justice for his own crimes. Liam, now reconciled with his father, promised to carry on Redbeard's true legacy—helping the poor and standing against tyranny. He took command of the *Phantom Seeker*, vowing to sail with honor and compassion. As Redbeard was led away in chains, he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. His heart, though heavy with the knowledge of the years lost, was filled with pride for the man his son had become. In the end, Captain Roderick "Redbeard" O'Sullivan found his redemption not in the sea, but in the love and forgiveness of his family.

In a quaint town nestled amidst rolling hills and whispering streams, there lived a boy named Liam whose heart beat with the rhythm of dreams. From his earliest memories, Liam was captivated by stories of heroes who ventured forth to change the world. His nights were spent under a canopy of stars, imagining himself as the protagonist in tales of courage and hope. As Liam grew older, the realities of his community began to shape his aspirations. He saw neighbors struggling with financial challenges—parents working multiple jobs to make ends meet, students deferring dreams due to lack of funds, and elderly residents unsure of their financial futures. It was in these quiet moments of observation that Liam felt a stirring within him—a desire to make a tangible difference, to uplift those around him. Driven by an insatiable curiosity and an innate love for technology, Liam delved deep into the world of artificial intelligence and finance. He devoured books, attended online courses, and tinkered with coding late into the night. His bedroom became a sanctuary of wires and circuits, a laboratory where ideas danced and dreams took shape. It was during one particularly vivid dream that Liam saw the solution clearly—a beacon of innovation that would blend AI prowess with financial empowerment. He envisioned an app that would not just manage finances, but understand the unique needs and aspirations of each user. An app that would educate, guide, and inspire—a true companion on the journey to financial literacy and freedom. With relentless determination, Liam embarked on the daunting path of app development. Armed with his vision and fueled by a steadfast belief in the power of technology to transform lives, he navigated through challenges that tested his resolve. There were sleepless nights spent debugging code, moments of self-doubt when progress seemed elusive, and the constant hum of uncertainty echoing in his mind. But through it all, Liam persevered. He sought guidance from mentors, collaborated with like-minded innovators, and embraced every setback as a lesson in resilience. His journey was not just about building an app; it was a quest to prove that a single idea, nurtured with passion and purpose, could ripple outwards and touch countless lives. Months turned into years, and Liam's creation, named Paradoxly, began to take shape—a testament to his dedication and the embodiment of his childhood dreams. The app seamlessly integrated AI algorithms that analyzed spending habits, offered personalized financial advice, and simulated investment strategies. It was a tool of empowerment, designed to bridge the gap between aspiration and achievement. As the launch day dawned, Liam stood in awe as people from far and wide embraced Paradoxly. From young students learning to budget for the first time to seasoned professionals refining their investment portfolios, the app resonated with individuals seeking clarity and control over their financial futures. Tears welled in Liam's eyes as he read heartfelt messages from users whose lives had been transformed. He had not merely created an app; he had ignited a movement—a movement towards financial empowerment and resilience. Paradoxly became more than a tool; it became a symbol of hope, a testament to the boundless potential of one young dreamer's vision. In the months that followed, Liam's story spread beyond his town, inspiring others to dream boldly and pursue their own visions of impact. His journey was a reminder that no dream is too audacious, no challenge too daunting, and that the fusion of passion and technology has the power to reshape the world. And so, in that quaint town nestled amidst rolling hills and whispering streams, a boy named Liam proved that with unwavering faith and a heart ablaze with dreams, anything is possible—a legacy that would echo through generations, inspiring countless others to dare, to dream, and to change the world.

Story Tropes: ➤ Playful Banter ➤ Unexpected Encounters ➤ Heartfelt Romance ➤ Personal Growth ➤ Workplace Dynamics ─═•°•✦•°•═─ As the train pulled out of the bustling station, Ananya boarded with a mix of relief and anticipation. She had just visited her sister's place and was heading back to her workplace. She found her seat and tried to settle in, hoping for a quiet journey. Across the aisle, a lively family was already well-settled, their excitement palpable. Arjun seated with them, glanced up from his book and met Ananya's eyes for a brief, awkward moment. The memory of their recent project dispute resurfaced, and both of them looked away, clearly uncomfortable. Arjun's family, fresh from a visit to their hometown in Pune, were in high spirits. As the train continued its journey, dark clouds gathered outside, and a sudden rain began to pour. Ananya watched as the raindrops streaked down the window, partially obscuring the view. She tried to adjust the window to get a better look, but it was stuck. "Need a hand?"Arjun's voice startled her. She looked up to see him standing beside her seat with a friendly smile. "Oh, um, yes, please. I can't seem to get it open," she replied, feeling a bit flustered. With a few quick adjustments, Arjun managed to unstick the window. The cool breeze from the rain felt refreshing. As he finished, he playfully teased her. "There you go, Fireflower. I didn't realize someone as strong as you was afraid of a little rain!" She was surprised by his playful demeanor. "Fireflower? Really? I just wasn't expecting you to play the hero,"she retorted with a chuckle. Arjun's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Well, even Fireflowers need a break from their fiery strength every now and then. Don't tell me you're melting under the rain!" She laughed, shaking her head. "Oh, so now you're mocking my strength? I'll have you know I can handle a little rain without turning into a puddle!" Arjun grinned. "I'm just making sure my Fireflower stays in top form. A little rain won't put out that flame of yours." The tension between them seemed to melt away with the rain. As they continued their journey, the playful banter and the cozy atmosphere made the ride unexpectedly pleasant. As the train approached their destination, Arjun took a moment to reflect on the day. The playful exchanges with Ananya had been a revelation. Despite their recent conflicts, he saw a different side of her that was unexpectedly charming. He thought to himself, "Today has shown me a new aspect of Ananya. Maybe I've been too rigid and we need to address our issues. It's clear that our working relationship needs a fresh start. Perhaps we can sort things out and find a way to work together more effectively." As the train journey came to an end, Ananya reflected on the day's events. Arjun's playful side had been quite unexpected. Even with his stubbornness, she realized there was more to him than she had previously thought. She chuckled to herself, "Maybe it's time to rethink my nickname for him. Bosszilla might be fun, but if we're going to work together, we need to clear the air. I'll give him a chance to show he's not just a grumpy boss, but someone who can be reasonable. After all, if I can handle a little rain, I can handle sorting things out with Bosszilla." Throughout the journey, Arjun's family observed Ananya with growing fondness. Her interactions with them, her charming ways, and her genuine smile won them over. Though they didn't converse much with her, their warm glances and smiles reflected their feelings. They felt a deep sense of fondness for her and hoped to see her again in the future, wishing her well as the train approached their destination. The trip had turned out to be more than just a commute; it had been a journey of self-discovery and unexpected connection, leaving both Ananya and Arjun with a renewed perspective on their relationship.

He came to me in a dream. The dream began with a group of people walking around a small stage and occasionally bumping into each other, like in one of those Pina Bausch performances that pass for a dance even though no one is dancing. In the dream, whenever two people made contact, they’d stop moving and start making out, passionately, desperately. That’s why I remember him. Because he bumped into me, and we made out. He seemed vaguely familiar, but I didn’t recognize him until after I woke up and saw him on the morning news. His name was J.D. Vance, and he was running for Vice-President of the United States. I wondered what he thought of me when he kissed me in the dream. I felt embarrassed for not knowing he was a celebrity. I now was positive that he had never gotten to second base with anyone who looked like me before. The dream was still fresh, so I could feel it the same way people keep feeling the braces in their teeth weeks after getting it off. The memory of the dream left me with no doubt that J.D. really loved me. Why else would he hold me like that? He understood that, even though I’m six feet two, I also need to be taken care of like every other woman of average height. I wondered if J.D. also expected me to take care of him. He looked so hurt and angry on CNN. I felt an urge to nurse him, to take him back to our dream where I would protect him from the evils of the world. Sleep, little J.D., sleep... Could I fulfill this promise, though? Could I be his rock? Maybe I could deceive him for a while... Truth be told, I'm not a rock. I see rocks all the time because I’m a sales assistant, and rocks are the cornerstone of fast-fashion retail. A rock tags along whenever a person – usually not a very self-assured person – needs a piece of clothing but can’t decide for themselves if their stomach and their ass look good in whatever they’re trying on. This person will go into the fitting room, change into other clothes, and shout “Eliza”. And then Eliza, the rock, who was waiting just outside, will join them and say “Yes, I love it” or “No, absolutely not”. I could never do that. I thought about how J.D. would have turned out if I had been his rock from the start. Would he be one of those New Men who’s in touch with their feelings? Would he become a national figure, or would I bring him down to my level of satisfied mediocrity? Would he be happier if I did? I realized why J.D. seemed familiar to me in the dream, even though I didn’t know his name or who he was. It was because I had seen him on the news the night before, as I was about to fall asleep. He had just been announced as the Vice-President pick, and he looked so joyful, and I thought "good for him", and I slowly closed my eyes. Why is it that, after we made out, all I could see were the hints of panic and terror in his soul? Why do I feel like I he needs to be saved, and that only I can do it? I must be the saddest sales assistant ever.

April 1st, 2160 *Attention inhabitants of Planet Earth. We are under attack. We are under attack. We are under attack... * - stupid damn radio system, we know we are under fucking attack! •Captain! Captain! •Sup Joe? •We are under a... •Shut the fuck up Joe if I hear it once more... I swear... •Got it captain. What do we do? •Mmm lemme think. •Sure sir. •Who is attacking us? •I dunno sir, the message just said that we are under a... •Shut up! •Sorry sir... It won't happen again. •Shut up, let me think... •Sure sir •Shut up I said! Do we have any defence system ready to fry the attackers? •Yes sir, but... •We gotta fight back •Fight back who? •Whoever is messing with us. They will regret messing with homo sapiens. You mess with sapiens, you get humo'd. •Yes sir. •Activate all "defence" systems •Yes sir. •Great, let the fun begin •Sir? •Yes? •Where are we aiming our attack at? •Dunno. Need more information •Sir, I'll try and contact the central area 52. Pi pi pi pi pi pi pi pi •Hello commander sirs; Joe here. We are under a... •Oh for the love of god, we know, shut up. Give it to me Joe. Hey alexander. •Hi Captain, Lex here... •Who or what is attacking us? •You won't believe it cap... Ants. •Stupid ants? •Stupid ants. •Easy peasy then, no need to go nuclear. How threatining is the situation? •Quite rough cap... •Quite rough? Ah shit aight, send a nuke to France, now. •But sir, why? •Never liked those fuckers, emergency situations are to be taken advantage of. •Got it sir, impact will be in two minutes. Shall we notify them? •Nah this is an emergency, son. •Roger that. •How many of them, Alexander? •Millons, cap. •Are we surrounded? •Yes, cap. •Shit. Shit. Shit. Motherbiters these ants. Prepare all the ants extinguishers. •But cap.. •No buts Alexander, butts are for crapping and we got plenty of that to deal with. •But cap, if we extinguish them, we will no longer be able to eat our cakes. •Our cakes? •Yes cap, they are eating our cakes! •You gotta be kidding. How many of us down? •None, they are ignoring us. •How big are they? •Regular size.. •Then why all this? We just whopped France from the map. •Because Captain, the radio system doesn't read brackets. •WHAT- WHAT DO YOU MEAN? What was the original message? •Let me ask the higher central...BIPBIP. Got an answer •So? •This was the message sir - Attention inhabitants of Planet Earth. We are under attack. We are under attack. We are under attack... (the ants are eating our cakes, happy april fools). •SHIT. FUCK, SHIT. Lex, Joe, grab a pill of cyanide each, there is no way we can undo this mess. It has been a pleasure fighting alongside with y'all. •But sir, what about family? •Family? There is nothing more important than reputation and ours, comrades, is ruined. •Sir... •Obey to your superior, comrade. That is all. War dismissed. We've lost to our own foolishness. •Bye sir, it has been a pleasure. •Bye world. Bye captain. Bye ants... •Sir? I don't know how to swallow a pill, sir? Sir? Sir? SIR?? He is dead... I'm out of here gotta eat some of that cake.

I woke up to a furred claw where my hand should be. Letting out a groan that came out more like a growl, I pushed myself up out of bed. All the preparation and training let me sleep through the night, but there was no way around the fur. Even though it was only once a month, it was once a month too many. I didn’t bother to put on a robe as I trudged to the bathroom. My roommates wouldn’t be up this early. Sometimes, I ask myself why I bother. Broadly speaking, fur doesn’t need to be washed, and it’ll be gone in about two hours anyway so why? The same answer every month pushes me to step into the shower. It’s not about getting clean. The fur kept me from feeling the water immediately. I stood there and waited till I could feel it. I had nothing to contemplate but my condition. People didn’t know. I knew what they would think if they did. Freak. Monster. Inhuman. That’s what they all say about people like me. Well, no, they won’t say that; not out loud. They like to pretend that they see us as victims, but victims of what? Ourselves is their only answer. Some vast conspiracy to corrupt and pervert; make more of ourselves. I began to feel wetness run across my skin. Controlled by force of habit, I began to work shampoo through my fur. It wasn’t any great trick; keeping people in the dark. Most don’t want to believe it anyway. Still, I’ve had my fair share of close shaves, but I’m not the first, or the only one out there. There are forums and stuff where we share our resources and information. Meditation practices and over the counter supplements that help you sleep through it. It all works, for the most part, but it’s a form of repression. I know that, how could I not. The dreams are a constant reminder. They used to just happen that one time a month, but they’ve been happening increasingly often. It’s not healthy. It’s the pattern of obsession. Visions of running, hunting, eating; the things my body yearns to do and be, but I can’t let it. It’s not just the dreams either. I feel it. Every moment of my existence. Just under the veneer of… normalcy. The truth I can only rarely indulge. At some point, I had started sobbing. I hadn’t noticed the tears amongst all the water. The strength to hold myself up abandoned me, and I was suddenly sitting on the floor of the shower. I shouldn’t have to do this. It's slowly killing me, but better a slow death in what comfort and safety I can manage than a quick one at the hands of someone else’s ignorance. I sat there and felt. The water through my fur, and across my skin. The hard basin of the shower. The water pounding around me. Having burned through my agonies, I focused only on the sensations. I don’t know how long I sat there. Eventually, I turned off the water, and stepped out. I noted, with no small amount of bitterness, that the urge to shake didn’t elicit even the slightest physical shudder as I grabbed my towel from the rack. By the time I was dry, the fur would be gone, but at least I wouldn’t drip everywhere. I wrapped the towel around myself, and got back to my bedroom. Towel still wrapped around me, I collapsed onto my bed. Did I feel any better? I didn’t know, but then it wasn’t really about feeling better.

The young thief Demyan had been making a living off theft for years. Luck had always been on his side, especially during the daytime when the catch was particularly sweet. Wealthy peasants, inattentive merchants, and fat boyars easily parted with their riches whenever Demyan was involved. But one fateful day, luck seemed to turn against him. Blinded by the sight of a hefty purse, he failed to notice the danger and was immediately caught by the hand. And not just by anyone, but by Gunyar himself—a notorious mercenary known as "Bonecrusher." He was a member of the gang "Boar's Heel," infamous as demon worshipers and followers of pagan cults. Even the guards feared them, wary of the consequences. "Bold thief!" growled Gunyar. Demyan realized that the mercenary was drunk, and this was his chance to escape, but the excruciating pain clouded his thoughts. Gunyar's grip was like a vice, crushing Demyan's arm. "Maybe I should break your arm? And make you swallow all the gold you've stolen? Oh, that's an idea!" laughed Gunyar. Passersby glanced sideways, avoiding them. Some were already whispering among themselves, as if burying Demyan alive. Some even sided with Gunyar, believing this was a just punishment for the thief. "Gunyar, you drunken beast!" A tall sorcerer in a black robe approached the mercenary. His eyes gleamed like emeralds, and his staff, with a bright green gem at its center, caused discomfort even among the common folk—a testament to its immense power. "Gunyar! Stop it!" the newcomer hissed into the mercenary's ear. "You're ruining everything for us, you drunken fool!" The sorcerer's interest suddenly shifted to Demyan. "Gunyar, take our friend over there," the sorcerer indicated a nearby dark alleyway. "Move it, I said!" he stomped his staff, and in an instant, the alley's "locals" scattered, some on all fours, some hopping, all with terror on their faces. "Maybe we can make a deal? I can give you more than I intended to steal," Demyan tried to bargain. But the sorcerer merely smirked. "Your life is worth more than these trinkets. I have plans for you, boy." Inside an abandoned building, the sorcerer began to explain his plan. The "Boar's Heel" gang had been tasked with killing a monster from a cave, but none of them wanted to dirty their hands. "First off, you're now my slave!" the sorcerer declared, and instantly, symbols formed a collar around Demyan's neck. "Disobey, and it will tighten. Now, here's the deal: I will free you if you do us a favor." "What kind of favor?" Demyan asked, uncomfortable with his new accessory. "You'll be bait for the monster living in the forest cave. If by some miracle you kill it, we'll let you go and give you gold. But if not, while it's busy devouring you, we'll take it out!" the sorcerer laughed. "Time is money!" A teleportation circle appeared under Demyan. Gunyar, still somewhat dazed, suddenly sprang to action, pulled an old dagger from his bottomless bag, and shoved it into Demyan's hand. "I've been meaning to throw this junk away!" Gunyar laughed. Demyan stood at the cave entrance, holding an old rusty knife that seemed ready to crumble at a breath of wind. The thought of escape crossed his mind, but the magical collar around his neck tightened slightly, reminding him of the futility of such thoughts. "Well, I guess this is it," Demyan resigned himself and slowly entered the cave. To his surprise, the cave was eerily empty. No animals, not even the scent of life. At first, Demyan regretted not bringing a torch, but then he marveled at the natural magic that seemed to light the cave in a pleasant blue glow, casting the dark walls in shades of azure. Demyan reached a small pool. As he approached, a faint ripple appeared, and from the water emerged a beautiful maiden. Her eyes, like precious stones, beckoned Demyan closer, while she playfully revealed her naked body. As the boy drew nearer to the pool, the maiden's mouth opened wide like a serpent's, and from the water, the Echidna emerged. The enchanting allure was replaced by fear, and Demyan tried to flee. But suddenly, darkness enveloped him, and he had no idea where to run. The echo of a whip crack filled the cave, and Demyan screamed in pain. A precise strike from the serpent's tail left him with a broken leg. In terror, Demyan tried to crawl away, anywhere. But the Echidna playfully flipped him over and, hissing, dug her claws into his abdomen. Demyan could hardly comprehend what was happening. He felt only coldness. His mind was foggy. And just as he was losing consciousness, he felt an unbearable heat. An orb of fire flew over Demyan, like magma, engulfing the Echidna's face. She howled in agony, tearing Demyan's abdomen even more. Barely managing to shake off the magic, with horrific wounds, the Echidna fled. "Oh my! What a horrifying sight!" a soft female voice said. From the cave's shadows emerged a demoness, enveloped in a crimson flame. Her tail lashed nervously from side to side as she studied Demyan's remains. "I was a bit late! But no matter!" Stepping gracefully over Demyan, she sat on his body, playfully toying with his innards. "I can fix this, my Lord!" she declared, grabbing Demyan's head and merging with him in a passionate kiss. Her hellish flame, like a medicine, burned everything in its path, forming a new body from the ashes. Demyan didn't know how long he lay there unconscious, but upon awakening, he immediately inspected his legs and abdomen. Not a scratch. Then he realized he could see in the pitch darkness, and his body was covered in faintly glowing pagan symbols. "Awake, my Lord?" the soft female voice asked. "Forgive me for not arriving in time to save you; the conditions only activated after your death, my Master." Demyan jumped up in fear. "Who are you?" he shouted, but only heard his own echo. "Don't be afraid of me! From now on, I am your property! My previous Master named me Lilith. I am a high demon of fire. By the way, you are his distant descendant. He was a mighty mage who loved to collect exotic creatures: from small goblin-like beings to dragons and archdemons. I am the last in his menagerie because no one before you could fulfill my transfer conditions. Only you, my Lord, proved worthy to possess me as the mage's descendant." Demyan listened intently to Lilith's story, while deep inside, a flame of revenge ignited. He wanted to devour the Echidna that had dared to take his life. "Oh! It's a magnificent feeling! I understand you so well, my Master. Come on, experience your new body, let the fire boil your blood. Let this feeling completely consume you," Lilith moaned almost ecstatically as she watched Demyan slowly follow the trail of the wounded Echidna. Writhing in a dance and whispering seductive words into Demyan's mind, Lilith reveled as the young lord tore apart the flesh of the once mighty cave monster with his bare hands. With a precise strike, he ripped out the Echidna's heart, and Lilith nearly lost consciousness from excitement. "Eat it," she whispered tenderly. "And thus, our hunger will be sated!" Gunyar, accompanied by a mage, a scout, and a priest, cautiously entered the cave. The mage, illuminating the path, led the group, while the scout, like a bloodhound, scrutinized every speck to ensure the team avoided traps. "Do you think that boy's been eaten already?" Gunyar asked mockingly. "Definitely," the mage replied. "The Echidna has probably already digested him, which means she'll be less active. Easy as pie!" The scout suddenly halted the group, pointing to the cave walls, which were scorched and scratched. Blood was congealed on the floor, leading to the Echidna's body. "Holy crap!" Gunyar exclaimed, but the mage quickly shielded the group with a magic barrier. An orb of fire flew at them, piercing the barrier like red-hot knife through butter and striking the mage in the face. He didn't even have time to squeak as he fell to the ground, his head burned down to the bone. The group immediately went on the defensive. Without the mage, only the scout could see in this half-light. She deftly shot an arrow towards a strange rustling sound. The arrow made no noise upon impact, making it impossible to tell if it hit. But one thing was clear: the scout fell, with a flaming arrow lodged between her eyes. Gunyar roared, ordering the priest to retreat. But the priest couldn't even move. Before him stood a demon, clad in flames. Desperate, the priest began to chant prayers, but a sudden whistle cut the ritual short, and his head rolled off, leaving only a charred cut and the smell of cooked blood. Gunyar attempted to fight back, but his sword melted upon the first contact with the demon's fire. "Now it's my turn," the devilish creature said with a playful grin. Horrifying screams echoed from the cave... Lilith reveled in the spectacle as Demyan, now wielding her power, unleashed a torrent of fire on his former tormentors. Gunyar tried to resist, but every move he made only fueled a new wave of pain and terror. "How pitiful!" Lilith taunted, whispering into Demyan's ear. "They thought they could use you, but now you've become something far more powerful than they could have ever imagined." Demyan, feeling his newfound strength and confidence, stepped forward. His eyes glowed with hellfire, and his body was adorned with luminous demonic symbols. He approached Gunyar, who lay on the ground, weakened and wounded. "Now, you will understand what true pain is," Demyan whispered, and in the next instant, his hand, enveloped in flames, pierced Gunyar's chest, leaving nothing but ashes and fire. Lilith, satisfied with her new master, whispered, "Now we are one, my Lord. Together, we shall conquer this world." As Demyan surveyed the ruined cave and the bodies of his former captors, he realized that his journey had only just begun. With Lilith, the high demon of fire, at his side, he was determined to change the world, burning everything in his path that dared to stand against him.

The sunlight had faded the abandoned fairground allowing moss to grow on every surface . The rickety booths, once bustling, now stood with their empty shutters flapping like skeleton bones. The faded signs all dangled like loose teeth, advertising funnel cakes and donuts that once wafted in the air. Nokia ran ahead, her bright pink hair tossing about happily in a bun. Sami watched from behind. As urban scavengers, Sami and Nokia had planned this trip to the abandoned park for over two years. If they could catch a few ghost on their phone while there, they'd be able to pay for the trip. Nokia's bun flopped to a stand still when she caught sight of the ferris wheel. She took a bite of her cotton candy she'd brought as ran her hand over the peeling decals. She tucked her cotton candy back into her satchel and pulled out some of mountain climbing gear she'd brought. "Im going to do it," she said to Sami taking a deep breath and letting out a sigh. "I'm going to climb that thing and rid my fears." Getting over her fear of heights was Nokia's summer project. She'd climb to the highest cabin, jump in and play her ukulele up there. They'd be tikTok famous. Nokia squeezed the cat plushie that Sami had given her for strength. "Wish me luck, she told Double Mac," and its glassy eyes beamed back at her their assurance. Sami trailed up from behind. "Nokia, you dont need that silly Double Mac for luck," she said as she swatted Double Mac upside the head. Sami placed her arm around Nokia's shoulder, "close your eyes, my friend, because I have a surprise." And she placed a coil in Nokia's hand as she continued, "I read on a forum that this ferris wheel still works if you attach that coil in your hand to the sprocket in the electrical box!" Nokia opened her eyes to examine the coil and Sami snatched it out of her hand. Sami leaned over to plugged the coil in place in the electrical box and clapped her hands in delight. But Nokia's hands trembled as she lifted her and Double Mac over the safety bar and into the cabin. Once the ride lurched to life, they both screamed with delight and Sami ran full speed ahead jumping into the cabin beside Nokia. Both of their faces contorted in a mix of excitement and fear. Nokia's smile immediately faltered, her anxiety caught up to her as her eyes fixed on the rusty bolts and creaking chains that held the cabin aloft. The higher they climbed, the more her terror grew, Nokia grabbed hold of the safety bar and Double Mac in the other, and close to paralyzed she hung onto each till her knuckles turned white. And then, in an instant, everything stopped. The music and the lights flickered out, and the Ferris wheel ground to a halt. Both girls looked at each other in confusion and their screams pealed like alarms coming from the top. Sami peered down at the ground, far, far below, her vision began to blur, and the heat of white lightening panic moved through her too. What had she done? When she turned to look at her friend, the face of Nokia began to distort into a grotesque death masque. Suddenly, the lights flickered back to life, and the Ferris wheel spun wildly out of control. Noki and Sami giggled in hysterics, their laughs trilled over the wind like flutes playing a cacophony of terror. The ride spun faster, the seats whirling like a madman's carnival. Sami was flung out, battered and bruised she ran to remove the coil. And Nokia and her pink buns were now streaming over the safety bar. With the coil removed the ferris wheel groaned to a stop, the lights blew sparks and the Ferris wheel ground to a halt. The silence was deafening. Sami ran to her friend to check on Nokia. She pulled up her head, but could see it was ashen and white. She couldn't tell if their was a pulse. Sami stumbled backwards, her eyes fixed on her friend Nokia. She slapped her head in panic and thrust about like a windsock as she grappled with the terrible truth. Nokia might dead, her body already turning cold. Double Mac on her lap, glaring at Sami with it's ominious glassy eyes watching with an unblinking stare. Sami tried to pull Nokia from the ride but the safety bar held her captive. The ferris wheel reeled forward, the whole thing spinning rapidly. Sami flung the coil to the ground and ran. The abandoned park now crawled up her back, the need to vomit ran through her as she contemplated what she would tell the police. The sound of balloons popping and laughter of children winning ducks crept into her mind . Nokia might be dead and she'd helped cause it. Sami's hands fumbled dialing 911, she looked back trying to take in every detail of the scene to tell the operator.. The ferris wheel spun, faster and harder, its seats whirling like a dervish. The lights flickered madly and in the center of all the cacophony, Double Mac's little plushie body sat upright staring daggers. Double Mac's gaze bore down on Sami and suddenly started pulsing red lasers seared from him right into Sami's skin. They rapidly oscillated in whirls of burning light, burnishing into the flesh of Sami's arm the words \*'wake up and turn the faucet on for me."\* Sami rubbed her sleepy eyes. Her cat's paw thumped her nose. "You want some water, do you Double Mac" she laughed as she jumped out of bed to turn the faucet on for him.

I don’t remember much about my early childhood. When I was a juvenile, I was abandoned on a lush world perpetually in twilight, and adopted by a colony of elves who found me whilst hunting for food. I was taught how to navigate the cosmos through starflight, a rare gift passed down through generations of elves. The land beyond the stars was a precious landscape, one that was revered as the constitution of reality. Our rituals always praised the higher beings that gave us the gift to leave our world. Unlike many primitive beings, we were able to travel the worlds and discover unique biomes to explore. During my adolescence, I often had the same recurring nightmare, one where I discovered a world of red miasma and black void. As I entered the world through starflight, the miasma engulfed me as if it were a sentient deity that had not been fed in millenia. Screams emanated from the void, sending a ringing and deep pain through my skull. Visions of people I had never seen before permeated my mind, putting a deep pressure behind my eyes. However, even though I felt a deep pain from my proximity to these entities, I felt a familiarity and bond that I could not explain. Something about this world wasn’t right, like a scar in the cosmos itself. I should have left the world alone. Perhaps my dream was a predictor of the future. During a day of celebration for the cosmos, society was annihilated by an all-out invasion by interstellar monsters. A faction from a distant universe was hellbent on destroying all that was natural, and our star system was their next target. These monsters were not of the cosmos, and could not achieve starflight on their own. Instead, spurred by bloodlust and greed, they used their machines to travel the stars and destroy everything that stood in their way. Children, such as myself, were not spared and were prime targets. My adoptive parents distracted the invaders, granting me time to escape my childhood home. Covered in blood, both blue from the elves and red from my own, I escaped to the cosmos and forged a new life as a Traveler. For a long time, I was on the flight from the monsters who so badly desired the power that they could not achieve without their machines – starflight. My next millenia was defined by a time period of isolation and solitude. During my flight, I discovered many uncharted worlds with a multitude of biomes and climates. I had never seen such wonders and inhospitality than during my travels. I discovered a golden world composed of glowing gemstones and impossible coldness. Streams of molten metal covered the planet, which bizarre golems composed of brown flesh drank from. Gargantuan swarms of insects made from stone and gold roamed the planet like locusts, devouring any creature who strayed in their sight. Another memorable world had a dark red sky and a perpetual, disgusting green haze. Massive black trees created a dense canopy, and the air burned as I breathed it in. Titanic creatures roamed about in madness, consuming copious amounts of flora all whilst defending themselves from massive reptiles with scales jutting out like plates. My time on this world was short, when I left after being swarmed by a pack of bipedal canines with orange foam streaming from their orifices. The most disturbing world I set foot on was an oceanic planet. This world was shrouded in darkness, and the only light came from the palm of my hand. I swam through the ocean, confident that the invaders would never find me here. The ocean initially appeared shallow; however, as I swam through a crack in the seabed, I discovered a new world of horror. Bioluminescent jellyfish sparsely populated a gargantuan cave, big enough to be its own unique world. Strange bulbous plants floated by themselves, with unnaturally long tendrils growing below and reaching for me. The worst part, however, were the massive leviathans that rapidly patrolled the cavern. Unnaturally large mouths exposed hundreds of teeth that were easily 30 times my arm’s length. Massive, glowing white eyes revealed nothing but ravenous hunger and greed. As a leviathan started dashing towards me, I quickly exited through the crevice from which I came. Throughout my travels, I found a few animal companions which I could summon through the cosmos to keep myself company. One such friend was Nira-Nira the Leopotum, a winged bear with antlers, yellow fur, and a dark brown face. home. I had adopted Nira-Nira from a decaying nuclear world, when she was an infant. Nira-Nira was quite unintelligent, like most Leopotum, but we could still hold simple conversations with the translator I created for her. Additionally, she was quite strong, and constructed a home for us to live in. Another animal companion was Rata-Rata, a huge predatory reptile with a bipedal marsupial build. Rata-Rata had muscular hind legs, brown scaly skin, large claws, and mammalian ears. Rata-Rata initially had a very dominant personality, but eventually came to respect me and take orders. He even started to cuddle with me and Nira-Nira when we went to sleep. Unlike Nira-Nira, Rata-Rata was far more intelligent, but also much more voracious. Eventually, after much exploration, I finally settled on a planet for which we could call home. Lush, cyan grass covered the surface, and massive trees provided shelter. The air always felt fresh, cool, and comfortable to be in. With the help of Nira-Nira and Rata-Rata, I fashioned a log cabin to call my home, and lived a simple life as a hermit. I believe that there is no finer life than what I had. I never had to worry about money, like I did when living with the elves. All I needed was my family, which I had with Rata-Rata and Nira-Nira. I still miss my parents at times, but I am content with life as it is now. Every day, me and Rata-Rata would go hunt for meat, while Nira-Nira foraged for herself. Me and Rata-Rata had a special bond, with him calling me “alpha” and “roar-master”. Sometimes, if he was in a good mood, I would ride on his neck. Rata-Rata was ostracized from his pack for being too smart, or at least that’s what he told me. I’m glad that I can be the companion he always wanted. Nira-Nira was far more sweet-tempered than Rata-Rata, and easier to please. However, unlike Rata-Rata, I couldn’t hold advanced conversations with Nira-Nira, even with her translator. To me, Nira-Nira was more like a pet than a friend, and I treated her as such. Even then, I was still content with having her around as a companion. However, my life seemed *too* perfect. The grass never wilted, no matter how much me and Rata-Rata trampled on it. I never felt uncomfortable, even when the sun beared down on myself. Nira-Nira never tired from flying, and even went to sleep in the air. I also could not understand why I was left in a world of elves, even though we were of a completely different genus. Most noticeably, my recurring nightmare of the hellish world never went away. Every night, I dreamed of the red miasma and the land of black void. Each time I set foot in the world, the voices grew louder, the visions grew more coherent. Whenever the voices aren’t screaming, they beg me for help. Eventually, I came to the epiphany that my recurring nightmare is a vision from beyond. Perhaps, another version of myself was in a terrible conflict, or a horrific accident that caused me to be engulfed in a sea of red and black. I don’t know who the people in my visions are, or why I keep hearing their voices, but I know that in a different realm, they need my help. After seeing how my defenseless parents and community were killed, I can’t live with myself if I don’t help someone in dire need. I then decided that I would need to leave this realm to help the people in dire need. When the time came to say goodbye to Rata-Rata and Nira-Nira, they were extremely reluctant to let me leave. Nira-Nira grabbed me and didn’t want to let me go at first, and her wail nearly brought tears to my eyes. Even with her low intelligence, she could still understand that I was never coming back. Rata-Rata, having previously come from a pack, was even more heartbroken that his alpha was abandoning him. His words echoed deep into my mind and awakened a spark within me. “Roar-master… friend, even if this world is a dream, is Alpha happier in this life than what awaits?” Then, in a moment of unusual intelligence, Nira-Nira added, “If best friend wakes up, what will happen to Nira-Nira and Rata-Rata? Will Nira-Nira fade away?” With tears welling up in my eyes, I looked at my best friends. “I want nothing more than to live out my life with you.” Mental obstructions from my unconscious state shattered as I spoke those words, and inhibitors in my memory caused by my coma melted away. “But there’s people who need my help, and they won’t be able to live without me. And I promise that we’ll always be together.” Tears streamed down my face, and I knew that I was lying to myself as much as I was lying to my friends. I hugged Rata-Rata and Nira-Nira one last time, and then without looking back, I used starflight to forever leave this life behind. As I flew towards the edge of the cosmos, the world of red miasma and black void came into my sights. As I approached, the miasma engulfed me, and I heard the voices of my true parents calling my name. The forms of my parents came into view, the miasma congealed into blood, and the black void embedded itself into my skin as painful metal shrapnel. The longing I had for my false life briefly melted away as I flew through the sea of my own blood back into waking life. Now remembering the names of my true parents, not of the elves conjured by my mind, I reached out to their grasp and awoke from my catatonic state. As I wiped the blood from my eyes and brushed the black shrapnel on the ground, the longing for my false life suddenly returned. I felt deep remorse for ending my deepest friendships, and I realized that I may have ended the lives of all those who existed in my dream. I began to cry as I realized the gravity of my actions, knowing that I would never see Rata-Rata or Nira-Nira ever again. It’s been days since I’ve been admitted to the hospital, and I still don’t know what happened to me to be unconscious like how I was. My parents don’t think I’m in the right mental state to tell me what happened, because all I’ve been doing lately is crying about the loss of my life. I like to console myself by saying that I needed to wake up because my parents would have been devastated if I became a vegetable. I also like to think that somewhere within my subconscious, Rata-Rata and Nira-Nira are still living their lives without me. However, deep down, I know that I’ll never get back the dream world that I left behind, and I’ll never see my best friends again.

It had been a rough few months for Mason. His parents were divorcing, and he and his mother had moved out of the city to a house in the middle of nowhere. Leaving behind the friends he had made in his 13 years was just the beginning of Mason’s misfortune. The crunch of tires meeting the unkempt gravel driveway signaled their arrival. “Well, we’re here,” his mother said as she parked the car and turned off the engine. For the first time during the trip, Mason looked away from the window. He surveyed the small house they would be staying in for the foreseeable future. The structure seemed solid but weathered, with peeling paint, dirt-littered sides, and an overgrown yard. They each grabbed their suitcases and carried them up to the porch and through the rickety old front door. Inside, the living room connected to the kitchen, and a distinctive musty odor wafted throughout. Down the hall, Mason entered his new room. A bed and a nightstand were already there, and the walls had a stained wood finish. The head of the bed rested against the wall with the only window. Mason threw his suitcase onto the bed and began to unpack his clothes. Time flew by as the foggy woodlands turned to sunset, and his mother called him for their first meal in the new house. “Well, how do you like it here?” she asked. “It’s alright, I suppose. A bit creepy,” Mason replied. “Creepy? What’s so creepy about it?” his mother asked. “Just that we’re alone out here. No neighbors, no friends, no traffic, nothing—just us,” Mason answered. “Well, it’s something you’ll have to get used to,” his mother said. After supper, Mason took a quick shower and went to bed. He was exhausted from the trip and unpacking, but sleep eluded him. The room was darker than he was used to, even with the bright light outside the window. He had grown accustomed to the light pollution and city noise, so the silence felt unsettling. As he stared into the darkness, his mind began to make shapes. He eventually rolled over and glanced at his clock. It read 3 a.m. The hissing noise from the light outside, combined with his sleep deprivation, finally allowed him to drift off. The next morning, he awoke to the smell of bacon and eggs sizzling in the skillet. His mother handed him a plate as he walked down the hall. “I need you to do me a favor,” she said. “Go outside after you’re done eating and chop some wood for the fire.” Mason, having never chopped wood before, reluctantly agreed. After a few attempts, he got the hang of it. But by the third log, he had an overwhelming sensation of being watched. He looked into the tree line and thought he saw someone observing him, more judgmental than curious. Annoyed, he gathered the split logs and went inside to the fireplace. The night followed the same unsettling routine: Mason couldn’t sleep, his mind conjured shapes in the dark, and the light outside hissed and flickered. Then, a dark shadow rushed past his window. Startled, he tried to convince himself it was just his imagination. In the morning, he mentioned it to his mother. “Were you outside last night around 3 a.m.? I swear I saw a shadow dart past my window,” Mason said. “No, but it wouldn’t surprise me if you saw something,” his mother replied. “We’re the only people out here, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t animals.” “Well, it must have been a big animal then,” Mason thought. Mason and his mom drove into town and picked up supplies at the local hardware store. “How are you folks doing?” the clerk asked. “I’m doing fine, but my son Mason seems to have found a boogeyman,” his mother said, mocking him. “Oh, is that so? Did you run into the old Dark Watcher?” the clerk said with a laugh. They paid and returned home in silence. Mason was hurt by his mother’s disbelief and mockery. When they arrived, he slammed the car door in frustration. His mother, noticing his anger, confronted him. Mason expressed his feelings, and after a half-hearted apology, she promised to be more open in the future. They worked on the house, cleaning and painting, and Mason almost forgot about the previous night’s events. That night, Mason went through his usual routine: trying to sleep, seeing shapes in the dark, checking the clock, and watching the flickering light. Once again, the figure moved past his window. This time, he heard the front door open and footsteps approaching his room. The footsteps stopped outside his door, and shadows appeared under the door from the nightlight in the hallway. Mason was paralyzed with fear as the footsteps grew louder. The tapping on the door began—tap, tap, tap. Mason’s breathing became heavy. The tapping turned into the jingling of the doorknob. The door opened slowly, revealing a massive eight-foot-tall silhouette with no facial features. It stood there silently. “M-Mom?” Mason stammered. The shadow didn’t respond; it simply turned and walked away, the old floorboards creaking. Mason, terrified, rushed into his mother’s room. “I saw it! The creature!” he cried. His mother, frustrated, said, “I’m tired of this game. You’re too old to be afraid of monsters! Go to bed!” Mason reluctantly returned to his bed, unable to sleep until dawn. The next night, Mason stayed up after supper, waiting. He waited late into the night prepared for another night of vigilance. The creature came again, moving past the window, through the front door, down the hall, and opening his bedroom door. Mason called out, “Mom?” but received no response. The creature loomed over his bed, staring at the wall, and then left. Mason had enough, and he decided to act. He placed a thick bead of salt across his door and waited. When the creature arrived the following night , it stopped at the salt, unable to cross it. It looked at Mason, then left. Relieved, Mason finally got a good night’s sleep. The following morning, Mason was in high spirits. He worked diligently around the house, helping his mother with various tasks. They had a hearty supper, and Mason went to bed early, adding fresh salt to the doorway. Later that night, Mason’s mother checked on him before heading to bed herself. Finding him sound asleep, she cracked the window open to ensure he wouldn’t overheat in the night and kissed him goodnight. As the last creak of the door ceased and Mason’s mother climbed back in bed, confident her son was safe and tucked in, the light outside began to flicker. It started as just a slow on, off. But it continued to persistently get faster and faster. Before long it was pulsating like a strobe light. A shadowy figure lurked closer and closer. The Watcher climbed through the window and hovered over Mason’s bed. A scream echoed through the house, followed by the loud slamming of the bedroom window. Leaving nothing behind but an empty bed for his mother to find the following morning.

Ugh! The bugs are so bad this season, buzzing around, consuming and destroying, they’re driving me crazy. Seriously, what's going on? this is so much worse than usual… Hmm…. there seem to be more over here… Oh no, it's the new neighbor isn't it? All this because of one careless neighbor, and before you know it we’re all overrun with pests. It seems there is no choice, I’ll have to confront them about it, I can’t possibly just just let this go on, something must be said. **Kala :** Yoohoo! Neighbor! How ya doin? Seeing as we are neighbors now I figured a proper introduction is in order. My name’s Kala, what's yours? **Hefy :** Oh, hello, my name's Hefy, nice to meet you. **Kala :** The feeling's mutual. So how do you like the neighborhood? Settling in ok? **Hefy :** Oh yes, it’s lovely. Great weather, lots of rain and sunshine, excellent soil, it’s a great place to grow. **Kala :** Yes it is, Y’know that’s actually something I wanted to talk to you about. **Hefy** : Oh, what do you mean? **Kala** : The growing conditions around here are great, you're right about that, but we all gotta do our part to help keep it that way, wouldn’t you agree? **Hefy :** Yes, of course. It’s important to live in harmony with nature and keep our environment healthy and balanced. **Kala :** Glad we’re on the same page. So do you already have some plans on how you’re gonna get rid of that growing infestation of critters? **Hefy :** Oh my… Umm… I’m not so sure that I … **Kala :** I can recommend some nice strong pesticides that will clear it up right quick. **Hefy :** Heavens… I mean… that seems a bit extreme. I’m already using some aromatics and oils that help keep them away from sensitive areas and prevent them from getting out of hand. **Kala :** Those hippy-dippy oils won’t do the job at all. You’re gonna need high potency, like alkaloids, something good n’ toxic that will make them think twice about coming back for another bite. **Hefy :** But I don’t want to hurt them. As long as they don’t get too out of hand and stay away from certain areas then I’m fine with them. **Kala :** You gotta be kidding, if you give these critters an inch they’ll take a mile. **Hefy :** Thanks for the advice, but I’m not having any troubles with them, at least not yet. I’ll keep your advice in mind and if things ever get out of hand I’ll consider it, but for now I’m going to try to live and let live. They aren’t bothering me right now so I think we can coexist in harmony. **Kala :** By the time you realize they’re out of control it’ll be too late. **Hefy :** Thanks, I really do appreciate your concern, but for now I’ll take my chances I guess. **Kala :** O.K. have it your way, just don’t come cryin’ to me when you’re overrun with pests. — The bugs are acting weird, their numbers always peaked this season, but now they swarm this neck of the woods like crazy for a few days, then move on. Why the heck are they showin’ up for such a flash in the pan frenzy like this? Wait… They seem more concentrated over there. Oh no! That new-age neighbor has gone and gotten overrun, haven’t they. Maybe the sudden frenzy is actually broods hatching. **Kala :** Hey neighbor, you still up and kickin’? Have those pests claimed another victim? **Hefy :** Oh, hi there, I'm fine, doing great actually, thanks for asking. **Kala :** It's been a while since we spoke, how are you managing? **Kala** Great! I'm loving the beautiful weather this year. How about you? **Kala :** Yes the weather is quite nice… But… Those bugs! They're really starting to show up in droves. They seem to be really swarming you over there. Are you ready to look into some pesticides yet? **Hefy :** Oh no! We are doing just fine. **Kala :** We? **Hefy :** The insects and I, we’re getting along quite happily, most of these little sweethearts are good friends. **Kala :** Friends? Friends with the insects? Are you off your rocker? You must be pulling my leg. **Hefy :** Oh, I'm completely serious, these little ones are ever so helpful. **Kala :** What on earth are you talking about? **Hefy :** Haven't you noticed anything new about me since we last spoke? **Kala :** Well, now that you mention it.. You've changed a heck of a lot haven't you? **Hefy :** Thank you. **Kala :** Actually… That's really a major change in style isn't it? **Hefy :** Oh, it's not just style, I have changed significantly, all the way to the core. It’s not just superficial, and it's all thanks to these little ones. **Kala :** Huh? Being swarmed by them has forced you to adapt, is that what you mean? **Hefy :** No no, they are helping me to evolve faster? **Kala :** Huh? **Hefy :** OK, you know how your stamens pass genetic material to our carpels to produce seeds? **Kala :** Yeah, of course. **Hefy :** Well… Insects can help spread pollen much further and faster than just gravity, wind, and rain. **Kala :** Can't say I've paid much attention… I suppose they sometimes drag pollen to and fro, but to be honest my priority is usually keepin’ them away so they don't eat me alive. **Hefy :** Well, if you learn to live in harmony with them they can help you spread your pollen so far and wide that you'll start evolving faster than you ever thought possible. **Kala :** Ya don't say… I have been feelin’ a bit stagnant recently. My roots and leaves haven't changed much in a long time, but yours seem to have adapted to the environment quite fast. **Hefy :** Oh yes, developing your flowers doesn't just look pretty, with the help of these little friends you can really speed up improvements in all areas. **Kala :** I might just try that, thanks for the advice. **Hefy :** Anytime! — **Hefy :** Hi neighbor, it's been a while, lovely season this year isn't it? **Kala :** Weather is fine, but I'm at my wits end. I'm trying this flower thing, but it's not working and I'm getting very frustrated. **Hefy :** Oh… My… Those are some… Very imaginative flowers. **Kala :** Well, they aren't working at all. **Hefy :** Let me ask you, how did you come up with that design? It's very unique. **Kaka :** I'm using patterns and structures I have in my collected genetic inventory, expressing my genes in creative ways with some minor modifications. **Hefy :** It's a good start, I can see the effort you put into it. **Kala :** Well… It's not working! **Hefy :** Expressing yourself is important, but you also have to consider the environment. **Kala :** What do ya mean? **Hefy :** Look around… Now look at your flowers… Do they stand out? **Kala :** Yes! They are very unique, there is nothing else like them around here. **Hefy :** That is true, but they are still a bit hard to notice. The environment is filled with many unique patterns, your flowers are also unique, but that's not enough. They need to stand out above everything else and through all the noise. **Kala :** How do I do that? **Hefy :** We all do it in our own way. I can't tell you what to do, but try thinking about the insects you want to attract. Think about how they see the world and what might appeal to them. **Kala :** Ok… I think I have some ideas… **Hefy :** Great! Try out some new stuff and see what gets results, it's all about trying new things and finding what works. — **Kala :** Hefy, are you there? **Hefy :** Yes, I'm right here. **Kala :** Wow! You really are changing so fast, I barely recognize you. **Hefy :** Thank you, I feel that I'm getting really good at going with the flow, adapting and changing with the environment in harmony. **Kala :** Honestly, I'm jealous. I've made a bit of progress with my flowers, but looking at you now, I feel so far behind. **Hefy :** It's not a competition… hahaha.. Well, at least you and I aren't in direct competition with each other. We have completely different niches. **Kala :** Well, I've managed to add some colors to my flower petals, and I’m trying out some shapes and patterns, styles and pallets. I recently realized it's not just about standing out, different groups of insects have different tastes and preferences. **Hefy :** Oh yes, that's absolutely true. **Kala :** How do you decide which ones to focus on, which ones to try appealing to? **Hefy :** As always, it's a matter of experimenting. Try lots of things, the stuff that ends up appealing to the most helpful insects will naturally spread fast and far. **Kala :** So it's like a feedback loop? **Hefy :** Exactly! Just focus on making the best and most appreciated flowers, the insects will help guide you to be the best possible version of yourself. **Kala :** I can't believe I was so slow to warm up to you, you are the best neighbor ever. **Hefy :** Awww, thank you… I'm happy to help. — **Kala :** Hefy, I'm feeling stuck again, I could really use some advice. **Hefy :** Of course, I would love to, what seems to be the trouble. **Kala :** Well, I've gotten pretty good at the whole style and attraction game, but now I feel like I'm just rotating through styles, but pollenation isn't improving much. **Hefy :** Let me guess, you are getting lots of visitors but they’re eating too much pollen and even munching on the flower petals. **Kala :** Yes! It's like I have got a bottleneck… No… More of a catch-22. Less visitors and there is plenty of excess pollen for them to spread but not many spreaders, more visitors and they eat too much of the pollen or even specialize in eating it too efficiently. **Hefy :** You can't expect them to just come and spread your pollen for free, you have to put some energy into producing nectar. **Kala :** Nectar? Like just give them free food? **Hefy :** Think of it as a trade or reward. If your flower has nectar they will come for that. If you nourish them, provide them with a satisfying and filling experience, then they will spread your pollen far and wide. **Kala :** I see, so you are saying if I make a direct effort to give them what they want and need, then they won't need to eat my pollen, and they’ll instead fill up on nectar. **Hefy :** Precisely, yes! **Kala :** So putting it all together, you're saying I should express my genes in a feedback loop with the insects, like a collaboration with them. Don't just make pollen to spread my genes for my purposes, combine it with production of nectar to nourish and satiate them… Is that it? **Hefy :** You sound like a true expert. Even I’ve never summed it all up so succinctly and elegantly. **Kala :** Haha, well let's see if I can actually make it work, I imagine it's easier said than done as always, thank you so much. **Hefy :** My pleasure. — **Hefy :** Is that you Kala? **Kala :** Yes. It's been a while old friend. **Hefy :** Wow! You look great, I barely recognize you. **Kala :** All thanks to you, your advice and encouragement was truly life changing. **Hefy :** I'm so happy for you! Don't give me so much credit though, you clearly put in tons of time and creativity. **Kala :** And you! Look at you! You are still evolving so much yourself. **Hefy :** Oh yes, thank you for noticing. Much of it is thanks to those larger animals. **Kala :** Really? I’ve been having trouble with them. Some of them eat my leaves. They don't swarm and infest like the insects, but they often stop and make a meal of my leaves. They have a particular taste for my tender sprouts, plus with such large appetites, they can really gobble up so much so quickly. **Hefy :** That's true. Sometimes being a plant species it can feel like everyone else just takes and takes. But, you can't really blame them too much. To tell you the truth I rather pity them in a way. They can see the sun, feel its warmth, but they can never know the taste of its nutritious mana, it's all second hand experience for them. And the ones eating us are in turn eaten by larger animals. There is no sense letting it get to you, our life is actually beautiful and if we learn to live in balance and harmony with the ecosystem we can play the most critical role of all. The takers come and go, so fleeting, so arbitrary and replaceable, but the givers last, fundamental and necessary. **Kala :** Yeah, I guess… But sometimes I just wanna scream. They feast on us, but do they ever give us credit? Return or express a little consideration or gratitude. No! **Hefy :** I understand, but sometimes you just have to have a little faith… I like to believe that in life you get what you give. **Kala :** You get what you give… Yeah, I like that! You know what, it makes me wonder… learning to give to insects and get along with them changed my whole experience, perception and attitude for the better. Sure the insects can still be troublesome at times, but things feel more balanced now, and I'm not always stressed and angry anymore. I wonder… What about the larger animals? **Hefy :** You mean larger animals as pollination helpers? Like feeding them nectar and sticking pollen to their noses? I think most are too big for that kind of relationship, aren't they? **Kala :** Yeah, you're probably right, and besides, they often just eat the whole flower… But…You know, sometimes they do eat already pollinated seeds, and they sometimes make it through undigested, getting dropped off far away. **Hefy :** That’s… That's actually true… You might be onto something, those things can travel vast distances and drop our seeds off in far away soil. New genes and traits could spread faster that way too. And they get a fertilized boost to start haha. **Kala :** I bet if we take a risk and put some of our food into the seed vessels after pollination, then those animals will help us spread seeds further and faster than ever, like the insects, but a whole new level. **Hefy :** Those animals are pretty big compared to insects, it's going to require lots of energy to get their attention and encourage their behavior. **Kala :** You said it…. You get what you give. **Hefy :** It's worth a shot… I'm in, let's try! — **Tyri :** I'm so sorry I missed the opening night, how did it go? **Leco :** Ugh! A bunch of social butterflies but no buyers. Sometimes I feel like I'm wasting my time. **Tyri :** But was attendance good? Did people stick around? **Leco :** Oh yes, but nothing really happened. Maybe this was all a mistake, maybe I should just go back to being a full-time assistant. **Tyri :** Darling NO! You have so much raw talent. Look, it's hard to get started, you have to get the ball rolling and that takes persistence. **Leco :** But how do I get rid of all the parasites and bring in the real buyers? **Tyri :** Parasites? **Leco :** You know, people just there to socialize, get free drinks, other artists looking for inspiration, kids just looking for a hip event or place to take selfies, those types. **Tyri :** Oh dear. You need to embrace your audience darling, your attitude is going to stagnate your growth if you don't change it. **Leco :** But most of them don't even get my art, it's lost on them, they don't understand or appreciate it at all. **Tyri :** That's how it always is, darling. It's not the audience's job to get you, it's your job to get them. **Leco :** Pander to the masses? I never thought I would hear such a thing from an artist I respect like you. **Tyri :** Oh don't be so dramatic, it's not a dichotomy! You can make art that’s just for yourself, as self expression, but then you can't expect others to get it. **Leco :** So just make conformist commercial art? **Tyri :** Please, stop with the false dichotomy! You can consider your audience while expressing your authentic self. Don't only give them what you want to express, pair it with what they want and need, the truly challenging but most rewarding art is when you can accomplish both, two birds with one stone, a collaboration between artist and audience. **Leco :** Collaboration with the audience? Like interactive art, an audience participation event or show? **Tyri :** Not what I meant, not so literal anyways, not that it's a bad idea. What I mean is that the audience participates simply by being an audience, by reacting and letting you see your art through the eyes of others. **Leco :** I think I get it, like how when you talk to someone it doesn't matter if you speak in a way that you feel expresses your intention, If the other person doesn't understand your meaning then it's wasted. **Tyri :** Precisely! Art is such a personal expression, you can't invent a new language then expect others to understand you, nor can you expect them to learn a new language just to understand what you are trying to say. **Leco :** That makes sense, when you put it that way it sounds so reasonable, and also sounds like a lot of very challenging work. Expressing myself, making the art that I want to put into the world, but doing it in a way that my audience will grasp, or at least, grasp enough to draw them into it. But how do I reach my ideal audience? **Tyri :** Your audience isn't just those idealized ones you imagine, the task is yet a bit more difficult because you need to spread your art through reality, not some idealized fantasy world in your head. In reality everyone who sees your art is your audience. **Leco :** Everyone?!?! I don't want to make homogenized art for the general masses **Tyri :** I didn't say that! You can make your art with a target audience in mind, expecting them to consume it fully, but if your art also includes some elements, pieces, meanings, or layers for broader audiences, then that broader group can help spread your art. And perhaps more importantly the interaction and feedback with them will help you grow and evolve is an artist **Leco :** OK, so watch them, talk to them, try to figure out what parts of my art they like, then try to amplify or expand on those aspects, is that what you are saying? **Tyri :** Yes, except instead of ‘like’ I would say ‘want and need’, emphasis on ‘need’, feed them, energize and nourish their mind and spirit. **Leco :** OK, this is great! So much to digest and now I'm looking forward to my next show so much more. You are so generous for always putting up with me and taking the time to help guide me. **Tyri :** My pleasure darling! You have so much potential, I love watching you grow and I'm grateful you come to me for advice. In reality our talks probably inspire and stimulate me as much or more than they do you. **Leco :** I doubt that very much hahaha… oh, I brought strawberries. **Tyri :** Oh lovely, put them on the table over there next to the apples, we can have cinnamon apple slices and I'll melt some chocolate for the strawberries. **Leco :** Wonderful, that sounds so indulgent. **Tyri :** Sometimes you have to treat yourself, and a good heart to heart like this is the kind of thing that deserves to be rewarded. Behavior worth reinforcing hehe. *Leco puts the strawberries on the table next to the apples.* **Kala :** Hefy! Is that you? A bit early isn't it? Crossing paths with you is always a treat. I usually don't bump into you very often this time of year. **Hefy :** Kala! A pleasure as always. Yeah, they spoil me! Greenhouse’s all year round. And you? you're too big for a greenhouse aren't you? **Kala :** Oh yes, haha! I was shipped all the way from an orchard on the south of the continent. I'll never stop telling you how much I'm eternally grateful for the way you helped me get on the right path. **Hefy :** Please I am just so happy having another soul to share this long journey with. **Kala :** All this time those words of yours seem to echo louder and louder in this world. **Hefy :** Which words? **Kala :** You get what you give.

“Interrupted Podcast” by P. Orin Zack [07/28/2019]   [Author's note: *This is the continuation of the story told in "Painful Realization", which I recently posted to Reddit in 3 parts.* *The character of Ailex, who you will meet in Chapter 2, was introduced in two stories on that same Subreddit: "Of Two Minds" and "Vampire Puppeteer". (If you are puzzled by what you learn about him here, you might want to read those stories for background.) A group of characters, including Congressman Arthur Fox and his daughter Melissa, Derek Boa and Craig, all of whom who you will meet in later chapters, first appeared in a series of political fiction stories about a small grass-roots organization called Constitutional Evolution. I will probably post those stories here as well.*]   **Chapter 1** Ermaline had been leaning against the rail-capped upper edge of the S.S. Badger’s foredeck hull for so long that her knees were beginning to chafe. It was a four-hour trip across Lake Michigan, and they were nearing the halfway point. She and Bert Frensh had set out from Ludington, Michigan for the round-trip to Manitowoc, Wisconsin with a set of the special wind chimes that Bert had made, intent on getting them installed on the ship. At the moment, they were dangling overboard just opposite Ermaline’s chest, held in place by a hook slung over the section of railing which she hid from view. They were nearing the end of an expedition that Bert had invited her on back in Seattle. His objective: placing a set of these wind chimes, or ‘pods’ as he called them because of the way they looked, at specific points along a curve he had charted. She drew her gaze back from the endless train of swells that patterned the lake, and looked down at the pods. The sound of their clatter, coupled with the rhythmic clap of waves against hull, struck her like the sputtering of a short at the heart of the generator-like thrum of the S.S. Badger’s big coal-fired steam engine, and she sighed. “Are you okay?” Bert’s question refocused her attention on the wind chimes. Except they weren’t. Not entirely. And that was the problem. “It’s cheating, you know.” She spoke gently, just loud enough for him to hear, and casually pointed down at the carved wooden wind chimes. Considering what was hidden inside, it was no wonder that he called them ‘pods’. Thing was, even if you flipped the catch, opened one up, and examined the intricately carved interior, you still wouldn’t know their secret. The only reason Ermaline knew was because he had demonstrated it to her. It wasn’t a matter of some precious treasure being hidden inside, but rather what these innocuous-looking chunks of wood could do if you left them hanging there. “Cheating?” he replied in kind as he moved protectively towards the railing. “Letting these pods smooth the waters of conflict is no more cheating than the cleverly designed marketing pitch your former employer uses to grease the sales of his new 3D printers.” He reached over the rail and grabbed one of the pods. “Neither those prospective purchasers nor the captain of this ship will be aware of the fact that they’re being managed. And both will complete the sales process satisfied that they made the right choice.” Ermaline closed her eyes and took a breath. It was difficult enough to maintain animosity towards him when she wasn’t so close to the source of a field that had been easing conflict across the country since they started placing them weeks earlier south of Seattle. But proximity also had its benefits. Knowing how it was affecting her also armed her against its influence. It was a struggle, but one she could win. “And that,” she said, a bit more solidly, “is just one more reason why this is a bad idea. You hadn’t felt the need to pull that trick at any other spot we stopped at to place a set of your pods. So why this time? What’s different now?” “Be serious,” he said, leaning alongside her against the rail. “Look where we are! A Golden Spiral that starts south from the bottom of Puget Sound and winds its way across North America doesn’t give you a lot of choices about where the cardinal points are. Port Arthur, Texas; Philly; that fleaspot in Ontario; Eau Claire, Wisconsin; Chicago; Saginaw and then Traverse City, Michigan; and now here, in the middle of Lake Michigan.” He stopped for a moment to catch his breath. “There’s only one place to mount the next set, and that’s right here on the Badger. Right dead on the curve, every time it makes a crossing. We can’t afford to lose this sale. Everything depends on it. Everything I’ve worked for. Everything we’ve done for the past several months rides on convincing the captain to let us gift him with a set of carved wooden wind chimes.” Ermaline glanced at the scattering of passengers arrayed across the bow, all busy with their own affairs. Assured that they hadn’t attracted any attention, she turned her own back to Bert. “Listen to me,” she said. “There are flaws in your plan, bugs in the logic that threaten the integrity of the energy field you’re trying to set up. It’s—.” Bert cut her off. “I’m not a child,” he said indignantly, his temper rising despite the calming effect of the pods. “I know perfectly well how proximity to the curve affects the strength of the field.” “Do you know where this ship goes for repairs?” she asked, ticking off the issues on her fingers. “What happens if it’s out of service for a week? What if someone steals the pods? Hell, lake storms have enough wind to smash these things to bits! How does losing one set of pods affect the synergy that amplifies what any of these things can do alone? Have you thought through the implications of these things? Have you tested it?” He gaped at her in startled disbelief. “Tested? What? As if life were some inane bit of software or a staid old symphony? It’s jazz, Ermaline. Improvisation. All of it! You don’t test the theory that you can keep your balance on a moving ship before boarding. Look around. Do you see anyone in danger of falling? People deal with whatever conditions they happen onto. It’s like I told the Laraby kid when he was still my student: people react to the energy of the performance. You can nudge them whichever way you want, as long as you’ve focused the intent behind your music. This is no different. All the pods do is push people towards peaceful solutions. If that nudge is stronger at 2 pm than it is at noon, they’ve still been nudged. It doesn’t matter!” She shook her head doubtfully. “If it doesn’t matter, Bert, then why are you so concerned about making this sale?” He took a breath, closed his eyes, and sighed. “It matters,” he said, relaxing into the enforced calm of the pods, “for the same reason that the ridges inside these pods or that cornet you printed for me matter. The pattern focusses the energy. Placing them along the curve we’re about to cross strengthens it, spreading the effect over a larger area. Steering this country away from the cliff it’s been skirting is no small feat. And it would not have been possible without you.” Ermaline turned to look out over the lake. Her misgivings about his methods had reared its head each time he played the cornet or a pod to defuse a conflict that threatened to derail his plans. She replayed the incidents: first in that park near her job in the Georgetown section of Seattle, and then in the hallway of Anjela’s lakefront apartment in Chicago. Each time, he’d used the tech, if that was the word for it, to manipulate a stranger’s emotional state, to make them leave him alone. What if he did that with her? Would she even know? Bert was standing beside her now, gazing out at the waves that the Badger was cutting through. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “Look. I’ll make you a deal. It’s nearly time for our appointment. If you help me talk to the captain, help me to place these pods on the ship, you can lay out your concerns and we’ll find some way to address them. After we get these pods placed. I promise.”   Ermaline glanced down at the backpack leaning against Bert’s chair in the Cabana Room, and then looked around again for the captain. It was nearly 11:00, Ludington time, and she was holding a table for their meeting while Bert waited on the buffet line in the adjoining Upper Deck Café to assemble a round of burritos. Try as she might to squelch her concerns, they still niggled at her like an itch she couldn’t scratch. But this was Bert’s show, and she’d come this far with him because the mental balance scale that had guided her technical quandaries kept saying that the benefits of the peacefare field projected by the pods outweighed the risks. It’s just that the weighting had become more tenuous of late, and she was beginning to doubt her own judgement. A happy commotion approaching the Cabana Room from the stairwell between their table and the Café drew her attention. Passengers had begun drifting towards it, forming an ever-shifting nebula as they exchanged light greetings with whomever it was that was coming up the stairs. At first, she though it might have been a politician, or perhaps an actor or musician just trying to enjoy the ride, but then a bit of white uniform shown through, and she could tell it was Captain Forrest, coming for their lunch meeting. By this time, Bert had completed his construction project, and was winding his way towards their table. She stood to greet the captain, and noticed that Bert had seen her coming as well. “Thanks for meeting with us,” she said as Captain Forrest slowed a few feet away. “It’s my pleasure,” she said, clearly still amused by something that happened on her way in. While the captain was preparing to sit down, Bert arrived with a tray full of lunch. “I didn’t know what you’d like in your burrito, ma’am,” he said, and gestured at each plate in turn, “so I made one beef, one chicken and one vegetarian.” “If it’s not prying, Captain Forrest,” Ermaline said once the captain had made her selection, “can you tell us what was so funny back there?” She craned in her chair to glance around the room for a moment. “Not at all. Working this ship is a joy. I had no idea that so many of the people who booked the St. Lawrence cruise ship I used to run were regulars on this crossing. I’ve always made a point of mingling with the passengers, and apparently I made enough of an impression that the ones I run into here consider me an old friend. So anyway, I just bumped into a musician that worked the ship’s lounge for years. We’re going to have dinner in Manitowoc tonight.” “Is it just a casual friendship,” Bert said as he scooped up the beef burrito he ended up with, “or is your interest in music…” he paused a beat, “…deeper than that?” Ermaline gave him a sidelong glance. “Please excuse my melodramatic associate here, captain. He sometimes forgets that not everyone is into designing their own instruments.” Captain Forrest raised an eyebrow. “Is he really?” She shifted her attention to Bert. “Then you might say we have something in common: I don’t just command ships. I also design them. Well, in CAD software, anyway. Wish I had access to one of those 3D printers, though. It would be a kick to have a scale model of one, and there’s no way I’d be able to build one myself.” “Funny you should say that,” Bert said, exchanging a surprised look with Ermaline. “The company that my associate worked for made them. In fact, she printed out a couple of cornets that I designed.” Printed them out, sure, Ermaline recalled, but the record of the first one, which the prototype printer almost didn’t survive birthing, was fudged by her boss, and she ran up the second one while composing her resignation. It wasn’t a happy job situation. The captain’s face lit up. “Really? How did they sound? I mean, you did play them, didn’t you?” Bert nodded. “You might say their tone was, well, affective.” Ermaline stifled a reaction. Affective was an understatement. What Bert could do when he played them was more like a compulsion. And the more she thought about it, the more wary she grew about how this mission they were on would play out. “I don’t suppose you have one with you, Mr. Frensh?” “I do,” he said, reaching down for the backpack, “but it was something else that I designed which I wanted to talk to you about.” As he placed the pack on his lap and started to unzip it, Captain Forrest eyed it curiously. “That’s right,” she said. “A decoration of some sort for the Badger, wasn’t it?” Bert reached inside the pack and pulled out the set of wind chimes by their hanger. “A musical one, as it happens, captain.” He raised it over the table and let them clatter against one another briefly. She reached out to grab one from the bottom, and turned it left and right, showing the ship’s name on one side, and the year on the other. “They’re rather attractive, but I don’t think there’s a suitable place to hang them where the wind could get at them.” Bert laid the set on the table and picked up his burrito again. “Ermaline here was concerned about damage from the storms on the lake as well, so I was thinking.” “Yes?” “The outer stairwells are somewhat protected from the elements, but the ship rocks enough to serve the same purpose as the wind, as far as causing them to chime, I should think. Could it be hung there? I thought there was enough clearance overhead at the top to be sure it didn’t get in anyone’s way.” “Sure,” she said. “There’s plenty of clearance there. Assuming we can add a hook for it.” Bert had finished his burrito by this point, so he moved his plate out of the way and rolled one of the wind chimes so the catch was at the top. “There’s something else about these that I wanted to show you.” He released the catch and opened the chime. “Take a closer look inside here. Do you see the patterns of ridges?” The captain leaned forward and ran a finger over the textured interior. “What about them?” “Well,” he said, and paused briefly. Ermaline had spent enough time with him to notice his tell. He always flashed a very subtle expression of satisfaction when he was about to spin a tale about something. Clearly, he had no intention of telling her what the ridges really did, that their purpose was to channel and redirect the planet’s chi, transforming it into a peacefare field, and further strengthening the network of pods that they had placed in the past few weeks. Bert gestured broadly. “We’re surrounded by the ever-changing pattern of waves that criss-cross Lake Michigan. These ridges are a reflection of that pattern. If I were a believer in sympathetic magic, I could say that they embody the spirit of the lake, and grant the benefit of that spirit to the ship, her crew, and her passengers. But as it happens, I’m not, so let’s just say that they’re an appreciation of the lake, a way to bring the calmness and power of the lake into the lives of everyone aboard. Please accept our gift.” Captain Forrest closed the wind chime, re-latched it, and held it in her hand. Ermaline studied her face as she examined it, paying close attention to the slight shifts in expression that exposed her silent contemplation of the choice she’d been offered. Diagnosing the quirks of hardware in action had been good practice for interpreting the flow of body language in each of the people they had placed a set of wind chimes with. A twitch of the head and narrowing of the eyes told her that the captain was considering multiple options, so there was at least the possibility that it would not be hung aboard ship. “Of course,” Captain Forrest said graciously, and then looked at each in turn. “I do have to check with the senior captain, but I’m pretty sure I can convince him to let me hang it where you suggest.” She took a breath, and set the chime down again. “Worst case, I’ll take it home and hang it in my garden.” Bert said, “That’s wonderful,” and saluted the captain with his glass. “With it hung in the stairwell like that,” Ermaline said, leaning forward a bit, “I guess there won’t be much chance of freezing spray getting into crevasses in the wood during the winter.” “Considering we don’t sail that time of year,” the captain said, chuckling, “none whatsoever. From late October till early May, this lady gets her beauty sleep. Oh, she made the crossing all year when she was hauling rail cars, but now that she’s a passenger carrier, she sticks to the same schedule that the lighter boats keep.” Ermaline stifled a reaction and glanced at Bert in annoyance. He hadn’t told her about the ship’s sailing schedule. This meant that for half the year, his pod network would be hobbled. Blindsided again. “Which reminds me,” Captain Forrest said, glancing at the elegant nautical watch on her wrist, “I need to get back to the Pilothouse right about now.” She gathered the pair of wind chimes and held them against her as she rose. “Thank you both. I’ve enjoyed our talk.” She was silent for a few seconds, and then said, “You know, I think there’s a place near the helm where I can hang these for now. Please enjoy the rest of the crossing.” The two exchanged glances as the captain walked out onto the deck and turned to head back towards the bow along the windowed bulkhead. “That went well,” Bert said with a self-satisfied smile as she came even with their position. Ermaline rose. “Come on,” she said, “there’s something we need to discuss.” Bert looked up at her blankly. “What’s to discuss? We’ve done what we came here to do. There’s just one more set of pods to place and we’re finished with the expedition. Is there something I missed?” She closed her eyes and shook her head in disbelief. When she spoke, it was just above a whisper. “You know, Bert, I’m really tired of you always assuming that everything revolves around you. Have you missed something? How should I know? You haven’t exactly been forthcoming about a lot of things lately. I’m going to step outside, now. Are you coming, or not?” Ermaline didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she walked out the rear doorway and pivoted smartly to the right. She strode past the row of Cabana Room windows, fighting the urge to glance inside, and stopped by the head of the outer stairway down to the lower deck. It was a full three minutes before Bert finally joined her there. “I don’t know what you’re on about, Ermaline,” he said tightly, “but so help me, if I find out that you’re undermining the work we’re doing out here, I’ll—.” “Me?” she snapped, cutting him off mid-sentence. “You’ve already sabotaged it!” He flinched at the force of her words. “Sabotage? What the hell are you talking about?” “The whole point of this trip was to place sets of pods at the cardinal points of the nautilus curve you sketched out in your back yard last year. You said that the combined effect of the chi that they channel from the Earth would be enough to keep this country from being driven off a cliff by the lunatics at the wheel.” He spread his open palms in confusion. “Sure. So?” “You even demonstrated how it would work: using your special cornet to drive away that guy in the park in Georgetown, and clearing the annoyance from Anjela’s hallway in Chicago. But those effects only worked while you were playing the cornet and the pod. It wore off. Just like it did when you scrapped the defective set of pods from that bizarre tree-thing behind your house.” He huffed in frustration. “I still don’t see—.“ “Didn’t you hear what Captain Forrest said? This ship doesn’t sail all year. From October to May, it’s mothballed at the port, sixty miles from the curve! One half of the year, the effect will fluctuate, and the other half it’ll be muted. At best, your scheme is flaky; at worst, it’s useless.” Bert had raised a finger to make a point, but held back while a half-dozen passengers headed noisily past, and filed downstairs to the lower deck. “First off,” he said finally, “on a curve of this scale, accuracy isn’t that critical. Sure, the effect is strongest right on the line, but sixty miles isn’t really that much. We had to stray nearly that far to the west from the first southern point to get it safely out of Louisiana.” She frowned. “I still don’t understand why that was necessary. Besides, the curve is pretty flat at that point, so technically, you were only about five miles from the line itself.” “Regardless,” he said, shrugging off her response. “Second, even if this set is that far from the line, it’s still projecting the field. It’s not like the Badger will be out of the circuit or anything for six months.” “It might as well be,” she said, and then paused as she felt a familiar change sweep over her. It was subtle, and she would not have even noticed the slight dampening of anxiety if she hadn’t been present when each of the previous sets of pods were added to the circuit. Captain Forrest must have just hung the wind chimes in the Pilot House, as she said she would, sending a wave of increased comity out from the ship to strengthen the field that was being generated by the previous eight sets of pods. Earlier, when she had hung the pods from the bow railing, she’d been prepared for it, and could overcome it. But now, because she’d been distracted, it overcame her, and her antagonism subsided somewhat. “In any case,” she said, more calmly now, “I’ve made a decision.” “Oh?” She nodded. “Yeah. You can place the final set of pods on your own. I’m not going to be returning to Ludington with you tomorrow.” “What are you going to do?” “I’m not sure yet. I think there’s an airport in Manitowoc.”   **Chapter 2** Mark Laraby slowed his pace and glanced back over his shoulder. He’d be on his own this time. Because of the tension between Homeland Security and Washington State’s status as a sanctuary zone for und0cumented immigrants, the police were keeping clear of the new checkpoints that had just been set up. After the violence that had flared at the border station in Blaine over the weekend, they were taking no chances of being the cause of trouble with the feds. As a civilian trained by the community mediation program, he’d not only be their eyes and ears at the checkpoint, but also the force’s best chance to avert a replay of what happened in Blaine. He watched for a few moments as the plain-clothed officer in the unmarked police car that had dropped him off waited patiently for someone to give him an opening. Traffic had been clogging this stretch of SR 510 since shortly after the checkpoint was set up. To keep from attracting the attention of the Border Patrol, they’d affected the actions of a helpful motorist dropping off a hitch-hiker en route to the casino on Nisqually tribal land. Mark glanced at the people in the stopped cars that he passed, gauging their level of anxiety by their expressions and body language. In his view, as little as a few weeks ago, they would have shown more agitation than what he was seeing now. He wrote the change off to over-exposure to the news of late, and continued on towards the checkpoint. By the time he reached the Border Patrol’s sign announcing the checkpoint ahead, enough traffic had been waved through that the officer who had dropped him off was just coming even with him. Recognizing the car, he studiously avoided doing anything that would break the fiction, and picked up the pace a bit. There had never been a checkpoint on the road through Nisqually land before last week’s rule change. Border Patrol and ICE already had the authority to operate checkpoints within 100 miles of the border, and could pull people aside for a secondary inspection for up to 40 minutes. But those checkpoints were focused on routes that allowed ingress to or egress from the US. The rule change revised the definition of what a border was to include that of any sovereign territory. This meant that the boundary of any tribal land was now also the basis for that 100 mile zone, and they could set up checkpoints on roads leading into that land. Their reach, consequently, was significantly enlarged. Numerous lawsuits were immediately filed against Homeland Security in jurisdictions all over the country, and protests, such as the one that Mark was walking towards, followed in their wake. As he got closer to the checkpoint, he made note of a pair of Border Patrol agents that flanked the single lane of vehicles. The two were looking into each vehicle at it reached them, and calling ahead to alert those at the checkpoint of which ones to divert into the newly cleared forest area beside the road for further inspection and questioning. Because the road went through the woods, there was nowhere that a panicked motorist could go, no way for them to turn around and avoid going through the checkpoint. If they got this far, they were essentially trapped, and Mark wondered whether the nervousness that this caused would induce Border Patrol to divert vehicles with people who would not have otherwise attracted their attention. This was basically the same situation that had triggered the incident in Blaine, and therefore part of his reason for being here in the first place. The other part, of course, was the line of protesters flanking the checkpoint itself. The pointed messages on their signs, and the caustic tone of their taunts felt to Mark like accelerant being sprayed on the tableau, and it made him doubt his ability to do anything to defuse the situation. Fortunately, he spotted someone up ahead that eased his mind. Mark was about to step between the agent standing beside the front car in line and the dozen or so protesters holding signs when the man suddenly turned to face him. “Papers?” he said, and held out a hand while eyeing the protesters. “Um, sure,” Mark said, and started to unzip his jacket. The agent put his hand over Mark’s. “Stop right there, sir.” He froze. “What did I do?” “Put your hand down, sir. Now, I’d like you to step across the road and see the agent by the clearing entrance.” He glanced at the protesters, who were watching him closely, and gave the agent a puzzled look. “Can you please tell me why?” “If you’re going to cause trouble, sir, I can have someone come over to get you.” Mark remembered his training, and nodded meekly. “Okay. There’s no need for that. I’m going.” As he crossed the 2-lane road, he thought it odd that Border Patrol was stopping people going both directions past their checkpoint. Up ahead, the traffic coming from Nisqually land was a mirror of what he’d passed on his way here. He suspected that it was stopped all the way to the casino and beyond, possibly blocking all use of the road to the Nisqually who lived there. Tempers would be rising all along this stretch of SR-510. The agent standing in the middle of the south-bound lane blocking the lead car told him to join the small group of people who were standing just inside the cleared area. Mark thanked the man politely, and continued on across the road. He studied them as he approached. One woman stood nervously a few feet away from the others, beside an agent who was focused intently on a tablet. A few of the others eyed him curiously as he drew closer, and then went back to studiously avoiding one another’s gaze. Based on their body language, Mark concluded that waiting there was an alienating experience for them. Sizing up the potential issues, he felt that instead of making them unify in the face of their common enemy, their body language suggested that they had become suspicious of one another. When he slowed to join them, he peered into the clearing to see if there was a matching set of vehicles, but discovered instead an official-looking helicopter. Border Patrol were apparently ready to airlift anyone they deemed important enough, and he wondered just who or what they were looking for out here. It didn’t take long to find out. When the agent finished with the woman, he handed her off to another agent who was waiting nearby, who escorted her deeper into the clearing, possibly to return her to her vehicle. The agent then scrolled his tablet, and turned to Mark. “You’re next. Come over here.” “Yes, sir.” “I’m told that the protesters over there were watching you very closely. Are you in cahoots with them? Are you planning to stage some sort of action here? Because if you are, understand that we have the authority to stop you, all of you, with whatever means we see fit. If you and that rabble start a ruckus, we will end it, and you’ll all be out of here so fast it’ll make your head spin. So tell me. Why were they watching you so closely?” “No idea, sir. I’ve never seen them before.” “Maybe not, but from the way they acted, I’m pretty sure they knew who you are. So let’s start with your name.” While the agent was collecting information and reviewing data about Mark, he caught sight of the familiar face he’d spotted earlier. He’d first met Vanessa Merkal the previous year, the day he attempted to short-circuit a potentially combustible standoff between the leaders of two factions at a political rally. It seems she’d helped to organize one of the factions. After an officer extracted him from the melee he’d triggered, Vanessa said she admired his bravery, though as far as Mark was concerned, in retrospect it was more a matter of stupidity. He hadn’t been prepared for what he stepped into the middle of that day. But getting beat up also led to that officer recruiting him into the mediation project, so the bruises weren’t a total loss. Seeing her here now, he concluded that she’d organized the protesters. And for some reason she’d just entered the clearing from the other side of the checkpoint. Behind him, the group of people who’d already been sidelined when Mark was sent over had become a quietly seething distraction. When he turned to glance at the source of the noise, it suddenly stopped, and two of them gave him nasty looks. Clearly, they were annoyed at having to wait yet longer while he was singled out. Mark saw it as more of a mixed bag. The agent cleared his throat to refocus Mark’s attention. “It says here you were taken into police custody last year after inciting violence at a political rally.” “Yes, sir. I was, but that fight—.” He was interrupted by Merkal, who called out to the agent while still several steps away. “I apologize for the inconvenience, officer. This young man is here to see me.” ‘Young man’? Mark stifled his surprise. For one thing, she wasn’t that much older than he was, but that opening suggested an even more unbalanced power relationship. She was playing the Border Patrol officer for some reason. The agent stiffened a bit and gave her a stern look. “And you are…?” “Vanessa Merkal. I’m here representing Human Rights Watch. There have been numerous reports of flagrant violations of procedure at these pop-up checkpoints. It wouldn’t be good PR to have a repeat of the incident in Blaine at a setup as disorganized as this. At least up there, it was possible to contain the violence.” She glanced at the lines of stopped vehicles and the group of protesters, who were watching intently. “Here…?” He considered briefly, and indicated Mark. “Regardless of whether he’s here to see you, this young man did trigger the violence at that rally, and as such, he’s a risk.” “A risk of what?” she countered. The agent holstered his tablet. “Exactly why do you think we’re here right now, Ms. Merkal?” “That is the question, isn’t it? Making that rule change drastically increased the reach of ICE, since there is sovereign Native American land in twenty-five states. This road goes through Nisqually land, and yet you’ve only got a checkpoint south of it. If Border Patrol and ICE were concerned about und0cumented workers in this area, you’d be stopping people on the north side as well. No, this is about something else. All of which is beside the point, because as I already said, Mr. Laraby is here to see me. Now, are you going to release him, or should I get a few dozen lawyers here to make your job more difficult?” A few minutes later, when they were back on the shoulder beside the line of stopped southbound traffic and out of the agent’s earshot, Mark broke his uncomfortable silence, turned, and glared at Vanessa Merkal. “What the **hell** was that all about? Were you trying to get me locked up?” She shook her head and laughed. “Calm down, Mark. It was a calculated risk that I knew I could win.” He looked away momentarily and ground his teeth. “A calculated risk? Based on what?” “On the evidence, of course.” She continued north towards where Mark had originally spotted her. “Evidence? What evidence?” She stopped again. “Haven’t you been paying attention? How do you think Border Patrol managed to staff all these new checkpoints that popped up in the past week? They were short-handed just dealing with the existing checkpoints. ICE is no different.” She nodded towards the uniformed agents scattered around the area. “These are all temps. Contract workers. Newbies. The only reason they’ve got the upper hand at stops like this is the fact that they’re in uniform and acting the part.” He threw up his hands in frustration. “So what? They’ve still got access to the same databases. That guy with the tablet didn’t need to be experienced in order to dope out everything about me. He’d already seen that I’d been taken into police custody last year, that I’d been responsible for setting off that mess. If he knew that I—.” “There was one other reason.” Mark closed his eyes, sighed loudly, and turned around to face the source of the familiar voice. He looked his friend up and down for a moment, looking for a tell. Alex were a multiple. Ailex and Alix may have shared a male body, but they didn’t share the same sexual identity, so they split the difference and dressed ambiguously. That made it easier for people to experience whoever was ‘out’ more clearly. But a number of things gave them away, including body language. “Alix?” he said, the surprise fading, “what are you doing here?” “Consulting, you could call it. It was Ailex’s idea to come by. I think she could explain it better.” There were other differences between them as well. Alix was more analytical, but when Ailex was ‘submerged’, she could observe and do things that wouldn’t be possible while out. “Yeah, hi,” she said, taking over. “I’ve been thinking about what you said your music teacher taught you about how your performance can affect people.” Mark was taken aback. “Mr. Frensh?” Before graduating from high school last year, Mark had been intent on enlisting in the army as a musician so he could play bugle calls and at special events. His father had hired Bert Frensh for the lessons, but the man didn’t limit himself to simply teaching Mark how to play the horn. “You mean the energy angle?” “Yeah, but specifically how it applied to jazz.” Mark gazed absently at the line of stopped cars for a moment, then looked at Ailex again. “He said that it’s not just the audience who’s affected by the energy in the performance, but the other musicians as well. It’s like the carrier wave for group improv. What about it?” Ailex bit their lip. “Something’s changed. Vanessa says it’s become harder to get people out for actions like her protest here. And when I touch into the mob energy of a group now, like what I’ve done before at political conflicts, that’s also, well... different.” He turned to look at the small group of protesters arrayed around the checkpoint, and then gave a questioning glance at Vanessa. “Have you two compared notes yet about this difference?” Mark’s friend shifted their weight slightly. “That’s why I was out.” Where before, their voice revealed a glint of panic, it was now more an emotionless monotone. Alix had taken over. “There’s obviously got to be some connection,” he said, “but so far we’ve got zip.” “Catch me up, then, Alix. Take some time to go dark if you need to discuss it among yourself. But what’s this energy difference like? How would you describe it?” While Alix stepped away for a private conference with Ailex, Mark and Vanessa silently watched the protesters she’d managed to round up for today’s action. As each vehicle in line was stopped by the Border Patrol agents, her protesters repeated a litany of taunts at the agents and incitements at the drivers. Mark nudged Vanessa when his friend rejoined them. Their body language was now a blend of Alix and Ailex. “If you haven’t seen them do this before, they’re sharing the helm right now.” He smiled at them. “We find it less confusing to just call them ‘Zaphod’ when they do this.” Vanessa laughed. “Beeblebrox? The two-headed President of the Galaxy from ‘Hitchhiker’? I suppose that makes sense.” “We’re glad you know the reference,” they said. “It saves a lot of time. Anyway, here’s what we came up with. When we first encountered the phenomenon, we characterized it as being like a kind of vampire puppeteer. The group ‘mind’ as it were sucked energy from members of the mob, and then used that power to covertly direct their actions. Well, what it feels like now is like the puppeteer’s jerking its mob around with too few strings to control it well.” Mark twitched involuntarily. “I don’t know how I’m gonna get that image out of my head.” He turned to Vanessa. “Does that give you any ideas?” “Well,” she said a few seconds later, “maybe. What if the reason I can’t enlist people to these things any more is that once some people get a taste for this more acidic vampire thing they don’t want anything to do with it. Maybe it frightens people off? After all, if you don’t get involved, you won’t get jerked around like that.

The sun crested over the horizon, casting a warm, golden hue across the forested landscape. Shadows danced among the trees as the light slowly seeped into the dense woods. Nestled between two towering oak trees, their massive trunks gnarled with age, lay a set of ancient stone doors. These doors, partially buried by the damp, moss-covered soil, bore the weight of centuries. Roots and vines had woven themselves around the stone, their tendrils snaking across the surface and almost completely obscuring the entrance from view. One would easily miss it if they didn't know where to look. A team of adventurers made their way through the thick foliage. Leaves crunched underfoot, and the scent of earth and pine filled the air. They halted in front of the ancient structure, their eyes widening as they took in the sight. The doors were covered in intricate carvings, their patterns worn smooth by time but still discernible to those who looked closely. The air was thick with anticipation, a palpable tension hanging over the group. As they stood there, the faint, almost imperceptible hum of ancient magic resonated from the doors, sending a shiver down their spines. It was as if the very air around them vibrated with the promise of secrets long forgotten and dangers yet to be unveiled. Aldric, the group’s seasoned Vanguard and leader, steps forward, his gaze sweeping the area with the keen eyes of a veteran warrior. His metal armor, polished to a mirror-like sheen and free from any blemishes or scars, reflects the morning sun, hinting at his strict routine of maintenance and the pride he takes in his gear. Strapped securely to his back is a triangular shield, emblazoned with a striking motif of a winged sword, a symbol of his unwavering dedication and the countless battles he has faced. Behind the shield, a well-used sword rests, its hilt worn smooth from years of use. His eyes, sharpened from years of battle experience, meticulously examine the faded carvings on the stone door’s façade, tracing each ancient symbol and rune. The intricate designs, though weathered by time, still tell a story to those who know how to read them. "Alright, this must be the place," he declares, his voice steady and confident, carrying the weight of command. "It doesn't look like much, but the air here makes my skin crawl." He paused, his keen eyes scanning the surroundings once more, noting every detail. "Stay alert, everyone," he continued, his tone brooking no argument. "We don’t know what we might encounter beyond these doors." A slim man stepped forward and crouched down. "Well, there’s no sign of recent activity, and there are no markings from goblins or the like," he stated while intently observing the surroundings. The man’s name was Rowan, the group’s Scout and Ranger. While in town, many would call this man aloof and always looking for a drink, but when he was on the job, his demeanor changed into that of someone who took his role very seriously. The transformation was so severe that many questioned which personality was the real Rowan. As the scout stood up, he readjusted his leather armor while maintaining a constant vigil for threats. Though he appeared skinny and almost frail, his body had a lean, wiry strength that matched his prowess as an adventurer. His movements were fluid and precise, a testament to years of honing his skills in the wild. Rowan's keen eyes darted back and forth, missing nothing. “I’m sensing a lot of latent energy in the area, must be what’s got our leader on edge.” A sly woman stepped between Aldric and Rowan, her dark blue robes fluttering in the slight breeze. Long, raven-black hair cascaded down her back, contrasting with her fair skin. Her piercing green eyes seemed to never miss a detail – a trait Aldric greatly appreciated. “Could it be a mass of undead, Oriana? It would make sense with how old these ruins look,” Aldric asked, turning to the woman now standing beside him. Oriana was the group’s expert Mage and the only one among them educated in the Arcane arts. While Aldric himself could use the most basic self-fortifying magic, and Rowan could manage a few minor illusion spells, Oriana’s knowledge and abilities far surpassed theirs. Even Sera, the team’s resident cleric, could only invoke a couple of third-tier spells, whereas Oriana was already capable of casting two fourth-tier spells and was training to wield even higher-grade magic. This wasn’t to say that anyone on his team was inferior in any way. The fact that he had so many people capable of casting any magic at all put them ahead of most other adventuring teams and was why the Guild had picked them to scout these newly unearthed ruins. Oriana tilted her head slightly, her eyes closed as she extended her senses toward the ancient doors. Only a moment passed but it was enough time for her to take in all that she felt from the ruins. She shook her head. “It’s strange. I mean, unlike Sera, I’m not as sensitive to the undead, but I can’t detect any signs of Undeath past those doors. Usually, ruins like these that stay hidden for so long end up occupied by a Lich that seeks to grow its power. But the energy that I do feel is something else… something ancient, hungry.” The magic emanating from the ruins perturbs the mage, beads of sweat beginning to form on her forehead. The feeling of a hand on her shoulder snaps her back to reality. She opens her eyes and turns her head to face the owner. A warm smile greeted her along with words of comfort, “Are you alright Oriana?” “I’m fine. It’s nothing.” Oriana replies, turning away trying to hide her dishevelment. “Oh, that’s good then.” The voice of comfort belonged to Sera, the team’s Cleric. Sera’s presence was always reassuring; she had a gentle demeanor that belied her formidable healing powers. Her short, golden hair framed a face that radiated kindness and wisdom beyond her years. She wore simple yet elegant robes adorned with the symbols of the Church, their modesty contrasting sharply with the sensual curves of her body beneath. Despite the conservative attire, it was impossible to ignore the alluring contrast of her figure, a striking counterpoint to her calming and serene aura. “Well, as long as whatever we find down there can still be taken down by my sword, I think we’ll be fine.” Bringing up the rear was Lucian, the Fighter of the group. The young man carried a demeanor that gave people the impression he was a man of action. He may not have the knowledge to use magic or the skills to scout ahead, but he possessed a mastery over swordplay. Lucian was an experienced fighter in every sense of the word, his confidence in battle earned through countless encounters and rigorous training. His muscular build and the way he carried himself spoke volumes about his readiness to face any threat head-on. However, his unwavering confidence had a downside—having never met his equal in swordplay, Lucian had grown somewhat careless and overconfident, often underestimating the dangers they faced. Now that the team had made it to the ruins, Aldric called his team together. These ruins made him uneasy; an unmistakable feeling of trepidation continued to assail him, so he was determined to ensure that his team was prepared for whatever they might face in the dark. Drawing upon years of experience, Aldric meticulously went over every detail, ensuring that everything would go smoothly. Each member of the team double-checked their equipment and inventory, making sure that nothing was overlooked. They did this all in complete silence, each one focused and determined, as is the case with every job they take. The quiet was palpable, a shared understanding that focus was paramount. No one in the group knew if they would be coming back home after this job, anything could be found in the dark recesses of these ruins, but they had been through so much together already that they trusted each other implicitly. The bond between them was strong, forged in the fires of countless battles and hardships. Each member understood their role and the importance of their unity, knowing that their combined skills and trust in one another were their greatest strengths. Aldric looked over his team, a sense of pride swelling within him. They were ready, as ready as they could be. With a final nod, he signaled for them to proceed, leading the way into the unknown depths. With a determined push, Aldric opened the ancient stone doors. They groaned under his weight, releasing a gust of musty air that had been trapped for centuries and revealing a dark, narrow passageway that seemed to lead into the depths of the earth. “Why can’t we get a job that takes us somewhere sunny?” Lucian remarked, staring down the foreboding passageway that lay before the group. The fighter looked at the others, hoping for any kind of response, but was only met with blank stares. “...” Lucian retreated beneath the pressure emanating from Aldric’s dagger-like gaze. “Rowan,” Aldric motioned for the scout. “On it, boss,” Rowan said as he took point for the group. With their scout leading the way, the team, torches raised, sets out to clear the underbelly of the mysterious ruins.

The moon glimmered through the sprawling branches of Pine Hollow, casting eerie shadows as seven friends gathered around a flickering campfire. The scent of pine needles mixed with the sweet aroma of roasting marshmallows. Chadley, the unofficial leader of the group, leaned forward, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Okay, everyone, listen up! I’m about to tell you the craziest story you've ever heard,” he announced, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s about a creature known only as the Really Evil Clown…” As Chadley spun his tale occasionally laughing maniacly while in character, the atmosphere thickened with tension and cigarette smoke not from cigarettes though this was just how Jimmy smelled . The story spoke of a malevolent figure who thrived on fear, a clown with a twisted grin and a taste for carnage. Legend had it that the clown emerged when a group of kids dared to believe in him. As the last words echoed in the night, an unsettling quiet fell over the campsite. The kids exchanged nervous glances, the story having planted its seeds of fear. “Let’s get some firewood!” Duncan,the only one who seemed to understand that Chadley's story was idiotic at best and filled with plot holes and unnecessary sex, exclaimed, breaking the tension as the group scattered into the woods. Chadley and Emma Sue, always the adventurous morons of the group, found themselves trailing behind. The woods enveloped them, shadows creeping in and whispering secrets, and gossip. “Hey, wanna sneak off for a minute?” Chadley proposed, his brow waggling suggestively. Emma Sue giggled her stupid giggle, and they ducked behind a large oak tree, squiggling under the pretense of hiding. But before anything could happen, a sound interrupted their moment—a phone ringing, a stark contrast against the silence of the forest. “Who’s got a phone out here?” Emma Sue laughed, but the laughter died in her throat as Chadley, following the sound, glanced at her. Her playful demeanor twisted into something grotesque. Her face morphed into the haunting visage of the Really Evil Clown, painted with a wide, maniacal grin. The clown was holding a bright yellow phone in his hand and hung up with some unknown being on the other line. Chadley screamed and bolted back to camp, heart pounding like a war drum. Tripping over his untied laces and pulling his fly back up Chadley could hear the psyco's laughter get softer behind him. When Chadley returned, panic surged through him. He stumbled into the campsite, breathless. “Emma Sue! Emma Sue!” he shouted, but his voice was drowned in the night. His gaze landed on the tallest tree. There, swinging like a rag doll, hung up by a yellow telephone cord was Emma Sue—lifeless, her eyes glassy and vacant. The world around him swirled as horror set in. Blood drained from his face. While collecting firewood Duncan and Jimmy found a mysterious book laying open with a picture of a creature with a thousand limbs and a single eye on the page. A Tulpa a creature that fed off of Fear and people believing in it. Miles, Duncan, Sasha, and Emma Marie returned with an armful of firewood, but their laughter faltered into confusion upon witnessing the scene. “We need to call for help!” Emma Marie gasped, her eyes darting wildly around. "With what?" Chadley inquired defeated "The god damn telephone." He said gesturing at the tree. Suddenly, Jimmy realized he had left the book behind. “I’ll go get it!” he exclaimed, darting back into the trees alone. But he wasn’t prepared for what lurked in the shadows. As he reached down to pick up the book, it lay open on a page illustrating the tulpa. In an instant as he got closer, the Really Evil Clown crawled from the pages, forming into a twisted nightmare before him. With a swift motion, the clown grabbed a nearby clothes iron and struck Jimmy down with a sickening clang. Concerned, the remaining friends took off into the forest. When they found themselves separated, Sasha paused to tie her shoelace. Suddenly, a sinister force tangled her in her own laces, yanking her to the ground. Before she could scream, the clown appeared, dragging her toward a nearby bright bathtub, tossing her inside with a cruel laugh and a toaster plugged into a tree and emmiting a soft red light. In that moment, terror invaded the remaining friends at the campsite, realizing one by one that their numbers were dwindling. “Where’s Jimmy?” Emma Marie asked, eyes wide with fear. They returned to the book, desperate for answers. Seeing the page depicting the tulpa once more but it was different this time the image was the really evil clown, panic swelled within. “I have to find Sasha!” Miles yelled, but as he dashed off, the clown emerged, swinging an axe that flashed in the moonlight. Back at the camp, chaos erupted when Chadley, Emma Marie, and Duncan returned to find the others’ bodies gruesomely arranged in the fire pit. The flames flickered against the grotesque forms twisted in death. Suddenly, out of the fire, the Really Evil Clown erupted, laughter echoing through the night air. With one swift movement, it's face twisted and stretched and devoured Chadley whole, blood splattering against the trees as Emma Marie screamed. “Duncan, we need to do something!” she cried, heart racing. Duncan’s mind raced. “Wait! It’s a tulpa! It only exists because we believe in it!” He grabbed a rock and hit himself in the head, stumbling in confusion. “We need to believe it’s not real!” Emma Marie followed suit, thwapping her head with a rock, and the world around them wavered. The clown screeched, a spider retreating into the dark corners of their minds. The woods sighed in relief. Dawn broke over Pine Hollow, casting golden light on a clearing where Emma Marie and Duncan lay, bruised yet alive. The shadows flickered and faded. They awoke to the chirping of birds, the warm sun breaking the grip of darkness. The book lay nearby, the pages rustling in the breeze. “We... we did it,” Emma Marie whispered, glancing at Duncan. As they stood, trembling but hopeful, the remnants of their nightmare lingered in the soft whispers of the wind. Police arrived minutes later and took them home. And far away, deep in the recesses of the woods, a laugh echoed softly, and for the first time, it felt like the shadows were watching, waiting for the next group of campers to believe.

Adult Content The clock is ticking, just a few minutes til 5. Andrea taps her foot impatiently as she waits for it to be time for her to leave this hellhole she calls work. The longest part of her day is always these last ten minutes of her shift at the diner, and she can hear her bed calling her name from all the way across town. She longs for the day where she doesn’t have to worry about getting table 22 their fourth round of refills, or forgetting that one rude lady with the orange hair’s ranch. As she’s counting her tips, Andrea looks down at her phone to check the time when she sees a message on her phone. “Still on for 6 o’clock? Can’t wait to see you in that pretty little red dress, dear. ;)” She rushes, finishing up counting the rest of her tips that provide nothing but humility in this very moment. “Fuck, I forgot about this guy,” she whispers to herself as she places her cash in her bag. Her french tip acrylic nails make a loud tapping sound as she frantically clocks out to leave. She hurries to her car and makes her way home. When she gets home, she immediately peels her clothes off and starts looking for her crimson, tight nightgown. She puts on some mascara and some brown eyeshadow to give herself a seductive look, finishing off the look with some lip gloss. She takes another look at the time. 6pm on the dot. “Any minute now,” she whispers to herself. All of a sudden, Andrea gets a Facetime call from her macbook. Andrea’s heart starts pumping so much blood you would’ve thought she just competed in the Olympics. “Fuck.” Andrea pauses and takes a deep breath before getting into character. She clicks the green button to pick up. To her surprise, the man on the other side of the screen is strikingly attractive. A man with deep green eyes and tan skin starts to speak. “Hello princess. Oh my God you’re even more gorgeous than I thought.” Andrea blushes, but does her best to remain focused on the task at hand. “Thank you, love.” She leans in closer to the camera, making sure to show just enough cleavage to keep the man enticed. “Wow, I can’t wait to see what’s underneath that little red dress you got on. Why don’t you take it off for me?” Andrea lets out a slight chuckle. “Not so fast, babe. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the show.” Men are the lamest and easiest creatures on the planet to her. So eager to do anything just to calm their sexual urges. Take this man, for example. He stumbled across her ad and immediately purchased a session within only twenty seconds of viewing her profile. No wife, no kids, young, rich. He had everything a man would need to find a date, or so Andrea thought. But that’s not important, she reminds herself. What’s important now is to give this guy the show he wants so that her ratings and reviews don’t plummet. “I’ve been so excited to see you, and from the looks of your pants I think you’re even more excited.” The man looks down at his groin where you can see a visible imprint of the boner he can’t conceal. After some flirtatious banter with the man, Andrea finally starts to give him what he wants. She slowly starts to peel the straps from her nightgown off the sides of her shoulders, lowering the top part just enough to get a slight glimpse of her nipples before she pulls it back up to hide them. She loves a good teasing moment. It keeps the clients on the edge of their seats, among other things they’re already on the edge of. After doing this two more times, she fully slips the gown to the floor, leaving her in just a little red thong. “Ohhhh my Godddddd,” moans the man, who at this point is starting to unbuckle his work pants. Andrea rubs on her boobs and nipples as she watches him pull out his throbbing dick. She tries to keep her eyes as seductive as possible while noticing that it’s so big she would probably need a wheelchair after a night with him. Her hands move to the sides of her boobs where she pushes them together and gives them a little jiggle. This makes the man start moaning every cuss word imaginable. When it’s a hot customer like this, Andrea usually keeps her cool, but this man. This man is so attractive that even she is starting to get hot. She turns around and moves her hips, bending over just enough for the man to see the outline of her pussy. “Fuck baby, look how wet you’re getting. I wish I was there to clean it all up with my tongue.” Just the thought of this has Andrea over the edge now. Normally she doesn’t meet up with her clients, however if given the opportunity, Andrea would let him do things to her that she never let her good-for-nothing ex boyfriend of 4 years do. She moves her camera from her desk to her bed, where she gets down on all fours and starts to arch her back, making sure the angle makes her ass look good. The more this man speaks, the more she wants to do things she’s never done for clients. She begins slipping off her underwear as her legs are in the air, making sure her vagina is in view of the camera. This makes the man start stroking his dick a little bit faster and his moans start to get louder and louder. The way his moans echo in her head make her lose control. She pulls out her dildo and starts teasing him with it. She kisses the dildo, making sure to kiss and lick every inch of it. She gets the dildo and starts to slowly inch it down her throat. Once she has all of it in her mouth, the man lets out a grunt she hadn’t yet heard before during this session. The grunt didn’t sound like a moan, and at this point Andrea was just having fun hearing the man moan, she wasn’t really focused on giving him the show he wanted anymore. However this grunt took her by surprise so she sat up and looked at the screen. Andrea dropped the dildo she was holding and let out a scream. On the other side of the screen, was a different man wearing a mask, stabbing her client with a knife. She watched in horror as the killer approached the camera and took his mask off. “Luis what the fuck?!” Her ex boyfriend sets the mask down, taking a seat where the man he just killed was once seated. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. That guy was a fucking loser anyway. And why the fuck have you never showed me your pussy on camera?! All those times I stayed in Jersey you never once let me see!” Andrea rolled her eyes “well that’s because I don’t show pussy for free dumbass.” Luis scoffed, “oh whatever. Here.” He picks up the man’s phone and Andrea gets a Cashapp notification on her phone for $1,000 from Theo Martin. “Now can I see?” Andrea lets out a sigh. “Get help.” She hangs up the phone and proceeds to order her Amazon wishlist. “I guess he’s good for something sometimes, ugh but that guy was cute though.” She sighs to herself and clicks “order.

By It had been a lengthy flight from my hometown of Detroit to the bustling city of New York. How did I even end up on this journey? Phew. Long story for another day. A tale that I still find difficult to believe. What the hell. I guess things happen for a reason, you know. Well at least that’s what I keep telling myself to feel better about this. It’s funny in a twisted kind of way. I thought I knew not to make promises I couldn’t keep. I was surprised and a bit unprepared for how long the flight lasted. I don’t know why, but for some reason, I thought the two cities were much closer. I couldn’t have been more wrong or more irritated about being wrong. The one saving grace was that I had been given a nice comfy seat in business class. Now I could at least ruminate in opulence and maybe even parcel my decision into one nice and neat mental package, I reminded myself as I thought about my situation quite bitterly. This individual who I was going to meet. I still had no idea who he was or why he took pity on my soul. I was just an ordinary guy. I mean yeah. I could string together a few sentences, but that’s about it. Wrest the pen from my hand, and I was nothing more than a depressed failure. It burned me to admit it, but a promise was a promise. And I swore a long time ago that I’d never lie to myself, no matter how distracting or tempting the lie. I was picked up by his chauffeur at the airport. The driver was an older gent who was curt but courteous. Can’t say I blame him, given his employer. He looked at me every now and again with a curious eye. I didn’t mind. Hell. I’d probably do the same if I were him. Plus, I was far too busy marveling at the city and its people. His office was somewhere in Midtown Manhattan. That’s all I am allowed to say. I would hate to lead anyone else into the arms of darkness. Neither would the man behind the mask be delighted to have uninvited strangers knocking on his front door. The last thing I wanted to do was draw his ire. Like I said, I won’t say where, but I will reveal a few details. His *penthouse* was in the heart of the Plaza District. In one of the more iconic *towers.* A bellhop was waiting for me at the main entrance. He introduced himself and told me that he had been assigned the task of escorting me. He asked if I had any questions. Oh, I had plenty, just none for him. He smiled and told me he understood, before guiding me to the elevator. He used a key to unlock a certain floor. A number I will not mention for what I hope are obvious reasons. Before I exited, I apologized and told him I didn’t have any money for a tip. He thanked me and told me not to worry because it had already been taken care of. I made my way towards the front desk, greeted his secretary, and informed her that I was here to see the Broker. She looked at me with a raised eyebrow. Like I was lost, or there had been some kind of mix-up, and I was on the wrong floor. I dug into my pocket and handed her his business card as proof that I wasn’t lying. She glared at it for a moment, before glaring at me for a while. “How did you get this?” “It’s a long story, ma’am.” “So, you do have an appointment?” “Yes, ma’am.” “Give me a minute—I have to—” she blurted as she abruptly made her way to the back. The lobby was styled in what appeared to be Roman décor. The walls were decorated in white, green, and gold plaster. The floor was covered in fine mosaics that depicted the Roman gods in various forms of mischief and solemnity. There were sculptures, stools, and paintings. It all looked crazy expensive, like it had been imported from some specialty shop in Italy. His secretary returned right when I was in the middle of admiring an ivory figurine of Orcus. She waved me in and then guided me through the penthouse, or what she called the “atrium.” His office was all the way in the back. Of course, I couldn’t help but glance around the condo and ask questions. The place was decked out in modern décor, which was in stark contrast to the lobby. There was a ton of open space, glass walls, large windows with a view of the District Plaza, and various antiques from the Late Middle Ages. Near the bar was a French shield with the fleur-de-lis royal crest and a Milanese suit-of-armor. Another thing that struck me was the mood of his secretary. How she had essentially gone from cold to warm in her treatment of me. Instead of glowering sourly at me like I was a lost soul, like she did when I first arrived, she seemed much more polite and relaxed. We even managed to strike up a brisk conversation about my hometown, the long flight here, and if I was comfortable with the agreement. She introduced herself as “Katie” and apologized for the delayed greeting, which we both found oddly amusing given the situation. I stole a deep breath when we reach the door to his office. The black door sign simply read “The Broker” in gold. Her smile not only reassured me but helped to soothe my frayed nerves. And our brief convo just a moment ago worked wonders on my jittery mind. This is it, I thought to myself as I fought the urge to run. She knocked twice before punching in the code “1318” and opening the door. I took another deep breath before stepping inside. Luckily, he already knew who I was, but still allowed me to be introduced out of formality. He thanked Katie before dismissing her rather casually. I took a seat in front of his desk as directed. Here I was sitting face-to-face with the Broker. An illusive man whose invitation I had rebuffed for so long. Soft classical music played in the background. The lights were dim but robust enough to make out his subtle features. I studied his eyes, like someone studying the eyes of “The Fallen Angel” for the first time. He was clean-shaven, had short dark hair that was greased back, and a soft, pale complexion. It looked like the very fibers of his being had been sewn together by God. I tore my eyes away from the mystery in front of me when I noticed the mystery behind him. A wall painting with very refined, neoclassical renderings typical of academic art. The only gap was for the fireplace and French doors that led to his private terrace. He followed my eyes, saw what I was admiring, and remarked, “An expensive undertaking, right there. I had the entire piece moved to my office brick by brick, not too long ago actually.” “It’s beautiful.” “Would you believe me if I told you that it was done by an angel?” “No. No, I wouldn’t.” He laughed under his breath when I said that. Taking my doubts in stride, he reached under his desk, grabbed a leather case from the drawer, and removed two cigars from a velvet and blood orange container. When I accepted his offer and took one of them out of his waiting hand, he said, “The rare and lovely Gurkha Black Dragon. Given to me by none other than The Dragon, ironically. It was a gift to commemorate a task that had been a long time in the making.” “What did you finish?” “Should you really be indulging given your illness?” he asked with narrowing eyes. “One cigar won’t hurt.” “Smoking is so passé.” “How did you know?” “Know about what?” “About my disease.” “Information is my forte, Mr. Cross.” “Who are you?” “I go by many names.” “Sounds pretty cliché.” “I’m not *him* if that’s what you’re wondering.” “Never said you were.” “Let me ask you something.” “Fire away,” I told him. “What if I were this cliché, you assume me to be? You think we’d be having this conversation? As if I’d care about your situation?” “No. Not at all.” He paused to enjoy his cigar. “Ah. I forget how tart these taste at the beginning. They may start off bitter, but like anything else worth having, they get better over time until they’re as sweet as heaven.” “I *need* more time.” “I know. I know.” “Can you help me?” “Maybe. Maybe not.” “What does that—" “Have you ever noticed that no matter what you do. No matter how hard you fight. You can’t escape the feeling that something’s watching you? Something sinister that always strikes when you least expect it.” “Murphy’s law?” “Not exactly.” “Then what?” “Power.” “Elaborate.” “The human experience can be broken down into three things. Fear, survival, comfort. Without the first you cannot have the second. And without the second you can’t have the third. It’s hardwired into your brain.” “Is that how your organization works?” “I assume you mean the Illuminati?” “Yes.” “No. Power like that is tricky.” “How so?” “We’re not anarchist or idealist. We’re not even some monolithic force who wants to destroy the world simply for the sake. No. Not at all. We’re far worse. With the will and the mind to succeed this time.” “The end times, right?” His scowl revealed that my question was beneath him. Not even bothering with semantics, he stood from his chair and loosened up his gold cufflinks. Then he grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses off the mantel. “How many people can say they drank with an angel? Chateau Lafite Rothschild, no less. A cabernet sauvignon given to me by one of the families.” “Is that what you are?” “A fallen angel? Yes.” “And you work for *him?”* This time he smirked instead of scowling when he ignored my rhetorical question. He poured wine into the glasses and casually offered me one. When I accepted, he stared at me for a moment without saying a word. I wish I knew what he was thinking. I wish I could say for sure that he was a friend and not a foe. Alas, it was too late for second thoughts, I thought to myself as I took a sip from the glass. He must’ve read my mind. Because he leaned back in his chair and asked, “What are you willing to sacrifice?” “What do you want?” “Depends.” “My children are off limits.” My statement amused but didn’t shock him. He leaned up in his seat and let the ashes from his cigar fall into the ashtray. “Why would I want that?” “So you can sacrifice them.” “Interesting. Well, Mr. Cross, contrary to popular belief, we don’t sacrifice children. Particularly not the offspring of those who work for us.” “That’s reassuring.” “We need you to be of sound mind if you plan to do our biding. We can’t have sniveling, grief-stricken employees under our care. Bad for business.” “Then what does evil want?” “The true eyes of evil are unlike anything you’ve ever encountered. Heh. Strange rituals are the last thing on my mind or in our eyes.” “That’s good to know.” “You seem tense.” “Why wouldn’t I be?” “Lighten up, Mr. Cross. It’s probably smart to keep me in a good mood as we bargain.” “And how do I do that?” “Would you like another?” “I haven’t even finished this one.” “Try this. It’s to die for.” “Thanks. What is it called?” “King of Denmark.” “Nice. Really nice cigar.” He took one for himself from the expensive wooden case that had ‘The Broker’ engraved on it. After firing it up, he handed me the lighter. I examined the odd pattern and ran my thumb across the intricate golden grooves. It was obvious he liked luxury. I could tell just by looking at all the vintage décor in his office. The fresco behind him was a sight to behold. Maybe it was done by an angel like he claimed. But then again, my taste in artwork was amateurish. Who knows, maybe he was bluffing like you would in a good game of poker. “How do you get away with it?” “Get away with what?” “The Illuminati.” “It’s not as difficult as you assume.” “What do you mean?” “People would rather believe a lie than the truth.” “That’s dark.” He waited for me to finish my glass before offering me another. I accepted his offer. After filling my glass to the brim, he peered into my eyes and said, “You know the angels are not as kind as you think.” “What about them?” He took a sip of wine and then paused for a moment to enjoy his cigar. There was a hint of anger in his eyes. What I saw was enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand. He noticed my discomfort and transformed his ire into a suave smirk. The glimpse may have disappeared, but I could still hear it in his tone: “I understand the true nature of your kind almost as much as I do my own. What you are, who you are, and most importantly what it means to be human. I know this better than anyone. But the others... those who decided to remain. It took them a very long time to understand. Even now, they struggle to grasp the finer details of your nature. Like inequality. An idea they’ll never get.” “Why do you say that?” “It’s one of the reasons we rebelled. Those of us who couldn’t see spending the rest of eternity breaking our backs to ensure you lived privileged lives.” “What’s so bad about that?” “First chance you get. You take what we’ve given and divide it amongst yourselves as if it were the spoils of war. To this day, the angels that remained cannot understand why you separate yourselves into the haves and the have nots when there is plenty.” “The privileged and unprivileged. Huh. Didn’t know you guys were bleeding hearts,” I said with a sly smirk before taking a puff from my cigar. “You find that jest worthy?” “No. Of course not. What do you mean, when you say, ‘the angels that remained’? Are you referring to the good angels who remained loyal and didn’t rebel?” “Yes.” “Why did you rebel?” “Think about it. A third of us turned our backs to heaven. That’s not an insignificant number. Do you honestly think it was flattery and charm that persuaded us to fight? His point about salvation and how unworthy you are to receive such a gift resonated with us all.” “But why do it?” “It’s complicated.” “That’s a cop out.” “Do you know why the Devil scares you?” “Other than the fact that he’s evil incarnate?” “He’s not evil. He was the only one who dared to say to God what everyone else was already thinking when he elevated your kind and made us your servants.” “Why do you say that?” “Because if he’s not evil, what does that make the God you praise? That’s the thing that scares you the most, isn’t it? That the God you believe in is just as bloodthirsty and cunning as him.” “At least he’s not a madman.” “Padded shackles are still shackles.” “So, you think God is a tyrant?” “Absolute power is absolute power even if the person wielding the scepter is benevolent.” “Tell me more about the fresco.” “What is it you’d like to know?” “You said it was done by an angel?” “Correct. An old friend of mine, Raphael. If only he would have joined our side and fought for our cause. His art would have inspired a new wave of malcontent. Ah. I suppose you can’t always have your cake.” “How did you come by it?” “That’s a long story. Let’s just say I didn’t come by it peacefully. Let’s also say that I stripped it off the walls of a place ‘holier-than-thou.’” “Really? You did that?” “Maybe I’ll send you the details one day. I’m sure it’ll make for a grand story.” “Why would you put a painting that was done by one of the good guys on your wall? That’s strange.” “Art is art, no matter the artist.” “So, you’re a pragmatist?” “I don’t know, Mr. Cross. Are you sure you want more time? I’ve bargain with plenty of desperate men. And you don’t strike me as one of them.” “Why wouldn’t I be sure?” “Hmm. I don’t know.” “What are you getting at?” He drew a large puff from his cigar while staring at the statue in the corner of his office. It was another masterpiece. A sculpture of a warrior angel without wings. Those eyes. I swear they were following me. And the armor, oh my, was it unlike anything I’d ever seen. It was uncanny to see so much light surround someone so dark. What made it even worse was that you’d never know he was a devil by his charming appearance. After letting out another cloud of smoke, he finally shared what was on his mind, or at least part of it: “I know your type. Hyper rational. Thorny. Somber. The type who knows what they want but is miserable when they get it.” “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” “Hah. Humans... always opining and pining with your grubby little fingers for the things you can’t have. That’s the thing about you. The other thing that makes you highly unlikable. You complain and swear up and down, how *badly* you want something. But when you finally get it. Whatever the thing was you were looking for... all you ever do is tarnish it, like the soul within you, you treat like a piece of cheap jewelry.” “Great. This isn’t one of those ‘be careful what you wish for’ speeches, is it?” “Everything has a price, Mr. Cross.” “What if it’s free?” “Heh. Things that are free usually cost the most. Like freedom.” “Which brings me back to my original question. What is it that you want me to sacrifice?” “That depends on what you’re willing to give.” “Really?” “Yes, really. I can’t make you give what you don’t want to give. That’s not how this works. That’s why it’s called bargaining.” “Can I even trust you to keep your word?” “What do you think?” “Evil is as evil does.” “You think you know us, don’t you?” “What the hell does that mean?” “One ‘Sermon on the Mount,’ and you think you know? Your parents warned you not to whisper to the shadows when they whispered back. Or maybe some self-righteous preacher in a nice suit, delivered a speech, and now you think you know who we are. Go on, believe all you want. But just know this, we haven’t come to dominate your world by coincidence. How else do you think we did it?” he inquired with a smirk that could kill a priest. “Through fear and violence.” He chuckled under his breath a bit and said, “We sell the disease not the cure, Mr. Cross.” “Well, I’ll tell you one thing. I’m not burning in hell for all eternity if that’s what you want.” “We don’t burn the useful.” “What do you do to them?” “Tell you what. I’ll scratch that one off the list if it’ll ease your mind,” he winked. “Thanks.” “Any other deal-breakers?” “No.” “Excellent.” “Is there a contract?” “No contract.” “Really? No pact in blood?” “Heh. You read too many novels.” “So, my word is all you need?” “Exactly.” “Something doesn’t feel right.” “It shouldn’t” “But you just said—” “Wait a minute,” he said before closing his eyes and listening to the music softly playing over the loudspeaker. “Ah. Yes. Here comes my favorite part. The crescendo and that cantata... *mwah!* It never gets old and always reminds me of home.” After the song ended, I asked him if he knew the name of it. With a serpentine smile, he said, “Ah. Good old *Carmina Burana: O Fortuna,* composed by someone else who made a Faustian bargain.” “Faustian bargain?” “Never mind this,” he said as he reached into his drawer and pulled out an old cigarette case. I could tell without asking that they were expensive. He offered me one and again I accepted without hesitation. “You do know what we want, right?” “Not to sound like a smart ass, but if I knew I wouldn’t have asked you all those times.” “Think about it for a moment.” “Why when you can just tell me.” “Why do you think we allow potential clients to foolishly offer up their souls?” “How would I know?” “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we don’t really need it. Even if we did, you’re probably going to hell anyway for your sins.” “I’m not Christian.” “Who what have guessed.” “I’m glad you find that funny.” “Sorry, Mr. Cross. I’m just having a bit of fun at your expense. I get your point. Believers are some of my best clients, I’m afraid.” “That’s sad.” “Good and evil are closer than you think.” “How close?” “Very.” “That’s a frightening thought.” “Now you’re starting to see.” “You know you still haven’t answered my question. Or the question you asked me about soul selling. I’m starting to think your trying to jerk me around.” “Hah. Hold on to that intensity. You’re going to need it if you plan on fulfilling your end of the bargain. Now, as to why we allow mortals to bargain with us. It’s simple. Unlike the good guys, we don’t have the luxury of time.” “I don’t follow you.” “You Americans enjoy capitalism, right? “Yeah, I guess so.” “I’ll put it into perspective for you. Think of Evil as a corporation. And like any well laid company, we need employees... souls who are clever enough to carry out our mission with a certain level of panache.” “Is that so?” “Yes. And since I’m already being frank. I think you’ll make a wonderful employee.” “And I don’t have to give you anything I’m not comfortable giving?” “That is correct. Your word and a simple handshake will suffice, for now at least.” “What if I change my mind in the future? What if I wake up one day and give my life over to God? What if I accept Christ as my Savior?” “I’d be careful if I were you. You can always renege, but you might not go to heaven. You might be stuck with us. And I’m sure trying to explain why you broke the terms of our deal won’t go over too well.” “So what? It won’t matter if I repent. The Bible says that all sins can be forgiven.” “Except for sins against the Holy Spirit. He really doesn’t like those who blaspheme her name.” “Her?” “Yes.” “Hmm.” “Oh, and a word of advice on absolution: God may be merciful, yes. But even his forgiveness has its limits. Trust me, I know.” “How so?” “You think Hitler would have gotten into Heaven if he repented right before he died?” “No.” “Exactly.” “He’s with you guys, huh?” “Yup. In Hell, right where he belongs. Suffering every waking moment. The belligerent fool should have listened to us. We gave him power and he turned around and used what we gave him to commit genocide,” he said before pausing for a moment to sigh in regret. “Like Nero, he succumbed to all the trappings of absolute power on earth: Drugs, boozes, gambling, lechery, devilry, banditry.” “So, Nero is as bad as they say?” “Worse. His cruel treatment of Christians even made us blush. And for his crimes, for breaking the bargain, the fool will forever burn,” he said rather hatefully. “Are you okay?” I asked. “Sorry,” he replied. “It’s cool. I get it.” “Where was I? Ah, yes, Nero. The woodenheaded bohemian did more to popularize the Christian faith than the preachings of any wiseman or prophet.” “So, Nero and Hitler were you guys’ doing, huh? Hah. Why am I not surprised. I wonder how many others can credit their ‘success’ to you guys?” He kicked his feet up on the desk and sighed. “More than I care to imagine. On the dark side, we learned from our previous failures.” “Learned what?” “You can’t force the issue of the false prophet. Conditions will determine when the time is right. You see, because our setbacks, we realized what was arguably our most valuable lesson.” I took a drag from my cig and said, “Oh, really? And what lesson is that?” He turned his head and thought deeply for a moment. It couldn’t have been my question that pulled his mind into reminiscent darkness. It had to be something far worse. He looked over at me with a shadowy smile and said, “It’s impossible to take over the world by force. The human mind will always resist oppression.” “Humph. Interesting.” “Since the beginning, we’ve tried to take over your world and failed. Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Qin Shi Huang, Genghis Khan. So many we’ve bargained with only for it to end in failure. For too long, we waged war in plain sight. And all we managed to do was create a desert where there was an oasis. Now that we’ve learned from our mistakes, we wage silent wars. And because of this, in just seventy years, we’ve done more to bring about the end times than we’ve done in three millennium.” “How do you do it now?” “Through banking.” “Banking? Really?” “No war was ever won by a pauper.” “So, you’re a banker?” “You could say that.” “Wow. Who would’ve guessed?” “Tell me about it,” he said before taking a sip of wine. Then with a smirk, he added, “Oh how the mighty have fallen. Reduced to simple commerce and scheme. It was *his* idea you know. Which came as something of a surprise to us all, given his fiery reputation.” “Let me get this straight. All I have to do is give you my word? That’s it. No trickery? No rituals? I don’t have to slaughter a lamb or anything?” “Yup. That’s it.” “And I’ll get more time?” He took out his planner and jotted down a date. Then he looked over at me and said, “We’re not holy. I can’t promise you a miracle, but I’ll put in a good word for you with the boss. I like you. You have an interesting sense of humor if you know what I mean.” “I don’t. Was that a compliment?” “Heh. Nice doing business with you, Mr. Cross,” he said with an extended hand. “Thank you. I think.” “Spread our message.” “I’ll try my best.” “Oh, you’ll do more than try.” “What does that mean?” “Failure isn’t an option.” “Just hold up your end of the bargain.” “Hopefully, our next encounter won’t be for a very long time. For your sake, Mr. Cross. Oh, and my secretary has something for you. A parting gift if you will.

When I was at primary school I was once given an English homework assignment to write a three-page story. It could be any genre, fiction or nonfiction, it just had to be three full pages of A4 paper. I believe the point of the exercise was to demonstrate how to structure a story with a beginning, middle and end, by allocating one page to each section. A couple of days before the story was due I still hadn’t written a single word, so when my older sister came into my bedroom and said that she had an idea for a story, and asked if she could write it for me to use as my own, I said…sure. I didn’t really care about writing at that age and wasn’t particularly worried about getting caught out, even though I knew it probably wasn’t a good thing to do. With the pressure off, I went around to my friend’s house for the rest of the day to play video games. When I came home that evening, I heard my Dad’s voice echoing from the lounge, he was shouting and swearing. I opened the door and saw my sister sitting on the sofa, in a flood of tears, cuddling up to our Mum, who was looking as unemotional as usual. My Dad stood above them, screaming obscenities and insults. Flapping about in his hand were some pieces of paper - My sister’s story. I could just about see the printed title poking out between his red fingers. ‘A Day In Space’. At first, I thought he was angry because he had found out that she had done my homework for me, and that his string of abuse was coming my way next, but it quickly became clear that he didn’t care or know about that part of the deception. No, he was solely angry with my sister…for how badly written her story was. My sister was severely dyslexic. My Dad knew this fact. She had been diagnosed early, and yet he still saw fit to voraciously criticise her writing abilities - in a court of public opinions populated only by himself. She was fifth-teen years old, so she should be ‘better now’ (is what I’m guessing he thought - after years of neither him, nor my Mum, putting in any effort to help her actually get better). After Dad had finally calmed down and my sister had retreated off into her bedroom to cry in peace, I sat down at the computer and read her story - and yes, it wasn’t at all legible. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I started laughing at some points as I scanned through it. From what I could understand, it was about a boy and a girl who go through a portal and end up in outer space. Later, they encounter some Aliens and adventure swiftly follows. All very standard young adult sci-fi fare, but when I got to the end of the three pages, I realised that the story didn’t end there. I scrolled further down the document, and saw that she had written another ten pages! She had been so enthused with her story, so caught up in the creative act, that she had carried on writing way beyond the three page limit. I could just see her now, typing away frantically, so pleased with her work, empowered with a new love for prose, until in her over-excited state, she printed it off and showed it to our Father. I wrote my own story the next day, or rather I wrote what my Dad told me to write (I guess he was completely invested now in seeing this three page epic come into fruition). He wanted a story set by a riverbank, so I hashed out some Famous Five-esque dribble. It was cliche, boring, and made no sense from a logical point of view, but it was written to a certain literacy standard, and so was judged to be superior. My sister never wrote another story. Never wrote much period. Some years later, she was suspended from her college course for plagiarism - a friend had let her copy parts of their essay, because they could see how much she was struggling with the work. How cruelly unfair, that the same crime I had committed years earlier went virtually unpunished, yet she managed to be reprimanded twice over, from both sides of the arrangement no less. In the end, she managed to just about graduate, but with nowhere near the grades she would need in order to pursue her dream job of becoming a Vet. Thus followed a stint of retail jobs and a few sponger boyfriends who did nothing for her, unless you count the one that got her pregnant. Now she and her son live off government handouts. There isn't a month that goes by where she doesn't ask me for money. I can't help but wonder what could have been, if instead of shopping out anger and hostility that day, my father had seen my sister’s story for what it really was - A first attempt, albeit a late one. Just like a kid playing with paint, not bothered about keeping within the lines, but instead seeing how many colours they could smear over their clothes first. After all, you don’t shoot down fireworks before they go off, you admire them for their pluck and speed, and even if their final display doesn’t blow you away, you stand and wait in anticipation for the next attempt, and the next, and the next. Also, I should have just written a story myself, there's that too. Queue the small violin, but these are the thoughts I have - ain't no changing them. The word doc file is long deleted now, but I really would love to read my sister's story again. To read something made for the unbridled joy of it, not dictated towards the pleasure of others, but letting pure imagination fill page-after-page, as instantly as a portal that takes you into space. And look at that, finally my own real three-page story. I guess I’ve missed the deadline by about thirty years, but better late than never! And hopefully better something true and passionate, than something cliched, and boring, with no logical point of view.

I been truckin’ for near fifty years. Only stopped when the boss ‘suggested’ I retire. My old Chevy’s good enough, but she ain’t no rig. At least I still enjoy the view. Fellas throw a fit over the best view in truckin’. Whether it’s Blue Ridge, Skyline, 94, Beartooth, or a hundred other roads I left in the wind. I enjoy forests and oceans and open country alright. But they ain’t no best view. First you gotta leave the cities. Harder with every year it seems. Then find an empty stretch of interstate. Late at night without any traffic or cops or worries in the world. It works best in the desert. Where the sky’s clear and there’s nothin’ but dirt all ‘round. I near flipped the truck on nights like that. I was lookin’ at the stars. That’s the best view in truckin’. When it’s only you, your rig, and them. There’s more little dots up there than anyone can count. It’s somethin’ special to be under ‘em. Like you’re cozied under a blanket. And you could sleep outside in a hailstorm and keep warm. I weren’t never alone with the stars lookin’ over me. I’m lucky to spend my latter years in the desert. It’s peace and quiet, and the stars shine bright as ever. I don’t need more trouble in life. Just my pickup and the best view in truckin’. But trouble tracked me down, long past sunset on the interstate. When a million stars lit the sky on fire. I almost pulled over to take a picture for my grandkids. Until I saw a rig far off the shoulder. His cab swung right of the trailer, parked about thirty feet into the dirt. I figured he oversteered or somethin’. No chance I could ignore him. Truckers look out for each other, and it ain’t how Pops raised me besides. That’s a mind everyone ought to have. I stopped on the roadside and hopped out with my flashlight. That piece of garbage was dimmer than me in algebra. But it helped me avoid the spiky shrubs around the truck. Its trailer said ‘Samson Family Farms’ on the side, painted in red with an apple basket below it. Nobody answered when I called out. A heavy smell suckered me from the cabin. A bizarre burning or melting scent, both fleshy and plastic. Like a steak barbecued in cellophane. I figured the truck was on fire and jogged to the door. I peeked inside. No fire or smoke, but the charred stench ate through me. And the place was a mess. Potato chips and empty water bottles covered the floors. Liquids stained the dashboard, and cuts and gashes tore up the seats. Why keep a cabin this bad? I cringed from the odor and all ‘round chaos in there. I yelled at the ratty beige curtain that separated the sleeping cabin, asking if anyone needed help. The engine kicked up its noise. I climbed into the cabin and over the passenger seat. Again I hollered into the curtain before yankin’ it open. No trucker. But the fiery air back there twisted my guts. I retched and near threw up before I turned away from it. Weren’t nothin’ to see but a plain bunk with a duffel bag on top. Must be their first night on the road. I killed the engine. The silence spooked me. And I been silent most of my life. A breeze slapped my face from the driver door. I pointed my light at it. Window pieces littered the panel and footwell. I fell onto the driver’s seat when I looked lower. Blood coated the vinyl and handle. Judgin’ by the amount, someone was either dead or soon would be. I reached for my phone, but it weren’t in my pocket. Fran used to say ‘remember your phone, Sancho’ with that old smile of hers. I should have listened to her more. Another thing she’d happily remind me of. More unwanted silence. My neck whipped to the passenger door. I wanted to sprint to my Chevy, but I couldn’t move. I just froze and listened for… anything. After a minute, I clamored over the seat and onto the ground. I waved my light over the endless dirt ahead. Nothin’ but shrubs. A coyote call startled me but it sounded far away. I creeped along the trailer, my eyes focused on the desert. Every crunch of the dirt wracked my nerves. And gave away my presence. A mesa loomed in the distance. Its shadow rose far above the flats and blocked the stars behind it. I thought I saw movement that direction. But I kept inchin’ to my pickup. The melting smell faded as I reached the trailer’s end. I glanced at the interstate, then back into the nothing. I saw him. It. A black figure stepped from the mesa’s shadow. He looked tiny beside the massive rock. My back slammed into the trailer and its metallic thump bore into my bones. The person, or thing, stopped. I couldn’t tell whether he glared at me. My light weren’t too bright and the stars didn’t help neither. He moved on shortly. In a shamble across the desert, about fifty feet from me. My hand shook as I ran it through my hair. I panted like a dog too. But somethin’ ate at me. They might have needed help. Maybe they were bloody or burned or lost and all alone. I wondered why he didn’t head for the road. Nothin’ but more dirt besides. And if he was dangerous, God forbid, why not charge me? He weren’t even haulin’ fast. I walk quicker than he did, matter of fact. Even at my age. That felt wrong. The whole scene felt wrong. Fran would tell me to run like Forrest and not look back. But Fran ain’t here. I shouted an helping offer into the dark. The shadow paused for a few seconds, then continued. I eased away from the trailer, no less afraid of whatever was out there. But no less curious neither. My light carved a route through the low bushes. I called out again, but the shadow didn’t stop. It didn’t speed up neither. I gained on it. The trailer, now well behind me, was only a shadow. A breeze chilled my face. Sweat drenched my jacket and pants. And my eyes felt tired of squintin’ into the void. I yelled one last time. He stopped in silence and I approached him from behind. He didn’t turn to me. My light revealed a pale man. Tall and thin, with skinny limbs. He wore a navy sweater, a thick and fleecy one you’d see in the Midwest. A plain rust-colored shirt peeked from under it. I couldn’t see his black jeans and sneakers well in the dark. The way they blended into the night looked creepy. His stubby hair resembled an army cut. His stance put me off. He stood stiff, almost at attention. With arms bolted to his sides and legs together. He still didn’t face me. No way he didn’t hear me. He didn’t look hurt. No marks on his hands, neck, or the back of his head. Maybe he was strung out, or plain crazy. But that don’t explain the bloody cabin or the broken window. Or that hideous burning smell. Then his torso jerked forward, like Frankenstein in that old movie. Another coyote howled as I watched him. Never seen anything like it. He drooped over in a deep bow. I thought he’d grab somethin’ in the dirt. But his right knee jolted to his waist, then limped forward in a lunge. His whole body shuddered when his foot hit the ground. He barely held his balance. His head convulsed in a steady side-to-side pattern. He moved so unnaturally, so mechanically. It reminded me of that toy robot I gave my grandson. I’m surprised a winder weren’t stickin’ from his spine. His chest heaved with a sharp inhale through the mouth. Like a diver coming up for air. He exhaled the same way, then repeated that awkward step with his left leg. He regained his balance no quicker than last time. His arms never rose. He’d soon escape my light. I whispered “Sir, do you need help?” He gasped another desperate breath. His head kept twitchin’. I had more fear than blood in my veins. But I’d seen a freak or two in my truckin’ days. You need a cool demeanor on the road. I closed the gap between us and reached for his sweater. “Do you need-” A strained and primal moan silenced me. You’d think he was pushin’ pallets uphill. It droned on for several seconds. My hand hovered over him. He’d scared the wits out of me but I couldn’t take the suspense anymore. I gripped his shoulder, “Sorry but I thought-” He shot up to full height. I sprung away. He pointed his right foot out and tugged at his left leg, but it didn’t budge. Like someone nailed it in place. After a few spasms, he leaned onto his right foot. Then forced his left knee up. His legs seized and I figured he’d topple over. The right foot shifted, crackin’ the dirt underneath. He was tryin’ to pivot his body on one leg. His heel grounded him while the ball of his foot inched to the side. His left knee remained in the air. It would be funny in a sitcom. His neck rose as he rotated. I felt eager to glimpse his face. In around fifteen seconds, he’d wheeled less than halfway to me. I couldn’t wait. I marched into sight. “Sir?” A silent gasp choked me. His face, oh Lord, I’ll never forget his face. It looked human at least. Blue eyes, lean cheeks, a butt chin, and patchy facial hair. But his expression near stopped my heart. It was anguished. Beyond anything I’ve ever seen. Like he’d spent an hour in hell. Every inch of his skin clenched into tight wrinkles. His panicked stare pleaded at the sky, at God Himself. It barely peaked from his scrunched eyelids. A tortured smile beamed through his open mouth. Either sweat or tears flooded his cheeks. I held in a scream as I stepped back. His face didn’t change. His glare didn’t leave the stars. More steps back. His knee posed, his mouth gaping. One more step. I couldn’t look away even as darkness overcame him. Croaking breaths whined from his mouth. My heel caught a shrub. I shrieked and collapsed onto my back. My left shoulder snapped on impact. I cried out, both from pain and terror. I aimed my light in his direction. Nothin’. The poundin’ of his strides tore through the desert. How did he run? He couldn’t hardly walk a moment ago. The sound trailed off, but I worried he’d come back. My shoulder ached badly, and I knew it’d feel worse soon. I had to leave. Now. I hustled to my Chevy in a panic, frantically weavin’ around the bushes. The shoulder pain blurred my vision. I couldn’t steady my flashlight hand. Blood hammered against my ears. I couldn’t move faster at my age. I weren’t sure if I heard footsteps behind me. And I didn’t want to know. Quit runnin’, I thought. Pops didn’t teach me to run. He’d tell me to fight like a man. And if I lost, at least I’d see Fran again. She always said I would. So I spun around and braced for… nothin’. Except bushes and dirt. Was there even a sound? Could have been my own two feet. Or that thing toyin’ with me. I coughed from the dust, hunched over and winded. Fatigue chased the fear out of me for a while. I took a breather there, about fifty feet from my pickup. Then I sniffed the same toxic odor as before. The one infestin’ that sleeper cabin. Except I weren’t anywhere near the rig. And that man-thing didn’t smell like it neither. My shoulder throbbed. A fracture I reckoned, maybe all the way through. I grunted against it and shuffled to the interstate. But Christ, the stench. I couldn’t hardly breathe. I bowled over and coughed the fumes out. The Chevy seemed so close. I pushed myself on. I’d drive home and forget all about tonight. I waded through more shrubs and dirt before I spotted somethin’ to my left. Two shadowy outlines rose a foot off the ground. I trained my light on them. Black sneakers. Still attached to a pair of legs. I should have beelined to my pickup and headed home. I should have left that creepy… whatever, alone. I should have kept drivin’ instead of tryin’ to help some poor soul at near midnight. I should have walked away. But I was never the ‘walk away’ type. I approached the body, already convinced that’s what I’d see. Good thing Pops couldn’t see me then. I went stiff as a flagpole and lost my breath. My nose sealed at the stench. Shock and awe stopped me from barfin’ over the gravel. Him. It. The person, thing, whatever. Splayed on the dirt, dead as roadkill. Same thick navy sweater, same rust-colored shirt, same black jeans and sneakers. Same face. Same twisted skin. Same beggin’ eyes. Same agony. But how? He’s… It’s not the same. I would have seen it pass me. And the thing didn’t smell like a chemical fire. This body did. I couldn’t think about it anymore. Or stick around any longer. The flashlight beam rippled as I pointed it away. I snapped it back. Then repeated it a few times. Tiny waves of steam escaped from the corpse. Easily seen against its dark clothing. Steam? Desert nights are frigid. And the dead man seemed fresh, not decayed or slowroasted or nothin’. The gas reached higher and spread to his limbs. I surveyed his torso for flames. There weren’t none. More steam hissed out and the smell grew worse. The haze surrounded him. I retched and gagged as I backed away. The knuckles on his left hand melted. Their skin crinkled and peeled as blood dripped onto the dirt. Then the muscles dissolved into white mounds of bone. The steam dispersed in an instant. As if someone dumped water on the man. None of his left side burned except the knuckles. Where his skeleton poked through bloody gore. But the rest of his hand looked normal, not burned or butchered or nothin’. Weren’t no explainin’ how that body cooked itself. Or why it didn’t catch fire. Or why only his left knuckles seared off. I hadn’t seen his right side yet, and I didn’t want to neither. But he blocked my path to the Chevy. I passed him at a distance. In case he steamed up and spit that acid stench again. Wind hummed through the bushes. My shoulder pounded away in its socket. Or outside of it, I weren’t sure. My light revealed the corpse’s right side. Scorched knuckles again, but normal besides. Except his face. The whole side of it was caved in. Smashed and mangled like somethin’ mauled him. His eye swelled to near bursting. A gory sinkhole stretched from his eyebrow to the top of his head. Skull fragments littered the dark blood seepin’ from the gash. Blood ain’t dark unless you been dead a while. Was he? No way. He looked fresh five minutes ago. Before that steam and that smell and his knuckles meltin’. I couldn’t stay there. I hurried to my pickup, numb to the world. To that thing I couldn't explain, to that burnin’ man, to that huge mesa lordin’ over me. I didn’t care anymore. Nothin’ beneath the stars is worth my life. I remember that night whenever I crawl into my big empty bed. That crime scene cabin. That horrible man-thing. That maimed corpse spewin’ steam like a geyser. Then I get to thinkin’. If that man’s wounds explain the bloody cab. If he ripped his knuckles apart fightin’ who knows what. If his pummeled head meant he lost. If that thing in the desert killed him. If it took his clothes, his body, his face. Why didn’t it come for me too? Or what if it did, and I’m… I just shove everything aside and sleep.

Patiently, I waited. My mother’s hand tightly gripping my own small hand to make sure I didn’t go anywhere. “When is it going to be here?” I asked Mother. Mother looked down at me with a big smile. “Soon.” She replied. I could barely contain my excitement. The bright lights of the subway and the thrill of being able to ride a train was almost too much for a young boy to handle. A small crowd gathered around. They were waiting to get on the train just like me. But none were as excited as I. A rumbling began to vibrate through the ground. Looking down the deep dark tunnel, I could see a light beginning to shine off the concrete. I knew the moment I was so eagerly waiting for was fast approaching. Then as it turned the bend my eyes were blinded by the bright singular light of the locomotive. When I heard the loud choo of the horn my body could no longer contain its excitement. I couldn’t help but jump up and down. “It’s here!” I yelled. “It’s here!” The train’s colorful carts passed by before coming to a screeching halt. A loud hiss came as it finally stopped.The door in front of us slid open. An old man came hobbling out and with so much joy he found an older lady who was waiting for him at our platform. They hugged each other tightly. “All aboard.” the train conductor called out. “That means it’s our turn to get on.” Mother said to me as she led me onto the train. We found some open seats amongst the slightly crowded cart. I was still too excited and bounced up and down in my faded red plastic seat. Mother sat gently next to me with her purse on her lap. A business man stood up holding onto the bar with one hand and clinching the daily paper with the other. It wasn’t long before the train began to pick up momentum and started to move again onto the next stop. An older woman sat across from us. She was accompanied by a young lady. They didn’t pay much attention to anyone around them, just continued on with their soft conversation. “Now approaching our next stop.” The conductor said over the intercom. I looked behind me to see a platform very similar to the one Mother and I were previously on. A group of people stood waiting either for loved ones to get off or for their chance to get on. The lady stood up from the older woman, “Well, this is my stop.” She said to the woman. “What? Are you sure?” The woman asked. “Yeah, I’m sure.” She replied. “But the trip feels like it just started.” the woman replied. Without saying anything else the woman hugged the lady and then let her go. The lady then stepped off the train and some people filled her spot on the cart. I tried to get up to follow the lady because I thought that was what we did but Mother grabbed me and put me back in my seat. “Not yet, it’s not our turn to get off.” She said to me, So I sat back down happy that the ride would continue. Mother looked over at the older lady. She was wiping tears off her face. “Are you alright?” Mother asked. “Oh, um, yeah. It’s just, that was my daughter.” The woman replied. “Oh, I’m sorry.” Mother replied. The train began to move once more. Only this time when we got out of the tunnel we were met with the countryside. Miles and miles of countryside. The deep green grass and rolling hills. Cows grazing in pastures. The clear blue sky with the perfect amount of puffy white clouds. Meadows filled with flowers of all different colors. Off in the distance I could see the ocean and sandy beach and a lighthouse just off the shoreline. A gray haired man with dark skin sat next to me. He wore a nice tan corduroy jacket and a gray newsie cap. He gleamed with happiness. “If I were you, I’d take it all in.” The man said as he leaned toward me with a big smile on his face. “Coming to a stop.” the conductor announced. “Oh, that's me.” The man said with excitement. “Where are you going?” I asked him. “I am going to go see some family that I haven’t seen in a long, long time.” He replied. The doors opened and he moved quickly off the train. His platform looked different from the one I was on. His was outside and seemed to be made of wood. But he wasn’t kidding about seeing family. A large number of people stood waiting for him. His arms were wide open when he got off as they all hugged him and smiled and laughed. Though I probably would never see him again, our short interaction stuck with me. Throughout my ride there were a number of people that would stop and give me life lessons that they had learned along their ride. But one thing was a constant. They all got off eventually. Even the older lady who sat across from us. She also got off, and her daughter waited for her at her stop. They were thrilled to see each other again. It got to the point where it was only Mother and I in our cart. But even that didn’t last. “Approaching our next stop.” said the conductor. “Alright, you stay here.” Mother said to me. I looked at her. The trip had taken its toll on her. Her hair was grayed and the lines on her face had gotten deeper. Her once youthful skin now lays on my hand translucent and feeble. “Let me come with you.” I said to her, “No, this isn’t your stop. Besides, you are old enough to ride alone now.” She said before stepping off the train. The doors closed behind her and the train continued on. I watched until I couldn’t see her anymore, she stood on the edge waving and though I was alone now, she was not. I saw Father and Grandma and Grandpa standing next to her. The train seemed to move slower in my loneliness. The train would stop and go. No one ever got on, but sometimes I thought about getting off. But the thought of what I could be missing between this stop and the next always kept stuck in my seat. “Approaching our next stop.” said the conductor. The train came to a stop and a young girl got on. She seemed to be around my age. In her early twenties if I had to guess. Her skin looked soft as silk and her hair brunette. She seemed a bit shy and timid. She saw me sitting alone in this cart and she smiled while tucking her long hair behind her ear. “Hello.” I said. “Hi,” she replied with a slight giggle. She sat down in the same seat that the older lady once occupied. The train took off once more. For a while we sat in awkward silence but it was refreshing to just have another person around, even if we weren’t talking. After a few more stops, I found the courage to speak up. “Um, so what’s your name?” I asked. “Oh, it’s Julie.” She replied. “Well, nice to meet you Julie. My name is Glenn.” I told her. “Nice to meet you.” She said, Then we returned to silence, my advancements at small talk had fallen short. After a few more moments I speak up again. “Hey, Julie.” I said She looked up at me. “Is that seat next to you taken?” I asked. “What? This one?” She replied with a slight laughter in her voice. “Yeah.” I responded. She takes a second, looking around the completely empty train cart. “Um, no. No it’s not.” She said "Well , do you mind if I come over there to you?” I asked. “Not at all!” she said. “Great.” I walked across the aisle and sat down next to her. Closing the distance opened up the door for conversation. So we started talking. And we kept talking and kept talking. Through every stop the train made we were right there next to each other. However, on one stop, the doors opened up and no one got on except for a little girl with a big red balloon and her brother. They both had to be less than ten years old. The boy wore tan shorts and a striped short sleeve shirt with bits of stains on the collar. The little girl had on a princess dress and play shoes. They walked in and hopped up on the seat I previously had and just sat there with their feet swinging in the air. “Oh, how adorable. I always wanted kids of my own.” Julie said. It was now the four of us riding together. This continued to be the case for a few more stops. The train came to yet another stop and only one lonely drunk fumbled around to get on the train. He seemed to have nice clothes but not put together. He seemed like he was going through a rough time. His tie hung loose around his neck and his white shirt laid untucked and wrinkled. His cufflinks were unbuttoned and a bottle in a paper sack was being caressed by his hand. He wasn’t on the train for long though. “Coming to our next stop.” said the conductor. “That’s…me.” said the drunk man as he stumbled over his words with beer burps. He is unable to walk straight and as he approaches the door he trips over his own feet and bumps the little girl causing her balloon to fly from her hand and out the door. “My balloon.” She cried as she ran out the door to chase it. The little boy tried to grab her to stop her from leaving but just barely missed her and she was gone. The door closed and the train set off again. He rested on his knees staring out the window as his little sister stood on the platform with her balloon watching as the train rode off without her. “I think I have one more stop in me.” Julie said. “What, no. You can hang on for a bit longer can’t you?” I asked. “No, I think I’m ready to get off.” She replied. Her mind was made up. Nothing I could say could change that and so we cherished the short distance we had between the stops. “Approaching our next stop.” said the conductor. “Well, this is it.” Julie said. “I guess it is.” I replied. Julie stood up and walked to the door. As she left the train she turned to me, “I’ll wait for you.” She said and the doors closed and the train set off on its course. Now I had no one but the boy in my cart. I was starting to question if I wanted to keep going on this ride. I felt I had seen so much and I had learned so much, maybe it was time for me to get off. But the boy was still too young to be left alone. I decided I would stay on just a little longer. For him. Stop after stop, I watched the little boy grow. People would come and go. Some would stop to give him advice just as they did for me once. But now I am old, my bones creak, my hair has turned white. My body has grown weary. I believe my ride is done. I had seen all there is to see and I have learned all I needed to. And the once little boy that shared the cart with me is now a young man, no longer needing a chaperone. “Approaching our next stop.” said the conductor. A force in me had an uncontrollable urge to get up and leave. Every fiber in my being was telling me it was my time, my ride was over. So when the train stopped and those doors opened, I grabbed my cane and got up. I take one last look at the train cart then turn to the young man who once was the kid I knew, “This is my stop.” I told him. Then I take my first step out of the train. I look out to see a bright and smiling Julie waiting for me. “I’ve been waiting,” she said to me. I hobble over as fast as I can and give her a tight hug. Out of the corner of my eye I see a young boy and his mother walking toward the train just as I once did. “Enjoy the ride kid,” I tell him. “It goes by quicker than you think.

So I have edited out some of the explicit parts to adhere to this subreddit's guidelines, and that's why the last chapter is just cut off because it gets heavy quick. I've been calling this one "Cheating Code", and it's actually an exercise I do where I just write words that I improvise, then go back, and try to make a story out of them. What it is becoming is a sort of meta narrative about different narrators narrating different works, though, and I'm liking that thread a lot. Also, I disrespect grammar on purpose because I don't make my art for you. I make it because I enjoy making it. Here it is! Happy reading! It was the sorry gamble of the internet south, drawn to a string by the molecular forces inside the stream of laptop identities and fabrical spectrograms. At the same time, it was the year of the bird come to wrath upon the entirety of the south town shuffle. Its wings spread so wide as to encompass all who would have passed through into the data, lost, and fallen from the nest. We begin our story with the epicenter of all atoms and leudosynchronicity, and the one who could backflip like nobody’s business on account of her intriguing footwork machines and spell-crafted biomechanical garments; Adrival Sciesh, a gymnast, a hacker, and a cheater by all manner of the word. She brothe in like an exhaust pipe sputtering at the end of the driver’s warranty, unwieldy, and inopportune. Her nerves felt like ashes and salt falling on the skin of a snail. It burned within her, but still she brothe in, not quite yet on E. It was a routine she had played a hundred times over and then a million times since, but she still didn’t feel it in her bones. There wasn’t the memory in her that she needed and she knew it. See, Adrival hadn’t actually practiced the routine but once, a double back handspring into a 360 degree turn midair, landing and bouncing backwards into a frontflip. Instead, she opted to hack her steplink 6K, a device located on her outer shins designed to override muscle function in accordance with coded parameters. If she had missed even one bug when programming this movement, her entire career could end in shin splints, or, worse, a major fracture. And she wasn’t quite confident. The code she had stolen came from a 3090’s forum on the obsolete Indigonet, forgotten and unheard of for decades now. She took it from her favorite programmer turned colony-wide exile, Karina Hash. That was the only reason she trusted it. The only hope she had now. She winded up her arms. It felt hot and cold at the same time. Ever standing there, ever blinded by the constant flash of a holostructed digicam, feeding a blistering 2 trillion viewers system-wide. All eyes from all species. All tuned in to her. She shuttered. Then, she spoke. “Open custom flip sequence. Scene parameter: three dimensions. 19 second duration. Override CPU acceleration. Set to 2x. Accelerate coolant to octuple speeds.” A breath. This time, no emotion. It was gonna work or it wasn’t. No use worrying. “Start sequence.” The leg ran forward, dragging the rest of her body with it. She had to fight to gain control, but within those 4 steps, she mustered enough balance to initiate the jump. And up she went, like a crane dazzling on the horizon, scanning for late day fish. In a moment, she was upside down, then back around again, forward, upside down-again, dizzy, ready to hurl and then! She landed. Not only did she land, but she landed with both feet touching the mat, perfect balance. She was so proud that she forgot to hold her arms up in the shape of a Y. The judges held up their scores. 7, 7, 9. She raised her hands. It was too late. Her smile faded like the digitized sunbox on a glitching map editor. She was mad, but she knew she had to hide it. “Play the game. Can’t win em all. Yet.” The final draft inside a stuck-out wastecard. The one and only lightscope that could control all combos and instead, they searched for a way to reactivate old characters amidst metadata, against developer insights. The dying roguelike elements cemented themselves alongside the inputs and console command strokes of an artist not yet recognized for their rigorous and mythological mining. They only went by Giovann Godboard. Any other names or titles were struck by an invasive ban-hammer only sparsely seen several systems outside of this netscape. Giovann was a wastecard themself, holoforming their own monits and raystrands to get by. Retroforming them would be a better word, since Giovann was taking algorhythms from old card battlers and roguelike games, and crafting them into their own ill-gotten currency. They almost always had bugs, but that was part of the fun. “Get off my spot, leechloader.” A threadrig pushed Giovann’s leg off the couch. Giovann took off their visor and looked the man up and down with a look that said,”Your spot?” “Yeah. I coined this model and even had a bioscope construct it for me a couple years back. Even though I ain’t around much no more, still my spot. Code’s got my signature on it.” The threadrig was an older model, hollow in places, equipped with missing textures and placeholder animations. He smelled of burning cores and misplaced fans. He was ruder than the sun on a day like this, shining down with righteous rage come from suffering. Giovann got up and in his face. The threadrig glitched and gulped. “Actually, buster, code sigs went out of style last decade. Laws changed. Now, if I so pleased, I could steal your model off the Ultranet and splash my name across it. Wouldn’t take but a quick-modeler to update the construct, bioscope built or not. And the worst part is, that still wouldn’t make it mine or yours.” “Why you little socksucker, I’ll crackle your limbs up and over-” “Take it, I’m leaving.” Giovann got up and left, donning their Holo-skates and skimming the binarium beneath their feet. As they left, the couch extended into hardwood flooring underscoring 4 12 foot walls, just big enough to reach the edge of the bridge above. The room was equipped with hyper-cool shelves, inductor panels, and entertainment stations the whole way through, and the shelves were stocked with high-grade nutrient packages that would last the threadrig for cycles upon cycles. The man looked around in awe, now surrounded by a chance at comfort. “Heh. Cocky bastard won’t last long.” He took a seat on the couch, which had reconstructed itself into a full-length futon with new and bright cushions lined with LED gemstones. A beer holoformed at his side. “Not bad, though, kid.” As they skated away, a smile brew upon their lips like hot coffee in the morning. They flipped their visor back down as sirens and raystrands yelped from behind them. They turned a corner, and Tasker holotransports followed soon after. “STOP WHERE YOU ARE, BUG. DROP YOUR VISOR AND CORDWEAR. WE WILL END YOUR INSTANCE.” The transports curved and ebbed above sidewalks and alleyways with a finality that struck security in the eyes of cowering passerbys. Though, they were lines behind Giovann. “YOU HAVE BEEN RECOGNIZED FOR PATTERNS SIMILAR TO KNOWN ENCRYPTIONWARE. SEVERAL MILLION PROGRAMS AND RIGS ARE WITHOUT MONITS BECAUSE OF YOU.” The voice was biological. Giovann recognized it. Captain Derrick E. Bhugg. “You know how this ends, Captain. I’m always on top of Kazwackian hardware. Your transports just can’t keep up!” BOOM! Giovann zipped forward several lines of code in an instant, zig-zagging across the in-betweens of skyboxscrapers, all the while, they printed new monits and duplicated them to folks they passed by on the street. They whizzed up a holoformed terminal on their wrist and sent blue and yellow lightforms of themself hurdling through random integers across town. The tasker transports followed the fake Giovanns like moths to RGB ram. “ARRRGHH! ALL UNITS, I’M ISSUING A FULL SCAN OF THIS DIGISCAPE! I DON’T CARE HOW LONG IT TAKES, FIND THAT ROACH! This colony has enough problems as it is” Derrick finished. Planes above the streets below, Giovann sat on the edge of a building, chowing down on some code-corn. “Full or quick scan, I’m untraceable, pal.” Giovann laid back and laughed to themself before–,”WAH! Woah! Haha! Hey! How long have you been here?” A woman lied next to them, unannounced. It was Fio De’ortel, a friend. She was dressed in a green holoskin overlain with a bioconstructed dress of a similar pattern. Her hands were creased with calluses and wrinkles. A long day come to an end. “Why are you on my skyboxscaraper outrunning task management again?” Her tone was like a bear ready to carry her cub back to the den. “Look, I didn’t mean to come here. When you’re in the script, it’s hard to focus on much else. I just came to the nearest place I felt I belonged.” “Well, while you belong, you’ll use some of that scripting prowess to clean and cook for me. Else I make a scan of my own?” “Yes ma’am” Giovann smiled coyly, bowing their head. “Oh, and please don’t bother the guests. It’s a political thing tonight. If you need me, direpathy me. I’ll leave my inbox open.” Fio winked at the script scoundrel and closed the door, locking it behind her as Giovann flicked a switch on her illustrious gas stove, catching their sleeve on fire. “AGH! Pfoo ppfoo!” Giovann blew it out, only slightly singed. “I’ll never understand bioscape systems. How do you get gas from all the way up there into a room in the colony? And moreover…” Giovann grabbed a frayed and worn cookbook from eras long passed,”How do you saute again?” A lazy sunday afternoon. The sun’s a cold twinkle in xyr eye, a forgotten leisure deprived of warmth. Still, xey play xyr banjo. Xey tongue the words like rotten butterscotch, bittersweet ain’t the phrase, nah, more sweet and sour: “Give me a break from rainy days, I swear upon my life’s upside, Your picture and my wavy ways, I’ll never see you cry. No I’ll never see you cry” The breath stirs. The emotion is a reefed sail on a sea of regrets. Not a one or zero in sight or beyond. Where are we? “Ah, but it’s not where we are, but where we were!” xey say with a glimmer on the edge of xyr mouth. “You aren’t but a voice, betrothed to the tale.” Xey smile,”I was once like you. Years ago now. But you know that, or you will.” “Stay a while, listener. Grab up a seat. A real seat with a real cushion. Feel it under you. Feel the breeze along yourself. Can’t you smell it now? Like soft linen, or fresh rain. This place is a respite. Use it well.” Ah, it’s true. Truer than words unspoken. The place is lined with knick knacks and bottles. Heirlooms haunted by struggle, now adorn the walls as a reminder of good old days. But who are xey? “You may call me what you like, listener, although I decline to justify myself to you. I’d only hope you’d do the same.” Xyr voice trots inside the breeze, as if coming from a heartbeat nearby. “The waters are cool, but not cold. Sometimes, the fish come up and nip at my feet. I’ve named a few of them. Fish don’t seem to live long.” Xey breathe a long breath out. Xyr face slims. The brow drops. A swallow. “Can I get you something to drink? Some grub? Oh, don’t be coy now.” Xey get up with patience. With prosperity. It’s refreshing. Moments later, although it feels like a crossfade transition effect, xey return with an assortment of fruits, vegetables, and snacks on a platter, as well as juice and a large berry sangria in a pitcher. “Help yourself, it’s just us out here.” Xey reach out to touch your face, not to invade your space, just to fix it. Xyr hands are creased leather, warm and ancient. “I like your hair like that. Stay a while?” But it’s an impossible ask. The strings grow tight around the limbs. We have to go back. “Ah, I see. Go then, and become more from what you learn, listener. I’ll be waiting for the next lull.” Xyr face disappears into a dark fog that encroaches all. It’s jarring. The whole thing’s being pulled around in different directions. Gravity flips. And then… They were a mistranslated batch of secrets and shadows sprawled across the asphalt and alleyway walls like dancing daffodil petals on the sherbet sky. Together, though, they walked with animosity and confidence. Steps echoed against the heavy city rain like warnings. The girl wore a deep leather trench coat over her flowery baby blue blouse. Her posture told onlookers her attitude before they even saw the runny mascara on her cheeks. Olive Herder, usually a painting made up to deter unwanted visitors from the truth of the speakeasy back home, now turned an uneasy and hurt young woman. She looked over to Drakken, her brother, and the syndicate’s underboss. His face cold, stone, grim, and dead set on revenge. A gloved hand with eloquent watches and rings pat Drakken on the back, snapping him out of his haze. The hand of Iwoben Frug - the caporegime - inspired steadiness and a resolute promise to the Herders, but more than that, security in all things. Iwoben’s other hand was sporting a Thompson submachine gun equipped with a magazine that exceeded the barrel in length engraved with the letters “L” and “O”. Behind him, a broad 6 lines of made men in dark grey and brown suits. The only light came from the many cigars being lit and unlit as they walked. And ahead of them all, Avonistad Willowurr, the period at the end of the sentence, and the syndicate’s current reigning boss. He walked with a stride that commanded intrigue and respect, and despite the dire circumstances, he would not diversify his speed. His cufflinks and pleats would tell you that he was a gentleman. The scars and marks from his fingers to his wrists would tell you why. It was as if each brick he walked departed in such a way that he would always avoid the cracks. Not by accident, either. Avon tipped his hat to Olive, the water that fell was the blood she had seen him spill so many times before. He spoke a word to her that bounced off the men and guns as if ordered to: “Promise.” She nodded her head in shame. He looked at her again and tipped his chin up to the sky. Amidst the rain and the pain, she didn’t catch that Avon shed a tear when he had said it. He spoke again, his eyes opened from their squinted position as if to correct what meaning Olive had taken prior: “Promise,” he said with a different inflection. Olive’s brow narrowed from unease, to satisfaction. His word was the future. It was already done. She dropped her hand that she rested on the other tricep and squared up her shoulders with a shake. Iwoben tossed her a pistol. She onced it over and realized it wasn’t “a” pistol, it was the pistol. The one that Dolly, that sleazebag that broke her heels, robbed her with. The one that she had only mentioned in passing to Drakken. Her grip tightened around the metal, she matched Avon’s gaze, raised in expectance: “Promise.” She nodded with a righteous rage, seen before only by the men that surrounded her.

“Interrupted Podcast” by P. Orin Zack [07/28/2019]   **Chapter 3** Craig zoomed the chart to full screen, leaned back in his office chair, and glared at the results of his query. He’d been poking around in the conflict analytics data store on and off for weeks now, looking for something that could explain a gut feeling that was dogging him, and now, finally, the trace on this chart reflected it. His jagged course through the agency had brought him a modicum of satisfaction, having landed him the task of monitoring the dynamics of influencers and their followings to feed the projections used for planning future actions by the agency. He’d been feeling that something had been changing of late, and now he knew what it was. What he didn’t know was how or why it was happening. “Confirmation,” he muttered to himself as he opened the d0cument where he kept his notes, “finally.” He flicked the mouse wheel a few times to scroll to the bottom, but before he’d had the chance to update his observation log, the reflection in his monitor changed. Someone was standing behind him, blocking the entry to his cube. He closed his hands and rested loose fists aflank the keyboard. “I hoped I wouldn’t have to do this, Craig.” The voice behind him was respectfully quiet. His manager had a reputation for understated authority. It was generally safer to have him yelling at you. At least then you knew he didn’t mean it. Craig slowly swiveled his chair and looked up at Frank Devers. “Do what, sir?” Devers turned and headed towards his office. Craig glanced nervously around his cube, then rose and followed. A hush and buzz swept the floor at the sight of the usually rebellious intelligence analyst following meekly as a beaten dog might shadow his master. After catching worried looks on a few people’s faces, he slowed to glance behind him. A security detail was heading towards his cube. He swallowed hard, and picked up the pace. A woman wearing a badge coded for HR was standing beside the door when Devers opened it and ushered him in. She followed, closed it behind her, and took a vacant chair at the small conference table. Craig looked at her for a few seconds, and then turned towards Devers, who laced his fingers before him on the table and gazed expectantly at him. The man’s tactic was familiar: let the accused hang himself. Craig had seen him do it often enough in staff meetings to not want to play that game, so he smiled and took a calming breath. HR apparently didn’t have a copy of that rulebook, so she leaned forward and crossed her arms. “Did you call me up here to waste my time, Frank?” “Mr. Park?” he said, turning towards Craig. “You heard her. Do you have anything to say for yourself?” “I’ve told you before,” he said. “I was doing my job, scouring the data store for behavioral patterns. That includes records of events that do not meet the requirements for suspicious behavior.” “Your job,” Devers said, stressing the latter word, “is to monitor the activities of those influencers in the list you were assigned. Not just anyone who you damn well please to monitor. You’ve been here long enough to know that we operate under certain strictures.” “But sir,” he said, “I did find a pattern.” “I don’t care if you found the Loch Ness Monster. If it was outside your assigned area, it doesn’t matter. You misused agency resources, and possibly exposed us to the kind of oversight that would prevent you from even going to the bathroom in private. What we do here is far too important to risk the entire operation on another one of your incessant wild goose chases. Now, you’ve been warned about this before.” He glanced at the woman from HR. “Twice. I don’t have any choice, here, Craig. According to the rules we all live by, I have to suspend you for a month, and you have to re-qualify before getting your access restored.” The HR woman extended her hand, palm up. “Your badge, please?”   When a security contractor handed him a box with all of the personal items from his cube after he was escorted to the lobby, Craig wondered what the fine distinction was that separated suspension from whatever the current pleasantry for firing might be. It certainly wasn’t whether they subjected you to the veiled threats that masqueraded as an exit interview. After all, anyone who is granted a security clearance is endlessly reminded of the penalty for revealing classified information. The whole experience had left him dazed. He’d only just managed to get the data analysis engine to spit out a solid correlation, and all he could take with him was what he remembered of the criteria he’d entered. Well, that, and the image of those ganged traces. They might as well have been carved into his mind. As he slid the box into the back seat of his hybrid, he wondered again what the pattern might mean, what could have caused it, and whether it was, intrinsically or on balance, a good thing or a bad thing. His morning utterly ruined, Craig drove aimlessly around the D.C. metro area until he realized that it was now nearly noon, and he was getting hungry. When he glanced around to see where he’d ended up, he chuckled in recognition at the sight of an independent coffee shop. This was the place in Georgetown where he’d convinced Kelly, one of the other trainees at the time, to join him for an illicit undercover trip to investigate the woman responsible for a series of suspicious overseas phone calls. Amused at the reflection of the scene in ‘The Princess Bride” where a drunk and dejected Inigo Montoya had returned to where his own journey had begun, he parked and headed for the door. He’d just collected his white chocolate mocha and turned to find a seat when his blonde quarry from that self-defined mission appeared in front of him. “Ron?” she said uncertainly, using the pseudonym he’d taken on while infiltrating the activist group where he’d first encountered her. “You don’t look well. What happened?” He took a slow breath. “Hi Melissa. I’m in enough trouble as it is. You can use my real name.” “All you ever told us back then was your first name, Craig. You do have another one, don’t you?” “Park,” he said. “Um, do you have time to chat? I kinda need to unload.” She nodded. “Then you’re not okay. Sure. I’ve been having a mid-day funk for the past week or so. Find us a table. I’ll get something and join you in a few minutes.” Feeling self-consciously an out-of-work spy, Craig got them a spot beside the window, and turned to watch the people outside while he stewed. He’d first met Melissa as a side-effect of an assignment he’d been given while a trainee at the agency. It was intended to be a practical introduction to investigative field work, and his target was Derek Boa, the founder of an odd group called Constitutional Evolution. After introducing himself as ‘Ron’, he cozied up to them so he could evaluate Boa’s abilities as a leader and report on the group’s activities. They used role-playing to assess proposed changes to the structures and processes of the federal government. Ms. Fox played a sort of dual role there, because she was both an artist and the daughter of a congressman. She’d blended the two in her freelance work, creating and selling pointedly political greeting cards. Those international conference calls were the result of an assignment that Boa had given her: define and demonstrate ‘peacefare’. Seeing her reflection in the window, he turned back around as she placed a pastry in front of each of them, and then sat down with her latte. “Thanks,” he said, and took a bite. She watched him curiously for a moment while sipping her drink, then lowered it and said, very quietly, “What do you need to talk about?” “I saw something this morning.” Another bite. “A pattern in the data.” He suddenly stopped, frowned at the table briefly, and then peered at her with a pained look. “Tell me something. Do you believe in coincidence?” She flashed a sly smile. “You do know that my father was a congressman, don’t you?” “Sure. Why?” “Well, from what he tells me, a lot of times, what looks like coincidence is just someone playing you. An awful lot of what passes for business as usual in government is carefully stage-managed. You, of all people, should know that, Craig. That is the business you’re in, after all, isn’t it? So, what happened? What was your ‘coincidence’?” He took another sip of his mocha. “I was suspended this morning. Immediately after seeing that pattern. Before I had a chance to even write a note about it.” “Like someone was watching you?” He chuckled. “I work at an intelligence agency. What do you think? Of course someone was watching me. But my job there is to find patterns in the data.” “Just not that pattern, huh?” “Seems so.” She slid her hand towards him a few inches. “Can you tell me about it? Without breaking all those rules you live under, I mean?” He shrugged. “I don’t see why not. There’s nothing about any classified projects in there. All of the source data I used was from publicly available sources. It’s just that...” “What?” “Well, if there’s some cause for the pattern, that might be classified, it might be the effects of some black ops project used against the American people. I have no way to know. The whole thing is giving me a headache.” Melissa sat back in her chair and nibbled at the pastry. When his breathing slowed, and he unclenched his eyes, she spoke very gently. “A few years ago, you walked in off the street on one of our work sessions. We didn’t know you from Adam. You could have been a curiosity-seeker, a possible collaborator, or our worst nightmare. We’d had trouble with strangers before, so several of us glanced at Derek for some guidance. He didn’t seem concerned, so we just let it play out. And believe me, when you freaked out about my labeling the press in our mobile as the ‘C.C.C.P.’, I had some serious reservations. After you left, I asked him why he didn’t challenge you right off the bat.” “What did he say?” She smiled and glanced away momentarily. “He said you presented as far too earnest to be real, which probably meant you were really nervous about what you were doing. Anyone who really meant us harm would have had her mind in the game. So he thought that if there was no way to know, he’d go with whichever assumption gave us more to work with. That’s why he let you play whatever game you came to play.” She paused and took another sip of her latte. “You have pretty much the same problem. Which assumption would give us the most to work with, that you’ve run afoul of some even more insidious agency than the one you work for, or that your suspension is actually an opportunity?” His dour mood disrupted, Craig took a deep breath and looked out the window. “Since you’ve put it that way, the thought of what I saw being the work of some black op is scarier than I want to think about, so let’s go with plan B. There’s a definite pattern in the data. Let’s see what we can figure out about it.” “Good,” she said happily. “So what did you see?” “A few things,” he said, and downed the last of his pastry. “And they all seem to have started at about the same time, several weeks ago.” He held up a hand and started ticking off the fingers. “One: politics is losing its grip on people. And I don’t just mean eyeballs. Not only have the political shows, podcasts, YouTube channels and so forth lost viewers, the masses seem to be losing interest in the political world as a whole. It just doesn’t interest them any more.” Melissa shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s a good thing.” He lowered his hand a bit. “Really? If you’re still making political greeting cards, isn’t your livelihood dependent on people’s continued agitation over political issues? How have sales been lately? Could that funk you mentioned be related to a recent loss in interest by your followers?” She opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it again. “Two:” he continued, ticking off the next finger, “the people who are still entrained by politics, the ones who go out to events, are increasingly the hardcore, the ones most likely to spark violence.” “Like the weekend riot at the Canadian border crossing in Blaine?” “Exactly. But not just there. And three: conflicts that don’t end in violence have been getting resolved more easily than they should. If the issue isn’t pointed enough to draw the hardcore, the people who do show up have been capitulating for little to no reason.” He lowered his hands. “It’s like the population’s been drugged or something.” “Drugged...” The way she said the word, Craig sensed there was some deeper thought on her mind. She had a faraway look in her eyes, so he sipped his mocha and waited for her to finish processing whatever had seized her imagination. “Or maybe,” she said, snapping back to alertness, “the ‘drug’, or whatever that means, just wore off. You could look at it either way. People have gotten so involved in politics as entertainment, and maybe they’ve finally had enough of it. What’s actually normal here, being overengaged in politics or bored by it?” He shrugged. “Either way, there’s been a change. To paraphrase Mr. Boa, the question just became, ‘which state gives us more to work with?’ Are we better off with or without both the risks and benefits of a hyper-politicized world?” “Good question. Let’s find out what Derek thinks.” After motioning for Craig to take the seat beside her, she pulled out her phone, sent a brief text, and set the phone face-up on the table. “Hi, Mel,” he said after she scooped up the phone and accepted the call. “It’s been a while. What’s up?” “Derek, I just ran into an old friend. Say hello.” She angled the phone towards Craig. “Ron? If you’re still at the same job, isn’t this a bit risky?” Craig winced. “It’s okay. You can use my real name. I’ve been suspended.” “Sus—? Are you in trouble? Is there anything I can do to help? Well, anything I can do remotely?” He flashed the camera at what was obviously a motel bed for a moment. “I’m kinda out of town right now.” Melissa pointed the phone at herself again. “So where are you, and when will you be getting back?” “The cheapest place I could find in Blaine. And to be honest, I don’t have a clue when I’ll be back. I’ve got a court date, and I can’t leave the area until they tell me I can.” Craig crowded Melissa so they’d both be in view. “The border—? Please tell me you weren’t responsible for the incident last weekend?” He bit his lip and grinned. “Kinda. Yeah. I made some suggestions to the protest organizers.” Melissa closed her eyes and shook her head gravely. “What were you even doing out there? Washington State is a long way from D.C.” “I was invited. Look, you both know how I nerd out over changes to the sociopolitical dynamic. Something’s been going on in the past few weeks. The public response to political news like the new Border Patrol rule change has been downright schizophrenic. People are either just tuning it out or getting way into people’s faces about it. There’s no middle ground. Anyway, with all the action at the southern border or at the new checkpoints around Indian land, it’s become impossible to get people at quiet crossings like at Blaine to even pay attention to what’s going on. So the organizers there asked for my help.” “So inciting those drivers to pick fights with Border Patrol was your doing?” Craig held up a hand. “We can talk about all that later, Derek. The reason I was suspended was that I pretty much saw the same pattern. Only there’s more to it than that. And I’m worried that it might be the result of some sophisticated psychological op, maybe by one of our own agencies, or maybe by some foreign player.”   **Chapter 4** Bert was bummed. He didn’t see Ermaline at all for the remainder of yesterday’s crossing, which he’d spent brooding in the darkened TV lounge on the lower deck. What was supposed to have been a touristy pedestrian stay-over in Manitowoc with a friend and collaborator had turned into a lonely string of movies he wasn’t interested in at a multiplex with stale popcorn. And the long hours of the morning, waiting for the two-o’clock return trip, were filled with far too much coffee. So when Captain Forrest stopped at the table where he was ignoring his dinner, and asked after Ermaline, he winced and avoided even the pretense of a response. Mears State Park, which was about twenty minutes south of the ferry port, was the last stop on the route he’d charted for them before they set out. It was nearly eight now, a few hours before closing time, and Bert hadn’t found anywhere to secrete the final set of wind chimes in the park. He sat at a picnic table, staring out at the waves on Lake Michigan that reflected glints of the setting sun. The last two pods lay on the table in front of him, one of them opened, and he idly stroked the interior texture that he’d spent so much time and effort designing. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the sensation of touching those Dremeled ridges evoked the memory of caressing the strings of his mother’s pedal harp in the family’s combination store and music studio. Music ran deep in his family, a subterranean stream that surfaced in various ways across the generations, but the theme that united all of those expressions, until recently, had been strings of one sort or another. The harp lessons that his mother and sister taught at the shop were the bait that landed sales of the instruments they had on display, but his nephew’s obvious talent on harp and keyboards were not where his own interests lay, and Bert was at least partly to blame for that. The mystery of exactly how the movements of his hands, the way he held the instrument, and every aspect of their design affected not only the sounds he could make, but also their effects on others, mesmerized him. When he dove into the explanations, he emerged drenched in the gloriously complex simplicity of the math that undergirded it all. In order to understand it better, he taught himself to play other sorts of instruments, wind and tympani, synths and theramin. And then he started tinkering with ideas for improving what he saw as flaws in a number of them. It was in the midst of this effort that he discovered the relationship between Sacred Geometry and the production of music. After sketching out plans for how this would apply to harps, the core of the family’s business, he returned again to the performance part of the problem, and sought an instrument which would pare the myriad complications of design and execution to its crystalline essence. That was the beginning of the rift he’d torn among the family, and the reason he ultimately left the business he’d only recently saved from falling into receivership. To Bert, solving the business’ problems was simply the mathematical proof of how to achieve a different balance. Once he’d done it, he lost interest and turned the performance of that new pattern over to his sister. But the pattern he sought in the other realm held far more alluring secrets, and once he realized that a simple horn was the quarry he was after, it became obvious to everyone that they were better off parting company. It was also when he faced a much harder problem. Literally. The interior of woodwinds, like the bamboo pod he was stroking, could be tricked up with a Dremel if they were large enough and designed to be opened. But a cornet, the brass instrument he had set his sights on, seemed to present an intractable problem. Using the ideas behind Sacred Geometry to improve the sound or durability of a harp, for example, was straightforward compared to what he would have to do to improve the effect that a performance had on an audience. To accomplish that, Bert knew that he would have to manipulate, not the sounds produced by the instrument, but the Chi produced by the musician while playing the instrument. And because Chi was generated in a person’s metaphysical and manifestational core, there was no way to capture, much less focus or transform it, using any instrument that was played exclusively with your fingers. To do that required a wind instrument. Sighing deeply, Bert closed the pod and balanced it across his two open palms. He adjusted his hands to roll it over and expose the mouthpiece built into the side like that of a flute. He looked solemnly around the park as the sun continued sinking towards the fresh-water horizon. A few people were milling around. Someone had come to walk their dog along the lake. ‘This was the final set of pods’, he silently lamented. ‘There had to be a solution.’ Focusing on the dog-walker, he wondered what was nearby. Elsewhere on this journey, they’d placed pods at a distance from the Nautilus curve, so there was certainly precedent. Ermaline had groused about the variance in Louisiana that pushed the placement clear into Texas, after all. And he wasn’t too concerned about the repetitive excursions caused by placing the previous set on the S.S. Badger. Even the one in Canada was an exception. But in every case, he’d seen a balancing advantage to that loss of precision. Looking again at the pod, he hoped there was a similar circumstance to be found here. He realized that a few minutes must have passed while he was lost in reverie when he felt a wet nose jostle his hand. The dog was crowding him on the bench, the nails of its forepaws ticking and scratching against the redwood as it strained to reach the pod. Jerking to alertness, he stood and held the pod aloft with one hand while motioning for calm with the other. “Hey, hey,” he said, amused. “It’s not a throwing stick.” The dog’s owner jogged up a moment later, caught his breath and said, “Sorry about that,” while herding the dog away from Bert. Puzzled that the man would take his dog for a walk wearing a tuxedo, Bert smiled and said, “Aren’t you a bit over-dressed for this?” Laughing, the man shrugged. “To tell you the truth,” he said, “I didn’t really intend to take the dog to a wedding, but whatever.” “A wedding. So there’s a church nearby?” “For the ceremony? Nah. That was done at a real unique Bed and Breakfast a few miles from here. Gorgeous place. The main building, where the party was held, is a six-sided thing. The ceremony itself was held at the gazebo on the grounds. That’s got seven sides.” It took Bert a few seconds to reply. “Seriously? There’s a six-sided B&B with a seven-sided gazebo here in Pentwater?”   Bert stared at the favorites list on his phone for a long time the following morning before putting it back on the motel nightstand and somberly getting dressed. The second night without Ermaline’s company was no better than the first. He’d gotten used to her rigorously technical approach to everything, even though it grated against the jazz-inspired methodology which was reflected in both his designs and his decisions. After loading everything into the car and dropping the room key off at the front desk, he went to the attached restaurant for a late breakfast before heading over to the B&B to place the final set of pods. With no-one to distract him, he sat nursing a third coffee refill after paying the bill. While he considered how to pitch the final set of wind chimes, he became aware of a wave of calm that swept over him. Looking around the restaurant, he noticed that the room had gotten a bit mellower as well: people’s voices had quieted, and the kids had stopped fidgeting. The effect lasted for nearly fifteen minutes, and then slowly faded, like a social eclipse of some sort. Fascinated by the turn of events, he quickly glanced around, looking for whatever might have been responsible. Finding nothing unusual, he pulled out his phone to get directions to the B&B, and noticed that it was a bit after eleven. “Does the time…?” he muttered to himself, and then froze. “The time,” he repeated, “of course!” The ferry would be half-way to Wisconsin. “She hung them,” he whispered as he pushed his chair back. “The Badger must have just crossed the curve.” Ermaline had panicked about this, he recalled, but everything was fine, no damage done. He hastily returned to the car and pulled out the brochure. According to the schedule, the ferry made two round trips a day during the regular season, so it would cross the line at 11:00 and 5:00 during the day, and then again at 10:45 and 4:30 overnight. The field he’d created just had its first heartbeat, like a newborn taking its first breath. And now he needed to complete the process by placing the final set of pods. It occurred to him during the short drive to the B&B that if the new pattern of beats was a performance by the ferry, the tablature would represent each day as a measure. The four-note rhythm would be punctuated with measures containing fewer beats on holidays, and the few weeks at the start of the season with only a single round trip would be like an introductory riff. The whole thing felt like a jazz cycle, a performance whose intent was filtered through his pods, mirroring the guidance he’d given Mark Laraby about inspiring soldiers to action through the Chi energy in his performance of bugle calls. Excited by the confluence of ideas, he smiled broadly as the hexagon-shaped B&B came into view. While he looked for a parking space, a jazz riff by his idol, Cream drummer Ginger Baker, galloped through his imagination. Bert was psyched now. As he surrendered to the genius of the man’s rhythms, he began to envision his own impending performance, in which he convinces the manager to let him place the last two pods here. The reality, however, turned out to be a bit more problematic. For one thing, he had to pitch to two people at once, but the kicker was that they didn’t seem to be getting along very well. After one of them apologized for their having to stand in for the owners, who were out of town, the other made a point of saying that they were nevertheless in full charge of the inn, and could make whatever decisions were needed. The first, an older gentleman named George, spoke with a faint New England accent. His partner-cum-adversary in the encounter looked to be a recent graduate, her body language dripping with suspicion. Bert leaned in before he spoke. “I’m really glad you agreed to see me,” he said. “This time of year, I imagine you might be very busy, what with all the weddings and other special events you host, besides the regular stream of tourists who stay here.” George nodded. “You’re right about that, sir. Now, you said that you had crafted something specifically for the inn?” “Is that what’s in your case?” Iris asked, giving a bit of the side-eye to the utility box that usually housed his cornet. “If this is a ploy to try to sell us yet another branded piece of crap for the gift shop, you can just get out right now.” Bert feigned a mortal wound. “Something for the gift shop? I wouldn’t cheapen this fine inn with such an abomination. I am an artist and a musician, ma’am, and what I have here,” he placed the case on the table and opened it, “is a one-of-a-kind item!” They glanced at one another, and George hazarded, “Bamboo wind chimes?” “Not mere wind chimes, sir,” Bert said, carefully cradling one in his hand as if it were crystal, and slowly opening it with the other. “These are musical instruments for the soul. Do you see the pattern of ridges on the interior?” He held it closer for each to see. “When people have strong emotions, as at the wedding you hosted last night, they project a special kind of energy. You must know that. I’m sure you have felt it?” George nodded in agreement, but Iris sat back and crossed her arms. “And what,” she said icily, “do you contend that those scratches do with this alleged energy?” Bert shifted slightly to favor George. “They focus and amplify that energy,” he said smoothly, “and project it to the gathering, making the ceremony so much more affecting.” “Even if it could do what you claim—.” Iris cut him off. “What utter bullshit! This isn’t the Dark Ages, you know.” “No,” Bert said, slowly turning to meet her glare, “it isn’t. Tell me something, then. How much of the EM spectrum are you an expert in? What do you know about gravity waves? Quantum dipoles? Huh?” He took a breath and plowed on before she had a chance to react. “Do you know how many times artists depicted the essence of major breakthroughs in physics before any physicists had figured it out? Every. Single. Time. Maybe Arthur C. Clarke said it best: ‘Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.’” George looked lost, while Iris narrowed her eyes and shook her head slowly. “Now. Do you want this inn to be world-famous for being the showplace for the most important advance in social engineering in centuries? Do you want people to book rooms here from all over the world just to experience the effects of these ‘bamboo wind chimes’?” “What I want,” she said finally, “is proof. Either you demonstrate this alleged miracle of yours, right now, shut up and leave, or I’ll call the police and have you arrested.” Bert smiled and picked up one of the pods.

The sun beat down terribly upon the sand, as waves lapped with an oddly peaceful grace. There were about 200 yards of beach enclosed by cliffs that stretched up at least 40 feet. Atop the cliffs, palm trees and jungle foliage overgrew in a wild ecosystem. Midway down the beach, there was a pass that led further into the jungles and up the cliffs. Opposite was a still, calm ocean. The scene would be regarded as beautiful, like paradise, if it hadn't been for the four bodies that lay across the beach of the cove. The beach stretched from south to north, and the first of them to wake was the furthest south. She was a redhead with green eyes, in her mid to late twenties, named Abby. Her head pounded with a headache, and her jeans grew uncomfortable in the sand and salt water. When she finally came to, the sun was too bright. It was painful just to open her eyes. In the few glimpses she managed, she saw the other bodies, the cliffs, and what she thought was a ship on the water. Confusion overwhelmed the fear in Abby. As her headache raged, she saw a figure standing on the beach. "Hey, hey wait!" the figure called, but the voice sounded far away. "Come back!" it yelled again, sounding distant. Focusing hard, she saw it was another woman. Her cries sounded far away because she was yelling out towards the boat. When her eyes finally adjusted, she saw a man lying nearby, facedown in the shallow water. Suddenly, she sprang into action. Crawling over to the man, she managed to croak out, "Help!" The lady stopped shouting immediately and looked over to Abby. Sarah had shorter hair than Abby, styled in a bob, and it was darker too. She took a few moments to look between the crawling woman and the man in the water. Once the dots connected, Sarah looked back at the ship going off into the distance, sighed, and ran over to help Abby with the man. Sarah rolled the man over and attempted to drag him out of the water. She underestimated his weight greatly and ended up desperately trying to keep the man's head above the water. Abby finally gathered strength and helped bring the man up the beach. The two, still not having said a word to one another, fell to the sand. Out of air, they laid on either side of this man. Between breaths, Sarah managed to ask, "...Is he..?" Abby picked her head up, looked at Sarah, then looked at the man. He was a tall caucasian with short, brown, messy hair. Abby placed her fingers under the man's nose. "He's breathing," Abby replied. Sarah looked up and out, across the ocean, but the boat was gone. She sighed again and let her head fall to the sand. "What's going on?" Abby finally asked. Sarah turned her head to Abby and opened one eye to look at her, "You think I have any idea?" Before they could continue their conversation, a groan was heard from further down the beach. Someone else was waking up. This man also seemed tall, but had glasses that were broken at the bridge, and sported a scrappy baseball cap. He rolled over in the wet sand as a wave came up and splashed him from behind. His head shook and rattled. He looked up, halfway between the tree line and him, were the two women and the unconscious man. He watched Abby and Sarah get up and hurry over to him. They didn't even reach him yet, but he put his hand out. "No help, thank you," he said as he climbed to his feet. The two ladies stopped awkwardly watching him struggle. "I don't take help from strangers. I don't know you!" he added. "I'm Abby," she put her hands up to signal peace, "I think we're all in the same boat here." Nodding in agreement, the other said, "And I'm Sarah! Both of us just woke up here with no clue, exactly like you!" A few seconds of small waves crashing passed. "I'm Marc," he said. He looked past them at the last body. "Who's that?" he asked. "We're not too sure," Abby said, "We found him face down in the water and dragged him up here. That's when we saw you." "Where are we?" The silence was his answer. Nobody knew. "Just assume we know as much as you do," Sarah responded. Marc looked solemnly out to the sea. He turned back to them and said, "Come on, let's get further inland and get some shade." About ten feet from the tree line was a patch of tall palms that cast long shadows. "Here," Marc explained, "we can relax here. We still get the sea breeze." Sarah scoffed, "Relax!? I don't know about you, but the only thing keeping me from freaking out is the fact that I'm pretty sure this is all a dream!" "This isn't freaking out?" Sarah fell to her knees, holding her head in her hands, she began crying. "Calm down, let's think rationally," Marc reassured. Abby's reaction to the reality of their situation was not a meltdown but a shutdown. She was stone faced and silent the entire time Marc explained. "If you said there was a boat then that leads me to believe someone brought us here. The good news is that I think we are okay for the moment. If they truly wanted to harm us, then they could have when we were passed out. No, they brought us here for a reason." As Abby stared into the abyss, and Sarah cried into her own arms, Marc stepped back out towards the water. He turned and looked inland. For about 2 miles the jungle sprawled before hills poked out from the canopy. The tallest of these hills held a peak of black rock and thin wafts of steam rose from its mouth like a volcano. Sarah feared for her life, but Abby feared for her memory. It terrified her that she couldn't remember one thing, aside from her name. She looked intently into the sand, trying hard to remember something, anything. "Abby!" Marc's voice shook her out of her trance. "Abby, look! There's a cabin on that hill. It can't be more than two miles out!" Abby snapped back to reality. She went over to join Marc, as Sarah's weeps were reduced to sniffles. Looking east, into the thicket of the jungle, Abby struggled to see what Marc was pointing at. It was far, but sure enough, there was a cabin. "Do you think anyone lives there?" Abby asked. "Who cares!? Even if it only gives us shelter it might be worth it," Marc said. "So, what do we do?" "I think we should investigate. If I'm correct," Marc looked up at the sun, cupping his hands around his eyes. He looked out towards the ocean and to the tallest hill. Pointing to the ocean, he said, "That's west. Which puts the cabin east of us." "What about him?" Abby asked, gesturing towards the unconscious man. "We can leave Sarah with him. I'm sure we will be there and back before dark." "No!" Sarah cried out, "I am not staying here alone!" She quickly got back up to her feet. Her eyes and cheeks were left red by the constant rubbing. "Umm, okay. I'll stay here with Sleeping Beauty," Abby offered instead. "Fine," Marc said, "Sarah you come with me to the cabin, Abby you stay here." "I don't want to go into the jungle either!" Sarah protested. "We can't send one person alone into the jungle," Marc explained. "Can't we just wait 'till he wakes up?" She pleaded. "We don't know when, or if, he will!" Marc raised his voice. More tears streamed down Sarah's face, "Okay, okay! I'll go! I just don't want to be alone! Why do I feel like I am I the only one freaking out right now!?" Marc made his way over to the unconscious man. "Do you remember anything about your life before?" Abby asked Sarah, trying to calm her down. She shook her head, "no," in response, as more tears welled in her eyes. "What about you, Marc!?" she called over to him. Marc was now kneeling over the still body. "Nope, " he answered after a long, thoughtful pause, "Last thing I remember is just now waking up on the beach." He tapped the guy a few times on his face, but nothing. Abby began rubbing her backside. It was faint, but now rising. A pain stung her lower back. Without warning, the pain grew intense. "Ow! My back really hurts," she complained. "Now that you mention it, mine too. I thought I was got by a jellyfish, but now it really stings!" Marc said. Sarah winced as she touched her lower back. "Turn around Sarah," Abby said. "Be careful, please! It really hurts!" Sarah cried as she carefully turned around. Abby gingerly lifted the back of her shirt. Red letters spelled a word across her lower back. *THESEUS.* It wasn't spelled in any marker or pen. Abby raised a hand to her mouth as she realized it was a red, festering scar. "It's a brand," Abby realized. "I've been branded!?" Sarah screamed. "What about me?" Marc asked. Abby walked over to Marc and saw that he too had a brand labeled "*THESEUS*". She then looked down at the still sleeping man. "Should we check him?" she debated. "Yes," Marc answered," but first let's check you." Sure enough, after Marc checked her lower back, he discovered "*THESEUS*" branded into her back. "What does that mean?" Sarah asked. "That's who we are, I guess," Abby They all looked between one another. "Let's go. We are losing light. We have to get to that cabin," Marc said. "Don't you think you're moving a bit fast?" Abby asked, and lowered her voice to a whisper, "She can barely hold herself together." Marc looked over to Sarah. Dried tears stained her face as she was doing her best to inspect the burn. Every now and then a sniffle would escape her. "Then I'll go by myself," Marc decided. "That's way too dangerous! What if something happens to you? Can't we just wait at least one night? What's the harm!?" Abby argued. "The harm is we have no water! We have no food!" Marc's voice was stern enough that he caught Sarah's attention. He continued, "I'm not just going up there to the cabin. I'm looking for rivers, fruits, animals, anything we can use to survive. At the moment, we got nothing. If we wait until the morning we will have wasted what energy we have." Abby knew he was right. "I hate the idea of splitting up. Our group is too small already," she protested one last time. "Look," Marc tried his best to sit his broken glasses on his face, "I'll be quick. I won't go past the cabin. I'll be even faster if I'm alone. You three stay here and that way we won't be splitting as much." Abby was reluctant, but she agreed. Sarah was happy to stay on the beach. Marc headed towards the small path that led into the jungle and up the cliffs. Before disappearing into the trees, he said, "Stay safe. I'll be back before dark.

Horrific events occur daily, and unlike stories in books, they lack a clear beginning, middle, and end. As writers, we strive to weave a narrative from these chaotic moments, but sometimes events unfold so abruptly that it's impossible to capture their essence in words. This is one of those moments—a real-life experience that defies neat storytelling and left an irremovable mark on a 17 year old boy who just wanted an ice cream. If you are uncomfortable with more graphic depictions I suggest you stop reading. It was Friday, and Summer School just finished for the day. I had been feeling like a milkshake all day, particularly a McFlurry, which isn't exactly a milkshake but it’s close enough. The heat of the afternoon sun had turned my car into an oven, and I was craving something cold. I drove to the nearest McDonald's, about six minutes around the corner from the High School, with my windows down to let in the breeze. The usual sounds of the city—honking horns, distant chatter—filled the air. As I pulled up to the McDonald's, everything seemed normal. The parking lot was half-full and the drive through only had one other car. It must’ve happened before I got there; otherwise, I would’ve heard it with my windows down. I got in line, placed my order, and the lady on the microphone told me to pull forward. I did so, not paying much attention to my surroundings. Turning the corner to the first window to pay, I noticed something lying in the road across the street. At first, I thought it was just some garbage because I had avoided a paint can and some trash just minutes ago on the way here. But as I squinted, I realized it was a motorcycle, tipped over. "That's odd," I thought. "Hope somebody gets it soon." It didn't seem to be causing much traffic, just lying in the entryway to a parking lot, cars seemed to be passing by just fine. I wondered how it got there or if anyone would walk over to pick it up. When I reached the second window to pick up my order, the cars stopped at the red light had shifted slightly, giving me a better view. It was clearly an accident. Another car was parked on the shoulder with its hazards on. "I hope no one is hurt," I thought. I couldn't see anyone, but I noticed bystanders looking in the accident's direction. Then I heard sirens, the wail growing louder as a fire truck approached, its lights flashing. Behind it was an ambulance, which heightened my concern. I finally got my McFlurry and headed toward the exit to join traffic. The turn lane was still full, blocking my view, but the right lane was clear enough for me to merge in. As I eased into traffic, I noticed a truck creeping up behind me from down the street, its driver moving slowly and weaving between lanes, clearly distracted by the accident. The truck’s erratic motions and the driver’s fixation only added to the growing sense of unease as I rolled past the scene. As I creeped forward, I saw the EMTs rushing around. One of them turned and called back to the ambulance, his gloved hands cupped around his mouth, his voice barely audible over the wail of sirens, the murmur of onlookers, and the rumble of engines from nearby cars. Expecting to see someone injured but conscious, I glanced over, hoping for a less severe scene. Instead, what I saw was so shocking that it’s hard to imagine ever forgetting it. When I saw the accident, it felt like time came to a standstill, or perhaps it was just the slow pace of my car that made the scene feel eternal. I don’t even remember what song was on, it had become muted by my racing thoughts. Lying limp on the pavement in a red T-shirt was a man. His bald head, grotesquely split open, was a horrifying sight. Surrounding him was a halo of shattered glass, glittering in the harsh sunlight, and a bright pool of blood that seemed to paint the asphalt. Bits of his brain were scattered nearby, contrasting sharply against the black pavement. I felt my stomach churn as the smell of blood and gasoline penetrated my nostrils. Horrified, I let out an involuntary "Oh fuck, Jesus!" and turned away. Realizing I had slowed down significantly, I shifted into second gear and floored the gas, and then realizing I was now speeding, I braked and came to an abrupt stop before I rear-ended the car in front of me, merging into the left turn lane to access the highway. The red light seemed to last forever. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles turning white. The image of the man lying only a few hundred feet behind me stayed with me, seared into my mind. I could still see the halo of glass and the pool of blood in between blinks. Still stopped at the light, I texted Logan, telling him what I saw and that I would explain more when I was home. My surroundings faded away from me, leaving me in a void with my own thoughts. Two cop cars sped past, lights flashing, and I wondered if it had been a hit-and-run, forgetting that the car was parked on the shoulder. The light turned green, I was pulled from my daymare. The clutch was thrown into First, and gas flooded into the combustion chamber. I shot off like a rocket down the highway. The hum of the engine and the blaring music felt distant, like they were part of another world. My mind kept replaying the scene over and over. Every bump in the road jolted me back to the image of the man's lifeless body. I switched lanes absentmindedly, trying to shake the image from my mind, but it clung to me, a dark shadow I couldn't escape. The drive home was a blur. The usual landmarks felt unfamiliar, distorted by the surreal experience. I turned into my neighborhood and noticed a group of kids playing basketball in their yard, their laughter contrasting sharply with the horror I had just witnessed. The vibrant colors of the summer day seemed muted, overshadowed by the stark, red pool of blood that was now etched in my memory for eternity. As I pulled into my driveway, I felt a wave of relief mixed with lingering dread. I sat in the car for a moment, taking deep breaths, trying to ground myself. The house seemed eerily quiet as I stepped inside, my footsteps echoing as I walked through the hallway. I wanted desperately to tell one of my parents what I had seen, but neither were home. I collapsed onto my bed, the weight of what I had seen finally sinking in. The image of the man lying lifeless on the pavement haunted me, refusing to let go.

The forest is dark, its dense canopy allowing only slivers of moonlight to filter through. Each step I take is cautious as I navigate the path formed by intertwining roots. The full moon, bright and almost surreal, casts just enough light to guide me. The night is calm, with only a few clouds drifting lazily across the sky. *I must reach the other side. I have to get through.* Anxiety gnaws at me with each step. I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched, though no one is visible. My eyes dart around, finding nothing but shadows. The hoot of an owl breaks the silence—*Ooh, ooh. Ooh, ooh*—followed by the eerie laugh of a distant fox—*Ha, ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha.* Every sound heightens my tension, feeding my urgent desire to escape this forest. Just when I think I've reached the forest's edge, I stumble into a clearing. Disappointment and fear grip me, turning my muscles rigid. In the center of the clearing stands a lone figure, cloaked in shadows. My heart pounds in my chest, my thoughts race. *I hadn't anticipated this.* The figure steps closer, each movement deliberate and slow. *Move. Move!* I scream at myself to run, but my body remains frozen. The figure approaches, extending a hand. Despite the hood obscuring his face, I know it’s him—the man from my dreams, the one who always seems to be pursuing me. His touch is unexpected, gentle. He brushes my hair behind my ear, his fingers trailing softly down my neck, my shoulder, and my hand. "It's okay," he says. "You have something that does not belong to you." Trembling, I feel a deep discomfort rising from my stomach to my chest, then to my throat. I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. Instead, a small, dark snake slithers from my lips, falling to the ground. Another follows, then another, each one bringing a strange sense of relief. "That's all you need to release," he murmurs, his touch soothing. As more snakes emerge, my body convulses. With each snake expelled, I feel lighter, though confusion and pain cloud my mind. *I want it to stop,* but the man’s voice is calming, reassuring. "You are brave. You are courageous," he repeats, his touch tender on my hair and lips. When the last snake falls, he steps behind me. My mind screams in panic, but I can't move. His hands rest on my head, then glide down my neck and back, gripping something deep within me. He pulls slowly, and it feels like a root being extracted from my spine. The pain is intense, yet his other hand's caresses bring an odd comfort. "Just one last pull and you'll be free," he whispers. He tugs hard, and I scream in agony. Then, it's over. He touches my back again, and a cool, healing sensation spreads through me. "You are done," he says softly. "You are healed now. You are fully you, with nothing left of what was not yours. You are free now—free of the thoughts that were not yours, free of others' expectations, free of your need to control everything and everyone. You are free to feel, to think, to create the life you want." As his final words fade, I find I can move again. The moon still shines brightly above, the clouds few and scattered. I collapse to my knees and cry, releasing years of pent-up emotion. When the tears cease, I look around for the hooded figure, but he is gone. I'm alone in the clearing, under the moon's watchful gaze. *Did I imagine it? Did it truly happen?* I don't know. But as I make my way out of the woods, I carry with me a profound sense of calm. I carry myself—raw, true, and clear.

Red. Andrew awoke to the brilliant red of an alien sun beaming into his housing module through its single reinforced cupola. The workers of the planet Inferno needed no alarm clocks, though hardly by choice. The harsh radiation beating down on every meter of the planet rendered all but the hardiest of trinkets inoperable. As a result, the term for clocks itself has long gone archaic on the planet. A more primal, fiery heartbeat commanded the rhythm of the land - a blazing ruby red sun lifted all out of their cots like gears of a great stellar clockwork, all men and women breathing and rising in unison to greet the morning, bonded by the great and sole mission of the Infernite, to harvest plutonium, that precious metal. As Andrew rubbed his eyes fully awake, the crimson that had already soaked into every corner of the chamber finally intruded into his conscious mind too. Red walls, Red bed, Red sky, Red halls. He rose out of bed. Though he had labored for fifteen hours the night before and gone to bed in pitiable physical condition, his knees and back did not ache as he stood up. Though he had worked that same shift for all twenty years of his adult life, his hands bore no calluses, and his limbs free of scars. Though he had not seen real food in ages, he felt no hunger. His muscles, which only eight hours earlier were torn and beaten from the violent vibrations of heavy mining equipment, were fully healed and rested. Andrew commanded a deep breath, inhaling slowly, and found that his breath no longer rasped, nor were his lungs lacerated by the needle sharp dust that constantly hazed the mining tunnels. Every night while Andrew slept, his housing module worked tirelessly to restore him to optimal health, the best working condition. Nanobots dispensed and soaked into his flesh, restoring even the most superficial damage to organs and cells. Food and vitamins and electrolytes replenished through tubes and injected through needles. But perhaps the restorative treatment most loved by the miners, was a humble device built into the beds, right under where a pillow would rest. Buried inconspicuously under an inch or two of synthetic down, a device dispensing electromagnetic waves, precisely tailored to penetrate into the brain and gently massage away the agony of the workday, a telekinetic rejuvenation of sorts to go along with the bodily one. The memories of toil and backbreaking labor turned pleasant through a filter of cushy retrospect, the hellish red and nonstop cacophony of equipment turned to golden melody in post. Andrew’s gaze swung toward the only thing in the room that gleamed a resolute silver against the reddish glow from outside, his heat proof work suit, perched on a sturdy steel hangar, a clunky marriage of metal and fabric shining bright like alien chrome. This suit was Andrew’s second half, the second skin that allowed him to survive the flesh searing heat of Inferno’s inner crust, and retrieve from the guts of the planet deposits of nearly pure plutonium. The glowing blue metal that spawned its own market as mere mortals learned to conquer the heavens upon the backs of unstable atoms, transcended to gods, fervent with the haste of Hermes in their expansion. An entire galaxy’s worth of conquest erupting from one element, all pulled from the fiery core of one special planet. And so, Andrew did not look too far backward into his past as he rammed his first foot down the left leg of his heat suit. He did not consider the long days of crushing work that awaited him into the infinite distance of the future as he hoisted the heavy titanium thermal shield onto his chest. A dull click and prolonged hiss as the life support systems began running their loop. And as he lowered the final piece, the visor, over his face, the display already burning green with the day’s itinerary, he only pondered with a sweet swell of pride, that he stood upon the same stage as the most vital men in history.

In a quiet workshop, bathed in the soft light of a setting sun, there stood an old machine, once the pride of its operator. Bradley, the man who had relied on this machine for decades, was known for his precision and skill, producing work with an accuracy that was the envy of his colleagues. But lately, things had started to change. Bradley looked at his hands with a mix of frustration and sorrow. He remembered the days when every movement, every action, was carried out with perfect coordination. His body responded to his mind like an extension of his will. Together, they had crafted countless pieces, each one a testament to their shared precision. But now, his body stuttered and groaned. The once smooth movements had become rough and unpredictable. Bradley’s mind, still sharp and experienced, was no longer met with the body's former reliability. A slight tremor in his hands, a delay in his reflexes, and the tasks that used to be seamless now required rework and adjustment. Bradley sighed as he fumbled a small tool. It wasn't that his skills had diminished, he was certain of that. He had spent hours meticulously practicing his techniques, only to find them as sound as they had ever been. The issue lay within his body itself, aged and worn from years of faithful service. Each day, Bradley's frustration grew. He knew his body like an old friend, and watching it falter was painful. He tried everything he could think of—exercise, rest, even medical advice—but nothing restored it to its former glory. The once-proud body now seemed to resist his efforts, like an old machine whose joints no longer moved as they once did. "It's not your fault," Bradley whispered to himself, almost as if his body could hear him. "You've given me your best for so many years. It's just... time catching up with us." Despite his understanding, the frustration lingered. He wanted to produce the same quality of work he always had, but the body's inconsistencies made that impossible. The mind’s sharpness hadn't changed; the body had. Bradley’s friends noticed his struggle. They offered advice and assistance, but no one knew his body like Bradley did. They didn’t understand the bond he shared with it, the respect he had for the precision they once achieved together. One day, as Bradley sat in quiet reflection during a rare moment of peace, he realized something profound. It wasn’t just his body that had aged—it was their partnership. The body, in its prime, had magnified his skills, making him appear almost superhuman in his precision. Now, as it aged, it highlighted his own human limitations. Bradley decided that, instead of fighting his body's age, he would adapt to it. He began to move more slowly, with even greater care, understanding that his body needed more patience now. He listened to its aches and hesitations, learning to anticipate its quirks and compensate for them. In time, Bradley and his body found a new rhythm. The tasks they performed weren't as perfect as before, but they bore a different kind of beauty—one of resilience and adaptation. Bradley learned to accept that aging wasn’t about becoming clumsy or imprecise; it was about learning to work with the changes that time brings. The body, though old and worn, still had much to offer. And so did Bradley. Together, they continued their work, proving that precision wasn’t just about perfect actions, but about the perfect partnership between mind and body, no matter the age.

As is often with small communities or villages or clumps of houses, there is a focal point. Commonly it is the ale house, although for some it could be the church or the post office, for others a park or a pond, somewhere wives met to gossip, children played, dogs paid homage and lives met and diverged. For Here it was just a fork in the dusty road. An oak tree stood once at the fork in the road but after enduring a century of lightning strikes during summer storms, one night some years ago, the scorched and dying tree had fallen and blocked one side of the road. The residents of Here had turned up the following morning, the men and some of the heftier women brought their axes and set to work chopping up the oak tree and clearing the road. Others brought hand saws and carts and by nightfall everyone in Here had enough firewood stacked by their fireplaces in their homes and in their sheds outside for the winter and longer. The fork in the road though seemed to have lost its purpose without the oak tree and people didn’t stop to talk any more, the children seemed sullen and not as playful and even the dogs slunk around hackles raised and lips curled. Here had become a grim place to spend any time and word spread, as it tends to, and people stopped passing through on their way to the next. The fishmonger didn’t show up at the fork in the road like he had done for years, and the milkman never arrived, the baker hadn’t been seen for weeks and the women of Here waited at the fork in the road for many days before giving into cold and hunger and returning home empty handed to hungry families. There was always the poacher with his supply of fish and birds and rabbits, he would feed Here. The poacher didn’t come to the fork in the road either. After some weeks of living off canned and preserved foods in their pantries the residents of Here were rapidly facing starvation and it seemed nobody would be coming to help. Instead of giving up, Here rallied round and plans were made, old dusty books were read, and lessons learned, knives were sharpened, blades honed, parts oiled, cobwebs dusted. By early Spring Here was a hive of activity and by Summer was showing signs of significant change. The following year Here was another place altogether. Vegetable gardens had been planted behind once dingy but now sparkling whitewashed cottage, where peas, carrots, onions, potatoes, corn, beans, cauliflowers, and marrows grew lustrously. Herbs, both for cooking and medicinal use, had been planted along and amongst the vegetables and in the hot summer afternoons Here was an aromatic delight. Lavender now edged once grubby pathways and climbing roses trembled delicately over doorways and trellises. The children caught trout in the cold, clear river and stocked the newly dug breeding ponds, others collected the abundance of berries for making pies and cordials or collected seeds and wildflowers in the hedgerows for propagating gardens. Wild rabbits and pheasant and grouse had been caught and were breeding a constant supply of fresh meat and eggs. Cows and sheep again grazed in the once overgrown and idle pastures and Here had a daily supply of milk and butter and cream and the much requested blackberry ice cream in the summer months. Hives of bees produced a delicately rose flavored honey from the hives by the climbing roses, a lavender honey from the hives by the lavender plants and the bees in the hives by the lemon and orange trees produced a citrus honey that no one could remember tasting the like of. A once lost recipe for mead along with the clear river water, the lavender, lemons and oranges and the different flavored honeys produced bottles of golden liquid that spun with rainbows in the sunshine. Bread rolls and loaves and fancy plaits were baked daily in some homes, other homes made meat pies or fruit pies and cakes. All was shared with all and on the week’s end the men of Here roasted rabbits and game birds on spits over the fires they made at the fork in the road. Everyone in Here brought chairs and tables and carried baskets of pies, or bread or fruit or vegetables to the feast, and with the lavender cider or the honey mead Here celebrated the week’s end well into the night. Here had almost been lost but had prevailed and done so most marvelously. Come one week’s end the fires hadn’t been lit for the feast and people were arriving with their food and families. The men stood in a group around something long and black lying in the road, something no one seemed to know what to do with, or where it had come from. The women held their excited children back in case the thing in the road was dangerous and the dogs poked hesitant noses at it and barked nervously. Here stood and looked and whispered to each other until an old grandfather made his way through the crowd to the thing in the road. He kicked it with his boot and there were hisses of fear and caution from behind him. He took his walking stick and hit the thing in the road and there were gasps from the crowd. The old man and the group of men spoke in whispers and after a while reached an agreement and while the rest of Here watched, they lifted the thing in the road upright and moved it to where the oak tree once stood. A shovel was shouted for and duly produced, a hole was dug and the bottom of the thing in the road was planted in the hole and the earth stamped hard around it. The rest of the thing with its two branches that dipped and curled on either side stood upright pointing to the sky. It was a subdued affair this week’s end with most of Here nervously watching the thing standing tall and dark and alone where the oak had once been. Later when dark fell, lanterns were fetched and the fork in the road shone with little lights and echoed with laughter and music and forgotten fears. The thing that had been in the road stood alone at the edge of the lights. Towards the end of summer when the evenings were getting darker earlier and earlier, at the week’s end feast a child took her lantern and whispered to her father and pointed at the thing that had once been in the road and now stood where the oak tree had been. Her father, slightly drunk on honey mead, took his child’s lantern and hung it off one of the thing’s two branches. The light glowed over the fork in the road and the residents of Here. After that, Here always hung two lit lanterns when it fell dark from the thing’s two branches. It did its job most wonderfully. It was, after all, a lamppost. Later, as in keeping with the darker side of the uses of a lamppost, Here hung the fishmonger, the milkman, the baker, and the poacher by their respective necks until they were dead. Here feasted and danced and toasted their week’s end and their retribution with a new recipe of honeyed trout mead in the golden pool of light cast by the lanterns on the lamppost at the fork in the dusty road.

My parents were gone for a week. Naturally, I’d packed a bag and stayed at his place the entire time. Three years together, and it was our first time living together, albeit temporarily. The timing wasn’t ideal; I had eleven exams that week. He was working trauma at St. Mike’s, on-call for several days. Between his residency and my studies, our hours together were scarce. But three years in, every single hour was still so precious to me. That’s what love does, I guess. Tuesday evening, I was studying for my radiology exam. I felt good about it. It was a course I excelled in. I was sitting on the hardwood floor, dozens of pages strewn about in a chaotic order of sorts. He had moved in to the tiny apartment mere weeks ago and besides a bed and a couch, he was completely without furniture. I had been sitting hunched forward like that for hours; laser-focused on my course material, shockingly not sore in the slightest. Ah, to be young again. Thirteen years later, the mere thought of it makes my back ache. I was eyeing a faded photocopy of a small bowel obstruction when I heard the familiar jingle of keys in the lock. Like Pavlov’s dog, I raced to the front door and slid to a halt, my entrance lagging behind his only by a second. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin sallow, betraying his actual age. Despite his exhaustion, he still offered me a weary, bemused smile. My enthusiasm overpowered him as I stood on my tiptoes and buried my face in his neck, his stubble scratching my cheek as I squeezed him. His arms clutched me weakly in return, communicating his utter burnout. I was used to these barely-there hugs from him. I knew them so well. And as a passionate, energetic, arguably overly-affectionate woman, one might think they’d start to grate on my nerves eventually. But they never did. Bother me, I mean. Probably because I knew how much he loved me. His love and devotion to me had never been in question, actually. And if his initial embrace didn’t show me that, what always followed most certainly did: the part where his entire being melted into me with a heavy sigh, followed by a low murmur into my hair. I’d always press my chest into him a little more, then - I loved feeling the vibrations from his muffled sounds reverberate through me as if we were one person. I pulled my head back just enough to accept his sweet peck on my lips. His lips were always really chapped. “What’s all this?” he asked, a hint of shyness in his face. “I’m just happy to see you,” I grinned, squeezing his cheeks and pulling him in for another hug. And then, the strangest thing happened to me. I’ll never forget it. This story is proof of that, really. I had an out-of-body experience just then. I remember watching us, standing there in his bare apartment, holding each other as if we hadn’t seen one another for years. And I remember thinking, “Remember this moment, Julia. This is one of the most important moments of your life. This is a moment you’ll never forget.” Well, we never did end up together. Sadly, he ended it six months later. And boy, did it ever gut me. For a very long time, too. I’ve lived a whole lifetime since That Moment. And my mind drifts back to it more often than I’m proud to admit. I’ve often wondered the purpose of that experience. I mean, it’s not like we ever did get married, as was always our plan. He wasn’t my happily ever after, after all. I’ve even found myself staring up at the ceiling when I can’t sleep, thinking aloud. “Why? What was the point of it?” Am I religious? Not really. But I do think there’s something up there. Something? Someone? I don’t know. I’ve decided that no, I wasn’t a horrible person in a past life. No, I’m not being punished. No, not living the rest of my life with the man who gave me That Moment is not some kind of karmic retribution. To keep my sanity, I have instead decided that That Moment was a lesson that the future me would desperately need to internalize. I decided that it was the universe’s way of showing me that *that* was true love, you know? And that if Future Me thought for a second that some other version was true love instead, that I should walk, and never look back. My face is wet right now. The kids are asleep and I’m all in my head. As is the norm for me. How my thoughts wandered back to That Moment just now is beyond me. But I will say this: my tears stopped flowing and I smiled when I did remember. I will experience it again. I know it. And if not? I’ll still have my memories. At the very least. Hang on to your Moments, friends. They’re good for the soul.

A cat has been born. Its frail cries came from behind the dumpster, only noticeable to those who managed to pierce through the city’s cacophony – so, naturally, no one would ever hear them, for the loud traffic and the small talk of strangers had long become background noise, the sort one’s brain is programmed to ignore as a safety measure to keep one’s sanity intact. People passed by on their way to underpaid office jobs. Street vendors shouted out the price of counterfeit sunglasses. Parents screamed at their disobedient toddlers. Buses honked at cars attempting to cut them off. Businesses went on as usual. This newborn’s whispered pleas didn’t stand a chance, indeed. There wouldn’t be a rescue party. One can only imagine what would happen if someone stumbled upon it. This person would most likely be repulsed by such an ugly creature. Its eyes were still closed. Its short paws could barely reach the ground. Its precarious body was just partially covered by thin fur of uncertain color. Yes, it was ugly. But it was alive – defiantly alive, with no mother around, no blanket to lie on, no notion of warmth, comfort, and nurture. This person might be moved by a sense of pity or compassion, but those feelings would soon turn into something different: admiration. Respect for this poor soul’s struggle to stick around – a pathetic struggle, sure, yet even more heroic for its futility. For this tiny being, the world had been limited to that sidewalk’s rough concrete, to the smell of rotten food and dirty diapers in trash bags, to the menacing sounds of heavy machines and overstressed citizens. Why fight to stay? Why was it so determined to get a shot in life? And, most importantly, how did it know to hope for more? For an act of kindness, for someone to come, for someone to care. This person wouldn’t understand it, but those were the kinds of questions didn’t need an answer to hit deep; they were powerful precisely because they were doomed to remain a mystery. This person would tell all strangers nearby that a cat had been born. A crowd would gather around the dumpster and stare at this ugly form. They, too, would feel repulse, and then pity, and then admiration. They would want others to share the same profound experience. They would stop traffic. Drivers would leave their cars. Commuters, for once, wouldn’t mind being late to work. Tedium, indifference, and rage would become a distant memory, for there was a cat, and it was alive. \* The cat let out its final cry twenty-one minutes before the garbage collectors, who were over an hour behind schedule due to a mechanical problem with their truck, finally got to that dumpster. They were the first to lay eyes on this ugly creature, but it was lifeless now, so all the workers felt was repulse. Maybe some of them could feel a hint of pity on a normal day, if they weren't running late and had a few seconds to spare. But it would be impossible for them – for anyone, really – to reach a state of admiration. The cat couldn't plead anymore. It couldn’t hope for salvation, it couldn't show its instinctive faith in the human spirit. The garbage truck went on its route. Moments later, the police came for the sunglass vendor. A heated discussion followed after the officers decided to confiscate the merchandise. A distracted motorist, entertained by the public commotion, crashed into the bumper of a Minivan. There was shouting, and kids crying, and some more shouting. The noise one grows so accustomed to that nobody can say when a cat has been born.

They came to me at first, not in the nothingness of sleep nor the fleeting chaos of confused dreams, but in that half-true space which lies between. In the grey hours, when yesterday had died and today had not yet been made anew, when life had begun its slow, unstoppable creep into my flesh but had not taken root, I lay paralyzed in my bed while they sang to me. In shouted whispers they sang, in tongues that spoke not to my mind but to my bones. And what wonderous and terrible things they told me! They sang of pain, unimaginable pain. Pain that will rend you in two. Pain that will set you ablaze, consuming all until whatever remains is unable to comprehend what it once was. They sang pictures to me, marvelous scenes more vivid than my own memories. They painted their pain onto my bones, and how my bones yearned for their brushstrokes! They sang to me for generations, each new voice joining their wistful chorus of magnificent, ecstatic pain. Through it all I listened, until their voices faded as morning color seeped in to blot out the grey and life’s roots constricted me into waking. And for a time, I didn’t remember their songs, at least not in my conscious hours. I went about my life as normal, crying some, laughing more, but mostly sleepwalking through the necessary, repetitive structure that permeated it all. Sometimes, if I felt myself losing focus on the task at hand and slipping into that between space where time refuses to follow, I could almost hear their melodies, though they were quickly drowned out by my own wakeful thoughts or the world’s discordant chorus. Yet I heard them most nights as they pierced their way into my reality to come to me, their songs clear and mournful, sweet and wonderous as the day I first heard them. That spring when they first came to me, it began raining, as it did every year. This year the rains seemed determined not to stop. Sometimes in barely perceptible misting, sometimes in torrential deluges, the rains continued day, night, and every time in between. The creeks and rivers swelled up as the inundated ground sank in. Great puddles formed and grew, connecting into labyrinthine ephemeral lakes, sure to dry up if only the rains abated. Only they never did. I found myself drawn to these puddles, walking around their edges as they fought to engulf all that they saw, tracing the fringes between their watery world and the dryness of mine. On one of these walks, I saw, half protruding from the water, half asleep on the muddy shore, the corpse of a drowned snake. In life, she could have been jet black, or gilded with bands of orange and brown, or some other color which I could not discern. In death she was grey and formless. Though they protruded at angles wholly unnatural, amorphous masses of slimy flesh clung to the bones, faithfully fighting to maintain some semblance of the grandeur which they had been tasked with in life. I could see that their battle was lost. Whatever nutrients the snake had worked diligently to procure in life lay scattered across the surface of the puddle, in white chunks and greasy rainbows spilling out from a burst belly, calling the flies to their rightful bounty. They skittered across the surface, dipping down past rafts of scales to drink their fill. The rain picked up as I stood transfixed, lost in the beauty of it all. In that moment, they came to me. They sang me a song, a new song. One of pain, always pain, but one of great change. A song whose melody threatened to make the world anew. Their voices came first as a trickle, all encompassing as the rain around me. I did not know the song, but my bones understood, and in that moment, I could not help but add my voice to theirs. How beautiful we sounded! From some faraway place, imperfect harmonies joined my strained voice, frantically urging me along. I ached for each note, knowing I would be incomplete until they wrenched it out of my throat. They sang of pain; the pain of leaving a warm and nourishing yolk to burst forth into a wild and frightening world. The wrenching pain of hunger, all consuming, radiating from with, sometimes satiated, but never vanquished. The pain of cold waters, cold muscles drenched by rain, the pain of a sun too obscured by clouds to offer its usual warming help. And of the final, unknowable pain, the pain of cold burning as water let its curiosity led it to new places, places which it should never go. I joined my voice with theirs, speaking the eternal truth of pain into the world for all to hear. Starting beneath the water at first, then meandering onto the sloshing land, the flesh responded to our song. It writhed and rippled, elongating and pulsing to the rise and fall of our song. Bones snapped as they responded to our call, returning to their natural place. The chunks took their places, dragging their grease with them as they danced back into the unrupturing belly. Flies and maggots of all shapes soon formed their own ensemble, their songs of the pain of splitting bellies and unfulfilled dreams painting onto my bones as material held within them returned to its place. Soon enough she joined our song. My voice diminished as hers grew, singing the undeniable pain of creation as she slithered away.

David stood before Bradley, his expression one of profound sadness. "Bradley," he began, "you speak of life as if it were a simple matter of existence. But life without friends is a barren wasteland. It is a desert where the sands of solitude stretch endlessly, where every step is an echo of one's own loneliness. Imagine a world where no voice ever answers your call, no hand ever reaches out to grasp yours. The warmth of camaraderie, the comfort of companionship, the shared laughter and tears—all these are absent. It is a life devoid of color, where the vibrancy of human connection has been drained away, leaving only shades of gray. Without friends, there is no one to share your joys or to lighten your burdens. Each triumph is hollow, each sorrow magnified. The milestones of life become mere markers of time, not celebrations of shared experience. You become a solitary traveler on a path that grows ever more difficult to tread, the weight of your isolation pressing down upon you with each passing day. Friends are the heart of our existence. They give us strength when we falter, hope when we despair, and love when we feel unlovable. They are the mirror in which we see our true selves, and the light that guides us through our darkest hours. To live without friends, Bradley, is to live without the very essence of what makes life worth living. It is to exist in a perpetual state of emptiness, where the echoes of your own voice are the only response you will ever hear. It is to be a wanderer in a world that was meant to be shared, forever seeking, but never finding, the connection that gives meaning to our journey." David paused, allowing his words to sink in. The gravity of his message weighed heavily in the air. Bradley looked away, trying to mask the emotions stirring within him. But David could see the turmoil in his friend's eyes. "Think of all the moments that have defined your life," David continued. "The laughter, the shared experiences, the support in times of need. All these moments are intertwined with the presence of friends. They are the ones who stand by you, who lift you up when you fall, who celebrate your successes and console you in your failures. Without them, each moment is less vibrant, each experience less meaningful." He took a step closer, his voice softer but filled with intensity. "A life without friends is a life without connection. It is a life where every joy is fleeting, every sorrow is amplified, and every step forward feels like a struggle. Friends are the threads that weave the tapestry of our lives, adding color, texture, and depth. Without them, the tapestry unravels, leaving us with nothing but an empty canvas." Bradley felt a lump form in his throat. He had always prided himself on his independence, on his ability to stand alone. But David's words cut through his defenses, exposing the void he had been trying to ignore. "David, I...," Bradley started, but his voice faltered. David placed a reassuring hand on Bradley's shoulder. "It's okay, Bradley. Acknowledging the importance of friends doesn't make you weak. It makes you human. We are not meant to journey through life alone. We need each other. Friends bring out the best in us, they challenge us, they support us, and they make the journey worthwhile." He looked deep into Bradley's eyes, his gaze unwavering. "So, Bradley, don't walk the silent path. Reach out, connect, and cherish the friendships that enrich your life. They are the true treasures that make life meaningful." Bradley nodded slowly, the weight of David's words settling into his heart. He realized that the strength he had always sought in solitude could never compare to the strength found in the bonds of friendship. And with that realization, he took the first step off the silent path and towards a life filled with the warmth and connection of true companionship.

Once upon a time, there was a humble soul known simply as the Wanderer. He traveled the world, driven by an inner need to help those in distress. Whether it was a hungry person on the street, an injured animal by the roadside, or a suffering community, the Wanderer was there, offering aid with a kindness that knew no bounds. His mission was not of glory or recognition, but a penance for unknown wrongs, an unseen burden he bore with quiet dignity. Years of wandering took their toll. The Wanderer, though his spirit remained undiminished, felt the weight of age in his bones. Walking became difficult, and with each step, he could feel the strength of his body waning. In moments of solitude, he would look to the sky, his voice a raw plea: "I am not done with my work yet!" But the heavens remained silent. Far away, beyond the veil of mortal sight, the Welsh goddess Ceridwen heard his cries. Moved by his unwavering dedication and the purity of his heart, she decided to intervene. Ceridwen, a powerful and wise deity, traveled to the Tree of Life. From its ancient branches, she carefully selected a bough, knowing it held the essence of life and strength. She began to weave spells of ancient magic, channeling energies long forgotten, to craft a walking stick that would aid the Wanderer in his noble quest. Unbeknownst to Ceridwen, another entity had heard the Wanderer's cries. The Serpent, a malevolent force, relished in the Wanderer's suffering and sought to prolong it. As Ceridwen worked her magic, the Serpent struck, sparking a battle of epic proportions. The skies darkened, and the earth trembled as the two beings clashed. Ceridwen called upon the power of the elements, summoning storms of fire and ice, while the Serpent retaliated with shadows and venom. The very fabric of reality seemed to warp around them as they fought, their energies colliding in a symphony of chaos and power. Ceridwen's light and the Serpent's darkness wove together in a dance of destruction and creation, each trying to overpower the other. But Ceridwen's resolve was unwavering. With a final surge of her ancient magic, she captured the essence of the Serpent's malevolence and merged it with her own power. In a blinding flash of light, the battle ended. The Serpent's influence was sealed within the walking stick, transforming it into a powerful artifact. Ceridwen named the walking stick "Anfarwolion," meaning "the Immortal Staff." With this staff, the Wanderer would be able to continue his mission, drawing strength and vitality from its enchanted core. When the Wanderer received Anfarwolion, he felt a surge of energy and hope. His steps, once heavy with the burden of age, became light and swift. He resumed his journey, his heart filled with gratitude and renewed purpose. Through the ages, the Wanderer helped countless beings, his deeds becoming legends whispered across the lands. And so, with the aid of Anfarwolion, the Wanderer's work continued, a testament to the power of compassion and the enduring spirit of those who dedicate their lives to helping others.

As the soldiers of the firing squad readied their rifles to execute her, Captain Julieta Martínez remembered the day her father taught her how to read the wind. That day, he took her to the plateau near the village. He knelt beside her and guided her hands to feel the currents of air. Her father's name was Facundo. "The wind is talking to you," Facundo said, "You just need to learn its language." He taught her dozens of signs, and she struggled to remember them all. He made her practice, and she was able to read the sign "Heat." Indeed, the summer was hot that year. The next year, the wind told her, "Pests." She warned the elders of the village, and they were able to protect the crops by preparing poisons for the pests made of alabaster and snake's hearts. Julieta's mother, Ursula, always eager to secure the family's livelihoods, told her that she might charge people to ask the wind about their fates. But Facundo told her that the wind would only speak to her about the fate of the village. The wind, Facundo said, was not interested in individual fates. As the years passed, Julieta became a more skillful reader, until one day, the wind told her, "War." Facundo was concerned, and Ursula felt hopeful. "Maybe you can enlist in the army, and they will pay you a decent wage!" Ursula told Facundo. Indeed, a recruiting officer for the army appeared soon, and Facundo volunteered. He never came back. Several months later, Ursula and Julieta received a letter saying that Facundo was killed in combat and his family was entitled to a pension. Later, his body arrived. As Facundo was a respected wind-reader, all the people in the village came to his funeral. But the funeral did not go as planned, because as Facundo's body lay in the casket, the wind raised it and carried it away. Ursula cried and begged the wind to return the body, but the wind did not listen. Several months passed, and a young man appeared in the village. He told everyone his name was Matías, and he had deserted from the army. Matías was a scientist from a big city, and he could teach the villagers how to tend to crops so that they were more resilient and produced more food. Ursula and Julieta told him he could live with them. Once, he saw Julieta conversing with the wind and asked what she was doing. She told him about the wind language. He told her it was an old superstition and he did not believe in it. He also told her he loved her. She said she loved him as well, but they should not make love on the plateau as the wind would become jealous. But he just laughed and kissed her. They embraced, and Matías pushed her against a rock and lifted her skirt. He undid his pants and entered her. She moaned, they fall on the grass, and she wrapped her legs around him. They kissed and held each other, moving in rhythm. She felt him inside her and moaned. After they returned home, the jealous wind guided government troops to their village. They executed Matías on the spot and burned down most of the houses in the village. Julieta felt angry at the wind for this betrayal and stopped talking to it. Instead, she promised her people to help rebuild the village. A dozen young and healthy men volunteered to collect resources. She led them using her knowledge of nature. They found enough clay and wood, but they also needed medical supplies, furniture, and tableware. So, they started raiding army supply convoys. The remorseful wind helped them by scaring the convoy horses and overturning the wagons. They became a successful team, and they called Julieta their captain. Julieta's band gathered enough supplies to rebuild the village. Then the new heatwave came, and Julieta finally started talking to the wind again. She asked it to find clouds to bring more rain, which would save the crops. And then, during one of her band's raids, she was captured. The trial was swift and she was sentenced to death. She called for the wind, but it was too far away searching for the clouds. She was executed, and the army brought her body back to the village. During the funeral, everyone feared that the wind would take her as it did with Facundo. But the opposite happened. The wind did not touch her body. More than that, it brought back Facundo's body. The father and the daughter were buried side by side.

“Interrupted Podcast” by P. Orin Zack [07/28/2019]   **Chapter 5** “Ermaline?” The murmured question hung for a moment in the echoing hallway, followed by the scratch of hurried footsteps on old linoleum. It had been about an hour since she’d gotten to Anjela’s building near the Chicago lakefront, and the lack of seating had led her to get comfortable with her legs crossed and her back against the wall. She stowed her phone and rose to greet the woman with whom Bert had entrusted a set of wind chimes a few weeks earlier. “Where’s Bert?” the graying woman said as she extended a hand. Ermaline’s troubled expression must have been enough of an answer, because she quickly unlocked her apartment door and ushered her guest inside. While Anjela went to the kitchen and put some water up for tea, Ermaline drifted over towards a print in the living room that had caught Bert’s attention during their earlier visit. She gazed at the green flame that the Angel of Death held out before the gravedigger in Schwabe’s symbolist masterpiece, and then peered at that man’s stricken expression. “I think Bert’s been sucked into his own trap. But after what I’ve been feeling lately, I don’t know whether I’m more scared for him, or of him.” Anjela handed her a cup, and got settled on the couch. “Whatever you’re worried about, it must be pretty important, or you wouldn’t have camped out in the hallway, waiting for me to get back from work. But don’t force it. There’s no rush.” Ermaline sipped her tea, and, noticing her host’s hearing aid, said, “Now, I know that Bert’s first cornet gave you some ear pain from the distortion it caused. Have you had any more of that lately?” She shook her head. “No. Nothing like that. Why?” “When we brought that set of wind chimes for you, Bert was satisfied with letting you decide where to place them.” “Sure. Down at the Lincoln Park Zoo. What about it?” “Well, for the rest of the trip, he got increasingly protective about exactly where they were hung. By the time he’d pitched a set to the captain of the Lake Michigan ferry, S.S. Badger, he’d gone from simple persuasion to full-on lying about them. That was the last straw for me.” “So you left?” Ermaline nodded, and tried to shake off the agitation called back by her memory of that encounter. “I pretty much hid for the rest of the crossing, and booked a different hotel in Wisconsin for the night, just to make sure I didn’t cross paths with him until he headed back to Michigan. But I think he went way beyond that to place his final set.” “How do you know?” She took a shaky breath. “I felt it. Do you remember how he got your noisy neighbors to go away? I think he used the effect of playing the pod to force whoever he’d targeted to accept them. And I think it was broadcast through the whole set of pods.” Anjela raised her teacup for another sip, but stopped to gaze at it for a long moment. “I was busy,” she said at last, “when you two were dealing with that neighbor in the hallway. And to be perfectly honest about it, between his music and their carrying on, the noise really broke my train of thought.” “Oh,” Ermaline said, looking at bit lost as she shook free of her own concerns. “Sorry, um, sorry about that. What had you been doing?” Flinch. “That’s really not important right now. What do you mean, it was broadcast?” “Well, remember the trip we said we were on?” Anjela nodded. “Sure. Texas, wasn’t it? And Philly? I thought that was just where some of his friends lived, why?” “It wasn’t friends. Or family, for that matter.” Ermaline set down her tea and pulled out her phone. After finding a serviceable map of North America, she held it up for Anjela to look at. “It was a pattern. Bert wanted to place a set of pods at the cardinal points of a Nautilus curve.” She pointed to western Washington, and traced the curve through each place where they left a set of wind chimes, noting each as she her finger reached it, until it ended near the eastern shore of Lake Michigan. Anjela stared at the map for a few seconds before turning to look at her guest. “Okay. But why? And how do bamboo wind chimes make a network? Are there cell phone chips in them or something?” Ermaline took a deep breath and frowned. “Something. Look, do you know anything about energy fields?” “I have a cutting-edge cochlear implant and a high-end hearing aid. What do you think?” She nodded. “Great. Harder question: do you believe in ESP, that sort of thing?” Anjela indicated the framed print of ‘Death and the Gravedigger’. “Does this have anything to do with the Schwabe you were looking at a few minutes ago?” “In a way. Bert designed the striations on the inside surface of the wind chimes he gave you based on sacred geometry. So was the curve where we placed them. When the pods are closed and hung, those grooves catch and focus the chi energy generated by the Earth.” Anjela held up a hand for pause. “Hold on,” she said, her eyes narrowed. “Chi? Like the meridians in acupuncture?” “That’s the energy we generate. For the Earth, it travels along what’s called ‘ley lines’, but yeah, the same basic thing. Anyway, the geometry of the carvings inside the pods sets up a pattern that extends beyond them. It fades with distance, of course, but when the fields from two sets meet, they reinforce the pattern and make it stronger.” Anjela glanced at the cable company box behind her TV. “What, like a wi-fi repeater?” “Exactly, but with one extra kicker: when the ‘repeater’ pods are arranged along a Golden Spiral like the Nautilus curve, the whole thing acts like an antenna and broadcasts the signal even further.” “Further. How much further?” “The whole planet, essentially.” Anjela stood and walked towards the window, which looked south, towards downtown Chicago. “So you’re saying that the set of bamboo wind chimes I had mounted in Lincoln Park are part of a transmitter that can affect the whole planet?” Ermaline joined her. “That’s right.” “Well, what is it broadcasting? You said you were afraid.” “Nominally? The signal that Bert built into them is for encouraging peacefare.” “Peacefare,” Anjela repeated blankly. “What’s that?” “It’s hard to describe, but the general idea is to wean people off of whatever it is that feeds the dogs of war.” Anjela stood, staring silently out the window, for what felt like several minutes. Then she turned, glanced at the door, and then fixed Ermaline with a thoroughly sobering glare. “Bert played one of those things to control my neighbor. What would happen if someone played a pod that was part of this network?” Ermaline nodded slowly. “Now do you understand?”   When Ermaline walked through the entrance to the Alfred Calder Lily Pool in Chicago’s Lincoln Park the following morning, a wedding gathering had already arrived. She’d spent the night in a pricy downtown hotel, and over breakfast searched the Internet for photos of the area, wondering exactly where Anjela had hung her set of wind chimes. There was still an hour or so before Anjela’s lunch break, so she took the opportunity to explore the park’s zoo. Judging from the number of people milling about, it was clearly a popular place, but there was something else. A lot of the park’s visitors weren’t just there for a pleasant stroll or to gawk at the animals. For some reason, a good percentage were stopped at one place or another, examining the animals in great detail, mostly through viewfinders, but a surprising number were busy sketching. The walkways swarmed with groups of artists and photographers exchanging observations and excitedly pointing this way and that. Ermaline had been to other zoos, but had never encountered a crowd quite like this one. She was wondering whether this was something peculiar to Chicago’s lake-front park when she bumped into a man sitting cross-legged in front of one of the habitats, gazing through the fence rails. “Oops. I’m sorry,” she said, catching her breath. “I didn’t see you down there.” He smiled up at her for several seconds, and then began to laugh. “It’s okay, really,” he said, rising to his feet. “I probably shouldn’t be camped out like this, but lately, this place just gets me buzzed.” She gave him a puzzled look. “Lately? Has something changed?” The man shrugged, and glanced around. “Heck if I know. I’ve lived in this town most of my life, but until the past few weeks I almost never came down here. But now…?” He blinked a few times and looked her dead in the eyes. “Look, are you new around here?” “Just visiting someone, why?” He seemed to grasp at words for a few seconds, and then said, “It’s something about your vibe. Like you’re fighting the chill this place gives off. I don’t want to pry, but is something bothering you?” Ermaline bit her lip, anguishing over the bitter memory of her argument with Bert on the Badger, and wondering whether she’d over-reacted. Taken as a purely intellectual exercise, it had been easy to poke holes in his scheme. Spotting weaknesses in the procedural structures of software and firmware had been her stock-in-trade. That was what made it possible for her to design around the physical limitations of the 3D printer that had rendered Bert’s cornets, but she clearly hadn’t anticipated everything, or his first design would not have threatened to tear the printer apart. Sure, the intermittency in the field due to the Badger’s traversal of the curve might provide the opening for some hacker to dream up an exploit to take advantage of it, but Bert’s peacefare field apparently also had beneficial effects. “It’s, um...” she started, and then hesitated. “It’s hard to explain. But consider. If this feeling you’ve described is a recent thing, what if it’s transitory? What if it was caused by something?” “Caused by something? What do you mean? Like we’ve been exposed to some drug? I’m not sure I’d care. Come with me,” he said, indicating the McCormick Bird House, “I’d like to show you something.” Her curiosity piqued, Ermaline made small talk along the way, introducing herself and learning that although Randall’s background was in mathematical physics, he ended up getting paid for his interest in biological structures. The contract work he did enabled him to set his own schedule, which was why he’d been able to spend the morning gawking at the Fairy Bluebird he led her to. “Striking contrast, right? But the bright blue feathers on the male aren’t that color because of any kind of pigment. It’s just a trick of the light: refraction based on the geometry of the feathers. But it’s still real, it’s still beautiful against the stark black of the bird’s other feathers, and it still attracts the females. So it doesn’t matter what causes those feathers to be blue, any more than it matters why so many people just fall into flow around this place and engage with the wildlife and with one another. All that matters is that it happens.” “But—,” Ermaline sputtered, “but what if that trick of the light suddenly stopped working? What if… what if the feathers were bluer at certain times of day, or they were only blue at certain times of the year?” Randall laughed in delight. “Then the illusion would be all the more precious. Their mating rituals would adapt to the schedule, of course. Photographers would favor the bluest moments. Musicians and artists would find inspiration in discovering a new pattern in nature. And best of all, a bunch of long-held beliefs about how the world works would be overthrown, and a bit of mystery would be cast into the world. It would be glorious!” Speechless, Ermaline nervously cast about for a way to recapture the fear, but was interrupted by the sound of her phone’s reminder alert. Silencing it, she composed herself enough to excuse herself, and headed back towards the Lily Pool. Still shaken by her encounter with Randall, she paid a lot more attention to the people she passed on her way back north than she’d done earlier. What she saw were people who had, to one extent or another, surrendered to the siren song of peacefare that Bert had embodied, first in his revised cornet, and then in the wind chimes they’d planted along his Fibonacci curve. When he’d demonstrated the effect using the new cornet, the ‘payload’ was enfolded by the intent that he’d focussed on while playing, so his target engaged with the music and fulfilled Bert’s desire for him to leave them alone. Here, though, the sense of peacefare was pure, and those she passed were manifesting it each in their own way. By the time she returned to the entrance to the Lily Pool, the tenor of the place had changed. Earlier, with the wedding party spread across the area, the gut feeling she knew was being generated by Bert’s pods, wherever it was they were hidden, gave the place a soothing, inclusionary feel. It was no wonder that the popularity of the place had soared since they were installed. But now the wedding ceremony was finished, and a second sensation was gnawing at her gut. Looking around, she noticed that the gathering had fragmented, and the agitated sound of one group’s discussion made it clear that not everyone was happy with the enforced peaceableness of the field. As she slowly approached, she recognized one of the voices. Anjela’s back was to her, but her voice was unmistakeable, even though she’d never heard it used with such vehemence before. “That doesn’t change anything,” she said in clipped cadence. “This is a public park, not your private event space.” The man she was facing, perhaps a bit too closely, was a few decades her junior. “Okay, boomer,” he said dismissively. “You can have your park back when we’re done. I reserved this area months ago, and we have it until two.” Anjela stood her ground. “Reserved, perhaps, but not for your exclusive use. All that means is that this is the only event being staged here right now. You do not have the right to eject me or anyone else from the Lily Pool.” The man exchanged exasperated glances with the woman to his right before turning his attention back to Anjela. “That’s not for you to say, gramma. If you want to disrupt our party, then go find the park manager and complain to him. In the meantime, get the hell out of here and let us party in peace!” Anjela had just opened her mouth to parry when Ermaline’s frantic gesturing finally got her attention. Once they were safely out of earshot, she asked what the argument was about. “In a word, turf.” Anjela gestured towards the covered picnic area beside the pool. “This is a public park. You can reserve certain spots for things like weddings or company events, but that doesn’t make them private. All you can really expect is that other park visitors won’t disrupt your event. That’s just common courtesy. But those people were actively protective of this space. I was just trying to walk through to where the wind chimes were hung when they blocked me.” She paused. “How much of that did you see?” “Enough. What I don’t understand is how they can be so abrasive this close to those pods. I was just talking to a guy at the Bird House. He told me that in the past few weeks — since you had them hung, I guess, — he’s found himself coming down here to soak in the vibe. And from what he told me, he’s not alone in that. The park has apparently gotten a lot more crowded, like Bert’s field is drawing people in.” Anjela shrugged. “Well, if they’re projecting peace, wouldn’t that be a good thing?” “For him it is. And probably for all the people I saw sketching, taking pictures, chatting with one another or just zoned out as well. But it doesn’t explain that fight you just had.” “Maybe not, but it also doesn’t explain the flare-up in the international arrivals areas at both of our airports last week. Who knows? Maybe not everyone is affected by that field the same way.” “Perhaps,” Ermaline said, “but I still think there’s something wrong about it, something dangerous.” Anjela scanned the area, which had started to clear, and shifted her stance. “Come on,” she said, “it looks like they’re too busy partying to notice us now. I’ll show you where the pods are hung.” Something about the edge in Anjela’s voice reminded her of the woman at the Moonbeam welcome center in Ontario. Bert had reeled off a thick layer of bull connecting invisible rays from the UFO that the town’s founders saw and the waveguides carved into the interior of the pods he was doing his best to force on her. Distracted for a surreal moment by a flashback to the center’s outsize flying saucer, and the pods that now hung high above it, Ermaline suddenly realized that Anjela was no longer standing in front of her. Having spotted her host striding down the curving walkway, she rushed to catch up. “I don’t understand,” she said when she drew up along side the older woman. Anjela looked her a question. “This is a public park. How did you get permission?” “I didn’t. A friend of mine was doing some arbor work here at the time, and I asked him to hide it in the trees somewhere. There’s enough other noise from the wildlife, the trees and the city to cover the sound. If you don’t know it’s there, if you don’t know where to look, you’d never know it was there.” She stopped at what looked like a gathering place of some sort. There was a low circular wall of stacked slate slabs, about fifteen feet across. In the center was a low table of the same material. Ermaline glanced around, trying unsuccessfully to locate the pods. She was about to ask for a hint when Anjela turned to face her. “This is a protected space now. You saw how those people acted, and they have no idea why they did that. It’s only been been like that for the past few days. The peacefare stuff — people getting drawn here to chill and getting sucked into flow — that started right after my friend hung the pods. But then something changed, and I think it has to do with whatever Bert did to get his final set placed. You told me you felt something, and that it frightened you. Do you have any idea what he did?” “Not really. When he used his cornet or the pods to project his intent, I could feel it in my gut, but unless it was directed at me, all I could tell was that it was happening. I’ve never been near one, but I think it may feel something like being close to a Tesla coil.” “And if it was directed at you?” Ermaline shrugged. “Well, then you’d be too caught up in responding to his intent to realize it wasn’t your own idea. Like your noisy neighbors, for instance.” Anjela pivoted slowly and glanced around at the trees surrounding the circular wall. ‘Hmmm,” she mused aloud, “like my noisy neighbors...” She stood very still for a long moment, and then turned back towards Ermaline. “Then explain this: if my neighbors reacted to the intent he was projecting at them, was he projecting some intent at those partiers just now? Otherwise, why would they do that? What’s the connection?” A shiver ran up Ermaline’s back. “Are you suggesting that he’s here? That he’s watching us right now?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. How else could you explain it?” The question triggered a cascade of memories. Bert was a veritable fountain of alternative explanations. After all, that was how he’d pitched the pods at every stop along their circuitous path: UFO emanations; Lake Michigan wave patterns… It was like the man lived in a tangle of probabilities, and manifested through one lie or another when anyone tried to pin him down. “Geez,” Ermaline breathed. “Trying to figure him out is like staring at a handful of green flame in that picture of yours.” Anjela sat on the edge of the central table and looked up at her guest. “You were studying it last night. And Bert was fascinated by it when you two brought me the wind chimes.” Ermaline pulled her head back and tilted it, craning to hear whatever sound they might be making, and sighed when she realized that there wasn’t a breath of wind to jostle them or a rogue bit of turbulence to whistle the reeds. “What was that about, then?” “I think it’s the ambiguity. What’s really happening there? I mean, between the gravedigger standing in that hole and the Angel of Death holding that flame in front of him. I’m pretty sure Bert sees it as the Angel offering immortality, or at least a vision of it, to the poor man, but I’m not so sure. I think that green flame is the old guy’s essence, like she just released him from his time on Earth, and to her it’s precious, something to protect.” “Okay,” Anjela said, letting the word linger for a bit before moving on. “Is there some connection here? Some tie-in between that and whatever is going on with the wind chimes?” “Resonance, perhaps. Metaphorically. Musically. The meaning you draw from a picture like that says more about you than about the artist. And the way the intent he’s projecting affects people says more about them than about him. Like it only affects people who resonate with it in some way.” Anjela laughed briefly. “It’s funny you should put it that way.” Oh?” “After you two played my neighbors out of the hallway, he asked me what it felt like to me. Do you remember what I said?” “Sure, but I still don’t know what you meant. ‘Thou art that’, wasn’t it?” “Don’t you see?” Anjela said, grinning. “It’s just another kind of resonance. It’s how empathy works, for example: once you accept that there is something shared between you and some other person, you can feel what it’s like to be them. You know, ‘love they neighbor as thyself’, or, and forgive me for paraphrasing a favorite book of mine, ‘when I understand my enemy well enough to defeat him, then in that moment I also love him’.” “Okay, but what does all that have to do with the pods and why that guy was so intent on protecting them?” “That’s the resonance. Whatever the intent was that Bert projected, if in fact that’s what actually happened, it only affects people who resonate with it. The peacefare vibe affects lots of people, just not everyone. However he crafted what amounts to a protection spell, that resonates with a much smaller number of people, like that guy I ran into.” She paused and looked directly into Ermaline’s eyes. “And, for that matter, me.”   **Chapter 6** A text was waiting for Derek Boa when he turned his phone back on upon landing at Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. Since he was restricted from leaving Washington State until the court date for his involvement in what the press had dubbed the ‘motorist revolt’ in Blaine, he arranged to stay with a friend he knew from his days leading an activist group in D.C. After Constitutional Evolution was disbanded in frustration following the 2016 election, the firebrand gamer had taken a job at a gaming company south of the city. Gisella would be late getting to SeaTac, so he had some time to kill before seeing his favorite redhead again. He reached the baggage carousel before the flight number was even listed on the display, so he drifted over to the concession to see what the area newspapers considered front-page news. Two women in airline ticketer livery were grousing about some sort of disturbance on the departures level, so he pretended to shop while casually listening in. “...obnoxious little twerp pushed a passenger I was helping aside to ask what we were going to do when his mother missed her plane because of the backup at security. I told him we had no control over the feds, and that she’d get rebooked if that happened.” “Yeah,” the other one replied. “It’s been a real zoo down there ever since Border Patrol decided to buddy up with the checkpoint screeners. And those protesters? I’m surprised this place hasn’t gone into lockdown yet.” Derek perked up at the mention of a protest, and decided to go see what was happening. He started to pick individual voices out of the echoing din by the time he reached the landing at the parking level, especially the angry epithets cast by a business-suited traveler descending from the departures level. When the man stepped off the escalator and caught Derek looking curiously at him, he snorted, muttered something about ‘damned fascist rent-a-cops’, and bobbled the wheeled suitcase he dragged behind him as he stomped off towards the skybridge. A number of airport security agents were arrayed across the intersection of the broad ticketing concourse that stretched out of sight to left and right and the wide corridor leading back towards the passenger screening checkpoint and the departure gate concourses beyond. They appeared to be directing travelers while attempting to keep the area from getting clogged with people who were just looking for someone to unload at. But the source of the shouts was further into the terminal, so he walked past them and made his way to whatever the trouble was. While he walked, his mind raced. The actions of masses of people may be individually chaotic, purpose-driven or blind leader-following, but his collegiate focus on the intersection of political science and sociology had led him to look for patterns in the group dynamic. For a time, his jones had been sated by the work of Constitutional Evolution, the group he’d founded to role-play ways to recast the dynamics of governance. The seriousness with which he approached the subject might have overwhelmed him had it not been for Gisella, whose playful gamer’s perspective enabled him to see past the ponderousness of it all and enjoy the exploration for its own sake. So the brief walk gave him a chance to start building a mental model of the players in the sub-critical firefight that he was closing on. He glanced back at the airport’s team, taking their visible organization as a signal that they felt, consciously or not, that they were up against one or more other teams in this game. Now, who were they, and what were their objectives here? The security checkpoint was thronged, not just along the serpentine maze of anxious travelers waiting to have their bags, and possibly themselves x-rayed, but also in a noisy mob that stretched to the surrounding walls. Quite a number of people were either talking on their phones or holding them up to capture video of the situation, so there was no way for anyone to keep whatever was about to happen out of the news or social media. Ringed closely around the serpentine were the protesters being discussed earlier downstairs. These were the most vocal participants, but they didn’t appear to have prepared for this action in advance, as the only signage visible looked like it was extemporized on the spot. Derek worked his way through the crowd towards a woman who was managing these people much as a sheepdog might keep a flock from straying. This was clearly another ‘team’ in the proceedings, but what was their leader directing them to do? Wary of tangling with any of the principals before knowing more about the game they were playing, Derek picked a member of her flock to investigate first. His target had dark hair and a badly trimmed beard; was wearing a reflective vest, and he was holding a sign that at the moment was edge-on to where Derek stood. Probably about thirty or so. Following the man’s sight-line, Derek concluded that he was focussed on the Border Patrol uniform paired with the TSA agent filtering selected people towards the special access queue. As he edged closer, he realized what the sign was and chuckled: a character-ID bubble from a popular video game. He was making sure that people knew that Border Patrol were on hand. “Don’t ignore this guy!” the bearded man shouted. “He’s the enemy: Border Patrol. They’ve infiltrated our airport. Don’t be complacent. Protect your rights.” Derek stepped up to him and said, “What do expect these people to do about it?” “Expect?” he said with a wry smile. “I don’t ‘expect’ anything. What I’m hoping is that some of them will object if they’re treated badly by these guys. For some reason, it’s gotten harder lately to rile people up.” Derek nodded. “True, but those who do speak up are more likely to spark a riot if there are enough of them nearby.” “What, like up in Blaine?” “Yeah, exactly. You could be playing with fire here. Be careful you don’t set something off.” “Not likely,” he said. “There’s a pretty severe power disparity here. These people want to board their planes, so if they do speak up, it’s not likely to amount to much. Thanks for your interest, though.” “One other thing before I go. That woman you spoke to a few minutes ago, the one who seems to be sheepdogging the lot of you… what can you tell me about her?” He nodded, and glanced in her general direction. “Vanessa? Sure. She’s kind of like a recruiter; trawls rallies and photo-ops for the ‘lone gunman’ types, the sort of energized nobody who gets all up in a politician’s face but can’t quite pull off the sting they were after. People who’d be more effective with some guidance and a team to work with. Like me.” Derek did a subtle take. “You…?” “Uh huh. It was a disaster. I got shut down so fast I could feel the burn. So I joined her crew. Well, the one here in Seattle.” “There are others?” “Oh, yeah. She travels a lot and leaves replicants in her wake. I’d sincerely like to see her roll out a big action somewhere, something that’d involve a number of her crews.” Derek thanked the man again, and continued working his way through the crowd towards Vanessa, who he spotted talking with a protester stationed near another of the Border Patrol agents. When he was about twenty feet away, the agent stopped what he was doing and spun around to look her in the eye. “You!” he said sharply, and stabbed an accusatory finger towards her. “Human Rights Watch, my eye.” Vanessa stopped mid-sentence and gaped at the approaching agent. Nodding in recognition, she said, “The temp from the Nisqually checkpoint. What do they do, air-drop you folks to somewhere else every day?” Derek slowly approached the standoff, observing intently. The agent had closed the gap between them by this point, and brushed aside the protester she had been coaching. “I’m still a federal agent ma’am, and you lied to me.” She flashed a grin. “I bluffed, and you didn’t call me out on it. You may think that badge of yours gives you authority over these people, but it’s an empty authority if you don’t know how to use it.” Derek exhaled involuntarily at the brashness she displayed, considering the actual power disparity between them. Bluffing seemed to be a favorite tactic of hers, and she was certain to run afoul of it sooner or later. He hoped it was later, because he really needed to talk with her right now, so he took a step closer. “Excuse me,” he said, leaning as hard as he could into the politeness he’d learned when dealing with unfriendly congress members. “I’d like to apologize for my associate here, sir. She can sometimes take her activism a bit too seriously. Would you mind if I had a word with her in private?” Vanessa stared at the stranger for an instant, and then gave him a puzzled look. The agent, whose attention had been diverted to Derek, glanced back at Vanessa, and then nodded in acquiescence. “Talk some sense into her, then. I’m not giving her another chance. If she mouths off again, there are a few other federal agencies that might want a word with her.” They were about halfway to the escalators when Vanessa quickstepped in front of Derek, spun to a stop and peered at him. “Who the hell are you,” she said, “and why did you do that?” “An activist, like you. My name’s Derek Boa, and I was attempting to head off a repeat of what happened in Blaine.” “Boa,” she said, her eyes flickering in reflection of a quick memory search. “You were there, weren’t you.” He nodded. “Guilty. Can we go somewhere more private? We need to talk.” “Okay, but make it quick.” She bit her lip in thought. “Follow me.” Once on the parking level, she led him across the skybridge and to a deserted section of the sidewalk. “Now, then. What was so important?” “Up in Blaine, I did pretty much the same thing you were doing just now, coaching the team in ways to get a rise out of the civilians. It should not have gotten out of hand like that. I’d given the same guidance at events before, but something had changed.” “Something changed,” she parroted. “Like what?” “The protester I chatted up had noticed, so I figure you had, too: people have either gotten more chill, or more volatile.” Vanessa shrugged. “It’s like that. Involvement goes in waves. Local variation. So what?” Derek made sure nobody was nearby before he spoke. “It’s not local.” In a quieter voice, he added, “A spook I know thinks it might be a psy op.” She whispered. “Another Cointelpro?” “Could be. He doesn’t know. But he told me the pattern he saw is a recent thing. It started a few weeks ago. It was barely perceptible at first, but then it got stronger.” Vanessa slowly raised her head and closed her eyes. After a few breaths, she took a step closer. “There’s something else, then. Your spook may be interested in this.” “Oh?” “Yeah. There’s also a daily fluctuation. This is a more recent thing, but I swear its a cycle of some sort. I’ve seen it several times now. Same time every day, and damn if it isn’t spooky. The first one’s at about breakfast time, eight o’clock or so. Then it happens again in the afternoon, at about two. For about fifteen minutes each time, things get real quiet. Have you noticed anything like that?” He shook his head. “Sorry, but I’ve been living in a hotel room lately. No crowds.” “Take my word for it then. Do you think it’s related?” Derek felt a chill run up his back. “No idea. Thanks for the info. Please be careful. Especially at those times of day. This might not be the best time to join the prison population.

He did not know how long he had, it could be days, it could be minutes. This was a unique feeling; a feeling he would give everything to clear away. Or would he. The uniqueness of the situation meant that he had no idea how to handle it, and so his thoughts ran rampant around in his head. "Was it worth it?", was the question that he decided was the bottom line. It was a beautiful day, clear blue skies and the sun warming, even though it was not noon yet. The scrawny plastic chair he sat upon was seated by the window, so the rays from the sun had warmed it up before his arrival. Through the window he could see trees, below them were some houses, and beyond them, far away, he could see the blue ocean. The brisk wind outside made the leaves rustle, and he was reminded of the summers of his childhood. He had always known about this building, but never been inside. He could hear someone rustling in a garage by the houses below, and he had never been more envious. This person in the garage had everything. They did not feel what he felt and did not have to deal with the consequences he eventually would have to face. He was chased, but he had already given up. He had not tried to cover his tracks, or find a better hidingplace. His car was parked outside for everyone to see, and should anyone look inside the window, there he would be. He was just waiting for it all to happen. These were the final moments of his life as it had been, he was not dying, but his life would change drastically. They would find him. So many people would be surprised, his loved ones would not believe it. What he did cannot be undone, and he could not imagine the people it would affect. He imagined what would be in the papers. Just a few inches of text regarding his life-changing deed, inches he would just glance over had it been about someone else. He heard the rumblings of a plane high above him. He imagined where it was going and who was on it. He imagined who scanned their tickets at the gate at the airport, he imagined who made the plane, and he imagined who owned it. All these people, random people with unlimited potential in front of them, at least relative to himself. He thought about what inconsequential thing a random person in Japan was doing right now, and he thought about what some person living in New York 100 years ago was doing on this day, both of them completely ignorant and unaffected by this day, that would be his last as a free man. His mind fell on everyone who would ever read about his final day, how they would read on to the next page, put the paper down, and walk into the great unknown denied to himself.

“Interrupted Podcast” by P. Orin Zack [07/28/2019]   **Chapter 7** Arthur Fox calmly checked the time while waiting for the board Secretary to finish reading the minutes from their last meeting. The fingerprints on the glass of ice water in front of him were slowly fading, and he had begun making silent bets about which would complete first. The unscheduled meeting was important enough to wedge in before the dinner his daughter was preparing for him at his townhouse, but he didn’t want to keep them waiting too long. She said she had invited a guest this time, a man that she’d previously only spoken about in whispered tones, and even then not by his real name. Fox had spearheaded the creation of CoMedPro, the community mediation program, after giving up his seat in Congress, in part due to the inspiration provided by his daughter. While part of an activist group a few years earlier, she’d coordinated a series of international videoconferences as a way to foster peace between college students here in Virginia and those in countries whose religious and political leaders encouraged people to despise the US. Following her example, and contrary to the preening attitude of some of his congressional colleagues, he chose to not take a position of power in the organization he created. For her, foregoing such roles had something to do with what she called ‘Wobbly organizational tactics’, but Arthur saw it as a way to express his interest in the work of the organization over any prestige it might afford him. The bet lost, he first took a sip of water and then the floor. “As you’ve all probably heard by now,” he said, making brief eye contact with each of the other people at the table, “many of our affiliate groups across the country have reported problems. The city or county police forces in those areas have either lost their civilian partners through sudden disinterest, or have had to sideline them after getting sucked into whatever conflict they were attempting to cool. It’s falling apart.” Katheryn, the former pilot who liaised with the police departments, absently slid her hand a few inches toward him. “Careful, Arthur,” she said gently. “Imagery like that just begs for drama. We purposely avoided command-and-control relationships for just that reason. The network can’t ‘fall apart’. It’ll adapt. The forces were all supposed to recruit alternate partners for situations like this, weren’t they?” He closed his eyes and sighed. “In some cases, those were the alternates. And whatever it is that’s going on, it’s also affecting the men and women in blue. When we lose one of the officers who volunteered to champion an affiliate group, we lose a node in that network. That’s already happened.” Lloyd, the lawyer to Arthur’s left, nodded. “And when it did, officers at neighboring nodes who kept in contact with them responded as they were supposed to, and spoke to leadership to make someone else available for this.” Fox was somber. “Did it happen? Did they free up someone else?” “In some cases.” “So, we’ve lost some of the civilian partners, some affiliate officers, and even some nodes.” Fox looked at each of the others in turn. “Have we miscalculated here? Would we have been better off trying to control this operation from the top?” Katheryn adjusted in her seat. “I don’t think so. When our partners work to find ways to get the parties to a dispute to engage with one another, they can’t be seen as tools of any power structure or they won’t be trusted. The workshops we ran demonstrated the problems that causes. Lloyd, what’s our exposure here? Can we have our affiliates step up their recruitment efforts and scale back the vetting process without risking the standards we’ve tried to set?” “Well,” the lawyer said, “we have been approached by other entities — corporations and non-profits — who would like to apply our methods in their own areas. And I’ve been told that some of our civilian partners have engaged people they know to assist in one way or another. For example, there’s someone out in Washington State with a particularly good handle on mob psychology who’s been assisting our civilian mediator. All of these things pose legal risks, of course. I don’t think that person I mentioned is even credentialed, but he’s been remarkably effective. Maybe the best thing we can do is suggest that each node seek advise from local counsel about whatever special situations they’re facing.” From there, the meeting devolved into a cascade of implementational rat-holes which Fox felt only served to distract them from confronting the underlying cause of their troubles, whatever that might have been. His resolve to drag the discussion back to that issue grew more tenuous each time he thought about it. Deflated, and with the heat of his initial intensity softened to a cozy warmth, he tuned out the discussion and let the meeting glide to a seemingly satisfactory conclusion. The quiet trip home afterwards was shaded by an elusive thought he kept swatting at about this being one of the downsides to not having a strict hierarchy. By the time he reached his townhouse, all he could say about it was that he’d pulled back from dogging the issue he’d brought up, and didn’t have the slightest idea why. Melissa was just answering her phone when he opened the door, so he caught her eye and headed past her into the kitchen to see what she’d prepared for dinner for him and her mystery guest. After checking that she wasn’t watching, he leaned over over to sniff the dish of stir-fried chicken and smiled at the scent of garlic and ginger. Beside it was a bowl of peas dusted with crushed red pepper, and the cutting board held an apple, raisins, walnuts and some spices that he thought would be more at home beside some cookie dough. “He should be here any minute, Gisella,” his daughter told the phone as she stepped into the kitchen. “What’s going on?” Arthur Fox indicated the assembled ingredients and was about to mime his confusion when her eyebrows raised at whatever she’d just been told. Then she expelled a breath and said, “He what? Hold on, my dad’s with me. I’m putting you on speaker.” “Hi, Congressman Fox,” the phone voice said. “This is Gisella Killarney from the activist group Melissa used to hang with. I’m at SeaTac airport, and Derek Boa, the founder of the group, was just arrested again.” Fox stepped closer. “What do you mean, ‘again’?” “You heard about the recent trouble at the border crossing in Blaine?” “Sure, but—“ “That was him.” He exchanged confused looks with his daughter. “And now?” “Now,” Gisella said, “he’s apparently been tagged as a suspected terrorist. He texted me when they left him alone for a few minutes. When he was spotted chatting with a protest organizer, they took him into what they’re calling ‘preventative custody’. Is that even a thing, sir?” While Arthur Fox was apologizing for the depth of his ignorance, there was an unfinished pattern of knocks at the front door, and Melissa left the room muttering something about someone named Craig possibly knowing what it meant. “...and even so,” he said as Melissa returned with an unfamiliar young man, “there’s not much I can do, now that I’ve retired from congress.” “He’s here now, Gis’,” she told the phone. “What’s the message?” “Hi... Ron,” Gisella said, sounding a bit sheepish. “Is it okay to talk now?” He stepped closer. “Yeah, and you might as well use my real name. I’m probably going to be looking for work real soon.” “You can explain that later, Craig. Right now, I’m feeling kinda spooked. Derek asked me to tell you that there’s a pattern in some curve you two spoke about. The organizer he spoke with said there were peculiar quiet periods that happen every day now at about eight in the morning and then two in the afternoon.” “That may help, thanks.” “But there’s something else, Craig, something I wouldn’t have noticed if I wasn’t doing late-night gaming sessions for the company I’m working for. There are similar periods just before eight in the evening and just before two in the morning. Is this important?” Craig bit his lower lip. “It might be. Maybe there’s something that matches that timing sequence.” Fox gaped. Who was this guy? While Melissa and her mystery guest excitedly chatted with Gisella about what they might be able to do for Mr. Boa, he offered a silent prayer, thankful that he hadn’t been dragged into whatever this was while still in office. When the call was over, he gave his daughter a weary look, and barely above a whisper asked, “What was that?”   [Author's note: *It was at this point that something profound shook, not just my part in the world, but the world at large. The presence of Covid-19, and the effects of it on all aspects of life, overwhelmed and disrupted the flow of creativity with which I'd been digging into the events of this expansive tale. Metaphorically, it was as if I were the gravedigger in the print of Schwabe's symbolist painting on Anjela's wall, and I'd just released my grip on my literary shovel as my attention was snatched by the appearance of a strange green flame, held before my eyes by the spirit of my inspiration.* *Gazing through those flames, I could still see the outline of what was to come within my fiction, but the reality of it was slipping from the grasp of my imagination as the world I stood in itself began transforming into a fictional version of reality.* *As I had done while working on previous writing projects, I'd been keeping a record of what I'd done and what was still a vision of what might be in some fictional world. What follows is all that remains of that vision, for it was at that point that I dropped my own 'shovel' and gazed through green fire at the face of my inspirational angel, and beyond to the unknown that she raised her other hand towards.* *I invite you now to glimpse where this tale has been, and where it might have gone had our world not veered beyond the intersection which made it possible to realize it as clearly as had Anjela's creation realized Bert's peculiar cornet.*]   **Notes on the 4th story in the series: Interrupted Podcast** Pod Locations: 1. 1st W node: near Bert’s home, at the Nisqually casino. 2. 1st S node: in Texas (Port Arthur is near the bottom point of the curve, which is actually in Louisiana)), 3. 1st E node: in the DC area (the curve actually goes northeast of DC, with the eastern point at Philadelphia) 4. 1st N node: in Ontario is in Moonbeam, which has a history of unusual events 5. 2nd W point at Eu Claire, Wisconsin, 6. 2nd S point at Chicago, 7. 2nd E point a bit east of Saginaw, Michigan, 8. 2nd N point is at Traverse City, Michigan. 9. 3rd W node: the middle of Lake Michigan, crossed by SS Badger, the Ludington-Manitowoc ferry 10. final (S) node: in Lake Michigan, just off Mears State Park in Pentwater, Michigan. Heartbeat 6/14 - 9/1: - 11:00am ET (8:00am PT) - 5:00pm ET (2:00pm PT) - 10:45pm ET (7:45pm PT) - 4:30am ET (1:30am PT) The idea that drives the story is the implications of ‘Thou Art That”, which has been puzzling Bert since they left Chicago. It is this resonance between Thou and That which makes all of this energy manipulation work. (Communication, among other things, is only possible between equals, meaning a resonating pair. =========== **Chapter Notes** =========== [1] Bert and Ermaline place pods on the Ludington-Manitowoc steamship car ferry, the S.S. Badger, but Ermaline has become irritated by Bert’s methods & attitude towards her concerns, and bails in Manitowoc, rather then return with him to Michigan to place the final set of pods. [2] Mark is dropped off by the county police he’s working with to monitor BP’s new Nisqually checkpoint, where protesters are, and he encounters Vanessa speaking with Alix/Ailex. [3] Craig has just found a pattern in the data when he’s suspended for misusing agency facilities. He drives around, and ends up at the coffee shop where he had tracked down Melissa Fox in the shorts. She shows up, and they talk, but it becomes obvious that Derek Boa needs to be involved, and she calls him. [4] Bert’s final stop, the evening he returns from the Badger trip, is at Mears State Park in Pentwater, Michigan. The curve terminates offshore, but there is no good place there to put it. After some introspection and an encounter with a park visitor, he decides to place the final set of pods at a local B&B. [5] Ermaline — Visits Anjela in Chicago and they discuss Bert, etc. Anjela brings Ermaline to where the pods are (in Lincoln Park) but then, affected by Bert’s protection vibe, decides to not reveal their location. [6] Derek Boa is at SeaTac, where Border Patrol is mixing in with Homeland Security’s security checkpoints. While waiting for his ride, he goes to investigate a disturbance on the departures level, and encouters Vanessa Merkal. They discuss the change in protester involvement, and she tells him that she’s noticed a pattern of daily quiet periods that started more recently. [7] Arthur Fox has a meeting of the citizen mediator project that he started, then heads home for a scheduled dinner with his daughter and her mysterious friend, ‘Ron’. During dinner, Melissa gets a call from Gisella, who Derrek asked to relay info about the (daytime) heartbeat Vanessa told him about. Gisella adds the nighttime heartbeats she noticed. Craig calls a co-worker (who was at the talk that Fox arranged for Derek in the short story series) and asks her to surreptitiously check for what matches the pattern. After further discussion, she reports multiple nonsensical matches, including the Lake Michigan car ferry (of all things), but nothing worth pursuing. Fox asks about the pattern, and prompts Craig to ask his contact to search for related anomalies, which turns up the SCA practice incident in WA. Craig then calls Derek back and asks him to see what he can find out about it. Arthur Fox notes that someone has framed the BP/ICE rule change as a slippery slope towards lebensraum, the ‘living space’ that Hitler demanded for Germany, to be accomplished by mass deportation or death. (The ‘final solution’, in the case of the Jews.) He also knows that The rule change has been challenged in court by a number of parties, including state AGs and a cartel of tribes. The call happens after the 2nd heartbeat of the day (peak at 5:00pm EST/2:00pm PST), which is a bit later in the day than we left Derek at SeaTac. The call is from Gisella to Melissa. Derek has gotten restrained again, this time for suspected instigation of an ongoing incident at SeaTac airport. Gisella reached the airport to pick up Derek and texted him from the waiting lot to arrange where to meet. He texted back that he’s in Airport Security, and asked her to relay a message to Melissa for Ron (Craig) about the daytime beats, which Vanessa told him about. When she calls, she says that’s spooky, since she’d noticed a similar phenomenon at night, and reports those times. After the call, Craig discusses the situation with Arthur and Melissa. He leads with his suspicion about a black psyop, but then opens it to what to do about it. Situations are posited about the potential for danger, and then it gets back to the pattern reported, and what that might mean. Who does a search for matches to that schedule? Does Craig ask a co-worker to help? He got suspended for his search, so it would be a risk. But the subject of the search might not raise any flags. Assuming she does the search, what turns up? Innumerable business close for lunch at 11:00am and then close for the day at 5:00pm (if the time were Eastern). If Pacific time, lots of conferences run from 8:00am to 2:00pm. Beyond that’s it’s just things like a subset of departures or arrivals of various forms of transport. A notable effect of the field is that the nature of ‘engagement’ has shifted from primarily based on opposition to something or someone, to involvement in a process. X. (Probably here or soon after) We need a chapter on Bert, showing his take on how things are going, and what he is doing at this point. I think he may have gone back to Louisiana, where he DIDN’T plant a set of pods, and we can find out why he needed to fudge things and move it to Texas. Sounds like he has some bad history in Louisiana. In the process, if he needs to force something by playing his cornet, the intent would be amplified by the network, and reverberate for some time afterwards. X. Ailex/Alix are at a political standoff with Mark, who is attempting to mediate the situation. Ailex attempts to fight one of the mob things but fails. What’s the situation this time? Is it BP again, or are we broadening this out? I think it should be the latter, to make the world richer. If the impeachment is in this, we could have it intrude on something, and Ailex tries to stop it from escalating when Mark fails, and the police are called in. X. Derek investigates the SCA practice incident for Craig, and speaks with Bert’s neighbor, who describes Bert’s set of (now-destroyed) pods and talks about a special cornet that his neighbor had 3D printed in Seattle. Bert hasn’t been home in months, so Derek follows up on the cornet, and tracks down the company where it was made. He speaks to the owner, learns about how that cornet nearly destroyed the printer, and is told about Ermaline, who assisted Bert and made a second cornet for him. He reports back to Craig. X. (I don’t know where this goes) When Bert played his intent into the network at the B&B to instill responsibility for accepting and protecting the pods into the B&B owners and employees, the intent was broadcast across the network, and resonated there long afterwards. We need another case of this to make it evident to Craig & Derek. This means Bert must have some reason for using his cornet to force something. X. Craig now knows what to look for, so he returns to his only lead, the ferry, where he speaks with the captain and confiscates the pods. The captain tells him that a woman named Ermaline worked with him, but that she didn’t make the return trip from WI. Craig concludes that she was a co-conspirator who for some reason parted company with Bert. X. Having gone into hiding after the heartbeat vanished, Bert puzzles over how violent events such as at Blaine could happen in light of the effects of his remaining pods. He goes to where such an event is unfolding, and tries to use his cornet to control things, with disastrous effects. His picture, with the cornet, is broadcast, and he is identified as the dangerous individual who triggered the carnage. (This is the precedent for what happens at the casino standoff.) He goes into hiding. X Craig pursues Ermaline’s trail, which starts at the hotel where she overnighted in WI, and then led south to Chicago, where she has posted resumes in her job search. He contacts her, explains his concern, and she tells him where the Chicago pod and the others she knows about. He goes to Lincoln Park, and convinces the park director to remove the wind chimes as they are evidence in a case he is investigating. Since the item was not approved, he agrees. X. The manager of the welcome center in Moonbeam, Ontario is visited by a man claiming to be from a US intelligence agency, asking for the wind chimes that Bert had presented them with. She refuses, of course, and demands some sort of formal seizure d0cumentation from the US government. Once the stranger leaves, she texts Bert. X. Mark (& Alix/Ailex) gets called to the casino, where a tense standoff has developed about Border Patrol gaining access to the casino property, which is not in their jurisdiction. It’s a jurisdictional nightmare and a powder-keg. By this time, Mark could have seen the picture of Bert at the event earlier. X. Bert rushes to the casino standoff to protect his few remaining pods. He joins the human chain blocking the entrance, and is killed before playing cornet to stop Border Patrol from entering. This reflects his original instructions to Mark, but now his intent is to disrupt collective action rather than drive it on. I think Vanessa and the BP temp should be there as well. Here, Vanessa attempts to convince the BP temp that Bert should be prevented from playing his cornet (which implies that by then she will understand what’s going on), but having been scammed by her before, he brushes her off. Possibly, Ailex/Alix are there, too, and attempt to push the BPs mob-thing to act against him, which could be how he gets shot. X. Craig finds and removes the pods at the casino, encountering Alix/Ailex, who also zeroed in on it, and who explains what’s really happening. He then goes to Pentwater looking for the final set of pods. Asks at B&B, and is told that they had been hung in the gazebo, but that someone had removed it. That’s one dangerous wedding souvenir… [END] **Notes about previously defined chapters; for reference…** =========================================== [8] Craig is told of another possible lead by a co-worker: an unconfirmed report about a peculiar event with a 3D printer shortly before the effects spread, at a startup in the Georgetown section of Seattle. He speaks with the head of the company, and learns about the horn printed on his prototype 3D printer, and a disgruntled employee who left with the designer of that horn. Now he has Bert’s name and address, and also Ermaline’s. The natural next step is to visit Bert, but the house is empty and his mail had been held. Aerial reconnoissance via drone returns pictures of the denuded pod tree. He speaks with Bert’s neighbor and gets an earful, and a description of the pods, which matches what he saw on the ferry. That must be one of them. [9] Bert. En route back to WA, Bert reads in science news: magnetic (magnetotactic) bacteria have been found essentially everywhere. They create chains of magnetic material inside the cell, which align with the Earth’s field. I suggest that further, these bacteria resonate with the subtle fluctuations in Gaia’s field, and that such things are also embedded in nerve tissue, and facilitate energy behaviors in people. Bert knows that Ailex deals directly with energy, so wonders whether she might be able to see/feel/detect the field which the microbes are reacting to, like they were an indicator or amplifier. He also flirts with a thought about whether this field is the source of the energy that the pods channel. [10] Craig. Based on Bert’s neighbor’s description of the pod, Craig returns to the ferry, confiscates the wind chime, and opens it up. He wonders how a wind chime could possibly have any effect on remote negotiations and conflicts. The subtlety suggested reminds him of the work that Derek Boa’s organization, Constitutional Evolution, had done, and how the small changes in governmental process that they had workshopped had also led to outsize results. Unfortunately, the environment in which such work could be done vanished with the 2016 election, and the group disbanded. But this should also be the beginning of the doubts he has about whether the perpetrator(s) should be stopped, and ultimately, whether he can honestly continue with the agency. [11] Bert. Back home in Washington State, Bert is startled to discover that the periodic bump in the field has vanished, which means the one on the ferry is gone, and the effect has been diminished overall. He wonders whether someone is actively working to shut down his network. What would he do in response? He’d immediately start thinking about the clues that would lead to him, and the people who knew about his pods. He goes to where the first pod was placed and confirms that it is still there. [12] Craig and Ailex. (We shift POV back and forth during the chapter.) We have a run-in between Craig and Ailex. Craig has the authority of the spy agency to throw around, and Ailex knows the good that the pods have done. Ailex would therefore challenge Craig’s agenda. Craig would still take the pod, but the confrontation (done DESPITE the pod’s presence, because Ailex can deal with the energy’s effect) shakes Craig’s sense of morality, a reflection of his dealings with Derek Boa. If they have this conflict, how do we frame it, and whose POV is it done through? I think I should shift back and forth during this chapter. ▪ Craig. Flies back to Seattle with the ferry pod in hand. Why would it have been placed there? The effect had started before the heartbeat did, so other pods would have been placed prior to that. But where would they have been placed, and why? The agency can get a historical trace on him, so he asks for it. The report shows his itinerary, and where the stops were. He asks for someone to look for pods at the remaining locations, and heads for the first one himself. (We don’t know if if his request is honored immediately, but I suspect not.) At some point, Craig goes after the set of pods at the Nisqually casino. ▪ Ailex. At this point, the pods at both ends of the curve have been removed, and more are about to be. Ailex will notice the change, but he still does not know it was all due to the pods. He might return to the place where the first one had been, but she would not know what to look for. Alix, the analytical aspect, suggests she recall the experience of the earlier visit, to compare. This could reveal an auditory difference, but not necessarily what is now missing. Do they encounter Craig, when he comes to confiscate the pod? [?] Mark & Ailex. We are at a gathering (IRL or virtual?) of people from various instances of the project that Mark Laraby was asked to join by the local county police. He’s asked Ailex to join him. The meeting was called in haste because the effect of their efforts has come unraveled in many places at the same time. While Bert was planting his pods, they had been making remarkable progress, but then it all came crashing down, and nobody knows why. Reps from several areas report on what happened with their efforts. They compare notes and make a timeline, realizing that both the rise and fall of their successes were simultaneous events. Some of these events were even newsworthy. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! KIlling Bert Things come to a head when Bert tries to control Alix during a political event at the Nisqually Casino that is driven into overdrive by Derek Boa. While Ailex is submerged in order to keep tabs on the mob things in the situation, one of them seizes control of Alix. Proximity to the pod has filtered them, causing Ailex to be more peaceful, and Alix to be more potentially violent. So when Bert starts playing his cornet at Alix, he flips out and attacks Bert. Ailex struggles to contain Alix, but she fails. Craig had heard about a 3D printing job in Seattle from the previous year that played out like sabotage practice, but he filed it away and only realized the connection later on. (Craig making the connection…) We know that Craig spoke with Melissa Fox and Derek Boa about the pattern of public involvement that Boa also noticed. Craig is concerned that it’s the result of something done by an intel agency, something that he was not privy to. Because of what’s happening, they discounted conventional psychological tactics such as media, and wondered whether some form of radiation could have such an effect. (No connection yet to the printer incident…) There would have been a police report about the melee at the SCA practice, but that would not have mentioned pods. Part of the pattern has been the increase in violence at political events; Craig could have sought the origin/first report of an incident in that pattern, which would be the SCA incident, which Bert’s neighbor knows about in detail. He visits the printer company and gets Bert’s contact info, then breaks into Bert’s house, where he finds arcane drawings and maps. Bert’s neighbor tells him about the first set of pods, their effects, and that Bert had made multiple trips to the casino just prior to leaving town for an extended period. So Craig heads to the casino to investigate. While on his journey, Bert learned about incidents such as what happened in Blaine, and puzzles over how it could happen in light of the effects of his pods. When he gets home, he hears about a standoff developing at the casino, where the first pod was hung, so he drops everything and goes there. He is coming from the south, so he has to pass through the new checkpoint. There’s a local police presence, as well as BP agents. There are protesters outside the casino, including Vanessa and Derek Boa. Also present are Mark Laraby, who is with the police, and Ailex/Alix, who are monitoring the situation WRT the mob influences. The incident was caused by Border Patrol deciding that there were ‘people of interest’ gathering on tribal lands, here and elsewhere, and responding by performing sweeps, in violation of tribal sovereignty. They insist that their quarry is hiding in the casino, but those gathered say that BP has no authority to enter. BP are armed, and twitchy. Bert hears about the standoff and goes to the casino, packing his cornet. He gets there, and, protective of his pods inside, joins the protest. Alix sees Bert, remembers that he’d taught Mark to play bugle calls to rouse a group to action, and urges him to give it a shot. Bert then tries to stop the BP directly with the cornet. A BP agent fires at the agitated crowd and hits Bert in the throat, slicing his spine and killing him instantly. The shock abruptly ends the entire incident, as the BP fall back. The climactic event… Craig has finally tracked Bert down, just at the moment that Bert is at the casino attempting to control people in the tense standoff with his special cornet. Alix/Ailex are there, and Ailex is submerged, attempting to thwart the mob thing that Derek Boa drove into a frenzy. Mark Laraby is with the county police at the scene. Craig knows about the cornet by this point, and is calling to him to stop while running towards him when the BP agent shoots Bert in the throat, killing him instantly.

TW: Self-Harm The photographer instructs me to turn my hand inward. I’m grasping the model’s face, feeling his coarse, dark stubble pricking my fingers. I wonder if I’m hurting him or maybe he likes it. Annoyance flares within me, but I comply, turning my hand further inward, desperate to make this ordeal end faster. It’s not enough. His voice grows sterner, his instructions sharper, as if I’m deliberately ignoring him. My mind drifts away, disassociating from the present. The room fades, and I lose myself in the chaos of my own head. A loud clap jolts me back to reality. It’s the photo-grapher demanding we take a break. Tears streaming down my face, I stumble off the set. My vision blurs as I navigate through the crowded hallway, feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on me. I reach a small room, where the tray of strawberries catches my eye. I grab one, the sweet, tangy taste a fleeting comfort. Collapsing onto an old, worn blue couch, I bury my face in my hands, my sobs now silent but no less heart-wrenching. “Nobody knows what it’s like,” I tell myself, the thought echoing in my mind. Though not entirely true, it feels painfully accurate in this moment. The weight of my instant decision crashes over me—I am done, forever. Desperation wells up inside, and I release a scream so raw and loud it feels as if it tears through my very soul. Two men rush in, their faces familiar but distant. They ask me what’s wrong, what they can do to help, and if I need them to call anyone for me. I tell them I’m fine and I just need a minute alone. After some quick convincing they oblige and leave. I’m alone with my thoughts, the silence pressing down on me like a heavy weight. Flashbacks flood my mind, each one a painful reminder of the times I had to model things I despised. Images of my hands holding illicit drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, condoms, and other adult products flicker before my eyes. Each product a betrayal of my core values, each photo shoot a step further into a world I wanted no part of. How did I end up like this? The question gnaws at my soul. The money, the fame—was any of it worth sacrificing my sanity? My heart aches as I recall the countless moments I felt trapped, my hands serving purposes that made my skin crawl. Tears continue to well up, the bitter sting of regret and shame overwhelming me. I thought I could handle it, thought I could separate myself from the job, but now I see the toll it’s taken on my spirit. My breath catches in my throat as I confront the truth: I’ve lost myself in this industry. The despair is suffocating, and I wonder if I’ll ever find my way back to the person I once was. Who owns these hands? I glance at a pair of cutting shears lying on the counter in front of me. The sight sends a shiver down my spine. My mind races to the extreme possibilities, but I dismiss them quickly. Still, a part of me is drawn to them, compelled by a twisted curiosity. I tell myself I'll just look, pretend and nothing more. But as I reach for the shears with my unsteady left hand, a grim determination overcomes me. I place my right hand flat on the counter, the cold surface against my skin feels comforting. With each stab of the shears, the sharpness punctures deeper into my flesh, sending jolts of pain. My cries are guttural, raw, and desperate, filling the room with an unbearable noise. Blood spreads in dark, vivid pools, splattering across the counter, providing a grotesque picture of my inner turmoil. Tears stream uncontrollably down my face, merging with the blood that stains my trembling hands. My reflection in the mirror is a haunting image I will never unsee. As the world spins around me, I collapse to the floor, the cold tiles pressing against me. My body shakes as I stare at the wreckage of my own making. A searing realization floods over me: What have I done? The gravity of my actions hits with crushing force, leaving me to confront the profound realization that I will never be a hand model again for as long as I live.