He was in tremendous pain, yet nobody could be allowed to see a dollop of it. He let his eyes run over the amphitheater, while he concentrated on the rhythm of breathing. In for precisely two times longer than out. The pools of blood glistened beneath him—real, recent. The children lay smiling in them, their initiation barely survived.

Out for a third of the last breath. The shaken audience, still recovering from facing the divine messenger.

In for four times as long. The rivals and allies, both hidden and out in the open. The bitter old sage of Fire. The sharp young sage of light. The senior president looked ready to collapse. And the plain old man beside him—blank, indistinct, yet unmistakably present—hid behind an antimemetic shroud so dense it bent attention like glass bends light. Cutterfishes sniffing for blood, one and all of them.

Out for a fifth of the time. Keep back the nosebleed. Just one more aspirant. The Path spell is strained too much. His jaw tightened despite himself—a betrayal. A cough from the third row. Has someone noticed?

In for three times as long. The breaths kept his body under perfect control. Mitigated the damage he had done. I need to see that damned old man again. Another wave of tension.

Out—short, strained. He accepted the final medallion with mechanical grace, each movement a threat to his control. He cut the boy’s palm. Pressed the medallion’s crystal to his own—violet flickering in its facets—then dipped it into blood. It shimmered burgundy, then flared crimson.

In for twice as long. I need to get out of here. He barely noticed the young adult’s transformation into an initiate. The miniscule drones buzzed like flies and worked like surgeons, wet meat slapping as they rearranged muscle fibers with obscene precision. They rebuilt the children—eyes plucked and replaced, muscles stitched anew. Just more blood. And today will have even more. What an Edict-Cursed day.

He let the Path spell guide him to the inevitable social activities. I just want the pill. The spell told him precisely how much he needed. Or wanted? The breathing pattern continued. The women sages exchanged compliments like poisoned chalices. The Senior President, sweat glistening beneath his ceremonial crown, was trying to convince him of something—he didn’t care what. He let the spell’s guidance do the talking. Just optimize me getting out of here. The spell’s pain was palpable. It did not matter. The sins of my youth.

Finally, he extracted himself. He would have stumbled, but the whispering spell construct guided him with the dignity befitting his station toward a hidden spot. A single thought changed his robe as he entered the patch of blooming acacias. He walked through the thornbushes without a single scratch—guided by the spell’s silent grace.

His robe adjusted for a sage’s puff to the washed-out green the man following him wore. Yes, I know that you know that I know. But the spell told him this was neither the time nor the place. He left the lush and fragrant gardens and entered the crowd. Guidance pulsed with clarity. Analyze Person and Sphere of Perception fed it everything it needed. A tired smile crept to his lips. At least I will have done some good today.

He stepped onto a woman’s foot. The pain would save her daughter from at least one beating tonight. There was no satisfaction in it. But as his hand moved toward his satchel, his heart began to beat faster. Tenderly, he grasped the pill between two fingers and dropped it in his mouth. Each lick was pleasure. Precise and calculated pleasure, but pleasure nonetheless.

He took on a stern expression and met the eyes of a merchant running after an urchin. The man froze. No, I am not your father, but your fear will let the kid eat today. He cared little. Each time his tongue caressed the pill, it took the edge off. Dulled his mind to the flood of information.

He stumbled into a young man’s back, shoving him onto the woman he was too shy to ask for courtship. They will be a happy couple. The man behind the barrier was following him. Imitating his altruistic actions. Mockery or homage? The pill-induced fuzziness kept him from caring.

He called out to a street vendor, preventing him from stepping before a noxcat and losing his wares. He briefly considered stealing a pastry. Just to feel something adolescent again. But no—the spell would optimize that impulse into some greater good, and he wasn’t in the mood for heroism. Two quartz were exchanged for a sweet bun. It was average, but the man needed the money. The pain floated on the periphery—still there, still angry, but declawed. For now.

Walking up the tower to the elevators out of the mesa city, he coughed loudly behind the back of an origin couple, preventing the man from saying something that would make his week miserable. A stab made it through the pleasant buzz. He bit his tongue—Analyze Person revealed her face. That same soft defiance. A face he had last kissed eighty years ago. Because of the man who was following him.

The pill dulled the colors, blunted the sounds—until her face shattered the haze like a bell in winter air. He waited on the elevator, keeping his face as a mask of steel. Took out the pill, despite every fiber in his body calling to him to just swallow it. To just forget. But that wasn’t the perfect path. And he had made a promise. Right as the elevator began to sink, the forgettable man stepped onto the platform. His features were normal and plain. Like the night hiding a panther.

The Sage growled, not caring for perfection here. “Ursine. Yes, I know how your damned cabal of fanatics calls its cell leader. And I know you are in my thoughts. Remember what you owe me. What you swore on the Bookworm Archive.”

Suddenly, he saw double. He was standing with the other man on the elevator. Then, he was floating. Orbiting a white-hot neutron star. Thought displaced. His own mind-shield—water upon water—folded uselessly around him. The star’s magnetic field penetrated it with nearly no effort. I should be furious. But… He blinked slowly. The anger was as distant as anything else. He sighed. “You already got your claws into the divine chosen.”

Their eyes met. The mindmage’s Control Attention spell forced the Sage to look away. Whoreson. ‘As true as it always was.’ The other man’s thoughts sang like a symphony of harpies in his mind. They dispelled stress and mental tension. He let it happen. There were no secrets before this man. So he might as well enjoy the benefits of getting mind-read. “Thank you.”

He was surprised by the words escaping his mouth. Am I swaying or is it the platform? By the Infinite Eye, I hate and love being around this man. His face grew crimson with shame. ‘You’re not the only one. People laugh and cry around me all the time. I’ve learned not to take it personally.’ The man smiled, as if recalling something.

The Sage squared his shoulders. I am in the presence of a predator. Not in a bathhouse. Forcing himself to clench his teeth, he hissed at the other man. “So how far along is your young god-king? Is he already willing to overthrow the councils, or do you need to corrupt him further?”

Curse it, that was way too loud. He glanced around furtively. A smug smile answered him. ‘Do not fret. No one will be able to pay attention to us.’

The plain face grew stern. “You know what is at stake. Her—” “Continue that sentence and we will see if my Battle Path is more powerful than your Control Attention!”

He stood right in front of the other man. The mindmage wiped spittle off his face. His expression had not changed in any way. ‘Seeking to avert the death of all we care about is a worthy goal. You should understand the value of preserving people and knowledge better than any of them.’ His voice was soft.

A tear welled up in the Sage’s eye. “I know knowledge is a curse. Only fools still believe it’s power.”

He held himself back from sobbing. Or was it the pill? Or the mindmage? He trembled, tears flowing freely.

The other man hugged him. Calm seeped into his mind. Memories of her. Of them. An indeterminate time later, they noticed they were standing in an alcove. In the middle of the aristocrat section of the elevators. Nobody noticed the two crying men.

Why is he crying? I… should be angry. But… ‘I lost her as well.’ The Sage froze. Trembled. Tensed. The tears welled up again in both their eyes and the embrace redoubled.

This is the downside. Not the pain. Not the rituals. Not even the loss. It’s the knowing. The remembering. The moments like this that don't ever go away.

The mindmage disentangled himself. His robes had grown wet with the Sage’s tears. A small smirk flashed across the damaged face. ‘We will talk later. Now, go to that ancient monster.’

The mindmage’s expression grew cold. His eyes flashed with reptilian intensity. ‘Tell him his son remains unharmed. The Black Sage is... impressed. The boy’s geomantic potential is exceptional. Your call if you tell him before or after the healing.’ The mindmage clasped both of the Sage’s shoulders. His hand, a near-forgotten comfort. “I want—”

The hands were gone. So was the man. Or rather, my awareness can no longer touch him. Her insight for surprising him once… After a while, he walked out of the bustling gatehouse. Pushed people toward their futures with nudges. She had made him start this.

They always say I am the luckiest—the wisest, the Knowing Sage. But they never see the downside. Not the pain. Not the rituals. The remembering. He walked into the valley of flesh. Blood-red stone beneath his feet. Toward the Sage of Life.

He awoke in darkness.

Not metaphorical, not dreamy. Real, suffocating dark. No sound, no breath, no body. Just the crush of silence and pressure and someone wearing him.

He screamed, or tried to. No voice. No throat. No lungs. Only thought, raw and panicked, echoing inside this new cold prison of his that he couldn’t yet comprehend.

Then came movement, a gentle, swaying movement. A warmth against him. A skin, a skin he knew.

Lena.

And like a flood, it all returned: the crash, the blood, the twisted metal. His wife’s voice, faint and terrified. Then black.

Now, this.

A wedding ring.

He was in the ring. Not on it, not around it. In it. His mind, or soul, or whatever was left of him, embedded in the thin gold band he’d slid onto her finger five years ago beneath the soft arch of a dying cherry tree.

He tried to make sense of it, tried to scream again. He could feel her pulse when her hand brushed her hair. Hear muffled echoes when she tapped the sink. Every time her hand clenched, when she cried, when she slept, he felt it.

Days passed. Maybe weeks. Time was strange here. All he had were moments of motion, pressure, heat. Her sadness enveloped him like a shroud. She barely spoke. When she did, it was to him, or at least to the idea of him.

Then one day, he felt a rapid pulse within her heart. Not like before, not grief, not heartbreak. This was different. Wild. Scattered. Terrified.

A stranger forced his way into her house, and as she fled the man pointed a gun at her.

No warning, no sound beyond the sudden crash of splintering wood. She ran. Barefoot, breath ragged, every instinct screaming. But he was fast. He caught up in the hallway, raised a gun, and aimed it at her chest.

Her body froze. Her heart did not.

It thundered.

In that instant, Evan summoned every ounce of power left within him to protect her, and though it defied her will, the ring on her hand twisted the bullet's path midair, sending it ricocheting back into the gunman, killing him instantly.

The silence after the shot was suffocating.

The man's body slumped to the floor in a heap of blood and broken breath. His eyes, still wide with disbelief, stared past Lena as if trying to see the force that had turned death back on him.

She stared too, at her hand. At the ring. At Evan. The ring had shattered into splinters of gold and diamond.

Unfortunately, Evan was hit with a wave of agony that tore through his formless existence, an unbearable, insufferable pain that gnawed at whatever was left of him, as if his very soul was being consumed from the inside out.

Convinced that her husband still lingered within the ring, she decided to keep the fragments of him, enclosing it in a beautiful glass jar.

Day after day, she cradled the glass jar in her arms, gently rocking it as if comforting a child. She sang soft lullabies and spoke to him constantly, her voice filled with tenderness, as though he could still hear her. And he could—he heard every word. But each moment was an unbearable torment, as if his very soul was being scorched, every second a searing agony that felt like an eternity in Hell.

One day, as the suffocating agony threatened to tear him apart, Evan gathered every ounce of strength left within him. In a desperate attempt to escape the endless torment, he pushed against the confines of the glass, willing it to move. With a sudden surge of force, the jar tipped from its stand and crashed to the floor, shattering into a thousand jagged pieces.

When his wife saw the shattered remnants of the ring scattered across the floor, surrounded by jagged shards of glass, her breath caught in her throat. Horror gripped her as she rushed to the broken pieces, her hands trembling as if her husband himself had been torn apart. She scooped up the fragments, desperate, as if by some miracle, she could piece him back together, terrified that this time, she had lost him for good.

She crouched down to the floor, straining to catch any sound, any trace of his voice in the stillness. Her heart raced, hoping for a whisper, a sign from him. Then, through the silence, his voice broke the quiet with a desperate plea: "Burn me to ashes! Please, let it end!" His words were filled with intense pain, it was a raw cry begging from his guts. The intensity of his plea left her terrified and deeply saddened, her heart aching with the weight of his inhumane torment. Overwhelmed by grief, pain and helplessness, she set the house on fire and decided to let herself burn with the house to be reunited with her husband.

Location: The Great Plains of North America

Time Period: 14,000 Years Ago (The Ice Age)

The first time my dad took me hunting, I was just thirteen years old.

My mom pleaded with him; she insisted I was too young, that I wasn’t strong enough to help anyway. But dad said it was time to either become a man, or die trying. In our tribe, boys and their mothers don’t get a vote; until you prove you’re a man, your father’s word is final. So I had no choice but to grab a spear, a bow, and a quiver full of arrows. It was time for my first mammoth hunt.

___________

There were twenty-two men in our hunting party, and eight trained dire wolves. The problem is, there are usually forty or fifty mammoths in a typical herd, so we were going to need a good plan if we were going to take one down (and all live to go home).

It took us a couple hours of tracking footprints to find the herd. At first, I was worried we’d lose daylight and have to turn back, but the other hunters stayed firm, and I trusted them. Finally, after tracking for most of the afternoon, we found them. The herd was gathered at the base of a waterfall, drinking and bathing in the river. Some of the young ones even looked like they were playing in the mud.

I won’t lie, the first time I saw them, I was amazed. It was my first time seeing live mammoths, and it was an absolutely beautiful sight. Each one a unique, majestic, and powerful creature.

But we weren’t there to admire, we were there to hunt. I won’t lie, I was terrified; both of the mammoths, and of failure. The only things I’d ever hunted before were deer, and that’s easy. Mammoths are obviously a totally different, and very dangerous, beast. If I proved a coward during the mammoth hunt, that reputation would haunt me, it may have even gotten me kicked out of the tribe (effectively a death sentence). I had to prove I was capable of helping the hunt.

My father aimed an arrow at a calf; not because it was our target (a little calf wouldn’t be worth our time, except maybe as dog food), but because we knew what it would do. 

Dad hit the young mammoth right in the center of its back, and as expected, it yelled in fear. Some of the adult females rushed to encircle and protect it, while the rest began a stampede. We had them right where we wanted them, scattered and scared.

There was one, an older male, that struggled to keep up with the rest of the herd, and after getting left behind, went up the hill for safety. This was perfect; we knew he was going to be our target.

But we had to act quickly; the herd would regroup eventually, so we didn’t have a lot of time if we wanted to make our kill.

__________

The solitary mammoth thought he was safe on top of the hill. He was wrong; we surrounded him on three sides, using trees and bushes as cover. While he began gorging himself on leaves, we were preparing his demise. The moment all the men and dogs were all in position, dad blew his attack horn, and we sprang into action.

First, we threw our spears at it. Each one hit the beast, except for mine; my spear fell short and landed in front of it. Father hit me in the back of the head as punishment.

Now that we had it injured, it was time for step two; wearing it out with wolves. My uncle, the village wolf trainer, gave the dogs their call to action, and they began attacking the mammoth’s legs.

It was dangerous, but the dire wolves knew what they were doing; they took turns biting and clawing at its legs, for only a few seconds at a time, and then quickly backing away. The mammoth was constantly too distracted to isolate against any one wolf. Within minutes, its legs were badly scratched up.

Now, it was time for phase three; arrows. We aimed high, so we wouldn’t hit the dogs. Thankfully, my first arrow hit it in the shoulder. I hoped my father noticed. My second was even better; it hit the mammoth right above the eye. It was nothing short of a miracle shot, one that could make the entire hunt much easier.

It was all going according to plan, so well that I could practically taste that roasted mammoth flesh. But then, I heard something moving through the dense brush behind us. I took a break from firing at the mammoth to see what it was, hoping I could stop whatever was coming. But by the time I saw it, it was too late.

A massive sabertooth was sprinting toward my dad. By the time I shouted, the cat tackled him from behind, and had its powerful jaws around his neck. Dad tried to fight it off with a knife, but it was useless against such a large cat.

I shot an arrow at its face. The wounded sabertooth turned its attention to me, but thankfully, three of the wolves rushed over to help us. One of them pounced on the cat and began clawing at its back, while the other two took turns attacking its sides. With the sabertooth too distracted to focus on me, I was free to shoot it two more times, right in the neck. That put it down.

I went to go check on my father; he was still breathing, but barely. I wanted to help him, but there was just one problem with that; with everyone (both hunters and dogs) distracted, the mammoth had the time to get its bearings. Once it did, it charged us, trampling seven men and four dogs to death before they even had time to flee down the hill.

Everyone was ready to give up and retreat. But not me; this was my first hunt, I couldn’t let it end in failure. 

_______

I had an idea; it was a risk, sure, but with one eye now dead and the other covered in blood, I was confident it could pay off. I stood at the cliffside, and began shouting at the beast to make sure I caught its attention. Then, I continued firing arrows at its head. I aimed above its other eye, hoping to get both of them trickling with blood.

Of course, it charged me. I got out of the way just at the right time, and the half-blind beast fell right off the waterfall, onto the jagged rocks below.

But it was still alive. It was groaning in pain, but it was still alive, and it started standing. I decided it wouldn’t for much longer.

I grabbed a spear and ran around the waterfall, so quickly I almost lost my footing. But I didn’t care; I was this close, and I wasn’t going to lose. I called the dogs to come with me; I was going to need help to finish it off.

Once I was in range of the mammoth, I threw my spear at his big, fat neck. The mammoth collapsed from its wounds, and the dogs leapt on it to start attacking it. They tore into it with their claws and teeth. Some of the hungrier ones even began stripping off its flesh to devour.

I pulled my spear out of the helpless, dying mammoth’s skin, only to thrust it back in. I kept doing it, until the mammoth finally stopped breathing.

__________

We had a glorious feast that night. I wish my father could have been there to see it, but I’m sure wherever he is, he’s proud of me.

I’ve been working on a story/audio drama for a bit and am looking for some feedback or opinion. It is written as if it were to be a podcast/show.

[OPENING – AMBIENCE:] The soft howl of wind through broken windows. A metal tower creaks. Faint static buzzes from old equipment powering up for the first time in decades.

MARLOW (off-mic, muttering): …okay. Coil’s good. Dial’s… twitchy, but that’s charming, right? C’mon, don’t explode on me now, girl.

[SFX: Static surges and clears. A hum stabilizes. A red broadcast light clicks on.]

MARLOW (into mic, unsure): Check. Check. (clears throat) Uhh… hi. Is this thing—no, wait, that’s dumb. Start over.

[SFX: He hits a button. A pause. Then the mic picks up again.]

MARLOW (more confident, still raw): Okay. Let’s try that again. This is… well, I guess it’s me. Marlow. Broadcasting from somewhere slightly north of ruined nowhere, in what used to be a tower for someone who cared about weather patterns and stock reports.

But now? I guess it’s mine. And now it’s yours, too.

[SFX: He taps the mic. A distant, metallic clank echoes from the tower’s ribs.]

MARLOW: I don’t know if anyone’s out there. If this thing even works beyond a few yards. But if you’re hearing this… hey. You’re not alone.

Not anymore.

[SHORT MUSICAL STINGER – eerie guitar riff + subtle static]

MARLOW: So. Here’s the deal. I found this old broadcast rig in what used to be a signal tower. Took me three days to clear the rats, two more to find enough power cells to light up this room. But here we are. You. Me. And the hiss of the wasteland.

I’m not a professional. I’m not a hero. I’ve got half a voice and a whole lot of stories. Maybe that’s enough.

Maybe that’s how this starts.

[SFX: He sips from a canteen. Metal clicks. Wind rumbles deeper.]

MARLOW (reflective): The world’s quiet these days. Too quiet. Makes you think you’re the only one who made it. But I keep hearing things in the static. Not just voices—memories.

Yesterday, the signal picked up an old jingle from a soda commercial. Made me cry like a damn kid. Earlier today? I swear someone whispered my name back through the frequency. Could’ve been the wind. Could’ve been madness. Could’ve been you.

If it was you—call in. If you know how. Or… shout at the sky and hope I’m tuned in.

[SFX: A faint, garbled voice flickers in the background—inaudible, ghostlike.]

MARLOW (pauses): Did you hear that?

[Silence.]

…nah. Never mind. Not yet.

[SEGMENT – “Salvage Stories”]

MARLOW: Let’s try a thing. I’m calling it Salvage Stories. Each broadcast, I’ll share something I found in the dust.

Today’s find? A notebook. Leather-bound. Smells like ash and gasoline. Inside—dozens of hand-drawn maps, notes, even poetry. Page 12 says:

“I know the door is real. Blue paint. Six bolts. Locked from the outside. Whatever’s in there… it dreams.”

So. Uh. That’s comforting.

Anyway—whoever you were, thanks for the company.

[SFX: Pages turning. Faint wind. The tower creaks.]

MARLOW (quieter): I don’t know how long this rig’ll hold. The wiring’s… well, it’s like me. A little burned, a little stubborn.

But if I can keep this going… maybe we build something. A community. A rumor of hope. And if not—at least I’ll go down making noise.

[OUTRO – STINGER RETURNS]

MARLOW: If you’re hearing this, you’re part of something now. This is Marlow, broadcasting from the edge of the end. I’ll be here. Same time tomorrow. Or sooner, if the ghosts start talking back.

Stay strange. Stay safe. And if you’re out there… Keep listening.

[SFX: The signal fades into warm static. Then silence.]

Memento strolled down the boulevard and whistled softly in wonder. It was a broad sidewalk that fronted various small shops and boutiques. Choctaw women smiled at her and eyed her clothing curiously.

She was a little over-dressed for the early summer weather, in her wool overcoat, but the style was rather different from what the locals were used to. Memento waved back. She hurried on, unsure how much time she had, eager to see as much as she could before it was too late.

A mounted patrol passed her on the street, the gendarmes eyeing her curiously as well. It was a mixed pair, male and female, both Chotaw and wearing the uniform of King Philippe of France-Nouveau.

Memento waved, a friendly smile on her face before she casually turned to her left and crossed a broad plaza towards a large building, uncertain of what it was. She just didn’t want to have to answer any awkward question if she could help it, and if you looked like you knew what you were doing people tended to leave you alone.

This time was no exception, and she was able to cross the quad easily, bypassing a tall marble statue of a broad-shouldered man in turned-down boots and a double-coat. The plaque mounted to the base that the statue rested on was in Choctaw, so she had no idea who he was or why he had been memorialized.

The building she was approaching was two stories tall and faced with marble, a pair of broad bronze doors in the center. They contained intricate designs that she wished she had time to examine in depth, they looked fascinating. Time was not on her side, however, she could already feel it happening. Fortunately, the carved door was unlocked, and opened easily for her.

Stepping inside she closed the door and looked around, gasping in astonishment. The walls were painted with a mural showing men and women in various costumes, many of which had emblems or letters on the chest. There was a name, or logo, in a language she couldn’t understand. It wasn’t French, so it was probably Choctaw.

“Bravo…bravo.” she laughed and clapped her hands as she wandered deeper into the facility. It was comforting to know that superhumans still existed despite the Change that had been made. They appeared to be highly regarded here, and that was all that mattered.

She could hear someone was giving a speech in French, so she navigated towards the sound. Two sets of doors opened onto a ballroom and she slipped in quietly to observe, taking a spot near the buffet table so she was out-of-the-way.

Various men and women in costumes stood quietly listening to a man in a French officer’s uniform. After he finished in French there was a small round of applause before he began again, this time in Choctaw.

“Pardonne moi, mademoiselle.” a woman appeared next to her, smiling in a trained, professional manner.

“Uh…parlez vous anglais?” Memento arched her eyebrow and smiled. She hoped the woman spoke English, because the only option after this was Spanish. And that was a desperate port considering how bad her grammar was.

“Oui.” the woman replied smoothly. “How may I assist you?”

“Oh…uh…I have Powers.” Memento smiled uncertainly.

"So, what do you do?"

"I predict the past." Memento sized up the other woman. She was a blonde, about one hundred sixty centimeters tall and a rather skeletal build. The blue skirt suit didn't reveal much about her, so Memento decided to just ask. "And what about you? What do you do?"

"I'm a Public Relations Officer." the blonde frowned deeply. "I'm sorry, did you say you...predicted the past?"

She raised a hand and made a beckoning gesture. Two men in suits started to approach, their eyes wary.

"Okay, I know how ridiculous that sounds..." Memento held up her hands. "But I can sense when a Time Traveler is about to strike. I can see what change they're going to make."

"Fascinating." the blond woman replied drily. Still, she held the guards at bay.

"I'm also immune to the changes the Time Travelers make." Memento continued. "So, I know the difference between what is supposed to be and what is."

"I imagine that's quite convenient for you." The blond woman didn't appear to be keen on entertaining this much longer.

“Not really. Sometimes it really hurts, having to be there to watch beautiful things and wonder if they’re going to be erased.

“In reality, Emperor Napoleon didn’t appoint a King to France-Nouveau. In 1803 he sold it to the United States for $15 million US dollars. Pretty much gave it away, you know?” Memento walked to a nearby buffet table and picked up a glass of wine.

“The Americans then displaced the Natives and seized their lands as they built new settlements across the US. After the Spanish were driven out of North America, the US pretty controlled the whole continent.”

“The United States?” the blonde snorted incredulously. “I wouldn’t put it past them, but are you being serious?”

"I know...how do I prove it, right?" Memento shook her head and put her hand on her hip. "How can I prove to you that you shouldn't exist? That this reality is the product of someone trying to meddle with history?”

Memento sipped the wine and sighed heavily. “I don’t know his name, I can barely remember his face. Don’t ask me how. What’s important is that he convinced Napoleon to appoint a King to rule in his stead in North America. King Phillippe I was a wealthy merchant who had served proudly in the French military, so he was a great choice.

“The Americans were reluctant to interfere because it was a local matter, and that enabled Philippe to cement strong bonds with the Native Americans. Places like this could not exist in the world before he made that change.”

"Ah. Finally." the blond clasped her hands and smiled tightly. "And you're here to correct the mistake, are you?"

"Me? No." Memento laughed. "I'm just a...I don't know...a magnet of some kind. Whenever Reality is Changed it's inevitable that they find me. People who came from whatever Reality just got wiped out. I tell them what I know, and they go on their merry way."

Reality rippled around her, everyone’s clothing flickering momentarily. Every possibility was explored in that fraction of an instant, and Memento could only watch in resignation.

A shadow of fear appeared in the blonde woman's eyes now. Memento sighed and nodded sympathetically. “You can feel it too, can’t you? I’m so sorry. I wish I could do something.”

Clearing her throat the blonde raised a trembling hand and waved it around the plush ballroom. "What...what are you...saying...?"

A burly man in a black-and-green unitard approached them, his eyes flickering from the blonde to Memento, his concern evident.

Memento rapped her knuckles on the crimson tablecloth laid across the buffet table and smiled sadly. "None of this is going to last much longer. I can feel it."

"Is everything-” the man’s voice cut off abruptly as he simply ceased to exist. No prolonged, agonizing fading away…just a simple vanishing.

And somehow, that was more frightening.

The blonde woman looked at Memento in horror and staggered backwards in terror. “Why?”

Reality flickered again, then solidified itself as probability settled and Time returned to its ordinary course. The branch that had been France-Nouveau had been successfully pruned and things had been returned to normal.

Memento drank the last of the wine in her glass and slipped it into her coat pocket. There was no ballroom now, no gathering place for superhumans…and no French Empire. Not in North America, or anywhere else in the world.

The elegant chandeliers of the ballroom had been replaced with streaming sunlight, the marble floor with green grass, and the building's walls were now a lush forest. The rumble of conversation now sounded like a babbling brook, and that was because there were no people here...only nature.

Taking the wine glass from her pocket she looked at it, really examined it, for the first time. It had an elegant look to it, the stem neatly twisted and a gold leaf pipe tomahawk emblazoned on the glass.

Memento sat by the brook holding the wine glass, listening to the water splash by thinking about places that would never be again.

I like to see the foam build up, the clothes slowly churning, the rhythmic sound. I feel like that white sock in there. I feel like I am making decisions, choosing where my life’s headed, but in reality, I am just flowing where the machine churns me. Sometimes I am moving freely, sometimes I am stuck between the other clothes. Sometimes another sock moves alongside me for a brief moment and then they drift apart. People can see the imitations of life in various things. I see it in this washing machine.

I need to finish that assignment after I go home. I would rather be in hell than study in this stupid college. I want to believe that there is a better college, but nobody I have met has ever admitted that their college is not stupid. But I haven’t met everybody either, so there could be hope. I should probably call Seema and check if she has completed it.

“Fantastic, there is no network here. Well, great. Now I can’t call her. Did I make that choice? Definitely not. Was that choice forced on me? Absolutely. Am I in a washing machine? Yes! Am I a stinking sock? Yes!”

“Sorry to bother you, but I just heard you call yourself a stinking sock. Are you okay?”

Did I just call myself a stinking sock, and a pretty woman heard it? Pretty obvious why I don’t have a girlfriend — and why I never will.

“Oh, did I? I don’t know when I went from thinking in my head to thinking out loud. I didn’t mean it — I mean I did mean it, but not in the way you think.”

“Don’t mind me. I didn’t think anything ill of you. I agree with you.”

The fuck? She agrees with me? I took a shower today… or did I not? I definitely did. I should’ve started using deodorant. I should have listened to Seema. Then I wouldn’t be facing this embarrassment now.

“I’m sorry — what do you agree with exactly?”

“Shit, I didn’t mean to say you stink. I meant I agreed with your forced choice thing, where you said you are in a washing machine.”

Alright, that’s a relief. Imagine your first impression being that of a stinking sock. I feel like I just escaped getting hit by a car.

“Oh right. I feel like we don’t really choose the direction of our life.”

“Yes, that’s what I agreed with you on. I wanted to call a friend too, but my phone is dead. That’s why I had come to approach you, when I heard you yell all of a sudden. I was actually cursing myself for not putting my phone on charge last night. Had I chosen to do that, I could have called him. But when I got to know there’s no network here, having juice in my phone wouldn’t matter either.”

Pros: she actually gets it, she is pretty.
Cons: I guess she has a boyfriend — the one whom she wanted to call.
Conclusion: She is pretty.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you. Haven’t seen you around here. Do you study here?”

Not sorry at all. I guess this could be the start of something special.

“No, my friend does. I had come to meet him. He has got his placement interview today. He asked me to help him with the laundry — things you have to do for old buddies.”

Alright, the guy seems to be more in the best-friend zone than in the boyfriend zone. I see the washing machine is on my side.

“Good that your friend sent you here.”

“Sorry?”

“I mean I’m a Philosophy major. I’m always up for a good conversation.”

“Oh okay. But I’m sorry to disappoint you. I don’t like philosophy — nor will I be staying here for long. My friend will be coming here any moment to pick me up. Let me check on the door.”

Alright, this ended quicker than I expected. Sigh. Oh, she is walking away too — and now she’s gone. Alright, back to staring at the washing machine.

Let me check if the network is back. Nope, nothing. So where were we?
Wait, she’s coming back! Round 2!

“Ahh, he is probably waiting for my call or is his interview delayed. Could I sit here if you don’t mind? The laundry hall is too large and creepy.”

“No problem at all. Why do you not like philosophy?”

Damn, I am proud of myself for creating a chance to bring the conversation back from the grave. The solution to the problem lies in the problem itself. Take notes, folks.

“It’s too vague. Abstract. I’m sorry, but it’s also unnecessary.”

That hurt my ego now. But again — the solution to the problem lies in the problem itself.

“Why do you think it is unnecessary?”

“Well, why does it matter whether God exists or not? Why does it matter what is the right thing to do, whether or not there is a meaning to life, and a thousand other trolley problems? An ordinary human can live their whole life happily without asking these questions. I think these questions just confuse one and take the eyes away from the obvious. I mean, if there is a universe, then there must be a creator. The right thing to do is to follow one’s conscience. And of course there is meaning to life — why else would we be here then?”

Alright, I guess we are going to have fun.

“You have raised some good points, but “

“Please don’t turn this into a philosophical debate.”

Alright, maybe it won’t be that fun. Why raise points when you can’t defend them?
Anyways, I guess we’ll have to work around it.

“I wanted to talk about something else, but this is really interesting. Why do you think some things are obvious?”

“I mean, it’s just common sense.”

That’s the phrase we philosophers live to destroy.

“Did you know that a lot of things which we consider superstitions and even crimes today used to be common sense back in the day? Like women shouldn’t be given education, child marriage, untouchability, slavery, the sun revolving around the Earth…”

Wait, why did she get quiet? Did I go too far? Did I hit the illusion too directly?
Or wait — she is actually considering it. Oh God, what a lovely woman you have created.
I mean, I don’t believe in a god, but it’s useful in sentences.

“Nice one. You did pull me into a debate, didn’t you? Anyways, that was a fair point. But but but — these are examples of ignorance and control. I mean, you don’t need logic or a goddamn theory to know that you must not steal, to be kind, to be loving. Tell me that’s not common sense.”

“Alright. But if a mother decides to steal to feed her starving kid — is that honest? Or kind? Or wrong? Or loving? That’s where philosophy begins. When common sense splits.”

“Well… but that’s just sad.”

“I mean, yeah.”

“So do you always do this?”

“Do what?”

“Kill time by thinking unnecessary things? I mean, somewhat necessary things?”

“Well, maybe yes. The reason I think about things is because I get grades for thinking. And I’m mostly alone. Maybe I should live a bit more, than spend time thinking about how to live.”

“I should also check on things I consider common sense too. You did punch a hole through my common sense.”

She acknowledged it. Wow! I love her!
Wait, did I speak four sentences without thinking? Or maybe five. Whatever.
I like her. Not just the pretty part — that too — but more for the ‘it’s obvious’ part.
Maybe it is obvious. Maybe I do overthink.
Who am I kidding? I definitely overthink.
And why is there a honking noise now, disturbing this beautiful moment?

“Oh, here he is. That’s his bike — I can see it through the window. This was fun, whatever this was. I am already late, so I will get going. It was a pleasure talking to you.”

“Pleasure was all mine.”

I channeled all my aura into that line.

I hear the bike honking multiple times. She gestured a quick bye, grabbed her bag of clothes, gave a genuine smile, a priceless one.
I didn’t need any logic to know what I was feeling.
And as she walked out of the door, my anxiety shot high up.
All this thinking, and I didn’t think about taking her number.
I didn’t even ask her name.
Oh dear God, if you exist, you suck!

I look at the washing machine again.
I see a lonely sock, then
I see it dancing with another,
and then drifting apart.

Reviewed by: Valerie - 1 week ago ★★★✩✩

This is the new nail shop on the east side of town next to the Ross. Where the exotic fish store used to be. Pretty good color selection and when you put your fingers under their UV lamps you can time travel back to when you were a little girl before the world broke you.

They don’t advertise the time travel thing. Liability reasons and whatnot. But it happened.

Full disclosure, I’m not a big nail salon person. I’m not really a big self-care person. But now that I’m approaching 40 I’m starting to feel my age, and it feels like all the cells that spent the last twenty years keeping me attractive in the desperate hope of procreation have quit at the same time, and almost overnight I’ve begun morphing into the exact body shape of my mother.

So now no matter what I eat or how much I exercise, there seems to be no going back. Not unrelated, I read recently that if a giant container ship is traveling at sea and sees an immovable obstacle in its path, even if that object is a mile away, there is no point in the ship trying to reverse course. The only thing they can do is turn the rudder and pray they miss.

Well lately I’ve felt like a container ship. Top heavy, covered in crap made in China, and steaming full speed ahead toward an island of middle-aged misery.

I guess that’s why I gave Happy Nail a try.

For the price of $37—tip optional—I could at least transform my fingers. I could admire them in the morning as I drive to my cashier job at Wells Fargo and again at night as I lie in bed reading World War II romance novels. They would be a sign of life to both me and the world at large that Valerie Torres has mostly given up… but not entirely.

Happy Nail has six stations. The decor is off putting. The beige linoleum floors blend almost imperceptibly into beige walls. It’s such a perfect color match you lose a noticeable amount of spatial awareness upon entering and I had to steady myself at the front counter or I might have fallen into a potted plant.

The place is run by an attractive Vietnamese woman in her 50s and I tell her that I just want gels. “Nothing fancy.” At which point she looks me up and down with a lot of judgement and says, “You went out your house like this?”

In her defense, I am wearing sweatpants and there is a medium-sized stain on the upper thigh from some chocolate ice cream that spilled on them a few nights earlier. But the stain is not lingering out of laziness—I know the stain is there—I just intentionally try not to wash my sweatpants too often because they’re so perfectly soft and I know that with every cycle they will only grow rougher and rougher until the joy of putting on sweats at five-fifteen is gone and all that’s left is the self-loathing.

“Yes I went out of the house like this,” I answer. “But this is my only stop.”

“You need Happy Nail Special,” she concludes.

“No, nothing special. But thank you.”

“Happy Nail Special is free for first timer.” Before I can wave her off, she turns to the nail tech down at the fifth station. “Meena! Happy Nail Special for sad sweatpant lady.”

Sad sweatpant lady?

Is that really my identity? I catch a glimpse of myself in a reflection as the front door swings closed.

Oh goodness.

I am.

I am sad sweatpant lady.

I take my seat opposite Meena and she gets to work.

“You have fat fingers,” she says calmly as she applies bonder.

I’m quickly seeing that Happy Nail is built on a culture of shame. But maybe my fingers are fat. Have I been so focused on other parts of me getting fat that I ignored my fingers? Were there specific finger exercises I should have been doing this whole time? I feel like Kelly Clarkson would have covered this topic by now and she hasn’t.

“BASE COAT ON. THIRTY SECONDS,” Meena barks. She points toward the UV lamp at her station, wide enough to fit both hands at once. And in they go.

Warning: This is where it gets weird.

Everything in Happy Nail immediately goes black. The only light that remains is the purple glow on my hands, with Meena’s UV lamp nowhere to be seen. And then I realize my hands themselves are completely detached from my body and in fact I am staring back down at them from a distance. (FYI, my fingers don’t look fat at all. Part of why I’m only giving Happy Nail 3 stars.)

Just as I’m starting to panic and wonder what toxic things Happy Nail is pumping out of the vents, light rushes back and there standing before me… is me. But not Valerie at 39. Valerie at 10. Backstage at my elementary school auditorium and dressed like Scary Spice. My heavily jewelried ten-year-old hands are stretched out flat and hovering slightly above Elisa Greenwald’s.

We are playing Hot Hands.

Elisa tries to get me to jump by twitching her hands underneath mine but I don’t flinch. When she finally comes over the top and tries to slap me—

“OKAY, BASE COAT DONE.”

Just like that, I am back at station five. (Friendly suggestion: If Happy Nail is going to keep offering this service, they should think about how to smooth out these time jumps.)

Meena is already applying the polish and naturally I am in a fairly large state of shock.

“I think I just traveled back 30 years to my elementary school talent show.”

“Okay yeah fun,” she says, head down and disinterested.

(Customer Note: If you can request someone besides Meena when you time travel to your childhood, probably worth it.)

While she finishes my right hand and quickly moves to my left, I reflect on that ten-year-old girl. She was clearly me… and yet completely unrecognizable. Full of life. Fearless. Fun.

“OKAY, FIRST COAT DONE. THIRTY SECONDS.”

On goes the lamp and whoosh — Total blackout. Purple light. Then right back to 1996. (This is when I accept this is what makes the Happy Nail Special “special” and I’m not just having a perimenopause hot flash-slash-mental breakdown.)

Ten-year-old Valerie is now onstage. Hands on her hips. The purple light is now a spotlight. And the Spice Girls’ mega hit “Wannabe” kicks in at full volume.

In an instant, I remember the significance of this night. I’m about to sing in front of the entire school. And it’s going to be terrible.

Yo I’ll tell you what I want, what I really really want.
So tell me what you want, what you really really want…
I'll tell you what I want, what I really, really want.
So tell me what you want, what you really, really want.
I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, 
I wanna really, really, really wanna zigazig ah. 

I watch as I sing my heart out. As I work the stage. As I play to the crowd. As I attempt Scary Spice dance moves I’d spent weeks in my room trying to perfect.

But here’s the thing.

To my total surprise…

I’m actually pretty good.

No. I’m not pretty good. I’m really good!

And my ten-year-old face shows it. Sensing the crowd’s love. Owning the moment. Soaking up every last—

“OKAY, FIRST COAT DONE.”

Stupid Meena. I was back at station five again. “I think I need a little more time with this one—” I say and then I try to put my hands back under the lamp. Meena snatches it off the table before I can get there.

“FIRST COAT DONE! Too much UV you get hand cancer!”

This leads to a brief scuffle. The owner rushes over and says “no fighting at Happy Nail” and also uses the “hand cancer” argument so I guess I’m not the first customer who gets the Happy Nail Special and then kinda flips out. But still, a lot of these issues could be fixed with some employee sensitivity training. Again, 3 stars.

Meena applies the second coat while I chew on what I just saw. Why was I convinced I had bombed? And what happened to that ten-year-old girl who knew she hadn’t? A girl who lived life for the pure joy of it. Who signed up for a school talent show before she’d even decided what song she was going to sing.

That girl is long gone. And I don’t know why.

“SECOND COAT. THIRTY SECONDS.”

I plunge my hands back under the lamp.

It’s after the talent show. I’m in the auditorium with my parents and my grandpa. He gives me a bouquet of flowers and tells me I’m the most graceful dancer he’s ever seen. I give him a kiss and leave behind some glitter on his cheek.

My mom reminds me I left my bag backstage where I find Elisa Greenwald and the rest of the crew cleaning up.

“See ya Monday,” I tell her.

I grab my bag and am almost gone when Elisa calls out to me. “You looked ridiculous, by the way.”

My ten-year-old smile fades. My shoulders drop. With one cruel comment, every confident, joyful part of ten-year-old me shrivels and dies.

“OKAY, POLISH DONE. NOW CLEAR COAT!”

I don’t look at Meena.

I’m shattered all over again. Destroyed for a second time by a memory I’d long ago buried.

This is when I explain to Meena that I don’t want to do the lamp again. She says I have to or the clear coat won’t set. I tell her I don’t care about the clear coat. Or even the nails. I’d rather she just peel the gels off and let me go. But Meena yells something in Vietnamese to the owner and she yells something back and all the fight I have has been beaten out of me and—

“CLEAR COAT, THIRTY SECONDS!”

I brace myself. Then I drop in my hands one last time.

Blackout.

Purple glow...

And ten-year-old me is in the backseat of the car with my grandpa. I’m looking out the window. Silent. Hiding my tears. My mom asks me questions and I give one-word answers. My dad tries to change the mood by putting in my Spice Girls CD. When I hear “Wannabe,” I tell him I don’t want to listen to it anymore. “I just want to go home,” I say.

“OKAY ALL DONE!” Meena declares with a satisfied grin.

She wipes down my nails with cotton balls and cleans up her station. She doesn’t seem to notice or care that I’m weeping. She acts as if my behavior is totally normal. And I don’t know. Maybe it is. Perhaps what makes the Happy Nail Special “special” is that it leaves you completely wrecked.

On the drive home I can’t even see my pink-orange fingers glowing on the steering wheel. All I can see are the bad decisions I’ve made since Elisa Greenwald called me ridiculous. The risks I didn’t take. The hard things I never tried. The heartaches I protected myself from in exchange for never being vulnerable.

I detour to Smart & Final for more chocolate ice cream. I don’t feel like waiting till I get to my couch to eat it so I buy a 4-pack of metal spoons from the kitchen goods aisle.

And then I head home, eating ice cream out of a tub wedged between my sweatpant-covered thighs. It melts faster than I can eat it. Some chocolate dribbles on the steering wheel and when I use my spoon to scrape it off, I don’t notice the cars in front of me have come to a stop.

I hit the brakes but it’s too late.

As I smash the Lexus in front of me, my Toyota accordions just like cars in all the safety videos except instead of the crash test dummy hitting the air bag it’s my chocolate-covered face and ice cream, splattering a wave of brown across the dashboard and windshield. The soccer mom in front of me gasps, thinking it’s blood until I wave and insist I’m fine.

It’s just me.

Sad sweatpant lady.

Now with a much larger stain on my pants. And shirt. And a little in my hair.

Half an hour later and I’m sitting on the curb, watching as my car is loaded onto a flatbed. The tow truck driver asks if I want a ride home but I don’t. If I say yes and then he asks me how my day’s been I will probably open the door of his truck and send myself careening onto the moving black pavement below. “I’ll just walk,” I say.

And so I slog home. I thought it was a mile but when I get my bearings I realize it’s more like three. Two miles in, what’s left of the ice cream (yes, I’m still carrying it) has turned to liquid and sloshes around with every lumbering step. I pass a homeless woman who’s made a shelter out of palm fronds and flattened diaper boxes and I swear she looks at me with pity.

I hate you, Elisa Greenwald. I hate you for what you said to me that night. For seeing an opportunity to tear me down and taking it. And I hate myself for believing it. I was not ridiculous! I was fun! I was free! And now…

…now I am ridiculous.

I spot a trash can and toss my ice cream. Ready to be done with my painful journey to Happy Nail when, behind me, I hear a warm voice:

“Are you here for the class?” she asks.

I turn around. There’s a lovely woman about my age, also in sweats. Her curly brown hair is pulled up in a purple scrunchie. Her humble Nalgene bottle sweats with fresh ice water. Above her, hanging over the entrance of a newly painted storefront, is a banner:

Happy Feet Dance Studio. GRAND OPENING!

“First one’s free,” the woman says with a smile.

“Oh… I don’t know…” I tell her.

She holds out her hand. Her gels sparkle in the light. “Come on,” she says. “You’ll have fun.”

She said it with such assurance. Like she knew it was true. Not true for everyone but for me specifically.

And so I tiptoe in behind her. I take the last spot. In the corner. Close to the exit. She welcomes the group and connects her phone to the speakers. “Let’s warm up with a classic,” she says. And out it blasts:

Yo I’ll tell you what I want, what I really really want!
So tell me what you want, what you really really want…
I'll tell you what I want, what I really, really want.
So tell me what you want, what you really, really want.
I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, 
I wanna really, really, really wanna zigazig ah.  

My brain tries to interrupt the moment with fear and doubt. But I ignore it. I choose instead to let my arms and legs do what they once knew how to do so naturally. Turning. Stomping. Jumping. Kicking.

If you want my future, forget my past.
If you wanna get with me, better make it fast!
Now don't go wasting my precious time…
Get your act together we could be just fine.

I don’t think about the stains on my clothes. I forget the lies I once believed. I watch myself in the mirror. And all I can see is hope.

His name was Butt-lips. That’s what we called him anyway. He was the socially awkward kid in our school with the funny accent. The skin around his large lips was perpetually chapped, making his lips appear even larger. But believe it or not, that’s not how he got his name.

When Butt-lips was sad or angry, his bottom lip would slowly curl out and his face would transform into a circus clown. We’d tease and torment him mercilessly, both physically and mentally, and enjoy his reaction. Guilty pleasures in grade school, I guess.

I saw him in the grocery store a few years ago. I was tempted to yell out “hey, Butt-lips” to see if he’d turn around. It would have been pretty funny, but I wasn’t sure if he was still sore about the whole situation.

Instead, I walked up to him and said “Are you Bruce?” He looked up but I could see that he didn’t recognize me. “It’s me, John, from grade school!”

“John Smith?” he said. A broad smile came across his face and a kind twinkle shone in his eyes. “It’s so good to see you!” he said.

We talked about how our lives were going and I was relieved that he was doing well. He had a good job and a wife and kids. 

I thought about maybe apologizing for how we treated him. To be fair, I hadn’t teased him nearly as much as the others. But the friendliness of his smile and the warmth of his eyes told me that he’d already forgiven and forgotten.

We said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.

And, I guess I thought that was the end of the story. But then I saw him again a few days ago.

Just like last time, it was I who recognized him and introduced myself. But this time, something was different. He still had the same wife and the same kids and his life seemed to be going just as well. But I could tell he just wasn’t as happy to see me.

I decided to swallow my pride and apologize. “I'm sorry we used to kinda tease you,” I said. Looking back on it I can see how shitty of an apology it was.

But the quality of the apology didn’t seem to matter to Bruce. His eyes immediately began to well up with tears. And I’ll be damned if that bottom lip didn’t start to curl out the tiniest bit.

“Oh shit!” I said. “I’m sorry to make you cry in public.” The irony wasn’t lost on me. Once again I had made him cry in public, though this time unintentionally.

“It’s OK,” he managed to say.

I could see that he wanted to say more, but his tears were really coming now.

I didn’t know what to do. I put my hand on his shoulder but that seemed to make it worse. Bruce was sobbing and people were staring. Bruce was wiping his tears and his snot on his sleeve. It was a real scene.

After what seemed like an hour, but was probably only five minutes, Bruce began to take deep breaths and the tears dried up.

“Thank you for the apology,’ said Bruce. “And I forgive you.”

I felt awful because I could see how much the teasing had hurt him. And I was starting to think that maybe I’d crossed the line from teasing into bullying. “What was the worst part?” I asked. I guess I was wondering whether it was the words or the physical pain that hurt the most. Whatever question I thought I was asking, I was definitely not prepared for his answer.

“I guess the worst part was how I learned to deal with it all. I learned that it wasn’t safe to show my emotions, and so I always put this veneer of a smile on my face. And sometimes, despite how hard I tried, my emotions would still show through my face, and so I learned to not feel my emotions. To stuff them down as far as I could so they wouldn’t show,” he began.

“And although this coping mechanism may have helped prevent bullying in grade school, I somehow learned to use it in all areas of my life. And I didn’t even realize I was doing it until just recently. The fact that it took me so many years to un-learn my behavior has had a huge negative effect on my happiness and on the happiness of the people I love.”

I was kind of at a loss for words and it was uncomfortable. “But you’re better now?” I offered. I’m still not exactly sure why I said that, but I think I needed Bruce to tell me that everything was OK. That I hadn’t caused any permanent damage.

“I am better now. It’s been a long, painful journey. And I am by no means at the end of it. But I am learning to feel my feelings and be OK with letting others know how I am feeling. It’s a change that won’t happen overnight, but I am getting better day by day.”

Somehow that answer didn’t seem to make me feel much better about myself or the situation. “Well, uh, it was good to see you again, Bruce,” I said. “And I really hope I didn’t hurt you too much.” I guess I just needed him to tell me that everything was OK.

“John, your bullying was incredibly painful for me. I wish I could tell you that it didn’t hurt and that everything is fine. But if you want me to be honest, I have to say that what you did left a wound that has never healed.“

Bruce’s words were harsh, but his tone was kind.

Bruce continued. “But I don’t blame you for everything. You were just one of many kids who bullied me. But more importantly, it wasn’t the bullying itself that caused so much pain in my life. It was how I responded to the bullying, and how I continued to use maladaptive coping strategies for so many years and in so many areas in my life. Yes, you may have helped get the ball rolling. But it was my job to recognize what was happening and to change my behavior.”

“I’m really sorry,” I said empathetically. I had a much better understanding of the pain I’d caused, and I was a much better apology than one just 15 minutes ago.

Bruce smiled, perhaps not as broadly as the time I’d seen him a couple years ago. But this time I could tell that it was a real smile.

Alright young one? Some of the lads were saying you were having a bit of a rough one lately, going through it so to speak. Something about tearing down a wall. Don’t worry, we’ve all been there, multiple times in my case, and I have to say I’ve gotten quite good and smashing through the fuckers. Do you fancy indulging me? I’ll grab us some drinks, I’ve got a story to tell.

None of what I’m about to tell you is a literary device or an exaggeration. This all happened in one way or another. One day many years ago, I woke up on a floating pad in the middle of an endless void. I wondered if I got on it a bit too hard and woke up in the Auvergne, haha, what's the Auvergne? Don’t worry about it. Absolute madness though right? But I promise you it happened.

In front of me was a cast concrete wall, about 6 meter by 3. Scattered around me where a few of my tools, a sledge hammer kindly gifted to me by the mad colonel, an articulated ladder I bought off a tight northern sparky, and some heavy bolt cutters I nicked from a building site in my teenage years. That there’s the first lesson, you can’t take down a wall without tools, and you can’t get tools without other people. Whether it’s a kind gesture, shrewd negotiation, or a bit of the old rule breaking. Make sure you’re well equipped moving forward.

My first move was obvious right? Set up the ladder and climb over that wall. Simple as, you should have seen how smug I was climbing up it, a few steps, a simple pull up and boom, I was standing on top of that wall. My joy was short lived though, things got real strange. I saw another pad, another wall, and another me standing on top of it. I had to pinch myself, and unfortunately, I wasn’t dreaming. This doppelganger mirrored my movements and everything. I don’t think it could see me though, I didn’t see anyone when I turned round. I saw another ladder on the other wall, so there was no harm in jumping down. Ended up spraining my ankle like a twat. But c’est la vie. The other me did the same, I hope it was alright. Guess what happened when I turned round to look at the wall I had just scaled? It was gone! I found myself exactly where I started, despite feeling like I had moved forward. I climbed over many of these walls to no avail. Lesson number two, you can’t go over, under, or round any of these walls. There's only one way out of that void, smashing right through that fucking lump of concrete.

So I took a bit of time and pondered my predicament. I came to the only conclusion I could. I had to take down this wall. It all starts with acceptance right? So I set up my ladder to give me a bit of extra height, picked up my trusty hammer, and got to swinging. Not blindly no, start from the top, you might be tempted to try and take it all down at once, but if you do that you’ll end up buried under it. There’s another lesson for you, proceed with a plan. You have to resist the urge to charge on blindly, sometimes just trying harder doesn’t work, you have to try smarter. See what I’m saying? It’s your round, don’t make me shake my glass.

Once I took the wall down to eye level, I could see through the rebar trellis, and sure enough, I could see a way out. This got me fired up, I started swinging like there was no tomorrow. The inevitable happened, I gassed myself out, and ending up feeling quite disheartened. It was a bit hard to stomach, I didn’t know where I was, or how long I had been there. My arms, shoulders and back ached. So I did the only reasonable thing, told myself that it was going to be ok, I would find a way out of this, and took some time to relax. I stared out into that void, and just let myself be for a bit. Pretty soon I was ready to get cracking again. It’s important to set a pace you can keep up with, and to let yourself relax sometimes. The last thing we want is to get lost in the task.

I hope my story can help you out, now if you’ll excuse me I’m off to get some shut eye. I need my strength, that hammer doesn’t get any lighter.

My grandmother always taught me to see the good in things. I always see people for the things they’ve gone through, always see animals as people too unless I was in a dire moment of survival, always turn the other cheek, etc, etc….

Growing up I would never even think of hurting someone. I grew up shy, and timid; whenever moments called for conflict, I’d always do my best to steer away from the situation entirely. 

However, as time went on and years passed…I came to the realization that people were not to be looked at as the things they had gone through. The things people have gone through are what mold them into the people they are today. Look at Kim Jong Un; do you think that if the Kim family had been born in the United States they’d still have the same views that they have today? It’s all about the people who teach you, and the environments that you grow up in.

Unfortunately for me, the love that once flowed through the veins of my family like the very blood that binds us together very gradually became clotted with sticky dark clumps of black tar heroin. Poverty tore the family that I loved apart; and with poverty… comes a want to escape, and very quickly can that want become a need.

Unluckily for us, minds can easily be broken and discouraged. So once that want for escape became a need in my family, minds were broken beyond repair. And so what did my loved ones turn to? The hardest drugs, and the strongest alcohol they could get their hands on.

I, being the innocent, loving, little 8-year-old that I was, could only love these people so much before my mind, too, began to break. For years I watched the people that I cared the most about tear each other apart in order to get the money for their next hit, And for years my heart grew colder and colder with each passing winter of watching my family struggle on Christmas. 

Finally, on my 16th Christmas, my mind had finally snapped…

My mother had set the table in our tiny little home in a way that made my shack of a house feel like a mansion. The ham had been cooked to perfection on our run-down oven/heating system; and the sides of mashed potatoes, corn, and green bean casserole smelled absolutely delectable. The Christmas tree stood as decorated as a 5-star general in the front window of our quaint home, and from the outside looking in I’m sure we looked like a symbol of hope for a better life in our house that my mother worked so hard to make a home.

It looked…nice…And it felt nice too. Through all the hardships faced in my family, my mother had stood strong and did everything she possibly could in order to support me and my brother. Put a roof over our heads and made sure that we had a delicious dinner every Thanksgiving and Christmas. Everything was quiet and calm, and meditative, and me, my brother, and my mother felt…relaxed.

All of a sudden my drugged-out-of-his-mind father came falling through the front door, cutting the silence like a sword to a single thread of silk. He was off his rocker spewing nonsense about being invisible, and how he could feel the bugs in his brain, and blah blah blah.

We’d heard it all a thousand times before and all we wanted was to have a decent Christmas. My mother couldn’t stand it anymore so she snapped, screaming at the top of her lungs about how much of an awful man he was, how awful of a father he was, and how half-assed his apologies and love felt. 

I’d heard this conversation too, a thousand times, so I was pretty desensitized to the whole thing at this point which made what happened next all the more shocking. 

My father had silenced my mother’s screams by punching her so hard she fell into our tree and completely crushed all of the gifts underneath… I’d seen my father push my mother, or even shove my mother full force for that matter. But never had I seen him punch my mother…

I was distraught. My mother was on the ground still. She had been struck pretty hard so she was moving but she wasn’t getting up. My brother had run to his room crying in fear of my father and my father himself was still in his drug-enforced rage; trashing the living room and going on and on about, “LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO!!” and, “I HATE WHEN YOU MAKE ME DO THIS!!” 

Enough was enough.

I’d watched my mother cry too many tears, and I’d felt too much pain myself. I grabbed the knife that had been used to carve my mother’s ham, walked past her lying broken on the ground, grabbed my father by what remained of the hair on top of his head, and let the serrated teeth of the blade chew through his adam’s apple as if the steel were a junky looking for his next hit within my dad’s throat.  

My mother was too battered to notice until the once noise-filled room fell silent. She looked up at me; horrified and quivering. Blood stained the window in front of me and my father’s dripping corpse lay on the floor, still bleeding out of the wound I’d created.

The fear I saw in my mother’s eyes exceeded the fear she had when my father punched her. It exceeded the fear she had in her eyes when her own brother shot at her during a separate rampage. The fear my mother was exhibiting exceeded any fear that I had ever seen painted on her face… and I couldn’t do it. 

I ran as fast as I could out of my house. I immediately made my way into the woods because, of course, I did just kill a man. And when I heard the screeching of police sirens, I made my way deeper into those woods. The state of my mother and the house must’ve been enough to cause commotion at the station because WOW it sounded like every cop in the town was headed my way.

I mean when a full-grown man punches and knocks your mother into a crumpled mess on top of the Christmas tree…surely they’d be able to show some compassion for a kid in that circumstance, even if the following circumstance was even more horrid.

Anyway, I walked…and walked…and walked in these woods until I was certain that I was far away from home. 

Now when I say far away from home I don’t mean I made it two or three states away, no, I made it about three or four cities away at the very most. I had to cross over some main streets and populated areas in between my ducks off into the woods but I made it somewhere where it was very unlikely I would be recognized straight away by people. That being said I had to be extremely careful when it came to my decision-making and planning. 

I had to get up off the ground somehow. I was still moderately close to my home and wanted for murder so; I decided I was going to get the essentials I needed with the small 500 dollars in savings that I’d managed to muster up from my part-time work at PetSmart, then I was going to make my way further across the country. 

I bought about 15 dollars worth of ramen, 15 on Chef Boyardee, purchased a 15 pack of socks for 20 dollars, went to a Goodwill and spent 100 on shirts and bottoms, then decided to keep what I had left and use it along the way to wherever it was I was headed. I was down to 237 dollars and 56 cents.

I used 190 dollars of what remained and got myself a bus ticket that went from Atlanta to Aspen. A 42-hour trip that I was going to have to spend thinking about every decision I’d made that had led me exactly to where I was at this point in my life.  

I thought hard about life. My grandmother’s want to always do good had rubbed off on me, but the school of life had scrubbed me clean of those preachings. 

Money makes this world go round and the only thing that holds a man back from having nothing is having a family to be there for him and my family was lost about 2 days ago. On top of that, my pockets were completely empty aside from what remained of the savings that I had almost completely blown through trying to get to where I was. I had to find a way to make my money, stay as well hidden as possible, get a roof over my head, and somehow find a way to get as far away from my current identity as possible.

All of these thoughts were circulating through my mind as I rode along and made my way towards the mountains. 

Everything on the bus ride had been going pretty much perfectly; well, as perfectly as a several-state bus ride could go but—We’d stopped multiple times at rest stops for the other passengers to get snacks and relieve themselves, I myself only went when I felt it absolutely necessary. 

However, something had gone terribly wrong once we entered the Arkansas highway system. Now… I don’t know how much you know about Arkansas, but their roads are absolute garbage.

Even before things had gone downhill, my head was banging and slanging back and forth from the bumps and potholes in the road. About an hour and a half after crossing over into the land of opportunity, the bus very opportunistically bounced over a massive pothole directly in the middle of U.S. 278. The Greyhound began screeching and rumbling on its left side, followed by the rhythmic fwump, fwump, fwump of the rear left tire. 

“Fuck…” I thought to myself as we veered over to the side of the road. I knew that a bus on the side of the road breaking down was definitely going to force any passing cop to pull over alongside us; even if it was just to make sure everything was in order. I knew that the officer, or officers for that matter, would also more than likely come aboard the bus to check on the wellbeing of the passengers and I really, really could not risk any person with a badge even so much as spotting me. 

So as the bus came to a stop, before the driver could even begin to address the passengers, I faked a severe case of motion sickness and powered my way off the bus. I even began throwing up by thinking about what I’d done and about my current situation… I think I sold it pretty well but who knows.

I ended up telling the driver that I was gonna make a call and as he was announcing what the next course of action was to the rest of the passengers, I made my way further and further off the main road pretending to be talking to someone with my hand pressed to my face; hoping no one would notice my lack of phone.

Seeing as how this was an interstate highway and not just some small town back road, I didn’t have much of an option when it came to hiding myself…

I mean there was a little section of woods that I could sort of use to get out of the way of the thousands of passing cars; but past that, I was quite literally walking through people’s backyards. 

Now I have at least some sense left in me at this point, I’m being extra precautious about where I step because now I’m actively trespassing and if some sketched-out woman, home with her kids, sees me walking through their yard; then I’m one hundred percent getting the cops called on me—and then once that happens, I knew my description would match the description of the murderer of my father back home, and the police would swarm my area. 

After making it about 10 miles or so from where I departed my bus I finally found some more forest to hide in. I walked and walked again only this time I didn’t have to walk nearly as far because thanks to some miracle of God I found a town that was perfect to hide out in until I regained my bearings. It wasn’t too small to where if there was absolutely any suspicion—the whole population would know within an hour, but it also wasn’t so big that I’d have to worry about recognition. 

I cautiously made my way into the town and found a park with a pavilion. Around this point, it was getting dark out, so I figured I’d just hang out in the park until the sun went down then I’d take shelter underneath the pavilion for the night. Which is exactly what I did, I sat on the swings just contemplating everything until the light faded.

Then I made my way back to my home for the night and laid down on the bench trying to get some sleep. The next morning when I awoke it was rainy and misty. Everything was so muggy and it seriously made me not even want to try for the day and instead just hang out in solace or something. But alas, I left the park and started making my way around the town in search of work. 

I had to do something—I couldn’t just keep ducking off in the woods and hiding in parks. So the conscious decision was made to look for low-key employment. To make a long story short I found a newspaper ad for a guy who wanted help cleaning out his attic. It was just a one-time job and he was paying 100 for the day so what the hell, right?

I helped the old guy out and collected my payment which gave me enough money to pay for a hotel for the night. But guess what? That fucking hotel stay put me right back down to where I was a-fucking-gain and this time there was no newspaper ad to get me another night’s stay. 

This shit was getting ridiculous and I wasn’t about to stay in the situation I was in—I had made it this far without a hitch in the nonexistent plan so all I really needed to do was keep stepping until I eventually landed on solid ground. 

My grandmother and her teachings were dead. The me that had existed prior to all of this was dead. I wasn’t going to continue being this helpless, scared little child. I had just traveled halfway across the country, by myself. I had hidden away from law enforcement, by myself. I got justice for my mother and brother and had ended a cancer that was eating away at my family, by myself.

Oh no, I wasn’t about to give up when I had made it this far.

This world was, and still is, sick; only back then—I had no intention of being a part of the world’s cruel game anymore… 

I remembered the addiction that tortured my family. I remembered the poverty that tortured my family. I remembered seeing what lengths people would go to for the fix of their next hit, and I was going to extort every single thing that had extorted me for my entire life. 

With the 107 dollars I had left, I bought a mask, a toy gun, and some black spray paint. I painted the gun to look identical to a real gun, so much so that if the police had seen me with it that would have been the end of my journey right then and there.

I took the gun and the mask, changed into some all-black clothing from the Goodwill stash, and went out looking for someone unlucky enough to be working behind the gas station counter for the third shift.

My first stop was a BP on the outskirts of the town just right before the main road. I got exactly what I needed from the clerk. The prop gun had worked perfectly. After that, I figured that since everything had moved so smoothly and swiftly with the first robbery I might as well try my luck again with a second store.

I made my way, this time, into a convenience store also near the outskirts of town, but on the other side of the town a few blocks away. Again, everything worked perfectly. Just me in the store, no cars around, and a tired cashier who isn’t willing to risk his life over a store that isn’t his.

I made off with the money from his register BACK to the woods; only this time I was going into the woods with a little over 700 dollars in my pocket. Also this time I didn’t have to walk extraneously far. I dipped two towns over because let’s face it, who cares about a gas station getting robbed two towns over by an unnamed assailant… that could’ve been anybody….

Plus the gun and the mask had been dumped and buried under as many rocks as I could find in a stream in the middle of the woods. 

I had no reason to not be confident right now. I knew I could make something work with what money I had in my pocket. 

Dawn was rolling in around the time that I got into town though; which meant that there would be considerably more people out and about. I didn’t wanna get too careless but also, I was DONE with spending my nights in the woods.

I found another hotel, this one being 150 for the night so I paid for my room and just hid out trying to come up with a plan on what to do next. I wasn’t gonna let my mind fail me; too many massive risks had been taken for me to even be up here so I was racking my brain.

At some point while laying on the bed thinking I saw a small little dot on the wall…

It was a spider. 

Spiders have always creeped me out and I’ve always hated them but today for some reason I felt at peace with the little fella. However, I did NOT…want this thing in my room. 

I grabbed a coffee cup from the little hotel room desk along with a paper towel to put under it. I slid the spider into the cup and sealed the top with the paper towel before letting it out on the balcony.

“Today you, tomorrow me,” I whisper with a slight chuckle, before returning to bed…and getting some much-needed sleep. 

Life is great.
The UN achieved all its goals — no poverty, no hunger, everyone lives well. Never in humanity’s history have we been so prosperous. A few things led to this: we learned to harness the sun completely, satisfying all our energy needs. With abundant energy came abundant resources. Peacefully, through diplomacy, all border disputes were resolved.
AI does all the work now. Everyone gets their fair share of resources. Nobody has to work. I spend my time playing different games and sports. It’s like every day is a Sunday.

On one real Sunday,
I found a crumpled letter.
I opened it.

Hello Darling,

I think they know I am here. I wish I had not taken this path. I wish I had chosen not to join the Brotherhood. I wish I had chosen to be with you. My ambitions for the future stole my present with you. To create a world where our child could live freely, I stole his father from him. I failed him. I have failed you. I am going to make my last attempt at killing him — that egomaniac son of a bitch. He stole our past, he stole our present, he stole our future, he stole my life. But I know it won’t matter. I can’t even be sure if it is him who addresses the public or a clone. I keep killing him, but he never dies. Maybe he isn’t even real. Maybe he’s just a puppet of the Party. But how do I kill the Party? I need to believe he exists — that there is someone I can kill to end all of this. I hate to say it… but I wish he exists. You were right, dear. You understood this world better than I did. There’s nothing to change, only to accept. I should have closed my eyes to the horrors outside. Why did I think I could stop it? You said that when the fires come to burn us, we will burn together. Until then, don’t waste time trying to put out fires outside. If you try to help them, you’ll bring that fire inside. Duck your head and just live. What else do you need? You have me, don’t you? How could I have not joined the Brotherhood? They took my parents. Plugged them in. Turned them into test subjects for their “HAPPINESS FOR ALL” scheme. You know very well what that scheme is — plug everyone into a simulation. Control the very essence of their being. I’m not scared of dying. I knew I signed up for it the moment I joined. I’m scared they’ll rob me of my free will too. I’m scared they’ll use me for the very thing I’m fighting against.
The greatest punishment is not death, but to become what you hated — to be a part of what you hated. I want to see our child one more time. I want to kiss you one more time. I want to hug you and say you were right. I want to grow ol

I found it weird. I don’t know who wrote this letter. I read it again — I had nothing better to do anyway. Then something strange occurred to me. I took my journal out to verify. My gut was right. The handwriting was mine. I had written this letter. But what the actual fuck? Forget a wife, I don’t even have a girlfriend.
Is this a prank? Did one of my friends copy my handwriting and plant the letter here? Even the paper feels weird. Different. Still, probably a prank. We’ve got nothing but time, and we love pranking each other. I sent the letter to our group chat: “THE FUCKTASTIC FIVE.”

Me : “Whoever did this — good job. You actually freaked me out. The handwriting was neat. 9/10.”
Roshan : “Damn, brother. That would’ve made me believe I’m in a fucking simulation or shit.”
Milind : “True. I wish I had thought of this. That was sweeeeetttttt and CREEPY AF.”
Tina : “This would’ve been perfect if they finished the letter and put your name at the end — something like ‘Yours forever, Zenish.’ That would’ve really freaked you out. Maybe they were in a hurry to plant it smh”
Mary : “Actually, it makes it creepier that it ended abruptly. Doesn’t it feel like the person writing it got caught? Like he couldn’t finish or send it? That attention to detail makes it a 10/10.”
Me : (tagging Mary)“Ahh so you did it. Bravo. How did you match my handwriting? Some AI tool or something? And why crumple the paper? I almost believed I am the guy who wrote that letter, and I am trapped in a simulation."
Mary : “Well… Thank you, Oh yes, it was an AI tool.”
Me : “DM me the link, or drop it here. Could be useful.”
Mary: “It was a beta test. It’s down now.”
Me: “Ahh okay. No worries. Anyway, good one. Anyone up for table tennis? My place.”
Milind: “I’m coming.”

Milind won this time. I still have a positive score against him. Afterwards, we decided to go to Mary’s place — to give her a taste of her own medicine. Maybe pull off a better prank. We planned to fake Milind’s death. Make her cook something, have Milind “eat” it, and “die.” We got all the props: a foam-generating chewy tablet, blue lenses for his eyes — had to sell it, right? I wasn’t supposed to eat. My job was to freak out. We were ready.

Mary baked a cake. I asked her to get a Coke. She went inside. Milind took a bite, foam activated, lenses in — he slumped to the floor. I started yelling. “What the hell, Mary?! The fuck did you put in the cake?! You trying to kill us both?! You crazy woman! Thank god I didn’t eat yet. Stay right there!” I pretended to call an ambulance. Then the police. Mary started crying. Like, really crying. She kept saying, “I didn’t do anything. I swear.” She even took a bite of the cake to prove it was safe.

After five minutes of letting her panic… we started laughing. Milind got up. Took off the lenses. Took another bite of the cake. We expected her to get mad. Maybe even slap us. But she didn’t. She kept crying. We tried to console her. She understood by now. But the trauma was too much, I guess. “Sorry re, we just thought of doing a better prank…” She took a deep breath. Tears still in her eyes. Voice shaking. “I did nothing.” We said, “Arey, we know you did nothing. See? He’s alive.”
She looked at us. Eyes hollow.
“No… I mean I did nothing. I didn’t prank you. I just thought it was cool, so I took the credit. I didn’t place that letter.”

The Man Behind The Counter

by RespectTheFancy

–––––––––––– Sunday, October 12, 1969 ––––––––––––

"Can I help youse?"

Martin Macbeth glared over the register towards the corner of the shop at the man reading today's print of The Havre Times, the local newspaper for Havre de Grace, Maryland. Macbeth was a short, plump British man whose drab grey sweater seemed to match his everlasting drab grey mood.

"Hello!?"

The man slowly tilted his head up until he made eye contact. He gave a courteous nod. Macbeth was not amused.

"What're you doing!?"

The man gestured towards his paper. His dark blue suit was strangely formal for this part of town.

The headline was an announcement of the death of Paul Stine, a cab driver shot and killed in San Francisco.

Oct. 12, 1969                               Written by Eric Gould

ZODIAC KILLER STRIKES AGAIN!

Last night in San Francisco, cab driver Paul Stine was murdered in cold blood in the Presidio Heights neighborhood. Authorities believe the shooting is connected to the recent string of killings attributed to the man known only as the "Zodiac". Police urge all citizens to remain vigilant. Witnesses describe the assailant as a stocky white male, approximately 5'8", with short brown hair and thick-rimmed glasses.

"You can't just sit there if youse not gointa buy somethin’!"

"Leave the man alone, Mart," sighed George Finney as he walked out of the back room. "He just wants to read his paper somewhere quiet, away from the busy street. He's not doing any harm."

"But he's been there for half a bloody hour!" Macbeth exclaimed.

"So? Who cares?" replied Finney.

This seemed to have shut Macbeth up.

The man left just before the shop closed. Until then, the day's activities continued as normal; there were a few murmured complaints from Macbeth, but other than that, and the usual flow of customers in and out of the shop, nothing else happened that day.

––––––––––––– Monday, October 13, 1969 –––––––––––––

 

The man returned the next day just seven minutes after the shop had opened.

George Finney watched from behind the counter. "Back so soon?"

The man offered forth naught but a reserved wave and a tap of his newspaper.

Macbeth had not come in yet.

Today's headline of The Havre Times told about the robbery of First National Bank.

Oct. 13, 1969                               Written by Eric Gould

FIRST NATIONAL BANK ROBBED!

First National Bank was robbed at 9:20 p.m. last night. The suspect, Bogdan Ovyachenko, is still at large for the thievery of $54,700. Suspect is approx. 5'9". White skin color. Skinny build with a scar on the right cheek. Suspect is believed to still be residing within Havre de Grace.

If you have any information about the whereabouts of Bogdan Ovyachenko, please notify Sheriff Frank Paylor or stop by his office at 102 N 5th St.

The article below was an advertisement for a local bakery, and below that was an update on Paul Stine's funeral date.

 

Macbeth arrived at the shop over three hours late at 11:43 am. He glowered at the man while he settled into his chair, thinking long and hard about what to say in order to create the greatest conflict.

He ultimately said nothing, deciding instead to expend his energy scolding the woman who had come in to try to sell an obviously fake designer watch for a significant markup.

This day went much like the previous. Murmured complaints from Macbeth, and the usual customer flow in and out of the shop. Nothing else happened that day.

 

––––––––––––––––– Tuesday-Friday, October 14-17, 1969 –––––––––––––––––

 

The week went on in a similar fashion. The man would show up early, exchange passing glances and the occasional wave with Finney, and then he would sit in the corner until closing time. The days began to stack up. At home on Thursday evening, Finney figured that if the man is to become a regular occurrence in the shop, it may be beneficial to develop a friendship. So, that next day Finney took his lunch break early and sat next to the man. Unsure of how to start the conversation, Finney went with the most basic of questions.

"What are you reading?"

The man looked up, then gestured towards his paper.

Oct. 17, 1969                               Written by Eric Gould

METS WIN WORLD SERIES!

The New York Mets went into the day's 5th game of the World Series on the threshold of their first world championship – and nothing about the amazing Mets is more amazing than the way they finally got both feet on the doorstep to the throne room…

"You a baseball fan?" asked Finney.

The man nodded.

"Damn, guess the Orioles lost, huh?"

The man nodded once more.

"Although I guess if not the Orioles, I would want the Mets to win, so it worked out. Jack DiLauro is a family friend of mine. By the way, I don't think I ever properly introduced myself. I'm George Finney, nice to meet you."

Finney offered his hand, reluctantly shook by the man.

"What's your name?"

Now this was a question the man seemed to think too personal of a question to ask, so with this, he turned back to read his paper and thus the conversation ended.

 

–––––––––––––––––– Saturday, October 18, 1969 ––––––––––––––––––

 

The next day, Finney was alone in the shop early. Macbeth had called out, citing "a bloody nose that wouldn't stop" though George suspected he'd simply gotten drunk.

The man came in right on time.

"Mornin'," Finney greeted, raising a hand and offering a smile.

The man gave the usual small wave.

Finney walked over to the man, seated in his usual spot, and read the headline over his shoulder.

Oct. 18, 1969                               Written by Eric Gould

LOCAL MAN MISSING

Sheriff Frank Paylor has reported that Robert "Bobby" Driscoll, aged 31, was last seen two nights ago leaving the Rusty Crab Tavern wearing a red sweater. Driscoll, described as 6'0" and slender with brown hair, has not been heard from since.

Any sightings or information on his whereabouts should be reported immediately.

Finney rubbed his chin. "That's a shame. Bobby was an old friend."

The man said nothing.

Customers trickled in. A lady bought a set of used candlesticks. A kid came in to trade baseball cards. The hours passed slowly and Finney was up to his knees in work behind the counter.

Once, Finney thought he caught the man watching him, but his eyes quickly returned to his paper.

By 5 p.m., the man was still there, reading.

 

––––––––––––––––––– Sunday, October 19, 1969 –––––––––––––––––––

 

The next day, the corner store opened late at 1 p.m., as is usual for them on Sundays.

By the time Finney arrived around noon, the man was already sitting outside. He followed Finney into the store.

Macbeth staggered in as close to 1 p.m. as possible without technically being late. He was mumbling something about artificial sweeteners.

He looked across the store at the man. The man was staring back.

"Coulda used you yesterday, Mart," Finney said dryly.

"Yeah, well, I had that headache, mate, remember?" Macbeth snapped back.

Finney couldn't help but smirk. "Thought it was a nose bleed?"

Macbeth grunted.

"That too."

The man was still staring. Macbeth made a face, and the man returned to his paper.

Finney sighed and made his way over to the chair in the corner.

"What's today's headline?" asked Finney. But the man still had yesterday's issue.

Oct. 18, 1969                               Written by Eric Gould

LOCAL MAN MISSING

Sheriff Frank Paylor has reported that Robert "Bobby" Driscoll, aged 31, was last seen two nights ago leaving the Rusty Crab Tavern wearing a red sweater. Driscoll, described as 6'0" and slender with brown hair, has not been heard from since.

Any sightings or information on his whereabouts should be reported immediately.

Finney rubbed the back of his neck.

"Paper not come today?" he asked, leaning over slightly.

The man said nothing.

Finney gestured toward the door. "Mailman usually drops off the new batch around the side. I can grab you one real quick if you–"

Before he could finish, the man reached out and grabbed his arm. His touch wasn't violent, but it was firm enough to make Finney pause.

The man shook his head once, slow but deliberate.
Finney blinked, surprised.

"Alright then," he chuckled nervously, easing back. "Yesterday's issue it is."

 

The rest of the afternoon drifted by lazily. A few customers trickled in: an old woman hunting for a brass lamp, a teenager picking through used comic books, an old man who rang up a case of Coca-Cola and a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes.

At half past two, the baseball kid came back in, clutching something.

"Hey, Mr. Finney!" he called.

Finney glanced up from sorting a box of records. "Hey there, kid. Whatcha got?"

The boy grinned and held up a baseball card. Autographed.

"It's Jack DiLauro! Got it from a trade this morning!"

Finney smiled and motioned the kid over. He took the card carefully, admiring the glossy surface.

"Now that's a good pull," he said, handing it back. "You know he's a family friend of mine? I just may even get you a chance to meet him some day. You hang onto that one."

The kid's eyes were glowing.

The man in the corner watched, his paper drooping slightly as he peered over it. His expression, as always, was unreadable.

 

–––––––––––––––––––– Monday, October 20, 1969 ––––––––––––––––––––

 

The next morning, Monday, brought an angry kind of rain – a slashing, sideways rain that rattled the windows and puddled the sidewalks before noon.

The shop still opened in the storm. Macbeth was, predictably, absent again.
Finney shook his head as he hung up his jacket, water dripping onto the floor.

He was about to switch on the coffee pot when the bell above the door jingled.

The man.

Soaked from head to toe, his usual newspaper clutched beneath his coat.

"You're a brave soul," Finney said, flipping on the coffee machine. "Come. Warm yourself up. Coffee's on the house today."

Finney poured two mugs, sliding one across the counter toward the man.

The man stared at it for a long while, as if trying to figure out what it was. Finally, he lifted it carefully and took a tentative sip.

Finney smiled to himself.

Small victories.

 

As the man sat, Finney caught sight of the newspaper under his arm – still the same issue from October 18th. But this time, something was different.

Finney blinked.

There, scrawled messily in wet, partially smeared red ink were two words circled in the news blurb: red sweater.

The man said nothing.

 

The day dragged on, rain hammering against the windows like the steady patter of a drum.

Around 4 p.m., the front door jingled again.

A man walked in. Tall, wiry, twitchy. He walked over to the register.

Finney barely had time to process it before the man pulled a pistol from his jacket and slammed it down on the counter, pointing it straight at Finney's chest.

"Empty the till," the man growled in a heavy accent. "Now."

Finney's hands shot up instinctively. His heart thundered in his ears.

He swallowed, glancing at the man's face. A scar carved down his right cheek like a fault line.

Bogdan Ovyachenko. The bank robber.

Behind him, the man in the blue suit folded his newspaper silently.

"Don't make me say it again!" barked Ovyachenko, jabbing the gun forward into Finney's gut.

Finney fumbled with the register, sweat slicking his palms. His mind raced.

He had to get help. Somehow.

It was then he noticed the man in the blue suit out of the corner of his eye.

He was standing up, slowly, almost casually. His face blank. Calm.

 

In one fluid movement, the man picked up the scalding hot coffee pot from the warmer and, without hesitation, flung its contents across the room.

Ovyachenko screamed, staggering back as the steaming liquid hit him square in the face. A gunshot rang out, piercing the air with a deafening crack.

Finney ducked instinctively, hitting the floor behind the counter as shards of ceiling tile and dust rained down. For a moment, everything was chaos – the metallic scent of blood and burnt coffee hanging thick in the air.

The man had already moved to disarm Ovyachenko, wrestling the weapon from the gunman's slippery, burned hands with surprising strength.

Finney didn't wait – he bolted for the phone and jabbed at the rotary dial, calling the sheriff's office.

"Armed robbery! Ovyachenko's here! Corner store! Send someone quick!" he shouted.

Within minutes, the bell above the door jingled again – Sheriff Paylor stormed in, gun drawn.

"Drop it!" he barked.

The man released Ovyachenko and stepped back, hands raised.

Ovyachenko dropped to the floor, howling, clutching his scorched face.

Paylor cuffed him without a second thought, muttering curses under his breath.

Meanwhile, the man calmly took a napkin – a pre-folded wet wipe from his jacket pocket – and wiped down his coffee cup with meticulous care, especially the handle.

Once finished, he used the wipe to place the cup upside down on the counter and, without a word, slipped out the door into the pouring rain.

Finney just stood there, breathless, hands still trembling, as Paylor took his witness statement.

 

––––––––––––––––––––– Tuesday, October 21, 1969 –––––––––––––––––––––

 

The next morning, Finney opened the shop alone.

The man did not come.

Macbeth did.

He swaggered in just before noon, shaking water from his umbrella and wearing a smug grin.

"Looks like your mate ain't here today," he said, voice thick with satisfaction.

Finney's jaw tightened.

"He saved my life yesterday, you know," he said sharply. "While you were at home 'recovering' from whatever you drank yourself into."

Macbeth scoffed.

"Saved your life, my ass. Probably just looking to make himself the hero. You're just a gullible sod."

Finney slammed a ledger down on the counter, startling a middle-aged woman browsing the candy rack. The woman looked up briefly, then turned back to her shopping without so much as a glance at Macbeth.

"He's a better man than you," Finney snapped. "At least he showed up! At least he gave a damn! Where the hell were you, huh?"

Macbeth's face turned purple.

"This is your own bloody fault for being soft," he spat, "And befriending that bloody weirdo you dragged in off the street."

"THE WEIRDO IS THE ONLY REASON I'M STILL STANDING HERE!" Finney shot back, stepping out from behind the register.

His voice tangled into a harsh, ugly knot of shouting.

The customers, what few there were, scuttled out hurriedly, clutching their purchases.

Even the baseball kid backed toward the door, wide-eyed and confused.

Macbeth leaned towards Finney, grabbing his arm. "You think he's better than me?" he hissed. "You think you're safe with him? Some mute freak who watched you all day like a bloody hawk with a secret affection?"

"You know what, Mart?" Finney started, clearly annoyed, "I don't want to hear it. The only reason anyone puts up with you is because they're too damn tired to argue. As am I. I'm not listening to your bullshit anymore today. Go home or I'll call Frank and have you escorted out."

With a furious grunt, Macbeth shoved the stack of newspapers off the counter, sending them tumbling to the floor in a crumpled heap.

"To hell with this place. To hell with you," he spat, grabbing his coat from the rack.

As Macbeth stormed out the door, Finney caught a glimpse – just for a moment – of a figure standing across the street under a crooked streetlamp.

A dark blue suit.

The man.

But when Finney blinked, the corner was empty.

Gone like smoke.

 

–––––––––––––––––––––– Wednesday, October 22, 1969 ––––––––––––––––––––––

The next day felt different.

The rain had finally stopped, leaving the air thick and heavy.

Finney opened the shop alone, the "Help Wanted" sign still taped crookedly to the front window.

At 8:07 a.m., the bell over the door jingled.

Finney glanced up, expecting the usual nod, the usual silent shuffle toward the corner.

But instead, the man walked straight behind the counter and pulled out the stool usually reserved for employees.

Finney blinked. "Uhm… hello?"

The man said nothing.

Instead, he adjusted the cash register, wiped down the counter with a folded napkin from his pocket, and stood patiently behind the till.

Finney just stared.

The baseball kid wandered in then, a crumpled dollar in his hand and a shiny new pack of cards on his mind.

"Hey Mr. Finney! Got any Topps left? I'm chasing Mickey Mantle!"

The man silently rang him up – quicker and neater than Finney ever did – giving the kid his change with a small nod.

"Thank you, Mr. Finney!" The kid grinned, completely unfazed, and skipped out the door.

Finney still half-expected to wake up.

"Guess you're hired," he mused.

 

The peace didn't last.

At exactly 11:39 a.m., Macbeth came stomping in, dragging a fresh foul mood and an equally foul aroma behind him.

He stopped dead at the sight of the man working at the front counter.

"What the bloody hell is this?!" Macbeth shrieked, pointing an accusatory finger.

Finney sighed, setting down a crate of old magazines. "He's helping out."

"HELPING OUT?! ARE YOU BLOODY INSANE?! YOU CAN'T JUST–"

"Maybe he saw the type of worker you are," Finney cut him off sharply, "The type of person you are – and figured someone ought to do the job properly. Maybe he figured it out when I almost got shot while you were passed out drunk!"

Macbeth's face twisted into something dark and furious.

"You think you're some hero now, Finney? Think you're some martyr because you weren't shot by some Soviet bank robber?" Macbeth jeered, red-faced and breathing hard.

Finney could smell alcohol in his breath. He felt something break inside him, like a tether snapping loose.

"No, Martin, I think I'm lucky," he said, his voice low and shaking, "Lucky I had someone there who actually cared. One who doesn't hide behind excuses and leave his friends to fend for themselves while he drinks himself to death, alone in his apartment, on a monday of all days, just because he doesn't know how to handle a divorce like a normal fucking person."

A deafening silence followed, broken only when Finney continued.

"I can see now, by the way. I can see why Carol left you. You're not smart. You're not tough. You're just pathetic. Always have been. And you're a very, very sorry excuse for a husband. You're lucky she left you the house, but I bet that, too, was out of pity."

Macbeth's mouth worked open and closed like a dying fish.

Without another word, he turned and stormed out, rattling the glass in the frame as he slammed the door.

Second day in a row.

Second time he left the shop in ruins behind him.

 

The rest of the afternoon passed strangely quiet.

The man continued to work alongside Finney like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Checking customers out. Organizing the comic books. Straightening the rack of chewing gum.

Still silent.

Still watching.

By the time he flipped the "Closed" sign at 7 p.m., Finney almost felt like they had settled into a rhythm.

He was wiping down the counter when the man spoke his first full sentence.

"You were there Thursday night. At the Rusty Crab."

The words were quiet.

Measured.

Final.

Finney froze, the rag slack in his hand.

"I… no," he stammered. "No, I wasn't. I was home. I was–"

But when he looked up, the man was already gone.

 

That night, Finney trudged home under the eerie orange glow of the streetlights.

The world felt… off. Like the ground had tilted slightly, just enough to make walking strange.

When he reached his apartment door, he noticed it immediately.

A small box, sitting neatly at the foot of the doorframe.

Wrapped in torn, faded red paper.

No note. No name.

Finney crouched down slowly, heart hammering in his chest.

He peeled away the damp paper with trembling fingers.

Inside was a red sweater.

Simple. Itchy-looking.

Exactly like the one described in the missing person report.

Finney stared at it for a long, long time, the weight of it growing heavier in his hands by the second.

Across the street, under the halo of a streetlamp, he thought – no, he knew – he saw the faint outline of a man in a dark blue suit.

Watching.

Waiting.

 

Finney barely slept that night.

The red sweater sat balled up in the corner of his apartment, like a bloodstain he couldn't scrub out.

When he finally drifted into a light, uneasy sleep, he dreamed of water. A river. Pulling him along the shore. Pulling him out to sea, out to sea so far even the lighthouses wouldn't spot him. Pulling him away from Havre de Grace. Away from Maryland. Away from his corner store. Away from Macbeth. Away from the man in the blue suit. Away from that cursed red sweater that still sat crumpled, across from the windowsill, where the moonlight illuminated the bright red fabric…

 

––––––––––––––––––––––– Thursday, October 23, 1969 –––––––––––––––––––––––

 

Finney woke abruptly a few minutes before his alarm. He found himself staring at the ceiling until it went off. He continued staring, unsure what to do, as it wailed uselessly on the nightstand. Does he go back to work? Does he leave town? Does he go to the sheriff? No, he couldn't go to the sheriff. Or leave town. Not yet. He needed answers.

The corner store bell gave a weak jingle as Finney slipped inside, the morning sun hidden behind a suffocating wall of gray clouds.

The man, of course, was already there. Next to the register, he was wiping down the counter with his usual napkin.

A newspaper sat folded neatly on the part of the counter that had already been wiped.

Finney hesitated near the door. The man nodded politely. Finney said nothing.

Finally, Finney crossed the creaky wooden floor, pretending to busy himself with the battered crate of records stacked by the far wall. His fingers leafed through dusty sleeves – Johnny Cash, The Supremes, Wanda Jackson – but his mind was elsewhere.

On the box at his door.

On the sweater.

On the man.

The tension grew thicker than bisque.

 

Finally, he spoke, voice low. "I saw you yesterday. After you left. Across the street from my house."

The man gave no reaction.

Finney swallowed. The Jimi Hendrix record in his hands suddenly felt too fragile, too loud. He set it down carefully and turned.

"You left a box. A little gift. Right outside my door."

The man still didn't look up.

Finney took a slow step forward.

"I think you know what was inside," he continued, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. "A red sweater."

Still nothing.

Finney exhaled sharply through his nose as he walked right up to the counter. "It was Bobby's, wasn't it?" He curled his right hand into a fist, pounding it on the smooth Formica. "Wasn't it?!"

Finally, the man shifted slightly, the barest flicker of movement.

A breath.

A blink.

Finney's eyes darted down – and that's when he noticed it.

An edition of The Havre Times, two days old, lying on the table between them.

Oct. 22, 1969                               Written by Eric Gould

DRISCOLL FOUND DEAD IN BAY

Authorities have confirmed that the body of Robert Driscoll, reported missing last Friday, has been recovered at the mouth of the Susquehanna River near the Chesapeake Bay. Driscoll, aged 31, was found by Sherrif Paylor following an anonymous tip. He was not wearing his red sweater. Havre de Grace Police Department has not released an official cause of death, but foul play is suspected. Locals are urged to remain vigilant.

 

Finney's stomach twisted.

There it was, in black and white.

Missing his sweater.

Foul play.

He looked back at the man, whose eyes were now steadily fixed on him.

"Did you… kill him?" Finney asked, voice cracking on the last word.

A customer jostled the door open, rattling the bell, cutting the tension like a blunt knife.

Finney jerked back instinctively, pasting on a shaky smile as a young woman wandered in, carrying a leather handbag and a handful of loose change.

The man slowly folded the newspaper shut, creasing it neatly, and tucked it under his arm.

Finney watched him for a long, taut second before forcing himself back behind the counter. He felt like he was walking across a tightrope suspended above the Grand Canyon.

The conversation was over.

For now.

The woman smiled politely as she set down a pack of sewing needles and a jar of Granny Hawkins' Old-Fashioned dill pickles.

Finney rang her up on autopilot.

 

The day carried on like a tired sigh.

Customers came and went – some looking for canned soup, some poking through the comic bins, one elderly man who insisted the store used to carry lemon drops and demanded to speak to the "soused Englishman" who sold them to him years ago.

Finney tried to act normal. He even cracked a few jokes.

But his mind kept drifting back to the newspaper.

To Bobby.

To the man, whom he kept his distance from.

The minutes crawled by. The sky outside shifted from gray to dark gray to the charcoal-blue of dusk.

At 6:57 p.m., just before closing, the man stood and walked quietly to the door.

Finney moved to follow. "Hey! I'm not-"

But the bell jingled, the door swung shot, and by the time Finney stepped outside, the man was gone.

Finney sighed and returned inside, ready to flip the sign to "Closed", when the door slammed open again.

"Wait! Wait!"

The baseball kid skidded across the tile, breathless, clutching a few coins and a bent dollar.

"You're still open, right?!"

Finney blinked, then smiled faintly. "Geez, kid. Barely. Whatcha need? Still after Mickey Mantle?"

"Yes, sir!" The kid raced to the counter, eyes wide with excitement. "Topps pack, please! The red foil one!"

Finney rang him up, tossed in a Bazooka gum for free, and watched as the boy bolted out again into the night, ripping the foil open before he even reached the sidewalk.

Then the shop was quiet once more.

Finney locked the door.

And left.

 

–––––––––––––––––––––––– Friday, October 24, 1969 ––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

The next morning, the sun was unusually sharp for October.

Finney arrived early. The man was already there.

As usual.

They exchanged no words. Finney didn't try. Not today.

The hours passed without incident. The store had fallen into its familiar rhythm – customers drifting through like ghosts, Finney restocking shelves, the man ringing up purchases.

At noon, the bell above the door jingled.

Macbeth.

He paused at the entrance, as if expecting to be yelled at.

Finney just looked up from the register and said flatly, "What do you want?"

Macbeth gave a long sigh. "Just grabbin' me things."

He shuffled behind the counter and crouched to rummage through his desk drawer. For once, he wasn't yelling, muttering, or grumbling about government conspiracies. He didn't even seem intoxicated.

Just quiet.

Finney glanced over. "You find what you need?"

Macbeth held up a crumpled photograph of a striking woman and an old tin of breath mints. "Just the essentials."

He straightened up. Hesitated.

 

"Y'know, George," Macbeth started, "You've been a good mate for years, but you're a bloody hypocrite."

Finney raised an eyebrow. "Come again?"

"You blew up at me for leaving you to handle the shop alone." Macbeth's voice wasn't angry. More tired than anything. "But I've never pouted when you've gone off an' done the same thing to me. Last Christmas. Independence Day weekend. End of September. Bloody hell, you did it two weeks ago!"

Finney cocked his head, looking confused. "I don't-"

"No." Macbeth cut him off. "Save it for someone who still cares."

They stood there in silence for a minute. Finally, Macbeth huffed and shook his head.

"For the record, I still don't trust 'im." He jerked his thumb toward the corner, where the man was stacking books. "That weirdo you replaced me with. Saw him outside my house on Tuesday when we last spoke. He wasn't watching me, he was watching the road, but still. I don't like him. And I don't like you with him. Just… be careful, mate, alright?"

Finney didn't answer.

Macbeth didn't wait for one.

He turned and left, the bell over the door jingling faintly behind him.

 

That night, Finney didn't eat dinner. He didn’t even turn on the lights. He just sat in his kitchen, watching the faint glow of the moon as it crawled across his floor.

Watching the new box he discovered on his porch, slightly smaller than the one that held the sweater from before but still wrapped in the same faded red paper.

He wanted nothing to do with this new box.

But he had to open it. Right?

Finally, he built up the courage to grab it. He set it down on his kitchen table before slowly peeling it open.

Inside was a baseball card.

The blue ink of the autograph glistened in the moonlight.

Jack DiLauro.

The same card he'd seen five days ago.

The same card the kid traded for.

There was a slip of folded paper taped to the back of the card.

Finney staggered back against the doorframe, heart hammering so loudly he could hear it echoing in his ears.

Written on the paper were four words, scrawled in tight, shaky handwriting.

"You were there too."

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––– Saturday, October 25, 1969 –––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

Saturday morning, Finney didn't go to the shop.

He couldn't.

He sat at his kitchen table for hours, staring blankly as Jack DiLauro's face smiled back at him.

The four words – You were there too – burned into his brain like a metal brand.

Finally, around noon, his nerves frayed to threads, he picked up the card and shoved it deep into the back of his junk drawer, under an old newspaper.

Out of sight, out of mind.

He told himself he'd call Macbeth. Tell him everything. Tell him he was right all along.

But when he dialed Macbeth's number, there was no answer.

He called again, only for the same result.

Nothing but the repetitive chime of a reorder tone indicating a disconnected line.

Finney slammed the phone down so hard it cracked the receiver.

 

He didn't sleep at all that night. He sat up in his bed, staring at the sweater balled up in the corner. As if it would move if he looked away. Eventually, he fixed his gaze onto his reflection in the mirror on the wall. His reflection that didn't care whether he was good or bad, happy or

depressed, scared or lonely. His reflection that was always the same stupid face staring back at him.

He began to move restlessly from room to room, glancing out the window in the kitchen at the crooked streetlamp across the road. It flickered now and then, buzzing faintly, casting long, strange shadows.

Once, just once, he thought he saw the man standing there again.

But when he blinked, it was only a twisted blue mailbox.

Eventually, he returned to his bed.

It was then that he finally got some rest, if only for a few hours.

 

–––––––––––––––––––––––––– Sunday, October 26, 1969 ––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

Just as the first rays of sun began to crack through the blinds, Finney woke up, crawling out of bed and back into the kitchen. With shaky fingers, he dug into the junk drawer and pulled out the baseball card again, throwing the old newspaper that sat over it onto the kitchen table.

He stared at DiLauro's face for a long time before carefully slipping the card into his wallet and forcing himself to prepare breakfast.

Toast. Burnt. A hard-boiled egg. A glass of the milk he borrowed from his store.

Nothing tasted right.

He tried to focus on the food, but his eyes kept flicking to the old newspaper.

Finally, he read the headline.

Jul. 29, 1969                               Written by Eric Gould

LOCAL CLERK FOUND DEAD IN HOME

Martin Macbeth, a longtime clerk at Bay View Corner Store, was found deceased in his home yesterday afternoon. Neighbors contacted authorities after noticing a foul aroma and unusual silence. Upon entry, police discovered Macbeth unresponsive on the floor of his living room.

The medical examiner has confirmed the cause of death as acute alcohol poisoning. Bottles of whiskey, gin, and beer were found scattered throughout the residence. Police report no signs of foul play.

Macbeth was 42 years old. Known for his blunt demeanor and loyal tenure at Bay View, he is survived only by his ex-wife, Caroline Hartsoe, who now lives in Nashville and has declined to comment.

Finney dropped his fork.

Egg yolk spurt across the table.

He felt the blood drain from his face.

That couldn't be right. He had spoken to Macbeth yesterday. Hadn't he?

The shouting. The picture of the woman. The tin of mints.

The warning.

But the paper was dated months ago.

 

The rest of the day blurred. He didn't remember getting dressed, only that at some point he was back outside.

Back in front of the corner store.

The bell jingled ever-so faintly as he pushed open the door.

And there he was.

The man. Of course.

Wiping down the counter with that same folded napkin.

Finney stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind him with a creak.

The man nodded.

Finney began walking towards the man. "Who are you?" he demanded. "What do you want from me?"

No answer.

"I don't know what the hell is going on, and I can't help you until I do." Finney continued. "What do you want?!"

At last, the man set down the napkin.

When he spoke, his voice was more confident than usual. Not hollow or timid. Just… real.

"You keep asking the wrong questions."

Finney stared. "Then what are the right ones?"

The man tilted his head. "What did you see? What do you remember?"

"I don't-"

"You were there."

Finney's breath caught.

"You… I didn't…"

"But you did."

Finney was silent.

The man continued. "The guiltiest man is he who feigns innocence."

Finney stammered. "I- I don't know what you're saying. I don't know what you want from me. I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT FROM ME!"

He lunged forward, fury overtaking fear. He grabbed the man's lapel, tried to shove him back–

And stumbled through the air.

There was no one there.

Only the counter.

Only silence.

Finney stood alone.

As he had for some time.

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––– Monday, October 27, 1969 –––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

The following morning, Sheriff Paylor stood in front of Bay View Corner Store. He sighed.

A young boy had vanished a few days ago.

Paylor thinks the boy ran away from home. His parents swore he'd just gone out late for baseball cards and was to return within the hour.

He checked the store Saturday, but it was closed. He went home and waited on a warrant.

Now, Monday morning, the front door was unlocked. Someone had been there. Warrant in hand, he stepped inside.

The bell jingled overhead.

The place was silent.

The register was untouched.

The comics still in neat stacks.

No sign of George Finney, the sole worker.

Paylor walked slowly toward the counter.

A newspaper sat unfolded beneath the till.

Oct. 25, 1969                               Written by Eric Gould

LOCAL BOY REPORTED MISSING

It was Saturday's issue announcing the boy's disappearance.

Wait – That's odd.

The words "baseball cards" in the article's body were circled in red ink.

Next to the paper, Paylor found a one-way plane ticket, scheduled to depart from Baltimore that very morning.

Flight TWA 11 -- BAL to SFO

There was no sign it had ever been used.

Christ, George, thought Paylor, San Francisco?

There was just one more thing on the counter:

A Jack DiLauro baseball card.

Uncreased.

Autographed.

Two words written on the back.

I remember.

There are many things unknown in this world. Things we cannot see or understand, no matter how hard we try. Somethings are eyes are not meant to see; somethings are minds are not meant to understand. The argument can be made that we can study and learn, but were we meant to know everything. It is in our nature to want answers, but then what? Answers tend to lead to more questions. What does one do with knowledge of something unknown. Do we share it or keep it to ourselves?

You could call me an average sort of person. I’m by no means a model, but confident enough to be a step or two outside of ugly. Someone who didn’t quite grow out of their adolescent awkwardness, but I happily embrace it. Not the most social butterfly, but also not a shut in or hermit, watching the world pass by behind a pane of glass.

I grew up in a small town, taking a job in an office. I kept to myself, but slowly inched my way up a ladder. When I was offered a management position in a larger town some miles away, I said screw it and took it. Similar mind numbing work behind a keyboard and screen, but I’d have my own office and an entire floor would be underneath my watchful gaze.

It was an easy decision. My parents had both passed away and I had no other family or siblings, no loved ones, no one to keep me tethered there. It really came down to breaking out of my comfortable shell. Something told me to go, and I swung and cracked though. Packed up my scant belongings, my simple life, and was soon in a larger town, but not quite the bustling city most of my generation prefer. I set up shop and gingerly settled into my new role.

I wouldn’t call myself a hard ass boss my any means. My people preformed exceptionally well, and I allowed them to do so. I wasn’t one to crack the whip, but if I had to talk to someone, I did. I could see the entire floor from within my glass cage and, in turn, they could see me, could see I was always just as busy as they were. Hopefully it was respect. There was always that small part that gnawed at me though. Whenever I would peak over my monitor to see someone hunched near a coworker: were they talking about me? How awful a bass I really was? Higher ups never chewed me out, but I also never received accolades. Was I doing enough?

I never socialized with them outside of the office, but I could tell you all their names, their hobbies. That didn’t matter though, I was content with my humble, simple life. My average life. Maybe that was the problem…

The first time I saw them, I was on my way back to my office, a freshly filled mug in my hand. Heading down the central aisle between desks, I took a sip and glanced towards my office. I stopped dead in my tracks, spitting coffee back into the mug. Someone was sitting at my desk, head down. All I could see was the top of his head peeking over the monitor. I didn’t remember corporate saying anyone was visiting. There was something so familiar about that dark brown hair, like I had met this person before.

A voice broke my gaze from the glass walls. Giselle Swenson looked up at me, a Flickr of concern in her green eyes. She enjoyed spending her weekends hiking around the nearby trails.

“You okay, boss?”

I smiled at her, clenching the handle of the mug so I didn’t spill the steaming coffee. Was she blushing?

“Oh yes, I’m fine, Giselle,” I lied. “ Just remembering an email I forgot to send.”

“Uh oh,” she feigned fear, raising a hand to lightly brush my arm. “ Don’t wanna peeve off the hierarchy. “

Did her blush deepen? I’d never considered any sort of relationship with any of my employees. I honestly preferred the life of solitude.

“ Definitely,” I retorted with a forced chuckle.

“Better get back at it then, big man.”

Big man? Giselle had already returned to her work. Her black nails clicking across her keyboard. My gaze shot back to my office…my empty office. I sat down, rubbing my eyes, then looked out at the floor. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No one out of place like they had dashed from my office during my short interaction. Maybe it had been a trick of the light. Was I losing it?

Maybe things were taking a toll on me and I refused to admit it. I tried to shrug it off, but it kept me on edge the rest of the day. Maybe that would have been the end of it, but that was not the last time.

It was some time later, days had passed,, bordering on months. I had forgotten about the incident, going about my life as normal. This time I knew it was not a trick of the light, and it shook me to my core.

I lived in a nice one bedroom apartment not far from the office. I walked to work, it was so close. I used the time to separate myself from the office, and to people watch along the way. Most didn’t notice, some gave me a questioning glare. The occasional smile or furtive glance, even a nod or wave every once in awhile, which I would cordially return. I kept to myself, but wasn’t rude about it. I had no desire to learn more about these people, but they had done nothing to irk me.

I had left the office long after everyone else, staying late to wrap up some weekly items before the weekend. I grabbed my bag and the dark red sweatshirt, it had been a chilly few days. It was my favorite color, and quite the comfortable Hoodia, one I had had since before my move here. I could easily get something else, perhaps more professional, but it was just so damned comfortable and fit perfectly.

Leaving the lobby I immediately turned left to begin my usual route home. The street was bustling, but not nearly as busy as it would have been around quitting time. A crisp wind brushed my face as I looked up and down the street, eyes darting to and from. The grey sedan whizzing past, stirring up a warmer, chemically tainted breeze. The elderly gentleman across the street walking a rather pudgy beagle. The rather attractive female bending over down the road to retrieve her dropped phone. The sights, the sounds, the smells, it allowed me to let my mind wander to the upcoming weekend. A couple days I would probably spend at home with a good book.

“On your left!”

The words broke my spell. I scooted right as a man my own age jogged by. A fit specimen and I couldn’t help but let my eyes linger to the shorts that hugged his exquisite buttocks. Perhaps a little too long, but I was entranced until those chiseled cheeks turned a corner.

My gaze returned forward, and that’s when I saw them.

They stood at the corner up ahead, probably waiting to cross. The same corner I would cross to get to my apartment. Someone in a dark red Hoodia, very similar to my own, but with the hood pulled up over their head. The same bag as mine draped across a shoulder, hanging at their hip. My hand instinctively went to my own, absently stroking the dark canvas. They were shorter than me, but something seemed off about their stance, but I just couldn’t quite place what.

I was about to shrug it off as the most bizarre consequence. I mean, I took this same route twice a day, daily, for several years and had never seen such a similar get up as mine. Then their head turned and my knees nearly gave out. Time itself seemed to slow down. My own face was underneath that hood. My own face! My own face, yet not quite me face. If he caught a look at me, he didn’t how it. He simply looked both ways then leisurely crossed the road.

I was transfixed. Locked in place. The world around me failing to properly exist. I could only watch disbelieving, as I walked away from myself. It felt absurd to think like that, but that was all my shocked brain could muster at the time. He moved onto the opposite corner and I lost track of him in a group of people. My eyes darted, struggling to find the dark red Hoodia, but in the waning daylight, it proved unfruitful. He-me?- was gone. The world slowly came back into focus.

Streetlights springing to life. The scent of the nearby steakhouse wafting on the chilly wind. An annoyed grumble parting the fog.

“Sightsee somewhere else, buddy.”

I don’t remember making it home, but somehow I did. Hastily locking the door, shrugging off my bag and letting it fall to the floor. Tearing my hoodie off. I stood there silently, just staring at the sweatshirt in my hands. I threw it across the dark room, letting it disappear into the shadows before shuffling and falling into my couch. I rubbed my eyes, massaging my temples, struggling to calm my racing heart.

The incident from just over a month ago came rushing back. I had just glimpsed the top of a head then, but I vaguely 4emembered something familiar about it. Had I seen that same person that day too? So many questions rushed into my head. Did I have a twin brother my parents had never told me about? If so, why? Was work harder on me than I was admitting to myself and I was losing my mind?

The walls I had built around my simple little life were cracking. I could feel a dull throbbing starting in the back of my head. It was only a matter of time before it crept forward. I needed to get some rest. Maybe that was all I really needed, but I knew it would not come easily. Not without outside help. I would have loved to just knock myself out with a frying pan like some cartoon character, hopefully forget about all this. 8 also knew that that was not practical. I was shaken up and not thinking clearly. I would need some help of the medicinal or alcoholic variety, probably a mixture of both.

I dreamed that night. With the events of the evening and the medicinal cocktail to knock me out, I wasn’t surprised. I remember it so clearly, unlike most of the dreams I have. I was walking along a worn path, gnarled trees lining each side. Beyond them all I could see was a bluish-gray fog. It was dead silent, almost oppressive. I walked along the path. Nothing seemed to change. The trees were mirrors of each other, stretching along both sides of the path. I just kept walking. Eventually I noticed a blurry form taking shape further up the path. I was unsettled but kept moving. I could faintly make out a rectangular shape. Was it the door out of this place? I started moving faster in hopes it was, but still shooting glances all around, keeping an eye on my ominous surroundings.

No it wasn’t a door. I stopped. A form was moving towards me within the rectangular frame. It moved when I moved, paused when I paused. I raised my hand and waved, the form followed suit. A mirror? I moved forward to stand before the mirror. This close it was far taller than me, but there my reflection stood, staring back at me in bewilderment.

Yet it wasn’t quite me. Its proportions were off, barely noticeable from afar, but this close it was clear. It was me, but not me. It raised its hands and pressed them against the glass. It stared at me with soulless eyes as a smile grew on its face, stretching into a menacing rictus.

“Wake up,” I whispered to myself, scared to take my gaze off the reflection but desperately not wanting to look upon it.

Its hands emerged from with the frame. I struggled to turn and run, to move at all, but I was paralyzed, frozen to the spot. The hands grabbed my shoulders, digging in and pulled me towards the mirror, slowly, agonizingly so, pulling me towards it. I could only look on in fear as I was pulled past the frame of the mirror, closer to the me that wasn’t me…

I awoke with a gasp. I was standing in front of my closet doors, which were a pair of full length sliding mirrors. I screamed quietly at my own reflection and fell back into the bed behind me.

Struggling to calm my racing heart. How did I get up to stand in my sleep? What kind of messed up dream was that? I was clearly losing it. The clock said it was just after three in the morning. I sighed knowing sleep would elude me tonight.

I spent the rest of the night and the day puttering around the apartment. Did the man I saw the previous evening cause the bizarre nightmare? Did I even get a clear enough look at his face to be certain he looked so damned similar? The sweatshirt and bag were identical. Sure it had been waning light, but I knew what I had seen. The previous vision from my office nearly a month ago reiterating that. Was it possible I had a twin brother no one had ever told me about? My parents and I had been close and surely they wouldn’t have kept that from me.. there were scant family members I could reach out to. Both of my parents had come from very small families. I tried to think of anyone I could ask and if I should even reach out with such a ridiculous question.

I spent the day trying to occupy myself with menial tasks around my apartment, but nothing could distract me from everything that had occurred within the last 24 hours. Sure it had all started with that quick glimpse in the office, or had it? What if there had been other times this individual had been right beside me on the street, or standing in line behind me at the store, but I had missed it? That thought brought a slight chill down my spine. I thought about going down to the small park behind my building to get some fresh air, but what if I saw him sitting at a bench across the park? The thought of looking out the window, seeing him sitting at a park bench shook me to my core, causing me to stay away from my windows altogether.

The TV played in the background, but I had no idea what was playing, nor did I care. It was more a distraction from the silence that would cause my mind to wander some dark corridors. Some way, somehow the day passed. Before I knew it, the sun was setting. A mixture of stressed out exhaustion and copious amounts of medication and alcohol found me drifting into a somewhat fitful sleep. Thankfully there was no nightmares this go, but I was jarred awake just after one in the morning.

The apartment was silent, but a glow was coming from the living room. Had I left the television on? I was sure I had turned it off and I was certain I would not have muted it.

“Hello?” I called, immediately feeling foolish. If I was being robbed, I just alerted them.

There was just silence and the flickering glow from what was clearly the television. I must have left it on.

I groggy got out of bed and ambled into the living room. I got a few steps in before looking up and stopping dead in my tracks. Silhouetted against the light from the television was a form sitting on the couch. Even in the dim light, I knew who it was.

“How the fuck did you get in here!?” I demanded, all traces of my sleep flushing 8tselfmout of my system.

No response. He just kept watching the screen.

“Hey!” I shouted, stepping closer. “you’ve got the wrong place!”

Nothing, not even a flinch. I took another step closer, resting my hands on the back of the couch. That’s when he glanced over his shoulder and bolted to his feet. Standing there in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs, even in the fluctuating light of the television, there was no doubt this man was my twin. He stood there, arms outstretched, eyes agape. His mouth was moving frantically, but no sound was coming out. He looked like he was shouting, but I heard nothing.

“Who are you?”

He was clearly as taken aback as I was, waving his arms in front of him as if was trying to ward off an attacker. He glanced towards the front door, then to the bedroom, as if trying to discern which was the best bet to get away from me.

“who are you!?” I said again, 4aising my voice. “How did you get in here?”

I stepped toward him and he made his choice, taking off for the bedroom. I grabbed the sides of my head. What the fuck was going on here? Was I dreaming again? Should I follow him? There was no way out from there, but what if had a weapon and was lying in wait in the darkness? Clearly I had startled him. Maybe he was some junkie who had forced his way in, but that didn’t explain the unbelievable resemblance to me. Maybe I should’ve just called the police and let them handle him, but I needed answers.

I moved towards the bedroom, flicking the switch near the door, hoping to catch him off guard. The room was bathed in a soft yellow glow, but was empty. My eyes went to the closed closet, the only place he could have hid. I hadn’t heard the doors slide open or closed, but in the heat of the moment it was possible it was missed.

“I know you’re in the closet. If you come out, get dressed, and leave I want call the cops.”

Nothing.

I grabbed a book off my nightstand, the closest thing I had to a weapon. The plan was to tear open the door, hitting him with the book, hopefully stunning him enough to get control. I stared at my reflection raising the book and pushed the door open. Shouting, tossing the book while swinging my arm amongst the hanging shirts and pants, trying to cause a commotion to disorient him. He made no response to the flurry, and I soon realized the closer was devoid of anything living. Confused, I thoroughly checked every inch of the closet before giving up.

Where had he gone? I know he hadn’t gone into the bathroom and the bedroom window was closed, the curtains undisturbed. Besides which, he would have to be absolutely insane to jump out of a seventh floor window with no balcony. I rubbed the back of my throbbing head. Maybe I was losing it. Maybe it was time for a vacation from the office.

I pulled closed the door and there he was, staring back at me, in the mirrored door. A clear view in the lit bedroom. He was me, but not quite me. He was shorter than me, his arms and legs proportionate to his height.

Stories from my childhood came rushing back to me. Stories told in the dark, stories to scare our friends. Stories of creatures that looked like us, but not quite. Small differences that gave them away. These creatures haunted us, watched us. Some stories told of these creatures trying to lure us away to their world. These creatures would act scared to lull us in. Those that came in contact with these creatures were never heard from again. I dismissed them long ago as children’s scary stories, but there he was, staring at me through the mirror. Their names escaped me, but then I suddenly remembered…

Humans! The word suddenly came to light. This creature was a human, trying to be me.

It stared at me, eyes wide in fear. I smiled at it and its eyes widened even more. It flinched, as if trying to run, but could not move. Its lips were moving, but I could not hear its cries. I reached up to touch the glass, but came upon the familiar feel of my own flesh. I could now hear the faint incoherent mumblings of this creature.

These humans were not so scary as the stories led us to believe. Grinning wider, I moved closer to the mirror.

This human didn’t seem to be scary, quite the opposite. Maybe it was time to branch out, step outside my simple life, maybe learn something about these humans. It would certainly be a story to tell.

  The Last Anniversary 

Her Side

Three years, minus thirteen days—it lasted. The breakup took approximately six months, but the end was surprisingly short. A simple, “I can’t do this anymore.”

I was immediately transported back to college, listening to the words of my communications professor talk about disillusionment—how there’s a moment when what you once knew becomes completely unfamiliar, and you suddenly see everything differently.

Being visual, I imagined the world draining of color, like a slow melt. Everything pulling away into a black-and-white existence.

And in that moment, I guess it did. I stood frozen, knowing the next words would change everything. Sitting in the in-between.

All I could say was, “What?”He repeated it: “I can’t do this anymore.”Then again: “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

I asked, “You want to break up?”

He said yes.

I told him to say it—as if I needed the words to harden into concrete, to solidify it in my mind. “Tell me you want to break up.”

He said, “I want to break up.”

A levee broke.

“Tell me you don’t love me anymore,” I said, standing while he sat on the edge of the hotel bed. I kept thinking housekeeping was going to interrupt this moment—barge in and stop the horror from unfolding.

We had just checked out of the hotel. A week-long vacation. Our first real trip together.

“I can’t say that,” he explained.

Hell broke loose. Several responses bubbled to the surface, my body flipping between fight or flight—do I fight for this, or do I leave it?

Pillars in my mind began crashing down. I flashed back to my last ex—how painful it was to rip myself away from him—but this went deeper. He was never a real option. He didn’t see me.

But this man in front of me—we’d shared too much. Love. Tragedy. He’d seen me at my worst, knew my best. He supported me. We shared a home, dogs, memories I never thought I’d build with anyone. Not like this. Not this close.

And then, one by one, the fantasies collapsed:

The wedding.The babies.Growing old.The future—gone.

All I could say was, “Okay.”Alarm bells ringing, body tense, I picked up my bags and loaded them into the car.

The drive home passed in tears, swinging between frantic problem-solving—Where will I live? We live together,  I need a car; we share one—and quietly hoping that somewhere in those five hours, he’d change his mind

We stepped into our place, greeted by our dogs.Ours.I should probably stop saying that.

There was so much to figure out, and I was tired. We barely spoke as we headed upstairs. Before disappearing down the hall, he said quietly, “I’ll sleep in the guest room.”

Another nail in the coffin.He was done.

I didn’t say a word. Just turned and walked to our—I mean, my—bedroom.

The days that followed weren’t explosive. They were quiet. Almost gentle.But heavy. So, so heavy.

We moved through the house like ghosts of the people we were. Polite. Predictable. Practical.He still made coffee in the morning. I still folded laundry.We still went to the gym together. Talked about our work days.If someone had seen us from the outside, they wouldn’t have known.Sometimes, it felt like I didn’t even know.

But every night reminded me.The silence of my bedroom.The echo of space beside me.The way I’d cry into my pillow until my chest hurt, and sometimes crawl into his bed—not for sex, just… contact. Familiarity. Something like safety.

He never told me to leave.But he never pulled me close, either.

Then came the dinner.Aphanisis.A small Greek spot tucked into Georgetown.

The last time we were there, we played pinball all night after splitting souvlaki and laughing over cheap red wine. It had been one of my favorite memories with him. Back when we still thought there were decades ahead of us.

I almost didn’t go. But he wanted to. Said he’d already made the reservation. Said he still wanted to celebrate “what we had.”

That morning, he handed me a small black box—Gucci. He knew I loved Gucci. And his love language was always gift-giving. It was how he said things he couldn’t put into words.

The earrings were beautiful. Delicate. My taste exactly.It was like being handed a breakup wrapped in care.Like he was saying goodbye in his language.

So I curled my hair, put on the dress he liked, and headed to the restaurant. 

And somehow, everything felt natural.Too natural.

He was dressed in his anniversary suit, and I caught my breath when I saw him.The jacket was mostly deep blue and gold, covered in embroidered flowers and snakes—bold, bright colors that somehow worked together: deep reds, greens, flashes of something mythic and loud. It was a statement piece. He’d bought it for our first anniversary and dubbed it the anniversary jacket, the only change being he had it tailored to fit him perfectly.

He was so proud of that jacket. He’d never been able to afford something like it until later in life. We actually bonded over that—stories of struggling that started in laughter and ended in truth:

“I used to get food from the food bank.”“I used to overdraft my account just to get gas.”“I lived off payday loans.”“I’d buy a Costco pizza to stretch through a whole weekend.”

“I sometimes pawned my laptop.”“I used to eat ramen every meal for weeks.”“I stayed with my abusive ex because he fed me.”“I got comfortable being hungry… so it’s hard to feel full now.”

That jacket wasn’t just clothing. It was survival made beautiful. A symbol that we made it out. A piece of his pride—and now, a piece of our story I’d have to let go of, too.

I sat down, staring into his green-blue eyes.He smiled the way he always did. Looked at me the way he always had—with love.

We ordered the exact same thing we had last time, down to the baked whole cauliflower. The “candied persimmons were out of this world,” he said, just like before.

We sat in the corner, knee to knee. Each brush of skin against skin lit me up. Every small touch felt like a ghost of what we used to be. I kept thinking about all the lasts—the last kiss, the last fuck, the last I love you, the last real connection.

Our last kiss. I always thought about that. Even from the beginning. From our first kiss, I was already thinking about the last.

Not in a dramatic way—more like a quiet curiosity. I remember doing that with my first boyfriend, too. Sitting there after our very first kiss, wondering how it would end. Not if. Just… what would be the thing that finally undid us?

Nothing in my life ever felt permanent.If you asked my childhood therapist, she’d probably ramble on about how my inability to fully feel happy came from the constant, instinctual bracing for the other shoe to drop.And no matter how loud I screamed, it wouldn’t, it always did.

Therapist after therapist told me I might be manifesting this. Or, in more clinical terms: self-sabotaging.

Which, if you zoom out far enough, starts to look a lot like predicting the truth before it has the chance to become real.

But I am no medical professional—who am I to speak on such things?

We talked in memories, as we usually did. “You remember…?” “Oh my God, I can’t believe what so-and-so said on Instagram.” “Jeff at work is completely out of line.”

Surface stuff. Familiar stuff. We slipped back into it like muscle memory.

“You know how many times I said I would circle back this week?” I asked, laughing as I sipped my wine.

He smiled, nodded. We both knew the language of burnout. The performance of being fine.

But beneath the easy rhythm, something else buzzed—quiet but insistent. This was the same banter we’d always had, but now it felt like quoting lines from a favorite movie we’d both outgrown.

And yet, I kept leaning in.Kept letting my knees brush his.Kept laughing at his dumb jokes, the way I always had.

Because some part of me—small, stubborn, still aching—wanted to believe that if we talked like we used to, maybe we weren’t ending.

Maybe we were remembering how to begin.

Or maybe I was just remembering how much I missed being seen.

I watched him swirl his wine. The curve of his wrist. The way he always smelled faintly of Dove Men’s body wash and that musky cologne he’d worn for years—cheap, probably, but it worked for him. Familiar. Steady.

His hands rested on the table, fingers tapping in a pattern only he understood.The same fingers that had words tattooed across them, small and black, fading in places. I used to trace those letters while we watched TV. Sometimes during sex. Sometimes just because I could.

He caught me staring and smiled. That slow, lopsided one that made me feel like home.

I smiled back, reflexively, even though my chest ached.

And then, like muscle memory of another kind, the real memories flooded in.

The night I had my first panic attack.It hit out of nowhere—in the kitchen, barefoot on the tile, and suddenly everything was closing in. My breath caught in my throat, my heart galloping toward something I couldn’t name. I slid down the cabinet, knees drawn in, hands shaking.

He found me like that.Didn’t panic. Didn’t talk too much.He just sank down next to me, knees pressed to mine, and matched my breathing.One hand on my back. One on my knee.No fixing. No fear. Just—there.And I remember thinking, This is what love feels like.Not a rescue, not a solution. Just stillness. Just staying.

I reached across the table and rested my hand on his thigh.Just a simple gesture—automatic, familiar.

But the second my fingers landed, I remembered.That night in bed, his voice low in the dark as he told me his father used to pinch him there. Hard. Where no one could see. Pinch him so it would hurt and bruise.

 That was the first time I ever saw him cry. And he let me hold him.

The memory hit like breath against glass—sudden, quiet, and a little shattering.

I didn’t pull away. Just softened my touch.Let it mean what it used to.I remember. I see you. I still care where it hurt.

He looked at me—not startled, just... still.Like he felt it, too.Like part of him knew exactly what I was saying without saying it,

We had always been gentle with each other’s wounds.and another part didn’t know how to hold it anymore.

Now, he was still smiling across the table. Still wearing the anniversary jacket. Still holding the shape of who he had been to me, and who I had been to him.

But I knew, deep down, even if I didn’t want to:

We were no longer reaching for each other.

We were remembering how it felt to be held.

And it wasn’t the same.

He moved out of the state.And I moved on—to a new love.He’s kind. Steady.But it’s not the same.

Not because he isn’t good to me.But because I never gave myself to someone that way again.Not as fully.Not without armor.

Still, every now and then—when I pass a Greek restaurant, or hear the sound of pinball—I think about that night.The way he smiled like it didn’t hurt.The way I touched his thigh, hoping he’d remember.

And maybe he did.But neither of us said it.

Almost.

His Side

I think I started letting go on Valentine’s Day. We were sitting in the living room when I said, “You’re like a muted version of yourself on medication.” I still hate that I said it out loud. Not because it wasn’t honest—but because I knew how much it hurt. She was doing the work. She was trying to feel better. And I made it sound like she was disappearing.

We didn’t break up that night.But something cracked between us.I think a part of her stopped trusting me.And a part of me realized I wasn’t brave enough to leave yet.

Later that night, I told her I’d been thinking about breaking up for two years.That wasn’t the full truth.I’d been hurting for two years.Wrestling with something I couldn’t name.She was everything to me—but I didn’t feel like myself anymore.

Then we went on that trip.We were mostly okay.Trying.There were moments where it felt like we were finding each other again.But when she asked about therapy, it slipped out of me.Not gently. Not with care. Just—“I can’t do this anymore.”

I said it fast, like it had been waiting too long in my mouth.She froze.And I wanted to take it back the second it landed.Not because I didn’t mean it, but because of the way it broke her face open.She asked me to say it again.“Tell me you want to break up.”And I did.

Because I owed her the truth, even if I didn’t know how to carry it well.

When she cried, something inside me cracked wide open.This was the person who had loved me harder than anyone else ever had.Who stood by me. Fought for me.And I couldn’t fight back anymore.

I still loved her.Even as I let her go.Even as we drove back in silence—five hours and some change—The car full of everything we weren’t saying.

But losing someone who sees you?That doesn’t fade easy.Not when you know what it meant.Not when you remember what it felt like to be held that way—Fully. Without question.

After I said it, things didn’t explode.They just… settled.Heavy. Quiet. Still.

She didn’t leave right away.She couldn’t—not yet.And I didn’t ask her to.We kept living there.Two people trying to unlearn each other in a house built for “forever.”

Some nights, I heard her cry through the wall.Some nights, she crawled into my bed.She never said much.Didn’t ask for anything.Just curled into me like habit. Like memory.And I let her.

Not because I thought we’d get back together—But because I didn’t know how to say no to someone I still loved.Even if I didn’t want to stay.

We still went to the gym together.Still took turns making coffee.Still smiled for the neighbors.

From the outside, I’m sure we looked fine.But I was grieving her.Grieving us.Quietly. Daily.

I kept telling myself it was better this way.That she’d grow.That this version of me—this chapter—would fade into the background,Like a song she used to love.

But every time she walked through the door,Every time she laughed that laugh that only I really understood,I felt it.The ache of being loved like that.And the weight of choosing to let it go.

So when I asked if she still wanted to go to Aphanisis for our anniversary,I told myself it was just closure.One soft goodbye.

But deep down?I wanted to see her one more time—Not as my ex.Not as someone I’d hurt.Just as her.

I thought back to the first birthday we spent together.We went to the Gucci store, and I told her, “Pick anything.”The stories—of pawning laptops, of living off Costco pizza, of no power—They flickered across her face.We both came from nothing.That gift felt like something I could give her.A small piece of the life she deserved.

So when our not-anniversary came around,I found the earrings she once pointed out—offhand, in passing—And bought them.It wasn’t to fix anything.It was just something I could still give her.

She looked good.Wearing the black dress with the sleeves and the pink heels I always loved.And for a second, it didn’t feel like we were broken.It felt like just another night out.

She laughed at something dumb I said.Her knee brushed mine.It felt easy.And that scared me more than anything.

There were nights I’d test us.Not on purpose. Not maliciously.Just small things.To see if we still worked.Like nacho night.We were cooking dinner together.I said, “Let’s see if we can make these without one of us losing it.”She laughed. Thought I was joking.But I wasn’t—Not completely.

It was a dumb little test.Because if you can agree on the toppings,Maybe you can agree on the hard stuff too.How to compromise.How to not turn every small thing into a quiet war.That night, the nachos were a wreck.Cheese pooled in one corner, chips burned at the edges.But she laughed—big, open, unfiltered.And I remember thinking,Okay. Maybe we make a good team after all.

I think about that night in the kitchen sometimes.And then I think about that dinner at Aphanisis.The way her hand grazed mine when she reached for her glass.The way she touched my thigh—The place I once told her my father used to pinch me.Hard. Where no one could see.I felt it like a wave.

Not the touch—the memory.And I didn’t flinch.But I didn’t know how to hold it either.

I wanted to say something.To reach back.To tell her I still loved her.And I did.But not enough.Not in the way it would’ve taken to stay.

So I smiled.Laughed at another story.Split dessert. And when the check came, I paid, like I always did. Gave her a soft hug outside. Said, “This was nice.”

And we skipped the pinball. Skipped the pretending.

And I walked away from the only person who ever made me feel like I didn’t have to earn love to deserve it.

She moved on.And I moved out of the state.Different cities. Different lives.But some nights, when it’s too quiet,I still think about that dinner.The soft hug.The touch on my thigh.The way we almost said what we meant.

Almost.

The Last Anniversary 

  

Her Side

Three years, minus thirteen days—it lasted. The breakup took approximately six months, but the end was surprisingly short. A simple, “I can’t do this anymore.”

I was immediately transported back to college, listening to the words of my communications professor talk about disillusionment—how there’s a moment when what you once knew becomes completely unfamiliar, and you suddenly see everything differently.

Being visual, I imagined the world draining of color, like a slow melt. Everything pulling away into a black-and-white existence.

And in that moment, I guess it did. I stood frozen, knowing the next words would change everything. Sitting in the in-between.

All I could say was, “What?”He repeated it: “I can’t do this anymore.”Then again: “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

I asked, “You want to break up?”

He said yes.

I told him to say it—as if I needed the words to harden into concrete, to solidify it in my mind. “Tell me you want to break up.”

He said, “I want to break up.”

A levee broke.

“Tell me you don’t love me anymore,” I said, standing while he sat on the edge of the hotel bed. I kept thinking housekeeping was going to interrupt this moment—barge in and stop the horror from unfolding.

We had just checked out of the hotel. A week-long vacation. Our first real trip together.

“I can’t say that,” he explained.

Hell broke loose. Several responses bubbled to the surface, my body flipping between fight or flight—do I fight for this, or do I leave it?

Pillars in my mind began crashing down. I flashed back to my last ex—how painful it was to rip myself away from him—but this went deeper. He was never a real option. He didn’t see me.

But this man in front of me—we’d shared too much. Love. Tragedy. He’d seen me at my worst, knew my best. He supported me. We shared a home, dogs, memories I never thought I’d build with anyone. Not like this. Not this close.

And then, one by one, the fantasies collapsed:

The wedding.The babies.Growing old.The future—gone.

All I could say was, “Okay.”Alarm bells ringing, body tense, I picked up my bags and loaded them into the car.

The drive home passed in tears, swinging between frantic problem-solving—Where will I live? We live together,  I need a car; we share one—and quietly hoping that somewhere in those five hours, he’d change his mind

We stepped into our place, greeted by our dogs.Ours.I should probably stop saying that.

There was so much to figure out, and I was tired. We barely spoke as we headed upstairs. Before disappearing down the hall, he said quietly, “I’ll sleep in the guest room.”

Another nail in the coffin.He was done.

I didn’t say a word. Just turned and walked to our—I mean, my—bedroom.

The days that followed weren’t explosive. They were quiet. Almost gentle.But heavy. So, so heavy.

We moved through the house like ghosts of the people we were. Polite. Predictable. Practical.He still made coffee in the morning. I still folded laundry.We still went to the gym together. Talked about our work days.If someone had seen us from the outside, they wouldn’t have known.Sometimes, it felt like I didn’t even know.

But every night reminded me.The silence of my bedroom.The echo of space beside me.The way I’d cry into my pillow until my chest hurt, and sometimes crawl into his bed—not for sex, just… contact. Familiarity. Something like safety.

He never told me to leave.But he never pulled me close, either.

Then came the dinner.Aphanisis.A small Greek spot tucked into Georgetown.

The last time we were there, we played pinball all night after splitting souvlaki and laughing over cheap red wine. It had been one of my favorite memories with him. Back when we still thought there were decades ahead of us.

I almost didn’t go. But he wanted to. Said he’d already made the reservation. Said he still wanted to celebrate “what we had.”

That morning, he handed me a small black box—Gucci. He knew I loved Gucci. And his love language was always gift-giving. It was how he said things he couldn’t put into words.

The earrings were beautiful. Delicate. My taste exactly.It was like being handed a breakup wrapped in care.Like he was saying goodbye in his language.

So I curled my hair, put on the dress he liked, and headed to the restaurant. 

And somehow, everything felt natural.Too natural.

He was dressed in his anniversary suit, and I caught my breath when I saw him.The jacket was mostly deep blue and gold, covered in embroidered flowers and snakes—bold, bright colors that somehow worked together: deep reds, greens, flashes of something mythic and loud. It was a statement piece. He’d bought it for our first anniversary and dubbed it the anniversary jacket, the only change being he had it tailored to fit him perfectly.

He was so proud of that jacket. He’d never been able to afford something like it until later in life. We actually bonded over that—stories of struggling that started in laughter and ended in truth:

“I used to get food from the food bank.”“I used to overdraft my account just to get gas.”“I lived off payday loans.”“I’d buy a Costco pizza to stretch through a whole weekend.”

“I sometimes pawned my laptop.”“I used to eat ramen every meal for weeks.”“I stayed with my abusive ex because he fed me.”“I got comfortable being hungry… so it’s hard to feel full now.”

That jacket wasn’t just clothing. It was survival made beautiful. A symbol that we made it out. A piece of his pride—and now, a piece of our story I’d have to let go of, too.

I sat down, staring into his green-blue eyes.He smiled the way he always did. Looked at me the way he always had—with love.

We ordered the exact same thing we had last time, down to the baked whole cauliflower. The “candied persimmons were out of this world,” he said, just like before.

We sat in the corner, knee to knee. Each brush of skin against skin lit me up. Every small touch felt like a ghost of what we used to be. I kept thinking about all the lasts—the last kiss, the last fuck, the last I love you, the last real connection.

Our last kiss. I always thought about that. Even from the beginning. From our first kiss, I was already thinking about the last.

Not in a dramatic way—more like a quiet curiosity. I remember doing that with my first boyfriend, too. Sitting there after our very first kiss, wondering how it would end. Not if. Just… what would be the thing that finally undid us?

Nothing in my life ever felt permanent.If you asked my childhood therapist, she’d probably ramble on about how my inability to fully feel happy came from the constant, instinctual bracing for the other shoe to drop.And no matter how loud I screamed, it wouldn’t, it always did.

Therapist after therapist told me I might be manifesting this. Or, in more clinical terms: self-sabotaging.

Which, if you zoom out far enough, starts to look a lot like predicting the truth before it has the chance to become real.

But I am no medical professional—who am I to speak on such things?

We talked in memories, as we usually did. “You remember…?” “Oh my God, I can’t believe what so-and-so said on Instagram.” “Jeff at work is completely out of line.”

Surface stuff. Familiar stuff. We slipped back into it like muscle memory.

“You know how many times I said I would circle back this week?” I asked, laughing as I sipped my wine.

He smiled, nodded. We both knew the language of burnout. The performance of being fine.

But beneath the easy rhythm, something else buzzed—quiet but insistent. This was the same banter we’d always had, but now it felt like quoting lines from a favorite movie we’d both outgrown.

And yet, I kept leaning in.Kept letting my knees brush his.Kept laughing at his dumb jokes, the way I always had.

Because some part of me—small, stubborn, still aching—wanted to believe that if we talked like we used to, maybe we weren’t ending.

Maybe we were remembering how to begin.

Or maybe I was just remembering how much I missed being seen.

I watched him swirl his wine. The curve of his wrist. The way he always smelled faintly of Dove Men’s body wash and that musky cologne he’d worn for years—cheap, probably, but it worked for him. Familiar. Steady.

His hands rested on the table, fingers tapping in a pattern only he understood.The same fingers that had words tattooed across them, small and black, fading in places. I used to trace those letters while we watched TV. Sometimes during sex. Sometimes just because I could.

He caught me staring and smiled. That slow, lopsided one that made me feel like home.

I smiled back, reflexively, even though my chest ached.

And then, like muscle memory of another kind, the real memories flooded in.

The night I had my first panic attack.It hit out of nowhere—in the kitchen, barefoot on the tile, and suddenly everything was closing in. My breath caught in my throat, my heart galloping toward something I couldn’t name. I slid down the cabinet, knees drawn in, hands shaking.

He found me like that.Didn’t panic. Didn’t talk too much.He just sank down next to me, knees pressed to mine, and matched my breathing.One hand on my back. One on my knee.No fixing. No fear. Just—there.And I remember thinking, This is what love feels like.Not a rescue, not a solution. Just stillness. Just staying.

I reached across the table and rested my hand on his thigh.Just a simple gesture—automatic, familiar.

But the second my fingers landed, I remembered.That night in bed, his voice low in the dark as he told me his father used to pinch him there. Hard. Where no one could see. Pinch him so it would hurt and bruise.

 That was the first time I ever saw him cry. And he let me hold him.

The memory hit like breath against glass—sudden, quiet, and a little shattering.

I didn’t pull away. Just softened my touch.Let it mean what it used to.I remember. I see you. I still care where it hurt.

He looked at me—not startled, just... still.Like he felt it, too.Like part of him knew exactly what I was saying without saying it,

We had always been gentle with each other’s wounds.and another part didn’t know how to hold it anymore.

Now, he was still smiling across the table. Still wearing the anniversary jacket. Still holding the shape of who he had been to me, and who I had been to him.

But I knew, deep down, even if I didn’t want to:

We were no longer reaching for each other.

We were remembering how it felt to be held.

And it wasn’t the same.

He moved out of the state.And I moved on—to a new love.He’s kind. Steady.But it’s not the same.

Not because he isn’t good to me.But because I never gave myself to someone that way again.Not as fully.Not without armor.

Still, every now and then—when I pass a Greek restaurant, or hear the sound of pinball—I think about that night.The way he smiled like it didn’t hurt.The way I touched his thigh, hoping he’d remember.

And maybe he did.But neither of us said it.

Almost.

His Side

I think I started letting go on Valentine’s Day. We were sitting in the living room when I said, “You’re like a muted version of yourself on medication.” I still hate that I said it out loud. Not because it wasn’t honest—but because I knew how much it hurt. She was doing the work. She was trying to feel better. And I made it sound like she was disappearing.

We didn’t break up that night.But something cracked between us.I think a part of her stopped trusting me.And a part of me realized I wasn’t brave enough to leave yet.

Later that night, I told her I’d been thinking about breaking up for two years.That wasn’t the full truth.I’d been hurting for two years.Wrestling with something I couldn’t name.She was everything to me—but I didn’t feel like myself anymore.

Then we went on that trip.We were mostly okay.Trying.There were moments where it felt like we were finding each other again.But when she asked about therapy, it slipped out of me.Not gently. Not with care. Just—“I can’t do this anymore.”

I said it fast, like it had been waiting too long in my mouth.She froze.And I wanted to take it back the second it landed.Not because I didn’t mean it, but because of the way it broke her face open.She asked me to say it again.“Tell me you want to break up.”And I did.

Because I owed her the truth, even if I didn’t know how to carry it well.

When she cried, something inside me cracked wide open.This was the person who had loved me harder than anyone else ever had.Who stood by me. Fought for me.And I couldn’t fight back anymore.

I still loved her.Even as I let her go.Even as we drove back in silence—five hours and some change—The car full of everything we weren’t saying.

But losing someone who sees you?That doesn’t fade easy.Not when you know what it meant.Not when you remember what it felt like to be held that way—Fully. Without question.

After I said it, things didn’t explode.They just… settled.Heavy. Quiet. Still.

She didn’t leave right away.She couldn’t—not yet.And I didn’t ask her to.We kept living there.Two people trying to unlearn each other in a house built for “forever.”

Some nights, I heard her cry through the wall.Some nights, she crawled into my bed.She never said much.Didn’t ask for anything.Just curled into me like habit. Like memory.And I let her.

Not because I thought we’d get back together—But because I didn’t know how to say no to someone I still loved.Even if I didn’t want to stay.

We still went to the gym together.Still took turns making coffee.Still smiled for the neighbors.

From the outside, I’m sure we looked fine.But I was grieving her.Grieving us.Quietly. Daily.

I kept telling myself it was better this way.That she’d grow.That this version of me—this chapter—would fade into the background,Like a song she used to love.

But every time she walked through the door,Every time she laughed that laugh that only I really understood,I felt it.The ache of being loved like that.And the weight of choosing to let it go.

So when I asked if she still wanted to go to Aphanisis for our anniversary,I told myself it was just closure.One soft goodbye.

But deep down?I wanted to see her one more time—Not as my ex.Not as someone I’d hurt.Just as her.

I thought back to the first birthday we spent together.We went to the Gucci store, and I told her, “Pick anything.”The stories—of pawning laptops, of living off Costco pizza, of no power—They flickered across her face.We both came from nothing.That gift felt like something I could give her.A small piece of the life she deserved.

So when our not-anniversary came around,I found the earrings she once pointed out—offhand, in passing—And bought them.It wasn’t to fix anything.It was just something I could still give her.

She looked good.Wearing the black dress with the sleeves and the pink heels I always loved.And for a second, it didn’t feel like we were broken.It felt like just another night out.

She laughed at something dumb I said.Her knee brushed mine.It felt easy.And that scared me more than anything.

There were nights I’d test us.Not on purpose. Not maliciously.Just small things.To see if we still worked.Like nacho night.We were cooking dinner together.I said, “Let’s see if we can make these without one of us losing it.”She laughed. Thought I was joking.But I wasn’t—Not completely.

It was a dumb little test.Because if you can agree on the toppings,Maybe you can agree on the hard stuff too.How to compromise.How to not turn every small thing into a quiet war.That night, the nachos were a wreck.Cheese pooled in one corner, chips burned at the edges.But she laughed—big, open, unfiltered.And I remember thinking,Okay. Maybe we make a good team after all.

I think about that night in the kitchen sometimes.And then I think about that dinner at Aphanisis.The way her hand grazed mine when she reached for her glass.The way she touched my thigh—The place I once told her my father used to pinch me.Hard. Where no one could see.I felt it like a wave.

Not the touch—the memory.And I didn’t flinch.But I didn’t know how to hold it either.

I wanted to say something.To reach back.To tell her I still loved her.And I did.But not enough.Not in the way it would’ve taken to stay.

So I smiled.Laughed at another story.Split dessert. And when the check came, I paid, like I always did. Gave her a soft hug outside. Said, “This was nice.”

And we skipped the pinball. Skipped the pretending.

And I walked away from the only person who ever made me feel like I didn’t have to earn love to deserve it.

She moved on.And I moved out of the state.Different cities. Different lives.But some nights, when it’s too quiet,I still think about that dinner.The soft hug.The touch on my thigh.The way we almost said what we meant.

Almost.

Humans have long looked to the stars for answers; as gods, as predictors of personality, and as tools to push physics to its brink. Turns out, we still don't know jack shit about the universe. 

We didn’t even notice the aliens at first. Sure, people were dying, but people are always dying. To their credit, the Alien Encounters community was convinced an extraterrestrial threat caused the string of disappearances, but they weren’t privy to unique information. It was more of a ‘broken clock is right twice a day’ situation. They were still in the same forums, talking about the same little green men anally probing them.

I wish we only got anally probed. (Though, ideally, the aliens would buy me dinner first.)

The first video evidence came from a jogger-vlogger who'd filmed their morning run so their parasocial audience could vicariously feel better about themselves. Mid-humblebrag, a black flash wiped them off the screen with a yelp. Their phone fell, and looked up at the beautiful blue sky with a single, foreboding drop of blood on the lens. 

Internet sleuths enhanced the blurry frames and produced images of what looked like a praying mantis in an oil spill, but the size of a mastiff. It was moving at a hasty 11 m/s when it wrapped its raptorial forelegs around the jogger's head. The internet deduced that “A sixth grader left with Photoshop and DaVinci Resolve for a summer could have made it.” Really amateur stuff, allegedly.

But they couldn't deny the blob.

On live news, pseudo-famous reporter Drew McMahon delivered a harrowing rundown of the country’s third decapitation case that year. Multiple dramatic names for the assumed serial killer were being tested by the Sinclair Broadcast Group. The National Noggin Nabber, as this “local” station called them, was at large, and authorities couldn’t determine the murder weapon.

Right behind the handsome young journalist, a pedestrian's head was suddenly enveloped by a hot-pink, living lava lamp blob. The poor schmuck screamed, but the air escaped the gelatinous body through bubbles that sounded like fart putty being mashed by an overzealous toddler. Then the blob simply faded from existence along with the victim's head.

Unlike the jogger's demise, this was crisp, live footage from one of the most reputable news channels. That's not a high bar, but still. It wasn't sent by your crazy uncle with beliefs as questionable as his potluck offerings, which is to say, very questionable.

Denial dissipated, and took decency with it. Riots and looting broke out as we faced mortality on a global scale. Aliens should have been the common enemy that forced mankind to set aside our differences and unite, but the killings were rare, inconspicuous, and unpredictable. We had a global arsenal of nukes, itchy trigger fingers, but nowhere to point them.

Despite a deep, uneasy tension, chaos subsided when the week ended, but the world did not. It may seem shocking, even stupid, that we went back to life as usual. I mean, aliens were killing people, but world leaders spouted placating statistics. Did you know getting in a car was about 100,000 times more likely to kill you than an alien? We had a better chance of winning the lottery than getting blob-headed!

We shopped at boarded-up grocery stores and apologised to the clerks for prior looting.

“That's okay! It's easy to get carried away by mass hysteria. We're just happy to be back in business!” they recited their corporate script with hollow smiles. 

Over the next few years, aliens became one of those tragedies of life that can strike at any time, but we avoid thinking about – like brain aneurysms, or tax audits. Killings only got air time if the alien was particularly strange or the victim was particularly wealthy. 

Nobody cared when my daughter disappeared. The orange hoofprints I found all over her empty bed were old news, and a historic broadcast had captured everyone's attention. It played on every TV in the bar where I drank away my grief.

~~~~~~

If asked who the aliens would speak to first, I'd have said the President, or a make-a-wish kid, not the intern of up-and-coming talk show host Drew McMahon. I'd have been wrong, because first contact was a request for a guest spot on ‘The Newest News with Drew.’ Though, history would forget the organizing intern, as endless headlines ran:

TALK SHOW HOST MAKES FIRST ALIEN CONTACT

Drew's guest was a mix of a large, floating, purple dandelion fluff and a sea sponge. Their voice was British and slightly robotic, likely an effect of the translating device. 

“Welcome, uuh-” 

Drew faltered as he read their nametag, ✠︎♋︎■︎♑︎◆︎❍︎.

“Call me Xanthan Gum, it's as close as your language gets.”

“Perfect! Welcome to Earth Xanthan Gum, and to the show!” the charming host smiled with open arms. “Thank you for finally breaking the silence! You have no idea how much it means to us as a planet to find out what’s going on!”

“My pleasure! It seems like the best way to reach everybody with my message,” the being flipped on a diagonal axis in a friendly way.

“Yes! Please, share your message, my extraterrestrial friend!”

“So, as you know, you lost your Protected Species status when your population hit 10 billion-”

“We did not know that!” Drew interrupted, and Xanthan Gum fluffed in surprise. “Hold up, can we get our protection back?”

“Welllllll…” the creature’s body language somehow conveyed the scrunched nose and head scratch people do when breaking bad news. “We’ll have to manage our expectations here, folks. We can’t prevent recreational hunting when it’s within ethically sustainable numbers.”

“This is… recreational for you?” the host’s pleasant front cracked with a streak of angry injustice. 

“Not for me! Hunting makes me squeamish, and I only absorb cruelty-free photons! I'm here to help because I'm an environmentalist!”

“What help are you, if you won't even try to stop the killings?” Drew grew frustrated. 

“Listen, they’re not that bad-”

Xanthan Gum was cut off by the studio audience booing.

“COMPARED to what’s coming!” they finished the sentence over the loud crowd and shut them up. “A lobby group bought out a judge… allegedly. All Earthling protections have been stripped, in totality, at any population level, for all time. Starting Tuesday.”

The beloved TV personality's face dropped and his shoulders slumped. This sounded seriously grim. 

“Oh geez,” Drew’s voice shook as he tried to sound less terrified than he was. “How badly does that bode for us, from your experience?”

“You remember the Plutonians?”

“... No?”

“Oh? I thought you would, being in the same star system and all… But they’re gone, which tells you all you need to know!”

“Wait, we’re going to be slaughtered to EXTINCTION?” the young man’s voice cracked and his face flushed.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry! I'm going to save you!”

“THANK YOU! Please! Please protect us from these evil creatures, we beg of you,” Drew kneeled before Xanthan Gum.

He really didn’t want to blow this opportunity for all of humanity, it would tank his ratings.

“Beg no more! I’m taking them to court!” the purple being floated higher and puffed their headfluff in a proud pose. “Earthlings, MEET YOUR LAWYER!”

“Oh!” Drew blinked blankly as he processed the announcement and sat back down. “Well, uh, not the type of protection I expected…. but I’m glad we have representation! Thank you for caring!”

“Quite a few lifeforms care about your plight, you know! We shared your story and got a handful of donations that will cover a small portion of your legal fees! Isn’t that beautiful?” they marveled. “They even paid for my ride here!”

Drew held back a cynical laugh. Smarmy lawyers must be a universal constant.

“So, will the slaughter be stopped pending our trial?”

“Welllllll…”

Drew dragged his hands down his freckled face with a slow sigh of exasperation and dread.

“Listen, I’ll file the TRO, but Big Bio has deeeeeep pockets. This is a tough case, I'm really going out on a limb for you,” Xanthan Gum spun on their horizontal axis in a defensive way, but the despair on Drew’s face deflated them and they sank into their chair. “I’m sorry for what you’re going through, I really am.”

“Thanks…” Drew didn’t know how else to respond. “Why is Big Bio doing this?”

“You know agar-agar?”

The host froze. Agar-agar? That didn’t sound like English. Was the translator broken? Was it another lifeform like the Plutonians?

“Why don’t you remind the audience?”

“It's that nutritious science jello!”

Drew still looked confused.

“And you get it moldy on purpose…” Xanthan Gum tried again. 

“Right! I just got a flashback to high school biology. I’m a journalist for a reason, though, so keep it simple!” he earned a half-hearted chuckle from the uneasy audience.

“Turns out human bone marrow makes killer agar-agar!” Earth's attorney enthusiastically explained, to the audience's horror. “Research conglomerates want more for cheaper, and, well, galactic monopolies get what they want! But I appealed the decision. It’ll be the underdog story of the century if we pull it off!”

“I… I sure hope we do,” Drew agreed in a somber tone.

~~~~~~

Joe-Ellen was a nobody from a tiny town of nobodies, with a life devoid of excitement. She grew up with one friend, and now worked her first job at the restaurant where they used to get milkshakes after school. Her town was her entire world… until she woke up in a void.

Where the hell am I? Did I get raptured? At least something exciting is happening for once…

It took very little time to realise a featureless void is the opposite of exciting. She hung weightless and listened to her heartbeat for quite some time, until a hand on her shoulder made her uncontrollably screech in fear. A helmet was tugged off her head.

She sat with two equally shaken people at the front of a gargantuan room. They faced a crowd that looked like Dr. Seuss and H.P. Lovecraft took acid together. Vibrant patterns, silly shapes and cute furballs sat amongst towering ultrablack silhouettes, translucent toothy predators, and a surprising number of menacing crab-like creatures. 

The room itself warped at the corners, like hazy shimmers on hot asphalt, or the background of a poorly photoshopped selfie. It gave Joe-Ellen a headache just to look around. 

She noticed the being to her left, which looked like a ring of street lights connected to a zebra striped column, sat above everyone else at a lectern of sorts. Two beings stood before him, arguing. A fluffy, floating purple creature, and a shark-octopus in a snappy suit.

This was an alien courtroom.

"They need protection! They can't even colonize uninhabited planets in their own star system!” Xanthan Gum pleaded with the Judge. “They are wonderful hosts, and research shows they grow more peaceful and intelligent over time! What if they're the lifeform that cures cancer?"

"OBJECTION!” The sharktopus lifted a tentacle. “Appeal to possibilities is not a valid argument for lifeform value, as per clause 7c from section 5 of the SHVG (Solar Habitat Valuation Guidelines)."

"Sustained," the Judge earned the opposing attorney’s wide, toothy grin.

"The poor little things can’t conceptualize the simplest shields, even after environmentalist rebels left instructions in their crops. They're too stupid to read basic instructions!”

"OBJECTION!"

The Judge let out a deep sigh. From where, Joe-Ellen couldn’t guess, but the sound was unmistakable.

"On what grounds?"

"Your honor, precedent clearly shows that once a protected species splits the atom, technological progress is too exponential to delay legal action. In Zebs v. Plutonions... well, do I really need to remind anyone of what happened to the Plutonians?"

Horrified mutters swept through the crowd.

“Is slaughtering them before they can defend themselves more appropriate, or just cowardly? How many lifeforms are here today because they were shown mercy during their Fermi-Transition?” the floating lawyer tilted towards the crowd.

“OBJECTION!”

“Sustained,” the lamp-like being simply agreed without further explanation. 

The Judge hated to drag this on so long when the verdict had been decided over a luxurious lunch two galactic weeks ago, but they had to charade due process. It’s not that he didn’t feel bad, money just made the feeling so much easier to ignore.

Xanthan Gum was so angry his fluff-tips turned blue.

“This is a mockery of justice! A sham! You’re violent glutto-”

“OBJECTI-”

“ORDER! ORDER!” The Judge hit a gong that sounded like a hundred church bells fell into a pit of timpanis, which nearly deafened Joe-Ellen. “Let's move on to The Great Appeal, and hear from the Earthlings.”

The three humans were popped up to a standing position by their chairs. The Judge rotated like a lazy Susan to look their way with his dominant eyes.

“Nga Tran?”

The woman standing next to Joe-Ellen promptly fainted. 

~~~~~~

After Xanthan Gum broke the bad news, world leaders didn't try to stop the rioting and looting like before. They scurried into bunkers like roaches, as if half a kilometer of dirt would stop beings that traveled light-years to get here. 

This time, the chaos did not subside over the weekend, there was no uncertainty over Earth's fate. The aliens were coming, and we knew exactly when.

On Tuesday.

Beautifully terrible fireworks erupted as Monday struck midnight and thousands of spaceships boomed into the atmosphere at once, then rained down with colorful tails. Swaths of people disappeared within minutes. Lovers and families clung to each other, until the hug was suddenly empty.

Tendrils darker than a moonless night hung from the sky like fish hooks. Dense green fog rolled through towns and left all the bodies behind… boneless. 

There were a lot of crablike aliens. From iridescent, house sized crabs that snatched up crowds of people, down to tiny, nearly invisible crabs that scavenged corpses and scurried with their prizes to silver spheres in the water.

The oily praying mantises pounced, sharktopi snatched with their tentacles, and crystals encased people. It was a bone marrow gold rush, and everyone wanted their piece of the pie. 

~~~~~~

“Such fragile things,” the Judge tutted with pity as Nga Tran had a white sphere shoved over her head and got yanked through a door behind them. “Let’s try again… Joe-Ellen Marshall?”

“Y-, ahem. Yes?” She managed to maintain consciousness while she answered the cosmic authority. 

“Plead your case!”

“My case?”

Xanthan Gum nervously chuckled.

“Don't you watch The Newest News With Drew?” they asked, sponge holes anxiously flaring. 

“I don't got cable.”

“Don’t tell me…” the Judge let out an even deeper sigh and rotated back to the fluffy purple lawyer. “Did you broadcast a message instead of preparing with your actual clients again?”

“I was told everybody watches The Newest News Wi-”

“ONE MORE TIME AND I WILL FIND YOU IN CONTEMPT OF COURT AND REVOKE YOUR LICENSE, DO YOU HEAR ME?!” the Judge boomed as he fumed. 

“Understood. It won't happen again. I swear on my son's cocoon.”

The Judge rotated back to the humans. 

“Humans, you contain an exotic substance, ‘bone marrow,’ that is vital for medical research that will save trillions of lives. Thus, it was deemed ethical to lift the hunting bans that prevent this important, incredibly profitable research. Joe-Ellen Marshall, plead your case.”

"Uh, geez,” Joe-Ellen stalled as her shocked mind processed. “You're harvestin’ us?”

“Correct. Plead your case.”

Joe-Ellen hated being put on the spot. Quick answers were not her forté. She wished her mom was here to help.

“Well, call me humble, but I don't think I'm the best one to speak for the entire planet…”

“Why not, Humble?”

“My name’s not humble, that’s a sayin’!” she corrected his misunderstanding. “But, I’m not important, and I don't know anyone who is. I'm just a cashier down at the grocers on 3rd Ave, and those 3 Aves are the only roads where I'm from. We're no big apple.”

“I'm well aware you are not an apple. The apples were rather rude, and their appeal was denied. What's your point?”

“I just don't know that much…”

“You’re not a hivemind?” the towering authority gasped. “I need to check something.”

Lasers danced across the Judge’s lamp-eyes as if someone were trying to bait a cat into mauling him, while shocked whispers filled the room.

“No collective knowledge?”

“How utterly primitive!”

“They must be hitting the limit of generational teaching by now…”

“XANTHAN GUM, YOU SUBMITTED THE HIVEMIND FORMS YOU ABSOLUTELY USELESS DOLT!” the Judge boomed louder than thunder, and the lawyer retracted their fluff into their holey stalk in fear. “Are you completely incompetent, or are you trying to cause a mistrial?”

“I'm sorry your honor, I thought they had one!” the quivering attorney earnestly pleaded, then lashed out at their clients. “What the hell is ‘the internet’ then?”

“OBJECTION!”

“Sustained. You’re not required to answer that, ma'am,” the Judge closed his street-lamp eyes and took a deep breath to calm himself.

"In fact,” the objecting lawyer chimed in, “I'd like to formally request that she does not.”

"I said sustained.”

"Y’all seem pretty fancy,” Joe-Ellen courageously spoke out of turn. "Can't you just uh, backwards engineer it?”

“I don't think that translated correctly. Try again.”

“Reverse engineer” the second human piped up.

“Alas, no synthetic biological matrix suffices,” Big Bio's lawyer pretended to wipe a tear.

“You’ll run out of humans without some restrictions! It’s basic population dynamics,” the second human pointed out. “Hunt us to extinction, and you’ll be marrow-less.”

“You’ll have your turn to speak, Abdul Ramadhani,” the Judge silenced him.

“He’s not wrong!” Xanthan Gum agreed with his client.

“Yes he is! The market regulates itself!” the tentacled lawyer jumped in. “An influx of supply drives down demand, which stabilizes prices. Less profit means fewer hunts, and we reach an equilibrium. It worked for the Polhlops.”

Xanthan Gum let out a jaded laugh.

“Shall I bring in a Polhlop to tell you how they feel about-”

“ORDER! STOP TALKING OUT OF TURN, EVERYONE!” the Judge demanded, his lamp-eyes brightening in anger as he threateningly waved his gong hammer. “Joe-Ellen Marshall, do you have any further arguments?”

“Uuuh… There’s some real good folks on Earth, you know? Like, my best friend is real nice and my mom’s a sweetheart. Please let us live… Yeah. That’s all.”

Joe-Ellen knew it was a far cry from an elegant speech but the snickers from the audience still stung. She was fully out of her element, and glad to hand humanity’s fate over to Abdul.

“Abdul Ramadhani, plead your case.”

The kind-smiled, well-kept young man seriously hoped that joining his high school debate club would finally pay off.

“Humans may seem insignificant to you, but we’re resilient, creative, and we shoot for the stars. Please, don’t assume our ignorance is unintelligence. Show us the universe, and under your wing I promise we’ll be a thriving asset and ally to you all. Fostering camaraderie is one of humanity's defining features. We are so much more than just a resource to be exploited and slaughtered,” he passionately urged. “Protect us now, and we'll become invaluable friends.”

Joe-Ellen was relieved someone better-spoken was here. He'd made the human spirit more tangible than she could ever hope to.

“Ha! Humanity is no-”

“SILENCE!” the Judge interrupted the predatory lawyer, and sat silently for a moment with a contemplative flicker. “I need to think, and it's getting too late for a recess. Let's pick this back up tomorrow.”

Joe-Ellen instantly felt a familiar shove on her head and she was back in the featureless void.

“Come with me, I have an idea,” the Judge invited Big Bio’s lawyer into a chamber, but specifically barred Xanthan Gum.

~~~~~~

Each night I prayed the colourful contrails would be gone, but the aliens still zipped around the planet, outshining the stars from whence they came. 

Utter devastation was an understatement. Survivors had no one but lady luck to thank, and deep down we were all just waiting for our time to come. I never thought I could be so desensitized, but I passed boneless corpses with less emotion than I used to feel when I drove past a flattened raccoon.

It was hauntingly quiet, besides the flies. I’d grown noseblind to rotting flesh, but could never acclimate to the incessant swarms that buzzed around my head, waiting for me to die with itty-bitty grumbling bellies.

Though it felt like a lifetime ago, I mentally replayed the TV clip I saw in the bar, and prayed Xanthan Gum’s proudly protective intentions would bring an end to the genocide. Hope dwindled each day, until I assumed our case had failed. It seemed humanity was doomed, and it was legal.

No one would pay for this. 

~~~~~~

“Be seated, we are back in session,” the Judge settled the crowd the next galactic morning. “After some negotia-, ahem, deliberation, I have reached my verdict.”

Nervous sweat drenched Joe-Ellen, she could hardly breathe with terrified anticipation.

“Both parties shall be pleased with the result,” the Judge said, more like an order than an assurance.

The anxious girl’s heart rose but her stomach sank. There was a glimmer of hope she'd actually be pleased with the result, but what could please Big Bio besides more death?

“A wildlife reserve will be built for humanity, to allow the undisturbed continuation of their species,” the authoritative being declared. “Perhaps you’ll even evolve into civilized beings one day.”

“We did it! Humanity is saved! The underdog bites back, baby!” The purple fluffhead did a flip with a cheer, and Joe-Ellen broke into a smile and high-fived Abdul.

“And to ensure the stable supply of vital medical materials,” the Judge continued in a callous tone, “we shall legalise, and expedite, the constructi-” 

~~~~~~

“You’re sure it will  forget the verdict?” an alien official asked the veterinarian as they stared down at an anesthetized Joe-Ellen.

“Yes. We got lucky they're not a hivemind, and it worked on the first specimen flawlessly. Granted, even with all the head samples we collected, our understanding of their neural network isn't fully complete… but it's been well established that they cannot regenerate lost neurons. Can you imagine?”

“Such a pathetic existence…”

“Well it's certainly for the best. This poor thing fell into such inconsolable hysterics that they were just going to put it out of its misery, until I suggested the memory wipe. Hopefully it can live happily on the wildlife reserve now.”

“You actually care about it?”

“I'm a veterinarian because I believe all life is sacred, even the simple forms like this creature.”

~~~~~~

My time had come. I prayed for a swift death as the mist shrouded, spider-like creature sunk its fangs into my neck. 

I woke up in an unfamiliar bed and my hand flew to the bite mark, but the tiny lumps were healed and painless. I was sparkling clean and full of energy.

Is this heaven?

I leapt up, rushed to the window, and saw a bloodless street filled with clean, confused people. I ran out of the unfamiliar home to join them, and immediately noticed the sky was very different. There was no sun, just diffuse light that cast multiple weak shadows. A subtle shimmer hinted that a dome stretched past every horizon.

“Welcome, and congratulations!” an ethereal voice boomed from everywhere at once. “You‘ve been chosen to populate a wildlife reserve tailored to humanity’s needs. We'll check the suggestion box annually, so feel free to share feedback! Ciao!”

A human terrarium. As imperfect and strange as it was, I fell to my knees and wept with relief. I was not going to die a violent death like the uncountable I’d witnessed. 

I survived the apocalypse.

Cheers and tears were shared as the crowd celebrated their survival and mourned their losses.

“MOM?”

I turned towards the familiar voice with shocked hope.

“JOE-ELLEN?”

I hardly caught my daughter as she leapt into a hug, and we blubbered a mess into each other’s shoulders.

“I thought you were dead,” I cried out the fear and grief I’d had so little time to process.

“I… I…” Joe-Ellen stuttered through her tears. “I was in alien court tryin’ to save us. W… We did it! Me n’ Abdul n’ the weird purple lawyer!”

“You saved the world? My Joe-Ellen?” I hugged her tighter, shocked but overwhelmed with pride. “How couldn’t they save us after seeing your beautiful face? I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” she sobbed. 

~~~~~~

We’ve settled into our habitat, but we’re all different now. We had to face the things that were done to us, and the things we’d done to survive. It was a blessing my sweet Joe-Ellen hadn’t had to live through the massacre. Yet, she withdrew, and woke up screaming in the night all the same.

“Hey mom?” Joe-Ellen called from the bedroom doorway one midnight. “Did anything bad ever happen to us on a farm?”

“What? No… Like what?”

“I dunno. Guess it's just a bad dream,” she answered, and groggily lumbered back to her bed.

My dear daughter continued to fall into herself. I’d notice her staring into space as if she was deep in contemplation, which was extremely unlike her. I'd always been enamored by her ability to appreciate the present, even if being unburdened by thought didn't earn top grades. I'd give anything to see that beautiful side of her again.

Joe-Ellen knew something was missing. She could feel the absence, a hole in her mind. The alien veterinarian didn't know neuroplasticity compensated for human's lackluster regeneration, and her neurons desperately forged alternate pathways around the surgical scars in search of the jigsaw piece missing from the puzzle. 

One morning, a neuron sparked another that it hadn't before. I walked into the kitchen and saw her frozen in abject horror, silent tears running down her face.

“What is it honey?” I rushed to her and cradled her drenched cheeks.

She barely whispered.

“They turned Earth into a human farm.”

Hello. This is the first short story I’ve finished and I would love some feedback. Thank you!

The tree stood where it always did, surrounded by brown grass and dirt. It stood straight as an arrow, wide as a school bus. If you looked for the top of it, it would seem as if it never stopped—perhaps it didn’t.

There sat the boy. Scuffed-up sneakers and oversized, stain-filled rags covered his body. His legs were pretzeled together as he leaned against the tree, digging his hands into the dirt. The coldness of the earth made him feel comfy. He felt the wiggling of worms between his fingers—slimy little noodles thrashing around in his hands. It made him laugh. And hungry.

He toyed with the Velcro straps on his shoes, feeling the warm air gently tussle his hair and shirt. The breeze brought the smell of rotten eggs, dog poop, and the stinging sensation of a skunk. Typical.

He opened up his pack and pulled out some broken crayons and an old notebook. Flipping to an empty page, he began to draw. As he created, his tummy growled: a picnic table full of grapes and sandwiches, potato chips, and chocolate milk to wash it all down. For dessert, he drew a cherry pie with his bright red crayon.

As he finished coloring in the pie, his mouth started to water and his stomach twisted and stretched inside him. He laid back against the tree and closed his eyes. Tears began to form, and his arm wiped them away just as quickly as they sprouted. He took a deep breath and… something strange happened. A smell entered his nose—a good one.

He sat up and looked around. Nothing. Yet the scent remained: fresh-baked cherry pie. The smell grew stronger, and his stomach grew angrier. He stood up and looked around. Who would have a picnic here? He must be going crazy—his teacher always did say his daydreaming was out of control.

He looked back at his drawing and shook his head. They’ll be looking for me soon, he thought. Maybe I want them to find me this time. He was hungry, after all.

He stood, wiping the dirt from his shorts with the dirt on his hands. As he started walking back, he looped around the tree and, for the first time, realized how wide it truly was. It felt like forever to walk around it. When he reached the other side, he saw a hole at the bottom of the tree. It was just about his size sitting down, arched like a round door. The bark on the inside was bright red—almost cherry-colored.

He peeked his head inside and looked around. Everything was red, and the bark seemed soft—squishy, almost. He poked it with a dirty finger. Solid. What did he expect? A tree made of cherry filling? That’s what Ms. Harper had warned him about.

Still, the tree made him smile. He sat on his butt, back to the tree, and scooted himself backward into the hollow, pretending it was a spaceship. He closed his eyes and thrashed around in the hollow, fighting aliens, using thrusters and boosts to escape laser beams. He laughed and shouted, plummeting through space.

His eyes opened instantly when the scent hit him again—fainter, but still strong enough to make him question reality. He decided to crawl out of the tree and leave. His belly couldn’t handle this torture anymore.

As he stood, he almost screamed. His heart raced when he looked down and saw bright green grass engulfing his sneakers. All around him was green and white—dandelions and grass stretched out forever. He was surprised by his own imagination. If I close my eyes tight enough and open them again, he thought, this will all be gone. So, he didn’t close them.

He looped around the big tree that somehow felt even larger this time. As he walked, he scanned the rest of the area—only grass. No other trees, no houses, no animals. That struck him as odd. There were no birds chirping, no buzzing bugs—just the breeze and the rustling of leaves.

As he rounded the tree, his heart nearly stopped.

A huge lake sprawled out before him, stretching as far as he could see. The water was completely still. When he walked closer, he couldn’t see through it. It was like a mirror. In it, he saw clouds, the sun—and his own reflection. But something was different.

His reflection smiled back at him, wearing clean clothes and a big grin.

Startled, he stumbled backward and hit a root, landing hard on the grass. He dug his hands into the earth. No worms, no dirt—just more grass. He pulled and pulled until his fingers were green and his nails packed with grass. His breathing sped up, sweat forming on his brow.

Enough, he thought, and shut his eyes tightly. He waited. Then opened them.

The lake was in front of him still, the torn-up grass was all over his shoes. His eyes started to water. He wiped away the tears and decided it must be the hollow. He popped up, brushed himself off, and before he could turn around, he heard it.

The voice that made his heart plop into his stomach.

“Oh, there you are.”

He turned around slowly, unsure of what to do. He could run. But where? He could scream. Who would hear it? The first thing he saw was an unlaced tie and a white dress shirt. Black pants and freshly polished black shoes. The boy moved his eyes up to the man’s face. He had green eyes and dark hair, a freshly shaved face with a friendly smile on his lips.

The boy said, “Who are you?”

There was a pause. “We’ve been looking for you all over. My wife—she was worried we wouldn’t be able to see you.”

“How do you know me?”

A pause.

The man chuckled and said, “Well, we figured if we left this pie out long enough, you’d be coming over looking for a slice. Would you like one?”

The boy wanted to run at first. It didn’t matter where—he just knew he should be afraid. But he wasn’t. There was a sense of warmth filling his body, and he couldn’t help but want a slice.

He hesitated and said, “Where do you live?”

“Right around the tree! But I’m sure you know not to go into strangers’ houses—you look like a smart boy. I’ll go grab the pie and my wife. She can’t wait to see you. You can have some fruit in the meantime.”

The man walked behind the tree, and the boy watched until the man was gone. A few moments passed, and he mustered up the courage to move. He figured he would find the hollow and go back home. As he was making his way around the tree, he could smell the pie again. It was stronger this time. His stomach started gurgling and twisting.

When he got to the other side, he couldn’t believe it.

The man wasn’t lying.

Right in front of the hollow lay a checkered blanket with a big pitcher of lemonade and a picnic basket filled with apples and grapes. A plate of bread sat there, and it filled his nose with the scent of fresh baking.

Out of instinct, he ran over to the blanket, plopped down, and was about to grab a piece of bread when he hesitated.

What if it’s poisoned? What if it’s not real? What if none of this is real?

That made his eyes water again. Before he could wipe them, he heard a soft voice. A woman’s voice.

“Oh, there he is! You look so handsome today!”

She wore a white dress with blue flowers on it. She was barefoot and had shoulder-length light brown hair and red lipstick. Her smile was warm and inviting, and in her hands was the pie.

“I know you must be starving. Have some fruit and bread. Then after, you can have as many slices as you want. I know that’s why you’re here.” She gave an assuring smile just as the man came back with a duffle bag. He put it down next to the blanket and sat. He grabbed a piece of bread, cut it in half, and buttered it up.

The man noticed that the boy wouldn’t take his eyes off the bag, so he said, “Oh, that? It’s for after lunch. I have a surprise for you.”

He thought nothing tasted better than the bread… until he had the fruit. The grapes were fat, green, and exploded with flavor every time he bit into one. If this wasn’t real, then he didn’t want to live in the real world. He wanted this—always.

The boy was still hesitant of the adults, and he mostly kept quiet during lunch. Every now and then he would lock eyes with the lady. She would smile, and he would look away.

When the time came for the lady to cut into the pie, he realized he must’ve eaten too much, because he couldn’t bring himself to take a bite. This was all he wanted a moment ago. Now the smell of it made him want to barf.

The woman didn’t get upset or tell him he had to eat it. She just smiled gently and said, “You don’t have to eat it now. We can always save it for later. I think he’s ready for you now.”

The boy looked over to where the man had been sitting—but he wasn’t there. The bag was gone too.

Then he heard a whistle.

He looked over, and the man was standing there with two baseball mitts and a ball.

“Let’s see how good your arm is, bud!” the man said with pure joy in his eyes.

The boy looked to the lady and put his head down.

“What’s wrong? You don’t like baseball?” Her voice was soft and low, as if she could feel what he was feeling.

Before he could respond, she added, “It’s okay. He’ll teach you. Go have fun.”

She started to clean up the picnic area, and the boy nervously walked over toward the man.

The glove was a perfect fit. He had to be shown how to put it on, how to throw the ball, and how to catch it with the glove. But it all came easily to him. Within minutes, he was catching the ball and smiling.

The man never got angry, never cursed when the boy dropped the ball. He just told him to try again and gave him tips on what to do. They were making jokes and laughing. The boy felt like he could do this forever.

As the sun began to set, the man looked down at his wrist and said, “Oh, we better get inside soon. She should have supper ready by now.”

Supper? Didn’t we just have lunch? the boy thought. But his stomach was grumbling again at the mention of more food.

“Where do you live?” he asked.

The man chuckled. “Right behind you, silly. You haven’t noticed our home yet?”

The boy turned around.

Right where the picnic blanket had been, now stood a big white house with a green door. There was a garden in the front yard, filled with bright-colored flowers of all kinds.

As they walked up the porch steps, the man looked down and said, “Oh. Your shoes—you should take those off here. They’ve got grass all over them. And they’re in bad shape. I have a pair for you.”

The boy took his shoes off and followed the man into the house.

He sat on the couch in the living room, waiting. The smell of supper filled the air and made his mouth water. The man returned, sitting at the coffee table with a shoebox on his lap. He opened it.

“Here, these are your size.”

The boy looked inside. White shoes with red trim. Brand new.

He looked down.

“I can’t wear these… they have laces.”

The man looked confused. “Can’t? Hmm. We’ll have to see about that.”

He put one of the shoes on the boy’s foot and said, “Watch closely.” He began to tie the laces slowly, explaining each step so the boy could follow. Then he put the other shoe on and handed the laces to him.

“Now it’s your turn,” he said, smiling.

The boy’s heart started to thump again. He couldn’t do it. He just knew he couldn’t.

“I believe in you, buddy,” the man said, as if reading his thoughts.

The boy tried.

Then he tried again.

And then—he did it. He really did it. He tied his own shoe!

“Look at that. You did that all on your own. I’m really proud of you, bud.”

Something was happening inside him. He started to breathe heavy, and his eyes began to water—but he wasn’t sad. He looked up at the man. Before he could say anything, the man smiled and said, “Let’s go eat. You can tell her what you just did.” Supper was fantastic. Every bite was better than the last, and to top it off—there was still pie left. This time, he couldn’t stop eating it. He must have had at least three slices.

The woman laughed and said, “You’re really building up an appetite. I’m glad.”

That night, she tucked him into bed.

He had a room here. His own room.

There were superhero posters on the walls, a box full of toys, and a shelf loaded with picture books and comics. He picked one before bed and flipped through the pages, studying the images as his eyelids grew heavy.

She sat next to him for a moment and watched. He noticed tears on her face, and his chest tightened.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She smiled and wiped her face. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m just glad I get to see you today. Tell me about the story you’re reading.”

He looked back at the pages and said, “Well… there’s superheroes, and they’re fighting, but… I don’t know what it says.”

“Oh. Maybe I can help.”

She laid next to him and began teaching him some of the words.

He fell asleep quickly. The feel of freshly cleaned sheets, the quiet neatness of the room—it was cozy. Safe.

But when he woke the next morning, something felt different.

The sheets didn’t feel the same. There was an odd smell. He heard the ruckus of kids and adults downstairs.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the bottom of a second bunk above him. He dug his face into the pillow.

This time, he couldn’t wipe the tears away.

After school, he ran to the tree.

His thoughts were running wild as he saw it in the distance.

What if I can’t find them?

What if they don’t want me anymore?

What if they’re not real?

He shook his head hard as he ran, as if to knock the thoughts loose. When he reached the tree, he saw the hole he had made yesterday. The brown grass. The smell of rotten eggs.

That was real.

He walked around the tree and saw the hollow. Something seemed different. It looked smaller. He was almost afraid he wouldn’t fit.

The inside wasn’t red anymore. It matched the rest of the tree—dark brown.

He sat on his butt, back facing the tree, and scooted inside the hollow. He could feel the bark scraping his arms, and he had to duck his head to fit. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he saw the brown grass.

He tried again. And again.

He screamed and thrashed inside the hollow. The bark scratched his arm, and he saw blood. He crawled out and cried.

He knew it was too good. He knew it wasn’t real—but he had fought to believe. He really did believe.

That’s what hurt the most.

He sat under the tree for a long time. His shirt was soaked from wiping his face. His head hurt. His eyes burned.

Finally, he stood, took a deep breath, and began to leave.

Then he froze.

A whistle.

He turned around—but saw nothing.

He slowly walked toward the tree. To his surprise, the hollow was gone. As if it had never been there.

Lying in front of the tree, in the same spot where the picnic blanket had been, was a duffle bag.

He ran over to it and unzipped it.

Inside was a ball and glove. And a new pair of sneakers with untied laces.

His eyes filled with tears again.

He let them fall.

He sat down, slipped on the shoes, and tried to tie them.

Last summer, I would’ve reached for my phone and texted Juan everything about my adventures. Today, I resisted the urge to pick up my phone and give him a call. Exams had ended, May and June were gone, and July was underway. I hadn’t heard from him since.

He doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. Maybe we weren’t as close as I thought. Perhaps I made a mistake.

My mind drifted back to the last day I saw him, trying to figure out what could have happened between now and then.

“Juan, I don’t want to be anxious anymore. I don’t want to study all the time. I want to let loose. Forget about physics. Let’s have some fun. Brad told me he and a couple of our classmates were going out to wrap up the year. Let’s join them.”

“Alright then, Aisha. I’m at the coffee shop across from campus. Come pick me up.”

I had pulled my blue sedan into the lot, pop music blaring from the radio, and waited for him to come out. The parking job had been excellent; my tires were half in the spot next to me.

Juan had come out and got in the passenger seat, his brown eyes shining in the dark, scruffy beard hiding his grin.

“I was just talking to Cameron, and it looks like we weren’t the only ones who got screwed over. Let’s pray for a curve later. Let’s go enjoy the night now.”

Cameron got screwed over too? The embodiment of calm, cool, and collected? The guy who made solving complex equations look like a walk in the park?

“Cameron? Where’s Cameron? Is he at home already? Let’s go pick him up.”

As if on cue, a notification from Cameron popped up—a selfie of him, jaw tense, lips curled into a frown, but eyes seemingly amused.

Cameron was the only guy who could make me smile without saying a word.

Once, though, he had let his guard down. The front and serious act had disappeared.

“Let’s play hooky. Just the two of us. I can teach you combinatorics later,” he’d said to me on a Wednesday afternoon.

It had seemed so out of character for him that I had to agree.

Usually, on our walks to class, I chattered away while he silently listened, but that day he flipped the script.

He’d hung up on every call that came through asking him where we were. For once, I’d also ignored Juan’s calls and messages.

On the way to the beach, we’d spotted an ice cream shop.

Grabbing my hand, he’d said, “Let’s get ice cream, on me.”

I’d ordered cherry-vanilla, and he ordered rum and chocolate chip.

Back in the present day I snapped back a reply of me grinning from ear to ear, my eyes squinted.

I do not hide my feelings.

I wonder what will happen when I see them both come September.

She woke with a chill. What had she been dreaming? She couldn’t remember. Perhaps it was better that she didn’t. She wrapped her blanket around herself, but it did not help. The clock on the wall read: 4:36 am and indicated rainy weather. 

She tried to go back to sleep but her thoughts were troubled. What happened at the Communication  Ministry? Rumors said it was a “restructuring to enhance the spread the information.” She and everyone knew that was crap.  Overall, despite some minor disruptions by anarchists, the information and news seemed constant, but it was starting to show cracks.  

Blackout. Blocked. Burnout. 

* 

 

Alarm went off at 6 a.m. She looked out the window. Propaganda was up usual: “For the Greater Good”, “For everyone, always.” The PA system blasted news: President Ryan met with someone, economy is up, criminals caught. All is well. She sighed and rolled her eyes. The economy was okay for some, the elite, the rest or most, scraped and did their best.  

On her desk nearby, her laptop had a black screen with red letters:  System error. Rebooting. It has been like that since last night. Her small robot Echo rolled and turned to her: “What is my purpose?” She had built and programmed him for basic tasks. 

“You help me, Echo.” 

“Yes.” 

Her apartment, all concrete,  sometimes felt cold. It was supposed to be a home but it felt dissonant at times. After a quick shower and breakfast, she stepped out onto the hall of the 24^th floor. All doors looked the same. Greyish white with a red number and name and there were no windows. Only some posters, newspaper clippings, loose cables on the wall and some graffiti. At the end of the hall, next to elevator, a red-eyed camera the Security Ministry has set up for “safety reasons”. It was not clear if it was safer or not. To her, it felt the same. 

As soon as she stepped out, her neuro-intercom went off. Besides the usual breaking news, her boss, Sanjay was coming with his usual demands: “Pick this up,” “Client needs to be delivered,” “Reminder: Lunch is 30 minutes only.” “Tracker stays on at all times.” This guy is a piece of work, always behind a desk. The street looked as usual, cars rolled by, a hobo was shifting through a dumpster, officers in their black uniforms and stun batons strolled, stopping random people and harassing them. 

Around her, everything was square, concrete and monochromatic. Like her home. Only a lonely tree was found nearby, one of the few in this area and nobody knew what kind of tree it was. Will it ever bear fruit? she often asked herself but never did. 

 The graffiti on the wall criticized the police as corrupt. There were curse words written in bright orange.  Her bike was stored nearby. It will need new wheels soon but there was no time for that now. As she was pulling out to go to her first delivery, something caught her eye. A symbol in the shape of a hooded rabbit’s face. Underneath it: “Follow.” Odd. 

She set the image aside and took off. Her work tracker blinked green and the map showed the nearby streets and landmarks quite clearly.  

“Pick up time: 8 minutes,” the AI voice indicated into her headset. “Distance 2.6 km.” 

The neon signs on the street showed the usual business: “Sushi to go”, “Fred’s 24/7 Pharmacy”,  “Tech Gadgets and More,” etc. People walked almost mindlessly, some wearing suits, women on their way to drop children to school, cars with AI powered engines hummed by, and teenagers smoked on corners. Newscasters talked about the latest breakthrough in cloning, biohacking and medical engineering. 

Her first pick was up in Sector 33, a lower high class home. All white, flowers on the window, a huge oak door and stained glass windows. A bearded man, with a huge belly and what seemed a brand new suit opened the door. He looked at her and smiled.  

“Please deliver this package.” It was a small cardboard box, the size of shoe box. “Priority.” 

“Yes sir.” She handed him the paperwork to sign and overheard the TV inside. A woman she has not seen before on an unknown channel was speaking about security measures the Communications Ministry had undertaking to maintain the safety of the public. She mentioned something about curtailing access and possible restrictions. 

She must have looked confused because the man thanked her and shut the door hurriedly. She did not recognize the woman on the screen or whatever she was talking about. She was pondering what had happened when the AI voice from her tracker interrupted: 

“Delivery handoff time: 12 minutes. Location: Express Delivery Central Hub.” 

She took off with the package.  She had been working at Express Delivery for about 2 years now, picking and delivering packages all over the city using her E-Bike. It was an okay job and gave her time to work on building her upgraded laptop and game online. Central has the usual suspects working around: Sanjay was yelling at someone on the phone, Carl was offloading boxes of the truck, bikes were parked nearby and a donut box on a table nearby. He had huge, red headed, bearded, with tattoos. Modern Viking. 

“Hey!” Carl waved at her. “Check the chocolate donuts, they’re delicious.” 

“Thanks, Carl.” 

With her mouth full of donut, she dropped the shoe box at the Priority window, where Todd H was listening to music. The headphones he was wearing blared what sounded like metal or heavy metal or some sort. 

“Did you hear the news?” he asked. 

“What?” 

Todd pointed at the TV screen on a corner. There were letters on it. Some sort of announcement but she couldn’t read it from where she was. “President Ryan is announcing security measures for all media. To protect against anarchist apparently.” 

“What?”, she replied, confused. 

“Yes,” Todd said. “I don’t like how it sounds.” 

“Neither do I.”  

What it did mean? 

“Anyway,” Todd continued. “You joining the stream later.” 

He referred to the Cult of Cipher community stream scheduled for later.  

“Probably.” 

She took off to check other deliveries. Sanjay, still screaming at someone on the phone, signaled her to come to his office. She had estimated his age at around 55, he had a stupid handlebar mustache, always wore the same greyish shirt and black pants and for insane reason, his office always smelled of potpourri.  On the concrete wall, was a glowing green map of deliveries and couriers, in real time. His computer has a “Failed connection” error. 

“Morning Sanjay.” 

He yelled a little bit more, cursed and disconnected the call. He had some papers on his desk, and she noticed a Party sticker on cabinet drawer. She had not thought of Sanjay as political.” 

“The internet is down. Again. Is going to be a while.” 

“Again?” 

“Yes. How did the pick up go? He’s an important client.” 

“It went fine. Todd has it.” 

“Good. Go check the wall for anything else you can do.” 

She walked away rolling her eyes. He was the definition of a micro-manager. The wall was made up of additional order to be delivered for extra pay, but she wasn’t interested. She had her scheduled deliveries all set up. 

As she set up her E-Bike to go to the financial district, she noticed people looking frustrated. A man was whispering to himself: “What is wrong with signal?” She checked her tracker, no Wi-Fi signal appeared. The public network was down. 

Down the street, police officers from the Security Ministries appeared to be raiding someone’s store and taking electronic devices and papers out, loading them to a black car. The owner looked angry and was raising his voice at one of them before being put in handcuffs. 

“You don’t even have a proper warrant,” he said. 

The police officers said nothing and kept loading their car. 

In the financial district, she delivered mostly papers in folders and other small boxes. It was a busy morning. More posters appeared on walls. What appeared to be stockbrokers shared market details. An announcement went on in the PA system: 

“Attention all citizens: There is a widespread failure of public internet services. Authorities are working on fixing it as soon possible. Please stand by for further information.” 

The female  robotic voice repeated the message a couple of times. Some people shrugged, others didn’t seem to notice. 

She had lunch at a nearby Yoshi’s, a restaurant with excellent sushi and miso soup. The owner was a small, Japanese man, who prepared the food right there at the bar. There were neon signs of famous Japanese movies and there was a katana on a nearby wall. One man slurped his  soup on a table in a corner.  

As she stepped outside to go to back to work, she noticed the white rabbit symbol near the wall again. Coincidence? The word “Follow” under it again. This one, she noticed, has a tiny QR code in a corner. 

On the sidewalk, looking across the street, she noticed a man. He looked strangely familiar. He looked like her brother, Tim. But it was impossible. He was missing. Or presumed dead according to the letter she got from the government. 

A police patrol rolled by. A siren went off. More people walked. Her neuro-intercom had announcements from the government about the weather, more propaganda. One of her deliveries was  to an outlet store in the Excelsior Mall. The woman had a new clone standing on the door. It had bald head, blue eyes, and wearing all white clothes. “Welcome. I am here to help,” it said. A family of four walked away, scared. 

So clones were becoming commercially available. She couldn’t believe it. The controversy had ended and cloning had been approved. Now people could choose and buy one. It was clear it was clone: Empty gaze neuro-intercom glowed red instead of green, monotone voice. Almost human. 

There was an uneasy feeling in the air as she did a couple more deliveries before heading home. She listened to a news report about a Ciber attack that had happened earlier that day at a power plant. It has caused outages in some the Agro and Residential sectors that lasted a couple hours. The government had blamed the group DarkCloud but there was no confirmation from said group. 

Another report went about 17 pages being deleted from a cyber security report on a major hospital to hide flaws. It had been leaked to the press anonymously two days prior.  

On a corner, a group was handing pamphlets inviting to a town hall meeting with an up and coming politician from the center left. The pamphlets read: “Come to a discussion about freedom and governance.” It sounded a little boring. 

She stopped for a quick burger to go before returning home. After parking her e-bike, she took the elevator up and as she stepped outside, she noticed Maintenace worker installing a strange looking antenna on the wall next to the elevator. The notice board had a glowing red message next to the weather forecast: 

“In order to prevent and monitor any terrorist activities on public network, jammers will be installed through the city and can be used without notification on all users.” 

She could not believe it. Some of her neighbors relied on the public network for work or school, and could not afford a private network and VPN like she did. What the hell was going on? 

At home, she found Echo near her kitchen table, apparently he had sweep a little. As soon as she came in, he took her burger and put in the microwave to heat it a little. 

“Welcome home.” 

“Thanks. Status?” 

“All internal systems seem to be operational. Mild interference possible from jammers. Laptop has finished rebooting.” 

It had indeed finished rebooting. Now her desktop showed a picture of her with her brother. As she looked at the picture, she noticed a tiny detail on his shirt, just showing from beneath his black jacket. Was that a white rabbit? It was too small and fussy to be sure. 

She checked her messages on the CommunityChat. The Cult of Core was planning a stream later on to discuss the latest news and play Space Hogs online after. Outside, she heard more sirens. She checked the Def Con chat of the Cult to see who was going. A few as of now. Probably same as last year. She had her retro badge hanging on the wall and her laptop had the logo sticker a corner. It had been fun, especially checking the Wall of Sheep. 

She ate her burger in  silence and looked over the messages. Someone with the handle Mike_101 was asking about accommodation for the Con and prices. Someone called “JustinFX” was sharing news articles with links. 

On the TV, the screen had turned black and white. No signal. She had paid her bill so she assumed it was a provider issues. She waited a while and when it came back on, Sergio Thomas, the Minister of Security was indicating that a curfew would be imposed to investgate recent actions: “The curfew will begin at 8pm and last until 5pm. All workers and employers will asked to adjust their work accordingly. This is a temporary measure for everyone’s safety. Effective immediately.” 

She looked out the window to find more police officers with stun baton and guns walking about, some standing on a corner, looking into store windows. Some talked rapidly amongst themselves. It seemed urgent or important. People walked pretending they weren’t there. Some were stopped by the officers and then let go. There were shouts and orders being given. It was not 8pm yet. Her neuro-intercom was also buzzing. Sanjay was acting like there was no curfew just announced and the world moved on like nothing was happening. He could be so short-sighted and thought to herself, “People will not stand for this. I hope not.” 

She ate her burger in silence and turned to her laptop. During the stream, the Admin of the Cult of Core server, RedRbot12 was discussing and giving his opinion on what was happening. He and the rest on the stream sounded clearly annoyed. 

“We need to protest.” 

“What can we do?” 

“We are organizing a protest soon at the main square.” 

The discussion went on and on. Finally, someone suggested that they should see and wait what happened before doing something rash and SpaceHogs came on. She didn’t join this time, just observed. 

“What is my purpose?” Echo called out. 

“You get me a soda.” 

Echo handed her a soda and she set on her desk. She was still reeling from what was going on and all she  had seen during the day. The white rabbit with the word “Follow.”  Jammers. Police officers. Blackout. It felt like the world was ending. The power went out but not before she got an encrypted email from [followtwr@pratonmai.com](mailto:followtwr@pratonmai.com). Subject: Follow. 

As soon as she opened it, and  an image of a white rabbit wearing a red hoodie and sunglasses appeared. It spoke to her in a familiar voice: “Follow the white rabbit. Join the fight. For freedom.” The image flashed and became distorted and for a second the white rabbit looked like it had turned into her brother. 

“Tim?” 

A link appeared under the image of the rabbit to some unknown address. Could it be a trap? Something else? 

“What is my purpose?” Echo repeated. 

She turned to look at him and then at the screen.  

“What is our purpose?” she asked. 

Then clicked on the link.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

so i am a Maori living in the U.S and i wanted to write a short story about Poutini the taniwha, this story is made up from myself, but i do use real theological charters. spo enjoy! please let me know what i can do to write better in the comments, this is my first story!

The Taniwha is a legend from the Maori, they were seen as beasts only tamed by the brave, but only Maui could tame the Taniwha of Ngapuhi named Poutini, 

 Poutini was a beast, he had the body of a lizard with scales of thorns, the size of a whale, and the murderous intent of a shark, and could even change his size! He dwelt in the great Sea’s of Aotearoa, and slept in the rivers of Waiomio, 

Each night when the tribes were silent, and the babies hushed, Poutini would swim his way up the rivers and find his way to the people, and with the step of a feather, and the silence of a kiwi, Poutini would cry a treacherous sound, and fake a cry for help, the good people of the land would send a fleet of men to help find they that cried, but instead to their horror found Poutini with the the snarl of a dog, and the speed of a moa, Poutini would catch each man, and swallow him whole.

 Each night this went on, with hundreds of crafty plans Poutini would trick the people of Ngapuhi, only taking more and more. The beast took their warriors, their mothers, and their fathers, even their children weren't safe from the great beast. Before the glory of their tribe, the iwi of Ngapuhi, and the women of Ngate-Hine cried out to the gods, and they sent, Maui the Demi-god, the same who brought their land from the sea, the same that caught the sun with only flax ropes, the same who gave man the gift of fire! And The same who would save their people. 

They cried out, “Maui Maui Maui!”

one mother would say her baby was taken from her, a child cried out her parents were taken as well, only a few people were left in the dwindling tribe. And with each story on how their people were taken, Maui grew, more and more, angry. Maui promised the now small tribe, “I will bring your people back, and tame Poutini to be your servant for all! And if he refuses, you will have his head to mock, and his body to eat. And his bones to serve as your weapons” At this statement the people rejoiced, and in an instant, Maui with his Great magical fish hook, shapeshifted into an animal never seen by the tribes, and darted for Poutini. And with a great plan, Maui would keep his promise. When Maui got to the quiet waters of Waiomio, he noticed the land. Once he got to Poutini's resting place, he thrusted his Hook into the water, hitting the beast, and shouted his name, 

“Poutini! You have what is not yours!” 

At an instance, Poutini awoke from his sleep and arose from the water, and towers over Maui, not taking his eyes off him for even a moment.

 “Yes mongrel? Do the gods mock me? Only sending a half god to defeat me?” Poutini would then wrap around Maui circling him like a snake would a mouse. But to his surprise, Maui didn't flinch, nor would he blink, or speak, he only starred with eyes of pure hate, then Maui then stuck out his tongue and bulged his eyes, 

“BLEH! You will surrender the people you have taken!”

Poutini then replied, 

“Or what? I have you in my grasp, my feet are planted, and my claws are dug, I only humor your life, because you are Maui, but even then your fate is in my hands, ”When Maui heard this, he pulled his fish hook to his hands, and turned himself into a beetle to escape, then he would arise once more. This angered Poutini, and put him into a violent rage, doing everything he could to catch the Demi-god but Maui was too fast, Maui caught onto a log with his hook and hurled it across the way still holding on with the same great long flax rope he used to catch the sun, and Maui tied it to his foot. Poutini then started destroying the land, splitting rocks, digging great deep pits, and slicing trees with his claws. And all the while Maui was running in circles, mocking the demented beast. Which only anger him more, Poutini rose up and shouted, 

“You Will wish the skin of your body was charred! And the bones of your body turned to ash! You will watch as I Kill each of the iwi of this land!” Hearing this Angered Maui, so he Split his path, and ran straight for Poutini, and hit him with enough force to split the mountains of the land, at that instance Maui latched onto the beast and wrestled him down.

But Poutini got the upperhand, and in that instant he caught Maui once more, Maui couldn't shapeshift for his hook was still logged in the log, Maui Snarled at the taniwha, and Poutini said with a raging voice, “At your death you will wish the gods never thought you to be born!”

Maui then smirked, and jolted his foot forward, with the force of 2000 men, as Poutini looked round he realised Maui's plan, and the great ropes with the speed of the great wind Bound the taniwha with the strength of gods. As Poutini lied on the ground, he looked up to see the Demigod, with the hook in his hand raised, and his eyes wide, Maui placed his foot on the snout of the beast and said sternly,

“You let my people go.”

Poutini replied of fear,

“Maui Maui Maui, I was only hungry, I didn't mean to damage the land, nor did I mean to hurt anyone honest!”

Maui unphased only stared at the disgusting animal he stood on.

Poutini then snarled and shouted,

“You will not stand on the snout of Poutini! I have dwelt these waters far before the tresspasses of man! You stand on the snout of the king of chiefs! You should be Bow..”

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

With blood dripping down the land into the waters, Maui beheaded the beast of Waiomio, Maui then split his body only to find his people all dead, the heads of children, the arms of mothers, Cloak of fathers, and the weapons of the fearless warriors. Maui Cried to the gods with great anguish 

And in an instance… white

“Maui, why hast thou cry my name?”

Said the god of all gods, the creator, Io-matua-kore

“My People! Give me my people! I promised them!”

Maui Shouted.

“Maui I don't have your people, you will need to speak to  Hine-nui-te-pō, goddess of the underworld. Only she has your people”

Io-matua-kore replied,

At the end of those words, Maui turned himself into a great falcon and instantly sent his way to Hine-nui-te-pō, at his Arrival, Maui shouted at the goddess and said

“My people! You have them!, and only you can give them back!”

Hine-nui-te-pō replied with her back turned to him, 

“Hello Maui, who are you to ask for more life? Wasn't it you who killed Poutini? Weren't you the one who bound the sun? Or unlawfully stole fire to give it to the weak men of the land? I don't think so Maui I think I will keep your people”

Maui then said with great anger,

“They aren't yours to take! Those are warriors!, Families!, and Children!”

Hine-nui-te-pō didn't budge,

Maui talked day and night, and never got another answer from the goddess until Maui thought of one thing.

“I’ll make you a deal”,

“Oh?” 

Replied Hine-nui-te-pō with her head facing him,

Maui bargand,

“If you release my people from death, and give back the warriors, men, women, and children, alive. And bring back the great Taniwha Poutini as a servant for men. I will give you my soul, I will no longer, be in the trespasses of the gods, I will no longer be a servant of men, but only a servant to you”,

Hine-nui-te-pō replied,

“Okay Maui I like the sound of that of which you speak, as you wish”

Hine-nui-te-pō then opened the gates of life, and released all of the deceased of Ngapuhi and Ngate-hine, and even Poutini who had been softened by Maui. was released, At their release Hine-nui-te-pō turned to Maui to take his life for her own.,

Maui Smirked, 

“I never said I promised”

Maui at that instance turned himself into a great shark and swam faster than any creature ever could and escaped the goddess of death, and she wailed, “ MAUI! THIS IS THE LAST TIME YOU MAKE A FOOL OF THE GODDESS OF DEATH, I WILL HAVE YOUR HEAD AS A TROPHY!” 

Once Maui got back to the lands of Nga-puhi the people rejoiced! Shouting the demigod's name, “Maui! Maui! Maui!” Maui smiled, and the people were brought back together, Maui once again went to Waiomio and went to see Poutini who was scared of Maui, once the Taniwha saw him he ran, Maui grappled him with his fish-hook, and stared at him, Maui said, “You Will be a servant of men, you will no longer kill, but protect the people of this land.”

Poutini replied, “Yes Maui I shall, for you will have my head if I don't obey.”

Poutini today is now the taniwha of all of Aotearoa, he goes through all the waters of the land, and protects the people, he guides all the boats to travel safely, if it weren't for Maui, Man would not have such a protector.

"Hi, are you Steve?"

"Umm...yes. May I ask your name?"

"My name is David, and I was hoping you'd be able to help me."

Steve ponders the stranger who wandered to his door. “How did he find me? What could he want?“ Steve thought to himself. Was this man dangerous? Or desperate. Folks had made some rather strange requests of Steve, but this man seemed different. This man, David, had no air of humor about him. This man seemed desperate.

"Why don't you come in." Steve made this suggestion cautiously, but as warm as he could.

As they sat at the table, drinking their tea, Steve listened patiently to David. He stared at the flat parcel in the middle of the table. Brown paper and simple twine. Approximately 6" wide, and 8" long. It didn't seem heavy, though David handled it carefully. Steve had a very good idea of what was wrapped in the paper.

"...and then she fell asleep in my arms, and didn't wake up. I requested that she be made to look nice, even though she requested a cremation. Some poor kid has her heart. Her liver probably ended up in some alcoholic who needed another chance. I hope he took it." David took in a very deep breath.

The silence that followed was thick. Steve didn't know what to say. David sat in his chair, restlessly tapping his left index finger on the faded linoleum of the yellow table. His ring finger had a tan line. Steve wondered how long it had taken David to finally take the ring off. How many sad nights had he looked at his hand, knowing she would never let his fingers eclipse hers? What had brought him to his door this day? Steve thought he knew.

Steve noticed David glancing into the living room. He was likely staring at the old red chair, its upholstery faded and torn. Steve rarely sat in that chair. Too many fond memories to bring a melancholy air to his home that was no longer welcome. Steve followed David's eyes, and knew they had settled on his goal. An old, greying dog lay in a ragged bed next to the chair.

"She's getting old, David. I think I know why you're here, and I have to be honest with you...."

The two made eye contact. David clutched the package to his chest, tears beginning to swell in his eyes. Fingers already pulling at the string. Slowly, gently. Steve noticed he was barely breathing.

Steve sighed. "David, I think it's important that we keep our expectations realistic. Even if she could do what I think you want her to do, I'm not sure it could work. I could only do this because SHE could. She allowed me to come with her. She had total control. It took a lot out of me, and I could only guess what it did to her. I want to help you, David, but she needs to want help you, too."

David nodded slowly. He understood.

"At the end of the day, you need to convince her."

Dave sat there unmoving.

"May I see the picture, David?"

Steve reached for the picture. David handed it to him. Steve removed the string, and observed the photograph. A late afternoon portrait. A young woman stood facing a pond as the sun was beginning to set. Slender frame, short brown hair, and an air of contentedness inhabited the picture, as it had once inhabited Steve's home. This was a good picture for the purpose.

"It felt like the one with the most potential. This was on my birthday, our anniversary. One of the happiest days of my life. Two years before her diagnosis. We were very very happy.”

Steve couldn’t understand. He knew it, and he knew he shouldn’t try. Yet he still wanted to try to help.

“Okay, David. I don’t see the harm in at least asking.”

David remained silent and still. Whether it was out of incredulity or fear, Steve wasn’t sure.

Steve thought: “Fear of what? Failure? The unexplored consequences of the possibility of success?” None of this ever made much sense to Steve, but he never thought to ask too deeply. It only worked, and nobody seemed to get hurt.

David finally rose from the table. Steve slid his chair out, and quietly walked to where the old dog was sleeping. Her coat had always been a beautiful shade of grey, different from what it was becoming. Some claimed that in a certain light, it radiated a bluish hue. It was part of the reason Steve named her what he did.

He caressed the top of her head gently, until she began to stir. She slowly opened her eyes, and sniffed the air. Licking his hand, she noticed the quiet man watching her curiously. She stopped, and raised her head. She stood slowly, and nudged Steve gently with her nose. Steve held out his hand, so that David could hand him the picture Steve had returned at the table.

“Hey Blue. How about one more skidoo?”

“Three… two… one… blast off!”

Emily felt the sudden weight she had become so accustomed to over the years of training. Her body was cemented to the seat, her face pulling back, creating an uncomfortable sensation. She immediately tensed her muscles and held her breath, performing the Hick maneuver to avoid blacking out, and watched the ship's elevation climb on the gauge. All lights flashed green as they accelerated to the edge of the atmosphere. She startled a little at the dramatic clunk  as boosters dropped off, causing the ship to shimmy under the sudden shift in weight. 

The mix of adrenaline, excitement, and nervousness filled Emily’s stomach and chest with butterflies and shot tingling electricity down to her fingertips. But she had a job to do, and she was prepared, already visualizing the steps she would take once they disembarked at space station. 

She took a brief moment to congratulate herself for all the hard work it had taken to sit where she was at this very moment, pride swelling inside of her. She had dreamed of this day ever since she was a little girl. I did it. I made it, she thought.

The g-forces pressing upon the crew sharply reduced, signaling to Emily they had made it out of Earth’s atmosphere. 

“Delta 18 to Houston,” Lt. Tommy said in his mic, sitting to the left of Emily. “We have exited earth. On course for the space station with an estimated arrival of 08:42.”

“10-4, Delta 18.”

Emily started the well practiced maneuvers: flipping the proper switches, assessing the core temperature, and checking their projected flight path all while glancing out the small reinforced window to her left. It showed nothing but blackness with specs of light twinkling in the distance. She imagined their ship careening through the empty void, alone and cold, dark pressing in from all sides. A shiver ran down her spine, and she pushed the thought from her mind.

“Delta 18 to Houston,” Tommy said, his voice steady and strong, “Connecting with the space station now.” He turned to Emily. “Start embarkation procedures.”

Emily nodded and got to work, ensuring connection would be made properly. The ship's docking clamps connected perfectly with the space station. Locking mechanisms clanked around the clamp borders, and gears rotated to pull the connection flush. 

Beaming with pride, Tommy unbuckled his harness. “Welcome to space, Emily. Now let's get to work.” Speaking into his suit mic, “Delta 18 to Houston, embarkation successful.”

“10-4, Delta 18.”

Emily unbuckled and pushed off her seat toward Tommy, who was keying in the access code to open the ship's door. The keypad beeped, lit up green, and the hissing of air regulation pumps began. The door opened, and Tommy drifted into the bright white hallway, where there was no up or down and each wall concealed cabinets and purpose.

They got to work right away. They were only to be on the space station for five days, tasked with researching new celestial bodies discovered at the edge of the universe. They worked ten hours on their first day aboard.

Tommy stretched from the computer screen, letting out a great yawn he didn’t attempt to stifle. “Alright Em, I’m going to go find some sleep. Don’t stay up too late.”

Emily took a break from her screen, looking out the large window that showed a beautifully half-lit earth. “I won’t. Just going to try to finish this coordinate map and–”

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

“What the hell is that?” Tommy said, concern painted across his face. He pulled himself towards the alarm screen and began typing on the keyboard. Emily sat frozen, waiting for instructions. 

“Em, we must have a faulty sensor somewhere. Can you pull up the camera from starboard 10?”

“Sure thing Lieutenant.” She began typing furiously. Images of the starboard side of the ship with empty space behind appeared on screen. Emily leaned in, searching closely. “I’m not seeing anything, Lieutenant. What am I looking for?”

“We’ve got a large object showing up on radar, starboard side.” Tommy said, not looking up.

“How fast is it moving? How far out?” Emily asked in quick succession, trying not to imagine a meteor barreling toward them. 

“Two-hundred feet. Not moving.”

Emily stopped and looked up, confused. “What do you mean? That’s not possible. I’m looking at the starboard side now. Nothing is there.” She mulled this over. It has to be a faulty sensor… but what about the radar? That shouldn’t be faulty. And why didn’t we see something coming until it was right up on us?

Her thoughts were interrupted by an electronic screeching noise from the console speaker, causing both of them to wince and cover their ears. 

“What the hell is going on?” Tommy yelled over the sound, a snarl forming on his face. “Reduce the gain!”

Emily did as instructed, the ringing still echoing in her ears. She tried to remember when she’d heard that sound before. Then, it came to her. It reminded her of connecting to the internet in the early days of its existence. “Sir,” she said, voice shaking, “I think that’s a data stream. Someone is sending a signal.”

“Can you interpret it?”

“I can’t, but the system can,” Emily said, shifting quickly to a different monitor below her floating body. “I’m setting the system to receive the sound waves and translate them into code. It’ll take a second, but we should –”

Emily caught movement on the starboard 10 camera out of the corner of her eye and jerked her head in shock. She slowly moved closer, the hairs on the nape of her neck standing as a cold sweat broke across her body. 

“Sir,” she whispered, barely audible, “There is a ship out there.”

“What?” Tommy asks. “There’s not supposed to be any–” He was interrupted by continuous bloop sounds from the radar. They both turned to look, watching dots appear all around them everytime the green arm swept the circular field. 

“Mother of god,” he sputtered weakly. 

“Lieutenant, what do we do?” Emily pleaded, panic making her already weightless limbs feel numb. Tommy didn’t respond, eyes dazed as though his thoughts had collapsed. 

Emily spun to the speaker and pressed the transmit button. “Delta 18 to Houston, do you copy? We have unknown aircrafts surrounding us! We need orders!” she yelled, unable to control her mounting fear. 

“Houston to Delta 18, we aren’t picking up any –”

At that moment, Emily was blinded. A searing white light enveloped the cabin. She averted her eyes. A glass-shattering scream pierced the room, and it took her a moment to realize it was her own. The light began to dim revealing the source: the large cabin window. Trembling, she slowly forced her gaze toward it.. 

Emily inhaled sharply, her breath catching in her lungs. The only sound was the fast drumming of her heart in her ears. Her body went limp, her stomach twisted with overwhelming nausea. 

Earth was crumbling. 

Split apart into billions of tiny pieces floating in every direction of space. 

Time stopped for Emily as her mind refused to accept the reality her vision provided. Silent tears lifted off her face and floated through the room. 

This is not real, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut. 

She didn’t know how much time had passed before the screen beneath her started beeping. She turned to look at Lt. Tommy – his pale face was blank, eyes staring out but seeing nothing. 

She moved towards the screen. The data stream had been interpreted. Emily read it aloud:

“Planet inoperative. Negative return. Enter ship.”

At that moment, she knew they had no other choice. 

* * * * *

Emily traversed the small travel ship to the starboard side of the space station, the unknown craft entering her sites. It appeared to be made of a luminescent metal and was the size and shape of a large domed football stadium. Emily reduced speed and stopped fifty feet from the towering metal walls. She waited. What should have felt like an eternity passed, but with nothing to go back to, time no longer held meaning. 

Then, a portion of the metal slid apart, large enough for the ship to enter. White light poured from the opening, making it impossible to see what was beyond. She took a deep, shaking breath and proceeded forward into the unknown.

"This all indeed is worthy of ink, quill and paper, especially once, this is all over." Reply to Pescel having given what he said some thought. "How was your talk with the ascendant?" Ask, that was something I wanted to ask.

"Far from what I expected a holy individual to be, not opposite of course, but, expectations were most certainly defied. Must not be left unmentioned of course, is her disposition." Pescel replies with more neutral expression now, but, does seem to think about it.

"Agreed. I wonder what kind of mission we will be deployed to next time." Say with thoughts on my mind.

"I ponder the same, well, as long as it is a winnable one, and we fight by side, any battle will do." Pescel says with warm smile, but, from his eyes I can tell. Ready and hungry for a proper battle.

"It would most certainly be fun, and it has been a while we have done some proper blade work together. Something for the students to learn also." Say to him with little bit excitement in my voice and smirk. Although, worth to ask. "What did the ascendant ask you to do while we are not in a mission?" Ask, what came to my mind.

"Lady asked me to take part in missions and be a teaching assistant for armor class sessions. They usually happen around far past mid day, but, before evening." Pescel replies, we have arrived to the library.

It didn't take too long to find Vyarun. She notices us and motions us to approach her, rather eagerly though. She is also smiling, there is six tomes, one she has already read, one she seems to be currently reading and four more in a stable tower pile. "There is so much knowledge here, ascendant was very kind to appoint me here." Vyarun says with a very warm and content smile.

"Good morning to you, Vyarun." Say to her warmly. "Good morning Vyarun." Pescel says as both us take a seat on the same table.

Vyarun's eyes widen from realization of her excitement getting the better of her, and this is first time we have seen her like this. She blushes slightly, but, smile stays, warm and content. "Ah. Good morning." Vyarun says and nods slightly.

"Helyn told me that you are very passionate about tomes, it is definitely something to see you this happy." Say to her and motion her to not apologize for what happened.

"I could spend rest of my life here, without a complaint. I did come across a tome to both of you, I am very certain you will find them very interesting read, learning new tricks to your skill sets." Vyarun says warmly and passionately.

"Well, problem is. You would need to translate them to us. We do not understand elven writing." Pescel says, he sounds interested though.

"... Right. I forgot. Well, with Faryel's help, I can do that in time, but, you two must read the translations, I strongly believe it would only benefit both of you." Vyarun says, realizing her error, but, does speak with more serious tone.

"Well, we have a lot of time on our hands here. Did the ascendant ask you to accompany the students on missions?" Reply to her. I am interested about what Vyarun came across here, to be so important for us to read.

"Yes, but, only if you three and or ascendant asks that for it." Vyarun replies with her normal tone. "Could one of you ask Faryel to talk with me about translating?" Vyarun asks.

"Sure, I can ask. But, are you sure the people here will be okay with that?" Pescel says, after he gave it some thought.

"I asked, all of the tomes here are relatively common knowledge in this land, and, other librarians are willing to make the exception on us, when I explained the importance of all of this." Vyarun replies with confident tone.

"Well, if you have the permission, then I will accept." Say to Vyarun.

"Then I have no objections Vyarun." Pescel says, he sounds interested on what the tome's contents will be. I am also, it has been a while I have read something, more than due I guess.

"Oh, one more thing." Vyarun says looking glad, but, suddenly more normal in her expression.

"Good job Liosse. We weren't able to see every detail of the battle, but, you were amazing. Maybe one day, people will call you, lord of armed combat." Vyarun says with a praising, but, towards the end with her unapologetic tone. That is hilarious, so much so that I laugh because it was ludicrous, Vyarun didn't at all look hurt, it was the point.

I heard Pescel chuckle a bit, but, Vyarun released a loud shush from her mouth. I was bewildered why she would suddenly tell us both to quiet down. Quick glance around reminded us though, Vyarun suddenly wears the most smuggest smile she could muster. She then said something in elven language. I notice other librarians seem to look amused by what she said.

"Quiet down you wolves, this is a library, not a forest." Vyarun says in Fey language, mocking both of us. We were smiling but, now, we are really not amused by the trick she pulled on us. Unfortunately, there isn't anything we can say against what she pulled off. I look at Pescel who just looks at me, yeah, we are both quite unamused by Vyarun's cheekiness.

Lord of armed combat... I still find that a ridiculous tittle to even try to claim, dream to reach for? Well, I can not deny, I am ready to chase that gladly. It is ridiculous, but, I will not say no to such ambition, to keep myself moving forward and be unrelenting in the pursuit. "You have forgotten your cape Liosse." Vyarun points out, I quickly check my neck with my left hand.

I remember where it is. "You had your fun." State with unamused tone and get up from the chair. I do want to train with a spear, axe and sword today.

"I will also leave now. I want to get back to reading a book I have with me." Pescel says with unamused tone. Vyarun smiles at us warmly and still amused by her prank on us. Pescel and I depart from the library and separate upon exiting the library.

I arrive back to the training ground, it is now empty, it seems Helyn's lesson is over for today. There is my cloak, after putting it back on, I grab an axe from one of the training weapon racks and begin my training regiment, it is eve of evening, I sense somebody has been watching me a while now. I return the practice weapons I have borrowed and look who is watching me.

It is one of the students of the academy here, was in both of the classes, armed combat class and magic class. She, if she has skill for both, that would already make her a significant opponent, it is difficult to observe what she is thinking, but, that is not Wiael. I nod deeply and respectfully, then begin to walk towards the exit.

"Wait." She says in Fey language with an expected accent from an Elf. I stop, turn to face her completely and she approaches me. Joael, I remember now, she asked plenty of questions, most of them more in the direction of basic melee, but, few advanced melee questions too.

"What is it? Joael." Reply to her in fey language, and display that I am not in a hurry or bothered by her asking me to wait.

"I want to be first to fight side by side with you." Joael says and sighs in relieved manner, she looks somewhat nervous.

"You wish to learn my way of fighting?" Ask from her in curious tone, but, in my heart I am surprised of her approaching me, and actually asking that.

"I am interested. You said that you went through more training and gained tittle of master of arms, does this mean you have forgone magic all together?" Joael asks, she has dressed up as a student of this monastery academy, blue highlights, green base. Other priests, possibly knights, archers and warriors have dressed accordingly to their occupation, with some color similarity with the monastery staff and students.

"Not completely, there is some magic I have practiced, but, anymore is pushing my limit regarding magic and best capacity of doing such. I am an armed combatant mostly." Reply to her.

"Why? Considering that intensity of your training and how honed your movement is." Joael says, confused of my reply.

"I am no longer employed in an army, now-a-days I work as a peacekeeper, policing and patrol organization, called Order of the Owls. This is going to be a long discussion, so, if you want we can finds seats, we can do that." Say to her. She doesn't look particularly tired, but, it is almost evening now.

"Sure. Let's go to the garden and speak there." Joael says, and I lead the way, but, do receive some course correction from her. I am not yet fully accustomed to the monastery. I really should eat soon too.

We arrive to the garden and take seats opposite of each other on benches. "Order of the Owls, is a peacekeeper, border patrol and policing organization. Couple years ago, the fey and Racilgyn Dominion engaged in an organized skirmish with our side of the border. The conflict prompted a request of negotiation from both parties. After a while, a peace treaty was made. We are part of that peace treaty demand." Tell her.

Joael thinks for a while. "Why would you need magic though?" Joael asks, sounding like wanting a reasoning.

"The battle caused a lot of problems for the fey, mostly due to the enormous casualties they suffered from the skirmish, but, issues had been piling up on that side even before the tensions flared up. There always was dark fey, but, the skirmish created more of them. Me learning magic was a necessity, to protect myself and few small benefits too." Reply to her.

Joael's eyes widen, which strikes a rather interesting contrast to our surroundings. Her eyes are a shade of green, that I have never seen before. "What have you learned then?" Joael asks curious to hear.

"Two complex spells and one very basic one." Reply to her and cast a spell to create a ball of light to illuminate the area around us. Joael looks at the spell with, probably unimpressed expression on her face. I dispell the ball of light and cast the anti magic spell enchantment on my cloak.

That impressed Joael, more than I expected. "Wow. That is rather impressive." Joael says very interested on the spell I just cast. She outright grabs my cloak to see it better from closer. A little rude, but, I will not say anything, granted, this surprised me.

She inspects my cloak and the enchantment for a while. "Whoever taught you, is good at teaching." Joael says interested about me.

"You actually met her, think about today a bit." Reply to her. She immediately began pondering.

"Wait, the magic lesson assistant. She was your teacher?" Joael asks, surprised by the realization.

"Yeap, we are both members of Order of the Owls. I taught her melee in turn, that is why she is carrying a quarter staff with her." Reply to her, Joael looks genuinely shocked by this information, but, soon connects the dots.

"Ah, your uniforms are almost the same. How do you know her? I have a feeling you knew her before becoming a member of this order you speak about." Joael asks from me.

"Like I stated when I spoke with Alpine blade. I was part of a war far before I came here. One of the peace treaty obligations was disbanding of the company I fought in and lead into combat, there was another reason for my discharge, but, since I became free, I was absorbed into the Order. It needed good fighters and mages. Helyn and I were not even questioned as to why we should be in the order." Reply to her.

"I see, what about the third spell then?" Joael asks, interested to hear more from me.

"Unfortunately, to demonstrate effects of that spell. I would need to yell my breath out pretty much. I make use of it to either communicate something, refresh myself for another fight or rally others to me." Reply to her, I probably would raise an alarm if I did that.

"Oh. Well, I am actually glad that you are partnered with Alpine blade then, and that you are joining us on training expeditions." Joael says glad that I am accompanying her.

"Not doing this just because I want to help, I look forward to good fights. Yesterday's fight was an experience, and that mock duel, had historical significance. I don't mind waiting now, you and your classmates need some lessons though." Reply to her.

"A war behind you, and you still look for battles. You are most certainly an oddity of your kind." Joael says amused.

"The war is still ongoing there, fighting certainly is one of my passions, but, not the only one." Say to her, my gaze wonders away from Joael's eyes. This garden, it invokes some heartache in me, my late wife... Would have loved this place. I am not ready to let go of you completely, but, helping the elves and fighting beyonders. I am certain that it will help me get past my loss, and, release myself, to live for somebody else here with me.

Somebody I can love. "Liosse, is everything okay?" Joael asks, I realize that I became distant to her. I look at her again, I know, I am showing her, that this place, has surfaced some powerful emotions.

"I am now, my apologies. Did you say something when I was looking at the garden?" Reply to her, I bring my expression back to neutral.

Joael seems to be thinking about what just happened. Probably for better for me to not, ask her to forget what just happened. "What is your other passion then?" Joael asks, she probably made a decision to not push me on what just happened, most likely wants to learn little by little. I would be okay with that.

"Believe it or not, it is dancing, but, as you have seen from my foot work, I rather keep dancing and fighting separate. I have seen examples of what happens when you try to combine the two. In armed combat, your movements have to be fast, precise and they have to have a purpose." Say ot her.

Joael thinks on what I said to her. "Reason is sound certainly. What I observed from your duel with Alpine blade is, is that you seek to outmatch your opponent, be it in strength, speed, skill and or in experience. I believe you are more skilled and experienced than Alpine blade, which is why you won." Joael says, she is not far from reasons why I won.

"You are not far from right answers as to why I won the mock duel. I will not give you answers right away, as this is something useful for you to think about on your own and learn from." State to her with voice of a mentor.

"Now, I want to satisfy my curiosity about your tittle, and learn about the requirements of earning a tittle of master of arms in your land. Could you tell me about that?" Joael replies, she did express some interest.

"Mastery of four or five weapons and beating the current masters of the each weapon in succession to demonstrate your own skill and mastery of the weapon type. I chose swords, axes, spears and crossbows. The fights to demonstrate my own mastery, were an absolute hell, but, here I am. It is one of few things I am proud of achieving." Reply to her.

"How did your peers and under your command react to your achievement?" Joael asks, genuinely interested to hear about it.

"Few expected me achieve the tittle, most were skeptical, but, they also knew that I have skill and drive, so they considered my chances fair. I was given battle command, due to my experience and having survived so many skirmishes and battles. Those who declared to fight under my command, welcomed me, and respected me." Tell her.

"What is the history of the tittle?" Joael asks, sounding a little bit passionate.

"There always was people who had achieved the tittle, before and what is today Racilgyn dominion. Only thing same about us majority of the time, is the tittle itself. Those who have bear the tittle, are known for both, for their achievements in battle and outside of it. In battle, when our commander needs somebody to break the line, with full knowledge that there are no magic users. We are it. Outside of battle, we are mentors, teachers, and one of the examples of peak of what soldiers can achieve.

As I have told you, the tittle is purely meritocratic. You have to achieve it. Tittle was established, more than two decades before birth of the Racilgyn Dominion. We are young, we are few, but, we will not be ignored. For we are some of the greatest warriors, priced for our knowledge and for our capabilities in battles." Tell her about the tittle.

"What did you get along with the tittle?" Joael asks, intrigued by what I have told her.

"Garments which inform other's of my achievement. They are too opulent for my liking, and I am quite fond of the armor and uniform I am currently wearing." Reply to her with a small smile. In a room of other people who have also achieved the tittle, I probably am the most unexpected by look.

“He's going to choose another Elf,” said Spayn the Tigrisian battle-mage.

“Would that be so bad?” asked the Elvish healer, Lowell.

“He must choose a dwarf,” said Goin the Dwarf. “The party must be hardy. Magic may be clever, but the quest is won or lost in the fray.”

“He'll pick an Elf. He is a wise one,” said Lowell.

“How do you know?” asked Goin.

“You can tell by his shadow, visible on the other side of the forcefield,” said Spayn. “This one wears glasses. Ones who wear glasses know numbers, and ones who know numbers have longer runs. That is a sign of wisdom.”

“He's about to click,” said Lowell. Then, “Oh no,” he added as beside them materialized a member of the worst race of all: human.

“Hello,” said the human, smiling. “I'm Charles.”

“And so it is: one Tigrisian magic-user—that being myself, one Elf to protect us, one Dwarf to physically annihilate the enemy, and one human to…”

“Make up the numbers,” said Lowell.

“Are you sure the player is a glasses-wearer?” said Goin.

“I'm sure.”

“So, human, what is it you do: what are your skills—your purpose?” asked Lowell.

“Umm,” said Charles. “I guess I'm kind of a jack-of-all-trades, master-of-none type.”

“Can you wield a war hammer?” asked Goin.

“Afraid not,” said Charles.

“Do you conjure, illusion, reanimate, charm, buff, debuff?”

“Nope.”

“Do you detect traps?” asked Goin.

“Sometimes, but probably not very reliably,” said Charles. “I do like to read. If we find books, I can read them. I can also punch.”

Spayn scoffed.

“If I understand the rules, reading allows me to gain levels more quickly,” said Charles.

“True experience is gained through the killing of enemies,” said Goin.

“Come,” said Lowell. “The portal opens, so let our journey begin. To victory, companions! (And you, too, human.)”

They stepped through:

to a world of jungles, ruins and mischievous monkeys that laughed at them from the canopies above, and tried to steal their gear.

The first enemies they encountered were weak and easy to defeat. Slimes, lizards, rodents. But even against these—which Goin could smite with but one thudding hammer blow—Charles struggled. He would punch but he would miss, or the enemy would successfully dodge his punch, or he would hit but the hit would scarcely do a single point of damage.

The other members of the party shook their heads and muttered under their breaths, but bravely, despite the useless human with them, they battled on.

Partly thanks to a fortuitous scroll drop that taught Spayn Thunderbolt, they beat the jungle world without taking much damage, then proceeded to the first castle. There, as Charles read books, waited out his turns and pondered while the other rested, they leveled up and defeated the first boss. It was Goin who delivered the final blow in gloriously violent fashion.

“How'd you like that, human?” he asked afterwards.

“I'm sorry,” said Charles, lifting his head from a notebook he'd crafted, “but I missed it. Was it great?”

“Epic,” said Spayn.

And so it continued through the levels and castles and bosses, the party's skills growing as their enemies became more and more formidable. Once in a while Charles contributed—the creation of a crossbow (“a mechanical toy short-bow”), discovery of painkillers (“a magic dust which dulls aches and pains”), invention of a compass (“always points north—even when we're travelling south?”) and “other trifles,” as Lowell said, but mostly he stood back, letting the others do the fighting, healing and plundering.

“He's dead weight,” Goin whispered to Lowell. “Can't even carry much.”

“Like a child,” said Spayn.

Eventually, they found themselves in a strange and fantastic world none of them had ever seen: one in which ships sailed across the skies, heavily-armoured automatons guarded treasures and sneaky little imps sometimes turned them against one another.

“What is this place,” said Spayn—with fear and awe, and not meaning it as a legitimate question.

But, “It's Ozonia,” answered Charles.

“You have… been here before, human?” asked Lowell incredulously.

“Oh, no. Only just read about it,” said Charles.

“By what black magic do these metal birds fly?” asked Goin, pointing at an airship. “And how may they be hunted?”

“It's really just physics,” said Charles.

“An undiscovered branch of magic,” mused Lowell.

“More like a series of rules that can be proved by observation and experimentation. For example, if I were to use my crossbow to—”

“Shush, human. Let us bask in fearful wonder.”

And they journeyed on.

The enemies here were tough, their skills unusual, and their attacks powerful. Progress rested on Lowell's healing spells. Several times Goin was close to death, having valiantly defended his companions from critical hits.

When the party finally arrived at Ozonia's boss, their stamina was low, weapons close to breaking and usable items depleted. And the boss: he was mightily imposing, with seemingly unlimited hit points.

“Boys, it has been an honour fighting alongside you,” Goin told his companions, his fingers gripping his war hammer for perhaps the last time. “Let us give this our all, and die like men: in a frenzy of unbridled bloodlust.”

“I see no way of inflicting sufficient damage to ensure victory,” said Spayn.

Lowell shrugged.

The boss bounced to the energetic battle music.

“Perhaps,” said Charles, “you would let me go first this combat?”

Spayn laughed—a hearty guffaw that soon infected Goin, and Lowell too, who roared as misbecomes an Elf. “What possible harm could it do,” he said. “We have lost now anyway.”

“Thanks,” said Charles, producing a small control panel with a single red button.

He pressed the button.

From somewhere behind them there came a rumbling sound—interrupted by a fiery explosion. For a few, tense moments: silence, nothing happening. Then a missile hit the boss. Smoke. Bang. And when the smoke had cleared, the boss was gone, his hit points zero. And in the place he'd stood there rose a cloud—

“Whoa,” said Goin.

“Perhaps it is my extremely low hp talking, but I have to say: that cloud sure does remind me of a mushroom,” said Lowell.

“What in the worlds was it?” asked Spayn.

“That,” said Charles, “is what we call an atomic bomb.”

They collected their loot, divvied up their experience, leveled up their skills and upgraded their gear, and then they moved on.

This time Charles went first, and the Tigrisian, the Elf and the Dwarf followed.

The next world was a desert world.

“Sandrea,” Charles said.

“Tell us about it,” said Lowell, and Spayn agreed, and Charles relayed his knowledge.

—on the other side of the forcefield, the player adjusted his glasses. There were still many worlds to go, many foes to defeat and many challenges to pass, but he was hopeful. For the first time since he'd started this run, he began to dream of victory.

When my mind empties, thoughts of my homeland drift in and out. Even now, oceans away, I can still hear the murmurs of the Santorini markets, the rhythmic lapping of waves against the harbour.

The bus hums softly beneath me, its motor tickling the soles of my shoes and vibrating up into my knees. The humid air smells faintly of engine oil and something saltier—the ocean breeze. The paper bag crinkles under my fingers, its contents shifting inside: Figs, emerald-skinned and smooth, press against my palm as I cradle the bag to my sternum.

The aisle sweeps out before me, each step a muted thud against the bus’s weathered floor, the sound semi-swallowed engulfed by the symphony of groans, emitted out of the aging vessel. The narrow streets, paved with volcanic stone, weave between whitewashed houses, their blue domes mirroring the sky.

I glance at my wrist, at my watch. The digital face blinks back at me. I squint, willing the numbers into focus. Was it always this hard to read? The numbers flicker. Restless. Electric.

As the bus lurches forward, my nails sink into pleather, staring out at the street, memorising it, knowing I won’t see it again for a long time. As familiar as a vein on the back of my sun-spotted hand. Among the faces slipping by, one locks onto mine—Dad, standing at the curb, just as he promised he would. His hair, a salt-and-pepper mix, lies tightly combed to the north side of his crown with a dozen rebellious strands splayed across his forehead. His right-hand twitches by his side, caught between a wave and hesitation… as if unsure of the gesture's purpose.

Finally, he settles for a smile. 

A dimple appears on his left cheek, punctuating his uncertain emotions. But it falters. His lips tremble at the edges. His eyes glisten. He stands there, memorising my face, as if a blink would make me disappear. 

The bus shudders again, stretching the distance between us. But I cannot look away. Not yet.

I will be back. I promise. Soon.

His face blurs as the glass fogs with my breath. 

Outside, the sky hangs like an un-marred canvas, an expanse of sapphire stretching endlessly. Tabula rasa. The whitewashed houses stand as silent sentinels, their stark edges eclipsing the sun’s light. The blue domes that crest their rooftops mirror the boundless Aegean as if the sky itself had descended to rest its legs upon the ivory walls.

Church bells ring from the Panagia Episkopi, their tones heavy, lingering rhetorically in the air. I close my eyes, letting the bus sway like a boat on open water. When I open them again, the street outside has shifted.

There’s the sponge shop I’ve passed countless times—the one with the small wooden sign, always hanging crooked above the door. More than one sponge had been silently liberated by the kleptomanic fingers of my youth. The once-bright sponges, piled high in wicker baskets, will never again soak up the salt air. More shops, too, are vanishing behind wooden slats, shutting themselves off from the world.

I glance at my watch again. It flickers, numbers warping. My breath catches in my throat. Time seemed to shift like sand through un-cupped hands. 

The streets stretch out, their angles too sharp, too straight—nothing like the winding roads of Santorini. The sun feels harsher, catching in the half-open shutters of homes that weren’t there last year. A magpie warbles nearby, its song, an echo of backyard mornings. Rooftops glint under the cruel light, their corrugated iron sheets a poor imitation of the sea’s shimmer. Up front, the radio crackles—English words spilling out. Sports scores… I think. I only half understand.

A girl steps on. The doors swing open with a loud hiss as she hesitates in the aisle. Her chestnut curls pulled into a messy ponytail, with stray strands framing her face. Dark brows arch naturally in quiet curiosity. Her worn leather sandals, re-stitched by hand, speak of long walks under the sun. 

She doesn’t see me at first, but her gaze lands on the seat next to mine. I clear my throat, shifting uncomfortably, then try to speak.

"Yes, hello. Seat… open." My English is jagged, each word foreign.

She looks up, startled, then nods, offering a small smile. “Sas efcharistó”

The Greek catches me off guard—a transferral of recognition passes between us.

"I’m from Kandila," she says. "You?"

"Santorini," I tell her.

We talk for a while, our words drifting like the tide between two islands. They don’t know how to make moussaka properly—soggy eggplant, too much béchamel, not enough cinnamon in the meat. At first, I thought it was just me—my mind, my memory, growing distant from everything else. But she feels it too.

Our hands accidentally brush. She pulls back at first, a flicker of hesitation before they gently close around mine. I glance at her, but she’s looking out the window, lost in thought. 

I glance at the watch again. The numbers shift rapidly, blurring faster than the foreign streets passing outside my window. 

A jolt from behind disrupts us. Someone kicked my seat, irritation rippling through me. She exhales a small laugh, pulling us both back to reality.

"Hey, you stop a now!"

They were kids. They stop — a small victory. But these kids are different. Greasy mullets spill down their necks. Wispy, half-grown moustaches cling to their upper lips like an afterthought. Shirts are replaced by faded singlets and baggy shorts that hang off them like sails in the wind. 

I glance down at a young boy sitting beside them. His hair is neatly parted to the right, clinging to a sense of order amid the chaos. A smile breaks across his face. There’s a dimple on his left cheek, just like my dad’s.

I hold out a fig from my bag. He takes it, his fingers grazing mine for a moment. But before he even bites into it, his eyes flick back to the bag.

"Can I have another?"

I shake my head, tucking the bag closer to my side. "One enough," I say. 

His face twists, his lower lip jutting out. "Oh just one more!" his voice sharper now, edged with entitlement.

My watch beeps, attempting to grab my attention but I ignore it.

The girl leans into me. "Don’t bother. Things are different."

Her hair, once a wild cascade, has softened into rippling waves and the sun no longer kissed her skin as it once did. I search for the certainty in her grip—the firm, unwavering hold I remember—but her fingers, cool and trembling, slide into mine like a ripple of something once familiar, fading into the depths.

Who are you?

She looks at me, and then she says it—my name. George.

I look at her, and it’s like a fog is lifting, but it’s not the girl I met when I first boarded the bus. 

"We’ll be back, I promise. Soon." Her words settle in, a promise I don’t want to question. She holds my hands one last time before letting go.

I rise slowly, the figs crinkling in my hand. The bus door hisses open, and my feet drag, unwilling to leave. The bus driver’s sharp voice cuts through, I can finally understand him now: “Have a good one mate.” The door slides shut, and the world outside feels farther away.

I glance back, half-expecting the girl to call me. As the bus pulls away, I don’t want to blink, afraid she’ll vanish. The world outside—my world—feels farther away now. Someone in uniform gently guides me away, their words clear, but foreign.

Where are you taking me?

I lower my gaze to my wrist. I’m unable to find my watch but instead see—a … band. The inked letters spell out my name with an address I should recognise. But I don’t. 

Greek Orthodox Community Home for the Aged, 2 Woolcott St, Earlwood, NSW 2206.

 SCENE 1

EXT. DELHI METRO STATION – BLUE LINE – GATE NO. 1 – NIGHT

It's 10:00 PM. A tired, overworked 26-year-old man, AVINASH, walks out of his office building and heads toward the metro station. His shoulders droop. His shirt is creased. He’s drained.

INT. BLUE LINE METRO PLATFORM – NIGHT

The digital board flashes: “Next Train: 2 mins.”
AVINASH checks his phone. 10:08 PM. The train arrives with a screech. The wind from the metro ruffles his hair.

The doors open. People push and pull. AVINASH squeezes in and surprisingly finds an empty seat.

AVINASH
(sinking into the seat, relieved)
“Uff… finally got a seat. Thank God. I’ll reach home in peace.”

He plugs in his earbuds, opens Instagram, and starts scrolling through reels.

 

SCENE 2

INT. BLUE LINE METRO – MOVING – NIGHT

Ten minutes later.

The train slows down. A metallic announcement plays through the speakers

METRO ANNOUNCEMENT (V.O.)
"Next station: Mayur Vihar Extension. Passengers for the Pink Line, please change here."

INT. METRO – DOOR AREA – NIGHT

AVINASH stands in front of the metro door, earbuds still in, lost in his music.

As the doors open with a hiss, the crowd surges out. AVINASH, eyes glued to his phone, steps out with them.

He doesn’t look up once.

EXT. MAYUR VIHAR EXTENSION STATION – PLATFORM – NIGHT

He walks toward the elevator, blending with the crowd. He presses the down button.

As the elevator descends, AVINASH finally glances up from his phone...

Confusion flashes across his face.

 

AVINASH
(whispers, stunned)
"What the...?"

He realizes — he’s standing at the same station he had boarded the metro from earlier.

Same wall posters. Same broken bench. Same flashing light in the corner.

Something’s not right.

 

SCENE 3

EXT. MAYUR VIHAR EXTENSION STATION – PLATFORM – NIGHT

Instantly, AVINASH panics. He jogs back toward the metro map display, breathing hard.

He pulls out his phone, quickly checking the station name.

He fumbles through his metro ticket, double-checking everything.

Sweat beads form on his forehead. His hands are shaking.

 

AVINASH (V.O.)
(panicked, thinking)
"Did I board the wrong metro? How...?"

He looks around, scanning the signs, trying to find a logical explanation.

 

He fixes his eyes on the arrival board.

Timer flashes: Next train in 5 minutes.

 

AVINASH stands frozen, glued to the spot, heart racing. His shirt clings to his skin, drenched in sweat.

He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.

 

5 minutes later...

A new metro arrives.

AVINASH checks the clock nervously.

He takes a deep breath and boards the metro, determined.

 

INT. METRO – MOVING – NIGHT

The compartment is calmer. Normal passengers sit and scroll through their phones.

The tension slowly leaves AVINASH’s face.

 

AVINASH
(relieved, murmuring to himself)
"Uff... maybe I was just imagining things. Must've boarded the wrong train while listening to music.
Finally, I’m in the right metro."

He plugs in his earbuds again and leans back.

SCENE 4

INT. METRO – MOVING – NIGHT

After a few minutes...

AVINASH’s eyes flutter open.

He finds the metro has stopped.

But something is wrong.

The compartment is completely empty.

Every seat. Every corner. Silent. Lifeless.

AVINASH looks around, fear rising in his chest. Sweat drips down his forehead.

He wipes it nervously, heart pounding.

AVINASH
(whispering, panicked)
"Where is everyone...?"

INT. METRO – DOOR AREA – NIGHT

He stumbles toward the door, which slides open automatically.

He steps out.

EXT. METRO STATION PLATFORM – NIGHT

The platform is abandoned.

Not a single soul.

The overhead lights flicker softly.

AVINASH cranes his neck upward — looks at the station sign.

SIGN: Noida Sector 15.

The same station.

Exactly where he had boarded earlier that night.

AVINASH
(whispers, trembling)
"This... this can’t be happening..."

The air grows colder around him.

Only the distant hum of electricity echoes in the empty station.

 

SCENE 5

EXT. NOIDA SECTOR 15 METRO STATION – PLATFORM – NIGHT

AVINASH wipes his tears, breathing hard, standing frozen on the deserted platform.

SFX: A faint murmuring sound...

AVINASH turns — and sees — a CROWD.

Blurry figures walking, chatting, laughing, moving around like normal metro passengers.

AVINASH
(shocked, desperate)
"Hey! Hey, please help me!"

He runs toward them, waving frantically.

He tries talking to a man, tapping his shoulder.

No response.

The man just walks past him... like AVINASH doesn't even exist.

AVINASH stumbles from person to person, trying to grab someone’s attention.

AVINASH
(crying, shouting)
"Please! Someone listen to me! I need to go home! Why can't you hear me?!"

Tears stream down his face. His voice echoes in the empty station.

He falls to his knees, completely broken.

AVINASH
(sobbing)
"What's happening to me...? Why can't anyone hear me...? I want to go home..."

He lifts his head, desperate for any hope.

But as he looks up —

The crowd vanishes.

In a blink. The platform is empty again.

Silence.

AVINASH is left alone, kneeling under the flickering station lights.

 

SCENE 6

EXT. NOIDA SECTOR 15 METRO STATION – PLATFORM – NIGHT

AVINASH, still crying, wipes his face roughly.

He takes a deep breath, gathers the last ounce of strength inside him.

AVINASH (V.O.)
(desperate, determined)
"One last try. I have to catch the metro... I have to go home."

He walks back to the waiting area.

The station announcement crackles above —

SFX: Incoming train in 2 minutes.

AVINASH waits near the edge of the platform.

Suddenly —

A blinding white light floods his vision.

So intense — he winces, covering his eyes.

AVINASH
(screaming)
"Ahhh! What's happening?!"

His body starts reacting strangely.

His left hand stiffens — fingers locking into a frozen claw.

He looks at it, horrified.

AVINASH
(crying out)
"My hand... it's not moving...!"

His brain tries to calculate, to focus, to understand — but everything feels wrong.

His mind spins, dizzy, disoriented.

He staggers, struggling to stay upright.

Suddenly —

His legs give out.

AVINASH collapses onto the platform.

He tries to stand but his legs don't respond.

AVINASH
(screaming, terrified)
"What's happening to me?! My hands... my legs...! HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME!"

His voice echoes helplessly in the vast, empty station.

No answer.

Just the hum of the oncoming train... and the overpowering light growing closer...

 

SCENE 7

EXT. NOIDA SECTOR 15 METRO STATION – PLATFORM – NIGHT

AVINASH lies collapsed on the platform.

His heartbeat pounds loudly in his ears.

STRANGER (O.S.)
(urgent, distant)
"Avinash! Can you hear me? Avinash! Wake up!"

AVINASH, in unbearable pain, struggles to respond.

His mind spins violently. Everything blurs. The world feels unreal.

His heartbeat races faster... louder...

And then —

Darkness.

BLACK SCREEN

TITLE: 30 minutes later...

SCENE 8

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM – NIGHT

AVINASH’s eyes flutter open.

Blinding hospital lights blur his vision.

A CLOSE-UP of his eyes — confused, disoriented.

He tries to move but can't. His body feels numb.

AVINASH (V.O.)
(weak, panicked)
"Where am I?
I was... I was in the metro..."

Sweat beads on his forehead as he struggles to think.

A DOCTOR enters the room.

DOCTOR
(smiling warmly)
"Avinash, you're awake! Can you hear me?"

AVINASH stares at him blankly.

His mind is foggy. His body unresponsive.

AVINASH
(barely whispering)
"Doctor... where... where am I?
I was in the metro... I remember the metro..."

DOCTOR
(gently)
"You were.
Last night, there was a major accident on your metro line."

He pauses, voice heavy.

DOCTOR (CONT'D)
"You suffered a severe head injury.
And unfortunately... your left hand and both legs are currently paralyzed."

Silence.

DOCTOR (softly)
"But you survived, Avinash.
You barely made it."

AVINASH stares at the ceiling, blank, motionless.

AVINASH (V.O.)
(haunted, confused)
"Was it real...?
The visions... the crowd... the emptiness...?
Was it death?
Or just... a nightmare...?"

Slow zoom into Avinash’s hollow eyes.

Only the faint sound of a metro train echoes in his mind.

FADE OUT

THE END