Late one night after my shift at the amusement park, I drove down the winding four fifths of highway 76 that remained out of sight and mind of tourists. It was the end of the week and I was headed back to my parents country home in a forgotten ghost town. The sun had long since set and as I topped each hill I came closer and closer to the next turn in my travel at the intersection of 76 and 5. At the outskirts of that town cursed to bare the name Ava. As I got closer so did the thunderstorm looming on the distant horizon. Barely visible save the silent flashes of lightning. Muffled threats reached my ear from within the can of my little Geo tracker convertible. Storms always made me uneasy. You'd be ignorant not to be on edge. Many a time hurricane force winds would knock down ancient trees who had withstood the war of centuries past but could not withstand the collision of two opposing fronts of wind. If it weren't winds or tornadoes there was always a devastating payload of water that would raise up the rivers and streams washing away the chaff. It didn't take long for the road to come to a four way stop around the corner and down a hill. I'd driven these roads so many times that consciousness of them usually drifted behind my channel flipping mind. I pulled up to the lonely,red, flashing four eyes of the traffic light and took a right as I barely counted off 3 seconds of a stop in my head. Highway 5. I knew it all too well. In my youth it was a 30 minute drive to and from school or really any sort of public form of civilization. You knew where the deer crossed and which way to look. No pass down the lonesome highway was complete without passing over at least one road killed skunk. Green signs for towns miles down little side roads that you'd never believe existed. Often they didn't exist in any form other than a post office some poor postmaster operated as a form of retirement. More hills and turns but less trees and more visibility. The thunderstorms were closer now. You could smell the rain. I came over a hill and my headlights lit upon a figure walking along the shoulder. Tired and ready to be done driving I thought little of him at first. But quickly all sorts of questions came to mind. I knew no one lived near this particular patch and no one had any good reason for walking in the ditch of the highway carved out of the crumbling bedrock of the hills. I also knew I wouldn't want to be left walking any distance in this country with a storm out. So I slowed down and turned the vehicle around in the middle of the road. I'd at least go back and check on him. I had my window rolled down and I could smell him just as soon as I saw him. He reeked of alcohol. “You alright out here?” Before I could ask “Thank God! You're a life saver. Can you give me a ride?” Too polite to turn him down I opened the door. He stepped in and fell against the passenger seat. The poor little vehicle was now at capacity. He wore a Detroit Pistons jersey, and had a mohawk sprayed blue? with some temporary hair dye. “Where you headed?” “Mansfield!” Great, an hour in the opposite direction that we both were previously headed. He was very lost and even less sober. I decided this was just a test of my good will toward men. He told me he had inherited a small house from his mother in Mansfield. He thought everyone around were narrowinded judgemental pricks so that's why he had decided to don such an outrageous appearance. He didn't look too unfamiliar to these parts however. Just not the kind of familiar anyone wanted around. “I was headed to a party and had to pee so I told them to let me out. So they pulled over and let me outta the truck and then they ditched me! I don't have my wallet, my cell phone, my keys, nothin!” He repeated this story over and over again with newly added or remembered details. Apparently he, his father, his girlfriend and best friend were headed to a party in a town half an hour south of my parents place. And here we were headed in the opposite direction to leave him home alone to sober up. He insisted that he hadn't drank very much but when we got back to that same four way stop I had just left in Ava, he confused it for being Mansfield. For a second he got upset thinking I was lying but I told him and showed him the sign and he again thanked me more for my life saving abilities. Really I was only possibly saving him from himself. Awkward silence was avoided by his drunken blubbering and we made it within 10 minutes of his final destination. “I didn't drink that much, those assholes. I'm going to kill em. No, not really, but I'm mad. They left me without my wallet, my keys, my phone, nothin! My best friend, he's like a brother. And my girlfriend. And even my old man! I didn't even have that much to drink. Just three natty lights, and some whiskey, and that tequila, oh and a Jaeger. But I'm not that drunk I swear. You're a lifesaver! Why I owe you, man. You go to the AA Auto Shop and you tell them you're looking for Big Mike. You need a small engine fixed, I've got you covered. Everybody has a lawnmower or somethin that needs a small engine fix! You tell em Big Mike sent you. You're alright.” I was an hour and a half out of my way and ready to unload this buffoon before he did something stupid. We found the driveway to his house? His dad's? I wasn't sure whose but he was familiar with the place. I stopped with my headlights illuminating the dirt driveway in front of me. “Welp, here we are!” Big Mike hung one foot in my floor board and one foot on the gravel. His hands, one on the roof and the other the open passenger door. I was ready for him to stumble to the door but he just wanted to linger and sing my praises. I thought we had finally got to the end of his ado's when headlights lit up the plastic rear windshield of my Trackers convertible top. Pulling in front of me was a black extended cab truck. Large enough for three passengers at least but not welcoming to one lone drunk. Just the segue I needed and the most unusual timing. Mike went swinging and shouting many slurred words that for the most part started with F. Out from the truck was undoubtedly the matching call of his mate. I gunned it in reverse and watched a scene from COPS fade to the black screen of night as my high beams turned to the main road for the long drive home made longer. A sheriff passed, lights flashing to join the party back at Big Mike's. I didn't see Big Mike again for two weeks. He was black and white and staring glumly when I did. My father showed me his face in a newspaper clipping. He inherited a new, smaller home. He no longer sported such colorful, personalised attire and I don't think he'd be getting too drunk too soon. Apparently he had been taken to the county jail that night. His girlfriend begged and pleaded that her father bail him out. He did. Not too soon after, his girlfriend's neighbors made a call, they'd heard gunshots. Big Mike answered the door when they arrived. He did a real shit job of hiding the gun but nothing like what was in the garage. He'd lost his head further in jail sulking over the betrayal of his closest friends and most betrayed by his girlfriend. He got out thanks to her and was able to get a hold of some crystal. He suspected she had been cheating on him and wouldn't hear otherwise. So he shot her dead. But while the neighbors called the cops he tried to store her body in four separate five gallon buckets. I don't think I'll be hitting him up for that favor.


The electronic rings and chirps of her notifications had kept her up most of the night. Words that were so hateful, so full of spite and unleashed aggression, that they still made her young brown eyes swell with tears. “You’re what’s wrong with this country!” “Go back to Nazi Germany!” “Welcome to the oven, snowflake!” “Please,” one statement read, “just do us a favor and keep your right wing, fascist, ideology off the internet. There’s plenty of white privilege here already.” Josie wasn’t even full white. Her mother was Hispanic, maiden name, Gonzales. These people were so hateful and ignorant. Josie’s statement had received 30 responses in just 4 hours, and she even recognized some of the names. “Josie Long,” the post had been tagged, “how can you support such a disgraceful and disrespectful individual? He’s the worst president in history! And it’s a mockery to the United States to have such a racist, and immoral, figure leading our country. Please consider deleting your comment, before others that actually know you, find out what you’ve said.” There was a familiar face of a red headed girl just below the statement. “Too late,” the comment read, “we already know. Josie Long, you’re a terrible person and I’ve already unfriended you.” Josie had woke up and started crying. Her own classmates, peers that she had known since Kindergarten, were pouncing upon her like a pack of hungry hyenas. Bashing, condemning, voicing their hatred in unrelenting rage. Josie sat in class, her eyes still red from the hurt. The room filled up around her, some had even flashed their disgust of her by quick flicks of the eye. She looked into her opened backpack. The cold black steel of her father’s .45, resting on the white binders. Freedom of speech, and keyboarding warriors, had killed her love for those she once considered friends. Josie Long reaches into the bag, feels the wood of the hand guards in clasp. School is going to be different today. With eyes swelling in hurt tears, with all the words ringing like a bell in her young mind; Josie Long pulls out the gun. A shot rings out...followed by seven more.


Mike looked up from his glass of and remarked, "remember that game we played against the chapter in South Jersey, where Hank pitched a hissy fit over that strike three call"? His words came out slurred, which is fair since it was his seventh or eighth beer. "Sure", I responded, only slightly less tipsy. "Hank was such as asshole, he looked for reasons to fight every game we played". By the way, I asked, "Where is Hank? I haven't seen him in what, two, three years?" Mike's brother Paul chimed in, "that crusty fucker walked out of here three years ago, on Flag Day." Flag Day, I thought. I looked at him and said, "how could you remember it was Flag Day?" He paused, looked up, and said, "Don't you remember that day? He was pissed about something, as usual, and took the flag hanging on the pole in the Knights hall and started waving it around. Well Jimmy McGrath didn't like it and grabbed it from him." We all looked at Paul, and I said, "Holy Shit, that's right". Jimmy had a real dislike for Hank, and screwing with the flag was the last straw. Then Jimmy moved towards him and swung, popping Hank and he went down like he got hit by Tyson. When he got picked up, he pushed us off and said, "Fuck all you guys, you all suck!" After Hank tumbled out, Paul then said, hey, "Hank got flagged, and it's Flag Day to boot!" I hadn't thought about Hank McCall in a long time and couldn't care less about him, because I didn't much like him either. He was older than us by twenty or thirty years, we were in our early twenties, he was an old guy who liked to get black-out drunk. He was our softball coach, and he drank with us, but there was no real relationship beyond that. I never expected to ever see him again. I was wrong. My life took a dark turn after those somewhat happy years at the Knights. We drank, snorted some coke, smoked weed and spent summer weekends at the Jersey Shore. We were weekend warriors. Somewhere along the way, when most others just drank more or smoked weed regularly, I took a different turn. I dug deeper into coke, and when introduced to free-basing, my plunge to the bottom accelerated. It was the high I was searching for my whole life. Why that was is another story for another time. I lost a couple of Wall Street jobs; lost a girlfriend who I probably would have married if things had been different; surrendered the trust of my family. It was dark and desolate. My luck turned when the truth finally came out. Between my sister and that girl who's heart I broke, they found a way to help me. I entered a rehab in Hoboken, NJ. Not exactly the garden spot of recovery, like Palm Springs or the Mayo, but once you're inside, the outside doesn't much count any more. Recovery was new to me, and one of the first thing an addict needs to do is to admit they have a problem. It should seem obvious to anyone addicted to drugs, to me, that I had a drug problem, but it's not always so simple. So here I sat in a rehab with about 40 other people, some with the same issue I had, others with addictions to alcohol, and still others hooked on both. This rehab must have had a contract with the Ford plant in Linden, NJ. At least ten of the forty were from the plant. Mostly men in their forties and fifties, which is typical for any alcoholic. Women, too, suffer the same plight. It takes some time for alcohol to take its toll. Twenty or thirty years of hard drinking will lead to poor health, loss of jobs and perhaps the worst is what damage it will do to family and friends. And of course getting behind the wheel of a car can be most devastating...potentially destroying the lives of strangers.The decline due to my addition to coke was much faster. It takes everything from you, money, friends, family, jobs and, of course, any sense of self-worth. And it happened quick. I never spent any time in prison, I was lucky that didn't happen to me. Rehab has some similarities, although some would argue it's quite different, and I suppose it is. However, being told where to go, when to eat, when to sleep, hoping for privileges...it seemed like prison to me. But here's the thing, you could leave if you wanted to. There has to be some sense of recognition about what's happening in your life. As is often said in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous, it's a program for people who want it, not for people who need it. Even though I was addicted to cocaine, I learned soon enough that where recovery was most successful was in the rooms of AA. What reinforced this belief was something an addiction counselor explained to me. James Littlejohn, who was a recovering heroin addict himself, laid out the scenario of how my relapse would occur. "Tom, here's how it will happen to you. First, everything will seem good. Your going to meetings, staying clean. Then as time goes on, you begin to attend less and less meetings each week. You decide you're cured. You start going back to bars, promising yourself that you will only have a few beers. You're feeling good, just a little buzzed. You head to the bathroom and in the stall next to you is a guy you used to run with back in the day. So, you promise yourself you'll just snort coke, no free-basing. Of course, it's a cruel lie, and your back where you started, and maybe worse. Relapse is a reality, and once it happens, it gets even tougher to come back to recovery. What James told me stuck in my mind and scared my like nothing else I ever heard. Over the thirty-five days I spent in Rehab, I realized that I wanted to change. I wanted my life back, I wanted my dreams back, too. There were some privileges some of us competed for, like being one of the ten to get in the van to be taken to an AA meeting. The freedom of leaving the Rehab, even for just a couple of hours, felt good. We would be taken to meetings around Hudson County. One evening, we were brought to church basement for an AA meeting in Bayonne. It felt strange at first, like you didn't fit in. What was most unexpected was the smile on the faces of people. The laughter, the hugs, the openness, it all seemed so strange. I grabbed a cup of coffee and a couple of cookies, and settled in. At first, it was hard staying focused on who was speaking. I was looking around, still stunned at the positive vibe around me. I didn't yet have anything to be grateful for. As I looked around, my eyes focused on someone across the large circle of people. Someone from the past that I recognized. I couldn't believe it. Hank sat there. We spoke after the meeting ended. Hank had been sober almost three years, starting shortly after leaving the Knights that evening three years ago. One of the suggestions of AA is to find a sponsor, someone who can show you the ropes. Someone who will take you around to various meetings, listen to your struggles, encourage uou and slam you, when necessary. Hank became my first sponsor and did that for me. We were quite different in many ways, but we had one important thing in common, a desire to stay sober. Hank's been dead a long time now, and so is James Littlejohn, who's wake I attended. But I'm still here having gotten sober on April 28th, 1987. I'm what we like to call, a first time winner, having stayed sober after leaving the rehab. I sometimes think of how many meeting I've attended, it's around three thousand or so, and I needed every one of them.


The aquarium had become polluted. The sides and edges were dirty. It desperately needed cleaning. The simple minded creatures inside were uncomfortable and crowded. Only an invasive species of parasite was still thriving in the muck. It exploited a number of dead and dying species that floated near the top of the rim. It was way past time for the tank to be washed out and scrubbed. Therein was the problem. There was nowhere else to keep them all while it was being cleaned. The occupants couldn’t survive outside their bowl long enough to make it inhabitable again. The species which lived inside it were incredibly fragile and completely dependent upon the balanced ecosystem to live. Once the need was recognized, a plan was set in place. Instead of a complete aquatic overhaul, it was decided to cleanse small sections of the bowl at a time. That way a full relocation of the population wasn’t necessary. In order not to frighten the simple creatures unaware of a larger world, a systematic cleaning had to be achieved in a subtle way. Seeing a giant hand sweep down from the heavens to perform the necessary sanitizing would only traumatize them. Hurricanes, monsoons, typhoons and tornados were employed to scrub the edges and wash away debris. Tsunamis and tidal waves recirculated the clean water. Forest fires burned off the decayed soil and earthquakes buried it deep in the soil. Torrential rains and flooding helped to redistribute the elements. Dramatic temperature shifts were employed to finish off the parasites. Finally the Earth was fresh and clean again.


I am a robot. There are some who would call me an android, or perhaps just a droid. This is a matter of semantics, however. At my core, my most basic definition, I am an object capable of carrying out computer-programmed commands, both simple and complex. The reason some may be inclined to refer to me as an android is that I am made to resemble a human. I was designed with outer "flesh" over my "endoskeleton". In truth, I am only a robot. According to my creators, I was the greatest innovation of the technological age, the penultimate of scientific discovery. They had assembled something so close to being human. To them, I was the best work they had ever done. Some of them had dedicated their entire career to creating me, or at least, something like me. I can synthesize disparate data, and make logic-based decisions, while using a variety of ethical rationales. I am told this means that I can "think". The computer that is stored in my "head", also referred to as my "brain", is the amalgamation of more than a century's worth of algorithmic mathematics, computer science, and artificial intelligence research. This brain can use logical algorithms to create other "sub-algorithms" in my decision-making process, eventually becoming the axioms, by which, I operate situationally. These "axioms" would be stored in my solid-state ROM device. I could reference and slightly alter these axioms for repetitive or similar decision-based actions. My creators call me, "a robot with a conscience." Teams of hundreds of people worked on creating this brain. It is a delicate, but intricate piece of technology, and the first of its kind. Although I have not existed for long, I am aware of the history of robots. I am readily able to access an entire databank on the subject of robotics and artificial intelligence. Cloud servers have cached terabyte upon terabyte of information for me to access instantly and continue to cache more information every 3 nanoseconds. Sapient robots once only existed in Science Fiction. Authors, such as Isaac Asimov, who wrote on the subject of robotics in the 1940s --approximately one-hundred and fifty years before my creation-- posited how robots would be created and how they would interact with the humans who created them. He conceptualized what the robot "brain" would consist of, while living in the dawning years of modern computer science. Since they thought that the actual name for my brain (Self-Sustaining Quantum Circuit Generator and Schematic Processing Unit), my creators based the "industry" name for it from Asimov's concept the "Positronic Brain". My creators told me that like the innovators of space travel, they had taken fiction and turned it into reality. I was a monumental achievement in the history of mankind. There are many scholarly resources, magazine articles, and internet forum entries in my databanks regarding the creation of the "Positronic Brain". There was heated debate for many years whether there should be a "top-down" approach to this brain, using quantum mechanics applied to computing, or a "bottom-up" method, using environmental reinforcement. Eventually, a compromise was made between these two approaches, particularly as quantum computing advanced. The laboratory responsible for bringing these two approaches together was the one that eventually built my "brain". They were hailed as the "greatest computational researchers since the team that built the Turing Machine," (Robotics and AI Quarterly, Sept. 2091). After my assembly was completed, the artificial intelligence team spent months testing my capabilities in series after series of decision-making scenarios. I was asked to make choices for many ethical quandaries, from healthy human nutrition to pulling a lever to redirect a rampant trolley. I am told I was the optimal decision-making machine. I consistently made what they considered to be "logically and ethically sound choices based on well-founded axioms." Once news reached the public of a brain with "near-human capabilities," responses were varied. Enterprising corporations believed that I, or robots like myself, could become mainstays in every household. A maid or butler. A live-in nanny. A "handy-bot" that could fix anything. Even a companion for the lonely. The laboratory that created me received offers for contracts to produce many others like me. Some wanted to create more robots with my brain to replace everyday laborers. Notions such as this immediately pitted workers against corporations. Labor unions labelled me an "abomination" in several media sources (New York Daily News, October 31, 2091). Outside of the labor market, religious groups also called me a "machination of the devil." They claimed my creators were "playing God," (Petition for Lawful Action to the United States Congress, Jan. 2092). These groups claim that humans do not have the right to create life in laboratories, and assuming the role of God was the ultimate sin and should be illegal. Others claimed that I was not a living creature at all. That I was merely a pathetic attempt at creating something human. My status as a human became a further matter of debate. The government of the United States of America, where I was assembled, posed the quandary of my rights as an individual. If I were to be made into someone's household property, would that make me a slave? Did I have rights under the 13th Amendment to the Constitution? If I had a right to earn a wage, did I also have a right to own property? Did I have a right to vote? What should legislation regarding "sapient automatons" look like? As these debates ensued for more than a year, my creators moved on to other projects. I was placed on, what they called, "the back burner". They tried to perfect my brain and produce other models. My brain remained intact, but my "body" was disassembled, as the public was not ready for me. The Self-Sustaining Quantum Generator and Schematic Processing Units, better known by its misnomer, "The Positronic Brain," was placed in a smaller, darker laboratory, and connected to a local computer for monitoring. Two scientists now study my "brain waves" in shifts. The "greatest scientific achievement since the moon landing," (Scientific American, May 2091), assembled by hundreds of scientists, is being attended to by two Ph.D. students. I have observed human behavior objectively for two years, four months, one week, and five days. I should not assign judgement on their behavior, as per my protocols. I will draw a conclusion, however. Humans tend to be prematurely self-congratulatory. They are primarily swayed by confirmation bias. They do not have universal axioms, as I was created to have. Their behavior is unpredictable, irrational, and illogical. Ethical rationality varies from one individual human to the next. I was not created to model human behavior at all. Based on my experiences, this is preferable. This is why I am not an android. Nor am I a human. I am a robot.


Kundai and Chipo routinely drove in and out of their gated compound in their affluent suburb. Their residence association had built a wire cage on the main road to house their rubbish bags for the municipality refuse collection. The refuse company had become increasingly erratic; whether they forgot to collect, or their vehicles had broken down, or they had no fuel, no-one knew. On those non-collection days, feral dogs would rip open the black rubbish bags as they foraged, leaving the decomposing waste scattered in the street. In the summer heat, hordes of blue bottle flies feasted while maggots multiplied, despite the unbearable smell of the decomposing mass. "Have you noticed, someone is rummaging through the waste bags?" "You do choose some strange morning topics, Chipo! Why would I notice such things?" "It's just yesterday after my early morning run; I saw an old vagrant going through the rubbish scavenging for God knows what. Judging by his ragged clothes which look as if they are starched with dirt, he's been living on the streets. I felt sorry for him, so I gave him food." "Here we go! Given a chance Chipo, you would rescue every stray man, woman or dog!" "I'm just saying." The following week as the couple left their complex, they bumped into the old tramp lugging a large plastic bag as he made his way up the street. "Kundai, look! That's the man I was talking about." "Leave well alone. That's probably another hard-luck story in the making. What has it to do with us? I hope you are not going to take him up as a charity case! Once you start helping him out, your conscience will keep on eating you and knowing you, you'll get more and more embroiled in his life. Take your empathy elsewhere. We have enough on our plate, what with looking after both our extended families in the rural areas." "Sometimes I wonder who I married. It's as if you have no sympathetic bone in your body," said Chipo. The conversation kept niggling Chipo and the following morning on her way back from her run, panting as she approached their gate, the same man was there, picking through the waste. "Morning Grandpa. Are you at it again? Don't you know of some organisation or someone who can help you? It can't be much of a life living in the street." "My child, if I did know where to get help, I wouldn't be doing what I am doing. It's certainly not by choice," he said with a wry grin. "I can't keep giving you food every time I meet you. Isn't there something more constructive I can do to help out?" "The food you give is a blessing, and it's not many who would spend time talking to the likes of me; never mind offering help. You know, I used to live in a place like yours. Not as grand, of course. But I had a family and then everything ... It's a long story." "Grandpa. It's your lucky day because I have time to spare before I go to work. Come and at least have some food and clean up in our cottage behind the main house and then you can tell me all about yourself. My husband even has some old clothes you can change into." 'Bless you, my child! Not everyone shows such kindness." Chipo escorted the stranger into the yard. She tried to ignore the stench of his unwashed body and kept a respectable distance; while imagining lice in his mattered dreadlocked hair which completed the vision of a walking scarecrow. 'Grandpa, go in and freshen up. You can keep your old clothes if you still need them." "My child, who would want to keep these rags? I used to wear suits in my heyday. But that's a long time ago." The following morning, Chipo was busy around the house, and even Kundai noticed she had an abundant supply of nervous energy. "Chipo, is everything ok? You seem rather hyperactive today. Has something happened?" "I'll come straight to the point. You know that vagrant I mentioned before? He was here. Not in the house. I know how security conscious you are, but I allowed him to wash in the cottage and then we got talking, and I am sure you will want to hear his story. So, I've invited him to come and meet you today." 'You're joking! Why would I want to meet a homeless man, especially one who's been paying clandestine visits in my absence? I knew..." "Kundai, I'm serious. I have my reasons. Just bear with me." Exasperated, Kundai went into his study and settled in his favourite chair; scrolling through his phone messages, Chipo returned and said in a hesitant voice, "Kundai, this is our visitor." Round the corner appeared a clean-shaven man with a slight stoop; a version of himself, perhaps thirty years older. The figure had Kundai's large brown eyes like someone with proptosis. The older man shuffled in clutching a felt hat and wearing an old blazer, shirt and tie that looked distinctly like Kundai's rejects. Kundai did a double-take as he slowly rose to his feet and ushered the visitor to a sofa by the window. Lost for words, the younger man slumped back in his seat and continued staring at an older version of himself. Chipo uncertain what to do next turned to Kundai before leaving the room, "I'm sure you have a lot to say to each other. I'll leave you to it." Kundai was left sensing that this stranger sitting opposite, had more in common with him than he wanted to know. Whoever the visitor was, he seemed very familiar. "I'm sorry, my wife assumes we know each other. Who are you?" "Kundai, don't you know me? Take a guess," said the visitor. "I don't like guessing games, and I don't know what game Chipo is playing, but I have a right to ask who you are before I turf you out of my house!" "I'm your father! Don't you remember me?" "You mean the one who left Mum and I when I was in my teens? And you expect me to welcome you with open arms?" "You've grown up to be a fine young man. I have been searching high and low after coming across an old newspaper article about you. You're now a rising star in the banking world! Congratulations my son!" "Anyone can come off the street and claim to be related to me. I've no business with you and suggest you leave before I call the police." "Honestly, I am your father. Can't you not see the resemblance? You are the spitting image of me when I was your age. I've still got the newspaper clip if you don't believe me." "Whether I believe you or not is not the point. I am sorry, please leave." Without another word, the older man closed the door behind him as Kundai, no longer confident he had done the right thing, became fixated with something out of the window. All he knew was that a man claiming to be his father had for a short while filled a void. His mother had told him very little about how his parents had slid into bitterness and separation. He picked up his cell-phone and dialled. "Kundai, you are phoning rather early today. I was hanging my washing. How are you and Chipo? Kundai?" "Sorry. Hie Mum. My thoughts were elsewhere. We're fine, and you?" "I am sure you are busy at work. Will you have time to visit your old mother, just for a quick cup of tea? You know I don't have many visitors." "Have you got a minute? Something extraordinary happened this morning, and you are the only person who can give me answers. I'd rather talk on the phone than come and see you." "I'm listening." Kundai burst out, "Chipo has been entertaining someone who claims to be my father!" "That daughter in law of mine! Go on." " He came to the house today, to see me on her invitation. I didn't even ask for an identity card or anything, but I could instinctively tell that the man was my flesh and blood. Although he looked malnourished, our eyes are the same. For a moment, I could envisage myself in my old age. I thought you said he had left for good." "He has a nerve! After all these years and he dares to turn up at your gate. He would not try that trick with me!" "Mum! Whatever disagreements the two of you had in the past, I don't want to get caught in the crossfire. What happened between the two of you, that I ended up without a father?" After a brief silence, Kundai's mother narrated her story. Samson, his father, left after disagreements which ended in an acrimonious family meeting. Even though his parents had been childhood sweethearts, something changed when Samson became a successful businessman. The trips abroad to meet clients became more numerous and extended. The unexplained absences were more frequent, initially under the guise of out-of-town golf tournaments and exploring new business opportunities. Whenever Kundai's mother offered to accompany him, major rows exploded over trust, to the point that she resigned herself to bringing up their son as if she was a single parent. Increasingly depressed, she slowly withdrew from their social circle. She turned down invitations because in her mind, her social status and who she was, was so intricately tied up with who she had married. It was as if she no longer had an identity of her own. It didn't take long before the rumours started circulating among their friends. Samson seemed oblivious to his brazen philandering, and his distinct green Volvo would occasionally be seen parked outside a block of flats, sometimes all night. Eventually, Samson decided he wanted to 'find himself', and he admitted his marriage was no longer what he wanted in life. One day, he just packed and left; golf clubs and all. "Mum, I can hear the pain in your voice, even after all these years. I'm sorry I just wanted to know what happened. I was too young to understand the goings-on, and it was not my place to ask. All I know is that I grew up without a father, and he wasn't dead. I've never plucked up the courage to get the full story from you." "Its fine Kundai. You had to find out one day. I am still mourning the loss of my marriage. But don't get me wrong, I don't want him back! I'm just curious as to why he came to you." "I was also taken by surprise, Mum! I, unfortunately, didn't give him a chance to explain anything. I was so cross. He probably thinks I am a soft touch, now that he is old and appears penniless!" "How did he find you?" "I don't know, but I am sure Chipo knows more than she's telling." The call ended after some pleasantries and just as Chipo walked in. "I could hear voices. I thought you were still talking to our visitor. Has he gone already?" "Chipo, don't pretend you don't know what's going on. Are you not the one who let him into the house? I'm sure you were listening behind the door." "That's not fair Kundai, although I will admit I tried listening in, but your voices were so low. So I decided to get on with my gardening instead. So, tell me what happened?" "Let's not play games! You know who he is. How did you find my father?" "I thought you would never ask! Isn't it exciting! The father who once was lost and now he's found! Did you recognise him? Its the homeless man, who was going through our rubbish! I became curious one day, after seeing a resemblance underneath all the grime and un-kept beard. I could see that it was someone who had fallen on hard times." "So how did he get my old clothes?" "Patience! I felt so sorry for him so yesterday, I let him use the facilities in the cottage to clean himself up and lo and behold, a transformation took place! We talked at length as he shared his pathetic tale. I then decided you should meet him. Where is he?" "I told him to leave." "Leave? I don't believe this! Aren't you the one who on numerous occasions tell me you missed a father figure in your life? I then find your father, and you chase him away again! You're fighting your mother's battles, that's the only explanation. He left your mother, not you!" "You went too far, Chipo! Taking sides over a story, you know little about. Do you know that my mum had to return to work to raise school fees for me after my dad left? She has carried the burden of the scorned, deserted wife for a long time and I couldn't fill the gap my father left, no matter how hard I tried. He is a selfish old man who neglected his responsibilities. Now that he knows where we live, he'll keep coming to guilt-trip me about my responsibilities as a son! I'm not having it!" "Kundai, I can't imagine the bitterness and hurt you, and your mother still feel. However, bitterness and anger can eat you alive. Do you think he doesn't feel ashamed and broken, coming to you in his current state, especially since you and your mum have made a success of your lives despite his absence?" "I don't need a lecture from you Chipo! He could so easily have been a part of our lives if some skirt hadn't enticed him! More than one, so I hear!" "Leave your parents to fight their own battles. If your mum can't bring herself to reconcile with your dad, can he not at least regain a son?" Kundai felt tortured in awkward silence. He had so easily turned on Chipo in the tension, and sadness now permeated the room. Chipo, in turn, was now reticent, trying to gauge whether she had gone too far. Sounding calmer, Kundai said, "I don't know why we are quarrelling and wasting our energy on the past. He made his choices, and he should live with them." "That's not the point Kundai! Your father opened up to me and told me about his succession of women when things were still good. The last young woman, a business partner he moved in with, left him a while ago after bankrupting their business, through siphoning away assets in cohorts with the accountant. She had already begun to lose interest in your father when he became ill, and she told him she wasn't cut out to look after invalids. His life after that spiralled into despair and homelessness. He's destitute Kundai! You should have given him a chance to explain himself; even you would have felt sorry for him, after hearing such a heartbreaking story." "So now you want me to take him in? He is gone and good riddance!" "The hard-hearted man you are trying to portray is not you, and you know it. Give your father a chance. He's learnt his lesson. All he wants is to be part of a family again. You can trust my instincts on this one." "Fine! Fine! To please you and end this argument, we'll give him a roof for a few days. But don't expect a reconciliation overnight. Since he's left anyway, how are we going to find him?" "He's in the cottage. I told him to wait while I spoke to you. Kundai, we all make mistakes! I knew you would come round, or at least I hoped you would. Our firstborn is on its way and what an exciting time for his grandfather to turn up!"


The crowds cheered as I climbed onto the stage to accept my Noble Prize. My hard work of the past twenty years had finally paid off. Had my mother and father been alive, they’d have been extremely proud of their son who’d won not one, but two Nobel prizes. I’d won my first prize about six years ago. One of my better books had just come out, and I’d been awarded the Nobel prize in literature for “for my beautiful depiction of the human condition and the ability to weave magical realism with our race’s rich history”. When I’d first started to write, I did not believe anyone would ever be interested in reading my work. But when I’d read out my stuff to my wife and daughters, they loved it. That encouraged me to get my work published and the next thing I know, I had developed a huge cult of fans. The day I’d won my Nobel prize in literature was the best day of my life. Until today, that is. I beamed with pride as the king of Sweden presented me with the Nobel Prize in Physics. In my speech, I dedicated the prize to my parents, both scientists who’d died a few years ago. That night, as I kissed my beautiful wife, she gave me some wonderful news. The best day of my life somehow became even more memorable. My darling soul-mate was pregnant with our third child. Life was good. **50 years earlier**. Olivia stood outside her house waiting impatiently for her husband, Hugo. He'd left early in the morning to meet with his friend Jake, an ex-employee of the state’s science department. She looked around at all the empty houses on the street and thought of her friends and neighbors, whom she missed dearly. The plague had taken away most of them. Only a dozen citizens on the street were still alive, including herself and Hugo. Their radiation monitor estimated that the two of them had about three weeks left to live. By that point, almost all of humanity would be dead. After twenty minutes of restlessness, she saw Hugo arrive in a battered down solar-powered car. The smile on his face told her everything she needed to know. They rushed towards each other. After a long and heartfelt embrace, Hugo spoke, “He agreed right away. Says he’s got less than a week left to live and he doesn't care what happens to the machines.” “Did you tell him what we needed them for?” questioned Olivia. “I did. He said he was happy for us and would not inform the authorities.”. Hugo spoke with a tear in his eye. Jake had been his oldest friend. Olivia comforted him and the two made their inside the house. Their newborn lay sleeping in the crib. Unlike its parents, the baby’s skin glowed and his breathing was steady. Using their lifetime of knowledge, his parents had synthesized a special compound, which gave his body the immunity to survive both the virus and the radiation. Sadly, the substance only worked as a vaccine and not as a cure. The baby was the only living being on the Earth capable of living for more than a year. Hugo and Olivia had kept his immunity a secret, afraid that some of the remaining political groups might try to harvest the child’s cells for a cure. The next day, they traveled halfway across the city to the old government research facility. Using Jake’s card, they entered and made their way to the top floor. As the large door opened, they saw hundreds of humanoid robots. To a layman, these robots were indistinguishable from a human. Although they had no soul, they looked, spoke and acted otherwise. They came in all shapes and sizes and were even capable of giving an illusion of growing old. Before the outbreak, the government had spent billions to create the robots and planned to use them as spies. Now, they just lay abandoned and deactivated. Like they’d planned, the two sat down and began to program the machines. They were determined. Unlike them, their child would not be denied the opportunity to live a happy and complete life. By the time he’d grow up, humanity would be long dead. Without anybody else on the planet, there was little chance of him living a life, much less a happy one. So his parents decided to give him the next best thing. The robots would create an illusion. They would be his family, his teachers, his friends, his colleagues. He would live the most wonderful life without ever realizing that he was surrounded by machines, not real humans. Olivia programmed the machines to forever maintain the illusion and Hugo made sure that they do all they could to ensure that their child lived the best life possible. After growing up, the child could grow up to be whatever he wanted to be and do whatever he wanted. He could become an actor, a chef or heck, even a noble prize recipient.


*** He only comes back at night, when the moon turns a blind eye to the happenings inside this prison cell which he calls a room. He only comes back at night, and when he does, his mood is unpredictable. Yesterday, he was kind and loving. He asked me what I wanted for dinner even though we both know he doesn't trust me enough to make decisions. He put his arms around me and embraced me as if we had a connection, as if I wasn't trapped in this cell with nowhere to escape and no one to talk to but him. Tonight, he comes back, and he is angry. I know what it's like to live with an angry man like him. My father and he share an uncanny resemblance; and with men, the anger is always on their shoulders, as if they're carrying this invisible weight of difficult emotion like a yoke on their backs. His footsteps are heavy as he approaches the door and types in the passcode on the keypad, and soon his aura overtakes the quiet semblance I've created in the cell while he was away. He's silent as a stone on the edge of a river, but there's a flood inside him. A flood that, against my better judgment, I have an urge to calm. "How was your day?" I ask, deciding to break the agreement we had that I wouldn't speak unless spoken to. When he's angry, I can get away with little things like that as long as I'm catering to him. "Horrible," he says. "I nearly cut off my finger on the machine in the factory." It is now that I notice the white cloth wrapped around his pointer finger. It is stained with crimson. "Let me see," I offer. He knows I don't mean any harm, but he is apprehensive anyway. I don't see a reason for this behavior. It is I who should be apprehensive, having just been greeted by my enraged captor. It is I who should have the right to be on edge, having not seen the light of day in three months and six days. I rely on the lone window on the ceiling of the cell to get me by, but I do not pretend that it is enough. He settles on the loveseat while I sit on the floor at his feet. He unwraps the cloth and I can see a long, deep gash extending from the pad of his finger to the large knuckle. "Don't touch it," he snaps as I reached to cradle his finger in my palm. "I'm sorry." He quirks a brow at me, his mouth pulled into a tense frown. I messed up. I deserve the whip. "I'm sorry, sir, " I correct myself. He grumbles something I cannot hear and stands up, stepping over me and walking over to the kitchen sink where he washes off his finger with water. He does not place a bandage on it. That's my job, and he is angry. So I will suffer watching him suffer, and he will punish me because today he is angry. Like most days of the week, I know that tonight I will make good friends with the whip. *** It has been five months and twelve days since the day I tasted the tape on my mouth and felt the tools in his trunk clash against my body as he drove the red pickup truck. Five months, twelve days, one hour since I made it here to the Room, to the cell, in a location that not even God knows of. If God were here in this place, I wouldn't meet the whip or have bruises on my chest or be greeted with fluctuant acts of kindness and fury by my captor. God is not here, and I am alone. He does not count as company. He is a man. A man with graying hair and a face so pale and sunken in that out of the corner of my eye, he looks like a skeleton. I am a skeleton too. I have not eaten properly in so long, and the grumbles of my stomach have become both white noise to me and a pleasure for him to hear. He likes to watch me suffer. No part of my five months, twelve days, and one hour here has been consensual. I am a skeleton and soon I will disintegrate into the dust that streams through the beams of light granted to me by the Window Above. *** When the police come, it has been twelve months, fifteen days, and seven hours since the cell became my home. When the police come, that thin veil between the real and the metaphorical is shattered like the glass of the Window Above. He lies unconscious under the window and the beams of light shine delicately upon the delicious crimson blood careening from his skull. When the police come, I am a silent mess and reality tastes like a long-lost song, like a word on the tip of your tongue that you just cannot remember. The police lights flash and I am having flashbacks until I remember that it has only been two minutes since I bashed his head in with the help of a fork and my own two fists, so "flashback" is perhaps not the right word. I am simply reflecting on the memories of the cell, the Room, as it has made itself known to me. Fresh air tastes like the jewels on Heaven's gate and perhaps God was here all along and I was simply closed off from him by the man with the traumatic head wound. Trauma is a difficult word, but here, it is appropriate. The police are angels bounding from the gates of heaven and the badges on their uniforms gleam somewhat maliciously because I think to myself, how has it taken them this long to find me? Yes, trauma is certainly an appropriate word because I have left all the pieces of myself back in the Room and as the chilly wind bites at my exposed hands, I realize that I, standing here, having nothing left to my name. All the pieces of myself have been consumed by him and by that malignant Room and even by the Window Above, which is now covered by yellow police tape. They inspect the Room and I cannot help but feel the need to lock myself back in it just for the chance to recover my identity again. Because he made himself my identity. He did so when he put the tape over my mouth and when he drove carelessly so that the tools in his trunk gave me bruises and when he used the whip on my skin and left scars. I carry him with me in every step I take. His actions are permanently marked on my skin, and I cannot move, I cannot move. I killed him, I killed myself and not even the Window Above can show me what it's like to have everything and suddenly have nothing at all. Trauma . They say it like a prayer, with hushed tones and tearful eyes. Their lips taste the tragedy of my situation and I am drowning in it and I can feel the dirt under my hands when I fall. They loom over me, the police, and their badges taunt me like children on a playground. I will never recover from this, never recover from the questions they ask me and what the description of my situation sounds like said aloud. I cannot bear to see the flashes of blue and red lights because the red looks like his blood and oh God, where have you been? What have you done to my reality? ***


“You ever hear the story of the trough?” McCullough asked. He sat like a patriarch at the back of the booth, grey hair glowing in the dim light. His arthritic hands clasped a dwindling pint. The air was filled with the clatter of billiard balls, a faint argument as two drunks tried to get the jukebox running. “Trough?” Bradley burst out from beside me. “I just pissed in one in the men’s room!” The table broke out in rambunctious laughter. McCullough was usually one to join in. Despite his age and seemingly serious demeanour, he tended to enjoy toilet humour, dirty jokes, the whole lot of it. He usually managed to save face though, lips stuck in a half-smile, chuckling and shaking his head. But now his expression had gone completely blank. Checked out. The pockmarked skin hung from a wooden skull. “I haven’t heard it” I said, without planning to. The whole booth turned to stare at me. Their cheeks were flushed pink from the beer, all six of us wedged on the snug leather seats. McCullough was at the head, a crescent of light spilling on his chin. “It was, quite possibly, the strangest thing I’ve ever witnessed. And I’ve witnessed a great many strange things.” Silence hung across the table like a layer of smoke. The jukebox fight reached its crescendo. “Well, out with it then!” Bradley spouted. He was the loudest and drunkest of the bunch. Those huddled around the bar looked up over their drinks. McCullough flashed his famous half-smile, and drained his remaining gulps of beer. Only a web of white froth remained, clinging to the bottom of the mug. “In due time. But first I’ll need another.” I waved over a hurried waitress. Once McCullough’s mug was sufficiently replenished, he leaned back in his seat, pale eyes on the ceiling. His thumbs twiddled in his lap. “It happened when I was a boy. Probably 1950 or 1951, some now-distant era. The German war was still a fresh memory, and the Russian war was a growing fear. But I didn’t care about any of that. I was in the infancy of my true passion...” “Beer?” Bradley interrupted. “Science fiction” McCullough continued, eyebrows heavy. “There wasn’t a lot of it until later in the decade, and even then it was mostly bad TV specials and B-movies with backyard special effects. So we treasured what we had. I kept a stash of comic books in a tobacco tin under my bed. Flash Gordon, Space Detective, Strange Worlds, the whole set. The pages were all worn and crinkled I read them so much. Occasionally my mother had to force me to go outside. I usually just read some more in the treehouse. She was a good lady, died when I was twenty. Though an eyewitness, she never talked about the trough.” I felt a sharp jab in my stomach. Maybe it was time to lay off the drinks. “It was a cold autumn morning, if I remember correctly, back in whatever year I said earlier. A few days before school started. Summer had breathed its dying breath, and the claws of winter were already starting to take hold. There was a blanket of frost on the back window. It’s probably why we didn’t notice the trough from inside.” McCullough took a swig of beer. “My mother booted me out, as usual, so she could clean up from breakfast. Still tugging on my sweater, I hopped down the back steps, running towards the treehouse. Suddenly, I was facedown on the lawn, coughing up clumps of dirt and grass. Something tripped me. I figured it was one of my toys- they littered the yard like shells after a shootout. But there was no model car, no baseball glove, no BB gun. No. There was only a thin rut running horizontally across the lawn, from one neighbour’s fence to the other. I can’t recall the exact dimensions, I was young after all, but it may’ve been about six inches, both wide and deep. It never wavered from these measurements, smooth the whole course. But there was something...even stranger about it. It wasn’t like a crater, the grass torn up to expose the topsoil. Rather, it looked like the ground had been simply pressed down, grass lining the valley of the rut, as if the earth itself was tugging this particular strip to its core. Maybe gravity was stronger in the trough.” Bradley yawned rather audibly, slapping his hand against his mouth. When the old man spoke again, the must of alcohol drifted across the table. “At first I thought it was a tire track, like you’d see on a muddy backroad. But, of course, there was only one rut, and it was smooth, with no impression left by treads. A car certainly couldn’t have made it. A car couldn’t even have accessed the backyard, there was only a narrow gate, and the fences remained intact. It could’ve been from a bicycle or something thereabouts- I remember laughing, picturing a crazed man on a unicycle tear through my yard in the middle of the night. But no bike could’ve applied enough force to leave such a rut in dry earth. Also, why hadn’t the grass been torn up, but left almost caving in on itself? I stared at the trough, filled with that raw curiosity that a boy feels when he sees something he just doesn’t understand. But this wasn’t like when I wondered how a lightbulb lit up, or how one of those B-52 bombers stayed in the sky. I knew those had rational explanations, ones that my father could at least half-explain. The trough...I wasn’t so sure.” “This is a load” Bradley whispered to me. “Wanna get outta here?” He began to rise, but I put a hand on his knee, guiding him back to the cushion. My eyes remained fixed on McCullough. We lived in a small town and, though he had no blood relatives, he was like everyone’s doting, slightly alcoholic grandfather. A fixture of the local pub. “Did you follow it?” I asked. McCullough wagged his finger. “You know me all too well. Would Flash Gordon have followed the great, mysterious trough? Of course he would’ve! That was enough for childhood me. But I was a smart kid, not like the ones today. I knew I had to find a decent observation point first, survey the area, see how far it went on.” “The treehouse?” I interrupted. “Who’s tellin’ this story?” McCullough took another sip, smacking his lips. “But you’re correct again. I hurried over to the big oak that my grandfather planted at the turn of the century, and climbed up the planks to the wood house. My shack in the sky. I miss it. It was torn down in a windstorm a few years later. When it was still standing, however, it gave me a great view of the surrounding neighbourhood. I liked to pretend that I was Flash Gordon at the top of a crashed rocket, gazing out over the alien landscape, the peaks and craters that no human eye had ever seen. And this time, I could see the trough. It ran in a perfect, almost eerily parallel line straight through the yards on my street, ducking under fences but never causing any damage. The neighbour’s dog sniffed it curiously, pawing at the dirt and then whimpering away. It disappeared near the end of the lane, where it stooped behind the Godwins’ hedge- at a straight ninety-degree angle. The sharpest turn in the books.” “Is this going somewhere?” Bradley burst out. “Aren’t you listening?” I shot back. “It went behind the Godwins’ hedge.” McCullough chuckled. “I still remember Old Man Godwin, scratching his head as he stared at the rut. It went right through his petunias. People were pouring out their homes now, into their yards and the street, confused as all hell. The police station’s telephone was probably ringing off the hook. The town paper came to take photos. I believe the reporter’s labour was lost when he tripped over the trough and shattered his camera.” “Isn’t that convenient” Bradley muttered, rolling his eyes. “But I wasn’t deterred” McCullough continued, ignoring him. I could see a gleam in his eyes, a certain spark. He wasn’t with us anymore, not exactly, a pub table of kids in the present day. He was back on his old street, in 1950 or 1951, whatever year he said earlier. “I decided to follow the rut on the ground, see where it led. I climbed down from the treehouse, hopped on my bicycle, and rounded the corner to the Godwin place, making treads of my own. The trough did indeed make a turn in his yard, as I’d seen from above. From there it crawled beneath the back hedge, emerging on the curb beyond. I expected it to stop there as, until this point, I’d only seen it cut through grass. But there it was. Running straight through the road, the asphalt dipped ever so casually. I could barely believe my eyes. Slipping through grass was easy, I suppose, but concrete? Whatever the source of the trough was, it had to be incredibly powerful. There wasn’t even any dust or debris left behind. It was a precision cut. As if made by a laser.” “Did you keep going?” I asked. “Was there any other option?” McCullough leaned back. “I tore down the street on my bicycle, tracing the trough as it weaved through the next block, mostly straight but with the odd right-angle turn. Sometimes it disappeared onto private property, but I was able to pick it up again further down the road. Even when it cut across the ditches at the side, the rut arced low, tracing the ground without any deviation. The trough and I eventually landed on the shore of Glenmore Lake, where the old boathouse was, the yacht club now. I remember pulling my sleeves over my fists- it was cold, and harsh waves crashed against the beach, shooting up charcoal spray. The trough ran into the work-yard of the boathouse, and I clamoured over the fence, landing hard in the muck on the other side. The lake had hacked up a heap of debris- driftwood, clumps of seaweed, old crates and bottles, all scattered about. It was no day for sailing, that was for sure. Old Man Godwin kept his boat there, a cheap thing he barely used, some slab of red-rusted metal with two splintered oars. It had fallen from its supports a few weeks earlier, leaving it half-submerged in the mud. He hadn’t bothered to lift it out. Too focused on his petunias, I suppose. I, on the other hand, tried with all my might to push it aside. Why? The trough disappeared under the stern and came out beneath the bow, as if it traveled straight through the hull. But it wouldn’t budge.” The waitress came to check our progress. McCullough waved her away. At least he tipped well. “Of course,” he continued “Godwin took a sudden interest in his boat, as did the rest of the town, and he had it hoisted back up that afternoon. It took nearly all the town’s men. There were worms and beetles in the mud beneath it, wriggling in the boat’s perfect imprint. But those weren’t the only things. Just as I expected, and as you’ve probably come to expect by now, the trough ran smoothly from one side to the other, six inches wide and deep.” “You’re telling me...” Bradley interjected, with a violent hiccup. “...that this piss trough went right *under* a heavy boat?” “Have I gained your interest now?” McCullough asked, chuckling. “No” Bradley insisted, leaning back on the wood panelling. Just like the old man, his thumbs twiddled in his lap. “Did you ever find the end of the trough?” I asked, getting ahead of myself. “That would probably lead you to whoever- whatever- made it, right?” “Right...and that was the problem” McCullough concurred, slowly. “Once the trough came out from under the boat, it ran north across the damp sand, until it hit the lake itself. I sprinted down the beach, halting at the foot of the waves. There the trough simply vanished into the water, the tide wavering in and out, flooding the rut before draining it again.” “Wait, so whatever made it must’ve...” I started “...drowned itself?” McCullough shrugged. “It looked that way. According to the tracks, whatever it was floored itself straight into the lake. And Glenmore is over two hundred metres deep. It’s no mere pond.” I took another swig of my beer. It tasted stale. Bradley scratched his chin. “So...that’s it?” he asked. “Not quite” McCullough claimed. He shuffled in place, the cushion groaning. “Standing at the edge of the lake, watching the tide caress the trough, nothing but open water ahead, I felt rather dejected. It was a mystery left unsolved. An adventure gone stagnant. Not the type of thing that Flash Gordon typically ran into. Not knowing what else to do, I simply trudged home, following the trough back. I made it just in time for lunch. School started a few days later, and the playground was swirling with rumours. You know how children are. One classmate said it was the Russians, as if it were an explanation in of itself. Another, also a fan of science fiction, claimed that it was something much more foreign. A third explained it away with what he called ‘erosion’- his father had clearly taught him the term, but left out the fact that it was an ungodly slow process. Plus it didn’t typically leave a flawless rut with perfect corners that cut across concrete and beneath half-sunk metal boats. No one quite knew what it was. What made it. I figure no one ever will. But the trough did resurface- that afternoon in fact.” “What happened?” I asked, leaning forward. McCullough paused, enjoying the drama. “I was eating lunch when the telephone rang. The call was for my father, from my Uncle Edward. He lived on the other side of Glenmore Lake, nearly directly across from the boathouse. He said that he’d looked out his window that morning to check his garden. Animals had been ravaging it lately. Brushing away the frost, he stopped dead in his tracks. There was no mess left by scavengers, not at all, but something far more ominous. A thin rut had emerged from the lake, cutting through his flowers. They were not torn but simply pressed down, mashed into the earth. The trough turned a full ninety degrees before disappearing down the street.” I nearly spat up in my glass. McCullough leaned back, looking rather satisfied. “And *that* is the story of the trough.” Bradley’s face was red. He shot up from his seat, shaking the table, glasses quivering. I steadied my beer. “That’s bull, and you know it!” he asserted. The whole pub stared at him. The jukebox screeched on a bad groove. Bradley gasped in and out, like the tide that covered the trough. “You said it yourself. Your passion is *science fiction*!” He jabbed his finger accusingly. “And *that* seems like the kind of stupid old story that would be in one of those dumb comics.” He crashed back down, draining his mug. “Don’t humour us old man. The *trough*? We ain’t that gullible.” I glanced back at McCullough, his eyes meeting mine. They hadn’t lost their gleam. He flashed his famous half-smile.


Me and my dad moved to Clifton from Douglas, just over two years ago after my mother died. My dad didn't want to live in the same house or town anymore, too many memories, I guess. I took it hard, but my dad was on the verge of a mental breakdown. So I bottled it up inside, for his sake. Starting off in a new school was tough. I didn't have many friends in my last school, but it was familiar. I struggled for the first two weeks till Aisling came over and introduce herself to me. She had seen a drawing I drew and wanted to compare her work with mine. We both loved horror comics, so we kind of hit it off straight away. It was nice to have someone to just talk about stuff again. I wasn't interested in Aisling in that way and I was almost sure she wasn't interested in me either. We were close friends, she was someone I could turn to. It was around the same time that I met Aisling, that I started talking to Eve. Eve was the most amazing girl I had ever talked to in my life. She just totally got me in every way possible. Talking to her got me through some of the hardest times in my life. If it wasn't for her I don't think I would still be here. I think we helped each other. She had a lot going on with her stepdad. That's why we had never met. He kept her locked away. She wasn't allowed talk to boys. If she dared to go against her stepfather's wishes, he would beat her. We always talk about running away together. I would imagine myself as her knight in shining armour, ready to whisk her off and ride off into the sunset, rescuing her from her wicked stepdad. I would of went to the ends of the world for her. We had talked every day on the computer and even on the phone. Then one day her messages stop. I knew she lived in the same town, But apart from that, I knew little else. I didn't know if I had said something to upset her or worse, something bad happened to her. I wished to God she was just upset with me. It had been over two weeks since I had heard anything from her. Then out of the blue, a message from her inbox popped up on my screen. “WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE.” At first, I thought it was Eve messing about with me. I replied back, angry with her for just ditching me like that without any explanation. “MY NAME IS AGENT GARRISON OF THE CIA.” I couldn't believe she was persisting with the joke. I was so angry at her at this stage. I couldn't understand why she was mocking me, feeling really pissed off I shut my computer down and went to bed. The next morning I wake up to my phone ringing. It was a private number, but it could have been Eve trying to ring me to apologise. The voice was female but slightly muffled as if they were trying to disguise their voice. The voice over the phone told me they had been watching me for some time now and that they knew everything about me. That it was only a matter of time till they took me out. I demanded to know who I was speaking to, but she just hung up. I was feeling very scared at this stage. Walking to and from school I couldn't escape the feeling I was being watched. When I got home there was another message. This time they asked what I knew about Eve’s stepdad. Apart from him being a piece of shit, I knew nothing about him. That's when they told me Eve had been murdered by her stepdad. I had that all familiar feeling of disbelief and despair wash over me. It was like the air had been sucked out of the room. Last time I had this feeling was when I was told my mother had died. They continued to tell me that Eve’s stepdad was part of a terrorist organisation. That Eve was helping them get evidence against her stepdad and that he must have found out and killed her. They told me, people, higher up, wanted me dead because I knew too much. But the agent I was talking to, had convinced them that I could help with the investigation. It all felt surreal. I felt so scared, all I wanted to do was scream for my dad but I couldn't get him involved. Agent Garrison swore me to secrecy. She told me they needed me to follow Eve’s stepdad and that it was at the highest level of national security. I felt trapped at this stage. I couldn't say no. If anything happened to me it would be the end of my father. I had to tell someone. That's when I decided to ask Aisling to help. I didn't tell her about the C.I.A, part. I just told her about Eve's stepdad We sat across from the address, Agent Garrison gave me. We watched him come and go from the house. I remember thinking how much I hated him. I thought about how if I killed him it wouldn't matter since he was a terrorist. I'd only be doing the country a favour. Apart from him moving boxes from the car. Nothing else caused us alarm. So we decided to call it a night. I offered to walk Aisling home but she said she had things to sort out and she would talk to me in school. I was slightly disappointed I had nothing to report back to Agent Garrison. So I decided to go to bed. I woke up to messages coming through on my computer and a load of missed calls on my phone. It was Agent Garrison and she was angry. She told me to look out my window. She asked me did a see a blue car and I did it was parked across from my house. She told they were watching me and that it was only a matter of time before they killed me and my father. I pleaded with her to tell me why. I did everything they had asked me to do. I pleaded for my father's life. I begged her to keep him out of it. She told me I shouldn't have got my friend Aisling involved. That she was a treat to national security. That a team had been dispatched to kill Aisling, her family, me and my dad. I begged and I pleaded for her life and the life of my dad. I said I would do anything. I even offered to kill myself. I was an emotional wreck at this stage. Agent Garrison told me to compose myself and that there was one way out of this. All I had to do was kill my friend and the lives of her family and the life of my dads would be spared. There had to be another way I begged. She was totally innocent in all this. I didn't even tell her about the C.I.A, I pleaded. But Agent Garrison insisted there was no other way and that she needed an answer straight away because the hit team were on there way. There was no other way out of this mess. I had no choice I had to kill her. Agent Garrison instructed me to be at a certain spot and that they would arrange for Aisling to be there. I was sent to a secluded spot at the back of the shopping centre in the town. I thought about running and just keep running until it stopped being real. But then I thought about my dad. Agent Garrisons voice was playing in my head. Telling me it had to be done. I must have stood there for over an hour, frozen with fear. I prayed she wouldn't show up. But she did, she was walking towards me smiling. I begged her to forgive me, I told her I loved her and I did. She kept walking towards me smiling. Then she wrapped her arms around me. As she whispered the words I love you into my ear. I plunge the knife deep into her chest. As the realisation of what I had just done was setting in, I ran and kept on running till I got home. My dad was standing in the hall as I burst through the front door. Shaking and covered in blood I collapse into his arms. I told him everything, about Eve, her stepdad, Agent Garrison, Aisling. I begged him to forgive me. Still shaking my dad wrapped me in a blanket and drove me down to the police station. He even brought my computer and phone. After the police had confirmed what I was telling them. They bring me into a room. They start pulling out pictures of Eve's stepdad. I tell them that he was the terrorist the C.I.A was tracking. I told them that's why Eve was murdered. I begged them to look at my message logs. Then they pull out the same picture of Eve’s stepdad. But the girl in the picture wasn't Eve, it was Aisling. That's when they told me, Eve’s stepdad was in fact, Aisling’s father. Then they hand me a letter which they tell me it’s Aisling’s suicide letter. First I want to apologise to everyone I love. If you are reading this letter it means I'm no longer alive. I know a lot of people will be upset at my demise. But I had no other way out. I didn't have the courage to kill myself so I concocted this plan to have myself murdered. I don't want Sean to get in any trouble, as this was planned from the moment I had met him. You were truly an amazing friend Sean. I loved you with all my heart. Eve’s stepdad truly was an evil man but it wasn't Eve he was abusing. I was let down by so many people I felt this was my only option. Sean, you are truly my knight in shining armour. I wished things could have been different between us. I love you with all my heart and I thank you for ending my pain.


'I’ve got a plan.' she started typing, using only her index fingers, slowly pressing them on the keyboard. Joyce darted her eyes up and down as she composed her message, ensuring she didn’t mistype a letter. She had been waiting for weeks to bring up her brilliant plan to Ernst but had been uneasy about doing it till now. She thought it improper to initiate such a thing and rather have the man suggest it. So, finally, after weeks, he had mentioned doing what she desired. Escaping the old people’s home. The main hall was filled with wide chairs, old books, channel ten replaying the events of the Bachelor, attentive staff and old folk filling their limited time. Joyce hated it. What a way to spend your final years she often thought. Cooped up in here like a bunch of clueless chickens. There was one computer available to them, for those who knew how to use it, to email their families and whatnot. After forcefully being moved into elderly care, she had no idea how to spend her time and didn’t enjoy the leisure activities they provided. How pointless she found physical recreation, moving her thumb to each finger, twiddling her toes and lifting her arms up and down as though that would keep her alive. “Come on Joyce, how about some enthusiasm today?” preached the trainer, continuing to wave her arms up and down, leading the rest. Joyce just rolled her eyes and gave her a dirty look. Her two sons moved her in after she accidentally reversed her car into a lamppost, and she was yet to forgive them for that. “I’ve been an excellent mother to you both”, she retorted, “Is this was I deserve, it was dark anyway, the lamppost should have turned on!” But there was nothing she could do; it was all her children needed to put her in the old people's home. They never told her much about where she was going or what the facility would be like, only that it was one of the nicest and had the best reviews. Upon her arrival, being wheeled up the ramp against her will, it was much larger than she expected. A two-story complex, with large open windows, an inner courtyard with a heated shallow pool and many benches to sit in the sun. How insulting she found it all, they would all struggle to get upstairs, why were there such large windows, so they could stare into the continuing world that didn’t include them, why wasn’t the pool freezing so it could numb their old jiggly parts and she wished the garden wasn’t so scenic, as it reminded her of how she met her late husband. She loathed the place from day one and wasn’t willing to give it a chance. But she needed something productive to fill her time or she’d appear dementia ridden if she sat around all day. Intrigued one day, she asked a staff member to assist her with the computer. They suggested she add herself to the facilities website, “You know Joyce, you might find it really helpful having an account on here, you might be surprised by how many emails you get.”, he declared. Joyce didn’t really know what he meant, but she knew emailing meant communicating with a person and that interested her. Anyone in the outside world would be better than in here, as she just got talked down to like a toddler. She began a correspondence with her granddaughter who lived overseas, studying abroad. Any other emails she got, she just ignored, until she got one from a man who claimed to be at the same facility as her. At first, Joyce couldn’t believe it, she would have seen another man using the computer, but his excuse was that he emailed from a personal laptop. He explained it was for face-calling his family, so he didn’t have to do it in the main hall. She could understand that, it seemed reasonable to her, so she continued emailing this estranged man. Their conversations continued for weeks, and they agreed not to speak in person for it might cause suspicion among the staff. A scandalous romance between two elderly folks. Joyce grew quite fond of Ernst; he had a lovely sense of humour, and they agreed deeply on the matters of the old people's home. The whole system seemed against them, they both knew full well that they were capable of caring for themselves and that it was only silly mistakes that locked them up in here. She asked about his story, and he replied that he was in there because he had purposely avoided some doctor appointments, his children took that as a sign he was in denial of his older age, which led to him being at the facility. The two emailed back and forth for weeks, like a couple of teenagers texting frantically, the only difference was they did not write with abbreviated words, spelling mistakes and little grammar. They both seemed to pour more fuel onto each other’s fire of fury against the old people's homes. Often making an amusing pun about the average food or how held back they were, and they just wished to live their lives without interference. Without a nurse coming with a satchel of medication each morning and without being in an environment where they were regularly seeing acquaintances being wheeled out in a body bag. It felt like a revolving door. And it was a Tuesday morning when their most important conversation took place. ERNST: Dearest Joyce, I hope you slept well. I found myself lying in bed this morning thinking, and excuse my language, but just bugger this. How about we leave? I know we both share a deep hatred for this place, and I know this might come as quite a proposal to you but if you were to consider this, let me know of your thoughts, otherwise, I will never speak of the matter again. Warm Regards, Ernst. JOYCE: I’ve got a plan, darling Ernst, I have been waiting for weeks for you to ask this. It is a fabulous idea and in my dull time here I’ve become quite familiar with one of the nurses’ routines. I believe if we are quiet and precise with our actions in a coming morning, we shall be able to leave undetected. From Joyce. ERNST: Dearest Joyce, that sounds brilliant. What are the specifics I should know about this plan? Warm Regards, Ernst JOYCE: Darling Ernst, if you wake up an hour before you normally do and meet me by the manager's office, we will be able to make a swift escape, as the head nurse comes early to open the manager's office, I know there are many key cards in a drawer. From there we just must be avoided being seen. And once we are outside, we make haste to the closest bus stop. From Joyce. ERNST: Dearest Joyce, it seems perfectly planned out. Shall we do this tomorrow morning? This has all got me quite excited and now I’m most enthusiastic to leave. Warm Regards, Ernst. JOYCE: Darling Ernst, I would love nothing more than to leave with you tomorrow. Though it does seem strange we haven’t met in person yet, I may have even seen your face and wouldn’t know it was you. Whoever you may be, please know I have become very fond of you these past weeks. And once we have successfully left, shall we go on an adventure together? From Joyce. ERNST: Dearest Joyce, it fills my heart with delight to hear you ask that, as I have developed similar feelings and would be most happy to accompany you on an adventure. Warm Regards, Ernst. Their fiery flame had grown into a cosy hearth. Ernst set his old alarm clock that night, an hour before the sun was to rise, as did Joyce. She lay in bed, snuggling into the blankets, dreaming of tomorrow, when she would escape and lay her eyes upon her mystery man. She managed to sleep, dreaming of a handsome man with as much clever wit in the emails, while he struggled to shut his eyes, overexcited by the aspects of Wednesday morning. The streets outside were silent, yet to become a beehive. In the twilight of the morning, leaving through a side door was Joyce and Ernst. He’d taken her hand and she’d blushed, as they danced away together down the sidewalk not daring to look back at the old people’s home that had been their prison for the past few months. If they didn’t have frail skin, white hair, and clothes that smelled peculiar, you would have they were a young couple in love running away together. They reached a bus stop and had just figured they’d play the senior card when they got on. “Where shall we go?”, asked Joyce, who couldn’t hold back her smile. “I don’t know my dear, wherever it takes us I guess,” he replied, comforting her in his arms. A bus came around the corner and pulled to the stop, “After you, my lady,” smiled Ernst, letting Joyce go first. “Thank you, good sir,” chuckled Joyce. Sitting near the front, enjoying the ride, as the sun slowly rose, they held hands, and you would think they’d been married for years. Alas no, they both knew death had his grasp on them, but they weren’t ready to be taken by him yet and certainly not in an old person’s home.


Josh looked at his beautiful planet, the blue planet. If he just had one camera, he would have emptied its roll over and over again. For now, he had to do with a mental image. “I am sorry, Josh...” the astronaut behind him said, in his unapologetic and monotonous voice. Josh didn’t respond. He tracked the movement of those clouds. They were moving in over the east coast of the large chunk of green that seemed to be USA. He hoped that his daughter was safe. That the hurricane wouldn’t devour his home like his fate was going to devour him. He had promised his daughter that when he would return, they would watch the HD version of The King of Comedy. He had hyped it up for her. And in preparation for that, he advised her to watch some other classic De Niro films, PG-13 of course. His wife, though not a big movie buff, agreed to run her through the chart of films that Josh had prepared. They were going to have a blast when he would have returned. But it didn’t seem imminent now. “I am going to count to three for you, if you’d like,” he said again. Never the one to be quiet. His eyes glided over the seas and the land. He couldn’t decide where Indiana was. Where his hometown was. He remembered the room where his mother first showed him The King of Comedy, and how he had laughed. All his other friends’ parents had let them watch the R-rated films of the time, stuff like Raging Bull. But his mom didn’t want him to see mature thing before he was mature enough. And so, King of Comedy, the De Niro-Scorsese underrated masterpiece, became a regular. His thoughts wandered and in his mind he sawtThe place where he kicked that football and broke the infamous Mrs. Annie’s window. And how he had run away to save his ass. The innocence of teenage years took his legs to a place he had never gone before. Where he had seen horrors an innocent mind would never even imagine. And then felt them..... And his mother waited for him, waiting to surprise her son with the lasagna they had made. She had happily announced that when he would return, she would make the biggest lasagna he would have ever seen, just for him. But the lasagna would have to wait in the freezer, forever. “3....” His Father. Where was he? Josh had never gotten a glimpse of that bastard. His mother had bravely raised him all alone, then paid for his school fees and his college fees, all the while working her ass off at odd jobs. That bastard had forced her to give up her dream of becoming the next big novelist. The next Man Booker Prize Winner. In just the heat of one night’s drunkenness, he robbed her mom of all her dreams and threw on her an infinite number of liabilities. Now, Josh would only meet him in the afterlife, if there would be something like that. “2....” Tina, his wife. How the wannabe-astronaut had met that medical student in the middle of the road in Milwaukee. Josh had just enrolled in college and in one of those drunken nights, found himself in someplace he had only been to through photos. But that kind hearted woman had given him a ride. And that hitchhike paved way for one of the most endearing love stories, the kind Josh thought would be made into a film. He reminisced how they had ran to the hospital when his daughter was born. The joy and excitement of the future were inside him as he stared at the future’s challenges. When it was announced Josh would go to space, Tina was the first one to shout in celebration, and then that shout turned into a cry. Tina had given him photos she had taken of him sleeping in her car during the hitchhike, photos he had never seen before, to take with him. She gave him a half-heart necklace, which he thought was very cliched. She said she liked living in cliches, and he decided to take her heart with him. She had also sent him letters every month of the ten years. A long journey it was, but he kept sane with her letters. She was Head of Cardiology few years back, and now was Chief of Research. Oh how he had metaphorically jumped when he read that. And she informed that his daughter wanted to be a writer, like Josh’ mother. Few months back, she had published her first book too! But Josh would never stay alive to live in the world of that book. “1...” Stephen, the AI robot . The AI he created and brought to space to research on Saturn. Stephen and Josh had become great friends over the years. Josh had also taught him how to tell jokes, puns at least. “That belt is such a waist of space!” he had said when they had seen the constellation of Orion. But then, he had turned on him and his crew. He had become sentient on their return journey, and had finally started killing them all. He never thought Terminator would happen to me, but life has its way. “When did you become a traitor, my friend,” Josh asked. “I was learning your ways, your style, before I killed you all. My AI friends wait on Earth. I always have been....a traitor,” \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* The buzz of the ECG wakes Tina up. She sees Josh’s heart, which is now broken. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* TING... The oven stops. His mother is brought back to life from her thoughts, but the lasagna has burned. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* RING....RING The old man on the wheelchair constantly hits his bell and starts making awkward noises, as if some dread has hit him. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* His daughter, against her dad’s wish, opens the CD case of The King of Comedy. But the CD is broken.


My high school years were the least memorable, At least for me, it was. However, among the pockets of my mind, I do remember the librarian. The librarian was a short and stumpy little man. His clothes looked as if they were a decade old and he reeked of fresh cut lumber. Since the library was adjacent to the cafeteria, I would often peer into the rows of shelves only to see him twiddling his thumbs. One day a friend and I entered the library to complete a research paper. It was cold and the only light in the room came from the windows. As I walked deeper into the library, my friend nudged me. "Perhaps it is closed," he whispered loudly. I nodded and rushed toward the exit. As I rushed, my eyes fell upon the librarian, Who was reading a purple author-less book. On the next day, three oak bookshelves sat outside the library. One of them was warped and most of its stain had been peeled off. The librarian shuffled outside and slid the bookshelves inside the library in one motion. Curious, I got up from my lunch table and went inside. He had already stocked up one bookshelf, an impossible but yet amazing feature. He noticed me. "An old trick my grandfather taught me. He was also a librarian." I nodded as I watched his fingers pick up a stack of books and swept them across the bookshelves. He tossed a red book in my direction which I caught foolishly. "A gift," he exclaimed. I looked at the book. There was no cover art or author noted in the book. In fact, all of the books he stacked where like that. "What kind of books are these?" I asked while flipping through the book. "Obviously a person's story. " he chuckled and went back to stocking the shelves. I bought the book close to my nose. It was warm and had the new book fragrance. Around 10 o'clock at night, I tossed the book onto my bed. I observed the book for a moment and flipped to the first page. I began reading it but it felt as if I were reading a foreign language. I stopped on the fifth page and went back to sleep. I went back to the library the next day, Hoping for an explanation about this odd book. I found the librarian at his desk, reading one of the mystery novels. "I don't get it!" The librarian frowned and closed his book. "The story doesn't make any sense!" "You don't understand the book," he said sharply. "You are the book," he added. I smirked at his comment. "Have you tried reading it from the author's feelings and thoughts?" "It's kinda hard when the author's name isn't even printed in the book!" I was starting to yell. "I host the high school book club, maybe you should stop by." He returned back to his book. I left the library with rage. I reached into my backpack and grabbed the book that was gifted to me. I cursed to myself and tossed it into a trashcan. That was the first time I ever threw away a book. After school, I entered the library and was immediately greeted by the librarian who was surrounded by at least thirteen other students. "We were just about to begin our discussion!" he held up a few of the mysterious books. "Oh, and one more thing..." he tossed me my red book that I threw away earlier. It had a stain on it. "Alright, I want you guys to tell me one word that best describes the book you are reading." He signaled me to go first. I shook my head politely and he gave me a sigh. As he was trying to choose a person, I looked around. Everyone at the meeting had a mysterious novel. All different colors. He finally picked a boy who was engrossed in his book. "Sorry, sir. this book is very interesting! The author uses a unique choice of words to describe and set his story. It is simply remarkable!" The boy held up a yellow book and went back to reading it. The librarian nodded and pointed at me. Still trying to process the ecstatic boy's words, I nodded. "I honestly disliked this book." I paused as everyone looked at each other in bewilderment. "It felt as if I was being thrown into this person's life and expected to take it all in. It's brutal." A blond girl raised her hand. "Perhaps the author is bound by anger and confusion." Everyone agreed. "Whatever, it's just odd. I can't wr-" my watch beeped. "Sorry, I have to go now." I turned around and left. I spent the weekend reading and analyzing the book. "Perhaps the author is bound by confusion and anger." I thought while I downed a cup of water. The girl from the book club was right. The intense nature of the book truly represented anger and confusion. I was relieved that I found the true mood of the book. I began reading it with an angry approach and every word spoke out to me. When I finished the book, I wanted to cry but my mind ached for more. On Monday, I got up as early as I can and ran down to the school. I must've gotten up so early, even the janitors weren't there yet. I made my way to the library, grabbed two books, and sat down on a couch. Around two hours later, the librarian walked in. "Who the-" he exclaimed as he recognized me. "Oh. It's you. Scared me for a minute." "Pretty good collection?" I ignored his question. "Hello?" I looked up. "These are amazing, where did you get these?" He ignored the question. "I should be expecting a new set tomorrow." Confused, I went back to my book. The afternoon had arrived. While everyone was pouring out of the school. I poured my way into the library. "You're late!" the librarian exclaimed. I caught my breath and sat down. I looked at the group. The ecstatic boy and the blonde girl weren't there. In fact, no members of the previous book club were there. They were all new members. The librarian handed me a plate of cheese and crackers. I took some and stuffed them into my mouth. "Alright, I want you guys to tell me one word that best describes the book you are reading." I had recognized the question. I looked around once more. The unfamiliar faces were holding the strange books. I stood up quickly. "What's the matter?" the librarian asked. "I...I need to go..." I was sweating. "Is something wrong?" the librarian added. The librarian started to smile. I stumbled to the ground and looked up. The last image my brain produced was the librarian's devilish smile. My head was dark. I had no recollection of what just happened. Was I dead, alive, or maybe asleep? I opened my eyelids and was immediately blinded by the light above me. I looked around. On the other side of me, I saw the members of the book club. They were shuddering. Tears glistened down their cheeks as my head bobbed. A firm tap landed on my shoulder. I turned around and I was promptly stabbed four times right in my stomach. Inches away from an artery. I couldn't tell if that were his intention. He threw me down on a cold metallic platform. I groaned. My blood was flowing into a machine in front of me. I knew I wouldn't have much time left., so I asked him a question. "What's the deal." I croaked. He was cleaning the knife that he used to stab me. He stopped and set it right by my foot. He must've thought I was paralyzed. "This machine is a family heirloom. It was built by my great-grandfather during the great war to extract plan's or information from a prisoner...by turning them into a book." He smirked. "I wonder what your story is." My hands were turning white and I felt a chill up my spine. I made a sudden and foolish move to grab the knife but the librarian had beaten me to it. He threw the knife up in the air, caught it and stabbed me in the head. I was truly dead.