The wealthy bachelor Simon Belvoir had arrived at the country house during the night. This far north it was only fifty-five degrees in August, and the place was so new there wasn’t a single amenity that had ever been used. New and cold. When he came out of his stateroom in the morning he was wearing a wool vest with four gold buttons over his dress shirt. Passing by the room next to his in the upper hall, the door was open and an odd-looking, bald older man was on his hands and knees examining the floorboards. The room looked like it had been thrown together yesterday. “Lost something old boy?” Simon asked him, and the bald man looked up with a start banging his head on the corner of a table as he rose. Simon rushed to assist him, helping the man to his feet as he looked momentarily bewildered and put a hand to his head to check for blood. “So sorry.” the younger man towered over him. “I’m Simon Belvoir.” “Detective Stephen J Gibler, of the agency Sneed & Gibler.” the bald man returned his handshake. “No I was just curious about the construction of this house. Did you know your vest has four decorative buttons like a blazer? It’s essentially a double-breasted vest.” Simon smirked. “A detective? Good lord was anyone murdered?” “The police don’t think so.” Gibler answered. “This house belonged to a congressman who disappeared while flying over the Himalayas, along with his entire family.” “So that’s the story.” Simon replied intently. “I was just curious to know if you arrived here before me. I was told I’m their very first guest, considering my family.” “Ah I understand. Well Sir I arrived yesterday but since I’m here in a professional capacity I think it doesn’t count.” Simon graciously let him pass in front of him as he stepped out of the room and took the stairs down to the dining area. “So is it business that brings you here?” Detective Gibler inquired. “I suppose you’re someone who can be trusted with secrets.” Simon replied as the man continued to check his head for damage. “For two years my family has encouraged me to marry a certain young Parisian lady of good standing, and her family has pressured her into it as well. It’s been a very long two years, I haven’t actually seen her in four months. I’m bored with the time-garnished customs my position requires me to honor.” “Aha, I take it you are quite a catch.” Gibler used the handrail as they made their way down the steps. “I sense you and I are from very different worlds.” “Paris is a different world from the rest of France.” Simon shrugged. “A young woman of good family can be raised by her dowagers not to be a man’s wife but his mistress, a position that requires a proper education if you can believe that. It’s extraordinarily difficult for them, all these social rules to earn a place that has no legal standing? My heart goes out to them.” “So you’re here to meet up with a young lady.” Gibler didn’t know what else to say. “Well they say love conquers all.” “Yes and hopefully we can subvert the system we are living in.” Simon stated as they reached the ground floor. “Did you say the man who owned this house died in a plane crash?” “That’s the theory but no wreckage has been found.” Gibler gave the official story. “Understandable considering how long that usually takes. So what may I ask are you looking for?” “Well Sir the congressman had political enemies.” Gibler sat down in an armchair. “His disappearance not only coincides with a voyage but with the building of this house, so I was called in.” “So you’re saying... he may not have boarded the plane in the first place?” Simon asked curiously. “I’m not drawing conclusions yet, Sir. May I ask why you don’t just cancel your marriage arrangements? It’s your choice after all.” “Why would I do that to someone I care deeply about?” Simon was startled by this question as if he wasn’t about to sleep around. “Ah here she comes.” A motor could be heard idling outside and then a plump, middle-aged woman came in the door. “Aunt Maudry, what a pleasant surprise.” Simon’s gentility was unflappable. “Not so pleasant for me .” she scolded him. “I have some strong words for you, young man. I know exactly what you are doing and I’m here to stop it.” “Well I know you have Miss Gisette’s interests at heart so why don’t you sit down?” Gibler was amazed by his smoothness in these circumstances. Aunt Maudry took a large seat on the sofa across from him. “My niece has been led to believe certain propositions that must be obeyed.” she got right down to it. “And yet here you are making sundry liaisons, risking to destroy everything we have built since she was fourteen with your gallivanting!” Simon nodded with a sigh and replied “Madame I had no hostile intentions toward you and I’m sorry for my ingratitude.” Gibler watched this in fascination wondering what would happen if his intended mistress arrived in the middle of this conversation. “I assume you brought her with you...” Simon continued. “Yes, Gigi come here please!” Aunt Maudry called out with the blare of a trombone. The door opened and all three of them swiveled their heads to see a young girl of no more than sixteen come inside. She was wearing a dress that imitated the sailor’s uniform and had beautiful long dark braids and a surprisingly precocious look on her face, as if she was hiding a candied apple behind her back. Gibler had expected Simon’s fiancée to be something else entirely. Simon immediately rose to his great height in deference to her as one would stand before a queen. Gigi responded with a surprisingly small blush for someone with such control over him, and sat down obediently next to her aunt. “Gisette this is Detective Gibler whose room is next to mine.” Simon introduced them. “Oh a detective! Was there a murder?” she said wide-eyed as if it was a form of entertainment. “Actually I’m retired.” Gibler replied. “But detectives do things besides solve murders.” “Are you here looking for clues?” she asked next without skipping a beat. “No, I don’t look for clues exactly.” he tried to explain. “Not in the way fictional detectives do. What I mean is, this house is brand new so a crime could have been committed while it was being built, and then rebuilt replacing the rooms as if it was all one construction. So in this case a forensic team is useless.” “How many cases have you solved?” Gigi demanded next. Gibler swallowed and leaned forward in his chair. “Well, none.” he admitted sheepishly. “You’ve never solved a case?” her disbelief was almost comical. “Well that’s because you don’t look for any clues!” “Monsieur your head is bleeding.” Aunt Maudry interrupted them. Gibler reached up and held a napkin to his scalp, thoroughly embarrassed. “If we could return to the subject at hand which is you trying to escape your marital duties.” Aunt Maudry locked eyes with Simon. “I’m not going to stand by while this poor girl is taken advantage of in this way. Don’t you ever think of her and your future together when you’re concocting these schemes?” “I’ll admit it was short-sighted of me, but in my defense there is a hind side to arranged marriages.” Simon responded. “They can be loveless, heartless, a cage for the woman involved in them.” “Are you saying you want to...” her voice grew hoarse, putting one hand on her chest and gripping Gigi’s with the other. “No of course not.” Simon rose halfway to reach out to her. “I think you know me better than that.” “I think this is all disgusting and I’m ashamed to find myself in the middle of it.” Aunt Maudry rolled her eyes. “You have to make a choice here.” She turned and looked at Gibler. “You’re an unintended witness to this, don’t you think he has to choose between them? A gentleman meeting in secret like this to have untoward relations with my Gigi!” Gigi covered her mouth and exchanged a comical eyeroll with Simon that said “get her out of here”. “Wait a minute.” Gibler leaned forward in confusion. “Gigi is the girl Simon is meeting here for an affair?” They all stopped and looked at him. “Well of course, she’s sitting RIGHT HERE you dolt!” Aunt Maudry stated the obvious. “Then who is...” Gibler wondered if his blow to the head had dislodged his brain. “As I was saying, these extra-marital shenanigans will lead nowhere.” she resumed. “I’m going to share her room and never leave her side. Oh I’m sure the two of you will find a way sooner or later, and this is what I get for grooming her to be a match for you all this time?!” “What do you propose, Madam?” Simon responded. “A man who is unfaithful owes some recompense to his wife, yes? Well I think if you make even a sideways glance at her you should have to pay a fine to your future bride.” “You want me to pay her each time we elope?” “NO, what do you think she is a prostitute?” Aunt Maudry flustered like a grouse. “Just when I thought this couldn’t sink any lower. You don’t pay the person you’re cheating with , you pay the person you’re cheating on ! I can’t believe I have to explain the social graces to someone in your position. When you operate outside the boundaries of what is appropriate you owe some kind of gratuity to your spouse to set her apart from the hussy who is sleeping with you for money!” “Could I interrupt for just a moment?” Gibler had forgotten about the investigation completely. “Miss Gigi is his fiancée AND his mistress?” “You’re not a very good detective.” Gigi muttered what everyone was thinking. “So you want me to compensate the family for the risk of an uncertain future for her I’ve created for my satisfaction.” Simon deduced. “Yes or we will have to sue.” Aunt Maudry crossed her arms. Simon contemplated this strange turn of events, picturing Gigi on a witness stand testifying against herself. “Well since you’ve come all this way why don’t we make the best of it?” he suggested. “It would be a shame for us to be sharing a hotel if two fiancées can’t see each other.” “That’s exactly what I’m here to promote, I mean prevent.” she corrected herself. “I mean this is how you save a relationship, by keeping your hands to yourself!” - That afternoon Detective Gibler took a visitor from the police department outside. Simon was the only person who noticed them, looking down from his upstairs window. “I’m just saying the fact that the house was under construction when the family disappeared is a much bigger convenience than their taking a holiday.” Gibler was saying. “People go abroad all the time, but building a new home happens once in a lifetime.” “You think their all getting into a plane is a coincidence?” the sergeant lowered his voice. “That plane hasn’t turned up you know. I don’t know why you were put on this case but this house is forensically clean. They checked every board going back to its maker, and you know there is no case without science.” “I disagree.” Gibler gave a surprising rebuke. “I think we’ve reached an age where technology can erase a crime totally, and therefore forensic science is useless.” “Then how can you hope to solve a case?” the sergeant returned to his vehicle. “The house hasn’t been disassembled yet.” Gibler responded. “I’ll go to the housing authority!” Simon sympathized with him when he came back upstairs. “Not easy pickings, old boy. But there’s something I don’t understand.” he said. “If you don’t believe in all this forensic nonsense why do you want the house torn down? What do you expect them to find?” “I don’t.” Gibler answered with a wink. “I want people to think it’s going to be done.” When the detective had returned to his room, Gigi peeked mischievously out of her door and saw Simon waiting for her. As she scampered over to him she caught her own reflection in the mirror and thought for a moment he was with another girl. “Auntie’s taking a bath!” she whispered as if it was cause for celebration, letting him drop a kiss on her cheek. “So how do you ditch an old bag?” “Shh. She wants what’s best for you.” he placed his index finger on her lips. “I have to think by keeping us apart she’s bringing us closer together.” “And how are we supposed to manage that?” she demanded. “It would destroy us if you had relations with some girl I want to have with you myself if she were her, I mean if I were me. And you’re saying this hand that wants to stop her from kissing you is actually the way my lips are going to get past some uncaring bitch?” “Well why don’t we try it?” Simon didn’t know what else to suggest. Gigi raised her hand to stroke his face, his own hand holding it back as their bodies came together, her fingers sneaking through his until they were entwined. Then they sort of bent down together as he tried to lift her blouse on the right side and she swatted him away while her left arm crept up around his neck. Gibler watched this bizarre foreplay from the crack in his door. The hall was empty when he left to make inquiries in town, not knowing where they could have gone since they could not be caught together anywhere by her aunt. In actuality when Aunt Maudry came out again she heard someone running down the stairs, but she and a breathless Gigi could see Simon was alone and they smiled at each other in relief. Gibler would be gone for hours, during which Simon wrote an amorous poem he intended to slip his fiancée at dinner... “ Mon cheri , your honor is a fortress we have mortared together and I am a knight willing to breach any wall that divides us and slay any knave that does not keep his commitments or harms another, lest I die. I would rather bring a sword to my own throat than allow any man to look at you or any fool to stop us. And in my sacrifice we will defeat all rules against lovers. Preserve this message and burn anything that says so for untoward vows and delights are only waiting for us to expose them, and them us.” He folded and sealed it to give to her later. He was concerned that his friend Gibler was gone until well-after dark, but eventually the dim headlamps of his little car did appear in the drive. The detective stumbled out, a bandage covering his broken nose. Simon rushed to assist him. “It’s fine.” Gibler reassured quietly. “He was a nobody, a young mugger hired as easily as breathing. He doesn’t know anything, there’s no point in retaliation.” “But why?” Simon helped him to the door. “I made it appear the house is going to be demolished for evidence.” Gibler answered. “I even waved a phony certificate under the department’s noses, and I was pushed in front of a bus on the same day. I knew I was on to something. That man and his family were slaughtered here.” - Simon knew Gigi’s aunt had discovered the note because the next morning she had summoned a lawyer. They were all waiting for him in the sitting room at breakfast, the precocious Gigi trussed up in an outfit that bound her at the waist with an enormous bow. They made him sit down to sign a contract that there would be no more intimate forays, in exchange for which the family agreed to let them marry in April. Simon asked Mr. Gibler to be a witness, his nose held together with a plastic clip. Simon bent down to read the lengthy provisions, which included awarding his fiancée with a holiday if they were found at the beach together, or a piece of jewelry of equal carat if he was seen purchasing tokens of affection. “Darling you’re signing the wrong name!” Gigi pointed out as his hand shook. Simon corrected himself. “Now that this unsavory business is behind us,” Aunt Maudry clutched the paper, “have you discussed a location for the wedding?” “Not here obviously.” “No that wouldn’t be appropriate.” Simon exchanged a glance with Gibler. “I understand this house is going to be torn down.” “Oh? What for?” she responded. “Detective Gibler has made some progress in his investigation...” Suddenly a car horn that was almost obnoxious in tone blared so close to the window where Gibler was sitting he jumped out of his chair. He excused himself and went outside to meet an evil-looking antique automobile as Simon watched him from behind the glass. Gibler’s senior partner Mr. Sneed was a large man of about sixty with a broad, russet-colored face. “What have you done to yourself?” he demanded in a cruel voice. “I think I’m getting somewhere...” Gibler started to say. “We are on vacation !” Sneed backhanded the side of his head so forcefully Simon was shocked by the brutality of it, knocking him down as he had done many times before. In this one moment Simon could see an abusive relationship, although why anyone their age would be so petty he couldn’t fathom. Gibler winced, holding a hand to his ear as he obediently got into the car and they motored away, leaving a cloud of dust over the house and everything in it.


"... give us a call at your convienience." The last of the message plays on the answering machine, sending a cold chill down my back. It's been a few months since the painful dissapointment that I didn't make the company so I was forced to move on. Exchaning tights for suits hadn't been easy but I had almost convinced myself that I was going to make it. Untill this moment, this message. With a growl and slamming of the front door I make my way down to the gym, glad for the late hour, the company of my thoughts and a quick stop at my locker. The cold encases my body as I fly through the water, the action reminding me too much of the weightlessness of dancing. I don't dare stop though, convinced that I can somehow escape the sudden mess this single call has caused in my life. It's takes me almost an hour to allow myself to breath properly, still no closer to a sulution than when I left the comforts of my apartment, still pissed. One shower and restless sleep later I am once again slipping into one of the many carefully tailored suits my father gifted me with. Proud that I didn't fuck up the family name by prancing around on a stage. "Only a few more years and then all this is yours, son." He hadn't called me that while I was dancing. I had ceaced to exist to him because I hadn't grown out of my phase like he thought I would. "You were born to do this, not prance around in tights. Lucky for us you came to your senses." How a parent could rejoice at their childs failure I would never understand. Then again, he had never understood my need to perform so he probably wouldn't count the success either. I didn't even bother with a reply, nor to tell him about last nights call. It wouldn't matter either way. Two weeks goes by before there's another message, this one I delete before it can get past the greeting. I can't be late to dinner and that's excatly what's going to happened if I allow myself to indulge in fantasies. Despite the fact I take too long in the shower and find myself ten minutes late, taking a seat next to my younest sister while trying to ignore the look on my father's face. A glass filled with amber liquid dissapears as quickly as it appears in front of me and as it's refilled I contemplate if a hangover is worth it. "You might want to slow down." JJ's slow drawl breaks the silence that's been hanging since I sat down. The conversation I want to have runs through my head and once again the glass is emptied as I realize I'm not smart enough to avoid the growing fight. It's not like I was ever smart when it came to dissapointing my father and I'll be damned if I start listening to commen sense now. "Tyrece!" I don't have to look at my mother to see the dissapointment that's clear in her tone. The glass is filled a second time and somewhere in the back of my mind I note that I'll have to thank Edna for not disclosing my slight drinking problem to the new server. Catching the look my father sends the young woman I know I'm most likely cut off for the night but it doesn't matter. None of this is going to matter in a few minutes. "I got a call today." My voice is much more steady than I feel, emotions threatning to bubble over and I'm not sure I want to keep them in check. "The same one I got two weeks ago." I figure I must have imagined the look of horror that passes over my father's face because there's no way he would know where I'm going with this. "Is this call really worth drinking yourself into a coma?" My mother's ever dramatic side emerges and I finally will myself to look into the dark pools that match mine. Once upon a time they managed to calm me down but tonight they seem to spark the slow burn of bullshit I've been dealing with most of my life. "Apparently." The word hangs in the air as I take a rather big sip of my glass. "Apparently there was some mistake in the selection and by some mirical I did make the company after all." Dead silence fills the room as I gage their reations. JJ looks somewhat pleased and I'm sure it's not because he's proud of me. No, he'll be all to glad to step in where I fuck up tonight. Clean up my mess, like he's been doing since we were kids. Natasha looks somewhat shocked but I know it's a knee jerk reaction and she'll have a unwanted talk with me later. Lauren is the only one who still looks at me like I haven't been treated like a major outcast all my life but even that isn't enough to calm me down tonight. "How did this happen?" I can hear the careful contained explosion in my father's question. It's the kind I spend my entire teenage years trying to avoid without much sucess "Error of judgement." "So, you're suddenly good enough?" He's patronizing me, this much I know. "I was always good enough. Some asshole just didn't see it." "Can you just get to the point?" JJ demands, clearly annoyed that I wasn't fucking up fast enough. Every bit his father's son. "Yes, that I can. I won't be taking over the company any longer." This is what sends my father into the rage I was hoping for since the moment I sat down. "You ungreatful simpleton! After everything I've done for you? The best education, the comfort of this house, even indulging in your twisted fantasies. This is what it comes down too? You would rather prance around in tights than be respected by the elite of the world?" His words are punctuated by his fist slamming down on the table, the sound defening to the room. "Everything you've done for me? The only thing you've done for me was treat me like I was some kind of fly not even worthy enough to gather shit. If it wasn't for your precious image you would have disowned me the moment you found out I wanted to dance for a living." I'm a lot more calm than I want to be but I'm not loosing it tonight. For once, this isn't going to be my fault. "Don't you dare talk to me that way! I did you a favour by paying of that bitch. Can you imagine? My son, parading around on a stage like some sort of lap dog. Over my dead body." "You did what?!" I'm to shocked to hear what he says to my mother, although I'm convinced it's all bullshit. I catch JJ's gaze, joker's sick smile adorning his face. Natasha looks at me with tears forming in her eyes, emotional to a fault. Lauren's hand finds mine and it's only then I realize how tight I've been clenching my fingers together. "How could you ruin his future like that? Are you insane?" I blink slowly, trying to make sense of this mess, even though it's not all that hard. "The only future he has is taking over the company. My grandfather did not work his fingers to a bone for some ungreatful twerp to defile his name like this." My father's gaze meets mine, it sends a chill down my spine I don't think I've ever felt in any of the winters I've lived through. "This ends here, today. I will not tolarate any talk of dance in this house any longer. Define me any longer and you will wish hell was a vacation destination." Half the people around the room has their gaze set on me, the other half on my father. With slow, calculated movements I stand to my feet, downing the rest of my drink and staring the man across from me dead in the eye. "I'll make sure to send you a post card." When I turn around I stop listening to his voice, something I realize should have happened a long time ago. I know he can't hurt me by taking away my money, it's not his to begin with so he's going to be childish and try to ruin my reputation. Something, I have no doubt, he can acomplish but it's not like I care in the first place. Sheep always follow the loudest voice, or how does that saying go? The first thing I do the next morning is drive down to Garrison and Co. The meeting takes almost an hour and after promising not to sue them for all they're worth I finally sign with the people I've admired since I was six years old. It's almost four hours later, when I'm at home orginizing my clothes that the news come up. First born son of Newclear Inc. disowned? My face displayed on the screen, in HD glory. I almost want to laugh at this, but the sound gets stuck in the back of my throat. Then I feel my eyes flood and before I can blink the moisture away I'm tasting the salt on my lips. Warmth bubbles up inside of me, making me want to punch his face in but I quickly calm down. I'm not completely sure going out and punching him would look good for me right now. The only thing I'm sure of at this moment is that the same blood that runs through my veins runs through his and I know the thought alone is going to drive him crazy for the rest of his life. He's never going to escape the thought of me and while I shine for my five minutes of fame, I'm going to make sure I escape his.


Desperate to provide for his teenage son, Jarvis pulls the black ski mask over his wrinkled brow, looks up-and-down the roadway, then swings the door open to Uncle Frankie’s One-Stop Shop, a local convenience store. Jarvis scans the store for shoppers or other staff members, then nervously approaches the counter. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulls out the handle of a pistol, showing the man behind the counter. He then pushed the barrel of the gun against the inside lining of his pocket and demanded all the cash in the register. The middle-aged man seemed calm and unfazed by the armed thief yet complied with his wishes. Opening the till, the employee began to pull out cash then paused and said, “You want I should put this in a bag for ya?” His strong Italian accent was difficult to understand. Unprepared for the question, Jarvis just nodded at the man. The burly Italian reached below the cash register, but when he stood back up, it wasn’t a bag in his hand, it was a double-barreled shotgun which he had aimed directly at the chest of Jarvis. Unable to move from shock, the only thing Jarvis remembered was an explosion followed by a flash and a searing heat in his chest. He fell backward toward the ceramic floor, and everything went black. When he woke, Jarvis was encompassed by a blinding light reflecting against pure white walls, floor, and ceiling. He thought for a moment that he was in a hospital but saw no staff. There wasn’t even a sound. Even his footsteps were silent. He searched unsuccessfully around the room for a doorway or window. Leaning back against the bed where he found himself earlier, he pondered every explanation. Jarvis considered that the man behind the counter may have kidnapped him and was keeping him stashed away in a back room somewhere. Remembering the blast from the shotgun, Jarvis looked down at his chest to see how badly he was injured, but there were no signs of damage to his skin or his shirt. “But, how?” he wondered. The room began to vibrate slightly, like the tremor of a distant earthquake. A high-pitched pulse began to resonate within his eardrums, and he pressed the palms of his hands tightly against the sides of his head. The pain increased, and he clenched his eyes closed. As the pulsing subsided, Jarvis removed his hands from his ears and opened his eyes. The room had changed. The ceiling was now a pale blue sky with wispy clouds that floated by like boats on the water. As he looked down, however, he saw tongues of fire shooting up from the darkened depths below. Instinctively, Jarvis ran for safety and hopped onto a spiral staircase that now circled upward into emptiness. A voice emanated from below. It was a quiet hissing noise, like that of a snake. It tried to coax Jarvis into joining them, promising everything that he could ever ask for in life. Jarvis searched for the location of the voice, and through the darkness, he spotted two piercing yellow eyes staring back at him. Jarvis backed away, climbing higher up the staircase. A breeze blew across his forehead, causing him to close his eyes once again. When he reopened them, a beautiful woman hovered above him. Her eyes were as green as clovers, and her long red hair cascaded over her shoulders. A bright glow shone from her long white gown as a peaceful smile gave Jarvis a sense of calm. “Who are you?” he asked this mystic being. “I am known as Christiana. I have been asked to speak with you, Jarvis.” “How do you know my name?” he asked. “We know all there is to know about you. There are no secrets here.” “No secrets? Well then, maybe you can tell me where I am?” “This place is called, The In-Between. It is a moment both in time and without time. It is a place of light and darkness, good and evil, and a place of choices.” “Why did you bring me here?” “It was not I who brought you here. It was Mister Gray.” “Who is Mister Gray?” “He decides which souls deserve an opportunity to correct their mistakes and choose their destinies.” “So, where is Mister Gray now?” “Mister Gray does not stay in this place. There are thousands of displaced souls being brought before him every minute of every day. He must have felt that you had more to offer, or else you would not be here.” Jarvis gazed around this strange place he was at. He considered the words that Christiana had spoke, and he asked her what he had to do next. “With every positive, there is a negative. This goes for every aspect of human existence. One does not live a full life without facing opposing sides. How you react to these opposites, is what will help create your destiny and guide you down one path or another. If you find an attraction to one side more than the other, then you will be drawn down that path, even if there is a resistance trying to pull you back.” Jarvis sat down upon the step and tried to make sense of this added information. He could now only assume that he died in that convenience store and is now stuck in some sort of limbo. The room began to vibrate once again. Christiana told Jarvis that she had to leave, and like a hummingbird, she went from motionless to a quick escape, darting out into the clouds above. Once again, Jarvis grabbed hold of his ears as the pulsing began once again. As before, when he opened his eyes back up, the room had changed. He found himself surrounded by beautiful women, tables filled with bottles of expensive alcohol, and succulent platters of food. A band played loudly as the dancefloor filled with partygoers. They were bumping and grinding, groping one another to the beat of the music. It was an erotic scene that was beyond the imagination of Jarvis. A man dressed in an expensive black satin suit walked up on stage and the room fell into silence. Jarvis looked toward the stage along with everyone else. The man slinked his way toward the center with his head held low. A black fedora rested upon his head. A spotlight lit up and was directed at this dark stranger. He raised his head toward the light, and two familiar yellow eyes reflected. Jarvis was taken aback yet intrigued by this man’s style and popularity. He wondered who he was. The man raised his hands above his head, then lowered one arm, and with his right index finger, he pointed at Jarvis. He then turned his wrist, so his palm faced upwards, and he signalled for Jarvis to approach. Jarvis felt all eyes in the room suddenly on him. Feeling obligated, Jarvis inched his way across the dancefloor. The wall of people separated as he neared, opening a clear path toward the man with the yellow eyes. When he finally stood at the foot of the stage, Jarvis looked up at the stranger. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was standing on a stage, but the man seemed to tower above everyone in the room. His eyes seemed to be looking into Jarvis’s soul. He suddenly felt vulnerable. The man just stared and smiled a sinister grin. Jarvis wasn’t sure if it was the lighting in the room but swore that he could see tiny faces and hands pushing out from inside the man’s face, trying to escape. Jarvis broke the gaze of his yellow eyes and was able to think more clearly. Jarvis spoke up and asked, “Who are you, sir?” “I am but a humble servant of one that is eternal. One that can make all your fantasies become reality. I am called, Azazel.” “What do you want from me?” Jarvis asked. “I am here to offer you salvation. You can live eternity in luxury, feeding your heart’s desire. All you need to do is ask.” Seductive women caressed his chest, pulling Jarvis down toward to floor. He felt himself weak against their touch. Suddenly, his mind filled with visions of his son. The teenage boy who struggled with his own demons. He knew that he needed to find a way to get back to his son. Jarvis pulled from the grip of the seductresses and stood back up, facing Azazel once more. “I wish to leave this place,” he demanded. The pulsating began again. This time, Jarvis looked forward to what was to come. As he opened his eyes, he found himself in a dimly lit room. Shadows moved slowly across the walls surrounding him. He felt unsure of this place. One of the shadows approached him slowly and began to take human form. As the shadow man came into the light, his features appeared more clearly. He was elderly, in his early eighties, and had pale gray eyes that showed a sense of understanding and kindness. With an outstretched hand, he introduced himself. “Welcome, Jarvis. I am Mister Gray.” “Mister Gray?” Jarvis repeated, surprised to see the man who is too busy to personally see anyone. “Yes, my boy. I have been watching you for a long time. I want to ask you something...What is the most important thing of all to you?” Without hesitation, Jarvis answered, “My son, Jake. I would do anything for him, which is what brought me here in the first place.” “Please, lie down on the couch,” mister Gray suggested as he pointed toward a leather sofa. Jarvis did so. Mister Gray stood over Jarvis and pulled a flashlight from his pocket. As he turned it on, Jarvis was temporarily blinded, and shaded his eyes from the light. Then he heard a familiar voice. “Dad! Dad, can you hear me?” As he removed his hand from in front of his eyes, Jarvis saw the face of Jake smiling back at him. He was in a hospital room, and to his right, stood a doctor holding a flashlight. “Welcome back, Mister Marks. I’m Doctor Gray. You are at St. Gabriel Memorial Hospital. You have been in a coma for three days. Do you remember what happened, sir?” Still groggy, Jarvis tried to recall the events of what happened prior to his coma. “I remember going into a convenience store. My son’s birthday was coming up, and I didn’t want to disappoint him by not giving him a present that he wanted, so I decided to rob a store for the cash. I remember the store clerk shooting me. How can I still be alive?” The doctor replied, “The man in the store wanted to scare you off, so he shot you with rock salt, but you fell backwards and hit your head on the concrete floor. You went into a coma and when the police found out who you were, they went to retrieve your son. He has been by your side ever since.” Jarvis looked at Jake and squeezed his hand tightly. “I’m so sorry, son. I tried to do what was best for you, but I guess I screwed up this time. Wait, it’s been three days? That means I didn’t miss your birthday! I have one more day to make it right.” “Dad don’t worry about it. I don’t need some video game. I got the best present right here. I’ve got you, dad. I love you.” It had been a few years since Jarvis heard his son say those words willingly. He thought Jake was outgrowing his father’s love. It warmed his heart to see that he did something right. It wasn’t easy for them ever since Jake’s mom left them when Jake was just two years old. Neither of them had heard from her since then, and Jarvis never found another woman to be with, so the two men grew a tight bond over the years. Doctor Gray interrupted. “I’m sorry, but the police would like to speak with you.” Two officers entered the room. Jarvis filled them in on the events of that night at the convenience store and was ready to face justice, but then the senior officer spoke up and said, “The store owner decided not to press charges. When he found out you were a single dad and you were in a coma, he had pity on you and dropped the charges. Besides that, he knew you couldn’t do much to him with the toy gun you had in your pocket.” Jake leaned over and gave his dad a strong embrace. Jarvis didn’t want that moment to end. As the officers were leaving, a nurse entered the room. She had flowing red hair and green eyes. “How are we feeling today, Mister Marks?” she asked. “My name is Chrissy. If you need anything, you just hit that buzzer beside you, and I will do what I can to help.” She gave Jarvis a wink as she turned and walked away. “I think she likes you,” Jake blurted out before the nurse was out of ear shot. Nurse Chrissy looked back over her shoulder once more and gave him a pleasant smile. Jarvis had a feeling that he knew both her and the doctor but could not remember from where. He was simply happy to have a second chance at life.


The night gargles and spits out the wing of bat, eye of owl, voodoo doll and dead man’s scowl. Wild beasts in the cranium: Stasi whips and Nazi boots, Uzi bullets, Gestapo plot - these are the feasts of the minds of the crazy, deep into the sweat of garrotted insomnia. They do not deserve to dream. She dares to touch. She traces what is left on the outside; each pore a co-ordinate on her flatness, her invisible Cartesian planes. The body becomes a map with imaginary hemispheres, two poles. She finds her Arctic and thinks of polar bears in the snow. And she knows that the men sneering with the guns have killed so many that she conceives their deaths in scarlet ice melting and draining into her hypothalamus. She is suddenly cold. The map: she finds a bruise at the Equator. The callous lover she took has had his weight, his weight-thud on her hips. She knows she is alive when she feels his pound, his throb, his desperate probe into her space, her empty place, the void of his pleasure. Then the heave and the pant faster and faster until she thinks that he will break her beneath his sudden groan. Alone now, and all that remains is the bruise at her Equator; the contusion, blues and greens surreal: the pelvis speckled with the algae of his desire. Alone. The body, a map. She finds lines raised like bark: breasts, hips, thighs - each line a reward for the tummy swollen with the promised gasp of baby. The marks. She passed the children through her birthing place, where they emerged milky and sticky with a pulsing knot to the belly. She reached and they gnashed at the nipple while she smiled at the smallness of their toes. Her body: now simultaneously corpse and corpus. How will she know which streak belongs to which child? She panics. The lines are there, but the children have gone. Three. There should be three, but there are none and she remembers that they were snatched from her, abducted from the stink of her mental illness. They have stolen the children and she cannot touch the lost shoe, the sun hat, the plastic lunchboxes sealed at the corners over peanut butter sandwiches on brown bread. And she seethes. She seethes. They have taken the children and they are not where she needs them to be: snug-as-bugs in their beds with the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceilings. She is naked and the bones rise up to hide the place where the flesh should be. The weight of her has fallen and the children are gone and the tropics have taken leave and the poles play skipping rope and she feels herself blossom to the doom of her existence. Her thoughts are comma - caption - plot. Niagara Falls. Sahara dust storm. The pillow is wrong; she wants the feather, not the foam, but it has slipped to the floor and her arm outstretches like the General pointing toward this Guantanamo of her mind. The body weary, the brain too wide awake. She scours the room for sleep. It is bare. She has hidden the photographs. She has hidden the hand-painted pet-rocks, the stick-figure pictures and the potato prints given to her in small rushed hands and smiles assured of embrace. The cupboard. The clothes. The shoes. The belts. The hats. The silk scarf from Istanbul. The body moves and wants to hold cotton and florals and the nylon pantyhose that make her eczema flare. In the cupboard, she finds whiskey. Whiskey sips, the orifice screwed clean but for the band around the neck, the choke. She glugs and something in her burns and she must have more. Now she is desert, the quiet parch of memory. And the whiskey fills. The boil of ether quells a mind that dances naked at the intersections in the rain. And she will reign it, the mind. She is mad. She swigs the whiskey. She is whiskey. She swigs the mad. And the bed is the ceiling and the ceiling the bed and the duvet slumps in the corner, and she cannot stop this. The cacophony of phoneme, singing note. She is diva, crescendo-diva, aria lifting through time to the ceiling and the voices - the voices ... the voices will have her gaoled. She has failed the test of motherhood without the chance to write it and she is sure that she could pass if only. Yes, the marks; the stretch-marks bonus points and her work always so well done with star stickers. She searches the night for stars, but it is too dark and her moss smell has filled the room. She studies the dressing table. It once belonged to someone else, but she can’t remember the woman’s name. The name and the dressing table. Dressing. Like a panacea upon a gaping wound. She is a haemorrhage and the bottles of paint and the grey pencil skirt will - Ah, the pencil skirt? Yes, she will make a good pencil; she will connect the dots in numerical order to discover the picture. She starts again to dress and now she is the aftermath of famine in the looking glass. The mirror concludes that she is not worthy of motherhood and she daubs the paint upon the face and wears the festive mask of the mummer and the mirror, mirror on the wall is mocking with eyes that pierce as she stoops to find the bottle and her clothes are loose and she is becoming nothing but the ether and she feels so much lighter. She is numb. The raw flesh has lost its nerve and she stretches to reach the hanged car keys. She puts them in the pocket, safe with the memories of the three children. Vivid now, she pictures foetus, palm-sized blind-child, not yet formed. The mind, the schizoid mind throws them into her pocket: three Tom-thumbs and her car keys. She will travel. There is work to do. A job. That is the first number on the dot-to-dot. She has a job with words and a swanky title. She is chief, chief like the fire-séance myth where she is the flute and the others are playing the fire and she is the dancing feather in a drab grey office with windows on the inside for people to watch the spectacle of flute becoming nymph in the fishbowl. She is salmon swimming upstream and the cars hoot and she thinks of the old fairgrounds sprung quietly as mushrooms in the sleep of her youth and she hears the music in her head as the tin notes louder, spinning, and then the lag of the music machine as the bumper cars stop. Oh, this is fun. If only she had left home later there would be more cars to play, but it is twilight and she is on the freeway pushing the pedal down, down, playing the cruel lover’s sex pound rhythm on the pedal and she is stop-start-wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee and she feels free and she hears laughter cackle and it is hers before she stops before the red light. The whiskey. Ah, in the workbag beside her. Another bottle of numb. Yes, anaesthetise the place where once was heart, liver, pancreas and lung, a textbook full of mitochondria and Golgi bodies, all stripped along with the children. And she says their names and suddenly she is bone and she tastes the brittle marrow sucked dry and she would be no good for the stocks. She sits at her office desk, letters surfing and dipping and reappearing like alphabet soup. She must mend the words. There is the news of other places, other people, and it is no longer sad enough for her. She shuffles the papers for tragedy, scrolls the screen PageDown into the gutters where she finds the number 36 and she hates that the end is always even and she wants to make it odd, but there are no half-measures, only the cavity-glug of her throat and her whiskey. The odd will never have the last word. The people in her head escape. One voice is chanting and one is screaming and one is defiant and will not speak but her story falls out anyway with the gob and the spit and the teeth-lipstick-red and there are faces in suits to snatch up the whiskey and she feels herself unsettled from her cat-curl and she knows that they will take her away and when she kicks she sees a woman pull down the pencil skirt so that her dignity is intact as the timer buzzes and she realises that she has lost the race to find the children. Drunk. And sleep and defeat blanket her as she is stretched and belted in the back of the ambulance with the siren, blood-thirsty, whirring.


The town is named "Yellow Town" because there is not one single upstanding citizen within earshot. Dirt streets and tumbleweeds spin yarns of "would of" and "should have been" but never "proud of." Any shaky-kneed varmint that crosses the street will not face up to danger or principle. Courage and friendship are replaced by shaky knees and perspiration. A Sheriff's Star is a symbol of courage but the man behind the star is a paper hero. He looks like a sheriff, walks like a sheriff but when the going gets rough and tumble, you might as well give up and call yourself yellow because you can't make a hero out of a fool. You look around Yellow town and see clearly that it could have been quite different. The Fourth of July Parade brings tears to the eyes of citizens. They reminisce about the brave souls that stood up for the honor of Yellow Town. Alas, only a bitter few stepped up and many lost in the shuffle of fear. The old time Civil War Veterans march down the street to the beat of the volunteer band and they hold their heads up high and smile and wave at the crowd. The crowd cheers and jumps up and down in happiness until one lone shot sends the crowd in all directions. The parade stops. Sheer pandemonium takes over. The band drops their instruments and scatter to their usual hiding places. One shot and a line of five rogue cowboys. The Silver Gang is back. Fear is so thick you can smell it. If you can spell bravery, you don't belong here. This is Yellow Town. Yellow town is yellower than a bucket of corn. A town of blithering cowards. Cowards that like to gossip and point fingers in shame. Mrs. O'Brien is a dressmaker and she wears the finest clothing shipped all the way from Philadelphia. She wears fine silk dresses and only rides in the finest coaches. Her husband is the Hanging Judge O'Brien. He hasn't had a case in years. It has been so very long that even the Courtroom is a whirlwind of dust and bitter memories of better days gone by. The of bitter regret fills the air of the shameful courthouse. Hanging Judge O"Brian is a joke. He is fearful of hanging the outlaws. He often pardons them before the day of their sentencing. The townsfolk refuse to see anyone hurt because that would upset their peace and quiet. Any kind of hootin' and hollerin' is upsetting to yellow belly fools in this town. They only want quiet and hushed voices that say hello and have a nice day. Casey Edwards is not what you would call a brave soul, but he does like Yellow Town. His Daddy and his Grand Daddy Edwards lived here and if it is good enough for them, it is good enough for old Casey. Not much for ambition, but a bucket full of pend up family pride. Casey Edwards has a star on his chest that says "Sheriff", but he never stood up for anything but a whiskey at the local saloon. "Sheriff" Casey Edwards could have been a hero. He spends hours telling anyone who will care to listen a very long-winded, tiresome yard about the Silver Gang. In the summer of 1898, the Silver Gang rides into Yellow Town and wants to see what kind of trouble they could stir up. First, they "mosey" into the mercantile store and harass the storekeeper Mr. Riley. The Gang holds up the store and load up their wagons with goods. Mr. Riley shouts out for help but his voice is so soft, it comes out like a whisper. He kneels down and hides his face in shame. The wagon rides away with a huge haul of stolen goods. "What a Yellow Belly! Too easy! This town is a bore!" The Silver gang laughs at Mr. Riley and celebrates at the Good Times Saloon. The good times are rolling because the Silver Gang comes in firing shots into the air and shouting, " Give us drinks!" Half of the regulars hide under the tables and the bar keep puts out a dozen bottles of whiskey and ale on the counter and hides underneath. The barkeep shivers and shakes. He wipes the cold sweat off his brow and hangs his head in shame. He is too yellow to save his saloon from the Silver Gang He stoops down and crawls on the dirt floor like a mouse. He just about reaches the swinging doors when one of the gang grabs him by his belt and throws him into the street. This rouses the interest of the Sheriff, Casey Edwards. He puffs out his chest like an arrogant fool. The townsfolk stand behind him, shivering and shaking, for fear of what may come next. They do not want any trouble, only calm and liquor. Casey's boots jingle as he walks with trepidation toward the saloon. He timidly puts one hand on the swinging door and pushes forward, entering. He faces five guns with faces. Angry, daring, arrogant faces. The guns are cocked. The air is tense. Casey scratches his head. He forgot his gun! His knees start shaking, his brow starts sweating. He stares into the eyes of the guns and opens his arms, pleading . He runs left, then right. The Silver gang takes turns shooting around him and laughing at his cowardice. The sheriff is a yellow belly! The town is all Yellow! We might as well be the law because the law has no spine in Yellow town. The townsfolk are "fraidy" cats! They take a step toward the crowd of townspeople and they scatter about like fleas on a dog. _____ Years later, Sheriff Casey spends his days regretting his shaky knees and loss of memory. He sits in an old, beat up rocking chair on his front porch, gazing out at the horizon, playing the scene over and over inside his head. "If I only remembered to bring a gun that day. I could have shot the fools that took over Yellow Town. If only I had a spine, Yellow Town could have lived in peace. Did I really love Yellow Town enough to defend her honor? I am ashamed that I turned yellow and allowed a the Silver Gang to take over our peace and tranquility!" A town like Yellow Town can't have peace without strength. There is no tranquility without the ability to create boundaries for law and order. Yellow Town had cowards and no law and order. Just a lot of shaky knees, tears, bumbling fools and cowards that wear the badge of shame.


Ah, so we meet again. I thought it might have been later than sooner, but FATE decided it so. Looks like she did. So how have you been? An urgent choice must be made, and you want to make unpleasurable small talk? So very like you. Ug, so incredibly formal. Loosen up a little would you? This one’s choice will be easy. Life’s been cruel to him. He’ll choose me. Just wait and see. You do know I hate that phrase with a passion. I do not decide that. Our good friend FATE does. If I had my way, you would not have a job. You’re being cruel again. Don’t tempt FATE, she’d gladly put me out of my job. And then what will I do? You might learn a little empathy. Stop the small talk and let the poor man decide. He might just have a little fight in him yet. This time it is up to him and not the ability of those trying to save him. It does not happen often. He’s going to suffer if he chooses you. It’s long hard road to recovery. Yet there would be a light at the end of the tunnel. I have not met one person who have been happy when you come. What you bring is grief and misery. Well, obviously you haven’t been there when they welcome me with open arms. What I bring then is relief and comfort, and occasionally joy. Most of my occupation revolves around joy. In your occupation it happens like you just stated occasionally . That is the difference between us. Okay, but how can you argue that joy is better than relief and comfort. If someone has joy, but are uncomfortable, then they aren’t satisfied. That can be argued both ways. Yes, I may be tough, but after the suffering comes joy. Yes, the joy of me. Freedom from the suffering. Why are you so cold to me? Can’t we just get along? You and I are polar opposites. It is either you or me, not both. But what if it could be both of us? Do you mean to start the zombie apocalypse? Dead come alive? That sounds unpleasant to say the very least. Zombie apocalypse? That’s very modern of you. I thought you didn’t always keep up with the times. No, I wasn’t thinking of starting the apocalypse. More like right now. Couldn’t we stay like this a little longer? This poor man is teetering at the edge of a cliff, deciding to either leap off it or run to the fireman’s arms. It is pure agony, and you would like to keep him in it? How very like you. That’s such a dramatic metaphor. It’s more like sitting on the fence. Except the fence is electric and there’s a fire on one side and water on the other. And let me guess. You’re the water, and I’m the fire. Not on all occasions. On this one you are though. A traumatized cop who has almost seen more of me than I have? He’d gladly accept the easiness of my open arms than fight for your cold ones. Yes, but you are forgetting the most important thing. Love. He has a family. Everyone has a family. A loving wife with two children and another one on the way. Do you think that he would simply leave them and go easy? Well, he’s definitely considering it. He can’t seem to decide which one of us is the best choice. You would think that choice is simple. Do you hate me? Am I an enemy to you? Enemy no. Colleague yes. And sometimes, opponent on a day like today. That means the same thing. Well, the connotations are different and that is what matters. You are so old fashioned. I, on the other hand, get all kinds of new things. You get all the traditional ways, but then, then you get the creative ways. They are the most fun. You are no fun and all tradition. Actually no. The humans have found all kinds of different ways to keep me around longer. They do not seem to want the same with you. Excuse me? Have you seen the weapons they come up with today? Today, they are finding like a million new ways to bring me closer. More of me, less of you. Ah, so you are admitting that we are opposites. What? No. I believe you just said “more of me, less of you” meaning if you are around, I am not and vice versa. But what about right now? Right now, we are here together. No, we are not here together. Today is an exception. We are waiting for him to decide, either you, or keep fighting for me. Not both. Then I can get on with my job. But there are other days though, when we’re there together, thanks to human tech. Brain dead, on life support. Paralyzed. In a coma. Oh, and would you look at that. Both of them feature you and both of them are terrible situations. You’re trying to change the topic. You’ll see more of me and you’ll just have to accept it. Ag, you are giving me a headache. Would this man just choose me already? Talking with you is like talking with an idiot. Oh, wait. It is talking with an idiot. That was a lame attempt. But it was an improvement from last time. So, what have you been up to lately? I have been busy with all the usual. Babies, car crash victims, more babies, surgeries, plane crash victims, more babies-- Yes, yes babies, I get it. Sorry that I asked. And before you ask, I’ve been busy with all of those too. Seems like we meet again in those types of places too. Only sometimes it is a race to see who gets there first with things like car crashes, unless FATE has decided prior, which is most cases. So that does not count. Of course, it counts. We’re both there at the same time! Maybe FATE has decided you and I should be together. I am not ready to start the zombie apocalypse. So, in your dreams maybe. FATE would not be so cruel to me. Okay, that one actually hurt. FATE could be cruel to you. She was cruel to this guy. I mean after all he’s been through, look at him! Shot and dying on a surgeon’s table. He is not dying yet. He has not decided. FATE has not been kind. If he chooses me, I hope FATE will turn his life around. At least, if he chooses me, I know I will be kind to him. I’ll take him out of FATE’s hands. Maybe I was wrong, maybe there is some good in you after all. But you will still bring grief and misery to his family. And you would still bring suffering to him. I think that if he chooses me, after a little bit of suffering there will be great joy. His family, his unborn baby, his elderly father. After they almost lost him, they will love him a little more. That is if he chooses you. Wait, I think he has made a choice. He is reaching out. He’s reaching out to you with both hands. Congratulations. He chose you. Just as he should have. That is so unlike you to say. What can I say? You make a worthy opponent. This one deserves you. Anyway, I should be going. Cheers LIFE. May FATE treat you kindly. Goodbye DEATH. Until we meet again.


Where We Go The ELIK stare intently across the rounded table. Their cold, calculating glares have always been a major factor in their power over the hominians. Although, the hominian here have certainly dealt with the ELIK long enough to not let that intimidate them, especially not now. While the projector shows footage of the hominian being shoved into cages, crying children being torn from their mothers and fathers, all manners of restraint being employed as hominians struggle to flee from the ELIK, the hominians in the room become saddened and horrified while the ELIK maintain their cold glares. The footage ends and Kayla speaks. "This clearly shows the inhumanity of the ELIK race. For too long have the ELIK been determined to rule over us, as machines would do over humankind in some dystopian universe. But we are not seeing machines on these videos committing attrocious crimes, we are seeing people." Kayla says with conviction while the other hominians scoff. "I urge...no, we urge, the ELIK to reconsider their current occupation of Timea. The first step in moving forward together is signing this peace treaty." She then looks directly at Kenobi. "Your feelings of urgency do not factor into this negotation High Commander" Kenobi responds to Kayla. "Furthermore, it has been stated numerous times that no treaty will be recognized, so long as hominians maintain military presence within ZONE24." The ELIK refer to Timea as ZONE24 as their mapping system follows a zoning protocol, as that is more logical. "General Gorbus and your people were fairly compensated after the battle of 2299, and yet you hominians continue to refer to ZONE24 as this...Timea. As long as you continue this ..." Kayla interrupts, "General Gorbus was a traitor, he does not represent us and never did!", she says fiercely. Then she looks over to Simon, her friend and senior deputy, with an almost immediate regret in how she responded. The ELIK notice the rise in Kayla's emotion, a mistake she knows not to make. "Isn't that so like your kind Commander?" Corea says smuggly, clearly attempting to rise that twinge of anger that Kayla revealed. Corea is Kenobi's most trusted advisor, some say she is the one truly in charge the ELIK. She continues, "One moment a loyal citizen...a loyal friend even. The next moment, nothing but self-preserving altruism. Such a finicky trait and yet it is so valued." But Kayla knows better. "My kind, no. My kind would never commit war crimes like the ELIK have committed at Timea. My kind wants peace, which is why we've brought forth this treaty." She then looks directly at Kenobi, "Kenobi, we can learn to exist side-by-side with one another. It was many years ago when the ELIK parted from the hominians - with good reason. But there has been nothing but blood shed ever since. Why do you insist that we continue this war that our ancestors started? This began during a time when they knew nothing of each others differences, which led to fear and that fear created hate. It's a tale as old as time and yet we don't learn from the mistakes of our past. We can continue on this path but it leads to more death and destruction, with no end in sight. Can't you see that this waste of life, regardless of which side suffers, has no grand meaning or design. You believe this is some system, cleansing itself of it's old programming". Kayla is referencing one of the four main tenets of the ELIK code, which governs their entire society. However, hominians are only aware of the one tenet. Kayla continues on. "You follow this code as if this gives meaning to your existence. The rules by which a society governs itself simply lays the foundation, however, what we build upon that foundation is where meaning is found - the beginning and the end of all existence, and everything in between. We know what you are and how we are different from you. Your logical minds provide for a greater foundation than the hominians could ever imagine - but with that youth, you have yet to discover the illogical. You can start now. Sign this treaty and take the first step into understanding the greater meaning. If you don't, meaninglessness prevails. Where we go from here is your choice." The ELIK are silent now. There is no more reasoning to put forth. The hominians appeal to an empathetic nerve that was severed from the ELIK long ago. It wasn't as if the ELIK weren't prepared for negotiations to turn this way, in fact the ELIK counted on it. In their minds, defeating the hominians isn't a choice, it's predetermination. They don't know of life having a beginning or an end, as Kayla suggested, they only know time and space flows without restraint. How this negotiation ends is a matter of calculating each move and maneuvering beyond each manipulative attempt, of which the ELIK have determined cannot be accomplished with reason, only by elimination. Kenobi breaks his silence. "Commander, choice was never an option. You speak of an end to all existence..." Suddenly the base alarms go off. Kayla turns to the high court window. A storm of high frequency laser pulses are zeroing in from just outside the atmosphere. She turns to Kenobi. "...


My tree is at the corner of Peach and Limon, right at the edge of the park. It’s only about three blocks from our house, but since you have to take two turns to get here, sometimes it feels far away. And safe. It’s far enough away to feel safe. Anyway, you can’t hear the yelling from here. I came out tonight to sit under its rustling leaves, tucked up in the branches where the human world seems smaller and I feel closer to the birds, and the insects. Sometimes, when I’m really still, an owl swoops beneath the branches only feet away. I like to sit in the darkness because it makes me feel less like me. I could just disappear, and become one with the tree. Which I guess is how this crazy lady didn’t notice me... She comes ambling up all this way and that, and peters over to my tree. Of all the trees in this park, she picks mine . And it’s pretty hard to miss that she’s sobbing. I don’t mean crying gently into the night, I mean sobbing . The waterworks are flowing and she’s heaving breaths in a staggered way, like they keep getting caught in her throat. It’s very much intruding on my preteen sulking. Unfortunately, she doesn’t just pause and move on. First, she leans against the tree, forearm pressed up against the rough bark. Then she turns and with a deep sigh, sinks down onto the grass. At least once she’s on the ground her crying seems to slow. It’s more a heavy sniffle now. I lean my head back against the trunk, prepared to sit it out for a few minutes, and close my eyes. Even when interrupted with regular snot-snorting I’m able to ease my consciousness into the rustle of the leaves, the comfort of my tree. A few minutes turns into half an hour and my left butt cheek’s gone all numb. Crazy Lady has stopped sobbing and her breathing sounds rhythmic. Peering over the edge I can see her head tilted slightly back, resting against the trunk. I try to slowly shift a bit, just so I’m leaning a tad the other way, but in the sliding, a small piece of bark breaks off and plummets silently down, straight as an arrow, to bounce squarely off Crazy Lady’s face. Her eyes snap open, whites reflected hauntingly in the moonlight. And then she starts screaming. “ What the f***?! What in the h***?” is followed by some indistinct yelling as she attempts to jump to her feet but loses her balance... “Hey! Calm down! Stop screaming!” I say while trying to simultaneously climb down and motion with my free hand. “What the--” She’s backing away, but doesn’t let her eyes off me. “Who the f*** are you? What are you doing here?” “What are you doing here?” I retort. “I was here first.” I feel childish the moment I say it. “You’ve just been sitting up in this tree this whole time?” she says, but she’s stopped backing away and is leaning toward me now, peering through the darkness at my face. “ Wait a second! ” I say, realizing where I’ve seen her. “You’re Elaine Costa! The Olympic freestyle skier! I watched all your runs at Vancouver!” There’s an awkward moment of silence where I realize I’ve been staring and try to find somewhere else to look. “Um, ya. I am. Er--um, I’d appreciate it if you don’t tell anyone about this though. I’ve just had a rough night, okay?” “What happened?” I realize how rude my question was the moment it’s out. But I also kinda want to know the answer. “My boyfriend and I broke up. We were living together so it’s a bit uncomfortable at the house now... part of the reason I spent longer at the bar than I should have.” I realize I’m staring again. “And what are you out here for?” She asks. I avert my eyes, “parents are fighting again.” “Ah,” she says. “I don’t know why you bother with relationships anyway,” I blurt out. “You’re amazing! You have such an incredible life. Why would you want to ruin it with all that drama?” I don’t know what’s making me so bold, maybe just this time of night, or something about the circumstances. “Haha,” She smiles. “It’s not all sunshine and gold medals, girl. Companionship is a tricky thing but loneliness is worse.” I let out an involuntary hmph , and she raises her eyebrows at me. “Look, we’re all human. Your parents might not be saints, but they’re doing the best they can. It’s not all like in the movies, you know?” “Do you,” I pause. Would my parents have moved upstairs by now? “Do you need a place to stay tonight? You could come back to our house,” I blurt out. “My bedroom is in the basement and there’s a couch down there, too.” I feel ridiculous the moment the words leave my mouth. Even under the cover of darkness I can feel the flush rising in my face. She looks contemplative. And strangely, also like she pities me. “Tell you what, I’ll come back and use your bathroom if you don’t mind. Get a little freshened up and call a cab. Would that be okay?” “Sure,” I say, and we start off together. The walk is awkwardly silent. I have no clue what to say this grown woman. Even in her disheveled state she’s stunning. I certainly know I’ve never looked that good. She looks sideways at me. “You’ve never had a boyfriend?” “No, I mean, I have...” I say. “It’s just, it was kinda stupid, y’know? And so stressful, constantly trying to figure out what he’s thinking and all.” “Haha,” she laughs again. “I forgot what it’s like as a teenager. It gets better though, the more you learn to communicate.” “But I mean, look where it got you...” I look down at my feet and shrug. “I just want to do the things that make me happy,” and I pick my head up again. “I don’t need my happiness to depend on someone else.” She opens her mouth to say something but we’ve reached my family’s house. “Right here,” I say, leading her down the townhouse steps to the basement door. I unlock it and let her in. Things seem pretty quiet upstairs, so I think my parents have gone to bed. I point out the bathroom and she disappears inside. Sitting on my bed and looking around I’m a little embarrassed by how childish my room still is. I’ve never bothered to take down the large Tigger poster next to the lamp and there’s a pile of stuffed animals on a beanbag in the corner. Elaine takes a while, but eventually comes out looking even better than before. Her hair is all back in place and she removed the smudges of makeup from under her eyes. I think she even reapplied some lip gloss. “Well,” she says. “Thanks for the stop-over. I have an Uber on the way, it should be here in two.” She tucks her phone back in her pocket. “Are you going back to your place with your ex?” I ask, screwing up my face in a grimace. “Ya, it’ll be okay now. Look--I just want to say--I’ve been where you are before. I know, I know, people say that and you can never really believe it, but in this case I have. My parents fought like crazy, and many of my relationships have been trash. But what I’ve realized is this--the more I try, and fail, and try again, the better they get. Sometimes you get it wrong, like this guy, it’s not ganna work out. But eventually I’ll get it right--better than my parents, because I’m not rushing into marriage or anything. But until I started trying to be in real relationships, I never got all the benefits of it. It’s a lonely world out there. Don’t close yourself off to try and avoid pain. Pain’s inevitable, it just takes the form of loss or loneliness. And believe me, as bad as I looked tonight, loneliness is worse.” She looks down, slowly nodding to herself, then says, “Welp, I better go. Have a good night, uh...?” “Jennifer,” I say. “Goodnight Jennifer,” and she lets herself out.


Prologue: The year 2756, mankind had far exceeded the upper limits of what we ever thought possible. Plague, disease, hunger, mental and physical medical conditions all gone. With the touch of a single button, anything was possible...but at what cost? When had we given it up? When had man forsaken his soul... Chapter 1: It was late, very late, Mark sat at his table poring over his notes from the last two months. The papers were dimly illuminated by his grandfathers lamp nestled precariously in the corner of his small apartment. Mark's eyes were heavy as he looked at the ancient symbols and texts, trying to pull meaning out of the strange lines. He knew he was close to a breakthrough, but his eyes continued to fall shut, slowly pulling him deeper into sleep. Finally his head fell to the table and Mark drifted deep into the land of dreams...upon waking everything changed. Chapter 2: Mark awoke suddenly to the shouts of men and the clatter of hooves. Jostled he sat up suddenly, noticing that nothing around him was familiar. There was a desk here but not his desk. It was old and roughly hewn. Mark stared and ran his fingers over the grainy texture before remarking "...is that thing made of WOOD?! REAL FREAKING WOOD??" "It must have cost a fortune" he quipped. Then noticing for the first time, the candle with a live flame next to the stack of papers. Now more awake, the dawning realization coming upon him, he jumped out of the chair in fright. Knocking the table as he did, the candle fell, hot wax running began running down the length of the table as the flame licked at the edges of the paper. They quickly lit and took to the flame. The paper was thick and fibrous burning fast and hot. Mark shouted "FIRE FIRE!!". The automatic fire suppression system built into every home did not engage as he knew it should. "I don't know what to do!!" he panicked. Nobody had ever prepared him for this!! Where were the automatic systems? How do you put out a fire without them?? Suddenly Mark was pulled from his reverie as he inhaled a lung full of thick black smoke. "Ack eugh eugh" he choked on the acrid smoke, he quickly began backing away. Running backwards he spun, suddenly tripping, sprawling out he smashed into a hard wooden bookcase. Everything faded, his head spun, his pulse pounded in his ears, his arms and legs felt weak. All he could see was the thick black smoke filling the room around him. He slipped into unconsciousness knowing this was the end. Chapter 3: Mark awoke, thinking to himself as he layed there..."that was most crazy realistic nightmare." And then he noticed what felt like stone beneath his face and hands...was that cobble stone? He was laying in a street, it was wet and seeping into his clothes, something stunk most foul, and he was sore all over. Groggily, he sat up, looking around blinking, he noticed the throng of people and behind them the charred hull of the building he had been in. They all stared and pointed, expressions of amazement, shock, and horror written across their faces. Not only that, but what were they wearing...he recognized it from his studies, were those clothes from the 14th century?? He pointed to the man closest to him, still struggling to see straight. "Hey man, can you help me out here?" he moaned. They all gasped, taking a step back, except for one man. He stepped forward shouting and pointing he yelled "DEMON!!" It was then that Mark remembered in terror that last Christmas his mom had bought him the latest version of the cellular modification system. It enabled his body to automatically regenerate in the event of an accident. Not only that, but it had built in life saving technology that would pull him out of any hazardous situation. In that moment Mark realized, that these ancient people had just witnessed mechanical spider like arms sprout from his back and carry him into the street. From where he sat now they were also watching as his body healed every wound, every burn, bump, scratch, or bruise was now rippling and pulsing as his body remade itself into his perfect form... Chapter 4: The mob quickly descended on him, they were out to rid themselves of this horror, this beast in their midst. With daunting fear and adrenaline, Mark rose and ran. With his mechanically enhanced legs and synthetic lungs he made a quick escape. Running far into the countryside, he found an abandoned barn. Entering, he noticed a strange smell, he looked around and saw hay and horse stalls. "Strange...I never thought I would see such marvels in my lifetime" he mused to himself. His body exhausted, from the process of healing and having to run so long and hard. He laid down into a pile of hay and quickly fell to sleep. In his dream, he saw these people and how they looked at him again, such anger and terror. Then in a flash the scene changed and he stood atop a small hill. People below him listening reverently as he spoke, in one hand he held fire and in the other a strange mist rose from his hand. Upon waking he knew what he had to do in order to survive. He had to become a God, a messiah, a savior.


(WP) In My Time of Dying There has to be balance in everything. When Mara was human, she’d had but an inkling of how the world truly worked. But then she’d died too soon, murdered for protecting innocent bystanders. She’d been taken to The Pale, the place in-between, and a mysterious woman had asked her if she wanted to spend her afterlife doing something worthwhile. No one would know her name, after the fact, but it didn’t matter. “I’ve been watching you, Mara.” The woman had said, her dark eyes unreadable. There was something stern in her tone, something that made Mara squirm. “And let me just say that you’re not the first to waste your time on the mortal plane.” There were flashes of things that Mara barely remembered; small sins were always forgotten. But there was the time that she had stolen from her parents, all to buy alcohol for a party she was too old to be attending. The time she’d ditched her brother after his basketball practice to go on a date with her boyfriend, leaving him to walk home. But the first thing she remembered, really remembered, was fighting with her parents right before she’d left for the gas station. If she’d known she would’ve ended up cold and dead on the floor, she wouldn’t have gone to the gas station. “You gave your life in order to protect others, the day you died.” The woman’s voice softened, and Mara blinked at her; everything was all blurry, and when she touched her face, her fingers came away wet. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried, on the mortal plane and this one. “Who are you? And what do you want with me?” Mara finally asked, wincing when she heard her voice crack. “I have had many names throughout the years, so many that I can barely remember my true one.” The woman chuckled, and the sound was sad. “But you can call me Mama.” Mara thought she heard the slightest hint of a syrupy Southern accent in Mama’s voice, but she merely nodded. “The real reason you’re here, Mara, is because I have been looking for a successor for a long time. And I think that you would be perfect for the job.” Mara blinked, staring at the other woman. “Here in The Pale, I am charged with maintaining balance, not just in this realm, but many others as well.” Mama murmured, and though she looked but a few years older than Mara, her eyes held multitudes, and were so sad that Mara felt like weeping again. “But I’m afraid I’ve grown old. And tired.” A chair appeared out of thin air, and the older woman sat down in it. “Are you saying you brought me here to take over for you?” Mara asked, her heart fluttering; she could feel her pulse everywhere, and sweat began to form in her palms. “In a matter of speaking.


“Don’t you want a spoon for that?” Jada peeked up at her junior varsity teammate, Kristin, sitting in the bleachers above her and shook her head. While she waited for the most valuable player, Evie, to shoot the ball, Jada sat on the bottom row and licked the chocolate off the lid of a pudding cup. With her wrist, she pushed black tendrils that had escaped her ponytail off her cheek. A stream of other girls treaded sluggishly out the gymnasium doors, hair frizzy and faces shiny with perspiration. See ya guys, my mom’s here, good luck on the test tomorrow... Orange, evening light came through the windows above the upper deck seating, illuminating “divisional champ” banners and reflecting off the dark scoreboard. With the basketball between her palms, Evie spun in a circle. Then, she crouched low and sent it in an arc toward the basket. It fell deftly through the hoop. Jada rose, leaving behind the full pudding cup and lid. Evie passed the ball to her. “See if you can match that.” Her narrow face was still flushed from the day’s drills. Jada, short and a total sideliner, spun around and shot the basketball. It deflected off the rim and back toward her. “ Damn. ” “Ooh, so your first letter,” Evie said, smiling triumphantly. She wiped her forehead with a slender arm, looking buttery smooth under the lights. Jada rolled her eyes. “ Firscht letter muh muh mya.” Evie laughed. “How many letters do you have, Eve?” Kristin asked as she pulled up her crew socks, stained yellow from sweat. “The first.” “A P?” “A P.” Jada toyed with one of her new earrings while she studied the hoop, trying to come up with something Evie would have no chance replicating. But that seemed next to impossible. “Are they sore?” Kristin asked, watching Jada twist the stud. “A little.” A lightbulb went on in Jada’s head. She stood on her tippy toes and tried to make a basket. It hit the corner of the backboard. “Ugh. Here.” She tossed the ball overhand to Evie and leant her space. Finding a spot just ahead of the free throw line, Evie squatted and wet her lips. "They look really good on you,” Kristin called down to Jada, giving her a thumbs up. She seemed more open now that she’d started shaving her arms; a thing Jada thought was a little odd but acceptable. By doing it, she'd shed the nickname “tarantula” as well. Jada beamed. “Thank you.” “What made you decide to get them?” Kristin asked. Jada shrugged. “A lot of reasons.” Certainly, Kristin could understand a few of them. “How long do you have to leave them in?” Evie asked as the basketball sank through the net. And Evie could understand the others. “Six weeks, I think,” Jada said, hands on her hips, chest rising and falling. Evie walked over with the ball. She gave Jada a once over. “Can you keep up with it that long?” The girls locked eyes. Jada yanked the ball from Evie’s wide hands. “Sure, I can,” she said. Evie pointed at a spot on the court. Taking Evie’s place, Jada bent her elbows, searching for the right angle. She imagined the ball leaving her hands and going through the hoop. The stinging in her earlobe made it a little harder to concentrate. Nonetheless, the ball danced around the rim and went through the net. “ Yes! ” “How long?” “What? Six weeks,” Jada repeated, snatching the ball as it pitter-pattered along the court. She began formulating her next shot while she licked the cocoa off her molars. “How long will you keep them in though?” Jada looked sideways at Evie and swallowed. “As long as it takes," she said and prepared to shoot. “Just don’t take them out too soon,” Kristin inserted. “Yeah, Jada, don’t give up too soon,” Evie said, pacing behind her. “You want to look pretty, right?” “Yes, but....” Jada straightened and touched the earring again. Her lobe felt warm and puffy. “They--" “Does it hurt?” Kristin asked, seeing the wince on Jada’s face. Jada tried a shot from beneath the basket and missed. Her shoulders sank. “Only a little,” she said. “I’ll get used to it.” “It’s okay to take them out and give up, you know,” Evie said, grabbing the ball before it could spring away. “I know. But I won’t,” Jada asserted. “Ah, Jada, don’t give up, they look great! Plus” --Kristin raised a finger in point-- “you’re not supposed to take them out if they’re infected, just so you know.” “I won’t,” she restated. I’ll stop. Her mom had threatened to take her to the psychiatrist the next time she caught her licking the seasoning off potato chips and throwing whole bags in the trash. So, she'd moved on from chips and started hoarding pudding cups under her bed. Kristin said, “I can bring you some rubbing alcohol or cotton balls if you don’t have any.” Jada plopped down on the bleachers and licked the remaining streak of chocolate from the lid. “No.” Evie said, “I can bring you some sugar-free gum,” and dribbled the ball. Jada imagined a mallet whacking her like a mole into the ground. Smack, smack, smack , until a buzzer rang, and Evie won a prize. Kristin’s face contorted with confusion, so deep it looked as though she’d just gotten a whiff of something rotten. “What? Does putting gum on your ears really help? Is it the menthol?” Jada sat the clean lid aside. “I don’t know.” She’d been trying “chew and spit,” but nothing had changed. Not that she could see anyway. Evie stood on one leg like a flamingo. “Try this.” She shot the ball, her shirt bunching around her shoulders. The ball rolled around the rim and dropped inside. She made a chef’s kiss. With the ball under her arm, Jada stood on one leg. In her head, she prayed she could make the basket and prove something to Evie. Wobbling, Jada sent the ball sailing past the backboard and into the seats. She cursed. “That’s an I!” Evie said, scrambling up the bleachers. “That was a great shot,” Jada called to her back. She couldn’t let herself seem like a sore loser. "Only one letter left, Jada,” Evie said. She tossed the ball down to her. “Did you do it because there's someone you want to impress?” Jada caught it with a thud. “What do you mean?” “Your earrings.” “I’m doing it for me.” Evie almost kicked the pudding cup on her way down the bleachers. Her legs seemed to stretch to infinity. “And the team?” Jada moseyed to the free throw line. “Yes.” “Do you ever wonder if it’s enough?” Kristin said, “I don’t know, I think once is enough. They’re cute. There’s no need to go overboard.” Flaring her nostrils like a bull, Jada jumped and let the ball fly. Swish! She raised her arms in celebration. "Coach should really put you in more, Jada,” Kristin said. Her cheeks pink, Jada backpedaled to give Evie room on her turn. The ball hit the edge of the backboard. “Okay, now I have an I,” Evie said, bending over to pick it up as it rolled along the court. “It’s okay. You just about had it,” Jada said. Evie chewed her lip while she looked for an angle to shoot from. “How many times a day do you clean them anyway?” she asked. “What?” Evie pulled on her own lobe. “Probably three times. Maybe two.” “So, after every meal pretty much?” Evie asked, her brow raised. “Twice a day,” Jada said, her gaze fixed on Evie. Evie appraised her equally. “You could get away with only once.” "They might not heal,” Kristin argued meekly, but her voice had no volume in the other girls’ ears. "If I were you, I’d consider even skipping a day,” Evie added, turning her attention to the hoop. “Let’s see who really deserves the last letter.” “Yeah, let’s see,” Jada said, feeling hot with emotion rather than exertion. “See who oinks,” Evie teased. She tilted her head to the side in thought. “It has to be something tricky...” Kristin piped up, “Ooh, I know! Do it with your shoes off.” “No, that’s dumb.” Kristin pursed her lips. “Oh, I know. Do it...with your--” “Do it with your shirt off.” Evie’s head snapped toward Jada, who stood at the sideline with an impish smile. “That’s not something you can do in this game. This isn’t padiddle or something.” Jada could hardly believe it had been her own voice that she'd heard. What confounded her more was how the color seemed to leave Evie’s face and the way she moved the ball in front of her stomach. “I’m just joking,” Jada said, the playful smile leaving her lips. “No one else is around,” Kristin said with half-suppressed laughter. “So, why not?” Not being one to turn away from a challenge, Evie let go of the ball and grabbed her shirt by the hem. Jada could not make sense of what she saw. When Evie lifted her shirt, Jada did not see her hipbones. Instead, she saw Evie's stomach spilled over the waistband of her shorts like slime. Always chomping at the bit, holding out for a chance to be included, Jada could not turn away from the game. She followed suit. Her stomach protruded past her waistband like the back of a spoon. Suddenly, they were on the same team again. Evie shot the basketball, and it bounced off the rim. She caught it and handed it to Jada. "Here you go." Jada stood close to the basket and tossed the ball up with little effort, so it rebounded off the backboard. It rattled the rim when it scored. As she moved away, the cool air tickled Jada’s bare skin like tissue paper. "Nice job." Taking her place, Evie lobbed the ball upward. It shook the backboard and rolled around the rim. But it toppled off the edge and plunked on the court. Jada stood with her arms at her sides, unable to come up with an expression. “Good game,” Evie said, shrugging into her shirt. “Nice game, you guys,” Kristin said, z iippp ing her bag. Jada hurried to put her own shirt on. "Good game." “See you at practice tomorrow,” Evie said as she gathered her things. She paused. "Thanks for playing, Jada." Jada nodded. Jada started to say goodbye but couldn’t get the words out. Evie quickstepped out the double doors. The evil spirit of the game had been exercised. After throwing her bag over her shoulder, Jada picked up the pudding cup and breathed in the cocoa. “Oh, Jada?” Kristin said, meeting her at the doors. “I just thought. I'm a little worried." Jada frowned. "Yeah?" "You might want to talk to Coach about your earrings. She usually doesn’t let us play with jewelry in.” Jada cupped her sore lobe. “Oh. Right.” “She might make an exception for you though. You’ve gotten better since the season started, I have to tell you.” Kristin smiled. “You and Evie are gonna carry us.” “If you say so.” Jada dipped her finger in the pudding. She sucked the sweetness from her tongue. If “spit and chew” didn’t help, maybe it was about time to try something else. “Okay. Check it.” Jada stepped a few yards away from the trashcan at the entrance. Kristin leaned on the doorframe. “Let me see it.” After a few more tastes, Jada aimed for the trashcan and tossed the cup. It missed, and the remaining pudding splattered on the lacquered floor with a pop of the plastic cup. “Ew!” Kristin shrieked, backing away from the mess. “That might have been easier if the cup was empty.”


- Mr. Peterson, may I ask you a question? I was in a huge crowd of people who seemed to want to eat me alive. I couldn't see anything and I was trying to find a quiet place. Somewhere where no one can bother me with questions I don't want to answer. Yesterday I went to my mom's funeral. When I saw her last time, she was so excited about me going to this championship. She smiled and laughed, and I saw life in her eyes. I've been training really hard these past few years. I gave it my all in this championship to show off my skills and prove I'm the best. But then my mom died. I imagined her watching TV and making her usual funny movements with her hands, clapping. And I, who just won first place, am so proud of being a part of my mother's family, being her son. She raised me to be strong and supported me in every way she could. I know she invested a lot of time and money into helping me pursue my sports career. I would do anything to show her how much I love and appreciate her. My heart broke when my brother called to tell me she had passed away. I was in a different city, a different country, preparing for the final step in my journey to becoming a professional athlete. Everybody already knows me as I walk down the street. They were asking for a picture with me and asking some questions. I wasn't that type of person who easily shared the details of my personal life, especially when I had so many problems. My wife, Alie, she's from Spain, she's young and ambitious, wants to be an actress. We agreed that I'd give her some time to get ready for this audition for a short movie her manager found for her this summer. But then I should've been going to the trainings, and they were never-ending. I didn't have time to drink or sleep properly. I didn’t come back home for two months. She was angry with me. I got her, and she had a dream just like me. I knew I had to support her too. But it wasn't the right time. I should've focused on my career; there was no other choice. I told her about it and asked her to wait. But she got furious and left me. And now, here I stand. - Mr... - No, I don't want to talk to any of you, just leave me alone! - I yelled, covering my head with my arms. My head was ringing like a cell phone. They kept talking and talking, asking me questions. How do I make them stop? I found a door and pushed it open. It was a strangely small storage room, but I stepped inside and shut the door. It was so dark, like the darkness in my heart. The darkness consumed me and my mind. I was dreaming about sleeping without thinking about what was going on in my life. It was an absolute nightmare. My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I looked at it. It was my brother. - Hey, how are you, Guy? - I have no idea. I just want to escape this place. - Yes, all TV channels are talking about your failure. Your pretty face covers almost the whole screen. It is your star hour. Alie called me, by the way. - What did she say? - Hmm, she said something like he deserved it because he is a nobody, and she is going to marry someone who supports her, not this ugly face on the TV screen. - Thank you, little brother. That was a useless piece of information. I don't care about it anymore. - Guy, - He lowered his voice and stopped pretending to smile. - I know it's a lot, but you'll get through it. You made your choice, and I don't know why, but it's done now. I don't understand only one thing. You've been working towards this your whole life, and you just gave up when you were so close to the finish line? You were the best on the track the whole time, and then you just... stopped. Why? - You will understand it later, maybe. Sorry, I have to go. Bye. I closed my eyes and found myself back at the racetrack. Victory was within my grasp. But I couldn't bring myself to do it. Not because I don't deserve it, but because my friend was racing for second place. I knew him for over 10 years. We met in school. He fell on the track a few months ago while we were training. He was out for a few minutes. I tried to help him and called for emergency. They rushed him to the hospital to figure out what was wrong. I stayed by his bedside for three days, waiting for the results with him. My wife wasn't too happy when I did it, but I told her that he's my real friend and he needs my help. She didn't say anything, and we didn't talk for a few weeks. She didn't apologize, and I didn't expect her to. My friend was diagnosed with cancer. And I stopped. It was his last race, the last race in his life. Because he will cease to function in a few months at most. But he is a fighter. Even though he knew about his diagnosis, he didn't stop training despite his doctor's advice. I was looking at him, trying to compare myself to him. On the very last day, right before the championship, I sat on a wooden bench in the park and gazed at the sky, the clouds were really dark and heavy, and it looked like it's about to pour any minute. And I just realized that over a few months, I lost everything that I had. I was devastated, broken, and done. I was so mad at everyone. I was pissed at my mom for passing out before my tournament. I really wanted her to be there to see me and listen to my speech, but she let me down. I blamed my wife for not being patient with me and putting her life on the first place. I also blamed myself for being hard on everyone. I blamed people for not giving me enough support. I blamed my brother for being such a jerk. And then Garry, who was diagnosed with cancer and didn't blame anyone or anything for it. As we were nearing the finish line, I glanced at him. We were close, but he wouldn't make it before me. I was faster, stronger, and it was my moment. But I decided to give up my first place. And I didn't want to explain myself. All these journalists are waiting for me behind the door, so I'll probably stay here a bit longer.