I hurried a little faster, the brisk wind seeping through my coat collar. I adjusted my thick grey scarf. My cloth bag of groceries swung side to side, bumping into my hip and right thigh. The pointed edge of the cereal box inside kept jutting into me. I shifted my bag. That was better. It started to slightly rain. Damn, I thought. I hated getting my hair wet. My apartment was only up the street ahead. I’m almost there . Almost there to a hot shower and ramen noodles straight from the cup with my ingenious idea of freshly cut spring onions dropped in. Almost home. I burst into my apartment, and Callie was already there, winding around my legs. “Alright Callie, let me get settled.” She looked at me with her wide green eyes. She then sat down on her haunches, licking her black paws. As the comforting heat in the shower surrounded me, my thoughts went back to the grocery store. I was in the produce section, picking through the lemons. I felt like I was being watched, and when I looked up, there was a man in a long beige trench coat in the aisle in front of me. He had a piercing stare of green eyes that seemed to light from within. I gave him a combative, questioning glare back to indicate not to try anything with me, and he shook his head and turned out to walk out of the aisle and out of the produce section. He wasn’t carrying anything. --- So beautiful, and she does not even know it, her holding eyes of calm lake blue that have let out storms, gentle touch, strong pace I am in awe I get to see her again, I want to hold her and imbue her with the strength I know she has let her know... --- “Yes Mum. Yup, I am. No. Yup. Okay, I know. Bye,” I hung up and rolled my eyes at the over protectiveness of my mother. She was only making sure I was eating properly, taking care of myself. I was in the big city for the first time. “You’d take care of me, won’t you Callie,” I softly said, with her on my lap, my hands stroking her soft fur. Her green eyes reminded me of the stranger yesterday. I knew I had had to get away. To not be reminded of lost hopes and failed expectations, like the slowly dying tree I had bought for the house. Not see the colour blue, its pale cheerfulness calling out for a happy family. The laughter that once rung inside the walls were faded, memories collected like dust on the mantle. There had sat several photo frames. I remembered picking one of them up when packing. The frame was surrounded by seashells I had collected so diligently during our trip to Cuba the year before. We were tanned. We were in love. There were long, hot nights together, and lazy days out on the beach, side by side on the sand. Long walks hand in hand. It felt like that happened to another person in a different life. Was that really me in the photo? She looked beautiful, but there seemed to be a guarded look in her eyes, despite the smile. He had his arms around her, long dark brown hair spilled onto and over his arms. They looked the part. I remembered beginning to place the frame inside the box, the box that had begun to weigh heavily of souvenirs collected over the years, and then hurling it to the ground with an escaped cry. Several of the shells flew off the frame before the sound of glass shattering. Pieces of it were on the immaculate brown ash floor. It was how my heart felt. My soul ached for lost, and longing for more. I had left the room that had begun to choke me. It wasn’t ever going to be a family room. I had had to pull my tired body up the stairs, the depression made my feet heavy. I had crawled into the cold bed, grabbed the other pillow and hugged it tight to my body, a body that laid in fetal position. Remembering this, tears started to well up. I threw my phone onto the round table, Callie jumped off my lap, and I placed my head into my hands. Then I wrapped my arms around my empty middle. I sobbed heavily, the pain washing over me. I was mourning my emptiness. Of loss so deep I felt like I was submerged in the darkest depths of a bottomless ocean devoid of anything. I held my breath. The vibrations from my phone on the second-hand wooden table jolted me. I came up to surface for air. “Hello?” “Hi, this is Leslie from A.A. Claysworth Shelter. Is this Macy?” “Yes, speaking.” “We received your application of intent to volunteer. We’d like to ask you some further questions as to your interest and skills for the position of front-line support.” “Sure, of course.” For about the next half hour, I forgot the longing emptiness inside. I pictured myself with the young and old at the shelter, helping to serve hot meals and showing them their beds and locker spaces. I confirmed with Leslie about my starting date and hung up to silence again. I had to get out. --- I ran. Ran so hard that faces blurred, my heart pounding in my head. When I stepped up to the crosswalk, the bus pulled up. A face turned and instinctively I looked up. It was him, the one from the grocery store. --- I looked up from the steaming mashed potatoes and surveyed the room. It was dinnertime. A woman with a thick green knitted scarf was shoving mashed potatoes continuously into her mouth that it reminded me of that children’s game with the colourful hippos. A man wearing a black fisherman’s toque was looking around protectively, before taking a forkful of buttered peas. The room was fairly full, the three long bench tables occupied by hungry souls, some wanting more of their lives. I locked eyes with a young mother, who looked to be in her early twenties. My eyes travelled over to her baby, who was swaddled with a pink fleece blanket with smiling ducks on it. My heart leapt for the two, but at the same time, a longing sigh escaped. They had each other, at least. She with child. “Macy. Great job so far! Time to switch,” Tom, one of the volunteer leaders, called out with a nod of his head from across the food service station. “Sure, of course.” It was my turn to help Tom supervise the floor. Another volunteer took my place. I looked around, and like a beacon, I saw him. His head was bowed down; he was tucking into the beef stew. Then he slowly looked up, as if he felt my eyes on him. Again, those captivating eyes of green that seemed to strip me bare. As if he could feel my half-buried pain...I turned my head to another part of the room but still felt his eyes on me. What was up with this dude? I wondered. Why do I keep seeing him? I felt my feet moving toward him. My mind was foggy but my heart told me that I was going to be okay. I sat down next to him. “I think you know who I am,” he said. “Take this. Please.” The small black box that he had taken out of his long coat was pressed gently into my hands. I gingerly took the lid off, and inside laid an antique-looking silver necklace, with a heart locket emblazoned with an intricate design. When I turned it around, there was an engraving of a pair of detailed wings. Surprisingly, the locket was warm to the touch. “Thank you,” I whispered. Dinnertime was over. I stood up to join the other volunteers, the box now snuggled in the pocket of my vest. --- Sitting in front of my mirror, I drew the necklace to my collarbone and fastened it. I trailed the locket with my fingers, feeling the indents of the ornate design of knots, vines and roses. Suddenly, the locket opened. I could put a picture of Callie in there, I chuckled. As I closed the locket, a slight breeze made the curtains flutter. Moonlight was peeking through the windows, reaching my satin nightgown. I pulled my heavy sweater a little tighter around me. Sitting still, I closed my eyes and began meditating, like what my therapist had shown me in a previous session. Breathe in for seven seconds, breathe out for another seven... And I was surrounded by a warm light. Everything was dressed in a muted bright yellow. I saw my mysterious stranger walking towards me across the meadow, a white light emanating from behind him. He looked down at the bundle he was carrying in his bare arms, and met my gaze, giving me a smile of reassurance. When he stopped right in front of me, I looked down, and there was a baby. My Joy. The one I had lost, that pushed Jerry out, ring no more. She was so beautiful. I cried. I cried for a long, long time, in the middle of that peaceful meadow of purple, red, and white wildflowers dancing in the spring breeze. Finally, I brought my arms out to hold her. Her tiny hands reached out towards me, a giggle erupting from her. I wanted to forever hold her in this moment. “Macy. I am an angel. I have died many times alongside with your soul. The longing you have felt in your life has been a result of our past together. I fell in love with you, your gentle and kind soul.” “The necklace you’re wearing - I gave you that a long time ago when we were lovers on Earth but could not be together. I have and will always love you and be there with you. We will always be together, in here,” He gestured to his heart. Huge feathered wings unfurled from his muscled back, and wrapped themselves around me and Joy. There we were, embraced. The family I had always wished for. I found myself the next day waking up from my bed. Some meditating session! I surmised. Before I headed to the shower, I reached up to the necklace to take it off. The locket opened, and there we were, the Joy I had lost, my forgotten love, and me, in my truest form.


The little boy is sitting on the floor playing with his board books. He is about two years old. Young enough to flick through the pages of his books upside down and not be concerned. He has curly auburn hair, big brown eyes and a bright happy smile. As he turns each page he points at things and gibbers to himself, talking about what he sees in his own little language. He looks up from his books and towards his mother. Giving her a big smile and saying “book. Book” happy with himself for knowing the word. His eyes are bright as he makes himself laugh, hoping his mother will share the laugh with him. His mother is watching him and feeling nothing. Her face reads as if she could be looking at him, or at the decorative cushion on the lounge behind him. When he looks up towards her and smiles she starts to feel something towards him. His laughter extracts a trickle of the jealousy and resentment from the well in her chest and puts it to the front of her mind. Her dead face slowly moves into a frown. She walks over and picks up his books and takes them away. Putting them on a high shelf. “Boooks! Books!” he cries out, reaching his hands up and grabbing at nothing. His face scrunches up and he starts to wail. She looks down at his crying face and does nothing. He crawls over and tries to climb up the leg of her pants while crying. She shakes her leg so he cant get purchase and leaves him alone crying on the floor. Her frown fades away and she feels better again. He takes a minute to crawl across the room back to her feet, letting out his little whine of upset as he goes. He sits and looks up at her, rubbing his balled fists on his cheek to get the tears off his face. She picks him up and holds him against her. She says in soft motherly tone “You’re so needy, mummy will make it better though.” The jealousy and resentment trickling back into the well for now as she absorbs the unconditional love from the child. The keys jingle in the door and the lock is undone as the boy’s father comes in through the front door. He sees the mother holding the baby and smiles “That’s nice to see you two together like that” he says. “Ughh, he’s been so needy. Just at me all day. I’m exhausted I need to take a break, I’m going for a walk” she says as she passes the boy off to his father. “Back in an hour” she says as she slams the door behind her. The boys father looks at his son and smiles at him “Hey mate, lets try to be nicer to her okay.” He says in a soft voice. “She puts a lot of love into you while I’m away mate. One day you’ll grow up and realise how lucky you are”.


Dave Winter: "One day it began. Out of nowhere. Quite literally as if it was always here. Nobody knows where he came from, or what he wants. The Old Man. We thought he was just another weird old man at first. He always sits there in his old rotten wood cabin, on that old armchair, next to the left upstairs window, always watching, always looking, as if there is something he wants from us. Jim, the local prepper, however, was creeped out by that guy, and we wish we listen to him. He said that he can hear his calling, and it creeped him out, driving him insane. But since Jim already has a bad reputation and is seen as crazy by the townsfolk. Jim would always hide in his bunker, never interact with anyone and the only time to do so is to warn us about things The Beast, Werewolf, Blood Angel,... So like every other time, no one bats an eye on whatever he warns. And Old Man would just sit there like that, sometimes disappearance probably to eat something before quickly return. Sometimes, I and the other officer would go and knock on his door, hoping to meet him, and maybe have a talk. We knock and then. Nothing. Nothing happens. Not a single soul answer. It happens like that a couple of times later until we one day just give up. And things just going on like that for a while. Nothing really out of the ordinary. Well, except for the sudden migration of animal population around the town. But apart from the hunter, no one really cares about that. You know the thing they said about how animals can sense unseen danger. Well, after what happened, I guess that explains the strange animal behavior, or maybe not. Maybe Jim was actually right about the Beast. But that is a story for another time. 6 months after The Old Man appears in the town. A week before Halloween. That is when things get really strange. I and everyone else was starting to have those strange dreams. Very strange dreams, yet it always feels so real, feel more like a memory that we never made than a dream. A deja vus or something. I think that is what they call it. We always see the same thing. A broken house, a broken armchair, a revolver, a broken man, a broken town, a broken reality,... What do those dreams mean, What does it trying to tell us, What is it warn us from? This is the question we all have at the moment. And somehow, someway we know it has something to do with the Old Man. On the night of Halloween, the atmosphere instead fills with pumpkin, candy, and the joy of children and adults who never truly grow up, still want to feel and relive the moment from his childhood." *\*chuckle\** D.W: "Oh. Sorry for interrupting. Umm... Can I continue? Ok, I'll continue now. It was filled with the paranoia and fear of the townsfolk. We all gather in front of the Old Man house. Hoping to find a way to end the nightmare. I and the other officer knock on the door like we used to do. Expecting nothing. But something happens. The door opens. And reveal to us something that haunts and confused all of our little human minds. The hall inside the Old Man house. Is broken. It is nothing. Barely connected by a long series of wood panels that expanse to what seems to be endlessness. With objects flying around in the empty infinity black void. And a whisper that constantly calls us to jump in and tell us how lonely it is. You have no idea how shocking it is to see something so out of this world like that. We were trying to keep the folk calm. We advise them to go back home and let us solve whatever is happening. Some of the townsfolk, Jim include, immediately run back home, take their car and drive straight out of the town. They were the wise ones. As I and three other officers slowly and carefully watch in the building. That when we notice too late a sign that said: *"Go Back. Don't enter"*. Immediately, almost instinctively, we all look back to the door that is no longer there. We have been trapped here. We look everywhere for the door. Look left, nothing. Look right, nothing. Look in front, only path no door. Look behind, still path no door. It looks like we have no choice but to go forward. Go forward and face whatever fate throw at us. And somehow, we all feel that fate has all of mercy. So with our chamber load and lock. We go. We go. We go and go, go and go, go and go. Go and go on what feel like forever. Despite what we felt earlier, the trip was surprisingly easy. There was nothing that happened, not a monster, not a demon, not a god like what we expect. And like a sadistic beast that has decided that playing the waiting game is boring that fate is. We see it, a door. Open there. Waiting there. Welcome us. Two other officers immediately run toward it. Expecting freedom. I would have joined them if it wasn't for Bill stopping me immediately as he yell for us to stop. I turn and look at him. Confused at why would he stop us from going toward the exist we have been searching for months. That was when I heard it. Those two unfortunately souls last screams and gunshot. There was an only eerie silence after that. We just stood there in shock at what had just happened. There is something behind the door. And it isn't friendly. We just stood there until the door open again. That is when I see him. The Old Man. Slowly what out and look behind in the room. Before he stair at us. And slowly talk in the most inhuman ever. "Hello, visitor.": he said. "RUN!" Bill yell to me at top of his lung when he took his revolver. I, instinctively, run as fast as I can. All I can hear is Bill telling the Old man to stop and shooting at him and after that is his scream. As I turn back and see, all that is left of Bill is an empty husk with a terrifying expression printed forever on his face. Before gazing at me, the Old Man said, with a sad expression, "So this is what humanity is like." Confused and terrified, I run, just run, run, and pray for my fallen friend. Who died trying to protect me. Bill, if you can hear this on Heaven. I'm just want to say sorry. Sorry I wasn't able to help you. And thank you. Without you, I wouldn't be here. That's when I saw the Old Man appear in front of me. Terrifying at what going to happen to me. I hold my shotgun and yell "WHY? WHY! ALL WE WANT IS TO GO HOME! WHY DO YOU HAVE TO KILL THEM! THEY ARE ALL GOOD MAN. BILL JUST WANT TO PROTECT ME! Just why did you.". The Old Man then look at Bill's body and then me and said: "Look like I have judged the human too early. I'm sorry confused human. As I can't bring back the goner". Confused at what had just happened. And more confused at what happened after. The Old Man's disappearance. Along with the void. All that is left in front of me is the door. The true door to the outside world. I look back at my friend's body and say goodbye. But the nightmare hasn't ended yet. Like another twist from fate. As I open the door. Hoping the welcome arm for the townsfolk and the fresh air. The first thing I see is three heavy-armed gas mask soldiers pointing their guns at me and the smell of decomposing. The town that I love so much. All gone. The townsfolk that I will sacrifice my life to protect. All death. Everything is dead. They corpsed all lying there with a terrifying expression printed forever on their face. I immediately collapse on the ground from shock. I don't remember what happened after that. All I know is that when I wake up. The armed man took me. After that, I wake up and found myself here in this cell. Being interviewed by you guy." Agent: " I'm really sorry for your loss Mr. Winter. But don't worry. You are safe here at the Agency." D.W:" I hope." End. P.s: Sorry for any grammar mistakes. English isn't my first language.


# Happy Weekend, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday... ish! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about: The Spoils I’ll keep it short this week because by now most are pretty hip to where we’re going with these themes. =) What a wild ride we’ve been on these past couple weeks! But it ain’t over yet. After all, there’s titles to hand out, promotions to brag over, and . There’s ghostwriters to hire and hotels to book for that . If you still have loose ends to tie up from the fallout of all that has happened, treat this installment like an extension of loose ends. We’ve seen dark moments, hard won victories, , conflicts of interests that stopped us in our tracks, and unresolved issues that won’t be ignored. Now it’s time to straighten ties, pour one out for the homies, and begin the first of many press interviews. Get the sharpies out, they're about to get a lot of use. What if all your characters wanted was to go home and have a hot cup of tea? I bet that cuppa will be , so tell us about it. Tell us about the moment when they finally get to sit down for the first time in months and just... *.* **Things to think about this time around:** What do your heroes enjoy more, the spoils of war, or being in the thick of conflict? Would they prefer to be back in the command center, deep in case files, or do they find themselves more suited to the limelight? Are they miserable as they step foot on Oprah’s stage, or are they secretly loving it? Did your protagonist earn what they set out to win? Do they feel better or worse off for the outcome? Did this story bring your characters together, or drive them apart? Will they live out the rest of their days wondering ‘what if’? **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **For the final installments of Serial Saturday the word count has been upped to 800 words.** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 11/21, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, Loose Ends: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/Kammerice, as Obcas fits the final puzzle pieces together. This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/ChineseArtist, for weaving in his loose ends with a smoking hot reveal we did not see coming. And two honorable mentions: /u/mobaisle_writing, bringing some levity to a story that has had us on the edge of our seats. And /u/LitCityBlues, with a story that wraps up with some unexpected developments. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 800** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely ***family friendly***" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Previous constraint: **Loose Ends** Have you seen the ? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.


Weird little Man in a weird little house. He sits alone in the dark, crooked over a drop of memory, carefully closing a delicate frame of silver around it, preserving it. In the droplets reflection we see *him and his wife standing together in the living room. The wife dutifully dusts the shelves, and the weird little man sweeps the floors, settling down the broom and...*, a slice of the ordinary, unmarked and easily forgotten, but ultimately beautiful. He sets the frame down and it pools warm light into the cold damp dark of the now empty house. He sits in the light for a moment. A smile crosses his face, but we see it is forced and fleeting. A corpse of a smile. The house has several frames bathing small sections of the room in precious warm light. The earth beneath the house shakes seemingly in frustration, and on the far wall to the left, a delicate frame is disturbed and falls. The weird man is horrified. As the frame hits the floor it shatters, and he rushes for its contents as quickly as his weird little body will allow. The contents, a memory, a droplet of happiness, lofts up like the amber bubbles in a beer glass. The weird man grabs at it, catching it, just before it moves out of arm's reach, he pulls it down forcefully and squishes in his arms, and in its reflection, we can see *A pot bubbling on the fire stove, two weird little hands are precisely stirring its contents, the viewpoint turns, and his small daughter is cutting vegetables gleefully. They are preparing dinner together while his wife watches from the kitchen island. He turns to her and...* He holds onto at the memory droplet, tightening his grasp, his weird little chubby digits doing the best they can. The weird man is taken with the upward momentum, up, up, he holds on to it, stroking it, sorrow painfully chiseled on his weird little face. And yet the droplet slips through undaunted, like slick ice in a tight grip.... Wafting up and up. he reaches desperate as he descends, but it slips away. And as the beautiful bubble hits the ceiling, it bursts, expelling the light within, like a silent firework. He lands with a crumpled thud where the memory had previously lit the floor, and all the frames in the house jitter. The frames teeter this way and that, time seeming to pull apart, seeming to relish its ability to show the inevitable for the only weird little viewer, and then...they fall. He screams but no one is there to hear it. He runs, arms outstretched, he grabs at the droplets fumbling with one as they all lift upward. His fingers, barely gripping the droplet, through his stretched grasp we can see *A well walked pathway lined with trees, the tops of which almost glow green, illuminated by the moonlight. Fireflies dance across his path as he breathes deeply and....*. It slips through continuing its path up, he swipes left, in another we see \*His wife staring lovingly back at him from the comfort of a pillow, they are both lying in bed, as he moves closer, reaching to embrace her, they both laugh and...\*. But he knew he couldn't hold on to it, and off it went up, up, to join the others. He glares upward intently, eyes beginning to fail at holding back the intense emotion held behind them, he leaps with everything he has, and catches one. This time he gets a firm grip and in it we see *He is standing next to a table all done up in bright colors, his daughter in a modest lone chair, a brightly colored hat on her head and purest delight on her face. A cake is brought in by the weird little man's wife, it is decorated with a large number “5” across it. His daughter, so elated at this, turns and hugs him with all her tiny little arms would allow, he looks down and...*. He holds this one as tight as he has ever held anything, presses it close to him protectively like a baby, his weird little face tucks inward, and eyes shut tightly hoping that he can keep this one, just this one...but it too abandons him, passing through his grip. All the droplets float up and up and then bursting, embers float down through time like confetti, burning out before ever reaching the weird little man's resting spot. The weird man sits crooked on the cold floor in the dark. Completely defeated and broken. He begins to cry. Streams of sorrow run down his weird little face, and as the tears fall towards the floor, we see swirling in them......... *Nothing.* A crooked weird little man sits sobbing in a weird dark little house. And no one knows.


To the esteemed Dr. Mcann, Consider this letter the formal resignation of me and the crew of my vessel the USS Aristotle. As I write this, my crew and I are in deep space, and it is unlikely that you shall see this vessel or our crew again, as we plan to drive it straight into a blackhole. As you’re no doubt aware the Aristotle is the first ship capable of interstellar faster than light travel, and we are currently 500 lightyears from Earth. The mission you prescribed us, to survey nearby star systems to look for both a suitably habitable colony and any signs of alien life, was a mission too important for me to turn down the role of captain for. The crew and I became celebrities overnight, we were celebrated across the solar system as heroes going where “no man has gone before” and such bollocks. If I could go back and shoot my younger self for such idiocy, I would. Once our voyage began, we initially had no issues. The ship was running as expected, we were in high spirits, thanks to security no squabbles devolved into full blown mutinies. Everything was great, we even found a few potentially habitable planets you will have received coordinates for along with this message. However, for 9 months, we found no signs of alien life. So, we decided we would keep exploring until we did. Eventually, we found it. But unfortunately, there was a very glaring problem. For you see, there’s a common throughline with every single alien species we’ve found. Every single one. Not a single fucking one to be different. THEY’RE ALL FUCKING CRABS. Every. Single. Goddamn one is a fucking crab. On land and in sea, and even in the fucking air! 2 pincers, eight legs, round bodies, chitin carapaces. At first we were shocked, then we were confused, now we’re fucking furious. We have gone off into the cosmos, past the boundaries of mankind, we expected to make contact with grand alien empires and see things never even dreamt of before. What do I get? FUCKING CRABS. There’s very little difference in crabs after you’ve found 12 million different species. No humanoids, no dolphins, no dogs, not even a lobster, all crabs! WHY. WHY THE FUCK IS EVERYTHING CRABS. I SWEAR THE NEXT PLANET WE FIND WITH A FUCKING CRAB ON IT I’LL BOMB THE FUCKERS FROM ORBIT! THE FUCKING TREES ON SOME PLANETS WERE CRABS TOO! WHY AREN’T WE CRABS?! ARE THE CRABS ON EARTH FROM SPACE?! ARE THEY SECRETLY INTELLIGENT!?!? IS THE CRAB THE SUPREME LIFEFORM OF THE UNIVERSE?! AN<>KV*(JMKQT#F&G^QG#BF(&Q#TGFCFTQ#JHMNFbUQYAD CMNQAFD So, I’m sure reading this you understand my frustration with the universe at large for cursing me with living as a human and not as a crab. I hope that the government may posthumously pardon us for going AWOL and destroying the single most important vessel ever constructed in mankind’s history, but i’m not sorry.


1980 Greenbrier Hotel lobby Molly Dunwald first saw Prince Nicholas VonFinn when she was 18 years old. She played the piano and sang at the Greenbrier Hotel which was a 5 star hotel in West Virginia. He wasn't particularly attracted to her at the time. She looked like a nice girl who had a royal air about her, but according to his aunt, "She was just a commoner." She also did flamingo dancing which she loved and it was a treat for the guests. She couldn't believe it when she was taking a break that the Uncle of Prince Nicholas whispered in her ears that "She was good mistress material and would make a good mistress for Nicky because she wasn't Finish." He found out that Molly lived in the nearby town of Finn. The town of Finn had been settled by Scandinavian settlers right after the Civil War. Most of them were from Finland and had come to the US after being kicked out by Prince Nicholas great-great-great-father who was the King. It was a land dispute but not really. The King wanted the children he fathered from his mistress 3 daughters to be exact to be out of sight and mind, so giving them land in West Virginia was one good way to do this. He paid others to leave as well, people he didn't like. In the town's celebrations, they had never mentioned the royal family of Finland or any other royal family. Finn was also a place where other European royals sent the children and mistress/girlfriends that they didn't want anyone to know about. This practice was common during the 1950's and 1960's. By the early 1970's, this had stopped. Molly Dunwald had black hair and dark brown eyes. She was very beautiful to look at. When he was a kid, the Prince had heard a story about a Spanish nobleman and a waitress at the Greenbrier (who was from Charleston West Virginia) who supposedly had a child together. The child was believed to being living in Finn. The Prince knew that Molly was the child. She looked like the nobleman whom the Prince had met a couple of times. The waitress wasn't Finnish was what he'd been told.  The town of Finn had a weekend where they celebrated their Finnish culture. Certainly no one in West Virginia would recognize him and didn't when he went to the festival a couple of weeks before school started. He was well known among European royals. But no one in West Virginia outside of those who frequent the Greenbrier Hotel would know him. Molly was there and she recognized him and said hello to him but that was about it. He hadn't had much contact with those who lived average lives in Finland or the US. Two weeks after seeing Molly play the piano, Prince Nicholas started college. Finn College was a small private Lutheran college which had about 1, 500 students. He was surprised to see Molly at the freshman orientation meeting. He wondered if she would say hello to him. Molly was surprised as well to see a Prince at the college but ignored him. She knew who he was but didn't let on that she knew. They ended up in a film class together. "I need to find out who my biological parents are. I was left on a doorstep in Finn. I was adopted shortly thereafter." The Prince didn't know what to say as he already knew or had a good idea of who her biological father was." "One thing I know is that I'm probably not 100% Finnish. I certainly don't look the part." "Well, no you don't but you might have some Finnish, in you... "What if I'm the secret love child of a royal?" The Prince laughed. "I do know that you are not from the Finnish royal family. I researched it before..... "I know who you are Prince Nicholas of Finland. I researched your family." They both laughed and agreed to keep his royal heritage a secret. Within 2 weeks, the Prince's parents knew about their relationship. The Prince was falling in love with Molly Dunwald and they didn't know what to do. Thankfully no one in Finland knew. It had been easy to get the Spanish nobleman's DNA off of a wine glass at a wedding in Finland. A member of the royal family in Finland was an expert on DNA. A couple of weeks later at a blood drawing at the college, Molly's DNA was obtained discreetly. It was a match. Nicholas was told but he didn't tell Molly. Molly and Nicholas made a film about her search for her biological parents. Because she was royal, she was acceptable for him to date and marry. They weren't distant cousins which was good (many of the royal households were but the Spanish and the Finnish had never married into each other's royal households. In the Finnish constitution the royal heir and his wife had to be Lutheran to inherit the throne. This excluded many royal household, Spain being one of them. This made Princess Amanda very angry as she wanted to marry him. She didn't know about the royal blood that Molly had. She couldn't believe that Nick's family had blessed the union. She was going to do some investigating of her own.


I didn’t ask the question, where am I from?... but once. Until she was gone! The look on her face didn’t say: I don’t know. It said have I not done a good job? Barbara was the oldest of twelve children. So, caring for others was expected and necessary. Growing up in the thirties, her parents worked for the local market owner. My grandmother Rainey, my mom’s mother worked as a maid in the Pair’s house. As a child, I remember mom telling the story of her birth on the floor of that store. She would say that grandma had to pay for the loss income during the birth and clean up, because a black woman contaminated the floor of a ‘’white’s only’’ establishment. Maybe that is why she hated going to work for the same family. When grandma could no longer perform the required duties, mom took over the position. Cleaning the four-bedroom main house and the store, for almost forty years. She honored her mother’s debt or paid for her own, in that mansion until old man Pair’s death in 1972. Cleaning rooms and silver not used every Saturday. Monday through Friday cleaning the master bedroom, bathroom and kitchen daily. Preparing three meals for the lady of the house and her lunch guess usually, it was the daughter-in-law or the son. Although the times were changing, the younger Pair man was still his father’s son. Thankfully, his wife was different and loved my mother. She asked mom to stay on as a caregiver for her mother-in-law and to do only what she needed to live comfortably daily. That got old quickly because just sitting wasn’t the kind of person mom was. The husband didn’t want to pay for a glorified sitter, something his nonworking wife could do. So, mom went back to cleaning both houses. Mom was hired by the wife to cook a soft diet for both of the mother-in-law. Her mother was in a nursing home in the next town over. One day, when she had another engagement, mom surprised the staff by showing up unexpectedly and witnessed abuse against her mother and called the police and the daughter. My mom was most comfortable taking care of people all the time, my dad told me. That was one of the things that he fell in love with. She became sick soon after their wedding day. She had the measles, got diagnosed as a diabetic and loss a pregnancy. This was dramatic and caused depression. She wanted children of her own, so they adopted me. The Saturday cleaning job and cooking was not enough for her to maintain the life she’d become accustomed to, when I started school. The bus driver realized my mom would follow her through the entire route until we reached school. She was given an ultimatum, stop following or get a job driving a school bus. So, by the beginning of summer school, she was employed by Greensville County school system. I hated waking up at 5am to leave by six. We didn’t return until almost six pm on regular school days. I was not happy with the schedule but I didn’t have any choice. Our leisure days of lunch in Petersburg and shopping were no more. I didn’t want to share her with anyone else either. The young me didn’t appreciate her love of children and their wellbeing. All I could see was things that I was the sole recipient of were now being spread out between me and others. I guess you don’t know what parents who care go through. It wasn’t until I had children that I understood. Or at least I thought I did, well... Who she was to me, to my family and to those that knew her was very different. Of course, she was the only mother I knew growing up. For many years our relationship was tested. I even once declared I’d never be like her, doing jobs I hated just to put a roof overhead and a meal in our bellies. After, my daycare children all started school or moved; I needed to create an income that worked with my youngster’s schedule. I learned two things quickly, 1) having a family, will make you do whatever you need to, and 2) apologizing to your mother is very hard. You see, I had to humble myself and ask for tips on being a good bus driver. I remember mom laughing. She drove bus 18 for nineteen years. At her funeral several people came up to tell me that they would miss her but I expected that, just because it is what you say. I knew a bunch of folks would have comments good, bad or indifferent. There was one though that floored me, the biggest thorn in my side in school; she hugged me and said “your mom is the reason I’m alive today. When I got pregnant, she talked to me and let me stay with her for a week, when my mom kicked me out.” I don’t know how she really fixed her face to say that went through my mind and tears rolled down my cheeks. She continued to squeeze me tightly, so all I could do was listen. Her next sentence really stung. She said “your mom regretted her actions so much after you left, she told me.” “I think that’s why she helped me get straight and go back home.” After hearing her out, I said “okay, and?” as if I didn’t know what she meant. I just didn’t know what I should say. Do I strike back, with my son will be 40, this December! Would that throw the appropriate shade? Or do I just except the apology from the grave? Knowing that I already knew what she had just said was true, because mom splurged at Christmas. My two-week old son reaped a king’s bounty on December 25, 1982. She even promised a new Cadillac for his 18 th birthday. Unfortunately, that son lost two grandparents inside of a year. My mother passed around his father’s birthday when he was thirteen and the only grandfather he had left; five days after his 14 th . You don’t have to know your birth parents to know where you came from, just look in the mirror at who you are now. So many individuals will be represented every morning. Your birth parents, your adopted parents and the village that influenced the YOU that you’ve become today!


Mom always said life is not like the movies no matter how bad we want it to be. But why not? Why can't life be one big adventure? "Madison are you day dreaming again? I told you to set the table." "Sorry mom." "Your dad will be home soon. Get your head out of the clouds child." "My head is not in the clouds." "Yeah its at the movies. Kids today need to be more responsible." Ignoring my mother's comment I started to set the table. My dad had come home from work and I was sent upstairs to get my sister. My sister Darcy was a year younger than me. but she always acted like she was already grown. You know fourteen going on thirty. For me being fifteen was old enough.Also whatever I liked she hated. But we were sisters and it was time for dinner. "Mom can I go to the movies this weekend?" "Not the movies again. Why do you waste your time at movie theaters?" "Nobody was asking you Darcy. For your information its entertainment. Have you ever even been to a movie?" "Girls not at the dimmer table." "But mom!" "You heard your mother no arguing at the dinner table. I'm sure there are other things you can talk about." "Yes dad." I said sticking my tongue out at Darcy. " Yeah real mature Maddy." "If you girls are finished you can get started on the dishes. " After the dishes I went to my room and Darcy went to hers. I was finishing my homework when my came in my room to say good night, "Good night honey." "Mom can I this weekend?" "I suppose. Just remember." "I know its just a movie." At school the next day I asked my friend Brianna if she wanted to go to the movies with me. "I would Maddy, but I'm going shopping." "With who?" "Vicky. Eleanor and Hannah. You could come with us. My mom is going to drop us off at the mall." "No thanks I really wanted to go to the movies." "Well, why don't you ask Arthur to go with you." "I don't even like him." "He likes you." "I would rather go by myself," "Have fun." She was smiling all the way to math class. Teasing me about Arthur. I was listening to the teacher when I looked around and saw Brianna whispering to Arthur. Brianna you need to pay attention there will be a test on this tomorrow." "Sorry Mr. Richards." I looked over at Brianna and she just shrugged her shoulders. After class when we were standing by our lockers Brianna started complaining. "Mr. Richards is just picking on me. I always pass his stupid tests," "What were you whispering to Arthur about anyway?" "Madison I'll go with you to the movies." I looked at Brianna . She just smiled and walked away waving goodbye. "What time are you going>" "I don't know Arthur," "Well, here is my phone number. Just call me." He handed me a piece of paper and I just smiled at him. After he left I bawled it up and stuffed it in my pocket. Brianna is not going to have to worry about passing her math test because I am going to kill her. The next day I hardly talked to Brianna. She had told all her girlfriends I was going to the movies with Arthur. "Have fun on your date'" I turned around and they were all standing there laughing.I closed my locker. As I walked away I could hear them laughing. Brianna ran to catch up with me. "Why so glum Maddy?" " Bri did you have to tell them"? I have to get home." I didn't want to talk to talk to her or anybody. And I didn't want to go to the movies with Arthur either. I walked into the house staring at the floor I went up to my room and locked the door. I didn't even come down to eat. Crawled into bed and pulled the covers over my head, Silently crying went to sleep. "Maddy if your going to the movies you need to get up and get ready. So your father can drop you off." I walked over to unlock my door, but it was already unlocked. "I don't think I'm going today I changed my mind." "What Maddy not going to the movies?" "Darcy leave your sister alone. What made you change your mind honey?" "I just feel like doing something else. "Okay, your father and L are going to the store you can come with us." "No I think I'll just stay home." Are you okay honey? You seem a little down." "I'm fine mom." "If your going to stay home you can get started on the laundry." "What about Darcy!" "Darcy is going to the mall with her friends." Mom and dad left for the store. I was still lying in bed when Darcy came in the room. Okay , they're gone . What is the real reason you don't want to go to the movies? And why do you look like somebody just stole your favorite puppy? I told her all about what happened with Brianna and Arthur. And the girls laughing at me at school. And they were also going to the mall today. "Cheer up its not the end of the world. Hey , if I see her maybe I'll spill a drink on her or something." I started to laugh. Imagining her reaction. "She smiles. Stop moping. You and the laundry have fun. Oh by the way, you might want to call that boy and tell him what happened." I laid in the bed for awhile longer. Darcy was right I should call him and tell him something. I got up to find the pants I wore that day,But I couldn't find them in my room. So I went downstairs to the basement to search the baskets. I searched every pocket of every pair of pants in those baskets. But i couldn't find the piece of paper with his number on it, Then I remembered it was bawled up in my pocket. Maybe mom threw it away. Since I'm down here I better do at least one load, I picked up a pile of clothes and as I was stuffing them in the washing machine something fell on the floor.Looking down I didn't see anything. Without noticing I kicked something under the washer. I started the washing machine and went back upstairs. L kept looking for it though. After awhile mom and dad came home from the store. After helping with the groceries and with lunch I forgot all about calling Arthur. Then Darcy got home ftom the mall. I was sitting on the couch watching tv. "Want to see what I got from the mall?" "Sure." I followed her up to her room and she took out this pretty blue dress from her bag. Then she pulled our a couple of tops that she bought. "These are cute." "Yeah, but I could't find any shoes to go with them. I did buy some perfume though. Wanna smell." She grabbed the perfume bottle out of the bag and sprayed some on my wrist. "That smells good." "By the way Maddy did you ever call that boy." "I forgot all about that. Couldn't find his number anyway. Probably got thrown away." "Well, did you call any of your friends and asked them if they knew his number? What about Brianna?" "No until you came home I forgot all about it," "How could you forget?" "Well I was washing clothes and then mom and dad came home with the groceries. And why am I explaining this to you!" I stormed out of her room went into mine and slammed the door. I sat there on the bed playing games on my phone when I heard mom calling us down to dinner. After dinner mom and Darcy did the dishes so I went back to my room. I thought about what Darcy said. I started to call Brianna .but I just hung up the phone. Then I heard mom calling my name. When I got downstairs they were sitting on the couch and they didn't look happy. "Maddy have a seat." "Whats going on?" "Your mother and I want to talk to you." My hands were starting to sweat. "Who is Arthur?" Mom pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. "He's just a boy from school." "Why do you have his number?" My hands were really sweating and my heart was pounding. Dad looked angry. "Is he why you didn't want to go to the movies today? For a minute I couldn't breathe. :The truth Maddy." "Okay , Brianna told Arthur I was going to the movies this weekend. So when I was at my locker Arthur stopped by and gave me his number. He told me to call him and tell him when I was going,but I lost the number." Lost?" "Yeah." "Looks like you were going to throw it away. Your lucky I found it under the washing machine." "Maddy you know the rules. No going out with boys until your eighteen. You should have told him that." Its late now ,but you can call him in the morning." Mom handed me the crumpled piece of paper and I went back to my room. I could kill Brianna she started this mess. I was in trouble all because of her. The next morning I called Arthur,but he didn't answer. Well, I tried I told myself. I don't like him anyway. He will get over it. When I went downstairs for breakfast my mom was waiting for me. "Did you call that boy?" "Yeah.but he didn't answer." "Well, you can call him later." "You found his number?" :No Darcy mom did." "Thats why they called you downstairs last night?" Darcy whispered. "What are you girls doing today? "Don't know mom." "You can help me clean the house. But stay away from your father's study. He is doing some work in there. After we finished cleaning I called Arthur again .but he still wouldn't answer. So I sent him a text explaining what had happened.He never texted me back. I will just tell him everything tomorrow at school. When I got to school the next day I found him at his locker. When I tried to explain myself he just ignored me. Then I saw Brianna. "How could you do that to Arthur?" I told you he liked you. You didn't even have the decency to call." "I called him yesterday." After school I went by his house. but when he saw it was me he just slammed the door in my face. I went home feeling rejected. "Whats wrong Maddy?" "He is never going to forgive me Darcy." I didn't understand. In the movies the man would forgive the girl, And they would even kiss and make up. But this wasn't the movies . It was worse.


I never listened. Throughout my childhood I was troubled--I let darkness consume me. I never listened to others, I never heard them. There was no right or wrong, there was only what I felt. It was before psychopathic corrective therapy was invented. It was before the United States implemented background checks for buying assault rifles. I had problems, but I saw myself as the hero of my own story. One day in high school, I decided to end it, and I was going to bring everyone down with me. Back then, death was exciting to me. It was a way out of my shitty existence, a way to escape the daily beatings of my father and brothers. On my eighteenth birthday, I bought an AR-15 with all the money I had saved up working at a gas station. I took it out into the woods to practice my aim. I hunted for deer. I found joy in bringing death upon beautiful living creatures. I became addicted to that feeling. After a month of practicing, I was ready. I burst into the school and started shooting everyone I could find. I took joy in their screams of pain. I toyed with them, made them beg even though I would kill them anyway. I reveled in the sight of the blood and destruction I caused before me. I killed twelve people that day. Teachers, students, a janitor, boys, girls, it didn't matter. I killed indiscriminately and with great enthusiasm. When the police finally arrived and I was backed into a corner, I took my father's handgun that I had stolen and stuck it in my mouth. As the sirens blared outside and the police pounded on the door of the classroom I was holed up in, I pulled the trigger. I felt the bullet pass right through the roof of my mouth. Immense pain radiated from the exit wound at the top of my head. I fell back and saw my blood scattered over the ceiling. But somehow, I was still alive. The police burst into the room, guns drawn, donned in S.W.A.T. gear. They saw me, eyes wide open, in shock on the floor. I was covered in blood but I was still alive. As they carried me out, I saw the carnage I had wrought over this school and I still felt no remorse, just pride. *I made this.* Doctors could not explain how I survived my gunshot wound. In the press, I became both a notorious monster and a medical marvel. My trial was swift. I watched the testimony of crying family and friends of the victims I had killed and felt no remorse. The only emotion I felt was confusion. *How am I still here? Why am I not dead?* After being convicted for all twelve counts of murder, I was sentenced to twelve consecutive life sentences, without the possibility of parole. While in prison, I attempted suicide fifteen times. First, I tried hanging. No luck. I must have done something wrong because I could breathe easily the whole time. Then I tried slitting my wrists. I didn't lose enough blood before my wounds healed. I even tried a brazen escape where I was shot multiple times. I was incapacitated and returned to a new, fortified cell. Any wounds I suffered healed remarkably fast. The self-inflicted gunshot wound, slitting my wrists, the gunshot wounds from the guards left no scars. I was invincible, but not strong. I felt excruciating pain with every wound I suffered. I was easily overtaken by guards with each escape attempt. When I turned fifty years old in a supermax on a rural plain somewhere in the midwest, it was clear that I was not aging. I looked the same as I did on my eighteenth birthday. Prison doctors and researchers studied me relentlessly over the years. They treated me like a lab rat. I suppose they felt I deserved it, knowing what I had done. At age one hundred and ten, it was clear I couldn't die. At age two hundred they tried to give me a death sentence, even though by then, capital punishment was no longer legal. But they made an exception in my case, and no one in the legal system fought it. I was injected with a lethal cocktail and I immediately fell asleep. But once again, I did not die. I woke up in my cell a week later. The prison put out a press release saying that I had died but they kept my being alive a secret. Panic would set in among the populace knowing that there was an immortal mass murderer in the prison system. After another failed lethal injection, I was studied ruthlessly. I was poked and prodded, put through immense pain, all so the researchers and doctors could find out why I could not die. All the while, I felt no remorse for the lives I took that day. I still felt I would do it again if given the change. In my over two hundred years of life, I still felt the urge to kill, but I knew I never would be able to fulfill that desire. It was maddening, I had this urge to kill or die, but I couldn’t kill and I couldn’t die! So I sat in my cell and relived that day I killed over and over in my head. It made me feel powerful, it made me feel free. Each re-imagining of the killing gave me a sick, orgasmic bliss. When I turned eight hundred and eighty seven years old, the doctors tried a new experimental treatment that intended to cure psychopathy. It involved drilling a small hole into my frontal cortex and injecting cerebral stem cells from a non-psychopathic donor. When I regained consciousness, I saw the world anew. I had a feeling that I had never experienced before--empathy. For the first time I could imagine what it was like to be someone else. When I read books, I could feel the emotions of the characters. I could connect to the experiences in movies I saw. After more evaluation, they determined I was no longer clinically a psychopath. Then they showed me the news footage from my shooting rampage. It felt as if the cell spun around me as I saw the grieving friends and family give their reports of what I had done. I vomited when I saw the video of a grieving mother shouting at me in court. I took her son away, I understood that now. I felt her pain. I took took twelve sons and daughters away too soon. I thought of that day again, as I had done before the treatment. But now, there was no feeling of power, no pleasure in the violence. I felt nothing but abject horror over what I had done. The thought of each person begging for their lives filled me with regret. I couldn't live with myself knowing what I had done. For the first time in my life, I cried. I cried like a newborn, fresh from the womb. Finally, I understood the horrors that this world can bestow upon the innocent--and I understood my part in it. I wanted to go back and save those people. I wanted to take back what I had done, but I couldn't. Everyone they knew and loved were long gone. But I still lived on, carrying the pain now, probably forever. In past suicide attempts, I tried due to boredom, just not wanting to stay in this gray cell block for the rest of my life. Now I know that I could possibly live for all eternity. Every day, I relive what I did on loop and I feel enough sorrow to make up for that which I did not feel for the past eight hundred years. When my sentence was technically up, I was denied parole. The board said they could never take the chance releasing an immortal killer to the public, no matter how much remorse I felt. The researchers stopped their experiments on me once they saw that I now had compassion. They couldn't bear to put me through pain anymore. So now, everyday, I sit in my cell, and think about what I had done. Everyday, I decide I can't live with myself. Everyday, I try to kill myself again just to end this pain, this grave remorse that wracks my soul. Everyday, I fail. If this wasn’t hell, I couldn’t tell you the difference.


The beach is an oxymoronic location in times of peril. The horizon and the gentle waves create a soothing image, and the shoreline often serves as a sanctuary from the disorder of the world around. Lying on the beach listening to the rhythm of the current is a doorway to tranquility. In contrast, beaches will often serve as the site of brutality. Major battles will occur in the sands, and the outcome of those battles impacts the direction of the entire war. The waters of the beach hide predators both animal and human. The tides have washed blood off the sand for it to achieve sanctuary status. The shipwreck on the shore embodies this contradicting image. The exterior and the hull of the ship have suffered minimal damage, but the violence is hidden deep within the cabin. The surrounding sand and tide ignore this ship and choose to go about their routine. The ocean water flows around the ship and returns to the ocean unbothered. Sergeants Gil and Nilsen drive on the beach in a rusted jeep . They are soldiers for an army with little power outside of its bases. If raiders or other groups discovered their status, they would attack without remorse. The two of them do not wear the standard army uniform; instead, they both wear long pants and a t-shirt with sunglasses. Upon closer inspection, the high quality of their clothes would reveal that they do not have to fight for their survival unlike others. The sergeants step out of the vehicle onto the sand. Nilsen pulls out a small Geiger counter from the backseat while Gil picks up a rifle. Nilsen approaches the shipwreck geiger counter in hand. Gil follows closely behind him scanning the beach for any adversaries. The Geiger counter starts to ring as Nilsen gets closer to the ship; he climbs onto the boat for closer inspection. Gil walks around the boat to scan the perimeter. She hears rummaging and the Geiger counter’s beeps within the ship, but she does not hear any sign of a struggle. Nilsen stands over the side of the boat and looks at her. “Looks like four people lived here, a man and a woman who looked to be in their sixties and two men in their thirties. I found them all in the bedroom. There is no sign that they fought, but they had definitely been raided,” Nilsen leans over the hull. Behind him, Gil notices a translucent smoke in the air. When the smoke reaches the ground, she notices a slight blur in the sky that could’ve easily gone unnoticed. The blur moves close to Nilsen; Gil holds up the rifle and shoots at the blur. After the bullet makes contact with the blur, the invisibility wears off, and a man wearing a small jetpack becomes visible. He falls on the ground behind Nilsen who immediately stands on top of the assailant to keep him down. Gil jumps onto the deck and looks for other attackers. Nilsen holds the Geiger down to the man and watches it wildly beep. “Mieran tech. Tell me where you got it?” he says. “Screw you soldier boy,” the man grunts. Nilsen moves his hand to the man’s wound and presses on it. The man screams. “Did you come alone?” Nilsen removes his hand. “I am not telling you shit,” the man says. Nilsen moves off of the man and flips him over. Nilsen takes the jetpack off of the man to examine its computer. Nilsen leaves his foot on the man. “We got lucky,” Nilsen smiles at Gil, “They knew how to get it to fly and turn invisible, but they never learned how to erase the flight logs.” “Wait, what?!” the man on the ground screams. Nilsen looks at him. “We just found your base. If you tell us any information, we promise to go easy on you,” Nilsen says. “Okay, okay,” the man starts to squirm, “We have a small shack on the shore North of here. It is just two other guys there, Blake and Zach. Blake found the jetpacks at the edge of a small town far away here.” “Does this town have a name?” Nilsen asks. “I forgot!” the man yells. Nilsen nods at Gil; Gil shoots the man in the head. Nilsen and Gil walk away from the ship to their car. Gil drives while Nilsen navigates. They leave their vehicle a few miles away from the shack and walk the rest of the way armed with handguns. The shack is small and made of bricks with small entrances and exits around it. Before the war, this must’ve been a small beachside restaurant. Two men are sitting in small beach chairs outside the front looking at the waves. Gil and Nilsen crouch and slowly approach the shack. Neither of the men react as the soldiers circle around to the front. With sharp agility, the two soldiers wrap their arms around the men and hold their guns to the men’s head. The men start to shake and resist, but the arms pressed against their windpipes impedes their attempts. “We talked to your buddy down at the boat,” Nilsen ensures that both of them can hear it, “He said that Blake found the Mieran technology outside of a small town. First, which one of you is Blake?” “He is,” Zach points at the man Gil is holding. “Your buddy is a coward,” Gil says to Blake. “Screw you,” Blake says. “Boys, stop fighting. Blake please tell us the name of the town where you found the Mieran tech,” Nilsen says. “I told you already. I don’t know. I just found these jet packs lying on the edge of a lake,” Blake says. “Okay,” Nilsen nods at Gil, “We are done here.” The two soldiers pull the trigger and kill the men. They walk into the shack and find the other two jet packs lying close to the door. After a search for other technology, they find no other Mieran technology, but they find the results of several raids. They walk back to their car with the jetpacks. Sergeant Gil gets on the radio to communicate with their base. “Sergeants Gil and Nilsen reporting. We found the Mieran technology responsible for the raids on the beach that residents dubbed the ghost raids. They do not remember where they got the technology from. We are bringing the packs back to base for a full analysis of the flight logs.” Gil says. “Roger that, Sergeants Gil and Nilsen. We await your arrival,” the operator replies. The two drive away from the beach leaving the scene of carnage against the peaceful backdrop.


“Stand still, I can’t believe after all these years you haven’t learned how to tie a bow tie.” “I told you I should have bought a clip on tie.” ### Tim Westland was one of the growing bevy of young Canadian high tech multibillionaires. His small software company in Sidney BC developed one of those boring programs that nobody has ever heard of but one that secures international bank transfers. It was one of those ideas that are so blindingly obvious you can’t help thinking “Why didn’t I think of that.” In 2025 he sold his company to an Israeli security company for a cool five billion dollars. It was the largest sale of a private company in Canadian history. Part of the money from the sale was used to give every employee, from cleaning staff to programmers, a severance package equal to two years salary. When asked about severance packages he always replied “It isn’t about the money, it is always about the people.” After two years of living the ‘high life’ of a ridiculously rich bachelor, Westland had found out three things, it was very hard to spend that much money (Waste-yes :: Spent-No); he had more ‘friends’ than ever before; he didn’t like that lifestyle. In 2027 he purchased a small house that overlooked the ocean just west of Sidney. Trying to gain some anonymity, outside of volunteering for local charities, being chair of the University of Victoria Alumni Association and setting up a few scholarships he stayed out of the public eye. Which is why he was attending this UNICEF charity event in London, where he was virtually unknown, instead of ones in Canada or the United States. Even more than the anonymity, Tim just liked attending London events, they were much more lavish than those in Canada or even the US. There was a more ho-hum attitude towards money here. Here, he was just another billionaire. Half way through the evening Tim found himself alone at a table just nursing his scotch and doing a little people watching. There was the usual assortment of rich men with their wives - trophy and otherwise; some wealthy women with their husbands or boy toys; and a few men and women, like him, ‘unattached’. The organisers had thoughtfully provided a number of hosts and hostesses to entertain the ‘unattached’. The hostesses were easily recognized by their tight dresses with plunging necklines. Tim had already waved off a few of them. ‘ Maybe later ’ he thought ‘ No sense in being alone all night. ’ The young woman approaching him now fit none of those categories. She looked like she was going to a university dinner rather than attending a gala event. If he had been prone to paranoia he might have thought she had been waiting all night for a chance to get him alone. He would have been right. “Mr. Westland, my name is Jane Seymour” “You look much older in your movies.” He smiled, he didn’t usually have a quick quip. She smiled back thinking, ‘ As if I haven’t heard that before. ’ “Mr. Westland, I want you to give me five million dollars.” Tim just sat there looking puzzled, then half in jest - “Well Jane, the most I ever paid for an escort was two thousand dollars. And, quite frankly, she was much better looking.” That statement wasn’t true and he immediately regretted saying it. He had never seen a woman blush like that before. From her head to her chest was crimson. Jumping up and pulling out a chair “Sorry . . . . Please, sit. . . . Can I get you a drink?” He beckoned the waiter. “Wine?” She nodded. “White?” She nodded again. “A white wine and a scotch, please.” (He’s Canadian - he always said please.) By the time the waiter returned with the drinks Jane had gained some of her composure. “OK - let’s start again. Call me Tim and tell me why I should give you five million dollars” Jane stared at her wine glass. ‘ This was a mistake ’ she thought. She had never talked to anyone about her proposal before. She had gotten rejection letters long before she got an interview. She was just starting to realize how ridiculous she must have sounded. ‘ This is the last try. If I don’t get the money I will approach the university to fund the project ’ She knew that if she did that she wouldn’t get the credit she deserved. “Mr. Westland” He shook his head “Tim . . . I am Dr. Jane Seymour. I am a professor at the Centre for Applied Cosmology at the University of Cambridge. I need money for a project outside the university. . . . . How much do you know about time travel?” ‘ What an odd question? ’ he thought. “Not much, except it only works on TV shows, like Dr. Who. He has a magical box called a TARDIS that flies through time and space. Other than that it is impossible. . . . I think there was an experiment at Berkeley that proved that.” She was impressed, not many people knew of the Berkeley experiment. “Do you know what TARDIS stands for?” Looking a bit bemused - ‘ OK a bit of a nutcase but I’ll play along ’. He replied “Time and Relative Dimensions in Space” She nodded her head, then changing the subject she said “Let me tell you about the Berkeley experiment. They were attempting to transfer an object back an hour in time. The whole experiment is on YouTube - it takes about an hour and a half to watch.” “At first they show an empty chamber with all the equipment turned off and a small clock just outside the chamber. That continues for about ten minutes. At this point the chamber could be empty because they didn’t do the experiment or the experiment failed, so they have to continue with the experiment” “They start turning on all the equipment and place a probe with an array of sensors into the chamber. And set the system to send the probe exactly one hour into the past.” “Exactly one hour after the start of the experiment they activate the chamber and the probe disappears.” She waited for Tim to ask the obvious question. “Well if the probe hadn’t appeared in the chamber earlier and disappeared at the start of the experiment, what happened to it?” Jane liked to let people discover answers on their own. ‘ Let’s see if he is as smart people say he is. ’ “You have an insightful mind. What if I told you what happened to the probe is blindingly obvious; that time travel doesn’t work; and, most importantly, that the probe didn’t move. Think of the TARDIS - not the Time part, the Relative Dimensions in Space.” Tim was puzzled. ‘ What has Relative Dimension in Space got to do with it? That was just so the script writers could move the TARDIS through space. She said the probe didn’t move and didn’t travel in time - it just disappeared. . . . Things don’t disappear, they just move from one place to another. . . . If the probe didn’t move, why wasn’t it still inside the chamber - it must have moved. ’ Tim could see he was stuck in a circular argument. ‘ The probe wasn’t in the chamber so it must have moved - but Jane said it didn’t move. Either she was wrong or I am missing something. What are the hidden assumptions? ’ Slowly he started to smile - ‘ Christ - it is blindingly obvious ’ Slamming his hand on the table he blurted out, a little too loud - “The earth moved.” People at the other tables were looking over to see what they were up to. Slumping in his chair thinking of what that could mean he finally asked “How far?” “Not too sure. There are too many unknown variables. I am guessing, but I would say half a million miles, give or take a few thousand.” (Twice as far as the moon.) “Can you prove it?” “No - that is what the money's for.” “What do I get out of it?” “Potential patents on moving items through space.” “And you get a Nobel Prize.” Glancing at his watch - his mind was working furiously. ‘ If she is right it would revolutionize space exploration. Most of the fuel used to launch a satellite is used to lift the fuel, not the payload. If you can put something in space without burning fuel - there is no limit in what you can do. I need to check this out. ’ “I have to make a few phone calls. Let’s meet for breakfast. . . Is 9:00am OK?” They exchanged information and Tim headed back to his room. It was 10:00pm in London, 2:00pm in Victoria, when Tim got back to his room and placed a call to the University of Victoria (UVic) Physics and Astronomy Department. “Hello Miranda, I have a small favour.” Miranda Gilbert was secretary to James (Jim) Foster, the Chair of the UVIC Physics and Astronomy Department. She had dated Tim off and on before she married Dan Gilbert. They were still close friends. “You never ask for a ‘small’ favour. What is it this time?” “Would you put together a dossier on Dr. Jane Seymour, Cambridge University for me? Things that I am not going to find on Google.” “It'll cost you! . . . Dinner for two at the Green Elephant.” “OK - but don’t you think we should invite Dan along.” Miranda laughed - “You had your chance” Smiling, “OK - for you and Dan. . . I need the dossier in about eight hours.” “Hmmp . . . I should have asked for more. . . . So, is she after your money?” “Yes - I think she is. . . . Is Jim in?” “Yes” “Would you see if he can spare me a few minutes?” A few seconds later Jim Foster picked up his phone. “Hi Tim, Miranda says you are looking for information on Dr. Seymour.” “Yes, but that isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. . . . What can you tell me about the Berkeley time travel experiments? Things that didn’t make it into the press.” “Met her at a symposium. She is a brilliant theoretical physicist and cosmologist. She should be head of the department but Cambridge is still an ‘old boys club’. . . . So, the time travel experiments. They didn’t work. There was a second experiment that wasn’t widely reported. They put a powerful radio transmitter in the probe - never got a signal from it. Also, they used a LOT more power than they expected.” “Thanks - that helps. . . . What would you say to a project to determine what happened to the probes?” “You paying for it?” “Maybe.” “Her idea or yours?” “Mine for now.” “I doubt that. . . . If someone else was paying for it and she headed the research we would probably be interested.” “Just to get her on the faculty?” “Yes! . . . What are you up to?” Ignoring the question - “Thanks Jim - I’ll get back to you.” By the time Tim picked Jane up for breakfast he had read the personal information in the dossier Miranda had sent him. He had scanned the list of her published work, which, for the most part, he didn’t understand. There was one surprise in the dossier Miranda had prepared, she had completed the Engineering Undergraduate course at Cambridge specializing in Aerospace and Aerothermal Engineering. Half way through breakfast Jane was getting worried. He was asking ‘getting to know you questions’ as if they were on a date. ‘ Why wasn’t he asking about her proposal? ’ Finally she had to ask - “Don’t you want to hear about what I want the money for?” “No. . . . probably wouldn’t understand it anyway. Except maybe two things - Why haven’t you published anything on why the Berkeley experiments failed and why hasn’t anyone else figured out that the earth moved?” Tim didn’t need a degree in physiology to read her face. “You want to get all the credit. . . . Don’t be embarrassed. I didn’t take my company public because I wanted complete control.” “Do you know the problem with all the invisible man stories?” she asked. Slightly bewildered, Tim nodded. “Did you realize it or did someone tell you?” “Hmmp . . . I see your point.” - someone had told him, not everyone can see the obvious. [Gentle reader, if you are invisible, light passes right through your eyes - you can’t see.] He continued. “Yesterday you mentioned patents and moving things in space. Maybe there is money in it, maybe not - I don’t care.” This was a bit of a lie. He knew if her idea worked there was a huge potential market. He continued - “I have more money than I can spend. Most of it will go to charity. . . . If I invest in your research it will be because I trust you and think you will work hard to finish what you start - even if the results are not what you expected.” The rest of the day went very much like a first date as they got to know each other and explored much of what London has to offer. By the end of the day Tim had decided he liked her and she was someone he could trust. He would have been surprised to know, in spite of the boorish way he acted when they first met, she found him quite charming. That evening, over drinks, he finally asked “What do you know about the University of Victoria?” Smiling “I hear they have an excellent astrophysics department.” “Are you sure five million will be enough?” ### “Stand still - don’t be ridiculous - in the whole history of the Nobel Awards nobody has ever worn a clip on tie.” “Nobody will be looking at me - every eye will be on you. You do know you are only the sixth woman to win the Nobel Prize in Physics?” Laughing, “It may have been mentioned once or twice.” Finishing tying his tie she did a pirouette. “So worth five million dollars?” Going along with her and thinking back to when they first met he answered, “Well Jane, the most I ever paid for an escort was two thousand dollars.” She pretends to scowl, “Choose your words carefully or you will be sleeping alone tonight.” He smiles “But you are much better looking. . . . Ready to go? Can’t keep the King of Sweden waiting.”


There is a newt, laying on leaf litter, waiting for rain. Soon, it will slip under their cover, and head for the vernal pool. It’s spring now, and the pool will dry up by summer. The newt knows this, just as it knows it will rain, it can feel it in the air passing through its body. It idly listens to the birds and bugs buzzing around the forest. Though they are not idly buzzing, they are talking and singing to one another, sharing stories between trees. Unlike them, the newt is solitary, and lives in silence. It has no way of communicating from afar. But it would like to see another of its kind. An ancient memory arises. One where the newt was small, and its tail long and fish-like. It’s swimming in the vernal pool, alongside many others of its kind. The newt feels calm among them, enveloped in the warm, deep water of late spring. The clouds have exhausted themselves of their downpours, and the air is soft and wet. The newt can’t yet move on land, it can only wiggle. All the newts wiggle together, wiggling toward their destination. The memory fades, and the newt can’t remember where it was they were going. A light drizzle begins, whispering through the trees. Drops occasionally fall from their branches onto the newt. It flinches at these drops, but not with annoyance. They just mean it’s time to go. It starts slowly, first picking up its limbs from the leaves and putting them down again. It blinks twice, then raises its head. Finally, it begins dragging its body forward. This is not easy in the damp leaves, as they stick to the newt's slimy skin. Fallen twigs and lichens latch on too, increasing the burden. The journey to the pool is long. If the rain doesn’t pick up, then the entire effort may be a waste. But the newt pushes this thought aside and crawls on, getting lost in the rhythm of its body. Thinking of potential failure is pointless. Rain is never guaranteed, so the newt must try when the opportunity arises. It’s determined, by instinct and by will, together as one. At last, the wind and rain pick up, developing into a breezy shower. A low-hanging mist forms alongside this, blanketing the surface of the earth. The mist hushes the birds and bugs, they are not comfortable singing where they cannot see. Frogs take this as a sign it’s their turn, and begin producing a low chorus. Their chorus, along with the shrouding mist, consumes the forest. No sound can cut through them. The other animals must yield, and wait to be heard again. The newt is close now. Excited by the growing rains, it dives down, submerging itself in a sea of leaves. It slithers from leaf to leaf, only periodically using its limbs to stay upright. The newt can move more quickly when things are wet. But it wants to swim. Small puddles form, rising above the lowest leaves. What were once fine needles, slowly falling and hardly penetrating the soil, have swollen into plump beads, hurling from the sky and soaking everything they touch. The rain permeates the newt’s amphibious skin, but it doesn’t mind. It prefers it this way, enjoying its water-born strength. Bliss soon overcomes its body, and subsequently its mind. In this bliss, the newt forgets its mission entirely. Instinct alone keeps it moving forward. The newt stops, something has pulled it from its trance. A worm, squirming in a puddle. It writhes at the surface of the water, helplessly suspended in emptiness. Both sides of its body pull away from its center, frantically reaching for the security of the earth. Eventually, it finds a hold and begins digging. Anchored to the earth on one end and squirming on the other, the worm is like a blade of grass, being buffeted by a river's current. But unlike grass, the worm's movements are forced, and stand out to the passing newt. The newt hesitates for a moment, watching the worm struggle to attach itself more deeply into the earth. But the worm will not get that chance. Abruptly, and with little effort, the newt plucks the stranded creature. Three chomps and the worm is gone. The newt continues its journey on a full stomach, swimming across the small puddles that have formed in the rain. The puddles get larger as it goes, not because of the growing downpour, but because the land is slowly declining. Soon there is no land, and the newt finds itself floating aimlessly in the vernal pool. It is looking for something, but it cannot see past the dense mist. It decides there is only one way to go. The newt dives down. The water is clear and calm, having slowly been filled by the spring rains. There are no fish in the pool, only invertebrates and other amphibians. This is essential, as it makes the pool the only safe place for their young. The newt's eyes are drawn to movement near the ground. Other newts are there, swimming from one patch of open earth to another. Some are chasing each other, and others are swimming together in lines, with heads trailing closely behind tails. Eventually, one approaches the newt. They brush their nose against the newt's tail before descending again. The newt descends too, following them into the depths. Mostly, the newt is driven by simple curiosity. But something stirs at the back of its mind, something vaguely familiar, yet something the newt has no recollection of. The newt catches up to them. They are swimming in small circles, hovering silently over the dark earth. The newt follows their lead for a while, until they both come to rest on the ground. Slowly, the newt climbs onto their back, rubbing its chin on their nose. It does not know why it does this, but it feels like this is what it must do. It then wags its tail, releasing pheromones and awakening long-forgotten instincts. Appearance is irrelevant to newts, and to their ancient rituals, rituals that only their bodies know. They do not think about enjoying it, but they enjoy it nonetheless. The newts embrace their feelings together, allowing their instincts to become their will. The origin of a newt’s life is here, in the vernal pool, when everything is feeling, and nothing is thinking.


A long time ago I left my hometown Caracas to live in the countryside and now I have returned. Over forty years passed and, although the city looks the same, many an old building has been demolished and a new one built, others have been just renovated giving them a nicer look. I was enjoying my recent retirement and since I had nothing better to do but sightsee, I decided to take a long walk from Chacaito , where I was residing at the moment to Petare, almost nine kilometers, something that I did almost daily during my preteen years, while living in the same area. It was still early in the morning. That almost magical time between school at seven and work at nine. The weather was just delicious. Cool with a slow and steady breeze blowing in my face, keeping the temperature at nineteen Celsius. Wonderful! Businesses were getting ready to open and most eateries on both sides of the avenue were doing business at a fast clip. People ate standing or seated on stools. Very few tables were occupied because breakfast before work is a quick bite and coffee. I was walking at a leisure pace, enjoying the view. Buildings, either new or renovated, with shiny glass colored facades, gave my stroll an iridescent quality that made me stop, take a deep breath, and, wham! I was struck by a smell I had not perceived since childhood. I turned my head this and that way, searching for the origin of such a wonderful enticing smell. There! At the corner of Miranda avenue and La Joya street. Oh, God. I was taken back to maybe fifty years ago when I was ten, maybe less, walking hand in hand with my mom, and smelled something wonderful. She had parked the car two blocks away and we were walking to specifically this panadería right here in the very same corner to have a snack and buy sweetbreads to eat at home with the rest of the family. I took another deep breath. I just had to. Sííí . Gosh, I loved that smell. I clearly remembered all of it. My memory of that long-gone day became so clear that I felt my mother’s warm hand holding mine as we crossed the street, walked up four steps up, and entered the bakery. Today I did the same, minus the hand-holding part. I crossed the Joya street and stood in front of the rounded corner building that housed the very same panadería . What a time trip. I have to tell you. The smell coming from it almost overpowered my senses, it was mouth-watering, appetizing, scrumptious, luscious, enjoyable, palatable, delightful, to just say a few adjectives. I climbed the same old, worn four steps, and entered a renovated business with shiny steel and glass counters. There was a queue to order, another to pay and a third to pick up the goods. No chairs, no tables. Just a marble counter along one wall for people to eat their goodies and drink their beverages standing up. Everybody seemed short of time. Customers were in a hurry, employees were hurrying, two cashiers hurriedly worked the cash register machines and payment terminals. I just stood in the middle of that little chaos, taking it all in, at ease. French baguettes. Italian bread. Sweet milk bread. Peasant bread. Sourbread. Sandwich bread. Croissants. Flatbread. Fruit bread. Hamburger and hot-dog buns. Whole grain bread. Bagels. Then, our typical bread and pastries, like a quesadilla , which is nothing like the Mexican quesadilla , our is a sweet soft star-shaped thin bun, with a sweet cheesy mixture on top, and, what I consider the king of all sweetbreads, el golfeado , a typical Venezuelan roll filled with grated white cheese soaked in dark sugarcane syrup, that tastes like glory in heaven. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know what to choose. As usual in my life, unless I have to meet somebody for coffee or breakfast, never leave home without the day’s most important meal in my belly. To choose in that mouth-watering environment felt like sinning gluttony. I reckon I spent almost twenty minutes just looking at all that bread, letting the smell impregnate my clothes, my taste-buds, and my mind. Finally, I decided to have lunch at half-past eight in the morning. I selected a golfeado with queso de mano , a soft fresh layered cheese lightly salted, and a cachito , a half-moon of rolled dough filled with shredded ham. Large coffee with milk completed my order. I was given a paper ticket to pay my order with, stood in the payment queue for almost five minutes, paid, and was given a ticket to pick up my consumption, that was given to me in two plastic plates and a plastic cup filled to the rim with piping hot coffee. I made a line to a free spot on the counter to set down my meal. The hot coffee was burning my fingertips and in the haste to put down the cup I splashed some of it on the marble. Whew. What an ordeal. After wiping my hands in my pants, there were no paper napkins available because the owners of the panadería were cheap merchants, I munched first on my golfeado with queso de mano on top. Took several long minutes of slow chewing intermingled with hums and sighs of pure joy, washed down with a not so memorable coffee. For a few seconds, I considered asking for a doggie bag to carry my cachito home, but it was still warm and its smell wafted enticingly up to my nose so I decided, then and there, that if I have already committed the gluttony sin, I might as well continue to do so. I took a large bite of the cachito . Felt something crunch and, let me tell you, that is not something that should happen in a soft bread filled with shredded ham, it’s not even normal. I froze and kept my mouth closed, motionless. With a trembling hand and a queasy stomach, I looked at the bitten cachito in my hand. Half a cockroach was stuck inside it... Gluttony. I knew, in that very precise moment, with the other half of the cockroach inside my mouth, that I was paying for my gluttony sin. My real breakfast and my very early lunch were spewed right there, where the X marks the spot.