Lucille Lucille was a fan of schedules and sticking to a routine, she would prefer a day with feeling content than not. The day was as plain as ever, Rob’s second hand bookstore held true to its nature as any other day. The sky was overcast outside the store, but Lucille didn’t mind, in fact she was expecting it after watching the seven o’clock news earlier. The wind, being slight and barely noticeable, carried the smell of worn paper and old ink through it’s isles. Lucille was wedged between aisles three and four, which was where all of the newest non-fiction donations were deposited. With her breakfast sandwich nestled in her hand and her scarf around her shoulders, she scrolled through her phone, anxiously waiting for Tim. She looked at her watch, and it was nine o’clock, just in time for Tim’s restock. Yes, she did know his name, because she was a regular who came every Sunday and Wednesday, just as she liked it. Lucille, or known as Lucy by friends--from the select few she had--all admired her punctuality and daily schedules. The one thing so unlike Lucy was the fact that she was meeting someone new. In fact, she was meeting them--with her friends of course, she is too nervous around new people, and they know as such--this afternoon for a brisk lunch at the park. It was a 17-minute walk from here, but it may turn into a 23-minute experience if she walked along Canal Street -- Her calculations were interrupted as a box slammed with a mighty THUD beside her feet. Lucille bristled at the noise, and she was careful not to drop her sandwich--breakfast was her favorite meal of the day; she would hate nothing more than to ruin it because of a cardboard box. “Sorry for that, these boxes look lighter than they actually are.” Lucy looked at the man, he wasn’t Tim but he didn't look unfamiliar. If anything, he looked a lot like Tim, he wasn’t as broad as he was, but he had the same eyes and nose. “Are you Tim’s--” “Brother? Yes, I am.” “Pardon me,” she replied, “but you didn’t let me finish.” “I didn’t have to, I can read you like an open book, and you were looking at me as if you saw me before.” He bent down and went to work pulling out books from the donation box. “We have never met before, and Tim usually works here.” Lucy munched on her sandwich, because who can have a response to that . “Don’t worry, though. He will be back, I am only covering his shift for today.” With a grunt, he picked up the box and began to walk over to the next aisle. “This was a riveting conversation--” She swallowed her mouthful and finished for him, “Lucille.” He flashed a smile back at her, remarking, “Lucille. Until next time--” She stopped him. “And your name? I can’t give you mine, without you offering your own.” She didn’t know why she asked, but she did. He had to be polite after all, and asking for her name without giving his was everything but. He set the box down, looking at her with a smirk. “Michael, my name is Michael.” “That is a wonderful name as well,” she put her phone back in her pocket, turning as she said, “now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to it.” She focused her attention on the new books lined on the shelves, just as she liked. Even if she had just met someone, it does not excuse her to throw her plans out the window. She had things to do, and she couldn’t get distracted. Snap out of it , she told herself, just pick a book and get going. She was off schedule, but nothing could go wrong as long as she stuck to her routine. Her routine was the one thing she could rely on, and she liked it as such, it made her content. The rest of her day would go as planned, she would see to it. *** Lucille Lucille’s day was not going as planned, leaving her anything but content. There was the construction off of Crane Road, forcing her to take the alternate route along Baker’s Lane, only to realize she locked herself out of her apartment. Which was quite unlike her, and she knew as such. She attempted to knock on Mrs. Danbury’s door, but the old woman was known to sleep-in until the afternoon, which was really unhealthy-- but that's besides the point ! Lucy had to remind herself how she couldn’t rely on her neighbor in this predicament, and how she would have to call a locksmith. A locksmith ! She has never called for one, but here she was, off schedule, and calling a locksmith. She finished her sandwich, which was really a shame--Lucy enjoyed savoring her breakfast--but she would have to get a move-on, otherwise her lunch plans would be kaput. Pulling out her phone, she quickly dialed a locksmith, thanks to Google , and waited. And waited. Waited a bit more. And, yes , waited anxiously beside apartment 3-B, while scrolling through her phone. Finally, when she thought she would have to cancel her plans, a locksmith appeared. Except this wasn’t just any locksmith, it was Michael , the very one she met only an hour earlier. Surely , Lucy thought, this must be due to foul play . She wasn’t one to believe in coincidences or bad luck, giving her enough reason to question if her sanity was still intact--because her schedule was already jumbled, so it would only make sense for him to be a stalker, or a criminal, robbing her of all people ! But what did she have that held value, her book from Rob’s ? No, that would be ridiculous, he was probably a figment of my imagination , Lucy reasoned. She knew she was losing her grip with today’s schedule, perhaps it was all due to a fever. Lucy added to this notion, one horrible enough to imagine a tall man with hazel eyes coming to my rescue --wait--what was she thinking? She shook her head, as if it would be enough to clear her mind of such nonsense. He was not really there, and she was sick, and that was the end of it. He was a guy from this morning, not prince charming coming to her rescue. Snap out of it , Lucy urged herself, get a grip! *** Michael Michael was impulsive with his decisions, he would prefer a day filled with happy unpredictable outcomes than not. He had skipped lunch, and goodness he was hungry. He couldn’t remember the last time he skipped both lunch and breakfast. Breakfast was his favorite meal of the day, and he had to skip it today, due to his brother’s unlucky habit of getting sick often. He hadn’t filled in for his brother in months, but he also had a shift today--making him regret having a brother. He wasn’t one to complain about work, as it always gave him great joy to see new faces, just as he liked it. All of Michael’s friends knew this, and they would all comment on his need for change; how nothing about him was predictable. One day he could be in Mexico for all they knew and they admired him for this. He was never one to sit and remain content with his day-to-day life, he was the type to do something. No day was like the last, and he was happy for it. Even if sometimes he had to skip a meal or two in the process, like today. His stomach grumbled as he walked up the stairs, and he had to place a hand on it to muffle the sound, it wasn’t much help--yet at least he did something about it. Otherwise he would only look like a sad husk of a man, walking up some stairs in hopes of finishing his work for a bite to eat--which was partially true, but still. Michael stopped short of the door, allowing him to take in Lucille’s disheveled appearance. She was flustered, anyone could tell , with her hair out of it’s bun and her scarf uneven around her shoulders, it didn’t seem like her. She seemed like the type to know how her day would go, as everything went to plan, keeping her life intact with a strict routine. He didn’t know why he thought this, he just did. It was perhaps the scrunch of her nose, her failed attempt at trying not to show how aggravated she was. Maybe it was her phone hanging by her side, showing a bright screen of notepads and calendars, all for him to see. Michael had to force himself to say something, because he soon realized she had startling blue eyes. Not the type to get lost in , Michael thought, but the type to be aware of . He caught himself again, feeling rather sheepish, and said the first thing that came to his mind-- commenting on anything else besides how she looked , “How was the sandwich?” She squinted her eyes at him. “My what?” “Your sandwich,” he adjusted his grip on his tools, and added, “you were holding one this morning.” He did like his food, so this may distract him, even if she was gaping at him at the mention of a sandwich . “Oh, yes, I suppose I did.” She placed the phone back into her pocket, and crossed her arms, making Michael believe she wasn’t one for small talk. He resumed the conversation, “Would you mind if I asked you where you got one? I am thinking of picking one up on the way back to Rivet’s, I may even snag one for the guy.” He poked around his tools, and focused back to the door. “Well actually, I made it myself.” He stopped. “Really, are you serious?” “Quite.” She straightened at the question. “I would hate to ask this of a friend--” “That is a bold assumption,” she started to laugh, and stated, “we had only met an hour ago! I hardly know anything past your name.” “ One , I was just going to say your breakfast smelled great, and I was going to ask if you could make a few; two , I would gladly pay you, if you were up to it; three , you know I work part-time at Rob’s and now Rivet’s.” The door opened with a satisfying CLICK, and he got up to look at his work with a wide smile. “I would say that would be enough to consider me a friend, I did just unlock your door for you, you’re welcome by the way.” She held up a finger, but left it there. The sight made Michael hold a laugh, she looked as if she was rebooting to form a proper response. He stumped her, perhaps he was the first to do so, and he liked it. “Are you up to it?” She focused back on the conversation, and asked, “I beg your pardon?” “The sandwiches, are you up to making one-- or two --for me to take back.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a crisp twenty. “I did say I would gladly pay you, and I meant it.” “Oh, erm,” she looked down the hall and back. “I suppose so--” “Thank you, this means a lot to me, I don’t often skip breakfast, but I am pulling double shifts today--” She stopped him with a look. “If, and only if , you don’t touch anything inside.” She walked over to the door, making him side-step around her. Lucille opened the door and looked back at him. “ Me included.” Michael held a hand to his chest, holding back a gasp. “Lucille, that is a bold assumption you would make of a friend--” “An acquaintance if anything, don’t flatter yourself.” “That is much better, I would take an acquaintance over a stranger any day.” He flashed a smirk at her, as he walked inside her apartment. “Thank you again, my stomach is about to consume me. I don’t think Tim would appreciate it if I wasn’t around to cover his shift tomorrow.” Lucille sighed back, holding no response once again--Michael smiled at this--as she closed the door behind them. He was glad he was impulsive enough to skip breakfast, because if he hadn’t, he would never have been happy as he was then. *** Michael Michael began to regret his habit of being impulsive, leaving him anything but happy. It had been thirteen minutes--yes he counted--since they last held a conversation. Within the time he has: twiddled his thumbs for entertainment, checked his phone for any notifications, and looked at her wall--it wasn’t boring per se, it was just so Lucille . Every spot was squared away in a neat and orderly fashion, and all the picture frames were matching in size and color. He didn’t know why he knew this, he just did. Staying still for so long was unlike Michael, and he knew this. His mind urged him to touch something and ask about it, but he didn’t want to go back on his word. He never held so much restraint towards himself, but here he was, regretting, and looking around her apartment. He held still, and waited. And waited. Waited a bit more. And, yes , waited beside her wall filled with picture frames, while twiddling his thumbs. Finally, when he thought he had to break this awful silence, he saw something. Except it wasn’t just something, it was him , just two weeks ago at the park. Surely , Michael thought, this must be a hilarious prank . He did believe in coincidences and fate, but this--this was extraordinary. The city they lived in was anything but small, giving him enough reason to believe someone had planned this. He didn’t know how--or more specifically why --but this was too odd, even for him. Did she plan this? Michael considered this further. He looked back at her, hunched over the stove, sticking her tongue out as she attempted to flip a fried egg, and he quickly rejected the idea with a wave of his hand. No, this is all too crazy, it surely must be a coincidence, nothing more than that , Michael reasoned. He was just overthinking this, perhaps it was all due to his boredom. Michael added to this idea, bored enough to imagine those blue eyes and --oh no--he knew where this was going, and he had to stop himself. His shift would end soon, and he would be meeting someone on a blind date soon, he couldn’t fall for her. Even if it kills him, he would have to thank her for these sandwiches and leave politely. She was Lucille--an acquaintance--not someone he should daydream over. Let it go, Michael willed himself, stop daydreaming, and do something else! *** The Universe Michael and Lucy were going to be happy and content, and they will continue to prefer as such. Whether they both knew it now or not, both of them are destined to meet again, and at the very same park later that afternoon. Lucy will be at a loss for words, and to Michael’s relief, this was all because she was slowly falling for him. Michael would continue to be patient when it comes to her needs, even if his impulsive nature may prove this to be difficult. Michael and Lucy will extend their lunch date, and take a stroll along the park, talking about Tim and how his absence wasn’t missed one bit. They continue to debate about how I had a role in their lives, and how odd the coincidences were in such a large city. Only moments later, though, it will begin to rain; halting their suspicions of greater powers playing a role in their lives (even though they weren't wrong). Michael, the newfound gentleman, resolves this as he offers his jacket. Lucy will scold him for not being under as well, forcing them both to run under his jacket towards the nearest trees. They are fated to sit there for hours, both reluctant to leave, and talk through the rest of the day. The rain will clear, reason enough for both of them to part their separate ways. They end the date in a hug--Lucy was, and forever will be, cautious of meeting new people--and she will comment on how wonderful the day was. Michael furthers this thought, and proposes the day should continue with a second date later in the evening. Lucy subsequently laughs at the the preposterous idea, and agrees. They will both be happy and content, as they will prefer as such for the rest of the evening. (And just as I plan for them to be, for the rest of their days together.)


Henry looked up at the old woman and immediately felt rigid, as if he was frozen in ice. "Ok Harry, go hide.” She said endearingly. “I'll come look for you in 5 minutes. No sooner, no later." Not needing another queue, the ice exploded and the boy ran. Clothes like tattered kites and feet bare as the wind, he sprint low. Snaking down the hall and weaving through the old furniture like he was at soccer practice, Henry ran down to the far end of the mansion where the old lady couldn't hear. From the sounds of the house and the speed of the child Henry guessed she located their room before the game even began. And from the last few who tried he knew better than to choose a close room. His feet slapped hard against the carpet as he ran. The rooms at the far end of the mansion were no good... Checking them door by door, most of them smelled foul so he avoided those knowing they hadn't worked, some rooms were too empty, decaying floor boards and flicking lights whispered their hollowness. He needed a room full of stuff, one nobody had tried yet. Five minutes was not a lot of time, however. Mentally keeping track, Henry's pace rapidly became more and more reckless. Fingers of fear slithering their way into his mind, he stopped shutting doors at 2 minutes, stopped turning on or off lights at 3 minutes and stopped checking windows for a way out at 1. There was only time to race from room to room now. Desperately he tried to find a good spot. He found none. A whimper pushed its way out his throat as he spun round in the decrepit hall, his mind racing with nightmares. *Where!?* He mentally screamed. He looked to the barred windows and feared he would never get out. He fingered the badge on his shirt and feared he would never see his friends again. He stared down at the band-aid on his palm and longed for his family, his mother. He just wanted to help her find Tucker! He didn't mean to let him outside! Behind him a screech ripped down the hall. “No..” he feebly whispered. But the game had begun, the hag is coming. Heart thundering, Henry gazed upon the last and final door of the hall. Small and closet-like, he opened it hopeless, tears already welling up in his eyes, he was never going to get out of here, he was never going to see his family again he sobbed. But the game was not over yet! The room was stocked. An incline bed sat at the center of a weird, tiled, space surrounded by work benches and cabinets. Quickly and quietly the small boy dug into one of the benches not bothering to look at all the macabre instruments hanging round the room. A huge flood of relief pouring over him as he tightened into a ball and began praying for time to pass. A white cloth draped over the workbench helped to conceal his form as as he struggled to control his breathing, his shaking stilling down to a shiver. Down the hall his worst fears came to fruition, however, and like the charge of a bull he heard the destructive footfall of the crazy woman careening through the building. Henry's heart lurched into his throat. *PLEASE!...* he wanted to cry but stifled his breath. She had run right to him! The door burst open and slammed against the inside wall with a vicious crack. ******* "Harold...Henry...Harry” She sang, “Whatever your name is, come out, come out, where ever you are..." *This isn't fair!* Henry internally pleaded. It made no sense that she'd simply guessed where he was. It made no sense she didn't even check the other rooms. How was anyone supposed to win?! The hag was already moving bench to bench while he thought, assessing each tool with an unnatural glee, her voice became more and more twisted as she spoke. "Did you know bone saws make terrible cleavers?" She stated picking up another tool. "Or that scalpels are perfect for throwing? Have you ever wanted to know how someone else would look with your face or shake your own detached hand? Harold?!" No... If she knows where I am then the game is a lie. She wont let us go if we win because we can't win. She'd planned to kill every one of us from the start. Slowly Henry's fingers curled into a fist as the fullness of his naivety bared down on him. The boy shook his head and fought back tears. Abruptly, across the room the old woman flipped a table over, crashing an array of instruments to the ground. A cackle following suit. "Harold I like you. You're smarter than the rest. As soon as I saw you I knew I'd get a good game out of you... So I saved you for last." Violently she kicked another bench to the ground, a small chainsaw peeling as it scratched marks across the floor, the sound making Henry wince. "But the real game has yet to begin, soon we will be playing a different game. A better game. A game of screaming and laughter..." To Henrys dismay, the old woman changed direction and began walking as slow as she could toward him and like the flip of a switch, Henry's mind jarred as she turned, the dark reality coming down on him all at once. She reached his table with a casual clanging, each tool she passed receiving an endearing nudge of her personal hatchet. The sound like the perversion of a xylophone. "Very soon!" She rasp, leaning down and ripping back the cloth! There was no time to think, only to do. Henry had had enough of everything! Before he could realize it Henry had reached up atop the table, grabbed something, and lunged at the deranged hag with it. He couldn't even see if he'd struck her! In the last moments he'd closed his eyes shaking with fear, a cry pouring over his lips - time seeming to slow. When he opened his eyes the hag was still there, though. A small smile curling on her wrinkled lips. *Not fair!* Henry's entire body tightened like an ice sculpture, the idiot boy frozen by his own fear. ...But she hadn't moved. For what felt like an eternity Henry stared into the old woman's bulging yellow eyes and dry leathery skin. Until with a snort, a confused look crossed her face and she stumbled back. A metal handle revealing itself under her chin. Henry gasp. Blood poured then and like a fountain the boy cried while red began to gush. He needed to get out!Stumbling feebly, he made for the door, his small feet feeling like water beneath his knees. The old woman grabbed his shins as he past but her strength was gone. He slipped past her like seaweed. Basically collapsing he trudged as away from her before falling to a shivering heap... ******* He couldn't remember much of what he did next. Feverishly, hours later, he found a way out by one of the second floor windows, one already damaged by one of the other children trying to escape, and was able to make it to a road where he was picked up by a passerby. Henry lays in a hospital bed now, hardly believing he's escaped and still flinching at every footstep made toward his room from down the hall. Vacantly, on the TV, the young boy watches as a news lady begins a breaking story outside a 'dilapidated dormitory' but he turns it off when he recognizes some of the old furniture - a small tremble finding his fingertips. Down the hall he tentatively listens to the approach of a frantic woman and an ice begins to spread through his chest until she opens the door. When he sees his mother, the ice leaves crying in its wake. ******* All criticism/ feedback very appreciated. Will gladly read and give one of your works criticism/feedback if you wish in return. Thanks for reading.


Hi, this is my first post on here. I'm new to writing short stories so sorry if this is slightly badly written. This story does discuss suicide. Also I'm on mobile so the format might be crappy. It was 4am, I was awoken by the ring of my telephone. It was dark, but I was able to find the phone in my night stand. I checked for the number and it wasKatherine, my girlfriend. I picked up but it wasn’t her voice. “Michael?” The voice said. “Hello? Who is this?” I asked “This is Ashley, Katherine’s little sister.” “Oh hi,” I said with a tired tone, “why are you calling me so early?” She went silent, she didn’t respond. “Hello?” I said. Her voice went broken, you could hear her fighting back the tears, “Katherine... Katherine is dead.” Time stopped. I thought it was a joke for a couple seconds, a very cruel joke. But her broken voice as she said “She killed herself 3 hours ago,” made me know she wasn’t joking. I couldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t believe it. The love of my life, the one person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, was gone. She couldn’t have. No, she wouldn’t have. I hung up the phone and got in my car. I drove to her house, I just couldn’t believe she did that. She was always so happy, she was loving. As I pulled up I could see the flashing lights of police cars and a rescue truck. There in the distance, there were the rescue workers putting a white cloth over her beautiful face. It was true. There was no way to lie to my eyes. I walked over to the police car, there was her mom. Tears running down her face, her whole face red, even her nose was snotty. Next to her was her dad, he wasn’t showing emotion but you could tell that was a whole facade, he was trying to hold back his tears. I walked up to them and asked them what happened, I desperately needed answers. Her mother told me her father found her, she was in the bathtub. She had cuts all over her arms and on the floor was an empty bottle of sleeping pills. My sweet Katherine had truly killed herself. RIght there, as I heard them talk to me how she died, I broke down. Men don’t cry but I’ve just lost the most important thing in my life. Ashley walked over to me, she had a paper in one hand and a small ring in the other. She passed me both of them and I recognized the ring almost immediately. It was the promise ring I gave her in highschool a few years back. “Katherine made a note for each of us.” I opened up the note and it read, “Dear Michael, I hope you know I love you. I love you so much but I never deserved you. You were too good for me. You deserve someone better. You gave me this ring junior year of highschool, we promised we’d be together forever. I’m sorry I broke that promise. I loved you so much but I can’t keep living anymore. I was trapped in my thoughts and in my body. I needed to escape. I heard voices telling me I wasn’t good enough, that everything I did was never gonna be good enough. The shadows following me, they were haunting every step I took. Staring at me, judging me. This was the only way for me to escape and be happy. I’ll always love you, Katherine.” I put the note against the chest, and cried harder than I ever did in my life. I said to myself “You deserved the world.” I wish I could have helped her. This was my fault. I should have helped her, I could have saved her but now she’s gone.


Luther regained consciousness, his mind shocked awake by the jarring sound of a metallic door retracting. It rolled up slowly, creaking and bumbling, into the metal hood above. The salty taste of blood filled his mouth as rain washed across his scalp wound. Vague memories of a meeting at a bar followed by a crack on the head bubbled up. The men held him under each arm, dragging his limp body, toes trailing on the ground behind. Entering the building Luther noticed an oily rainbow flash off a stain on the ground. A single naked light bulb barely illuminated the room. The unmistakable smell of gasoline clung to his nostrils. I’m in a garage , he thought. Swinging his small frame to full height they dumped him roughly into the chair. The two men held him in place as a third man brought metallic manacles. The circular hand cuffs barely fit around his wrist and the armrest, crunching harshly onto his skin. “Ow, watch it!” he screamed, now fully awake. The skinny man wore a dirty, threadbare tee shirt and pants that were too big. Extra holes were punched into his belt so they would safely stay put. He laughed, his unshaven, twitchy face inches away. “This is just the beginning old man.” Halitosis and body odor washed over Luther, along with a wave of nausea. Gathering himself he said, “You’d better not put the ankle cuffs on, you’ll regret it if you do, I guarantee it.” Skinny man turned, a look of uncertainty on his face. He couldn’t remember if Sensei told him to put them on, or to not put them on. Frowning he grabbed the manacles and clamped them. Better safe than sorry. They crunched into his ankle splitting open the skin and scratching the metal leg of the chair. Luther’s scream echoed off the walls. He knew he’d regenerate rapidly, but the pain was real. Inhaling deeply, he focused on his ankle, feeling the skin tingle as it healed. Heavy footsteps brought him back to the garage. Luther could see himself reflected off the visor of the man’s helmet. He was enormous, standing well over six feet, and wore arrogance like a cloak. What little he could see of the man’s caramel colored face was clean shaven. “I’m Thibault. I extract information. First thing, those cuffs are titanium and cobalt, so you won’t be able to Channel. Second thing, you’re going to die tonight.” Pausing, he allowed that to thought sink in. “Last thing, the sooner you tell me what I need to know the sooner the suffering ends. The truth is I hope you hold out for a while; it makes it more interesting for me.” Smiling, he turned slowly and rolled a tray hidden in the shadows behind him. Several metallic instruments glistened brightly as they passed into the light. Thibault kept his torture devices in excellent working order, the cleanliness discordant with their evil purpose. “Now, tell me where the Mirror is.” Luther stared into the visor trying to ignore the evil sneer on Thibault’s face. For the millionth time he wondered why he let himself get into these situations. For the money , he thought. “I’m not telling you anything. And since I can see you are a professional would you mind swabbing my skin with alcohol before you strike? It’ll help avoid infection.” Lightning-fast Thibault lifted the baton and crashed it into Luther’s elbow. The sickening sound of breaking bone bounced off the walls dully. Luther screamed, then swooned as his vision blurred. Gritting his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut forcefully, he focused on his elbow. Gathering his will, he felt the familiar surge of power. A smooth bulge formed mid-bicep and slowly extended across the elbow in a wave. Three more waves and the bone healed. “What the hell was that?” asked Thibault. “I thought you said he wouldn’t be able to Channel in these cuffs!” Skinny man was shocked. “I have no idea what happened, but that wasn’t Channeling.” Swallowing hard, he tried to process what happened, but to no avail. Intravenous drug abuse and hard living made it nearly impossible for him to problem solve. In desperation he said, “Maybe we should call Sensei?” Softly, Thibault said, “Not yet, junky. He feels pain, so he can be broken.” Stretching his arms, grunting loudly, cracking his neck to either side, he looked carefully at the tray. Smiling he grabbed his second favorite tool. Several hours later, as the torture continued, Luther’s screams bounced off the walls. Thibault had removed his body armor but left the helmet on. Sweat streamed off his powerfully muscled body. Arching his back, he tried loosening the sore muscles around his lumbar spine. Skinny man scratched his arm. He would need a hit soon, the craving crawled along his skin like a centipede. “Hey, man,” he squeaked, voice cracking, “He’s not gonna break. We need to get Sensei in here to do her, you know, thingy.” He punctuated this statement with a double-handed gesture. “No. I’ve got one more trick. Get me the plunger.” Skinny man gaped, “Th...th...the plunger? Are you serious? We can’t kill him before he tells us where the mirror is.” Thibault leapt from his stool and grabbed Skinny man by the throat, lifting him off the ground with ease. Skinny man’s eyes bulged, he gasped for air. “Get me the plunger, junky,” he whispered before rag dolling him into the corner. Skinny man ran to the van and brought back the device. It bounced roughly as it rolled across the uneven ground outside. He quickly wheeled it to Thibault and skittered into a dark corner. Crouching against the wall he bobbed his head back and forth quickly, trying to quell the urge to get high, but not succeeding. Plugging the machine into a cord that hung from the ceiling, Thibault quickly booted up the computer. He tapped away on the keyboard with all ten fingers. The three-dimensional screen popped up above the computer, with a blinking cursor faintly visible near the bottom. Opening the door on the side he removed the device, plugging the heavy adaptor into its slot on the top left side of the machine. Luther had been unable to see what he was doing. As Thibault turned, he held up the device. It looked like a screwdriver attached to a thick cable, but instead of a screwdriver head there was a needle-like trocar. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re either going to tell me where the Mirror is, or I’m going to drive this trocar through the squamosal portion of your temporal bone, into your brain, and remove the information by force. The thing is most people die. With you it’s hard to tell, but do you really want to take a chance?” He paused, allowing the device to hang from its cord. “I’ll give you a minute to think about it.” Thibault walked away leaving Luther to stare at the evil device. Light glinted off the tip as it slowly swung like a pendulum. For several minutes the only sound was the pitter patter of rain off the garage roof. Luther breathed in deeply, knowing what he had to do. “What’s it going to be? The Mirror or your life?” Luther just stared at him morosely. “Fine.” Thibault picked up the trocar with his right hand, placed his left on the opposite side of Luther’s head, and drove it into his brain. Luther froze, eyes open, mouth slack, a dribble of saliva slowly drifting down his chin. On the three-dimensional monitor flashed a series of images without sound. A much younger Luther pulling the oval, handheld Mirror from a basket in an antiques shop. Luther talking to an old woman attempting to decipher the hieroglyphs along the edges of the Mirror. Luther removing his hand from inside the Mirror pulling out a pulsating red glob of fluid. Luther arguing with his wife, her leaving with the kids, him walking alone down a desolate highway. The final scene froze in midair above the computer: Luther staring at himself in the Mirror not recognizing the thing he had become. In the chair, dead-eyed Luther stared at his frozen virtual doppelganger above the computer. Thibault frowned, tried rebooting the device, but then gave up. He looked at Luther with side eyes, grabbed the trocar and pulled it out with a squishy jerk of his hand. “Better get Sensei.” Shaking his head in disbelief he vaguely listened to the echo of Skinny man’s steps sprinting down the hallway. Luther slowly mended his fractured brain. Several minutes passed before he could talk, the words feeling like glue in his mouth before he caught a second wind. Glancing to his left Thibault sat slump-shouldered on a stool, the very picture of defeat. “You don’t want the Mirror, believe me. That Mirror has cost me everything, my wife, my kids, my job, everything.” With a self-deprecating snort he added, “I used to be an accountant if you can believe that. But I was seduced by the Mirror, by the offer of power. Anyway, this’ll all be over once your Sensei gets here.” Thibault smirked, looked at Luther, and said, “You got that right.” As if on cue the door opened, and Skinny man entered followed closely by a figure walking with the staccato gait of a cyborg. “You failed, Thibault. This is most disappointing,” said Sensei who spoke with a sultry female tenor. She stopped a few feet from Luther. “Why does he have ankle manacles on? I specifically told you to not use ankle manacles.” Luther looked at the cyborg. “Don’t be angry at him, Sensei, it’s what you get for using drug addicts. And by the way, thanks for using titanium and cobalt manacles. If you ever get to use the Mirror, you’ll find there really is no better catalyst.” Luther inhaled deeply through his nose, eyes widening as he concentrated fully on the transformation. The manacles softened, melted, and then absorbed into his pores. Skin became like packed dirt as his body expanded. One moment he was a man, the next a nine-foot-tall earth golem. Letting out a guttural roar he extended his fists impossibly long, crashing into Thibault and Skinny man, killing them instantly. Next, he enlarged his hand and enveloped Sensei, pulling her closer. His voice was deep, like the rumble of an earthquake. “So glad you came to me, you really are impossible to find. Give me the chip and I’ll be on my way.” He emphasized this by crushing her legs as if they were papier mâché. “You know I cannot give you the chip, my programming forbids it. I know you will never remove it intact without my help. We are at an impasse.” Luther thought about that for a few seconds, looked up and realized he needed help. Focusing on his throat, a bubbling, gurgling sound escaped through his lips. Several seconds later he regurgitated a visor with a left ocular attachment. “That was disgusting,” said Sensei. “Yeah, I know. Felt bad, too.” Placing the visor across his forehead he pressed the button on the eye piece and said, “Command one, this is Luther, over.” “Command one. Good to hear your voice, Luther. How did it go, over?” “Bad. Their guy used a plunger. I hate those things. Anyway, I’ve got Sensei. I need to know how to get the chip, over.” “I’m sorry to hear that. What you do is for the greater good, I hope you know that. Right, um, she is an AP-47 so you’ll find the button through the base of her neck, over.” A look of shock crossed her face. “How do they know about the...” Before she could finish Luther had formed his index finger into a snake-like appendage. It entered a nearly invisible slot near the base of her neck and penetrated deep into her chassis. Her head opened like a mechanical onion in stepwise fashion, top, middle, bottom. Carefully reaching in he removed the onyx chip. Immediately, the faint light pulsing across the chip went out, as did Sensei’s life. Leaving the garage and walking quickly down the dark alley Luther frowned. As always, low-level depression washed over him when he transformed back to human. I should’ve stayed an accountant.


Meyer. Just Meyer is what I go by. I’ve spent the entire year trying to live up to the promise I made at the shrine in 2152. Like everyone in Shokertown, I headed over to the shrine at the New Year to pray and give thanks for the year before and hope for good things to come. The line last year wrapped around the corner from the temple entrance. The weather at the New Year was always sweltering. People were fanning themselves, but no one left the line. When I finally reached the shrine, I clapped my hands and prayed. I wished for what I know my mother would have wanted before she died: That I would not flat on my back in some alley, my last sight on earth the smog-filled sky above me, while a gun held at my head moved me into the next life. I don’t know what moved me to pray for her wish. But I knew she was watching me. And I owed her. The gods had been good to me. The following year I found a room and a steady job with a shopkeeper who needed someone with enough muscle to dissuade some of her more light-fingered customers from trying anything in her shop. I started to put some money away and was able to keep a roof over my head without busting any heads. My old pals joked that I’d found religion and placed a bet that I’d be back with them within the year. But so far, so good. I’d made it to New Year’s Eve. I had coin in my pocket and for once, was happy to head over to Yuji’s bar near the harbor to have a couple of drinks before heading back to my room over the shop. After I settled in at the bar and took a couple of sips, I felt myself start to relax. Only 30 minutes before the New Year. I felt so good, I started telling Yuji about my good fortune. “And to think it was all due to the prayer at the shrine last year and my three resolutions,” I told Yuji. His pencil-thin mustache started to twitch. “Meyer, it had nothing to do with the gods,” he said. I looked at him, then swirled the synthetic alcohol in my glass and ignored him. The lights in the bar flickered. “The electricity has been wonky this week, what with the construction up near the tower, ignore it,” he said. “Trust me, Meyer, It wasn’t your mother watching over you and it wasn’t the gods. It was all you, man. What were your resolutions?” he asked. I checked behind me and over at the table against the wall. The bar was a hole in the wall that only 7 people could stand in soaking wet. The only other person here was old fisherman just in from the harbor. He sat hunched over the table, his head hanging low with a half-empty bottle in front of him. He was barely conscious. No one was going to overhear me. “Come on. What did you commit to doing last year?” he said, wiping a glass dry and setting it in a row of glasses on the counter behind him. The round black clock hanging on the wall behind him still had 15 minutes left on its face. A red seconds hand began another trip around. I hesitated. I hate to admit it, but I am superstitious. “Committed to doing *this* year. 2153 isn’t over yet,” I said. “Yeah, yeah. Come on...” “First I committed to stay away from alcohol,” I said. Yuji’s eyes locked onto my glass. “Real alcohol. This synth stuff is not likely to get me into situations that I would regret tomorrow,” “Ok, there’s one. Number two?” Yuji picked up another shotglass and began wiping it dry, the cloth squeaking on the glass. “I committed to stay well away from the Cat’s Eye casino.” Yuji nodded, he knew the riverboat casino permanently anchored further down the road at Shokertown’s Harbor. Most of his business came from the fisherman and the rest from the folks too down on their luck to afford another place to drink. “Most of my problems came from hanging out there. Or hanging out with people who hung out there. They used to be most of my gigs.” I finished my drink and set the glass down on the bar. The half-melted ice cubes shifted in the glass. Yuji finished another glass and set it behind him. “And the last?” “Don’t bad mouth the gods,” I said. Yuji stopped drying the glass for a moment. Then he burst out laughing. “Come on, Meyer. You don’t believe that Ghost shrine shit, do you?” He put the final glass behind him on the counter. Twelve glasses lined up in rows of 3. At that moment there was a click and the electricity went out. The bar had no windows so I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. “Damnit,” Yuji said. “Give me a minute. It’s the fuse box. I’ll be right back.” “No, I’ve got it. Is it back near the door to the alley?” I asked. He didn’t respond. “Yuji, I can’t see your face man. Is it near the door to the alley?” Yuji chuckled, “Sorry. Yes it is. Here’s a flashlight,” He turned on the flashlight and held it out, handle first. I grabbed it and aimed the faint circle of light to where I thought the hallway was. The bar’s narrow walls were fake wood paneling. A few fifteen steps down the hallway, I found the fuse box and yanked it open. Sure enough, all of the fuses were turned to off. I began to turn them back on, starting with the lights in the hallway, when I heard shattering glass. A drunken voice cried out and after a moment I heard the bar door slam shut. “Yuji?” I shouted. There was no response. I flipped the remaining fuses back on and rushed back to the bar. The old fisherman was gone. Did he try something? I looked over to the bar. The glasses that had been neatly set in rows on the counter were lying in broken pieces. The mirror above them was wreathed in frost. Yuji stood with his back to me, looking at the broken glasses on the bar shelf. When I walked back to my stool, he looked up into the frost-edged mirror at my reflection. He exhaled slowly. A couple of barstools were knocked over on the floor. I picked them up and put them next to the bar. “What happened?” I asked. “Shit if I know,” he said shakily. He picked up a hand broom, moved the trash can over to the back of the bar and sweeped the broken glass into the trash can. “Did the guy at the table try something?” “No. The glasses...broke behind me. He screamed and left so fast, he knocked down a couple of stools” he said. Yuji took down a bottle of whiskey from the shelf and poured three fingers worth into a glass. He held the bottle out to me. The clock above the bar still had two minutes left to the year. I backed up, holding up my hands. “Two minutes left to the year,” I said. Yuji nodded and tossed the drink back. “Take it easy, Yuji. I’m heading home,” I said. Yuji put the glass down and followed me to the door. “Happy New Year!” I said. Yuji gave me a weird look. “Happy New Year, Meyer. Stay committed, eh?” he said. “Of course,” I said. He shut the door and slammed the bolt shut behind me. I looked up into the night sky. Fireworks began popping off in brilliant colors over Shokertown. “Happy New Year, Mom!” I whispered. I felt a cold breeze on my neck, unseasonably cold for this time of year.


*SHATTER* And a ball comes flying in. There is a faint sound of children egging each other on to grab the ball in this dusty, dull, crumby house, one that hasn't been properly lived in for maybe 20 years. "You get it!" Shouts one kid. "No. Devan should get it! He threw it!" Yells another. "You kicked it! And you broke their window!" The running feet at a fast pace begin to slow down and abruptly stop at the creaky porch window. A head pops through the broken window, peaking into the dilapidated house. Not only did the window shatter, but the pane is coming off the wall. The boy looks around, but cannot see much of the house. The natural light is being blocked by the old, residued windows so there is no luck seeing anything from outside. "Go in Devan!" A voice shouts. "No! This place gives me the creeps!" "Do you see the ball?" "Notta! That thing is gone." Says the peaking child. "Go in and look for it." Says a voice beside him while he engages a sour face. "What are you afraid of? Spiders? This place is empty." The boy acknowledges that it is empty and without turning to his friend he says, "Come with me then." His friend begins to shake then states, "I'm game. You first. You threw it first before I kicked it." The first boy begins to crawl through the window- "You're not even going to knock first?! That's so disrespectful!" Yells one of the kids outside. He ignores their outburst. He is already mostly inside and there's no turning back from here. He takes a couple steps then hears a rough creak in the floor and immediately stops. He turns around and sees his friend staring at him through the window with a blank face and says, "You coming or what?" He turns back around and sees a portrait of.. The house? There's a portrait of the house on the wall and a mirror beside it. And this is strange, in the portrait the windows are all mirrors. Concept art? He inspects the fancy mirror and it's frame while the wallpaper behind it is quite obviously aged. He hears a rough creak behind him and says to his friend, "Bout time. Look at this. it's the only other thing in this house besides me that isn't gross looking." He chuckles while looking at his friend Ross's reflection. "It's just a crumby old mirror." The other kid states. He and his friend look around for the ball for a few moments and they decide that it's no use, they've checked all possible areas where the ball could have reasonably landed. That. And the house is starting to give Devan the creeps. He checks down a hall and flips a light switch that is extremely reluctant at first, but gives and provides electricity. When the light comes on there is nothing but webs all along the walls and the ceiling. (Gross.) He thinks to himself and looks around for the ball. He looks to the end of the hall and notices another long human sized mirror. This one is surrounded by webs and seems a bit more aged like the rest of the house.. And.. the Ball! It's directly beneath the mirror. He quickly grabs it and begins to stand while the floor creaks again. As he stands straight up the floor begins to give and he hears, "The shadows! They course! Awaken brothers!" "AHHHH," He screams as he runs out of the hallway, forgetting the ball in his hands for a moment and trips on an exposed plank in the ground. He immediately begins to tremble as he then hears laughter. Children laughing. His friends are looking at him from outside, cutting up as if they are all just playing a prank on him. He blushes of embarrassment and grabs his ball and runs to the window and scolds, "That's not funny! I could seriously hurt myself!" And he looks to his friend. "And where the hell did you go?! You just left me in there?" They all go silent and his friend looks at him and says, "What'ya mean?" "Devan just cussed. I'm telling Mrs. Maxwell." "You left me all alone. You come with me, I went into the hallway and you just left? What kind of friend are you?" "Devan..." "No, don't give me that. You're a wuss." He says. "You're a big ole' wuss." "Devan, what are you talking about? Ross didn't go in with you." One of the kids pleaded. They all looked at him in silence. "What do you mean?" Ross looks at him and says, "You told me to leave, you said get out after I called the mirror 'crumby.' Remember?" "No?! When did I say that? I never said that." "We all heard you. You were very mean to him, you chased him out of the house and he almost hurt himself falling out of the window." "That's why we decided to mess with you. That's why we yelled, 'We're telling your brother.' Because we knew it would get you running." "That's not what I heard." Devan remarks. "What you mean? What'd you hear?" One of the kids in the back asks. "I heard something about shadows, and awaken my brothers." Devan nervously states. Immediately after saying that the house begins to shake, He begins to climb through the window, but the sill collapses under his weight and he falls to the ground. He panics and immediately jumps up and when he goes to jump out there is no window, no opening, there is a frame, a frame with a mirror. The mirror from before. "What.." A creak from behind alerts him and he immediately twists to see what's there and it's his friend, Ross. "Wait. When did you-" "The shadow," A terrifyingly familiar voice that is nowhere near the sound of his friend utters to him, "The shadow has awakened. You. Boy. You have set us back on our course. It's time to-" "AHHH" The child screams as he dashes to the door only to find.. There is no door, but another mirror. This one is door sized and surrounded with more webs. He bangs on the mirror and attempts to shatter it. "What are you doing?" His friend inquires. It's Ross. In Ross's voice. "What do you mean? I'm getting out of here. This place is haunted, it's, it's gross and we need to leave!" "But.. The ball." Ross states. "Forget the ball! Something strange is happening and we need to leave!" He begins to lash out at his friend, but Ross appears to be unfazed. "Ross? Are.. Are you ok?" He asks with genuine concern. "I feel better than ever." He rebuttals in the most monotone voice with the most blank face he's ever seen his friend make. "Well.. Well, we need to get out of here. This place isn't safe." He says to his friend. "Ok." Ross plainly states. He begins rushing around the dusty, almost empty living room, "There was a door here, but now all I see are mirrors." He looks around and begins to retrace his steps, he's still wondering how Ross got in there with him and what happened to the window. When the window collapsed did he hit his head? Maybe he fell through he floor and the basement has a similar layout to the living room. Come to think of it, the whole room is different now. (maybe I did hit my head) he thinks to himself as he slowly approaches the stairs. "Ross, Come on!" As he begins his journey up the staircase. There is still an unsettling feeling to all of this, Where did Ross come from? He was the only one in the house, they all said it. Even though he saw him come into the house.. No.. He heard him come it earlier. They all mess with each other so it's probably just another prank. Very distasteful and how he's bumped his head, could have cut himself on the glass if they weren't careful. *CRUNCH* A sudden startle at the bottoms of his feet. He immediately looks down and notices the glass of a large, stair sized mirror has cracked beneath him. There are cracks all throughout it and millions of trillions of pieces of glass stuck to his shoes. (odd) he thinks to himself. Why is there a mirror in the stairs? Is this another prank? What's the deal? He makes it to the top of the stairs and opens a door and he sees a long room full of webs. It's the hallway, except at the end of the hall there is a broken mirror. A sad sight honestly. It was in great shape before and now it's shattered with a large ball imprint in the bottom quadrant of it, he inspects for a moment: "Did we do this?" He says aloud to himself. A hand rests on his shoulder with an unsettling touch. He turns around and anxiously screams, he backs away panicking again, and falls back onto the floor and pushes himself away from the monstrosity before him. He hits the end of the hallway, it's the mirror, broken with a ball shaped gash right where his head leans upon as he runs out of space to keep backing. What is before him is a humanoid spider Ross. It has several spider eyes and a hefty collection of fuzzy legs. It slowly creeps toward him, "What's wrong, friend? Don't you recognize me? I'm like you. I breath, I eat, I play, we are much more alike than you think." "You're a freak!" He yells as he kicks at the spider Ross. It grabs his leg as he squirms and looks at the bottoms of his shoes. There sticks millions of trillions of pieces of broken glass. The spider Ross calmly lets go and says, "Are you hurt? That's a lot of glass." Devan yells again, "Get away from me you freak!" The spider Ross asks, "Freak? How so?" "Have you seen yourself? You're disgusting. Take a look in the mirror you beast!" Devan screeches loudly while he violently tears the mirror off the wall and shows it to the spider Ross. "I'm. A. Monster?" He asks with an immediate shot of depression in his voice. "But, We're friends. I thought. I thought we could play some more together." Spider Ross responds. "No! EWW! get away!" He yells as he bashes the spider Ross over the head and scrams around. "The shadows! They course! Awaken brothers!" He hears behind him as he darts out of the hallway and begins running, yelling, eyes closed, panicking for the life of him, he stumbles once again on the loose floor board and rolls around the creaky floor. He shoots up and leaps for the window. *SLAM* As he falls out of the broken, glass-less window and pops his head up he notices all of his friends surrounding him. He gets up and looks around as a couple of them chuckle. "That's not funny! I could have seriously hurt myself!" He scolds them as if he's been through this before. "And where the hell is Ross? Why did he abandon me like that?" "Devan just cussed. I'm telling Mrs. Maxwell." "Ross?" One kid inquires. "He went in looking for you?" "What?.." Devan's heart drops. "He did?" "Yeah! He walked out saying you told him to leave, but then he heard you screaming so he dashed back in there looking for you! You didn't see him?" "No! Which way did he go?!" Devan asks expressingly. "I'm not sure, but don't go back in. You'll hurt yourself." says one kid. "Forget that! There's monsters in there. We need to save him. We need to-" While he's talking he turns around to go back through the window, except there is no window.. just a mirror, facing him, outside of the old, dusty, decrepit house. He stares at the mirror, inspects the entire frame up and down and looks at the wall surrounding it in total astonishment. He sees movement on the mirror and looks behind his own reflection to see Ross, standing there with a bored face staring blankly at him. "What are you doing?" "Ross." Devan states refusing to turn around and remains looking at the reflection of the two of them. "Why do you keep looking at that crumby old mirror?" He asks. "It's the only thing here that doesn't look... ...You know what?" He ponders. "What?" Asks Ross as Devan turns around. "Forget the ball. Let's go play with something else." He says to Ross. "What if someone's home? You're not even going to knock first? What a wuss." Ross aggressively says. "You first. You kicked it in." "But you threw it!" Devan looks at him, gives him a light shove while Ross responds with one of his own and the two of them walk away from the mysterious house. Together. "Who puts a mirror on their front porch anyway?" Is heard at a far enough distance from the house to be faint and disputable as to who actually said it.


In 2037, the people of the Earth knew that the end was near. At least they had a short warning to prepare for the inevitable. A massive, unknown comet was detected at the edge of the solar system on a deadly, unwavering path. In less than three years, it would collide with our moon and completely destroy it. As it made its way toward our symbiotic orbiting partner, scientists admitted that they had no means of stopping it. No man-made object could be constructed to force it to deviate from its trajectory. Even the most powerful missiles or bombs would only splinter away insignificant sized, uncontrolled pieces of shrapnel. Any one of which would rain down on the Earth and do as much damage as the complete astral body would do; once it impacted with the moon. Neither contingency was survivable. For once, all of the experts agreed. The planet would soon cease-to-be. The Earth had always resided at the very nexus of carbon based life. If our planet was any closer to the sun, it would have made biological life impossible. Any further away meant the exact same thing; lifelessness. Once the moon was pulverized, the Earth would become unbalanced and wobble off its invisible gravitational track; falling into an unsurvivable orbit. Earthquakes, tidal waves, and volcanos would blot out most living things immediately. That is, if the drastic shift in global temperature didn't beat the cataclysms to it. All life would perish shortly thereafter in the void of space. With seven months left before impact, a large-scale, evacuation plan was set into motion by scientists and world leaders. The overwhelming majority of people on Earth were going to die. There was no means of saving eight billion people. Every man, woman and child knew the reality. The best and brightest young minds from every culture were selected for 'the forlorn hope'. Their mission was to go forth and establish a permanent settlement on a surrogate world. That host world was decided to be Jupiter. Or more specifically, it was one of its main moons; called 'Europa'. With a thin atmosphere of Oxygen and evidence of liquid water beneath the surface; it was earmarked by experts as the best hope for life to continue on. Massive tidal flexing and gravitational pull from Jupiter was theorized to cause the saline ocean to remain liquified; beneath the frozen crust. This in turn, caused a slightly warmer surface temperature than any of Jupiter's other five large moons. That is not to say that Europa was 'Idyllic' or 'hospitable' by any stretch of the imagination. It was just slightly less deadly than other potential destinations that we could reach. The journey to the middle of the solar system would take more than a dozen years. Humanity's long term survival outlook was admittedly bleak but we were it's last hope. Room on the massive craft was scarce and limited to essential items. It was also necessary for all living things to enter a deep hibernation-like stasis. All living quarters were flooded with a specialized gas to slow down our metabolisms to near death. Being in suspended animation also prevented the consumption and exhaustion of valuable resources. Those were needed for the settlement. The vessel was aptly named: 'The Dandelion'. Much like the tenacious weed, we were floating on thermal winds to spread our seeds in a distant world. The onboard computer was the most advanced technology that had ever been created. It was in full control during the tedious traveling phase. About two months into our forced pilgrimage, the computer alone bore witness to the complete annihilation of Mother Earth. Transmitters and orbiting satellites communicating with 'The Dandelion' documented the final moments of the moon and then, the birthplace of all known life; Terra. After that, there was only the cold, dead silence of space. We were the last remaining vestiges of life in the known universe. Alone. Once we reached our new home, the plan was to send automated tunneling machines into the ice to drill ourselves a path to the liquified sea, underneath. 'The Dandelion' was either going to serve as our undersea living quarters; or it would become our failed tomb. Eventually we were able to establish a living colony in the frigid, alien world. We set up an algae farm and converted the surrounding seawater into breathable oxygen and drinking water. The artificial heat and UV lights in our greenhouse provided necessary photosynthesis elements to sustain our working garden. Our surviving livestock fed on the greenery that we produced; and so our undersea farm was a working food chain. The animal waste materials were recycled into fertilizer for future crops. Life begins and ends at the microbial level. Once settled, we also used the digging machines to bore tunnels into the ocean floor. After pumping out the seawater, we established farming caverns and living quarters. Our extensive seed library was put to better use growing vegetables in the fertilized Europaen soil. It allowed for the possibility of longer-term survival for the colony, as a whole. Over time we adapted our nuclear reactors to produce artificial lighting and heat in the caverns. It has been a monumental struggle to tame the savage elements but we have overcome these tremendous odds. I marvel at how many of our little ones have no experience with any other way of life. Other that in video or photos, they will sadly never known the rich blue planet of their origin. As the chosen leader of this colony, I was tasked with tremendous burden and responsibility of keeping humanity alive for the past forty-five years. It hasn't been easy and we have lost some important battles. Through it all however, the human race continues to fight back and thrive. We rise up against the deadly challenges that would seek to defeat us. We utilize our extensive database of the world's collective knowledge, to educate ourselves and our children. As the fortunate, chosen few; we govern ourselves with a sense of heightened fairness and peaceful resolve. It is my hope that future generations will continue to do so. We are a society of survivors; and Europa is our home.


I first heard the Whispers long ago, when I was just a young boy. I had been exploring a nearby forest, I a well renowned adventurer in this kingdom of imagination, when I heard them. They were distant, quiet, following the nature of a Whisper, which is what led me to title them as such, or perhaps it was because at such a young age I had not known what they truly were. For quite some time, I could never find out where the whispers came from, but nearing my 9th birthday celebration, they along with the winds grew louder, and more restless, almost beckoning me into the forest, calling me deep within. I resisted for some time, but childish curiosity eventually overpowered my wavering resolve. One morning, once my father had gone to the fields to plough, and my mother had begun her almost ritual-like tidying of the house, I ventured into the wood. My mother wished me luck on my “big adventure” and I was off. You see, she was quite used to me “Journeying” into the small wood, and she needn't worry about losing me, for it was entirely surrounded on all sides by golden, flowing fields of grain. One of the men working would sooner catch me before I would wander off. However, what she did not expect was that I would be venturing forth brandishing a small knife. I felt no need to tell her of this, for fear of my daily expeditions being severely limited, and of receiving a rather large reprimand from my father. Besides, I needed protection from the Whispers, or as I called them as a child, “The Whisper Monster”. It was nothing more than a figment of my childlike wonder and imagination, however. Those are very powerful things to young’uns. Thus, I ventured forth, my dagger clutched firmly in hand, a security line back to reality. As I entered the forest, my ear caught the sound of the whispers once more, every step ushering them slightly louder. As I bounced playfully from tree trunk to tree trunk, leaping over roots, and shifting aside fallen branches, I felt the undertones of the whispers telling me where to go. Eventually, I found myself in a small clearing, and the voices finally fell silent. In the center was the broken stump of a large, silver birch tree. It must have been felled during a recent storm, because the wood was still fresh. I stared at it, the white bark glittering in the few rays of sunlight that pierced the woods’ thick canopy. Finally the Whispers spoke again, or rather, I should say whisper, because there was only one voice now. It sounded ancient and raspy, yet it was kind and had undertones of softness. It said one word: “Create.” I didn’t know what else to do, but follow the odd and ambiguous command, in fact, I felt compelled to comply. So I did what little I could with my small knife, and childish imagination. I began by carving out a small hollow, maybe size of a small basket. To my surprise what I thought of as hard work at first became as easy as peeling a potato, before I knew it, I could hear my mother calling, and the last lights of sunset were just barely visible through the trunks of the trees. I left the knife and the shavings there, in the recess I had created, and headed on home. When I finally made it back, the sun was well past setting, and the cold of night was beginning to set in. “Did you enjoy your adventure, Dorai?” My mother asked. “I had lots of fun!” “So, did you discover anything new?” I hesitated a moment before answering. “No... But I did fight a toad monster!” In my mind, I apologized to mama for lying. I’d show her once I was done. That I promised myself. “Oh dear, how terrifying. I do hope you let it go in the end.” “Of course mama, like you said: ‘Treat life with respect, but not to your wallet’” It was a saying my grandmother had come up with. I’d heard much about my grandmother, but she had passed before I was born. She was allegedly one of the first settlers of the town, She and Pop-pop were disliked at first, but slowly, they won the townsfolk over with small talk, and the brutal way they dispatched of thieves and the uncouth. According to Mama, she had thrown a purse snatcher clear across town square when Mama was my age. The town became surprisingly peaceful after that. “That’s my cute little boy.” She said smiling, and ruffling my hair a bit. Then, we heard a knock on the door. *Rat tat . . . tat rat tat* That was Papa’s knock! My face must’ve lit up with joy, because mama said: “Go on... or are you going to make him come through the window?” I rushed over to the door, and struggled to pull the heavy oaken door open with my small frame. When I finally pulled it open, there he was, a full parcel of food in his hands. “Honey, I’m home! That’s odd, where’s Dorai?” Not realizing the joke, I called out. “I’m right here, papa!” “Dorai, is that you? Where’d you go?” “I’m down here!” Finally placing the ingredients on the table, he looked down at me again, now without anything to block his vision. “So that’s where you’ve gone, you little devil!” He lifted me into the air, beaming at me. “How’s my special one today?” “I’m feeling pretty high up, papa!” He chuckled, and put me down before breaking out laughing. “You know, he got his wit from you”, Mother interjected. “Aye, that he did, but let us hope he inherited your cooking. It’d be a shame if no one ate anything like you make ever again.” “Oh you... Speaking of, we have something special tonight, in lieu of little Dorai’s birthday.” “What is it mama?” “You’ll just have to wait until after dinner to see, won’t you?” She replied coyly, picking up the ingredients for tonight’s dinner from off the table, and moved them closer to the fire. I was clearly disappointed, but I knew nothing I could do would make mama tell me, so I sat down at the table with papa. There was a soft sizzle as mama put the meat in a pan to cook, and no one spoke for a while. I was the first to break the silence. “How was work, Papa?” “It was wonderful, Dorai. You’ve just got to see how much wheat you can fit onto a single cart. You know, we could use a pair of strong hands like yours.” “Really!?” Mama Spoke once more. “Now you know what we agreed on, Haelsich.” The atmosphere of the room grew deathly cold. She only ever called papa by his first name when she was especially serious, and I could feel the tension, at least until papa opened his mouth. “Yes ma'am. No working the fields together until he’s at least of 12 years.” “Good boy.” “Thank y- what am I, a dog!?” “At times, you might as well be.” “Hey, Muria, not in front of the kid.” papa said shyly, before laughing. I just laughed along, happy they both were there, happy that we were a family. I don’t remember much else from that night, other than the fact that I couldn’t sit still through dinner, anticipation had too much of a hold over me. When my long awaited “surprise” finally came, it was the best fruit tart I’d ever had, or have had since. The next morning I awoke to papa leaving, it was the crack of dawn, but I waved goodbye to him on his way out the door. I sat in bed groggily before reality hit me: My carving! That snapped me wide awake, and I leapt from my bed, quickly scarfed down a bread roll, and made my way out the door. Mama barely had time to wave goodbye before I was under the cover of treeline. It took me much less time to make it to the birch stump this time, I knew the path now. The whispers were still there, growing louder as I drew nearer. They weren’t necessarily scary anymore, I didn’t fear them, at least. They drew me in, pulling me back to the clearing I already knew. There it was, my hollow, with the knife, and shavings still there. It was time to finish my carving. I had an idea, abstract and almost unnoticed, yet as I worked, I almost could hear the material itself telling me where to cut, where to hack away at the material. It felt like such a short time, yet when I finally wiped my brow, the woods were dark, the sun had already set. I could hear mama calling ushering me back, yet I couldn’t find my way back. I didn’t know which way to go in the dark, so I called back “Mama! Help me!” and like that, she was there, holding a lantern, seeing me holding a knife, crying in the dark. At first she couldn’t hold her concern back. “Are you okay?” “Are you hurt?” “You poor thing.” Finally she saw the hollow. I could tell she was furious, but I couldn’t tell why. We had a moment of silence before she finally asked the dreaded question, her voice wavering. “Dorai, did you make this?” “Huh?” “Dorai, did you carve this?” It wasn’t necessarily a masterpiece, but I made it, so naturally I responded. “Yes mama. I was going to show you, I promise.” She looked back at me, tears streaming down her face. “How did you know... she always wanted to see faeries?” “Mama?” I didn’t hear anything else from her that night. She broke down crying right there. When we got back home, she rushed to papa as soon as she saw him, and hugged him tight. I could tell, even at such a young age, that it would be best not to say anything. That night we ate in silence. I didn’t go near the woods anytime soon, not until Mother and Father said we were going to a big city to talk trade at the guild. I walked through those woods, the wonders it once held, now gone to me, and I had only one destination in mind. I made my way to that very stump I had carved years ago, and as I knelt before my little carving, a tiny faerie only a child’s hands and mind could’ve made, I heard those ancient whispers once more. They spoke for the second, and last time in my life. “Thank you” The words made me shiver, not out of fright, but from pride. I had done this. I had been thanked for my work. “Goodbye, Grandma.” my voice was quiet, but I could tell that it had been heard. I lifted myself from the ground, and stood upright. As I left, my knife stayed behind, planted half blade deep in the soil, a headstone of my childhood, and the closing of the first act of my life.


Nannette answered the door with a smile Kathie wanted to slap off her face. She probably had good news, but not for Kathie; it never was. Rather, Nannette would tell her that she’d gotten a raise, that she’d planned another vacation at a posh resort in the Bahamas or Hawaii, that she’d managed to snag one of the now-sold-out new iPhones, or any of the other infinite number of perks of her unearned station. Kathie would have to sit there as she gushed, simmering with a heat all too familiar, and that became more caustic each time it struck. Nannette backed up, allowing her into the foyer, a two-story cavern offering high ceilings, white marble floors, and a crystal chandelier that twinkled in the light spilling through the French windows, all framing a polished ebony staircase. Kathie remembered how she’d beamed the first time she’d brought her here--as if she hadn’t had this, like everything else, handed to her on a silver platter. Kathie had forced herself to proclaim it a “lovely” home and congratulate her, reminding herself that she didn’t deserve censure, that anyone in her position, including Kathie, would have taken and devoured what lay on that platter. Her head knew this, yet heat continued to crackle in her chest. She didn’t know how much longer she could take it. She hated herself for it--she didn’t want to think herself so immature as to reject someone who’d treated her well just because she had it better than she--but each meeting with Nannette chipped a little bit more off her soul. Nannette ushered her into the living room, where she took a seat on one of the sharp suede couches positioned in an “L” around a polished oak table holding only a snickerdoodle-scented candle and the remote controls to the sixty-inch flat screen on the wall opposite. “I’d offer you something to eat,” Nannette said, “but we’re about to have lunch.” “We are?” “Yup,” she said, smile intensifying the heat as she dropped onto the other couch. “First, though, how’re you doing?” She knew that telling her the truth would prove useless--she couldn’t possibly understand. And, yet, she found herself babbling about the interview she’d had that morning. They’d sent in three HR managers to grill her-- three --as if their boss thought interrogating and intimidating candidates too difficult for one slime ball to handle. They’d fired off questions, some job-related, some not. Their eyes had dulled as she detailed her previous gigs--a server at McDonald’s, a “sandwich artist” at Subway, a babysitter, a camp counselor, a waitress--and dulled still more when she informed them that, no, she didn’t have sales experience, but she was willing and eager to learn. She didn’t know why she’d bothered adding that. They didn’t care. Experience, experience, experience--an aphrodisiac to headhunters, without which they wouldn’t give a candidate a second glance. Never mind the fact that this excluded an entire generation of otherwise-ideal hires. How could one get experience if no one would hire them without their already having it? And the stupid questions. Where had she grown up? What did she do in her spare time? What did “teamwork” mean to her? What did she consider her worst quality? Questions supposedly meant to “feel her out,” to determine whether she “fit in” with the company culture. However, of course, no one with an IQ higher than their birth weight answered such inquiries honestly, and these players knew it. They just enjoyed seeing the fear in their interviewees’ eyes when one of these questions sent their unprepared mind scrambling for the best response, as a hunter would in those of his prey. Nannette nodded, expression sympathetic but distant. As expected--She’d had her path cleared for her since she’d dropped, screaming, into this world. No need to burden oneself with the squalor given to peons when Daddy set you on goose feather pillows. She pushed back the heat trying to claw its way into her gullet. Nannette smiled, leaning forward. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.” Kathie braced herself. “My dad’s company’s got an opening in sales. I invited him to have lunch with us so you could talk to him about the position, if you’re interested.” “Yeah. Yeah, of course I’m interested,” Kathie blurted, eyes widening. She hadn’t dared hope for an offer from Fontaine Sprinkler Systems, but, if given, it would be an answer to her prayers. Don’t count your chickens before they hatch . She still had to impress the boss--a man she’d never met, and about whom Nannette had said oddly little. If she couldn’t ace the interviews she’d already endured, what made her think that she could convince Nannette’s father to give her a chance? The doorbell rang. Nannette sprang to her feet, strode to the door, and opened it. Though clad in relatively casual attire--khakis and a chartreuse polo shirt with the name of his company, tastefully small, stitched on the right breast--the sixty-something man on the porch carried the air of a king. Nannette greeted him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek and ushered him inside. Kathie had, by this time, joined them, so Nannette introduced them--“Daddy, Kathie”; “Kathie, my father, Anderson.” He offered Kathie a firm handshake, his fingers’ short, clear-polished nails winking in the light of the chandelier. Then, he turned to his daughter, expression dropping. “Your sales are down this month, Nannette. Any reason why?” Nannette shifted. “There’s a drought, Daddy.” “Doesn’t matter. There’s always a reason people don’t wanna spend their money. Your job is to get past it. Capeesh?” “Yeah, okay.” “Did you see the memo?” “Yeah. No more dirty dishes in the break room. Got it.” “What about our new sales quota? I’ve projected we can nearly double our growth if we--“ “Yes, I saw that, too.” He nodded. “Good. Now, have you decided on who you wanna work with on Friday?” “Not yet.” “Well, you’d better get on it, or else you’re gonna get last pick.” “Yeah, I know.” “How’re we doing with the new model? Do people like it better than the old one?” Kathie could see a well-earned sigh building in Nannette’s chest, but Nannette tamped it down. “Yeah, I think they like the improvements.” Before he could speak again, she nodded toward the dining room and said, “Come on. Let’s have lunch.” She led them to her dark cherry table and, as they took seats, brought out the meal she’d prepared: salad and green bean casserole. She set the food down, the fine china on which she’d served it clinking. She took a seat, and they served themselves. Kathie skewered a piece of lettuce on her salad fork, turning it around and around as if trying to commit its spindly veins to memory. She told herself to say something pleasant, something witty, anything that would give Anderson a positive impression, but her mind responded only with white noise. Anderson took a bite of the casserole, chewed, swallowed, and scowled. “Could’ve gone a little easier on the salt, Nan.” Nannette’s expression froze; she barely opened her mouth to say, “Got it.” “And this cheese,” Anderson continued. “What brand did you use?” “Velveeta.” Anderson shook his head as one would at a child who’d pressed a button whose sound effects had scared her moments before. “You know that’s garbage, Nannette. You see this color?” He scooped up a bite and held it, as if Nannette wouldn’t have done so otherwise. “Nothing that’s not pumped with dyes and artificial flavors looks like this.” Nannette swallowed, pinkness blotting her cheeks. “I said, I got it.” “I don’t think you do. You never pay attention to the quality of your ingredients.” A corner of Nannette’s lips twitched. “Sometimes, you just need to get in and out of the store.” “At the price of what you’re putting in your body? That’s poor priorities, Nannette.” “You don’t do your own shopping,” Nannette pointed out. “You don’t understand--“ “I got where I am because I go the extra mile--because I always make sure what I’m getting and what I’m putting out is the best product possible.” Goody two-shoes for you, Kathie thought. She gripped her fork so tightly that her knuckles blanched and, to staunch the words coming up, shoveled a huge bite of casserole into her mouth. Even through the blunting of emotion, it tasted delicious. Anderson moved on to the salad, eyes rising in thought like those of a professional food critic as he chewed. “Is this organic?” “Organic’s expensive, Daddy.” “You get what you pay for.” Nannette’s face had grown as red as a shallot, veins swollen and pulsing in her temples. “Why don’t we just eat at your place, then, next time?” “You’ve gotta learn to do this yourself.” “Well, you’re not exactly encouraging me.” “My job isn’t to encourage. It’s to teach.” Nannette’s face flushed so deeply that Kathie feared it would burst into flames. “You know what? Fine.” She jumped to her feet. Reached across the table. Snatched his plates. Shards of lettuce, cheese, and tomato rained onto the table. “You can starve.” Anderson’s face reddened. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that.” Nannette lashed him with a glare that could have cut down Hercules--but, apparently, not Anderson Fontaine. “I’ll talk to you however I want.” His eyes narrowed, his fists clenching so tightly that his palms wrinkled like raisins. “All right, then. I didn’t wanna do this, especially not in front of your friend here, but you’ve given me no choice. You’re fired.” Kathie’s jaw nearly hit her chest. She looked from Nannette to Anderson and back at Nannette, aftershocks wracking her. She wanted to deny what she’d seen and heard, for even the heat that had preceded it beat this. Anderson jumped to his feet. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Katherine,” he said in a tone that would’ve convinced her, had she no common sense. Retorts tingled on her tongue, but her lips refused to part to allow them out. Instead, they festered, just like those that had built up during her job interviews, just like those that had built up for Nannette before she’d known the truth. Nannette, too, had frozen, face now as white as coconut, eyes bulging. Kathie wanted to run to her, but her legs, like her mouth, wouldn’t budge. Anderson snorted. Turned. Marched out of the dining room, to the foyer, to and out the door, and slammed it. The bang rattled Kathie to her core. Hands trembling like kicked doorstops, Nannette set the plates on the table and grabbed the back of the nearest chair; Kathie didn’t have to look at her knees to know that they would otherwise collapse. The sight pressed her heart in a place Nannette had never pressed before, and she found herself springing forward and flinging her arms around her. “I’m sorry, Kathie,” she said, clutching her as if to prevent gale-force gusts from blowing her away. “I really wanted to help you.” “Don’t worry about it. I’ll find something else.” The last thing she wanted to do was make her feel bad about not getting her the job. She no longer wanted it.


The Pond: Chapter 1 People never use to talk about Atkins Falls, hell hardly anyone could have told you it existed save for the folks that lived there. That is until the summer of '72. Locals, well local, me, Sheriff Tom Lauderdeen, the only one left in these parts. I called it P-Day, our spineless leaders and the media called it "responsible action", as if nuking a small town on the outskirts of nowheresville, The Athabasca Sand Dunes, was responsible. "*What a sight eh Stew? Quite a show, who woulda thunk Canada, the friendly North, just up and spread the whole king's ransom on their own?*" Stew didn't respond, although Tom might start to actually worry if he did. Stewart P. Shodden or Stew as Tom called him, was an hemit crab. A reticent yet cantankerous little scoundrel that Tom found still alive inside his tank at the local pet store. Like most wildlife still in Atkins Falls, Stew had his own "foible". Tom remembered reading that word in a comic book so that's what he called them. An oddity of sorts, foibles were mutations that surviving insects, plants and wildlife had gained. Not Tom though, nope, but he had Gertrude, his 12G, so he thought the odds were fairly even. unlike some of the scarier things he'd seen, Stew only seemed to glow brighter and brighter the angrier he got. The little fella was quite tempered. "*Remember the time you pinched my ear so hard I fainted stew! All because I ate the last can of pickled asparagus hah!*" Stew didn't answer, he never answered but that was a good thing. Tom couldn't go crazy, not in Atkins Falls, not after P-Day. As far as Tom knew, none of the critters could talk. He only spoke with Stew so he could fill the silence. Tom had always felt uncomfortable with silence, even before P-Day. "*Silence is the absence of action, that's what I always say, eh Stew*?" At the third mention of his name the little hermit crab popped it's beady little eyes out of his shell, which had begun to faintly glow. "*Getting antsy are ya little buddy? Don't worry we're almost there*" The hermit crab glowed the slightest bit brighter but Tom paid it no heed. Stew had a short temper afterall, being woken up before lunch usually made him glow brighter than a hot iron. This was nothing to fret over. Besides they were maybe an hour from chopped mutton with a side of perfidy soup. He called it that because it was just boiled water and mushrooms he found growing around a mutated pig's pen. Usually they made him feel great but they had given him a few bad nights as well. He'd waited a whole month to do this batch, it was a full moon, Stew had just molted and there was a woolyback to be skinned and chopped. "*Oh yes Stew, tonight we eat and drink and let the fungus guide our dreams*" He looked at the slain animal over his shoulder thinking "this was one of those breeding ones I reckon." "They just fuck and eat, eh Stew? You ever seen a woolyback that just goes and goes until they die? Glad we bagged this one early, I've seen them destroy entire lives with their carelessness. Just destroy while farmers fields!" The hermit crab was now sitting on Tom's Head. He liked to perch up there and keep watch. Tim didn't mind, Stew usually picked the bugs out of his hair, foibles and lice...how can an entire race of creepy crawlies gain the same foible. Not just lice either. It seemed all insects had taken on the hive mind. Each controlled by a large King or Queen. Tom avoided their areas. Giant ants, bees, hornets, the million eyed spiders, mudcrabs...he needed none of them. He stuck to the hills around the falls, always avoiding the sand dunes directly. He feared scorpions, he didn't need to see them with foibles. He hunted woolybacks, kept goats, grew what he could and kept the pond clean. Not the water itself, though. Since P-Day all algae in the pond had formed together into a massive blob. It patrolled the ponds waters consuming everything that entered. Ol' Tom only snuck a bottle or 2 weekly. He checked his traps, nothing unusual, a few legs without bodies, gotta be quick in these parts. Tom wasn't too upset, he already had a whoolyback and he didn't fancy being there much longer. The pond was the only fresh water source left and his supply from the gas station cooler was out. He couldn't make perfidy soup without some fresh water. Plus all the animals seemed to come drink here, why shouldn't he? Tom carefully tied two glass bottles on the end of his walking stick, uncorked their tops, then proceeded to hesitantly but slowly creep up one of the large rocks near the edge of the pond. He could see what appeared to be the shambling mass of algae off on the far side, probably eating a deer too slow to escape while drinking. The water was crystal clear as always. Tom lowered his stick gently, ensuring to disturb the water's surface with the smallest of force. The mass could feel movements in the water, this was a quick in and out but a safe one. This was the only time Tom liked silence. The 23 seconds it took to fill his bottles felt like years for Tom. Each moment dragging it's heels before the next but finally as the smallest of bubbles escaped his bottles Tom sighed a breath of relief, raised them gently and crept back down the rock. Once back down Tom corked the bottles, turned on his toes and was face to face with his worst nightmare...a Mother Greentip Scorpion, 10 meters wide at least. Tom unskung Gurtrude from his back, muttered "*ah shit, here we go again Stew*" As 1000's of tiny little eyes opened across the scorpions back. The screech if the horde, this was a full brood.


Amy sits on a park bench across the street from The Sisterhood of the Perpetually Hungry, a diet organization that her sister joined over six months ago. Amy is suspicious as she observes individuals come and go with some sort of prescription. The issue is that her sister, Kerri, joined the organization and then subsequently devoted her entire life to them. Kerri had separated entirely from her life, disowning her family, blowing off her friends, and spending long periods of time working for the Sisterhood. Amy had a sneaking suspicion that the Sisterhood of the Perpetually Hungry was a cult. Amy spotted Kerri walking down the street a few weeks ago; when Amy approached her, Kerri brushed her off, calling her a "sabotager." To the organization's credit, Kerri looks great; she's shed about 50 pounds, is healthy, and even appears younger! But Amy can't get her mind off the feeling that something isn't quite right with that organization. In her research, she discovered other stories similar to her sister's: of people who wanted to lose weight but ended up disowning everyone in their lives and now work for the diet organization. Amy devised a plan and spent the last few weeks bingeing on cheesecake, burgers, and pizza, gaining over ten pounds in the process. She was going to The Sisterhood of the Perpetually Hungry to gather the dirt she needed to persuade her sister to leave. Amy walks into the building; encounters the sound of soothing music, and is met by a young, skinny, supermodel-looking woman. "Welcome to The Sisterhood of the Perpetually Hungry; how may we assist you today?" The receptionist says. "I'd want to join your weight loss program," Amy adds, looking around for Kerri, who isn't there. "Of course, we provide a free evaluation of your mental, physical, and metaphysical health. I'll have one of our sisters bring you back for a closer look," she says as two more supermodel women accompany Amy into the back. Amy waits in one of the most luxurious exam rooms she's ever seen. Another supermodel appears, this time a doctor. Amy was subjected to a battery of examinations, including a physical examination, a psychiatric evaluation, and, for some reason, an algebra exam. They give her a complimentary bottle of their supplements at the end of the examination; this is the prescription she'd seen folks leave the facility with the other day. As she walks back to her apartment, she mulls about whether she should take the supplements. All she could think about was Kerri; if she wanted to find out what was going on, she needed to join the cult. Amy took the prescription as directed, and the pills tasted just like her favorite foods. Amy began to lose weight, eliminate wrinkles and other symptoms of aging, and develop abs, which was surprising given that she hadn't exercised since the Clinton administration. Amy remained determined, and the moment had come to gather some dirt on this group. She needed to refill her prescription, so she had to return to the office. This time, to refill her prescription, she had to participate in a group discussion with other organization members. They used no names, like Alcoholics Anonymous, members had to resign themselves to a higher authority; in this case, The Sisterhood of the Perpetually Hungry was that higher power. Finally, Amy saw a hint that this was indeed a cult, and her suspicions became confirmed. Amy feigned she needed to use the restroom before darting out into the on-site dormitories, where she knew her sister might be. She kicks down the doors one by one. Every room has a supermodel, but none of them are Kerri. An alarm can be heard as Amy goes on a rampage, but she isn't getting anywhere. Amy resorts to her final option and pulls out a gun as security closes in. "I need to see my sister, Kerri, right now!" Amy insists. Three supermodel physicians appear and attempt to calm her down. "Of course, we'll get your sister Kerri right away," one of the supermodel doctors offers. "...and, give me some more of those pills, they made my underarm fat disappear, and they were delicious," Amy states. "I'll get you some right away," offers another supermodel doctor. Amy needed to validate her concerns; she knew this was a cult and that brainwashing took place. "Hey you, Brooklyn Decker's twin sister doctor," Amy remarked to the last remaining supermodel doctor, "show me to where you keep the files." "Of course, follow me," the supermodel doctor replies as she walks Amy to the main office. Amy sifts through their files, looking for the proof she needs to persuade her sister to leave this place for good. Unfortunately for Amy, the only thing she discovered was that The Sisterhood of the Perpetually Hungry was a highly benevolent organization. They created a fitness schedule for orphans, gave celluloid cream to veterans, and sent exercise equipment to Africa for overweight elephants. Amy had about finished going through every file in the office and had discovered nothing when her sister Kerri arrived. "Amy, what are you doing?" Kerri asks as she walks into the now-trashed office. "This is a cult, and you must escape. I know that evil is going on here," Amy tries to convince. "What are you talking about? It's just a weight-loss clinic; everyone here is polite, friendly, and looks like they belong on the cover of a swimsuit magazine," Kerri elaborates. "I miss you, Kerri; why did you abandon me?" Amy inquires. "Every time I came over to your place, you just offered me junk food, sugary drinks, or sweets. I couldn't be around you anymore; you are what does Sisterhood of the Perpetually Hungry call a sabotager," Kerri explains. "But I miss you; I'm always unhappy because you're not here," Amy explains. "Why don't you join us? You can join my team; we stand outside TGI Fridays, Applebee's, and Denny's and hand out cards to people who ordered too much," Kerri explains. "Do they really want me?" Amy inquires. "Without a doubt. Not to mention that if you work here, you get free prescription refills. We're going to all have six-pack abs!" Kerri exclaims with zeal. Amy and her sister hug as the supermodels around them applaud the touching moment. Two supermodels are hidden behind one-way glass, opposite the main office mirror. "Look at that, another soldier in our army," exclaims one supermodel. "Yes, it's only a matter of time before we take over the world. Hail Satan," the other supermodel says.