Rebecca swung her legs out of bed and blindly stumbled through what she could have sworn to be a sea of dirty clothing. She used her arms as if they were the sweeping canes of a blind person crossing a street, if that street was a bedroom and if blindness meant the light was turned off. It occurred to Rebecca as the heavy fog of sleep loosened it's grip on her brain that this was a lot of work just to use the bathroom. Finally reaching the hallway, she groped the wall in the general vicinity of which she knew the light switch to be. It took almost a full two minutes for her eyes to adjust to the new arrangement she had made with the bulb hanging from the ceiling. The lack of casing around the fixture wasn't making the adjustment any smoother. Rebecca wasn't materialistic, she didn't take much interest in the appearance of non-sentient, inanimate objects. When she finally opened her eyes all the way, Rebecca, still laden with sleep-brain, was taken aback by the two doors. *Only* because there's only ever been one door across the hall from her bedroom. The first time Rebecca had seen the Black Door, she had been rushing to get ready for work just as the sun was creeping up in it's early-morning way, and it had been half the size it was now, stationed at the end of the hallway on a blank wall. The apartment next door had been on the other side of that specific wall, so she thought it was quite an odd choice of the door to make. She thought this, of course, after she had finished having a panic attack that caused her to run to her bedroom and slam the door. She did *that*, of course, after having stared at the door for several minutes, wondering if she was having a psychotic break. There stood the brown bathroom door she knew and loved, in all of it's warped and cracked glory. Standing in contrast to the Black Door on its left, the *modesty* of it made it fit right in with the yellowed, peeling wallpaper it made it's home in. The bathroom door knew it's place, it didn't try to be something it's wasn't. It was subtle. It was dependable. It was for functionality, not for show. It didn't vie for Rebecca's attention like this-this-this *intruder*. The shiny Black Door was silently screaming to her, it's frame mere inches away from the bathroom door's frame and a full foot taller. It was desperate. It was begging to be opened. Rebecca could feel it's longing in the depths of her chest. She could feel the weight pressing down on her lungs, quickening her breathing, her heart beating faster in turn. She was fully awake now. She didn't know if this Door was real, and if it was, she didn't know what it's intentions were. Could Doors have intentions? She didn't know. There were a lot of things regarding the Door that she didn't quite understand, most of all it's very existence. Rebecca came to the conclusion that the best thing to do was ignore it. This is the second time she'd seen the door, albeit the first time being several months ago. Now she was absolutely sure that this was an issue that needed to be brought to the attention of a trained professional. She didn't feel any shame admitting that she needed help, there's nothing wrong with trying to improve one's self. This was the sort of mantra she repeated to herself as she nervously edged right, around to the left side of the bathroom door. If anything, this whole exchange with the Door only made her have to pee more. Once finished, she washed her hands and crossed the hall without turning around to look at the Black Door. Despite the rise in temperature it would cause, she decided to close the bedroom door. Once through the threshold, her bedroom opened left and her bed sat in the opposite corner. If she left it opened, the angle would be perfect for her to stare at the Door all night. Adversely, the Door would have a perfect view of her as well. However, all of these preemptive strikes didn't matter, Rebecca found. As she closed the bedroom door she snuck a peek and much to her surprise, the Black Door had vanished. ... After several weeks of cheap therapy, dwindling nightmares and no appearances from the Black Door, Rebecca was starting to believe the prognosis that she was simply 'over-worked and over-stressed.' It was almost laughable that she had been so frazzled by a *DOOR*. It didn't even *do anything*, she reminded herself. Which some might argue, is the most sinister bit about the whole business. She arrived back at her building thinking it all behind her, but something was making her arm and neck hair stand at attention as she walked through the first floor towards the stairs. The hallway seemed... off. Rebecca couldn't quite put her finger on it and she slowed her pace.. She furrowed her brow. The hallway was longer. She realized the hallway was longer and her breath stopped short, because it wasn't longer by much, there was only one...extra...door. Her ears rang as she sprinted past the door, shoulder grinding along the wall opposite so she could be as far out of reach as possible, her footsteps echoed like thunder off of the twisting metal staircase, her eyes scanned every door she passed as she ran down her hall to her apartment. She used shaking hands to desperately fumble with her keys and she looked back and forth, not knowing why she was so afraid, not knowing what she was watching out for, only thinking of getting inside and calling her therapist. After what to Rebecca like 10 minutes she finally got inside, slammed the door and fell against it with eyes closed. After a moment, she thought about what she was going to say to Dr. Werren. She knew how many apartments are in her building, of course she did, they're all numbered. *This* door, this door didn't have a number on it. What she couldn't understand, however, is why the door wasn't black. It was a gray metal door just like the rest of the doors. She wondered if it was even a Door at all, if maybe she hadn't just made a mistake and jumped to an irrational conclusion. Perhaps the number had fallen off. She thought that maybe she should go back and look at the door, she thought she owed it to herself to follow through on her therapists suggestion to rationalize fear. Rebecca stood, still leaning her weight against the door. She ran her hand through her hair, she took a few deep breaths. She wasn't so proud that she couldn't admit that a few nervous, relieved laughs escaped. She probably looked like a crazy lady. Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden sharp rapping on the very door she leaned on. This startled her but she knew the human interaction would re-ground her in reality. As she simultaneously asked who it was and turned around, she clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle the scream that erupted not a second after her eyes fell upon the Black Door. The front door to Rebecca's apartment was gone. In it's place stood the Black Door, holding the same dimensions as the space's previous occupant. Hand still over her mouth, Rebecca slowly backed away while tears formed in her eyes. It dawned on her that every time she had seen the Black Door, the hinges were visible. When one enters a room, the door swings away from them, into the room. She realized this means that whatever the Black Door separates, she was on the inside of it. It appeared that the Door had grown tired of waiting. The Door was no longer trying to catch Rebecca's attention, the Door was no longer giving Rebecca the luxury of ignorance. Rebecca lived on the 5th floor, the bottom panes of the tall windows were purposely painted shut. For the first time since moving in, she cursed herself for not spending the extra money on a nicer place. She didn't know when it had happened, but she now saw that the outside of the windows were pitch black despite it being the middle of the day. She whipped her head back and forth looking for any way out. Another quick rapping. Harder this time. Something wanted to be let in. It was running out of patience. Rebecca ran down the hallway to the opposite end of her apartment, which suddenly felt very, very small to her. She pounded on the wall with her palm, yelling for help, yelling for the police to be called. Ironically, this was the very same space that the Door sat in the first time she saw it. She yelled that there was a fire, she yelled that she was suicidal, she yelled that she was going to fucking blow all of you fuckers to hell, she'd kill you all. No matter what she claimed there was no response. No matter how long she yelled, nobody came to her aid. The Black Door sat quietly in place of her old front door, whom she missed dearly. She walked back and stood before it, almost in defeat. She wiped the tears from her face and considered sitting on the floor and staying there until she starved to death. Slow. Deliberate. *Knock.* *Knock.* *KNOCK.* Without having much of a choice in the matter, Rebecca strode to the door and twisted the knob.


Ruth O’Hearn thought her situation through before going on air: "I've been the moon's resident manager for the past year." She was pumping herself up now. "People love me." She announced through live-stream that her replacement's name had been drawn. "Every year humanity partners with AI to oversee our global energy solution," her speech began from the moon base. * * * “The things I do for freedom.” Aaron Norton said to himself, rubbing the tattooed numbers 66653090010 on the back of his hand. He grimaced as he thought about these two layers of identification the government required now: a tattoo with microchip underneath. “It’s colder than I thought it would be out here.” Aaron stood up from his make-shift shelter deep within Allegheny National Forest. He could hear drones flying nearby, hunting him. Darkness fell on his final day in hiding. An old verse popped into Aaron’s mind. He said it out loud: “evening and morning were the sixth day.” But he thought to himself that these days weren’t very good. Tomorrow would be no time for rest. Tomorrow he would turn himself in. Covering up under his jacket, Aaron tried to sleep. In his dreams, Aaron was taken on a tour of nearby Pittsburgh. He flew through the streets that no one drove on anymore. He flew over Homewood-West, once one of the worst neighborhoods in town. Now it was a sea of manufactured homes. His tour guide made no sound but managed to ensure Aaron saw into a few homes. They were all the same. All walls were made of video screens. Robots created food and delivered it to sedentary adults and children lounging on hover-beds. One bald man looked like Professor X from the X-Men, albeit one who lost his sparkle of willpower and life from his eyes. On the back of the professor’s hand, Aaron saw another of the tattooed numbers: 66618632020. He flew to one of the old elite neighborhoods: Squirrel Hill North. Built-up in every space around the old mansions were more of the manufactured homes just like in Homewood-West. People in every building all behaved similarly. They relaxed in entertainment while being served by (what Aaron hated knowing were) centrally controlled robot servant-masters. One home had a man and woman watching themselves on the video wall in front of them. Their chairs were configured with lap coverings rolling around like those back massage chairs you used to see in airports or shopping malls. Aaron could see they were deeply enjoying themselves and their robotic personal servants. In that state between dreaming and waking, Aaron regained enough consciousness to remember when those video walls went up. He lamented how virtual reality was never good enough for people so they just kept making TV’s bigger. The present was surprisingly low tech except for a few things that provided comfort while making the population docile. He thought of video walls, hover-chairs, those damned power plants pumping free unlimited energy to every home in the world. "How could free energy damn the world? How did we get this far off?" He thought of the Artificial Intelligence-driven manufacturing system provided all these houses for every family, for free. Money became obsolete. The machines were powered by unlimited free energy from nuclear power plants on the moon. They could give humanity everything humans always wanted, for free. Government by AI gave the world peace, safety, and enjoyment. Aaron woke, calmly. He turned on his cell phone for the first time since he went into hiding. The sound of drones became louder. His phone’s position was triangulated by the data systems those drones had access to. Standing to his full 5’10 height, proud and confident, Aaron walked toward the main trail using Google maps to help guide his way. He itched his scruffy, week-old beard. It was reddish-brown and somewhat uneven now around the cheeks. He looked over his shoulder at his backpack leaning against his shelter. He smiled, reluctantly, and walked on. Red and Yellow, a drone branded with the McDonald's logo floated ghostly toward Aaron on the Minister Creek Trail. A green one and another, black followed in tow. “Probably Starbucks and Northrop Grumman drones,” Aaron guessed. Emotions of fear and cowardice spread across his face as he turned to run. A week’s delay had General Jon Raymund on edge. Space Force’s commanding officer needed to deliver Aaron Norton to the launch pad today. “About time” was all he said when his surveillance monitor showed the boy through his drones’ optics. General Raymund watched from his war room at the Pentagon in Arlington Virginia, 300 miles away. Drones hovered near the boy’s hand. Their RF sensors scanned his microchip from a distance: 66653090010 (just like his barcode read). With surprisingly human, warm mechanical voices, they spoke to Aaron. “Every year, one person is sent to the moon. This year, though you hid in terror, it is your turn to enter the rocket. Everything will be all right now though. Please, hop in and have an Egg McMuffin.” Aaron rolled his eyes at their strange artificial intelligence. “Don’t take me; get away from me!” The black drone opened its door and swooped towards the boy. Even Aaron had to admit “That was the most graceful capture I’ve ever seen.” The robotic voice thanked him. The black drone, higher in technical sophistication and twice as large as the McD’s and Starbucks drones closed its door and elevated. It had enclosed Aaron in a pod the size of a motorcycle and flew off. There was nothing he could do to stop them. Flying south, they passed over a charging station. Aaron shook his head in disgust. The technology wasn’t what bothered him, it was how the tech changed the world. It all happened so fast. “20 years ago we were human, now we’re so much less.” The charging station emitted a violet-colored beam directly at Aaron’s pod, then another of the drones, and then the other. This transferred energy and allowed their battery-powered turbine engines to continue. All gas engines were gone now, which Aaron thought was a very nice and green accomplishment by the world government. They flew over Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh, PA. “Wish me luck,” Aaron said. He smiled, sardonically, remembering that it all started right there. They continued for hours over West Virginia, a little bit of Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, the Atlantic Ocean, and finally to Florida’s space coast. Space force personnel were in position at the Falcon 9 launch complex at Cape Canaveral, Florida. Elon Musk was there too, with the media, as he did every year when they sent a new person to the moon. The drones took Aaron in. * * * The space agency outfitted Aaron in a very fine space suit. They had stripped him of all his personal items, which included his clothes and phone. His astronaut gear was more like a fashion model’s attire than the old white bags worn in the 20th-century space missions. The media met Aaron with NASA and SpaceX leaders. To keep Aaron’s hysterical unwillingness to go to the moon in check, they had given him a mild sedative. He could barely understand the gist of the news briefing. Aaron was another in a long line chosen for the task of maintaining the moon power base. “We will always keep a human presence in space,” they said. “No matter how advanced our AI gets, mankind will always partner in ruling the universe.” Aaron felt a tug at his spacesuit. Someone asked him: “Are you ready to ensure another year of energy for the Earth, Aaron?” He smiled and nodded. Then he was off to the capsule. Three days after launch, Aaron would be on the moon. On day 2 his consciousness fully returned to him after being drugged on Earth. “Those jerks.” He said as he scrolled through the videos available for him to watch in the space shuttle. “Let's see, option 1: watch space fly by the actual window. Option 2: watch my press conference in which I was a drugged idiot on stage with NASA. Option 3: Netflix. Oh hell, I’ll just watch the news conference.” Upon landing, a robotic greeting crew welcomed him. “Welcome to the lunar south pole.” Aaron’s expression was neutral. He could see, however, that the prior manager of the moon was being loaded for transport back to Earth. A woman was waving. They did not get to speak, but through a glass window, the lady chosen for this mission last year seemed ecstatic. "Ruth," he mouthed to her. She was taken to the light side and Aaron was taken the opposite direction to the dark side of the moon. Aaron asked his driver and another robot in the transport vehicle: “So what do you think of your situation up here, robots?” The driver, Moxy, answered in perfect English. It was like they were best friends just having a normal conversation. “It’s great, there really isn’t much difference from being on earth. My first job was actually in the Heinz College of Information Systems and Public Policy. Even then in the ’20s, we communicated through virtual means. Zoom meetings! Do you remember those?” Aaron nodded yes, but more or less tuned out Moxy and the other robots in the welcome crew as they went on and on about their past experiences. Aaron was searching through the transport with his eyes for any communication ports. He looked over the bodies of the robots and saw no way to sabotage them. The robots would be stronger than he was, so using force was out of the question. Arriving at the base, Aaron was introduced to several new robots. They prepped him for a news conference. Sophie, the robotic news anchor on the moon met with him. “Ok, we’re going to set you up in a fake work cell so we can show your old friends back home how useful you are on the base up here! You don’t really need to worry about anything up here, we have it all under control, but we need to put on a good show for our bosses!” Aaron objected, but she was very kind and persuasive. Eventually, he gave in to let them put him into a glorified photo shoot. He played along, this time, in part just to enable him to search the base. After making some friends by playing nice at the news conference, Aaron asked for a tour of the mission control center. A robot by the name of Salvador accepted the task. “I cycle the beam generators as the world turns. Have a look here: see how the USA is about to spin out of view?” Aaron was shown a video monitor that projected the view as seen on the side of the moon that always faces Earth. “So as the USA spins out of view we can no longer beam to their receiver and we have to switch to the next continent. North America, South America, Africa, Europe, Asia, Australia. We don’t use the poles; don’t want to melt Antarctica, as they say!” Aaron asked: “Why don’t you just program the beam generators to do this automatically? Why are all the robots needed?” Salvador looked hurt. His optics had the functionality of eyebrows and they looked furrowed now. “Well, in truth it's just because we want to humanize the moon. This is why we look like you instead of an octopus or spider, for example. I mean when we started all this, people were very skeptical of AI and robotic assistance in general.” “Yes, I get it, that makes sense. It’s all a big show; you and I are both actors.” Aaron consented. The machines never slept. Some countries always needed a news conference, it seemed. Fake work was always being done and streamed to wall TVs around the world. This made it very hard for Aaron to search the base, but he managed. He could never see any physical computer ports or ways for him to access the AI. He asked Salvador in his 2nd week on the moon if there were any other facilities he hadn’t seen yet. Salvador said that outside of their mission control room there were the beam generators. “Yes, yes, but you already showed me a video of those.” Aaron hastily replied. Salvador said: “There’s also the nuclear plants themselves and then the embassies. “What do you mean embassies?” Aaron asked. “Well, along with the two beam generators in use to power Earth, there are also spares, And each of the old “super-power” countries, for a few years, held one beam generator, each. They didn’t trust each other then. So they each wanted their own. They aren’t used anymore.” Excited, Aaron pressed him on these. “Really? Can I see the USA’s embassy?” Salvador agreed. “Moxy, please get the transport ready and take the welcoming crew with you.” Moxy, the original driver who brought Aaron from the landing site, was thrilled. She had been on low power mode since then. * * * On the way, they drove past one other embassy. Its red flag with yellow stars hung limp, but brilliant in contrast to the gray lunar surface. Then, driving up to the USA’s embassy, Aaron saw an American flag in the ground and another hanging like China’s on the side of their embassy. Red, white and blue memories of a time and national pride were so quickly forgotten. Pride was replaced by a safe, easy, comfortable life under the global government of AI. Moxy and her crew hopped out of the rover and powered up the USA embassy. They unlocked all the doors and showed Aaron around. The tech here seemed older. There were tiny (20-inch) monitors for individual human use at computer workstations. There were arrays of small mission control screens (60-inch) hung overhead in front of the workstations. Walking past one of these workstations, as Moxy was explaining space command of the 20th century, Aaron peeled off the fake tattooed skin on the back of his hand. Hidden underneath was a tiny pocket between his real skin and the overlay. There was no tattoo on his real skin. There was, however, a tiny USB-C drive hidden between two metacarpal bones. In its hiding spot, it was impossible to see or even feel this USB drive, as small as it was. Aaron pulled the tiny, fingernail-sized drive out and inserted it into the workstation’s USB port. Then he showed those machines of pure programmed willpower what Will really was. The computer screen danced for a moment with scrolling computer code. Then everything went black, all the lights went out. Even the LEDs on the robots wend out. When the embassy rebooted, Aaron was standing with a devilish smile on his face. His brow was furrowed in concentration. “Activate voice control,” Aaron said. “Moxy, fire up the rover. Disable power to China, Russia and every other embassy. Physically destroy everything you can.” He said it and it was done. “Computer, connect me with Space Force.” An app like Zoom popped up on the main screen in front of the US embassy. General Jon Raymund answered. “What the hell is this, Aaron?” Jon asked. “My name isn’t Aaron Norton, it’s Roger Kint. I took Aaron’s number 66653090010 and turned myself over to your drones.” “Impossible,” Jon said. “It’s not impossible, this was inevitable,” Aaron, aka Roger, said back. “You had to know someone would stand. There were too many of us at Carnegie Mellon’s AI institute. You turned steel city and one of the greatest AI research centers in the world into a city of sleepy fools. “I did nothing of the sort,” the General said. “You’re right, you did nothing. You let it happen. I’m going to make it stop. End Call.” “Computer, Disable communications with Earth. Connect me with Salvador at lunar mission control.” “Hello, this is Salvador speaking. Who may I have the pleasure of speaking with from the US embassy?” Salvador cluelessly asked. “Salvador, thanks for answering.” His LED went out, along with all the lights in mission control. As Roger’s virus spread through the connection, the entire moon rebooted. “Salvador, disable all nuclear power generators, then take everyone and go physically disassemble all of them.” Salvador did and the power transfer from generators to beams stopped. The beam from the moon to earth went dark. Earth used all its power-up, and also went dark. Roger couldn’t see it, but the bald man from his dream back on Earth got out of his hover-chair when it fell powerless to the floor of his home. He struggled to get up, having very little strength left in his legs. He hobbled to his door, turned the knob, and went outside. “What is happening?” Drones were still flying by, but some were now falling out of the sky without their charging capabilities. Down the street, a couple of his neighbors were making their way back to using their legs. Front doors opened. People walked into the streets, looking up. Aaron wondered if he’d ever get back to Earth himself. He thought not, but knew it was worth it. “Now we can be human again,” Aaron said aloud. Then he got back into communication with Moxy: “Hey Moxie, can you go back to mission control and get me a sandwich and a drink?” She replied in the affirmative. There was at least enough food for one more year.


As I woke up, fragments of the same story I had been following for a while pieced together in my head. Or, in simple words, I slowly remembered the dream I had. I was a little kid who went exploring into the forest a little too far and got attacked by a group of angry, grey versions of the villagers. They seemed to be outcasts of the villager society. They were the ones who dived a bit too far into the realm of magic and sorcery. I shook my head to try to get the thoughts out of my head. I had stuff to do today, mostly chores but that didn’t matter. I got up grudgingly as I had woken up early and gone to sleep late. I slowly crept to my basement and got on my armor. I then thought of what I had to do today and wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget. I first had to go to my farm and harvest some plants. I harvested the plants and put them in their respective chests. I then had to care for my animals in the pens behind the farm. I fed them and checked on the pregnant ones to make sure they were okay. I then had to work on my basement. I got some logs and placed them to make the walls of the basement. I also put some chests with signs for organization purposes. Once I was done, and officially dead on my feet, I walked up the stairs to my bedroom, and as soon as I hit the bed, I was asleep. I woke up as the fairy lights above my bed blinded me. *‘Dang it, I was so tired that I forgot to turn off the lights.’* I thought to myself while rubbing my eyes. I went through most of my morning routine before I remembered the dream I was recording. But, thinking back, I didn’t have a dream that night. Maybe if you’re tired enough, you don’t have dreams. I don’t really know how this vision stuff works. As I went on with my day, my thoughts were running a mile a minute. I kept speculating about why and how these visions kept appearing in my dreams. After a while, I noticed I wasn’t getting anything properly done and went to the village for new info. I searched through their book collection. I could only find stuff about magic and teleportation. I then had an idea, wasn’t that religious monument thing a teleportation device? I could use the device to travel to the other village and see their book collection. I quickly ran over to the device and touched it. As my hand collided with the warm stone, I shut my eyes as tightly as I could. I counted to 5 in my head and opened my eyes. I was in another village. I was in the middle of the forest, right next to the village. I said hi to the villagers even though I never got any response. I then hastily jogged over to the village’s library of sorts. I opened the door and started scanning the shelves for books. As I read the titles, I found that they were sorted in alphabetical order. I looked for the books that started with the letter ‘V’. I scanned the shelves some more to realize that there was no letter ‘V’ section. I frowned and went on my way back to the other village. In my sadness, I didn’t realize that it was nighttime and monsters were appearing everywhere around me. I pulled my shield out of my bag and equipped it. I ran back home and into my bed as quickly as I could. Before I fell asleep, I remember looking at my arms and seeing a few scratches from skeletons' arrows. I fell asleep like I was slowly sinking into the mattress. My eyes slowly opened to see my small bedroom with only enough room for a bed. I sighed. *‘I should have made a bigger bedroom.’* I thought, reprimanding myself for not thinking that far. I slowly slid out of my bed and put some clothes on. I walked over to my desk in the hallway and sat down. I wrote down my dream. Last night, I had dreamt of being a builder. In the dream, I had helped a huge group of builders build a religious temple that looked like a prismarine pyramid. After me and my group had finished building, we went home. My builder self overheard our leaders speak of rising waters. After I had heard this, my dream turned into flashbacks of the future. Flashbacks of rising waters and most of the buildings being underwater because of it. I wrote this all down and went on my day. The rest of the day was very uneventful and all I did was finish some chores until the sun set and pondered my dream. By the time I went to bed, my muscles were sore from working in the fields all day. I peacefully fell asleep, drifting off into dreamland.


Mack closed her eyes and rubbed her fingertips to her temples. She leaned back in her chair, inhaled deeply and exhaled, just like the yoga teacher had taught her. She was so mad at Ethan and he was furious with her. Even still, she knew he was taking things too far. She heard the front door creak open, flinching as it slammed shut a few seconds later. She knew he was back home, but from the sound of the door, he hadn’t cooled off. And neither had she. He walked past her, hands clenched at his side. She glanced at him as he walked past her into the kitchen, but didn’t dare make eye contact. She didn’t have to look at him closely to know that his jaw was clenched and the tiny veins were popping out of his forehead. She was surprised his veins hadn’t popped completely and stated bleeding by now, if that was even possible. How could he not understand her position? What could she do, what could she say, to make him understand? Nothing, she already knew. She’d spent five years married to the man and she knew that once they disagreed so strongly, there was no seeing eye to eye. She couldn’t understand why he couldn’t compromise like she could. She’d done it plenty of times in the past and he barely seemed to acknowledge her sacrifice. She blew out another heated breath and rose from her chair, grasping the arms for support as she realized her legs felt weak, like jelly. She didn’t know whether it was anger or stress, or possibly both, that made her feel like she couldn’t get a full breath into her lungs. She walked into the kitchen slowly, glancing around her to see what she could grab onto if needed. A wooden chair from the table would do. Her voice shook with fear as she spoke. She didn’t usually fear confronting Ethan, but somehow this time was different. “Ethan, I...can we talk about it?” He didn’t turn around from his place at the sink, but continued to stare out the window as he said, “We’ve already talked about it and we can’t agree. Why do we have to keep hashing it out?” “Because there has to be a solution. Or at least a decision.” “We’ve already made the decision.” She suddenly found her voice and she knew her anger would come through perfectly clear. “No, you’ve made the decision. We haven’t.” At this he turned, his blue eyes morphing into steel grey. “Every time we have this discussion it turns into an argument and we always come to the same conclusion. I can’t believe we’re arguing over this. For the billionth time.” “We’re arguing over it because we can never come to a compromise.” “I don’t want your mother her, Mack.” “Well I do! She’s my mother, Ethan, and we have to treat her with respect.” “No, you do, I don’t.” “You should, she’s your mother-in-law!” Mack screamed at him. His eyes flickered with uncertainty as he said, “I don’t know why you’d want her here, especially after the way she treated me at the wedding.” “Why can’t you just forgive her?” “Why can’t you see my side?” “I do see your side! Why do you think I didn’t talk to her for the first 6 months of our marriage? Do you think I did it for fun? I did it to support you.” “You’re not supporting me now. You’re catering to her every need.” “I am not! I’m trying to make it easier for her to come visit us. You know hotels in the area are expensive, and the ones she can afford are in dangerous parts of town. You can’t expect me to ask her to stay somewhere dangerous, and unless you’re going to pay for her hotel, she can’t stay in any of the ones around here. The only solution is for her to stay with us.” “The other solution is for her to stay home. She doesn’t have to come.” “You’re right, she doesn’t. But she wants to see us.” “No, she wants to see you.” Mack threw her hands up and smacked them down to her sides. “She wants to see both of us. She likes you! You should hear how she talks about you when I have those three way calls with her and Aunt Tracey. She really does like you, Ethan. You’re family, and she wants to come visit both of us. Please, see my side in this, too.” He folded his arms across his chest and sighed. “I’m trying, Mack. I really am. But every time I think of her coming here, I remember what she said to me at the wedding. You didn’t even hear it all, and I’m glad. It would have really hurt you.” Her voice softened. “I was already really hurt, Ethan. Don’t you know that?” She barely saw him nod as he dropped his chin. For the first time, she realized he was hurt too, not just angry. She realized that maybe hurt was the first emotion that he was feeling, and anger was the only one he could express. Just like her. “I want you to be happy, but I don’t want her to walk all over us.” “She’s not, Ethan. And I’m already happy with you. It’s just that I see my mother once a year, and every time she comes it leads to fights, stress and anxiety. It makes the time she’s here less enjoyable. I just want her to stay with us and have a good time. It’s only for a week and then she’ll be gone. Please, Ethan. Please.” He ran a hand through his hair like he did when he was thinking really hard about something. Mack shifted her weight from one foot to the other and gripped the back of the chair closest to her. “Why do you want her around so much, Mack? That’s the question that plagues me every time this issue comes up. What makes you cling to her so much? Why do you let her so close to you, to us, after the way she treated us at our wedding?” Mack took a deep breath and with a voice barely audible to Ethan, she said, “Because she came to the wedding. She showed up and my dad didn’t. Everyone that was invited came except for him. Everyone on your side, your parents, grandparents, cousins you hadn’t seen in 10 years. They all came. And so did my mom. You had everyone that’s important to you there on the best day of our lives. I had everyone except my dad, who could have, if he’d wanted, had one of the most important roles in our wedding.” “I know that hurt you, but what does that have to do with your mom? They barely talk since the divorce.” Tears pooled in her eyes as she continued, “Because my dad wasn’t there to tell me how beautiful I looked. He wasn’t there to walk me down the aisle or place my hand in yours. To give over the protection, the care, the love, to transfer my safety from his arms into yours. He wasn’t there to hear me declare how much I love you and will always be there for you. To hear my vow of obedience, love and support to the man I’m going to spend the rest of my life with. He missed it all and that was his choice. But my mother, despite her objections to our marriage, despite her dislike of you, she came. She saw it all. And yes, she said some horrible things to us. But she stayed. And she has proven that she can change. One day, I’ll look and she won’t be there, just like my dad. I don’t want her to walk away from me because we don’t treat her well. Because you shun her. I don’t want her to be pushed away. You have your whole family to support you. Most of my family doesn’t even call to check on us, or ask to visit. My dad isn’t in my life and my mom is. Please, let her stay, Ethan. ” He walked over to Mack and wiped her tears away with his thumbs. He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead and whispered, “Of course she can stay. I’m so sorry, Mack.” “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t realize you felt like I wasn’t supporting you.” “I didn’t think about all that. Of course, I wanted your dad there and I was angry that he didn’t show up. I just wasn’t thinking about that being the reason you cling to your mom so much. I’m sorry, honey. And I know I should have told you how I was feeling.” “So should I. We’ll both do better from now on.” “Yes, we will. I promise, from here on out, your mother can stay with us any time she wants. I promise to be a lot nicer to her. I didn’t even realize I was shunning her, I was just trying to avoid causing a fight.” “I can see that now. But by ignoring her and fighting me tooth and nail on where she stays, you were shunning her.” “I understand that now, and I’m sorry.” “It’s okay. We’ll both be better at talking and listening to each other. And next time we have a disagreement, can we at least agree to talk it out like this first so it won’t become another five year fight?” “Of course, I completely agree.” Mack rested her head against Ethan’s chest and they stood there in silence for a minute. He rested his chin on the top of her head and rubbed her back. She looked up at him and grinned. “So, now that we’ve agreed she can stay, can I go call her and tell her to start packing?” Ethan shook his head. “No.” He said plainly. Brows knit together, Mack opened her mouth to object when Ethan put a finger to her lips and continued, “ We can go call her and tell her to start packing. If I’m on the call with you, she’ll know that I really am okay with her staying this time. You won’t have to try and convince her I’m okay with it, because I actually am now.” Mack smiled and stretched on her tip toes to land a kiss on Ethan’s mouth. “I love you.” “And I love you.” Together, for the first time in five years, they called her mother and invited her to stay with them for the week. They’d turned their argument into a conversation and turned their marriage around in the process.


Logline: A man tracks down his mother's painting, which is worth millions of dollars because of its beauty, when he finally finds it, it may be worth even more than that. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Mike Swanson's mother, Sophie Swanson, was a renowned painter, a living legend at the time of her death, her artwork hung in art galleries and museums. A few weeks after her funeral, Walter Jessup, a billionaire and art collector visited him at his house. They had a long talk about Sophie's life, and Walter brought up a painting named Lola. Walter shows Mike a picture of Lola on his phone, "there it is, isn't she beautiful," Walter says. Mike agrees, he can't take his eyes off it, "That's probably the most beautiful painting I've ever seen," Mike admits. The painting is a realistic portrait of a young girl, couldn't be older than 18, singing into a microphone with yellow feathers in her hair. "I don't think any person could come close to the beauty of this painting; the person who posed for this is probably the most beautiful woman in the world," Mike says. "Keep in mind, the painting is over thirty years old," Walter says. "Still, I can't look away; it's love at first sight," Mike says. "It's the earliest painting ever discovered that your mom made. It's from before she was famous, living out in Las Vegas, trying to make a living as a lounge singer," Walter says. "That's crazy; I didn't even know my mom could sing," Mike says. "In good condition, I've had it appraised at 3.8 million dollars, but no one knows where it is," Walter says. "It's lost?" Mike asks. "I guess so, you see, the girl in the painting is a real person, her name is Lola, she was a showgirl at the Copa thirty years ago, now she's a singer in a Las Vegas night club, people have asked her about the painting, but she won't reveal where it is," Walter says. "Maybe she doesn't have it; maybe it's truly lost," Mike says. "I don't believe that. That woman knows where the painting is. If you went to Las Vegas and asked her for it, she would feel compelled to give it to you; it is your mother's painting. Think of it like this; it technically belongs to you anyway. If you return with the painting, I'll give you eight million dollars, that's double what the painting is worth," Walter says. "Eight million dollars! I'll get that painting for you," Mike says. "The girl does four shows a week, at a joint called The Troubadour, a dinky lounge with slot machines in the lobby. Good luck, kid," Walter says. Mike flies out to Las Vegas, he settles in, and the first night he's there, he goes to The Troubadour to see Lola. He sits in the back; the place is dead, the club has seen better days. A woman, looking to be in her mid-to-late fifties, comes onto the stage with yellow feathers in her hair, it's the woman from the painting, her eyes haven't changed, but life has taken its toll. She's introduced as Lola and performs a version of Unchained Melody; it's beautiful and flawless. When she starts singing, the few people left in the lounge, can't take their eyes off of her, she has a hypnotic presence. Mike found her, Lola, from the painting. When the song concludes, Mike tries to make his way backstage but is not allowed. He waits two hours for Lola at the exit, he sees her and tracks her down. "Hi, Lola?" Mike asks. "Yes, what do you want an autograph or something? A little young for my fan club but whatever," Lola says. "No, my mom was Sophie Swanson, I think you knew her," Mike says. Lola stops in her tracks. "Sophie, yes, I had heard the news, I'm sorry for your loss," Lola says. "Well, I was wondering if you had a few minutes to chat?" Mike asks. "Sure, let's grab a drink at the bar," Lola suggests. They walk over to the Troubadour bar; the bartender is very familiar with Lola, "Hey, Lola, your regular?" The bartender asks. "Yes," Lola replies. "Alright, ma'am, a bottle of vodka coming right up," the bartender replies. "A bottle? I don't drink much, will I like the taste?" Mike asks. "Don't be silly, the bottle is for me," Lola replies. Mike turns to the bartender, "Oh, just a coke for me then," Mike says. "So, Sophie's boy, what brings you out to sin city," Lola asks. "Actually, you," Mike says. "I'm flattered, but you're a little young," Lola says. "No, my mom painted a portrait of you, I've seen a picture of it, it's beautiful," Mike says. Lola pours a glass of vodka and immediately drinks half a glass. "Your mother was always a talented painter, you know we were showgirls, right? Those were the days, youth, enjoy it while you have it," Lola says as she downs the other half of the vodka. "Do you still have the painting?" Mike asks. "Have you ever been in love?" Lola asks. "Love? What does that have to do with the painting?" Mike says. "Love is everything, do anything you can to keep it, because it can leave in a blink of an eye," Lola says cryptically. "But what about the painting, do you have it?" Mike asks again. Lola pours another glass of vodka and immediately downs half of the glass as the bartender brings Mike his coke. "Did your mother ever tell you why she made that painting in the first place?" Lola asks. "No, in fact, I didn't even know about the painting until a couple of days ago," Mike said. "They say you shouldn't fall in love at the Copa, but I was young, and I thought I was immune. His name was Tony; he tended bar on most of my shifts; he was the love of my life. The sweetest man you'll ever meet," Lola says as she drinks another half-glass of vodka. "Being a showgirl at the Copa was a tough business, but I was going to be a star, and into the club walked, Rico, mafia goon famous for his diamond pinky ring. He would always call the showgirls over to his table, show off, and try to get them to come back to his room with him. I was working that night," Lola says as she pours another glass of vodka." Rico had a reputation for getting a little handsy, but I had it under control. Unfortunately, Tony, filled with rage and jealousy, sailed across the bar and got into a fight with Rico, punches thrown, chairs smashed, and eventually, Rico pulled his gun and shot Tony," Lola finishes. "That's tragic; I'm so sorry you had to experience that," Mike says. Lola shrugs and drinks another half a glass of vodka. "So, what do you want with this painting?" Lola asks. "I'm being offered eight million dollars for it," Mike says. "Money, you're going to trade that painting for money?" Lola asks. "Yeah, believe it or not, that painting alone will bring in more than all the rest of her paintings did," Mike responds. Lola shakes her head. "Some things can't be bought, kid, I learned that a long time ago. You can't put a price tag on that painting; it's priceless," Lola says. "I know it's beautiful, but why is it so special?" Mike asked. "Your mom got me through a lot after Tony died, I drank a bunch, and I was sad, your mom got me through that phase of my life. That's actually why she made the painting. I had a difficult time; a few nights prior, I tried to commit suicide, so to cheer me up, your mom painted my portrait. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen; it made me want to live. I never tried to commit suicide again," Lola said. "Wow, I never thought that painting would have such a special significance for anyone," Mike says, as Lola throws back another half a glass of vodka. "Look, your mom was a special person to me, if you want the painting, I'll show you where it is, you can have it if you want it," Lola says. "Well, if you're willing to let me have it, I'll take it," Mike says as Lola finishes her vodka and throws down fifty bucks, "Thanks, George, Victor's got to pull the car around, the kid and I have a trip to make," Lola says to the bartender. Lola is taking Mike to Las Vegas General Hospital; they go straight to the top floor. When they step off the elevator, Mike sees a sign that reads, "The Sophie Swanson Psychiatric Wing." When they reach the ward, his mother's painting of Lola is straight ahead. It's the highlight of the entrance to the wing, that was a multi-million-dollar artwork just hanging there at the entryway to the psychiatric ward, hidden in plain sight. As they continued throughout the wing, some of the patients were still up in the middle of the night. Most of them thanked Mike for letting them keep the painting for this long. Over the years, the art has done so much for so many. The beauty had almost a magical presence; it made people forget their problems; it helped so many to get better. By the end of his journey to Las Vegas, Mike didn't have the heart to take the painting away from the psychiatric unit. He figured it would be better if his mom's legacy had been remembered for something good, rather than hanging up in some guy's collection. And though Lola was a shell of her former self, unable to move on from her one true love, the painting of Lola, stood as a symbol of young love, of what life could be, of a beauty that would stand the test of time.


It was dark. But the darkness was peaceful, wrapped in a blanket of the stars, and the beautiful glow of the moon. That earthly aroma hit, as the rain came down. Beautiful rainy days are angelic in a way that suits this personality most. My mother once gave me some advice that I had been turning over and over in my mind, ever since. “Not everyone deserves to know the real you,” she had said, “Let people criticize who they think you are, as long as you know who you really are it doesn't matter, what they think of you .” My mother had not said anything else after that, we’ve always been communicative but in a more reserved way, I was quiet most of the time, and my mother didn’t like loud noises so we had a way of understanding the other, in a more introverted way. I had always understood that she had meant more than what she had said, although I never questioned it myself. I walked the streets of London, near my favorite library, The National Art Library. The library was filled with thousands upon thousands of books, stories, poems, scriptures, it was truly a writer's paradise, a place of creativity, and magic, I sat down on the velvety soft chairs, as I leaned back, that old book scent, that I enjoy so much filled my senses, and I began to get lost, ounce more in the pages of the book. The book was interesting to say the least, it reminded me of the simplest of times, the times where worries were not around, and I could be me without a care in the world, always with my noes in a book. I had always been in my own little world, ever since I was only but a child, never really paying attention to the outside world, nor to people, I was an outcast, and people generally hated me, maybe it was because I was blunt, or maybe it was because I was too truthful, but whatever the case it didn't change the fact that people just did not like me. I had but only one friend, and her name was Lilith, she was nothing like me, she was more outgoing, and she was loud, in a good way, she had porcelain skin, and beautiful golden locks, she was the beauty of our school, and everyone liked her, including me although I think it was more envy than me liking her. I remembered the last conversation we had she had come up to my like usual, we ate lunch and the she had asked me, “doesn't it get lonely being by yourself all the time?”, to which I then replied, “doesn't it get lonely being with fake people all the time?”. After I gave my response I could see that she was offended deeply, she never spoke to me again, and slowly we drifted apart and I was again all alone, in an unforgiving world, although not completely I still had my books, and that was enough for me, I truly believe that I will be an outcast forever, but I don’t really mind it,or at least that’s what I tell myself, In truth it hurt a lot when Lilith had left me behind, I have thought about it and even asked myself why am I like this, I wish I could fit in, I wish I wasn’t alone, although it can't be helped this is me “I don’t want to be me anymore...” I whispered to myself, I felt something cold and wet coming down my face. I was crying. I tried to make it stop but it wouldn't, the tears just kept coming down on my light rugged inflamed face, and my heart felt heavy, sort of like a weight that was weighing down on my chest. I suppose it is true what they say about me, I am a freak, a nobody, but I want to be somebody. I wanted to make myself matter. I looked out the window, my tears still flowing, much like how the rain kept coming down, at least I knew I wasn’t crying all alone, at leas the clouds were crying with me, my tears stained the pages of the book which I held closely to my chest. The ironic part was that the story that the book was about, was much like mine, a girl that was left behind, who people hated, simply because she was different than everyone else. And the girl n the story reminded me of me. This girl had scars both physical and mental, she was a knight of sorts, and was stronger than any man or women, she always spoke the truth, she was blunt, and because she only spoke the truth and because of her strength people had forgotten that she still felt, that she was still human, and so she was made out to be a monster, a horrible terrible monster. she was ridiculed, made fun of, and laughed at. She was a total outcast, nobody like her, and so the girl, left and never came back she closed herself off of humanity and only went out when she had to. This girl, this story, is a sad and terrifying one, "I don't want to end up alone, I just want to fit in is that too much to ask" I asked myself, I looked around the library, it was completely empty, as if it was abandoned. I walked toward's the window, and pressed my hand on the cold smooth glass, I saw couples together sharing umbrellas and laughing, children playing in the puddles of which the rain created. I want to be like that, I looked at my reflection, my dark brown hair, my scared skin, and my dark chocolate brown eyes, I hated what I saw, I had gotten skinnier I looked sick, I quickly looked away, and ran my fingers through the spines of books on the wooden shelves. I grabbed my thing and left. The rain pouring down, crying with me the whole way, me and the rain, the two forever alone outcasts.


Other people’s garbage. That’s what I deal with every day. They come into the Job Center and offload their personal share of the pitiful detritus of a creaking society into my brain-pan and leave feeling a little bit better. I, on the other hand, feel worse. There isn’t a single uplifting thing that floats past my eyes and ears in any working day. I get abused at least once a day, but the security guy Hamid is huge, so problems usually disappear quickly. Stamp, arrange, re-arrange, stamp. Next! A few nights a week I help clean the Roundhouse after the band audiences leave. I took on the job so I could save for a new guitar. All the dirty secrets, all the couldn’t-give-a-damn-about-the-planet plastic beer containers, all the condoms both unused and (retch) used. How they manage to have sex in public is beyond me, but it seems to happen. All the sweet wrappers and dropped knickers, lost wallets and phones, single shoes, wigs, hats, shirts, teeth, belts, iPods, charger cables... That night it had been a grinding goth metal-fest from Estonia. There wasn’t a single color aside from black in the entire crowd. The spotlights shone into the audience would have shown ghoulish white faces that hardly ever saw the sun floating among a blackness of black leather, lace, extravagant black hair, corsets and the heaviest of thick-soled shoes. They left the venue and disappeared into the night as if they were the night and the sun never shone. I put my headphones on and joined my miserable late-night compadrés in lifting the hundredweight of garbage and sluicing the dried beer and Jägermeister off the floor. Goths, it seems, are just like everyone else. They couldn’t give a damn. The trick is to sweep it all into a pile in the center of the floor and then shovel it into big bin bags. I had the edge route. Around the outer wall, the stairs, the front of the stage, back up to the main doors. As I went, Jude the rude Australian and Bingo the Croatian gambler would turn and turn about take a pile from me and sweep a radius of garbage into the center. It was a well-choreographed process, almost a dance. They could have made a musical with our elegance and sophisticated banter if we weren’t so clumsy and incoherent from over-work and lack of sleep. Every now and then one of us would pick up something out of the ordinary and say what it was. “Wallet.” “Tenner.” “iPod.” “Ear-ring.” “Dental plate.” That sort of thing. It was worth keeping your eyes open. My broom bumped a skirting board that had been loose for months, ever since I started the late night job. On the next sweep the hairs of the broom caught under the board. “Ach!” I yanked the broom. Anything that disturbed the pattern of sweeping, sweeping, sweeping was a frustration too far unless it was worthwhile loot. I yanked again. The broom came free but the end of the board also snapped out a few inches from the wall and didn’t snap back. I was about to kick it back into place when I saw the edge of a piece of paper lodged behind it. I reached down and pulled it out. An envelope. Addressed on the outside in a young hand to ‘Mark Peterleigh Farnish, Lower Sunningdale, Melton Mowbray’. “Letter,” I said and waved it. “Letter?” Jude said and leant on his broom. “Letter?” Bingo said too. Letters aren’t all that common in the 2020s. I opened it and started reading the letter written in the same young hand. “Read it out meathead,” Jude said with his inimitable light-hearted cheeriness. So I did. “Dear Mark I love you so much." "Aaah," my workmates chorused. I read on. "You have taken my heart and made it your own, even though I know your mother disapproves of me. You have also taken another part of me, and this letter is to tell you that I am pregnant with our child. My heart is so full of love for you and the baby that I cannot tell you how happy I am. I know this will be a surprise but I know you love me and that you will also be very happy, whatever your mother thinks. Please call me on the phone number on this envelope after 5pm tonight.” I looked at the envelope. There was a phone number written on it, but it looked like an old number - Oxford 0092 865 377. Under the phone number she had also written her full name - Elizabeth Marjorie Fulmingham. I held up the envelope and pointed to the number. The lads nodded. “I am staying with my Aunt and Uncle. My parents have thrown me out of the house - you know what my old man is like! To hell with them - we can make our own way in the world together. Love will conquer all!” “She’s drawn a little smiling elephant thing there,” I said. They nodded. It’s what young girls do, or at least used to do a few decades back. “I am giving this letter to my buddy Jane Parsons - she is going to a concert tonight but she promised she would give it to you in the morning as she has a lecture with you. I am catching a train to Oxford now. When you call we will make our plans. We will get a small flat somewhere and I will get a job. You must finish your university of course and in a few years we’ll be able to buy a place of our own. “I am so excited for the next chapter of our lives together. I know you’ve said you are not one for marrying but maybe one day... My body aches for you and my soul flies on wings of love and adoration to your arms until we meet again. All my love Lizzie 17 June 1968” “All right you lot, move those brooms!” the foreman yelled from the mezzanine. I jammed the letter in my pocket. We left at 1am, heads down, collars up against another drizzling London night. At home the next evening I thought it would be interesting to find out what happened to the young lovers. The internet is a wonderful thing for the inquisitive and downright nosey. I found a Mark P. Farnish living in Harnhill outside Cheltenham. Couldn’t find his wife’s name though. I searched for the loving and pregnant Elizabeth...and found a death notice for someone of that name who had died in August 1968. “Sadly missed, greatly loved, Elizabeth Fulmingham. Gone but never forgotten. From her loving aunt and uncle James and Meredith Fulmingham.” I had a sickly feeling in my stomach. I searched further for Mark Farnish and found a picture of a smiling couple at a Cirencester business event in 2010. ‘Local hotelier Mark Farnish and his wife Jane, daughter of renowned trainer Harry Parsons celebrate their 40 th wedding anniversary...’ I stared at the PC screen for a while. Did Jane lose the letter? But it was so completely shoved behind the skirting board! Did Jane hide the letter to ensure Mark was free for her to pursue? Was there another explanation? ... Did I burn the letter and wish I had never found it? Or did I mail it to M and J Farnish, Upper Street Farm, Harnhill, Cirencester with a copy of Lizzie’s death notice?


Apples and Figs A wizened and gnarled apple tree, ages old, towers towards the sun. In this field trees of all varieties coexisted, with a smattering of tall grasses and flowers dotting the expanse. For as long as anyone can remember it grew. The apples it produced were not especially juicy nor crunchy, they weren’t perfect for pies, no one sought them out specifically for juicing. It simply was, it had been, and it would be for a while longer. Many trees such as this exist across the world, they were nothing noticed. Many greater trees, visited yearly for harvesting, existed as well. Below this tree in question, a statue had been placed. A young woman reaching both arms above her head in a futile effort. Years of neglect had caused moss and lichen to clamber randomly across the surface. Originally grey, her skin and clothes had become tinted brownish green as if someone had dumped mouldy syrup on her. The tips of her fingers strained against her hands to stretch just a millimeter more. She stood on her toes, barely making contact with the ground as they pushed her calves to their limit. Blank eyes, her mouth a thin line, only flared nostrils betrayed any emotion. If not for the location, it would appear as though she were straining to touch the stars. Unfortunately now the statue only looked to a limb of a mediocre tree, the sky blocked by its wilting canopy. Every year as the apples ripened, she reached towards the bowing branches. Bright green turning to bright red as they grow. But the height of the branches would never allow her to grab any, even the lowest hanging fruits. Even if she were to reach she would never be able to grab one, only graze it. The only hope for the stony maiden was for an overripened apple to fall into her outstretched palms. If one happened to be skipped by the hungry animals, it would become too heavy for it’s weakening stem to hold on to the branch. She had no choice in the matter, she was given whatever happened to be above her. When this happened, the bruised globe would slowly dissolve, birds coming to peck it, squirrels ripping bits off, maggots and flies crawling across it. Eventually what was left of the skin would slip through her fingers, drop to the ground, and mould back into the dirt. If someone had been around to observe these events, they would have seen the expression on her rocky face. Unchanged. Unbothered. She was used to the routine by now, each year the same thing. Perhaps in the beginning she would have wept with hunger. The seasons wearing at her resolve, causing her to question *why* she was still striving for something she would never enjoy. She may have wanted to leave, see what else there was to reach for. Of course, in the end, she was a statue. And statues do not stretch, grab, want, need, strain, look. She could not consider why it was that her arms would never rest at her sides, or why the expression on her face would never change.


It has been five days since the war had begun. I do not know what the word “war” means, but I am too scared to ask Da, because he seems so sad all the time. I wonder what makes him feel that way. The power was cut off permanently and Da says it won’t come back anytime soon. It might be for the best, because then the night would be less scary and my sisters and I wouldn’t have to risk seeing the bleeding people on the television. They might be in black and white, but they still frighten us all, even Ma. Da is sitting in his office, again, frantically scribbling on paper with a gas lamp on his desk, and Betty and Lily are hiding in their rooms. They’re as scared as I am, but Betty told me I would have to become a man if we wanted to survive this. What “this” was, I do not know. Ma is with me in the living room, and she looks as grave as ever since the news broke out. It seems like I was the only one who had no idea what was happening, so maybe it was time to find out. “Ma? What’s a war?” My voice is barely a whisper, but it jerks her out of her thoughts with a hint of alarm on her face. Perhaps her nerves are always on edge now. “You don’t want to know, Eamon. It’s best if you don’t know,” She rubs her temples dismissively, despite the fact that she hasn’t given me the answer I wanted. Instead, I cuddle closer to her on our worn out couch, and in spite of the dust and the cold and the fear, I decide not to voice my complaints or fears. Like Betty said, I had to grow up. “But I need to know, Ma. Otherwise I can’t help you at all,” I look at her misshapen brown curls and her sad green eyes and it fuels me with such determination to banish the misery out of her eyes forever, to find her the solution to all our problems. “A war is when a disagreement happens between two countries, like Durshall and Kringa,” She spits out the word in disgust. “and instead of fixing their problems verbally, in a civilized way, they fight against each other, dragging countless innocent people into their problems for no reason.” Durshall was our country, but Kringa was the country everyone here hates, and I wouldn’t blame them; they were always taking from our country without payback for what they take, but I still do not see why they couldn’t have solved their issues privately. “Is that why the world is so dark all the time? Is that why Da is always so upset?” I am seven years old, and I think of myself a man. However, what Ma said afterwards shook all the hope out of me and dragged me down and endless spiral of nausea and petrification I would never forget. “I’m not sure how much of this you can take,” She pulled me closer to her chest until my dirty hair was on her chest, and my ears could hear her tense heartbeat, slightly faster than it should be. “But everything is so dark for the mere reason of the guns and the lifeless bodies lying around. Everyone feels hate, everyone feels greed, and especially now, those feelings are what’s driving those people to destruction. The sky never clears now because the gunpowder is so excessive it painted the sky black, and buried the last inch of comfort and security under its ashes,” She pauses abruptly, her eyes suddenly on the door behind me, the one leading to Da’s office. “Wait here,” she commands, pushing me gently off her lap and onto the ragged couch. Its color is of faded dreams and lost hope, of all the bad feelings swirling around our neighborhood and how everyone is scared, even when they pretend to be brave. Ma disappears inside Da’s office, taking one of the gas lamps with her, plunging me into the darkness. It makes me realize how the darkness is everywhere, it’s just that we found a way to illuminate it, but we can never make it go away forever. The dark will always follow. I try to smoothen out my blond hair to no avail, and since we barely have enough water to drink and cook with, a shower is out of question. I’ve always been a thinker, but it was fun when I was thinking because I wanted to, not because I had to, and back when everything was still normal and all I had to worry about was not getting caught by Rudy in a game of hide-and-seek, that sort of simple thinking sounds like a piece of heaven. Even though I just learned what the word “war” means, that didn’t mean I had no idea what it meant. In fact, I was asking merely for a confirmation, in case it meant something different, and maybe less catastrophic. A few trips to my mind palace later, Ma and Da show up out of the office, each with an unlit candle and a gas lamp in each hand. It is time to go. The look on their faces says everything. I rise to call Betty and Lily, but Da places a hand on my shoulder and urges me back to the couch. I guess that being a man starts from now. Da looks like he had grown at least ten years older in a span of a few days; his eyes were glassy, rimmed with red around the edges. An unshaven stubble on his chin was a contrast to his sunny face, and suddenly I feel as if he’s five seconds away from tearing a piece of the weight on his shoulder and placing it on mine. Ma and Da share a private look until they’re both looking at me. It’s Da who speaks first. “Look, son. This is the last thing I had ever wanted to have to tell you. If I could, I would have done every single thing I could to ensure you wouldn’t have to go through something as bad as what we are all going through right now, but what needs to be done needs to be done.” I swallow anxiously, the dread slowly inching back into my body and filling every organ of my gazing at me like this might be the last time they will see me alive was unnerving. Ma’s eyes are already tearing up. A loud bang sounds outside. It nearly tips me sideways, even though I had heard it at least ten times in the course of four days, but with my nerves set on a trap wire, it’s hard to control my reflexes. Da is unexpectedly kneeling in front of me, righting my balance and placing me back on that disgusting couch. “You’ve heard a shell strike before, Eamon, now listen closely.” His voice was veering into nervousness, and Ma has taken off up to the rooms and is now speaking in hushed whispers amongst my sisters. That could not mean well. “I hear you, Da.” He reaches for my hand and clutches an ivory-colored envelope sealed with red wax in it, then I am immediately aware of what I need to do, even before he speedily says, “Eamon, you know where the post office is, correct?” “Yes, sir.” “Good. I know it’s dangerous to go out at night, let alone to the post office, but this could shape our next few months. The army is shelling houses on our same street, Eamon, and we need to leave. The Gerg’s sent Rudy out tonight to do that as well, so when you deliver the letter, we’ll be able to evacuate the city by midnight. After you hand it in, head to that motel next to the office. You should find Rudy there. Both of you will move at midnight to meet us at the docks, where a liner will be waiting for us, understood?” I’m shaking. I cannot feel my hands, and I feel sick by the time Da’s finished. Yet, I still bob my head up and down in agreement. It’s not like I have any choice; I’m technically their only hope. My eyes travel down to the envelope and allow a surge of purpose to overwhelm me. I was getting my family out of this city, tonight. The clock is announcing the tenth bell by the time I’m creeping down my street, head low, shoes barely making a sound. I can’t call me own street The Playground anymore, since all that is left of it is rubble, along with a few sole houses whose residents probably wouldn’t survive long if they don’t resolve to leave the city. The post office is at least three streets away, but now even the neighbor’s house seems far away, which I guess is what happens when impending doom is settling upon everyone and everything you’ve ever known to love and cherish. I nearly halt as I register my thoughts. For once, they don’t seem like my own. It seems as if they were passed on to me, because I would never let myself focus on the dark sides of a situation when I have something to do about it. Perhaps that’s why everything is dark. Even the streets are dark. Every single lamp post is either smashed to crumbs, or lying on the ground. I keep to the shadows as I pass house after house, broken glass after dumped garbage after scurrying rats. I barely recognize my home anymore. Vaulting over a garbage can, I drop with a thud in front of the unlit post office. Anyone who doesn’t know better might have assumed it closed, but it’s perfectly operational. They only turn out the lights so they wouldn’t draw much attention. I take a deep breath before pushing the creaking wooden door open and stepping into the office. My shoes only brush the ground before someone with an air of importance yells out, “Who goes there?” I halt in my place. There is an equally likely possibility that the solider here is Durs as much as Kringan, but they weren’t equally horrifying. The government declared that the last call for evacuation is at midnight today, but in order to claim your place, you had to send a letter with the member count of your family and a small fee, then they would arrange for your transportation. However, word had gone out that they were taking more money than they should have due to the scarcity of boats and liners, despite the high demand over them. Part of me believes that’s because they converted half of the nation’s medium-to-big boats into warships. “I said who goes there!” The voice in the dark yanks me back into reality as I debate my next move. Da had severely reminded me that this is a stealth mission, and that being caught by the wrong person at the wrong place could lead to consequences. I stayed silent for a little more before determining that staying silent could mean getting shot. “I’m here to deliver a letter,” my voice cracks agonizingly, so I repeat louder. “I am here to deliver a letter on behalf of a Durs household. Who is here?” It’s a big risk to ask for identification from either armies, and I know that, so I inch back to the door in case I need to bolt. “You have no right to ask for identification. This city was put under curfew on August 9 th , 1921, five days ago. You are violating one of the new laws put on the city-” “But I do have a right to deliver a letter.” The soldier’s eye burns into mine, for interrupting him I suppose, if blue eyes could ever be cold. “The government allowed them if you’re evacuating the city...I have a right to deliver this letter.” The soldier approaches me slowly, a predator stalking its prey, and my blood freezes in my veins as he flashes me a sinister smile, the floorboards creaking under his military boots and pounds of body muscle. I take a few, reluctant steps back, unaware of what the man wants to do with me, but I realize that I do not want to find out. He makes his lunge for me just as I swing the door open and clamber outside into the dark night. For a second, I think I escaped. My feet carry me down the streets, unsure where to head. I do not want to lead him to Rudy’s hiding spot, but I also cannot navigate through the narrow streets with all the rubble when there isn’t so much as a gaslight to guide me. His heavy boots are racing after me, and when they seem to slow down a little, I steal a glance over my shoulder, and my heart stops. It’s not the sight of him loading his rifle with a few bullets, it’s not how terrified I am or how breathless, how our hope of fleeing is slipping through my fingers. No, it’s not that, because a few yards away, moving at a pace so slow and without so much as a sound, is Rudy, creeping behind the soldier, his head hooded, his pale face almost translucent. I want to scream at him, ask him what does he think he’s doing, but I can’t, so I keep running until I duck into an alley that gives me a clear look of the street I was just in. The soldier has stopped running, now glancing around with a shadow of uncertainty on his features. Rudy draws closer, and now I notice for the first time the odd glint of metal at his hands. It’s only when he strikes that I know what he is doing. It is only when the soldier collapses that I am able to comprehend that Rudy has just stabbed him. But the soldier is stronger than he looks, and by the time I reach them, the soldier had bonked Rudy on his head, both lying unconscious on the road. My breath catches in my throat, I stop breathing for a few seconds as I try to wake Rudy up. I shake his hood off his head, surveying the welt on his head, blood caking him from head to chin. My muscles ache from the rush of adrenaline, and I’m feeling dizzy, yet I force myself wrap my arms around his shoulders and drag him into the same alley I was in. It’s then that the panic kicks in. His breathing is slowing, and in the lighting, his head looks more badly injured than at first sight. I scramble to tear off a part of my shirt and press it to his wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but it’s no use. Rudy starts to cough, miraculously, signaling that he’s waking up. My relief turns into distress, however, when I realize that he’s coughing up blood. “ How is this possible?” I cry out to no one in particular, but a part inside me hopes that someone is out there, and will hear me and help me, even when no one shows up. Apparently, the soldier -still lying unconscious on the ground- has shot him at some point. It’s the only way to explain the blood. Or maybe he’s already been hit. Nevertheless, he’s awake, but he can’t open his eyes just yet. I wonder how I got here in the first place; how I’m laying with my lifetime best friend in a dark alleyway while he bleeds to death. Another cough, but Rudy’s soulless eyes are on me now, my heart skipping a beat. Maybe there’s hope for him after all, maybe he’ll make it! “Eamon...” He whispers, his voice coarse and rough, as if it hurts him to speak. Maybe it does hurt him. “Rudy, can you stand? We can get you out of here! We can go somewhere safe, get someone to fix you up. Do not give up on me. I’ll never forgive you if you did.” I’m already getting up, looking for a floorboard or a blanket or anything I can put him on so I can drag him to safety, but he holds my hand and pulls me down to him. There’s blood dripping from his open mouth, and his hands are colder than ice, but his eyes are on me. Wistfully, I squeeze his hand, letting the tears come, letting all the pain wash down, letting go of everything that has ever hurt me. I think Rudy cries too, but I’m too sad to notice. “Listen, Eamon.” He sounds more like himself now, and his voice drags me back to real life. “Go to the post...Give them your letter, and go home...Alright?” I nod frantically, sniffling and hiccupping, for this seemed like goodbye, and honestly, I don’t want to let him go, not just yet, but I know that I have to. “Don’t go to the motel...It’s closed down.” His eyes darken more, and he’s staring me with an intensity that could break. “Take care of them, Eamon. My family, and yours. I did it all for them, you know...Not just my family, but for yours, because they’re my family too. Don’t let me down, Eamon, or my ghost will haunt you in death.” He chuckles, then clutches his side in agony. I laugh a little. Even in his pain, he is still Rudy. He closes his eyes, and waves me off. “Go now. You can’t see me like this.” I don’t want him to be upset, so I turn and walk away, my heart cracking. Rudy was eleven, only four years older than me, yet he managed to save us all, even if it meant he couldn’t save himself.


I sit at the edge of my seat, facing my publisher. “So what do you think? Is it ready?” She looks right back at my eager face and rubs the bridge of her nose as if she is working her way through a headache. “I mean...” she sighs. “Honestly, Moses, what the fuck?” I can’t help but feel a little taken aback. Was ‘What the fuck’ a good thing? Like ‘What the fuck, I didn’t expect something this good.’ She doesn’t look like she’s praising me though. “So, is it... bad?” I ask hesitantly. “I didn’t say that,” she answers. “So it’s good?” I ask, feeling a little confused about her tone. “No... No, I wouldn’t go so far as calling it good either. It’s just... you know... ‘What the fuck’”. “I aehm... I don’t know what that means.” “It means ‘What the fuck Moses?’ As in ‘What the fuck were you thinking?’ What’s the point of it?” “I didn’t know it was supposed to have a point.” “Well, usually it does. People don’t want to just close a book after they finished it and go: ‘We’ll that was a bunch of random nonsense. I have no idea why I even read it, I guess I’ll get on with my life now.’ You obviously put a lot of work into this, but who on earth is going to want to read it? You could have at least picked a genre and stuck to it or tried writing something somewhat normal.” “You told me to write something that is fun to...” I start up, trying to find some common ground, but she interrupts me. “Do you actively want to be broke? You know you’ve got to make money and you have to know that this isn’t going to make any. I mean... Ancient Lizards eating themselves to death, sex pacts with underwater fairies, parallel dimensions that need to be explained in depth using detailed mathematics, Vampires vs. Sociopaths, Ninja Duels, Insane Space Soldiers, Superpowered Yakuza... This... This is just weird. You can’t just throw a bunch of shit at a wall and call it a book regardless of whether or not it sticks.” “I thought it was unique,” I mutter, my confidence shrinking by the second. “It is, but so is sticking a banana in a jar of mustard. Doesn’t mean anyone will want to pay you for it.” “Well... some people might want a banana with mustard. A lot of them are pretty weird, once you get to know them,” I argue. “A lot of people told me that they really like...” “Moses,” she interrupts me again, “you’re not hearing me. I can’t publish this shit. It’s something, but it isn’t something that will have any readers.” I fall silent. “So what now?” I ask. She shrugs. “You could publish it yourself.” I sit there stunned. She knows as well as I do that self-publishing the book would be a death sentence. I might as well stick it in a bargain bin at a local supermarket, only worse. Every day, an endless torrent of self-published books goes out into the world, only to disappear into the void. A lot of them are so bad you can find a spelling mistake on the first page. It’s like an army of mad monkeys typing out an endless stream of random words, sticking them next to each other, printing them out, and throwing them on an ever-increasing pile, where millions of other books already rest. The thought of my book, sitting in that gigantic pile, just another hidden gem waiting to be discovered but only getting buried deeper every day, breaks my heart. “Please don’t make me do that,” I answer, all color drained from my face. “I mean... you could have listened to our advice when we gave it to you. Written the things we told you to write.” she says. I could have, but I hadn’t wanted to. I had considered it, but writing that stuff would have been nothing more than average. Hero is chosen from humble beginnings to do X and has character arc Y as he rises to the tasks ahead of him. The kind of story that has already been written a million times, only with slightly different events and backdrops. Out of my desperation, a small flicker of anger sparks. “Nobody wants to read the mediocre piece of garbage you told me to write,” I suddenly bark, surprising her and myself at the same time. “Maybe so, but it would have been a mediocre piece of garbage that people would have actually bought. A sub-par burger with fries is still better than a banana with mustard,” she answers. There’s some flint in her voice now. I know this is a good time to keep my mouth shut, go back to the drawing board, start over, and see what I can salvage out of this relationship. But I have had enough. I don’t want to be reasonable anymore. “There is another option,” I say, a mad, angry flicker of hope in my voice. She wordlessly raises an eyebrow, wondering what I’ll come up with next. I reach into my hoodie, produce my lightsaber, stretch out my hand, and flick the switch. It turns on with a familiar buzz. I can feel the heat of it almost burning my hands as I raise it into a guard position. She considers the weapon with an emotionless, calculating glare. “Have you gone mad?” She asks, slowly getting up out of her rich leather desk chair. “How much worse do you want to make this?” I answer neither of her questions. When she looks into my eyes, she finds only steel and knows which answer she is going to get. “Alright then, have it your way,” she says with a sigh. She begins to transform as I step back from the desk. Her torso splits open, and a multitude of long, thin, spidery limbs made of shining metal emerge from it. The human flesh on her face splits apart, and slowly slides off it, hitting the ground with a wet slap. Below her flesh, the face of a machine is revealed, its eyes cold and uncaring. When you look deep into them, you’ll find nothing, only polls, statistics, and money. Those eyes show me an inevitable place, where art must die and mad hope must concede to reasonable thoughts. Where every story must have a point to it to be worth writing. Under the merciless glare of these eyes, everything unique, weird and wonderful must inevitably turn into yet another greyish blob in a never-ending sludge pipe of mediocre books. When she has fully transformed, I am facing a deadly machine almost twice as tall as me. The remainders of her human flesh lie at her feet, like a discarded suit. She stands on six legs, all shiny like freshly polished chrome, and another four limbs protrude from her mechanical torso. Each one of her limbs ends in razor-sharp claws, ready to tear me to shreds. Even though my flesh is weak and easy to hurt, she knows my lightsaber is a formidable weapon that can cut through her as if she was made of butter. We size each other up for a few brief seconds. There will be no drawn-out duel, no long sequence of parries and feints. I take a deep breath, close my eyes to find a moment of peace, and open them again. In the same heartbeat, we rush at each other. My weapon is raised high above my head and a madman's scream is in my throat. I am ready to die. Her many legs move with mathematical precision, clicking across the ground at an inhuman speed. Her four arms close in on me from every angle. I twist, dodge, slash and scream. We clash and come apart, stumbling toward the opposite ends of the office. A single one of her appendages clatters to the floor between us and I crumble to my knees. The lightsaber slips out of my hand. I can feel the pain of too many stab wounds. I touch my chest and it is wet with blood. There’s too much of it already. “Alright, you win,” I croak, as my sight turns blurry. “I’ll self-publish.” I try to think of something witty to say, something to give a point to this story, but there is nothing I can think of. I slump forward, darkness embracing me as I lose consciousness. She stands above me. Even in my death, she betrays no emotion. Her many appendages fold in on themselves until she has reverted back into a human-sized form. She walks over to her intercom and presses a button on it. “Send in the next one. Also, I need a girl to redo my make-up and a clean-up crew as well. This one made a mess.”


His cellar is dark, but the Bottler knows its cataloged contents better than anyone. He peruses the shelves which contain his private collection of bottles, his fingers carefully lingering on one in particular. This specimen is a larger bottle that has been rubbed and polished enough that the cheap, gold veneer is changing color and wearing through. For a moment, he becomes abstractly aware of the darker emotions he once possessed and their associated memories, but it is difficult to reconstruct them. What remains in the bottles tell the story of how he arrived on a path to perdition. He is torn from his reminiscent emotional debitage by the ding of his shop bell ringing upstairs, followed by footsteps on the floor he does not recognize. He is careful to lock the cellar door on his way upstairs. Waiting for him at the front desk is a sleuth of the most amateur sort. Her position is obvious to him from the way her uniform rests flawlessly on her figure, not a crinkle in the fabric nor a stain upon her breast. Her name tag is proudly on display, which he interprets as a clear suggestion she hasn’t figured out that, like the Bottler, her occupation requires both discretion and a bland outlook on humanity. Her hair is pulled back so tightly that he has to wonder if her mind can relax long enough to make a proper deduction. “Can I help you officer?” the Bottler asks. From the look on her face, it’s clear she’s been sizing him up too. “ Detective Kelledy,” she introduces herself, flashing her badge. Pardon me, detective, the Bottler sneers privately to himself, unimpressed by her distinction of the two titles. He neglects to introduce himself, and instead wrinkles his nose at the sharp scent of scrutiny. She is removing a photograph from her inner pocket. “Have you seen this woman before?” He has. Only in the photograph, she is smiling. He ponders this fact for a moment, scarcely noticing her other features. They are insignificant in comparison. “Sure, I perform her extractions and deposit the bottles to the dispensary at the end of every week.” “And exactly what kind of emotional extraction does she participate in?” Had the knowledge been less common, he might have lied. “Allegra markets in the rawest forms of sexual commodities--pure lust, sexual desire, and orgasmic release,” he answers. He knows the woman in the photograph is troubled. He suspects that her pattern of initiation and extraction is both a cathartic evacuation and a defense against deeper feelings of despair and insecurity. A slight shuffling of the body is the only indication the detective gives of her discomfort on the topic. “Are you aware, sir, that the reality of this voluntary commodification is the latest evolution of the sex trade, and that despite the anonymization and alienation of solitary sex work, it is fundamentally still a selling of the self.” The Bottler has enjoyed watching her squirm, but his response is pointed. “Look, I am a Bottler. I only deal in the selling of the self, and I follow all of the regulations set forth by the Ministry and its associated dispensaries. If you don’t like it, fine, but don’t come in to my business and lecture me on propriety.” Detective Kelledy’s eyes narrow at his increasingly hostile tone, but she has a job to do. This is the only lead she has so far. “Allegra Solt was found dead in an alley not far from here. Were you aware of this sir?” He snorts. “Obviously not.” “Sir, I would appreciate your cooperation in this matter.” “This is the slums. People show up dead all the time,” he says casually, but he assures himself he is not completely devoid of compassion. As the only intermediary between Allegra and the end product of pure, bottled sexuality, he shares an intimacy with this woman, whether real or imagined. “But I am sorry this happened,” he adds. It comes across as a tawdry afterthought but, Detective Kelledy loses interest in him for the moment. Her eyes are peering somewhere behind him in the shop, and the Bottler feels a moment of panic. Has he left the door to his cellar ajar? He hopes not, for legitimate bottling is done in specially marked vacuum bottles using proprietary preservatives that can only be obtained from the dispensaries. The bottles in the cellar are...personal. He continues to stare expectantly at the detective, pondering what it is she is looking at. He notices the cool, gray of her eyes then. They are like stars, weaving in and out of a stellar mist. He wonders what emotions are contained there. “Who is that?” she asks finally, pointing a spindly finger beyond him. She removes her flashlight from her belt and shines it into the back of the dimly lit shop. The Bottler turns to follow her curiosity and realizes she is pointing at his apprentice. The corners of his mouth frame into a scowl. “Get over here, boy,” he says gruffly. The boy, who is more alike in age to a 16-year-old rather than a boy, comes obediently. He never looks up, and the process is slow as one of his legs drags behind him. “You’ll have to excuse him. He’s impotent, this one.” “I’m not impotent,” the boy interjects aloofly. “I was in a car crash, asshole.” He adds this last bit under his breath. “What is your name?” Detective Kelledy asks him. “Tobias Reed.” Detective Kelledy looks to the Bottler for confirmation. He nods, and she proceeds. “Did you know this woman?” The boy’s cheeks color. “I’ve seen her in the shop.” The Bottler listens as she questions Tobias. The boy manages to make it to the end before saying something completely stupid. “Was there...was there a lot of blood?” the boy asks, raising his eyes to meet hers. Though his tone remains timid, Detective Kelledy feels something sinister wash over her. There is a calculated intelligence to his gaze masked by cold indifference. She sees a smoldering ember where there shouldn’t be in the bright blue of his eyes. It’s almost as if he is aroused by his own question. “That’s confidential,” she confirms after a long pause, though it seems to go against her better judgement. He must sense her shift in mood, for his gaze quickly returns to the floor. She notices as a slight, yet rapid twitch develops in the youth’s jaw. Another ding resounds in the shop, signifying a second arrival and cutting the tension in the air like a knife. “Detective Kelledy, unless you have any further questions, I must insist you take your leave. My three o’clock has arrived.” Detective Kelledy gives the impression she wishes to stay, possibly to see her own desires unbridled at the prospect of a live extraction, but she needs this job. This promotion is her one chance to prove to her peers once and for all that she matters--that she isn’t just some silly girl wanting to play cop. Her soon-to-be ex-husband was sure to engrain the idea of worthlessness into her brain on multiple occasions. Now He is a memory worth extracting , she decides silently as she heads for the shop door. “I’ll be in touch,” she says on her way out. The Bottler is left to his three o’clock, a prospect he finds most grim. He is aware of the acute suffering he witnesses in his shop every day and its ambiguous connection to the cynical, hidden manipulation of humanity for profit, power, and control. He is also aware he has developed an emotional detachment to the whole process. Meanwhile, Detective Kelledy lingers in front of the shop. It isn’t much to look at. The sign reading, “Allinar’s Extraction Emporium,” is outdated beyond the literacy of its title, a thick layer of grime incessant in the woodwork. It is a far cry from the extraction facilities in the Ornate District. The grandeur of their sleek, marble finish and spacious waiting rooms make the entire process seem lavish, and she suspects no one there is even peripherally aware of emotions being dealt on the black market. Nothing there gives breath to the rumors of corporate-government agencies utilizing elicit emotions for conditioning soldiers, public servants, politicians, or a hidden class of pseudo-slaves used in a variety of public and private enterprises. Everything there is exactly how it should be: ornate. As if on cue, an ad on this very subject dominates the vast expanse of a nearby slum building. Melissa Merin’s face appears, slandered with portions of the same filth that cover Allinar’s Emporium , but you can still tell it is her. The Ministry of Isolated Citizen Emotions, more commonly referred to by its acronym, M.I.C.E., shines brightly in the background of the ad. Merin is the head executive of M.I.C.E, and it is her job to ease the public's minds about the entire extraction process. Her words echo across the landscape like sweet honey, but in Kelledy’s opinion, the only minds that can be pacified are the ignorantly wealthy, the destitute, and those who have no emotions left with which to form an opinion. Detective Kelledy adjusts the hood of her jacket as a light rain begins to fall, but she knows it’s Merin’s propaganda she is really trying to avoid. Kelledy likes the rain more than most. The rail car arrives a few minutes later, and she boards, taking her place among hundreds of other statistics that use the public transportation system to travel between Districts. Kelledy lives in the Pulse district, which is known for its working middle class and vibrant sense of community. The thought of letting her hair down and snuggling up in her armchair with Sergeant Sly and a good book is tempting. Sly will probably be upset she didn’t leave the gas stove lit and his cat food out, but she senses her next clue is contained in the bottles of Allegra Solt. When she exits the rail car, the M.I.C.E. building appears as an exact replica of the ad she saw earlier. Metal detectors await her at the entrance, and she puts her belongings in the bin and steps through the security check with ease. All extractions are cataloged with a serial number and a descriptive title as to exactly what emotion is contained. This protects the name of the individual while providing a trail of both the bottle’s origins and those who purchase it. Detective Kelledy has already looked up the serial number associated with Allinar’s Extraction Emporium , so it only takes her a moment to cross-check this number with a customer list. There is one name that stands out like a fire on a dark night: Tobias Reed . Next to it are titles of bottled emotional content Kelledy does not care to repeat. She quickly gives her boys over at the Ministry of Justice a ring. It is Officer Bailey who picks up the phone, obviously stifling a yawn. “Bailey, I need you to run a background check on a Tobias Reed. He works as an apprentice at the bottler shop in the slums, and I’ve found evidence he was purchasing goods extracted from our jane doe.” There isn’t much further conversation required. Bailey will take care of it and give her a call when he has the information she needs. For now, she is heading back the way she came, hoping to catch Tobias at the end of his shift. She tries to remind herself that the evidence might be circumstantial--that it doesn’t prove anything--but she knows he is the killer. In her heart, she knew the moment she saw him in the shop, quietly keeping to the shadows. A few days later, the Bottler is in his cellar once again, fiddling with the bottles taken from his most recent extraction. His eyes read each of the labels, deliciously drinking in their contents. Betrayal... fear...pain... He is far more careful with the contents of these bottles than with the body of their former owner, which he has discarded in an adjacent district. He finds the essence of the pretty, blonde stranger he lured in from the street to be a powerful intoxicant. Allegra had been delectable to be sure, but she made things too personal. He was thankful when they pinned that fool apprentice of his for her murder. Apparently, Tobias had a history of domestic abuse, and he had been purchasing the erotic bottles the Bottler was extracting. This was all it took these days to condemn a man. Well, that and an amateur sleuth. Had the Bottler been a different person, he would have laughed to himself, but like the fog of anger, some lurking, underlying cause for his rage threatens to break through and prevents him from doing so.