The night was dark and starless. The wind screamed and pounded against the doors of the pub. Great grey clouds filled the sky and snow whirled about in thick sheets. Yet the Golden Goose was crowded and raucous laughter echoed across the walls. Despite the storm tearing apart the front of the shop, the chattering din never ceased. It was February the sixteenth, a time of year where people were just getting over Valentine’s Day craze and falling back into the grasp of banality. But nothing about the sixteenth of February was normal this year. People talked nervously, eyeing their televisions. Second Chances was about to come on. Lucas Galeman sat alone in a far table of the pub, a glass of beer in hand. He rubbed his thumb dejectedly against the glass. “And scores, what a play!” A voice from the TV cried. Lucas had sat at that table every night for nearly a year since his sister died. He had no clue why the pub was so packed tonight. Was it the Superbowl? No, that had already passed, hadn’t it? He shrugged and took another sip of beer. “Another!” He drawled at the waitress passing by. Her smile was dripping with false sweetness. “Sure, hon. Anything else?” He frowned and waved the waitress away, but not before glancing at her name tag. Rose. When Rose turned away from him, however, a deep scowl crossed her face. She hated working at the pub because of drunks like that. They experience a little loss and decide to make everyone else as miserable as them. She whisked empty glasses from table four and took them into the kitchen. While clearing the dishes, she eyed Lucas warily. He was one to keep an eye on. He had caused a dozen brawls in the last year and tonight seemed like another one was brewing. And that was the last thing they needed now. Second Chances may be twisted, but it was good for business when it came on. Nonetheless, like nearly everyone else in the pub, Rose found that her hands were shaking in anticipation. Apprehensive. That was how to describe the tension in the room. Apprehensive. Static crackled from the TV above him. Then, like wolves echoing a howl, the televisions across the pub changed too. Along with every single one across the States. “We’re a go, Pike.” Pike Redvale dusted his cheek with the last bit of powder and stepped out onto the stage. He wore a ghastly suit of bloodred with a leopard print tie covered in glitter. The stage lights were blinding, and the cold was intense. They didn’t have the budget for heating systems, apparently. His stride was purposeful and his teeth were like sharks. “Welcome everyone, to Second Chances ! I’m your host, Pike Redvale! Let’s get twisted!” When he was younger, he hated his name. The kids at school would always call him Fishboy, but he would always insist that he was named after the weapon. The type of pike you would stick a head on, the type of pike that would be stained red. Now, nearly fifty years later, he was in front of the nation. No one would make fun of his name now. If they did, he could bring their family onto the show. That would shut them up. The stage was set with mechanical contraptions of strange sorts. There wasn’t an audience- all the seats of the auditorium were deserted. Bright red curtains and LEDs lined the stage. Ten skeletons hung from ropes so that they swung eerily in the middle of the stage, covered in crusty, crimson blood, and casting long shadows as they swung. “Last time, we got twisted with fire, and boy did things get heated up! Jane and Leroy joined the skeletons and Hitte got away,” Pike informed the camera, waving up at two of the skeletons. “Before we get started, let’s explain the rules for our contestants! Every week, we go out and find candidates for our program, and put them through challenges! But the risk is high...for if you lose, you join the skeletons. But if you win...you go free! If you win a challenge, you get an advantage in the next one. If you fail a challenge, you get a second chance. You lose when both chances have run out... and you lose a challenge.” Pike spread his arms out in an extravagant gesture. “Let’s meet our contestants.” The camera panned to a blonde girl about twenty with chocolate brown eyes. She trembled head to foot, standing next to Pike on the stage. “Our first contestant is from Denver, Colorado! Milady, tell us your name and occupation,” Pike requested. “M-my name is R-Riley Wallace, and I’m a student at Colorado S-State.” Riley kept glancing to her right, where a vintage Winchester rifle pointed at her temple, hidden by the curtains. “Superb!” Pike cried. “ Et...tu ?” He turned to the contestants on his left. A grey-haired man and a tall boy stood to his left. The man looked about sixty and had piercing blue eyes. He looked pretty determined, Pike thought. Maybe he could win, despite his age. “Our second contestant is from Morgue, California! Tell us your name and occupation.” “My name is John Whitby and I’m a Marine Corps veteran.” The man said, a bead of sweat the only betrayal of his fear. “Fantastic! Our third contestant is from a place not far from here. Esceleter, Wyoming! Tell us your name, please!” The boy had forest green eyes and caramel brown hair lined with heavy acne. He was sobbing profusely, shaking in his shoes. “Don’t kill me! I’m only twelve! Please!” Pike heard a click from left stage, behind the curtain. Probably the other gun, a revolver, suspended by a series of pressure-activated cords. All Pike had to do was tap his left foot and the boy’s brains would be out on live television. Tap the right foot and Riley would prematurely join the skeletons. Wave his fingers and the gunman crouching in the rafters above would put a bullet in John’s head. Pike shrugged mentally. Well, he couldn’t have everything automated. “Please tell us. We don’t want to end before the games have begun, right?” His voice was deceptively soft, like poisoned honey slipping down a jar. “D-D-Dewey Abbott, sir, don’t shoot me!” “Good, good,” Pike said calmly, relaxing his foot, which had been tensed to activate the gun. He grinned like a shark. “Let’s begin.” Rose’s eyes were fixed on the screen. Everyone in the Golden Goose must realize it, she thought. It was so silent. The only sound was Pike Redvale’s honeyed bass tones echoing through the pub. Dewey Abbot was the kid who went missing yesterday. She had gotten the Amber alert, had seen him on the news. He went missing in Esceleter, the next town over. Tears of fear threatened her eyes. Second Chances was nearby. Part of her wanted to go find the site, crash the party. But then she came to her senses. She was just a waitress. The most she could do was call the police. But Pike and his crew would probably vanish. They had hacked into public television systems five times already. They hadn’t been caught yet. They weren’t about to be caught now. Rose watched as Lucas, that drunk bastard, rose from his seat and stumbled for the door. A sick feeling settled in her stomach. Lucas had heard too much. He had remembered why the pub was so crowded and it was because of that terrorist show or junk like that. He had known Dewey. It reminded him of what he was like before his sister Sam had died. So bright-eyed and ignorant. Now it seemed like every memory of his past life was fading. “The first challenge is called Track and Shield !” Pike called, grinning brightly at the camera. “We’ve gifted all of our contestants shields, and they must use them make it from one end of the stage to the other!” He explained as the stagehands equipped Riley, John, and Dewey with heavy, round shields the size of a truck tire. They looked ancient, like they had been sitting in a closet for a century. They were nearly falling apart. Pike smirked. The producers didn’t have the budget, or they just didn’t care. “Alright, athletes!” Pike positioned the contestants at the start line. Then he positioned himself onto his next spot, marked with blue tape on the floor. Pressure pads connected to cords and wires were located in various locations about the stage, waiting for him to activate the traps. “On your marks, set, GO!” Cheering tracks echoed in the empty auditorium. They started to run, their legs pounding against the stage, sending it vibrating. Their breath fogged into the crisp air. Pike gave a sideways smile. Let’s get twisted , he thought. Left foot, left stomp. Right foot, right stomp. It was like the Cha Cha Slide, Pike noticed. Heavy darts shot out of holes in the walls surrounding the track. John, the ex-Marine, was in the lead, trudging on apparently unbothered by the heavy shield strapped to his arm. Darts whizzed past his ears, and John raised his shield rhythmically to block them. Right foot, left foot, bang! Right foot, left foot, bang! It was such a hypnotic rhythm, Pike thought. John’s feet were so swift, and his bulging muscles were unhampered by age. His eyes still seemed young. Pike shook himself. John was his favorite to win, that’s all he was saying, he told himself. Riley was behind him, her stride hampered by fatigue. She didn’t seem to be hit by a dart yet. Dewey far behind and seemed to be surviving on sheer luck. He stumbled blindly through the course, the weight of the shield dragging him forward. He already had a thin line of blood across his forehead. Left foot, left stomp. Right foot, right stomp. John had been hit by a dart, striking him in the arm. Pike sucked in a breath. John’s piercing blue eyes cried out in agony, but he made no sound, instead slowly trudging forward towards the end. Pike nearly cheered. John had won. The relief in his eyes made a tiny grin twitch at Pike’s mouth. Dewey was gaining on Riley now, desperation replacing his previous fear. They were both side by side, darts whizzing in every which direction. Pike was still manning the pressure pad, with faster movements now. Left foot again. Right foot again. Left foot, left stomp. Right foot, right stomp. Crisscross! Now his feet were going in some sort of frenzied tap dance to the beat of the Cha Cha Slide. It looked like Dewey was going to win. He was pulling ahead. Cheering tracks blared louder, and the camera panned closer. They were neck-and-neck. Right foot again. A dart hit Riley in her side. She cried out and fell, leaving Dewey to finish. Pike’s feet slowed to a stop and the camera shot to his face, pitiless, beaded with sweat, and carved by plastic surgery. “John gets an advantage in the next challenge! Dewey, kid, you’re safe. And Riley...well sweetheart, you lost.” Pike grinned at the camera, pausing for dramatic effect. The producers loved that. “You’re on your... Second Chance !” The theme music blared obnoxiously from near the camera. “The next challenge is a mental one, and I like to call it: Inches From Pinches ! Here’s how it works.” Pike frowned at Riley, who lay bleeding on the floor. “Someone clean her up, we can’t get blood on the conveyor.” He swung his head back to the camera, waiting like the eye of an enormous fly, beady and black. “We’ll strap each contestant to a conveyor belt, each moving at the same pace. At the end of each belt is a pit of scorpions. We’ll ask the contestants each the same question, and every correct answer slows down the belt. Every wrong answer speeds up the belt. The first one to fall in will lose, and the one farthest from the pit will win. John, because you won last time, we’re giving you a five-foot longer conveyor belt than Riley and Dewey! And Riley, next time you lose, not only will you be heinously injured, you’ll be killed.” While Pike spoke, crew members mopped up Riley and strapped each contestant to a conveyor belt. And on the challenges went. John fell into the scorpion pit and Riley stayed the farthest. “You’re on your Second Chance !” Then Pike and the entire nation watched as they were forced to walk over a bed of syringes. Dewey fell and had dozens of holes puncture his arms. Pike grinned. The syringes all had lethal doses of anesthetic, which would kill them in by the time the show was over. The facade of the winner escaping was just that- a facade. Pike always poisoned the contestants somehow so that there were no loose ends. “You’re on your Second Chance !” Pike watched in glee as Riley fell into a tube of acid when she failed to answer what the name of Hitler’s wife was. Dewey had seemed to be going mental, muttering to himself and screaming at random intervals, whereas John was his same, stoic self, hiding his fear on the inside. When Riley died, Dewey started screaming again. He ran off the stage and threw himself against the exit doors. They gave way and he ran screaming out of the building. Pike moved to signal the gunmen, then froze, snickering. Dewey wouldn’t be running for long. The more he ran and screamed, the faster the anesthetic would work its way through his system. Pike doubted that Dewey would get out of the building, let alone find anyone. “In a shocking turn of events, we seem to have an escapee. That means John is the default winner!” Pike announced. The crew members operating the teleprompter waited for a second, then started shaking their heads violently. Pike sighed as he read the new message as it appeared. Disappointing. He had really liked the ex-Marine. “Or, he would be. But we’ve decided to find a new contestant to play against John. Just one moment while our teams find someone.” Music played in the background. “Welcome back to Second Chances !” Rose looked up. It had only been about thirty seconds. Whoever they found must have been... Close. Lucas was staggering onscreen, too drunk to understand what was happening. That snake, Pike Redvale, smiled his sideways grin. “Let’s get twisted.”


"Jack and Coke.” He leaned towards the bartender, shouting above the poor rendition of Elvis swooning to the crowd. “Make that two,” I raised my fingers in a mock peace sign which seemed easier than trying to be heard over the crowd of well wishers. “Don’t you just love weddings?” The Jack and Coke stranger smiled at me while he relaxed against the bar. “No, not particularly. I avoid them at all costs, but this one was mandatory, unfortunately.” “Not a big believer in love?” “That’s not it at all. It’s all the schmoozy oozy I can do without. The pomp and circumstance, the over-the-top expenses of it all.” I squeezed into the spot against the bar left open by the couple who danced away to oblivion. “Schmoozy oozy? Is that official terminology?” “You know what I mean. The ‘oh, he’s so perfect for me, she’s my soulmate’ kind of talk. Is that a result of the whirlwind wedding plans, getting swept up in the moment?” “I see what you’re saying. Like which came first, the chicken or the egg?” “Exactly!” I was relieved that he understood. “Is the hype of the wedding getting the couple all giddy or are they getting married because they are already giddy in love?” “So, you do believe in giddy love then?” He smiled at me, raising one eyebrow. Feeling somehow as if I was tricked into admitting something, I felt suddenly flustered. “I never said I don’t believe in love,” I stammered. The overwhelmed bartender finally returned to our end of the bar, placing two light colored drinks on coasters and smiling at us. I looked at the Jack and Coke stranger that I had been chatting with knowing darn well these were not our requested drinks but as the bartender got swallowed up in the crowd, I claimed one anyway. “Cheers!” I raised my mystery drink to the mystery man. “Cheers to love, the giddy, schmoozy, oozy kind of love.” He raised his glass and clunked mine. I took a sip feeling the very strong Jack and ginger ale have the desired effect as it burned its way down my throat. I swallowed appreciatively. “So, you believe in love apparently. Do you see many successful marriages? Lots of till death do us parts?” The drink made me bold. I felt argumentative as I was being held against my will in an overpriced dress and staggeringly high heels. I tried not to think of the cozy sweats and blanket left remorsefully on the couch. “I see my share of successful marriages. But it’s too soon to tell if they are till death do us part as they are newlyweds.” “Ah, newlyweds. What will they do when life hits, when babies puke, when jobs are lost, and utilities are turned off due to nonpayment?” “Bitter much?” He asked, taking a long gulp of his drink. “Not bitter at all. Realistic.” I matched his drink, draining half my glass. “When those events happen they will work together, support one another, get through the tough times. Remember their vows of for better or worse.” He signaled the bartender over again, and was ignored as he had been previously. “Or they scream and curse and say, ‘fuck you’ and walk out the door.” “Wow,” the stranger stared at me. “Yeah, wow.” I craned my neck looking for the bartender. Finally making eye contact, I raised my fingers as if hailing a cab on a crowded Manhattan street corner. He nodded and brought two glasses of red wine and placed them down on coasters in front of us. “This guy is nothing if not inaccurate,” the stranger laughed. “He’s zero for two, it’s actually funny,” I picked up my wine glass by the stem and swirled it, laughing. “I’m Mark, by the way,” the Jack and Coke stranger said. “I’m Michelle,” I reached out my hand to shake his. “So formal, Michelle,” he teased, grasping my hand in his, a spark of something surprising me. “Not at all,” I stuttered, feeling flustered for the second time in the span of ten minutes. What was happening? “Oh look, Michelle, they are about to cut the cake.” I glanced over at my boss and her new husband, their hands holding the knife smiling for the sea of cameras. You would think they had never had a slice of cake before in their lives, like they actually discovered the concept of cutting into a cake. Look at me, honey, I can cut cake. Oh, please let me help. It does take two, doesn’t it? “The question now begs to smear or not to smear the cake?” I asked, picturing my own strong desire to smear the cake just based on the fact that I had no choice but to be there. That was certainly reason enough. “Oh, definitely smear. She needs to smear his face.” Mark laughed. “No, he needs to smear her face. She’s the smear-ee to him being the smear-er.” I was laughing now with Mark. “Wait, who is the smear-ee to you? Because the smear-er is my boss.” “The smear-ee is my boss,” I felt tears of laughter come to the corners of my eyes as I drained my red wine and took an unsteady step away from the bar. “So, we are both employees of the happy couple. What does that make us? There should be a name for that.” “Yeah, miserable.” I snorted my answer, feeling silly and more than slightly drunk. Mark burst out laughing to my surprise, making me feel a little something something. “What does your boss do, Mark? I don’t even know.” “He’s a marriage counselor, as am I. We work together in a small practice downtown.” “A marriage counselor. That explains a lot, Mr. Let’s Make This A Perfect Marriage. You do know his new wife’s profession, don’t you?” “Actually, no.” He looked at me expectantly. “My boss is a divorce attorney, as am I. We work for a large firm uptown.” “A marriage counselor marries a divorce attorney. That’s perfect.” “Think it will last?” I asked him, signaling the bartender over for another round of surprise drinks. “I have a hunch it will,” Mark replied with a twinkle in his eye, giving me another unexpected flurry of butterflies in my belly. “Time will tell,” I managed to mumble, almost at a loss for words. “Here’s to wedded bliss,” He raised his can of beer. “Or wedded blues,” I raised my can and clinked his.


Sneppath Head. The spluttered words cut through me like a saw. Something horrible had happened right as Alessia would have arrived. My legs were carrying me to the Deer Drum boat even if my brain was elsewhere, going through scenarios: Alessia was mortally injured, bleeding out on her boat, alone, cold; Alessia was alive but desperately needed medical care, but unable to get it; Alessia was okay, but her boat was destroyed and she was marooned on Sneppath Head, without shelter or food. I wondered what she was going through right now. If she was frightened, scared, lonely. Or I thought - as a spasm caught my chest - she wasn’t around to feel anything. As I reached the last hill before the Deer Drum boat, I saw Xander and Kurbani appearing at the summit in front of me. As soon I eyed them, my legs shot into a secondary order, running up the hill at full pelt. “Xander, Kurbani, we need to go now. Get the boat and go to Sneppath Head, Alessia’s in trouble,” The words appeared with such speed the plan even caught me by surprise. Xander’s eyes widened and he jogged the few steps towards me. “What’s wrong?” I explained what I knew and what the man on the beach had said. As I finished, Xander took the information in, but didn’t move. I waited for him to turn back towards the boat. Nothing happened. “We need to go.” I began trying to walk past them. “Ferdinand, you need to stop,” Kurbani said. I paused and took a pace back to stare at her. “Alessia might need us.” “But she probably doesn’t.” “What?” My voice was loud and shrill. Kurbani took a step towards me and placed a hand on my shoulder. She stared up into my eyes, the lines on her forehead furrowed, focusing the stare. “Think. The odds of her being hurt are slim. She probably wasn’t there when it happened. Even if she was, she still is almost certainly fine. She is most likely on her way back now. If you sail off, what’s likely to happen is you miss her on the crossing.” “She could be dying. She might need us.” “Give it a few days. If she’s there, and needs us, seven days won’t be any different than ten. Give her a chance to come to you first.” I looked past Kurbani to Xander. He slumped his shoulders. “I’m worried too, but she’s right. We rush off and she comes back to find everyone gone, it’s gonna be worse. She’s only due back today.” “She could be dying.” “Three days. We wait three days,” Xander said slowly. I took a pace back from them both, my jaw extended out, the teeth grinding. “I can’t just sit by and-“ “You can, and you will,” Kurbani interrupted. Xander placed a hand on my back, using it to slowly turn me around and start nudging me back down the hill. “We were just heading into town, we’ll come back with you. Keep you company.” My feet resisted for half a second. My body leaned forward until eventually my limbs complied and I stuttered back along the path. For the first hundred metres or so I refused to talk. I just took pigeon steps, shuffling as slowly as I could in protest. Only when we reached the next climb and I could see the town ahead did I ordain to speak. “Why were you heading to town anyway?” “Looking for Lachlann. No one’s seen him for two days.” Xander huffed. “What?” I craned my neck round. “He’s often wandered off on different islands. But, two days with no contact, we were getting worried.” I could sense Kurbani trying to keep her tone positive lest the concern spread. I looked back across the island, over to where I knew the slum to be. “Do you have any idea where he may be?” They both shook their heads. “I saw him once, a town in the middle of the island.” I was hesitant to return to that unstructured mess of buildings. Even though I hadn’t signed Maia’s contract or had any part in it, I still knew. I knew she had sold her whole life away. I tried to imagine if I saw her there, how I would react, or what I would say. There seemed no good solution. Still, it also seemed like the most likely place Lachlann would be. I led them across the island, weaving our way through the fields until once more the ground turned to the lifeless brown dirt at the settlement. It had always looked unpleasant; run down, poor. But now it seemed to gain a new visage. I noticed how almost every building had only one small window with vertical metal bars where glass should be. I noticed how square each home was, and how it would only take a few seconds to walk their length. The people here were trapped, not by locks and guards but by circumstance - something so much less escapable. We trudged for half an hour, winding through the busy winding streets. But it was a fruitless hunt. We were about to give up when I saw Maia. My heart rushed through a few beats, my chest stinging. I didn’t want to say anything, and she was far enough away that she would never know I was here. But, still she may know where Lachlann was. I swallowed down my anxiety and walked over. “Maia, sorry to bother you, we’re looking for a friend of ours,” I said, thumbing to Xander and Kurbani on the other end of the street. “Oh.” Her eyes looked to the side, avoiding mine. I wondered if she felt the same shame. “I know he came here at least once. I thought, maybe you saw someone who looked out of place.” Maia’s mouth opened slightly. Her head bobbed. “Ah, yeah. Tall guy? Black hair?” I nodded. “Seen him walking through the town a few times. Don’t know where you’d find him though.” I stood still, unsure of what the next words should be. “Anything else I can help you with?” she asked, filing the silence. “I heard you got the job.” The words escaped involuntarily. She took a deep breath in and looked back towards her home. “Yeah. Not perfect. But it means my son will be okay.” “Are...” I cut myself off, but the words forced their way out again. “Are you sure you want this job? Truly?” She met my gaze, her eyes blinking a few times. “Contract’s signed, Ferdinand. I hope you find your friend.” She turned and left, heading back up the hill. I stood in the spot for a few seconds, the air slowly leaking from my lungs until I was completely deflated. The anger, fear, frustration - this cocktail of emotions - felt like it had no escape. I would just drown in it. My self-pity was broken by Xander behind me. “There you are.” I turned to see him walking up to Lachlann, embracing him in a hug. I headed back just in time to hear Lachlann’s explanation. “I’ve got... some friends here. I’ve been seeing them. Helping out a bit. You know. Sorry. I would’ve come back but...” He trailed off. “You can’t go leaving us like that,” Kurbani said, with a tone she usually reserved for Novak or Mirai. Lachlann looked back over his shoulder. “I know. I didn’t mean to. Just... I had to.” Kurbani bit her tongue, restraining her choice of words. “I won’t pry. But, we were worried.” Lachlann placed a hand on the back of his neck and looked to the ground. “Sorry. I owed somebody my time. Can you trust me on that?” Xander smiled. “Always, friend.” He placed a hand on Lachlann’s shoulder and brought him in for another embrace. As we began heading back away from the town, Xander offered for me to come and spend the evening on the boat. He said I could maybe do with the company to stop myself worrying about Alessia. I declined, saying I had to meet up with someone back at the apartment. It was a lie. Instead I walked back to the town, found the best spot I could to watch the sea, and stared at the horizon. That was all I did for the next two days. I still went to the apartment to sleep, eat, and change, but otherwise I just watched and waited. I’d stare at each boat as it came over the horizon, trying to make out the size, the number of sails, each time trying to decide if it was Alessia. I must have watched a good forty boats appear, lift my spirits and then break them again. Two days. Of that same process. That same desperate wait, praying for my friend--my best friend--to return. The sun was setting, and soon I wouldn’t even be able to make out the boats in the black of the night. However, just as the last slip of red clung to the sky, another boat appeared. I watched it, my eyes squinting, trying to narrow in like binoculars. Two sails. Correct length. Exact cut, down to the slight raise at the back of the frame. It was a perfect match. She had returned. I stood up, trying to guess where she would land. I watched as the boat curved towards the jetties to my far left. Leaping to my feet, I sprinted, determined to be there to greet her. I ran past the crowds milling in the evening heat, shouting aggressive apologies as I darted past them, my arms clipping theirs. I checked on the boat. It was parallel to me, slowly sailing into the bay. I looked at the two glorious sails, those steps up to the helm, and... my heart sank as I saw the thick beard of the man with the wheel in his hand. My feet slowly slowly ground to a halt, the energy ejected from them but with no morale left to brake and stop. It wasn’t Alessia. There was a moment of sadness. An instant of grief that flickered across my face. But it was replaced quickly with rage. That same concoction of all the emotions I’d been feeling since Outer Fastanet - anger, guilt, sadness, grief, hopelessness, panic - all suddenly rose to the surface of the bubbling pot. I could feel my arms tensing, my fists clenching, the knuckles turning white. My eyes stung, and my head twitched, almost unsure of what sensation to process first. I had to get off the street. I had to get away and retreat to somewhere where I could be alone. Somewhere where it was safe for the flood of emotion in my system to be let out. My eyes stared at the ground the whole way back to the apartment. I blotted out the world around me. Just watching my marching feet stamp across the ground, circling their route back to the courtyard. All of my focus was on that rhythmic distraction, all my determination bent on finding sanctuary. I climbed the stairs, reached the apartment, and slammed the door shut behind me. I leaned against the kitchen sink, resting my hands on the wooden countertop. I listened to my strained breaths, the pulsating friction in each pant. It was all I could hear. That inhalation, exhalation that refused to be silenced. All noise outside of my being ceased to exist. Why couldn’t I find any peace? I had finally put myself back out there again, overcome the fears that haunted me since Outer Fastanet, and in return this horrid Archipelago had stolen the person I loved more than anyone. I wanted the oceans to rise further and swallow the islands. I wanted the ships to disappear, fall into the abyss. I wanted there to be no more travelling, no more land, no more Archipelago. I wanted everything to end. On the counter next to me, there was a glass tumbler. I thought back to our first night here and stumbling back to the apartment with Alessia drunkenly leaning on my arm. I remembered handing her a glass of water and the sincerity with which she said she was lucky to have met me. I recalled the truthfulness with which I said it back. I wanted to say it again. And I couldn’t. I picked up the glass, and letting out a scream threw it against the wall. There was a crack as the glass splintered into a thousand pieces, tiny shards halting in the air for a fraction before falling to the ground in slow motion. Another pointless destruction. There was a knock at the door. I ignored it. But two seconds later it opened anyway. I turned to see Eda poking her head through the space. “Sorry, Ferdinand. I was just passing, and I heard something. I just thought I’d check you’re okay.” There were so many things I wanted to say to Alessia, and I couldn’t. And so, here, I switched off that bit of inhibition, and let the core inside say what it wanted. “You’re a monster,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’m sorry?!” Eda laughed hiding the shock. I turned to face her. “How do you buy a human life, wake up the next day and feel anything but horror?” Eda looked confused for a second. “Is this still about that woman’s contract?” “Yes, and it should be all you can think of. It should keep you awake at night and gnaw at your conscience, and I don’t know how it doesn’t. And the only reason I can come up with is that you are a fucking monster.” Eda raised her hands, tilting her head. “Ferdinand, calm down.” I spoke slowly, stretching my lips on every syllable. “A gross, inhuman, monster.” “I think you need to apologise,” Eda said, her voice gaining a sudden sternness. “I’ve met some pieces of shit across the Archipelago, but I don’t think I’ve ever met one who pretended that they were doing good in the world while they traded human life. I hate you. And I hate me for not doing more to stop people like you.” Eda stared back at me before straightening her shoulders. “Ferdinand, I think it’s time we ended this tenancy agreement, I don’t want you living-“ “Good,” I interrupted. “I’d rather live on the streets than give another smidgen of coin to you. Get out. I’ll pack now.” Eda held eye contact for a couple of seconds before she backed out of the room, closing the door behind her. I set about packing up our things. It took only a few minutes to grab mine. But then I had to deal with Alessia’s. As I placed her clothes into a bag I could feel the grief hit once more, my vision misting as I placed the things away one by one. As soon as I was done, I placed both bags over my shoulders, left the apartment, and closed the door firmly behind me. I left the town and walked across the island until I saw the Deer Drum boat. They took me in as I knew they would. They set me up in a spare room vacated by one of the islanders who left. As I laid down I was certain that the stress, thoughts and memories would keep me awake. But as the fervour washed out of my system, I fell asleep. I slept soundly through the night. The next thing I remember was being awoken by Mirai, grabbing me on the arm. “Ferdinand. Get up quick.” I opened my eyes to her wide, youthful smile. “Come meet us on the deck. Now.” She shook my arm with excitement before turning and departing, the door left open behind her. I forced my body to stand and walked as quickly as my aching legs would let me. I reached the deck and looked out to the sea. No more than fifty metres away was Alessia’s boat, her stern face set in concentration behind the wheel, her black hair flickering in the breeze. I felt a weight drain from my body, as though a boil had been burst. All those emotions, all seemed to melt. Just one remained, filling me with a sensation lighter than air. My shoulders lifted to meet it. A grin grew across my face that soon turned to laughter. Joy. Pure, nothing-else-matters, joy. “Alessia!” I cried out, walking to the side of the boat. “You’re okay.” She looked up at me. She smiled, and stood with her arms outstretched, putting herself on display. The anger fell away, sliding between the floorboards on the deck. A tear escaped from the corner of my eye, and contained in the small drop of salty water, was all the hatred and fear I had been feeling. My body had placed all that negativity, that great mass, into this one small drop, and shed it. I felt free. We tied the boats up, dropped the ladder, and welcomed her on board. Xander held out an arm and lifted her up the last half metre. No sooner were her feet on board than I pushed through the crowd and wrapped my arms around her, holding her tightly. She froze for a second, her body becoming rigid, until she softened, reaching out her hands and returning the embrace. “Missed you too, Ferdinand.” “We heard what happened on Sneppath Head,” Kurbani said. “We were worried about you.” Alessia flicked a smile. “Shit winds the whole way there. Was two days late. By the time I got there it was the clear up,” she paused, her eyes flickering. “Wasn’t pretty, but I was never in danger.” Xander folded his arms. “Any idea what happened?” “That’s the thing. I asked.” Alessia took a step back so she could make sure she addressed all of us at once. “The description of the attack. Was one shipment they were after. A crate of old maps. Worthless junk to most. Certainly not worth killing over.” “Sannaz,” I said, filling in the blanks. “Exactly.” Alessia turned to me, nodding. “People said they saw the boat heading to Granite Vowhorn.” “Well we go there then?” Xander announced. I closed my eyes. I knew Granite Vowhorn. An ongoing war had lasted centuries between two factions on the island. A fight that had gone on so long that it had become a stalemate. Two enemies facing each other down with miles of no man’s land between them. I knew we had to head there. And as much as there was a dread at the thought in the pit of my stomach, I felt ready to face it, with my best friend by my side. Once more, back into the warzone.


My husband, Sinclair, looked like a black lumberjack. He bounced into our room and took out my yellow suitcase and dragged it across the hardwood floor leaving stuff marks along the way. I sat on the edge of the bed and watched him piling his clothes inside. I knew that he was going to ask me if I wanted to go to the convention with him and he knew that my answer was going to be the same as it had been the ten hundred other times he had asked. “Do you want to go with me to the convention?” He asked me to fold his white tee shirt and put it in the suitcase. “No, I told you that I didn’t want to go. There is nothing that interested me about a woodworking convention. You go and have a good time.” I said. Sinclair tried to close his overstuffed suitcase and I put on my bunny slippers on the floor beside my bed and grabbed my robe and went downstairs. I needed a strong cup of coffee. Sinclair and I met at church. I had just moved here after my friend, Michelle convinced me that I should. I had just been laid off from my boring job and she told me that I should come to her city and get a husband. I had no intention of finding anything but a job. I was 40 years old and had never been married and had no children and didn’t have any desire to have either. Michelle was married and had four kids. She believed that I should be like her. I disagreed. I bought a house and got a new job that I loved at a TV station. My life was finally getting better. And I loved it. I had found a small church a few blocks from my house. Sinclair’s big brown eyes captivated me. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him in the third row of the choir. After church he introduced himself. He told me that I looked beautiful. I knew that was a big lie. I had my hair pulled up into a tight bun on the top of my head and was wearing my dull purple church dress with the lace collar. It was so snug that it showed off a little too many curves that I wanted to hide. I also knew that my light brown skin was a little too shiny from the baby oil and the only makeup I had on was lip gloss and mascara. When he shook my hand I never wanted to let go. We had our first date a week later. He brought me a dozen of red roses. I didn’t know how he knew that those were my favorite flowers but I was glad that he did. For each date he brought me different colored roses. He moved into my house a year later. Sinclair was good at working with his hands and when he moved in with his tool belt I knew that everything in the house would be repaired. When Sinclair was laid off from his construction job I was not worried. He had 24 units before he completed his degree in engineering. But Sinclair had other ideas. He wanted to take some courses in woodworking. So, after a few months and $2000 later Sinclair was done with the classes and our garage looked like a small furniture store. There were stools, tables, desks and chairs all over the garage. Finally, we got a loan and he opened up a shop around the corner from our house. The store did well and he went from being unemployed to being a small business owner in less than a year. For the first 8 years of our ten year marriage it was great. I went fishing with him even though the thought of a fish dangling from a pole moving around made me want to throw up. And camping was no thrill either. I didn’t like to be out in the wilderness listening to animal sounds all night thinking that some wild animals would come in the tent and eat me alive. And the football games that I sat through took too long to end. But I endured those things to get to know him and he went to long foreign movies with subtitles with me and watched what he called “girly” movies with me a couple of times per week. We also went out to dinner twice per month just to get out of the house and keep our romance alive. We toasted each other with expensive bottles of wine and ate big plates of pasta and garlic bread and the occasional fish dinners for him. Now Sinclair’s idea of a romantic dinner and a movie is sitting in front of the TV watching one of his home improvement shows and ordering from the fast food place down the street screaming our order through a box speaker and coming home opening greasy bags of food and eating lukewarm hamburgers and soggy fries while sipping on watered down soda through a straw. I used to love the feel of his big arms around me as we laid in the bathtub together as I pressed my back against his body. I never wanted to leave those strong arms. I felt that I had found Mr. Wonderful and I was glad that he had found me. Nowadays I wonder where Mr. Wonderful has gone. “Are you sure that you don’t want to come? It is going to be in Vegas.” Sinclair said, poking his head into the kitchen. “No. I don’t want to go. I don’t even like Vegas. I don’t gamble and neither do you. You go and have a good time.” I said sipping on my now lukewarm cup of coffee. Sinclair rubbed my shoulders and then kissed me on the cheek and went out of the door to the garage. I waited for him to return a few minutes later. He always forgot something. Sinclair ran up the stairs to our bedroom and came down holding his cell phone. “I forgot my phone.” He said. He walked back over to me sitting at the kitchen table and bent down and kissed me again on the cheek. This time he let his lips linger a second longer. I was grateful for the effort. My phone rang a few minutes later. It was my friend, Michelle. “Hey girl. Did Sinclair leave yet?” She asked. “He just left.” I said. “So, what are you going to do?” Michelle asked. “What am I going to do in general or today?” I asked, knowing full well what she met. “What are you going to do about your marriage?” Michelle sounded irritated. “I think that we need counseling. We just don’t communicate anymore. He comes home and plops down on the couch and watches some home improvement show on cable and I cook dinner and go to bed with a good book while he goes to his office. We say very little to each other.” I said. “Do you think that he will go?” She asked. “We talked about it and I think he will be open to it.” I said. “Well, good luck. I am about to pull into the parking lot. I will talk to you later.” Michelle hung up the phone. I walked back upstairs to my office. I needed to work on my story and for that I needed my laptop. I turned it on and the screen stayed black. I didn’t even hear the beep that I hate after I turned it on. I knew that it was dead and I forgot to charge it. I plugged it in and walked to Sinclair's office and sat down on the wooden chair he built behind the desk he also built using an old wooden door. I turned on his computer and put in the password. What I saw on the screen made me do a double take. About ten bikini clad women popped up and they were messaging him things that I couldn’t repeat in mixed company or ever. So, this is what he does when he comes to his office to “work.” I thought. He was talking to bikini clad women. I closed the computer and before I knew it I had put it under my arm like a football and ran down the stairs. I opened the patio door and threw it in the deep end of the pool like I just scored a touchdown. I wiped off the water that splashed on my clothes and went back inside. I picked up the ringing cell phone and slid the button to answer. “Hey, Anna. I am here.” Sinclair’s voice echoed on the other side of the phone. “Glad you made it. Hey, my computer is dead and I need to do some work. Can I use yours?” I asked. “Well, my computer has a virus.” Sinclair said as his voice started to crack the way it always did when he lied. “How do you know it is a virus? “ I asked. “Well, I don’t know what else it could be. It’s not acting right. Don’t you have your work backed up on your work computer?” He asked. “Yes. Do you have your computer backed up?” I asked. “No. I don’t.” He replied. “Well, maybe you should.” I said hanging up the phone. A week later we were sitting in front of a marriage counselor in a dull brown office building. He was our age, in his early 50’s. His salt and pepper hair was slicked down to his head and his mustache matched his hair. He sat there with his legs crossed on a black office chair across from us wearing black slacks and a white shirt. I couldn’t help noticing his brown loafers. They reminded me of the ones that Sinclair had which he wore every time he dressed up. He thought that those shoes went with everything. I disagreed. The marriage counselor asked us some questions which I thought made no difference at all in our situation. But, I answered them thoughtfully. I told him about the early days of our marriage and now. When it was Sinclair’s turn to talk he would answer in one or two words and on occasion in a short ten word sentence. Then he would turn his gaze to me. I would ignore his “I want to be anywhere but here” look and look straight ahead at the counselor. Six months later we knew that our marriage could not be saved. I told Sinclair that I didn’t want to be married any more and I know he was just waiting for me to say what he was thinking. He moved out of our bedroom that day to the guest room down the hall. A month later he had rented an apartment a few miles from our house. I watched him as he packed the last box and as he was putting it into his cherry red truck he turned around and said, “Baby, we sure did give it a good try.” I looked at him and smiled. “You don’t know unless you try.”


Logline: A researcher finds a way to send modern technology to the Allied powers during the Second World War, effectively securing victory and saving lives, but also has repercussions beyond the war. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Jason Reese, a research scientist working for the U.S. Army, is on the brink of a breakthrough. Jason has degrees from Harvard, Yale, and Brown, in the field of quantum physics. He works with a research and development team from a clandestine lab deep in the Nevada desert. Irene Tang, a Japanese graduate student from MIT, holds degrees in organic chemistry and quantum mechanics. There is also Aaron Massey, a budget guy who maintains expenditures under the supervision of the Army and serves as a contact with other branches of the military. Aaron has a Bachelor's degree from Arizona State. After serving in the Army, he was the number one insurance agent in Arizona for three straight years. Jason's breakthrough, hopefully, would enable him to send things through time using a wormhole. The device is the size of the breadbasket. He delivered a letter via the wormhole last night. There was a message in return this morning, his great-grandfather, Wayne Reese, a Command Sergeant in the U.S. Army, responded, while serving in World War II. He had just lost several soldiers the night before, and he was concerned that they weren't going to make it out alive. "Wow, that's incredible," Irene says, looking over Jason's shoulder. "We could give some details to support them, we know how the war is going to end, we know what the German strategy was, giving him a few tips is only going to save lives," Aaron says, realizing the value of this technology. "I don't know; we shouldn't play with the past, who knows what sort of effect it would have on us today. Besides, who knows what harm we've already caused," Jason says. "Although we're all here. If there were any changes, they were so slight that we couldn't perceive them. What if you're dealing with a parallel universe, one that doesn't have any effect on the one we're living right now?" Irene speculates. "She's right; if this device succeeds, it will transform the universe, you will go down in history as the greatest scientist in human history," Aaron says. "How about a little test, your great-grandfather included the date, the 9th of March, 1942, we could very quickly lookup where his brigade was and give him some advice. If there's no difference in our universe, we'll know it's a parallel universe," agrees Irene. Jason decides to go with Irene's idea; he researched the brigade of his great-grandfather and discovered that they were battling in France on that day. Sadly, he also found out that his great-grandfather was about to be killed in a machine-gun ambush in Calais. With full hindsight, Jason can guarantee that if his great-grandfather moves his brigade south of the area, they would be able to surprise the German forces. Jason prepares the letter carefully, submits it through the wormhole, and it works! His great-grandfather took the south route, shocking the Germans, and won a vital battle. Jason felt proud; he had done something that wasn't in the history books before today. "Look, we're linked to the U.S. Army, we can get them some top-of-the-line 2020 weapons, sit back and watch your grand-grandfather become a goddamn hero," Aaron entices. Jason says, "Let's see what this wormhole can do ." Aaron brings General Andrew Scarlett to the facility the following day. The general is very knowledgeable regarding the Second World War and is also in charge of the very substantial arsenal of 2020 weapons. The general asked Jason if he'd be able to construct a bigger wormhole, Jason said he'd be able to make one around the size of the garage door. The general returns with all kinds of high-tech weapons that can fit inside a garage, Jason includes a letter for his great-grandfather, which consists of a few instructions about how to handle such modern advanced weapons. The next week, Jason received a letter back, the latest guns performed beautifully, they moved Germany closer to its original border, something that took four years to do in the original timeline was achieved in a matter of five months using 2020 technologies. But Aaron and the general were greedy; they wanted Jason to create an even larger wormhole, one in which they could bring tanks, warships, jetplanes, and much more comprehensive high-tech weapons. "Don't forget, we still have to defeat Japan, imagine if we can achieve that without the A-bomb," the general says excitedly. Jason agrees and will construct a wormhole the size of a building in the middle of the desert. The general instantly submits a requisition for larger equipment. Jason got another letter from his great-grandfather, they defeated Hitler in June 1942, and Japan is set to surrender by the end of the summer. Their strategy succeeded, the advanced technologies and the 80 years of development involved, gave the Allied forces a significant advantage over the Nazis of the 1940s. Jason gets up the next morning, but he's not in his bed. Confused, he looks out the window, he's in London. He heads out and suddenly meets Irene and Aaron. London looks odd, there are American flags everywhere, Jason looks in the center of Trafalgar Square, and there's a massive statue of his great-grandfather, Emperor Wayne Reese? Jason, Irene, and Aaron are shocked by all the American patriotism. General Scarlet steps up behind them and pushes them into a building. "We did it, America controls the world," says the general. "What do you mean, why are we in Britain?" Jason questions. "It's not Great Britain; it's America, it's all America, London is just the capital of the American colonies in Europe. After defeating the Japanese, we continued to colonize almost 90% of the world," explains the general. "It's impossible, according to the letters with my great-grandfather, they were only in August, 1942," Jason tries to rationalize. "What did you suppose would happen when the U.S. Army got hold of the 2020 weapons, they made more of them! They deployed satellites; they built the Internet, they established advanced surveillance technologies, years before it was invented in our timeline, what did you think, he was going to write you about all of it?" the general asks. "How did this happen, we confirmed that it was a parallel universe; it wasn't our timeline!" Jason told Irene. "Do we even know how parallel universes work? Maybe there was a way for timelines to merge, it's all theoretical," Irene speculates. "Hey guys, listen to me, it's all going to be all right, this is the best of all worlds, all these nations are paying America to defend them, the planet is at peace, sit back and appreciate it," Aaron says as he marches away with the general. When Jason walks through London, he finds that conditions are better, the buildings are cleaner, hardly any homeless, people seem happy under American rule. It wasn't until they entered a cafe to get breakfast that he realized, everything wasn't the same for everyone. The barista at the counter takes one look at Irene, "We don't serve her kind here, the japs have their restaurants on the south side of the city, I'm sorry, that's the rules," says the barista. Jason and Irene leave the coffee shop and conduct some analysis to see exactly how much of their timeline had changed; most people were living on a par with what was expected from the original timeline. However, life is harsh for citizens who fought American occupation or citizens from Axis nations. They exist under an authoritarian rule, do not have all the rights and liberties of the Allied countries, and do not exercise the same economic freedoms. A powerful military crushes uprisings with zero tolerance for acts of disobedience. Jason and Irene are eager to undo what they have done; they travel back to the Nevada facility, which has been locked up and abandoned. The equipment is gone and such materials have been outlawed in America. Above all, Aaron and the general were aware of what was going on due to internet monitoring. Soldiers were dispatched to arrest Jason and Irene onsite. Locked up for six months, they were sent to Germany upon release, and their American visas were stripped away. A dark and seedy place, rife with corruption, and military on every corner. Stuck in Germany, they become friends with several dissidents who want to see America crumble. Mistreatment gives Jason and Irene a new perspective on things; they become jaded. "They have to be stopped!" Jason says, addressing a group of revolutionaries. Jason was obsessed with wormhole technology, and after his facility in Nevada was ruined, he remained determined to re-create the project. Living on the Axis side of the border rendered it difficult for him to access the necessary materials. However, Jason holds a wormhole party, a maneuver once attempted by Stephen Hawking. If anyone in the future develops wormhole technology and wishes to escape the control of the U.S. government, come back to the 1st of January, 2021. He doesn't tell anyone or send out any invites until after the party has already taken place. The 1st of January arrives, and it's mostly uneventful, but, at 10 p.m., a wormhole opens, and an army marches out. Jason's wormhole technology was already responsible for ending a World War; it's now going to be responsible for beginning one. Jason's journey took him from a reluctant scientist who helped the Allied powers in World War II to harden revolutionary, with an army at his disposal, obsessed with destroying the world he helped to create. There are winners and losers in war; perspective is everything. The winners write the history books; the losers have to suffer the repercussions. Sometimes in the universe, things are meant to happen the way they happen, there's no improving on it. Jason rescued his great-grandfather from certain death, but through man's unpredictability, his great-grandfather went on to take over the world, the very thing he was trying to stop in the first place.


#Welcome to the first Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to the first Micro Monday on r/Shortstories! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words. However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. Please read the entire post before submitting.   *** #This week’s challenge: **“It was as if time itself stopped.”** This week’s challenge is to include the above sentence in your story, in some way. You may add on to it, but the original sentence should stay intact.   ***   #How It Works: - In the comments below, submit a story between 100-300 words by the following Sunday at midnight EST. Use to check your wordcount. - Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take any nominations you make into consideration. You may send them to me via reddit or on the discord. But please remember, this is not a contest. - While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to come back throughout the week and read the other stories on the thread. Upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread.


"I feel like we won't go on vacation again this year," the woman said, standing by the stove and promptly flipping the smoky piece of toast. Her son, a little boy who appeared to be about nine years old, was poking his porridge with a spoon, nudging a piece of melting butter that glided across the sticky surface like a small edible ship. "Let's not talk about that in the morning. Okay?" the man in a white t-shirt with a telescope print said, grabbing his son's hand abruptly. "Come on, stop that. Eat faster, or you'll be late for your first lesson today." "And when are we going to talk about it then?" the woman persisted. "When am I supposed to talk about it, if we only see you in the morning? And then you're busy. Busy around the clock, Eli." "Well, stop it," he said, uttering it as if it were both a threat and a plea. "I don't want to stop," she said. "Every time you find some way to justify everything, every time I have to stop. Meanwhile, Eli, our son's doctor prescribed sea air for him. We live in a desert, Eli..." "Please, Uno, just stop," he said, slowly losing his composure, "let me have breakfast in peace. I need to get to work soon." The boy was eating his porridge, diligently plunging the spoon into the bowl, tucking his head into his shoulders, and flinching from his father's loud voice. "I promise you," Eli finally said, "I promise that I'll take a 10-day vacation on my own dime as soon as this month is over. But this month I'm busy because it's the best time to listen to the cosmos." "You'd better have listened to your father, Eli, when he offered you to continue his business," Uno accidentally blurted out, freezing as she sensed that she had crossed acceptable boundaries. Eli pushed his plate aside; he had enough patience not to throw it at her. He often had a bad temper in the mornings, and he thought she knew that better than anyone. He counted to ten and the sudden burst of anger that had flared up seemed less significant now. He counted to ten again before turning to his wife. "My little star, I know that not everything goes as we dreamed before our wedding." "Nothing goes as planned," she interrupted, but immediately fell silent, seeing the way he looked at her. "So, I'm saying that not everything goes smoothly, and it pains me. To know that I can't give my family what it deserves. At least the ability to take off and go to that damn ocean." She gazed at her husband attentively and felt a sense of guilt for what she had said. Uno was a wise and patient woman, but when it came to their son, she didn't always have the patience to stay silent. She knew Eli was a good husband and an excellent scientist, and that his project to study the distant cosmos for signs of intelligent life was the reason he turned away from his father's business, moved to the other end of the country, sacrificed his pride and principles, pounding the doors of the national scientific fund in an attempt to attract private investors. But when conversations like these arose, all that understanding magically disappeared, and she was ready to pounce on him. "My project, Uno," the man continued, "the work of my entire life, will soon bear fruit. You'll see. And when your little Eli proves to that stubborn scientific community that we're not alone in the universe, then everything will change. Oh, we'll truly live then, Uno! We'll live!" The man abruptly stood up from the table, scooped up his son, who had just finished eating, under his arms, and started to race around the kitchen with him as if the boy were a pilot with a jetpack. The boy laughed, stretched his arms out to the sides, mimicking airplane wings, and made buzzing sounds through the big gap between his front teeth. Eventually, their improvised flight on another round ended near Uno; they nearly bumped into her when they came to a stop. Eli stood just a few centimeters away from his wife, breathing heavily, a smile still on his face, and he didn't take his tender and pleading gaze off Uno. Their little son alternated between looking at his father and his mother, expecting that, as it had happened before in similar situations, his parents would kiss each other and soon forget about the unpleasant conversation. But this time, Uno took a step back, watching as the smile faded from her husband's face, and she said dryly: "We're alone, Eli. Your family is alone without you." The night sky in the bare and scorching desert always seemed to Eli as if it were tethered to the planet's surface by enormous invisible hooks, with stars so close and bright upon it. In these late hours, when deep silence filled the surroundings, one could hear the heart muscle pumping blood through the vessels, like a second hand ticking away the course of life. "And she's right," thought the scientist, sitting at the table cluttered with massive equipment. "She's more adapted to life in this world than I am. After all, I do nothing but search for it - this life, while she lives it. Not somewhere on other planets, in other star systems, but here. Here and now." Giant radio telescopes, with their heads tilted skyward, gleamed against the backdrop of dark rocks and yellow sand. They were ready to obey any command he gave. The sand, once lifted by the gusty and scorching wind, akin to the Saharan sirocco, now sparkled in the moonlight on the metallic plates of their bodies. "If they don't approve a new research grant by the end of the year, I'll have to turn to my father, and he's just waiting for the moment when I stumble." Eli loved his father and never understood at what point between them this foolish competition - who's better - had emerged. It never even crossed his mind to be the first, and even if hypothetically it did happen, he'd never boast about it to him. "I've been staring at this section of the celestial atlas for too long," the man thought. "I remember last time I wanted to change the azimuthal angle and use a different algorithm for calculations." Time after midnight always flowed slowly. The scientist managed to prepare and drink about five cups of coffee before a phone call forced him to divert his attention from diagrams and thoughts about an uninviting future. The voice on the other end of the line was dry and irritable. From the first sounds, the man immediately guessed who was calling and regretted answering a few times. "Elian," sounded through the speaker, "Elian, don't pretend you can't hear me." There was a brief pause, which Eli interrupted with the words, "Yes, Dad. I'm listening." "We spoke with your wife a couple of hours ago," his father began, "we, meaning me and your mother, if you still remember her existence." "Please, don't start," the son replied with a tinge of sadness in his voice, feeling himself sink into the back of his chair. "I'm not starting; I'm continuing," came the persistent response from the other side. "Uno told me things haven't been going well between you lately." "Damn her, this woman," Eli cursed, "found someone to call." "I'm still here, and I'm not deaf," his father commented disapprovingly. "And I was the one who called her, not the other way around. I called because you..." The man hesitated but soon continued, "Because you haven't been able to dial your mother's number for six months and simply say 'hello,' ask her how she's doing, if she's well? Tell her how her grandson is doing. How he's already playing the musical instrument wonderfully. Have you ever put yourself in her shoes? Do you know what it's like for her?" He seemed to intentionally avoid any mention of himself. "I won't be surprised, Elian," his father said, as if concluding his monologue, "if Uno takes your son and leaves you." Elian was on the verge of exploding, as he often did, which seemed to always be the cause of such swift and infrequent conversations. But at that moment, the second line rang. Without explaining what was happening and leaving his father without the long-awaited justifications, the man accepted the new call and ended the current conversation. "Redlam!" exclaimed the scientist, "you have no idea how glad I am to hear you, my friend!" "What's with the sudden enthusiasm?" the other end wondered, taken aback by this unexpected confession. "Oh, yes," he began and was about to retell the entire conversation with his father, but then fell silent and only a few seconds later dismissively said, "Never mind." "But everything is very important to me, Eli," Redlam said impatiently, adding, "And if you're standing now, you better sit down." "Don't tease me, you son of a bitch," Eli chuckled, "you always start with this long prelude instead of just getting to the point." "I want to," the voice continued, "if it's really what I think. I'd like you to..." "Yeah, are you kidding me?" the interlocutor asked angrily. "Just wait a moment!" the man snapped back, "I'm talking about the fact that I received a signal, Eli. And I'd like you to double-check it, and then we could announce this discovery together." But Eli seemed to have heard nothing more. The phrase "received a signal" worked on him like a hypnotic spell, paralyzing all muscle groups and exerting an oppressive influence on his nervous system. "Redlam," the scientist tried to maintain his composure, "what signal did you receive and from where?" And then his friend, another quirky astrophysicist just like himself, told him everything, withholding not a single detail. He told him about the unusual sequence of prime numbers. How he demodulated it and obtained it from a short radio burst from a distant galaxy X. How his limbs trembled for the first few minutes, making it difficult for him to dial the correct number from the phone book. And how the sequences repeated, and the man cried over a sheet of paper, diligently jotting down the seemingly unnecessary repetition: 123455, 123455, 123455, 123455. Then came 54532. He lovingly traced each received digit, feeling his cheeks and chin grow wet. Then came a pause, and the radio telescopes, like the eyes of a newborn blinded by darkness, fruitlessly groped the sky. Finally, the continuation followed: 545315, which transformed back into the familiar 123455. And this combination repeated, just like the first time - four times, followed by the codenotion of the number 54532. And Elian listened to the scientist, whose voice trembled in the telephone receiver, and he understood that this tremor was transmitted to him from a distance. Now he couldn't contain it within his own body, so he pressed the piece of black plastic harder against his ear and bit his lips. Eli double-checked all the data at least three times. There was no doubt that the signal was of artificial origin and had come from deep space. Its source lay beyond the nebula, in a foreign galactic realm so distant that it nearly touched the edge of the visible universe. There, where dark matter could potentially exist, and where other laws of physics might apply. To avoid the heavy hangover of a mistaken discovery, Eli immediately ruled out all sources of signals originating from his home planet. These could include amateur radio enthusiasts occasionally interfering with space listening, signals from satellites, microwave ovens, robotic vacuum cleaners, and so on. He now had to decode the data provided by Redlam using mathematical methods and understand what was encoded in the message. He returned home after three days, by which time a sour odor emanated from him, demanding a change of clothes and a bath. "Are you okay?" his wife asked, seeing how her husband forced himself to eat a small portion of porridge, just to have something other than coffee in his stomach. "I'm fine," Eli replied, but his eyes made it clear that he wasn't in the same room with her at the moment, nor even on the same planet. Elian journeyed along the edge of the universe, mentally repeating the distant flight of the radio signal. "Our son will have his first music exam soon," his wife said, and he seemed to emerge from the water, hearing only fragments of her sentences. "The teacher says he has an innate talent and a very keen sense that allows him to..." Again, Elian's head submerged beneath the surface of icy water, and his wife's voice turned into the buzz of insects, among which nothing could be distinguished. "I think he takes after his grandfather," Uno said as they resurfaced, and Elian unconsciously nodded in agreement. In the neighboring room, their son was playing a musical instrument. He played a simple melody very diligently, carefully coaxing sounds from the strings, which gently spread throughout the half-empty house. "I don't know what we've found," the scientist suddenly spoke. "What?" Uno asked in surprise, even though she had heard perfectly well. His unexpected confession caught her off guard as she had been talking to him about their son's achievements. "You didn't hear me?" Elian looked sternly at his wife and raised his voice, asking, "I said I don't know what we've found. We have prime numbers, their sequence, like a cipher, and a riddle concealed within them. But damn it, history provides so many examples where millennia were required for a simple answer." "Perhaps it's some kind of nursery rhyme," the woman suggested, which amused him. But it wasn't a kind laugh; it was the kind born from witnessing foolishness. "We know that there's a message hidden in the numbers," Eli condescended, "something like an image, a shape, or maybe the structure of DNA, a star system. Maybe it's coordinates or plain text, like, 'Hey, we're here! Hello, world!' That's our assumption. 'We,' meaning me and Redlam, try to match each number to some kind of symbol. But none of it has worked so far." The woman listened silently, understanding that in the moment of revelation, it wasn't the best time to offer any predictions or interject with her own guesses. "We haven't received anything for the past 48 hours. The signal that might have been broadcasting to us idiots for decades could have been detected by us only at its very end. We managed to catch it right at the curtain, Uno." She could see his lips trembling, like those of a child who had been punished and had their favorite toy taken away. She wanted to hug him, but she hesitated to do so. "We're late, Uno, and we don't even understand what we're late for." The door to the room opened, and a slender boy appeared on the threshold, just as thin as his peers. His dark, curly hair mischievously fell into his eyes, and his miniature nose twitched, pulling in transparent droplets of runny nose. "I can't play the notes in the right sequence," the child admitted, and teardrops sparkled in his eyes. And then, like a lightning bolt, an idea struck Elian, who rushed toward his son and lifted him high above his head. The boy, startled by the sudden movement, flinched and let out a squeal, echoed by Uno. "You're my first discoverer!" the man shouted, looking up at his son's smiling face. "My little genius! Of course, why didn't I realize it sooner?" Elian twirled the little wunderkind around the room, and Uno laughed through her tears, covering her face with her hand. "Notes!" Elian continued, his excitement uncontained, "they encoded notes into each digit! And they gave us the signal frequency to understand the pitch and duration of these notes!" Then the scientist seated the boy at the table, rushed to fetch an instrument, and ceremoniously presented it to the future maestro. He disappeared again, but this time the noise of his search emanated from the parents' bedroom. When he returned, he held a pen and a sheet of paper in his hands. His wife watched him with a mixture of triumph and reverence. In those moments, he was everything to her: a genius, a deity, a prophet. "Alright, let's assume," the scientist began, his speech quick, "we have the digit 1, and it corresponds to...," he tapped his forehead with the pen cap, as if contemplating, and then continued, "it must correspond to the sound of the note 'C'. If it's 'C', then the digit 2..." He took a deep breath, the veins on his temples bulging with the effort he was putting into this. "The digit 2 corresponds to the sound of the note 'D', and the digit 3 corresponds to the sound of the note 'E'." For half an hour, Elian hastily composed the melody of the first and then the second part of the message. With the finished piece in hand, he turned to his son. "Play this for me. Please, my dear, play this song for Daddy," he requested. The boy looked at his father's scribbles, wrinkled his nose, pressed the instrument against his shoulder, and nuzzled his cheek against the cool wooden body of the instrument. The vibrations of the strings produced a delicate melody that flowed through the room, sad and pure, like crystalline snowflakes. Elian listened to it, tears streaming down his cheeks. When they went to bed, he clung to his wife's body with the intensity of a newborn, burying his cold nose in the curve of her armpit. "This is their final requiem," the man said with difficulty, "a funeral song in the name of the demise of their entire civilization. It's like a cry for help, meant only to reveal themselves, not to save."


As soon as the water coated the inside of his esophagus, David realized his fatal mistake. It burned. Leaving a trail of excruciating pain as it slithered down toward his stomach. Maisey heard the glass shatter seconds before the screams. Horrible, wretched, wailing. Reminiscent of the ones from that PSA she had been forced to watch that morning. The mother took off her headset and left her virtual meeting. She’d eat the dock in pay from her OneCoin account -- her child was more important. But as soon as she saw her baby boy, all prior thoughts of being a great parent vanished. He was on the floor, seizing -- eyes rolled back -- tongue ready to be chewed off. And she knew, this was her fault. The PSA had made the side effects look almost comical. She remembered terribly costumed actors worming around on the ground like fresh-caught fish. It was a spectacle; something to be amused by, which in hindsight, probably undercut the severity of the message it was trying to promote. BeanTM had concepted, produced, and placed the spot in market all within a week. It was an in-house creative effort -- a quick-turn deliverable to be crushed, not crafted. Something the brand managers, and nobody else was proud of. Uninspired as it may have been, the messaging was direct and simple. The community water supply had been tainted. But Bean Watershed UtilityTM (BWU) was doing everything they could to fix it. According to the company, it was an issue caused by ANTICO. The black-garbed terrorist group had apparently dumped hundreds of thousands of gallons of harsh chemicals into the water supply. Chemicals like Acetate\_3009, Polymer\_19481, and Silicone\_4444441. Which when ingested, caused an unusually horrific sensation of convulsing, vomiting, bleeding from the eyes -- and then very soon after, death. According to the PSA, there were two things one could do to avoid death in this situation. The easiest, and most important, would be to purchase a subscription for Bean Water FiltersTM -- only 5.3786749 OneCoin a day. This was a preventative measure which didn’t help Maisey or David. The second, more costly option, would be to find a Bean Health BureauTM (BHB), and have one of their physicians irrigate the chemicals out of the body using Bean’sTM patent-pending technology, engineered by those formerly known as German. This was Maisey’s last hope of seeing her son conscious again. The spot said that if one were to consume these chemicals, they’d have a total of 10 minutes to get treated. Maisey picked up the boy, and rushed to the garage. She loaded him into her Bean Beam CruiserTM, and attempted the mental math required to figure out how much time she had left before his demise. It had been one minute since she heard David’s glass shatter. The BHB was six minutes away, meaning she’d have three minutes to get him treated and make it in time. She took a deep breath and pressed the button to start the vehicle. God was an antiquated concept to her, but still, she prayed it would only be a fifteen second ad. The interior lit up in hues of dark green and purple -- Bean’sTM brand colors. The screen on the dash powered on, and politely asked, “*Where to?”* Maisey shouted back, “*the BHB*.” And her words were instantly transcribed onto the tablet. The car responded, “*The Bean Health Bureau, You got it, Maisey.*” The vehicle self-accelerated outside the garage, and turned out of her driveway at exactly the twenty-five miles per hour. The doors locked from the inside and the screen transitioned to a non-skip advertisement for next year’s model of the Bean Beam CruiserTM. Already covered in vomit, David began bleeding from the eyes. Weeping, yet still unconscious. The ad described the history of Bean’sTM automobile division. Its vehicles were the first to be engineered using an ingenious (and semi-sustainable) chemical process that involved Acetate\_3009, Polymer\_19481, and Silicone\_4444441. Next it showed cliche footage of the vehicle in action -- cruising through desert terrain, sunny city skylines, and waterfront highways. Finally, much to Maisey’s dismay, it showed her and David riding inside the newest model, laughing together, playfully nudging each other, piloting hand-planes outside the open window. It was a deepfake -- a vignette from some horrible episode of deja vu Maisey never conjured. The mother held her breath, waiting for the piece of film to end. The vehicle pulled up to the BHB, but the advertisement was still playing. Maisey reached for the door handle, but knew before she pulled that it wouldn’t open. She slapped on the glass window and called out for help. Outside the BHB was desolate. Since all buildings and vehicles had been fitted to be sound-proof, noises (human or industrial) were a far and few between kind of luxury. A nurse smoked a cigarette exactly eight yards from Maisey’s cruiser. Her back was turned to the vehicle -- she was ordering a carton of Bean MentholsTM from her phone. Maisey screamed and cried and slapped and punched -- punched the glass window until her hand bled. The mixture of agonizing whimpers over the ad’s royalty-free track created an avant-garde melody Maisey found even more disturbing. All in all, the brand film was 9 minutes long -- the Beam CruiserTM had dipped in sales the last few years -- and media-strategists thought a long form, more emotional spot would prove successful. They were right -- that model would eventually top last year’s sales by 1.005%. As soon as the advertisement ended, the doors unlocked. Maisey feigned hope, with mutterings like “*Davey, you’re ok, baby*.” But deep down, she knew it was over. The media-buy-roulette had determined their fate. Maisey got out, and opened the back seat. But just as she suspected, David was gone. Covered in blood, vomit, and bruises -- his skin turned a dark green and purple. She picked up the corpse, slung it over her shoulder, and carried it next door to the BCF -- The Bean Crematorium FacilityTM.


Jenn immediately regretted her decision. The contractor’s garbage bag was wedged three quarters of the way into the clothing drop-off bin, and there it rested awkwardly. With cartoonish effort, she crouched beneath the dangling portion and pushed feebly upward, hoping it would somehow slide forward ending the whole ordeal. Nothing. She realized that she had actually been holding her breath and it came out in a defeated puff as she shrunk down to the blacktop. The hazard lights of the Kia blinked and the signal ding ding dinged while Jenn sat there pathetically hoping no one else pulled into the back of the lot this late at night. She had watched too many true crime shows to know how this must look. The scene was prime for Keith Morrison’s iconic narration: But what, or rather, WHO was hiding in that black bag that Jenn so desperately wanted to make disappear that cold night in January? There’s no dead body in there, Keith. Only dead clothes. “So we’re just going to live with this now, right?” Earlier, Dom’s voice had had that bear-baiting edge in it. He was making a choice. “You asked me to bag it up, and I did that,” Jenn said without taking her eyes off the phone’s screen. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Scroll, scroll. No response. “As usual, everything is half-assed with you.” He kicked the bag for good measure before skulking into the hall bathroom. That’s all it took. Not to be outdone, Jenn leapt up and swept the bag up in one red swell of anger-induced adrenaline. But without an audience this wouldn’t land, so instead of carrying it down the stairs, she heaved it over the banister. If the thwack of the plastic hitting the foyer tile didn’t reach Dom’s ears, then her feet thundering down the steps would. But if he came out to investigate, Jenn didn't know because she was already peeling out of the driveway. She kept telling herself she would stop leaving the house during a fight, but this was different: she was dropping the clothes off merely to get Dom to shut up. Nothing more than an important errand... that absolutely needed to be done at 11:00 at night. The SUV drove along the winding, dark roads. Where was a clothing drop when you actually needed one? Any other time, they popped up like eyesore dandelions in random lots, but tonight? Nothing. The Presbyterian Church in Howard Falls had a pretty big box, but it would mean driving an extra 20 minutes in the opposite direction, likely worrying Dom. Fuck it. Dom didn’t get it because he hadn’t actually gone to therapy. He wasn’t putting in the work: sitting in Dr. Palmer’s small office that smelled a little off, the walls adorned with random photographs his wife took on their world travels. When she wanted to keep from crying, she would fixate on the framed shot of a vibrant toucan above Dr. Palmer’s head while he wrote out a refill for Ativan. The blogs and message boards also validated Jenn’s process. Even fucking Hamlet reinforced the message: grief is not a set amount of time for everyone. Shakespeare knew it in 1599, and nothing’s changed. The church and its grounds looked so different at night under the street lamps. A brand new swing set had been constructed earlier that spring. It was made of that good composite wood and surrounded by safety turf. For a moment, she thought about walking over to sit down on one of the shiny red swings. Jenn’s legs started to get tingly from sitting on the ground. She stood up, wobbling slightly, reaching up to the lopsided sack to help steady her feet. It wasn’t going to move, so the only thing to do now would be to open the bag and throw the individual articles in the bin until the bag became manageable. Come to think of it, the bag hadn’t even been in the hallway that long--maybe a month? Had it been since before Thanksgiving? That wasn’t the point. The point was that the clothes were in the bag-out of sight. Just taking the jackets and shirts off their hangers, emptying the chest of drawers, was progress in its own right. She knew it, she had read all the steps, it was something, a big step in the right direction. What's more, she wasn’t even given credit for how quickly she got the clothes cleared out. It wasn’t like all the other times she had been organizing her closet or purging seasonal items. Jenn would not allow herself to get distracted, because she knew that’s what everyone would expect. Open the door and you’ll see Jenn falling to pieces in the center of the room, clutching a random item of significance. No way, each piece came down and disappeared into the bag’s black hole without a second glance. There were no sentimental pauses, or recollections, no sniffing for traces of-- Suddenly, the bag was open and the number 38 looked up at her. White satin stitched onto the pale blue jersey. There was still a stubborn grass stain from when he dove in centerfield to catch the final out. Jenn attacked it with every chemical under the sink, but the streaks remained. Beneath the jersey were the camp t-shirts: obnoxious neon shades, easily spotted on field trips to the water park or planetarium. Lime green in 2014, orange for 2015, purple in 2016. So many summers, breezing through play dates and recreation sign-ups, birthday parties, and trips down the shore. Even when one faded with the last streaks of sunset during a Labor Day barbecue, there was always the promise of rebirth next Memorial Day. Until there wasn’t. They were spread out now in a semi-circle on the ground, articles of clothing from an 11-year-old boy who would never see 12. The once bulging donation bag was dwarfed now, about half the size from earlier. Jenn pushed it easily down the chute and the hatch sprung back into place with a satisfying click. She picked up each remaining piece, gave it a good look, and in turn, sent them into the box. The jersey was last, of course. Jenn hesitated reaching for the handle. Instead, she draped it around her shoulders like a cape. As she walked over to the swings, the car’s headlights lit the way.


A rook, a bishop, and a knight walk into a bar. Each of them takes a seat as a pawn bartender moves in to take their drink order. "Can I get you something?" The pawn bartender inquires. "Just a beer for me," says the rook. "I'll take a whiskey, neat," the knight says quietly. The bishop surveys the bottles behind the bar, unable to make a decision. "We have a wide choice of vodkas," the Pawn bartender says, attempting to assist. "Oh, I'm not sure. I'm in the mood for something sweet right now. Do you know how to prepare a strawberry daiquiri?" The bishop inquires, eliciting a puzzled expression from the rook and knight. "I suppose I could give it a shot," the pawn bartender admits grudgingly. "You're a lifesaver; I've had myself a day," the fatigued bishop exclaims. The pawn moves about making the drinks, and the knight turns to the other two. "Let's get started; I was walking about in an L pattern, like I usually do, when I spotted something weird. The adversary is moving forward on the right side," the knight elaborates. "Oh my God, I'm going insane. All I can see is what's directly in front of me; I've been staring at a pawn's ass for as long as I can remember," the rook adds, a little uncomfortably. "Calm down, hear me out; I believe we should try to switch sides; we're waging a losing battle," the knight says. "Switch sides? Everything looks fine from my perspective," the bishop says. "Yeah, but you're cross-eyed, you ever noticed that you only move diagonally," the knight says. "It's never been done before; you can't simply switch sides. Don't you have any allegiance to the white king and queen?" The bishop inquires. "I did, but there used to be a second knight, and then I witnessed it, the sacrifice, simply to save the queen after she made a foolish decision. Then it hit me: we don't matter to the monarchy; everything is set up to protect them; what about our lives?" The knight snarls. "We're at war," the bishop continues, "and if the white king and queen prevail, we all win." "I'm not sure about that; there was another rook as well. Then one night, the king approaches him and requests to trade positions, mentioning something about castling. He mistook it for a sexual advance, but he was found dead the next morning," the rook elaborates. "That's what I've been saying, the king could have advanced in any direction, but instead, he put his rook in jeopardy," the knight asserts confidently. "All right, I'll consider this stupid concept for a minute; how do we switch to the other side, genius?" asks the bishop. The knight was about to respond when the pawn bartender returned with their drinks, forcing him to swallow his remarks. "Okay, the rook gets a beer, the knight gets a whiskey, and the bishop wins a daiquiri. Is there anything else I can get you?" The pawn bartender inquires. "Oh God, a dose of insulin for this sweet drink," laments the bishop as he takes a sip from his daiquiri. "Please accept my apologies; that was the first time that drink was ordered here," the pawn bartender acknowledges. "It's alright; evidently, the kingdom will be short of sugar for a while because it's all in my drink," the bishop complains. With a shake of his head, the pawn bartender walks away. The knight checks around to make sure no one is listening in on their conversation before leaning in to discuss it with the bishop and rook. "Okay, you know how we wear white, and the enemy wears black?" The knight inquires. "Don't remind me, bishops around the world get lavish and fancy robes; I'm stuck with this white potato sack," the bishop complains. "Yeah, well, the other day, while on patrol, I killed a bishop and stole his black robe. And shortly before I arrived, I killed a black knight and stole his black uniform. Once we've betrayed our side, we simply start wearing black to show the black side; we're with them now," the knight explains. "So, instead of carrying out our oath, we simply betray our kingdom?" The bishop inquires. "I've seen enough of these conflicts to know that we're going to lose; I knew as soon as I saw pawns sacrificed like candy early on. A king who has no regard for pawns has no regard for anyone but himself," says the knight. "This is making sense; we could be the heroes. We would be regarded as warrior gods if we won the fight for the black side!" The rook says. "All right, I don't want to lose this war as much as you don't; you've persuaded me," the bishop adds. "This is great; when are we going to get the black rook uniform for me?" The rook inquires. The knight gives an uneasy grin. "Here's the thing, we need someone to be sacrificed, so the king and queen don't see it coming," explains the knight. "So, who will be sacrificed?" The rook inquires. "You, you idiot, you're the only one without a black uniform," the bishop says. "Look at it this way," the knight adds, "you'll be recognized as a hero, historians will write books about you, tales will emerge about your sacrifice." "I suppose that would be sort of cool, but how do we go about doing it?" The rook inquires. "We'll begin with the queen. When the black side attacks, I know exactly where the white queen will be. You'll sacrifice yourself, and when the queen believes she's rescued, we'll dress in black and murder the white queen. When the king comes down to see what's going on, we kill him as well," the knight explains. "I like that; everyone knows that queen bish is more powerful than the king anyway," says the bishop, laughing. They finish their drinks and exit the bar. As the black queen enters the white queen's chamber to begin her attack, the rook moves into position directly in front of her. The white rook goes courageously to the right and then forward. The black queen kills the rook in no time at all. Then, the black queen turns her gaze to the white queen, who is terrified since she has no way out; she has been cornered. Suddenly, the white knight and bishop appear and take their places in front of the black queen. The white queen smiles because she knows the knight and bishop will make a sacrifice for her. However, it is at this point that the white knight and bishop don their black clothes and attack the white queen. The black queen looks on, perplexed. The white knight and bishop kill the white queen at the same time. They then bow in front of the black queen. "We are now your devoted servants, my black queen," the white knight declares reverently. The black queen is perplexed and kills the white knight and bishop immediately. The white knight and bishop are instantly transported to a ledge perched high above a chessboard. They notice the white rook. "Hey fellas, how did that go?" the rook inquires as the knight and bishop look on, unhappy. "You said betray the king and queen, you said switch sides, you said we'd be legends," the bishop quips cynically. "Shut up; how long am I going to have to suffer in this hell? This game is taking an eternity!" The knight grumbles as the three remain together in chess purgatory until the war is over.


Once upon a time, in a land where light ruled all that was dark, there lived a little girl. She was a curious little girl. So curious in fact, that one day she decided to break one of the most important rules set by the Elders of the land. She decided to cross the border into the land where darkness ruled over all that was light. As she stepped into the Realm of Twilight, her heart began to fill with fear. She wanted to turn back but she could not, for the Shadows of the land had already begun playing tricks on her. Never had anyone felt more lost. After wandering the dark, forsaken wastelands for three days, she found herself defeated by the Shadows and dropped down to the ground. It was then that she heard a Shadow speak. ‘Are you alone, little girl?’ ‘Who’s there?!’ the little girl cried. ‘Will you help me find my way back to the Land of Light?’ The Shadow spoke again. ‘Are you alone?’ She wanted to say yes but could not. How could she, knowing there was someone out there. The thought made the voice grow quiet. Convinced she was no longer alone, she decided to get up. She stumbled through the darkness, falling down every nine steps along the way but she was determined. It had started to rain and large thunderbolts lit up the sky. They revealed razor-sharp rocks and many a dead tree. Not far from her, she could see a cave. Longing for a sense of security, she dragged herself to the entrance of her new-found shelter, but before she reached it, a tall dead tree standing close to her was struck by lightning and caught fire. So, it was that she decided to build a fire inside the cave. The Shadows were lured to this fire and started to dance around it. At first, the little girl kept her distance but soon after she started to play with them and although the light had stolen away their voices, they kept her company. She started to feel somewhat lighter and with this the fire seemed to glow more intense making the Shadows grow stronger. An alliance between light and dark was formed that night and the Shadows promised to take her back to her homeland. When they arrived at the border the next day, the little girl invited the Shadows into her lands. They gratefully accepted and found themselves greater and more powerful than ever before. It was then they decided to stay. They found welcoming homes as they made people feel less alone. The alliance grew so strong that there was no more light possible without the dark. They became as one. Truth was, no one could ever wish for a better companion than their own Shadow. It never judged, nor did it ever tell a lie. It soon became so that to love one’s Shadow was to love one self and there would never be a single reason to feel alone again. And should you ever find yourself in dark places, then listen carefully; for your Shadow will regain its voice again to remind you of this.