“Happy anniversary honey,” Evelyn said as she leaned over to kiss her husband’s cheek. Isaac groaned as he woke. He smiled sleepily, momentarily forgetting where he was. “Happy anniversary, babe.” Evelyn smiled back at her husband. After all these years, she still loved this man. This goofy, dorky, adorable man. He looked different now. His thin physique twenty years ago was now replaced with a slightly heavier frame and his once dark brown hair was grey in places. But at least it was still there! She always felt prouder when she saw the balding heads of her friends’ husbands. “Open curtains.” The curtains slowly opened as the morning sun shone through into their bedroom. Isaac turned away from the window. “No, close the curtains. I’m still asleep.” “There’s a reason they don’t recognise your voice or we’ll never getting anything done. If it was up to you we’d just be spending the entire day in this room.” “Now is that really a bad idea?” Isaac asked as he rose up and kissed Evelyn. “I love you Evie.” “I love you too.” “What have they cooked up today?” Evelyn picked up the plate from the processor tray. “Well, for me it looks eggs and avocado. And look at this. They’ve added a hash brown as well. I guess I’ve been good this week.” Isaac walked over to the processor. “Isaac.” The processor acknowledged him, as much as a machine can acknowledge a human, and produced a bowl of oatmeal. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me! Of all days!” Evelyn smiled. “If you’re good I might give you a bit of my hash brown. But you know if you eat it, tomorrow they’ll give you more oatmeal.” “And I’ll send this thing right back to the shop.” Isaac took his bowl of oatmeal and sat down at the table. He touched the corner of the table which automatically turned on the holographic screen in front of him. As Isaac ate his oatmeal he scrolled through the scores from last night’s games. “Oatmeal again huh, dad?” asked Sally as she entered the kitchen. Isaac grunted in response. “Leave your father alone. I’m glad they’ve caught onto how much he cheats when he’s out of the house.” Sally walked over to the processor. “Sally.” The processor produced a plate of eggs benedict with salmon. “Ooh, must be my lucky day.” Sally took her plate and sat down next to Evelyn. “So, congratulations you two. Twenty years. I can’t believe it!” “Yes, twenty years,” replied Evelyn reaching over to touch Isaac’s hand, “The first few years weren’t always easy but we got through it.” Isaac turned away from the screen and gently squeezed Evelyn’s hand. He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. Isaac’s look said everything Evelyn needed to know. “Ok, now that that’s over,” interjected Sally, “I’m heading over to Bec’s house after the thing tonight, is that alright.” “She’s the one in Montreal? When will you be back?” asked Evelyn. “Just a few days. I’ll be back by Sunday afternoon.” “Ok, say hi to Bec’s mother for me.” “I will.” Sally took a few bites from her breakfast before her watch began to beep. “Oh no, I’ve gotta get back to class,” Sally said as she picked up her plate, “The Professor is from London today. These time differences are the worst!” “Ok honey, enjoy your class,” Evelyn said as Sally hurriedly walked out of the dining room. “I should probably head off as well,” Isaac said, finishing the last few spoonful’s of oatmeal. “There’s a shipment coming in today. There shouldn’t be an issue but I like to be there when these big ones arrive.” “Alright, I’ll see you tonight.” Isaac walked towards the door which automatically opened. He looked back at his wife, “See you tonight babe.” The doors to the family car opened as Isaac approached. He sat down at the front seat. Call him old fashioned but sometimes he liked to imagine that he was still driving. “Work please. Sports,” Isaac said as he settled into the seat. “*Work. Traffic normal. Arrival time in 23 minutes*,” the in-built computer replied. Isaac sat back in his seat and tried to relax as the two hosts discussed last night’s game. *“... how can you say that? You’re trying to tell me that despite two losses in the last three games that Buenos Aires can still remain favourite?”* *“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying because you’re not taking these losses into context. First, lose to London which is always tough when a team has to travel east for the early games. And then it’s back to Europe to play the G-fed and they manage to win. And last night they’re back in B.A to play a well-rested team in Los Angeles and narrowly lose. Context matters and the next few rounds will show that they are still the team to beat.”* *“The great teams win, no matter the conditions. The New York team from last season ...”* “Ah, sports talk radio,” Isaac thought to himself, “Sometimes things never change.” “*We have arrived at the destination. Travel duration 23 minutes 42 seconds. Enjoy your day*.” Isaac stepped out of the car and walked towards the entrance of the facility. The words Angel City Furniture were written in green letters above the door to the entrance. Isaac looked up towards the scanner as the doors opened. “*Good morning, Isaac*.” Angel City Furniture were the largest manufacturers and distributors of household furniture on the west coast. Customers within the city would place their orders and the furniture would be built on site and delivered within a few days. In the early days, Isaac remembered, there were sales teams taking orders and guys on the factory floor watching the machines making furniture. There were also people tasked with programming the delivery trucks. Slowly, over the years, the people began to disappear. The whole operation, from the initial sale to the delivery of the products, could be done without human interaction. Even the delivery of the raw materials were done by self-driving trucks that could load and unload cargo on their own. Of course, some of the old timers like Isaac still liked to come in once in a while. Isaac freely admitted that he really wasn’t needed here but the routine of coming in for an honest day’s work filled him with comfort and purpose. And the purpose today was a delivery of timber. Bubinga Wood, to be exact, coming in from Thailand. Isaac made his way to the loading dock where he saw that the delivery had actually arrived ahead of schedule. The truck’s cargo hold was attached to the conveyor belt as pre-cut timber rolled out of the truck. “Danny!” Isaac called out to the man sitting by the truck. The man looked up at Isaac and gave a wave. “Hey Sarge, I thought you’d be here today.” Isaac walked down the stairs towards the man and warmly shook his hand. “How are you Danny, I can always count on you to do the rounds.” “You know me, I love to get out of the city every now and then. I’ve been in Thailand for the last few weeks collecting these guys. Hot as hell, but it’s so beautiful down there. I’m always there for work but haven’t been there for a holiday.” “Has the hotel been built yet?” “No not yet,” Danny replied. “I went to have a look, had a delivery there as well, nothing but a bunch of machines, wood and metal.” “When’s your next delivery due? Got time for a coffee?” Danny smiled, “Sure do, Sarge.” Danny sat down on a chair in Isaac’s office as Isaac brought in two cups of coffee. “And there we were,” Danny continued as he reached for his coffee, “You, me, Freddy, and that little guy from Texas. What was his name again?” “Vincent.” “Yeah, that’s right. You, me, Freddy and Vinny out on that little hill, in some goddam place. I think we’d been there for like three days clearing out that town. Freddy walks away, I thought he was gonna get some ammo or something, but he leaves and as it turns out, he didn’t have his sidearm. “So you know, we’re there and it was you and me loading up the gun, when Freddy comes running back pants around his legs!” Isaac smiled as he pictured the scene in his head. “So Freddy’s running and we look over and he’s being chased by three guys. He’s yelling “Shoot ‘em, shoot ‘em”, and he can’t run with his pants down like that. So finally after we laughed our asses off Vinny takes ‘em out and they just dropped dead.” Danny stops abruptly as his smile begins to fade. “They just dropped dead.” Isaac watched as Danny stared at the floor. “They were unarmed Sarge. They were just ... they ...” “It’s alright Danny,” Isaac said calmly, “You can say it.” “They were just scared. And they were just hungry. And we dropped ‘em.” Isaac said nothing. There was nothing he could say that they haven’t been told before. Danny stepped back into the truck and closed the door. “Where are you headed to next?” Isaac asked through the open window. “New York. Then it’s back home for a while before I ship out again.” “Will you be at the anniversary tonight?” Isaac asked, although he knew the answer. Danny looked away for a moment. “No. I don’t think so.” Isaac nodded. “Well, let me know the next time you’re coming through these parts. You take care of yourself Danny.” “You too, Sarge,” Danny said as the truck started up. “It was good to see you.” “It was good to see you too.” Isaac replied. And he meant it. Truth be told, he wasn’t seeing a lot of people these days. “Are you ready, honey?” Evelyn called from downstairs. “In a minute,” Isaac yelled back. He rummaged through his dresser drawer. “I swear I just saw it in here a few days ago,” Isaac muttered to himself, “Must’ve fallen into one of these ...” “Ah there you are,” Isaac said as he found his medal inside one of his socks. Isaac walked towards the mirror and pinned his medal to his chest. He had put on weight, who wouldn’t after twenty years, but the uniform still fit. Barely. Isaac made his way down the stairs where Evelyn was waiting in the living room. And there she stood, the love of his life, on the night of the anniversary. Her hair was tied tight and she stood proud. “How do I look?” Evelyn asked. Isaac smiled. She was older now, there’s no escaping that. But she was still the same woman he first saw all those years ago. The war was nearly over. Nearly, but not quite. Isaac was stationed at a base somewhere in Brazil when Evelyn walked into the cafeteria. She was with a few friends, and by the colour of their uniform they were easily distinguished as members of the air force. Isaac couldn’t look away. Of course he couldn’t do anything. He was about to be shipped out and hell, she was an officer and he was a lowly NCO. But as fate would have it, after the war he would meet this same woman, this time as a civilian. So yes, the first time they met were as civilians. But the first time Isaac saw her, she was in that very uniform. “You look amazing,” Isaac replied as he put his hands around Evelyn’s waist. “I can’t believe the old girl still fits,” Evelyn said as she put her arms around Isaac, “And you don’t look too bad yourself Sergeant.” “Ooh, it’s about to start,” Evelyn said as she picked up her visor from the coffee table. Isaac did likewise and picked up his visor. He placed it on his head and his vision fell into complete darkness. Slowly it began to light up. He couldn’t see much at first however after a few more seconds he could begin to make out that there were people all around him. He could hear their voices too. Finally he could see it clearly. He was in a city centre surrounded by thousands of people in uniforms just like his. Of course they weren’t just ordinary people. Isaac knew these people were just like him, they were veterans. In front of him, past the throngs of soldiers, there stood a platform. And on top of this platform was a podium. Slowly a hush grew over the crowd. They all stood at attention as an elderly man stepped up towards the podium. “Good morning,” the man said into the microphone. “Or good evening depending where you are in the world. Our world. The world we fought and died for. The world we won! “Twenty years ago today the last bullet was fired and the guns fell silent. But there was no peace treaty. No changeover of governments. No occupying force. Our victory was more complete than any that have happened before us. “It cost us everything we had but we persevered. And we made the necessary sacrifices to achieve our great goal. But why did we do this? Why were we fighting all those years? “We did this because we weren’t fighting for a king or for our president or even for our country. We did not fight for our God. No! We were fighting for our world, the very planet we live on. We knew our world was dying. And we knew *exactly* how to save her. “But it wasn’t going to be easy. In fact, it would be the hardest thing any of us would ever have to do. We lost some very good men and women. We lost friends and family. But they did not die in vain. “The world they helped us rebuild has seen unprecedented peace. For the first time in our history as a human race we have not struggled. We are no longer fighting for land, or food, or wealth. “The effects of human civilisation, once thought of as irreversible, have been halted and finally the earth has been able to heal. Animals roam free across Africa and Eurasia. The rainforests in South America have finally returned and the seas have repopulated. “In our world there are no more starving, helpless people. No refugees of war. No one struggling to survive day to day under oppressive regimes. Our children will never know of the hardships faced by billions before us. The world they live in now is one of abundance, happiness and peace! “We fought and died for today. Today is a great day. Today, this very day, is the anniversary of the greatest day in human history!” The crowd erupted around Isaac. Isaac looked down at his feet. And he wept.


Blank was small once, although she always felt so big. Pulsing at the beginning of the world, expecting the end of it. Infinity was never an option for her, as it seemed to be for some people, so she sang and screamed until the windows shook and she took every shush as an act of war. Blank was committed to understanding the world, something no one else seemed all too bothered with. Her parents were content to let her wander, answering every question from her as vaguely as possible. She learned soon that her answers would not come from them. So, just as easily as being born, she began her inner life. Brick by brick, thought by thought, she started to build, what would become, herself. She would have many invaders, a few guests, and one or two invaders costuming as guests, and she would have herself. Four weeks into fourteen Blank found herself sitting idly in the DMV waiting room with her mom. She was listening to Peter, Paul, and Mary on her cd player and thinking about how perfectly unified the three of them were, unified in a way she thought the Holy Trinity could never be. She was bored, and enjoying this thought hungrily when she noticed Him. He was seated two rows ahead of them and slightly to the left of Blank. He was reading, that was all Blank could tell, and not wanting to give herself away to her mom, she refused to strain too much to find out what. Her mom would tease her for having girlish feelings, in the simple way moms do, having long forgotten genuine, non-hormonal curiosity. So instead of finding out what she really wanted to know, she studied what she could obviously see. He sat upright, but didn’t look strained, like his spine grew straight out of the earth and naturally shot up to the sun. His chin was tilted down and his shirt sagged over his shoulders and around his elbows, carelessly, like his clothes were temporary and both he and the clothes knew it. Blank listened for his page turns over the chatter and found them to be so consistent and speedy they were almost rhythmic, with one turn falling on the 5 and the next on the 8, this boy was performing jazz with his reading tempo. He looked about her age but was at the dmv alone. Of course he was, he was a boy. Not only a boy but a straight spined, neat haired, jazz percussionist and scholar. Everything about him seemed exactly the way it was meant to be. Blank had not moved a muscle since her daydream began, she didn’t hear her mother’s number called or see her get up and leave, neither had she noticed her cd skip and begin again at the opening track. She was transfixed and completely at peace adding new furnishings to her inner world and taking old ones down, when He turned around and stared directly back at her. In a split second the rhythm was broken. Startled, she stood up and immediately left to find her mom, not looking up again until she was out of the room. Her mom was still behind the checkpoint area of the DMV speaking passionately with whichever poor clerk was assigned to her, so Blank saw herself outside. It was humid. The sun made the sea of asphalt surrounding the itchy government building sizzle, and in turn, made the building seem like an oasis. But she couldn’t go back in there, so she stood, not daring to sit and burn her thighs, and stewed in her disdain for reality, interrupting her interesting fantasy once again. She was about to replace her headphones when she heard the door open, she turned, and there he was. “Hi”, he said, “my name is U.” Blank stared, well, blankly. “U? Your name is me?” She asked this half expecting him to flit away and poof into stardust in response. “Not ‘me’, U. It’s short for something or another, but you can really call me anything, I usually know when I’m being addressed. What’s your name?” “Well that makes one of us,” she replied, “I hardly ever know when I’m being addressed, that is, if I'm spoken to at all. My name is... Blank.” He laughed loudly at this. Loud enough to send color to Blank’s cheeks, she worried often about being too loud, the years of quieting had had their effect. “Blank!” He nearly screamed. “What a perfect name! I guess that means we’re both destined to fill in the rest, huh.” Blank felt exposed, she wanted to ask a hundred questions all at once, but every word fell short. She felt smaller than she ever had, and simultaneously yearned to fill out and overcome the space he took up; to stand shoulder to shoulder with him. “Yeah, I guess so, I don’t feel very connected to the name. What is a name anyway? It’s nothing but a word. It only means something if you decide it does. Well, not you, U, but me, Blank.” She exhaled. “I couldn’t agree more-” U began to say when Blank’s mom barged out of the DMV, clutched her wrist, and mumbling, told her to get in the car. “Wait but...” Blank almost protested but turned to see U had left. “Nevermind.” They drove off. Six weeks into sixteen Blank daydreamed less, but not never. When she did, it was of something vague and far away. A different world, a different life, a different body. This was rare though, she had learned that when she slipped away, the rest of her real life slipped with her. So, she stayed diligent, always remembering the straight bluntness of that boy in the DMV. She struggled to remember his name now. In an effort to forget her discomfort, she spent all of her time working, and this worked, some of the time. At the end of every day came the night and at the end of every night came the morning; this seemed, unfortunately, to be an unchangeable fact. Her life was far from glamorous, though not intolerable, but somehow, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, and it was the same thing that had been off since the first hush she received from an adult in her life. She wasn’t meant to be Blank. Her life was meant to be easy, full, happy. Her clothes were meant to drape effortlessly over her body and her voice; loud, clear, and unafraid. How could she feel this way, when all she had ever been was Blank and how could she put words to this feeling? Even if she tried, she would sound foolish and ungrateful. So, she let her hopes fall silent and kept moving. Eight weeks into eighteen Blank graduated from highschool and was on track for college. She worked at her minimum wage job harder than she ever had in preparation to leave the town she had spent the last four years of her life in. Slowly, the hope started to sneak back in, and with it, came the dreams. She had more time to think than she had had in four years. Every morning, she woke up in search of answers. Some as simple as “Why do birds fly in a triangle formation?” And some as complex as “Why do I wish I could be a bird?” For many of her questions, she found answers but for more of them, she found even more interesting questions. As the summer wound down and fall approached, she found herself excited, even. She let herself imagine what college could bring and her fantasies ran wild. One week from the rest of her life Blank was filling up her tank on the road to the next place, alone, until she wasn’t. There, two pumps away from her and a little to the left stood a familiar silhouette. This time Blank wouldn’t wait to be followed. She walked up to the stranger and spoke clearly “Hey.” U turned around, “Oh hi, you.” He smiled brightly, looking nearly exactly the same as Blank remembered him. “I’ve been waiting an awfully long time, what was the hold up?” “What are you talking about?” Blank replied. “I met you once, all those years ago in the DMV. I honestly thought it was a dream. But here you are.” “Here you are,” repeated U. “But you’ve met me more than once, haven’t you?” Blank thought about this. Here she was, at a gas station in a dead zone, nowhere in particular, and here he was. She thought hard, and all the memories of her life since U were smothered in him, his mannerisms, his voice, his shirt, his exclamations. It was as if he was her very best friend. “You’re right,” said Blank. Or was it U who had spoken? Blank couldn’t tell now where she stopped, and he began. “Don’t forget, it’s you who gives your name meaning. You’re the author.” It was he who spoke that time. And every time after that. ... I was looking for something. A long time ago, so long ago in fact, that even the idea of looking bobs at the edge of my memory, like a bottle at sea. Forget the object of my search. If the looking is a bottle at sea, then the object is Jonah in the digestive tract of a fish and I am not God, but jezebel, busy with the corruption of the most easily satisfied sex, and none the wiser on the location of God’s lost fidel. I’m out of breath from thinking, and from walking, although it seems I've just begun. And something else. I miss... viscerally, I want, tragically I need... What was it? You? Help me remember. I have been walking for so very long. Hundreds of miles. Thousands! I crave... myself? But how could I? I am right here, albeit beside myself, potentially with madness, but still very nearby. How is it I could be walking for so long and yet not at all and breathless yet completely still? And how am I here, which seems to be nowhere but all I’ve ever known. At least all I can recall. Let’s say it is myself I am looking for, hypothetically, then I’ve found myself and now all I have to do is be here and go forth. But say it isn’t. Then I've missed the point entirely, and I am utterly lost and abandoned by reason. Seems to me too great a risk to take. Then again, how do I know how this risk might compare to the biggest risk. It might be as significant as a white lie, a small gamble, or as great as murder. So, do I accept my purpose as found in what I’m assuming is myself, and not some ghastly possession, or do I wait and hope my memory loosens? I think it best not to wait since it seems my consciousness has only just awoken from what I can only assume has been a cavernous sleep.


I've never liked staying in the house. It makes me feel crowded....but now I feel like that wherever I go. It has been a year since the pandemic but I still feel unsafe and dirty. I still have to go to work though. During the pandemic, they shut everything down despite their efforts to try and keep people safe they were still going out not wearing a mask, " Did they not care that they could die as well? guess not '' Today I'm going to go to the park this is going to be my first day out since quarantine and mask requirements were lifted. The sun was shining on my face and the birds were singing. It was a beautiful day. “Hey wait a minute, why is she looking at me? Is something on my face, did I do something wrong?” The lady approached me and said: “ young man why are you still wearing that?” Huh oh, she must be referring to the doctor mask covering 80% of my face. She started staring at me intensely “you know it's safe you don't have to put up with those ratchet things anymore. She was probably right but I know that it still exists and it's not gone, “I just feel safe with this on” I gave her a nod and walked away. As I made my way downtown I heard the terrifying sound of coughing. He was walking on the opposite side of the street he was coughing and hacking and he wasn't even covering his mouth ...Disgusting. I really can't see how anyone can go back to how things where millions had died and those who did survive lost the ones they loved all because Betty didn't want to wear a mask around George, I will never understand it just because it's gone doesn't mean it doesn't exist. “Hey Robert,” I turned around to see my boss. He was mask-less of course but he looked happy “Hello Mr.Smith.” I gave a weak wave but Mr.smith was always a kind person who liked to show his affection... What I'm saying is He tried to come in for a hug . I was hesitant and took a step back. “S-sorry I just...” smith also took a step back “No, No It's fine I get some people still aren't the same after the pandemic.” I couldn't speak I was choked up I wanted to say something like: “Haha just kidding gimme a hug” but instead I ran away from him like a little kid I felt stupid, embarrassed, and weak I couldn't even give someone a fucking hug how pathetic I just can't shake the feeling that the pandemic isn't over there are so many possibilities like Another wave could hit us, The virus has evolved again, There's a new sickness that's spreading like a wildfire , they ran out of vaccines and the stuff needed to make the vaccines. Thoughts like that make me worry makes it hard for me to move on and continue life, when I got back to the apartment I saw my next-door neighbor lucy she looked like she was heading out for an evening dinner I built up the courage and walked over “H-hey lucy how are you?” The mask must have muffled my voice because after she looked up after locking her door she gave me a confused look “Oh hi Robert, were you just going to stand there and not say hello?” She looked even more confused when she saw how much distance was between us. I was standing exactly 6 feet away from Lucy. “Well that's rude, you think I have the virus don't you?” She said that in an offensive tone while folding her arms. Maybe this was a little excessive so I walked a little closer, Lucy then put her hand up saying “Stop!” I stopped with one foot up in the air she said: “Robert you don't have to come closer if you don't have to I was just kidding” She was smiling at me She's always been so kind and caring to me I will never forget she was the one who brought food to me during the pandemic while I hid like a coward behind locked doors and yet she still brings me food every day because I'm still scared to leave my safe haven . “Well, it was nice seeing you today you usually don't come out much.” “Yeah i-i wanted to go for a walk and stretch my legs.'' she started applauding “That's wonderful glad that you're finally acting normal”. “ Huh?” did she just say acting “normal” “I don't mean to be offensive, it's just that no one is wearing their mask anymore so why are you??” Lucy then said goodbye and headed downstairs but she left me with something. As I sat down on my bed I started to ache. Was I hurt? Not physically, why was my heart hurting? Because her words struck me deep enough to penetrate my heart, maybe Lucy's right, maybe I should start acting normal. The next day I woke up with a new motive to being normal. I wanted to try to be my old self again like before the pandemic even happened. The next day I lied to myself and got up feeling even more traumatized by Lucy's words. I didn't leave the apartment that day. I stayed in bed and slept. The only time I got up was to use the bathroom and warm up some ramen. I don't know why but I felt tired that day after eating lunch. I Laid down to take a nap then I heard a voice; “: Hey Robert, where have you been.” Where ever I was it was wet and cold “who are you??” No one responded and I was willing to walk out further into the darkness “ROBERT!!!!!” I heard a distorted voice yell my name “ROBERT, ROBERT, ROBERT, ROBERTTTTTTT!” They continued to yell out to me but the yelling had now turned into screaming “Ughh damn my ears are bleeding” i fell to the ground covering my leaking ears. “Why won't you.?” the screaming had stopped “huh?” The voice seemed to be getting closer “Why won’t you?” a body had emerged from the darkness to my surprise it was lucy or just a figure of her “Why won't you?” she repeated “ why won't i what?” she seemed to get even more upset “why won't you?” i had gotten annoyed “ Why haven't i WHAT?” I yelled at her. She then appeared directly in front of me as if she teleported “Why WON'T YOU TAKE the MASK OF~?” I had woken up in a sweat “it was just a dream.” The next event that took place left me speechless *DIng* “I guess i have a new message” as I picked up the phone it was a message from lucy. Lucy: “hey rob I'm having a little celebration tonight i was wondering if you would like to come to help you get back to your old life LoL, it's only going to be 10 people if that helps” Lucy: “And no mask Kay 😷” It took me a while to warm up to the idea of being around so many people, but i felt like this i owe to lucy for helping me all those times so i finally built up the courage to go to her party it was around 6 pm when i had arrived, i could tell i was still not up to the idea because as soon as i stepped out the car my legs turned to Jell-O Well there's no turning back now i sighed as i took another weak step forward Things were already weird but it got even worse i walked into the building to see way more than 10 people Did lucy lie to me? she said it would be a small group Then all their eyes Met mine. Why was everyone staring into my soul? I found my way to the punch table when i was met with a female voice whispering “Why won't you take the mask off?” i was paralyzed surely i was just still nervous i turned to see lucy hovering behind me “W-well i just...” Lucy then Busted out into laughter “ I'm just kidding you're such a snowflake.” Trying not to feel insulted I gave a weak laugh and forced smile. wait she can't even see me smiling “ugh such a dumbass” lucy stopped smiling she looked worried “are you feeling alright you don't have to stay if you don't wanna it's cool enough that you made it.” Great now she thinks I'm weak “ Ha no I'm fine i just have to use the bathroom” As I left Lucy at the punch table I went to the bathroom and I began to feel nauseous my stomach was in knots and my heart was beating harder than ever before. What's wrong I feel so sick “ maybe Lucy was right maybe I should leave” I felt like everything is closing around me, as if the walls are closing in, and they were at the door knocking and banging telling me to take my mask off. Then that's when i saw lucy standing above me "Lucy i think I'm going to have to leave." God, i hate that I'm like this. Lucy then bend down her face was bright red she looked drunk "H-Hey lucy are you al-" My sentence was cut short when lucy had pulled down my mask What the hell is she doing i-i don't know what to do i could feel my heart was pounding out of my chest. Lucy looked up at me "I missed seeing this face" A soon as i opened my mouth to speak lucy leaned in with a kiss. So this is what I've been missing out on wearing this stupid mask. Lucy then sat back giving me a drunk smile saying "There do you feel better" As i was about to respond until i was interrupted by lucy throwing up all over me. Oh, no-no-no what if she had covid could I get it by her throw-up? or just from kissing her? The next thing i knew my eyes were twitching and i had blacked out. When i woke up i was in a hospital bed i remember the nurse telling me that they had found me on the bathroom floor passed out, i wonder if lucy is okay. then that's when i heard it the tv was on the news and the headline read "It still exist covid isn't gone" i couldn't believe my eyes News: I have received a report that a girl at a resident hospital has been discovered to have a new type of COvid and is said to be patient zero I started to panic i couldn't breathe it was still out there hiding, living, thriving i was right to not move on with life. News; "This goes to show us, ladies and gentlemen, that covid is still existing be safe and start wearing your mask."


Gunfire rattled intermittently outside the conference room. Whenever the shots sounded the ministers looked at the doorway, hoping that wasn’t the moment the fight would spill inside. The tables and lecterns they normally sat behind had been pushed against the door to serve as a barricade. Allen Willard knew that the plywood and plastic would be no more than a moments protection against the bullets of an assault rifle. As a tall, skinny man, he wasn’t much of a target but that was little comfort to him. He looked at the other men and women who had been shedding layers since the power had died and the air conditioning with it. As darkness fell, they saw by the light of their phones in the darkness but none of them had any signal to make a call. Allen felt guilty that soldiers were fighting and dying outside to save his life. From the sour expressions on other faces, he knew that other people felt the same. The meeting to discuss trade agreements had been interrupted by violence hours before. The recent ceasefire was not to everyone’s liking. Those burning down the world outside had plenty of gripes about suits like Allen shaking hands and signing documents. “Does anyone have any food?” Agriculture Minister Boreanaz asked. Her stomach had been rumbling for half an hour. Hers wasn’t the only one. Boreanaz was a small woman in every sense but personality. Her hair was a no nonsense buzzcut. All she wore for makeup was barely noticeable lipstick to show off her golden skin. Simple silver stud earrings somehow suited her perfectly. “I have a few breakfast bars in my briefcase,” Fishing Minister Al-Baghdadi said. He opened his briefcase and set the four unopened breakfast bars out on the carpet in the centre of the room where the stepped floor hid them a little from the doorway. Al-Baghdadi was the second oldest of them. His hair was as grey and black. From the lines on his face it was obvious he smiled and frowned in equal measure. His suit was expensive but simple. He wore the best but didn’t need to show it off. “I have half a bottle of water,” said opposition Chief of Agriculture, Selena Argento. Argento was average in height but towered over Boreanaz. She had long silky black hair which had been tied up. She liked to wear more colour than any of them. Her suit was a deep blue. The shirt she wore was a sky blue to compliment it. In each ear she gold earrings with a blue stone Allen guessed were sapphires. “You have anything Chief of Fisheries?” Allen asked David Coulter, the opposition counterpart to Al-Baghdadi. Coulter was a rugged looking man with tattoos visible beneath the collar of his shirt. Allen had seen old photos of the man with his arms covered in tattoos that supported the armed rebellion which had split the country for decades at the cost of thousands of lives. Allen Willard knew that both sides had been monstrous. Both sides had been accused of war crimes by foreign nations over land either side of a river. It all seemed so ridiculous to fight about when the ink was dry on the peace treaty. Coulter took almost two minutes to acknowledge that Allen had spoken as the sweaty man stared off into space. When his head snapped around, he nodded that he had something. “Care to share?” Allen asked. “No. I don’t,” said the man coldly. He didn’t quite make eye contact with Willard who was unbuttoning his shirt more. Temperatures outside were around 42 degrees Celsius and starting to catch up with that inside. Allen’s shirt was sticking to him. He didn’t want to imagine what he would smell like to anyone else. They all looked a mess. Anyone wearing makeup looked like a clown in the rain. The oldest of them, Chief of Finance Mitchell, was asleep. Allen hoped it wasn’t heatstroke. Mitchell was the only one of them older than the civil war. He probably couldn’t remember a time before the conflict, but it was a nice token of peace to have him there anyway. He was a thin man as well with a slight gut that was perfectly respectable for a man in his late seventies. All his hair was white and as far as Allen knew it had been for years. He was a kind man until someone crossed a line with him, a dog with a bone if he thought someone was trying to cheat his people. Fisheries Chief Coulter eventually pulled a packet of roasted peanuts from one pocket and some melting boiled sweets from another. He threw the food into the pile in the middle of them. “Should we eat? Or wait a bit longer?” Selena Argento asked. She had long black hair bound up into a bun. Her hairline was shimmering from the sweat on her scalp. A simple gold band adorned her marriage finger and a gold chain with a crucifix hung from her neck. She’d pulled the cross out where everyone could see it when she first heard gunfire. As it had been driven further away from the embassy, she had stopped praying with her eyes closed. “It’s been like this for five hours now. Who knows how long it will last?” said Minister Boreanaz. She took off her glasses to clean them as she had continually to soothe herself. “The army will be here soon. One way or another this can’t last much longer,” said Al-Baghdadi, smiling slightly as if it gave him hope. “Is that a good or a bad thing? It just means more idiots with guns outside,” David said, he scratched the short grey hairs on his head. He looked at his sweets with hunger in his eyes. He let out a grunting sigh. “Perhaps our Chief of Finance has the right idea. Waking up to this being over wouldn’t be so bad. Sleeping through our execution wouldn’t be the worst thing either.” “Pessimist,” said Argento. “God will see us through.” She touched her cross again and looked at the ceiling. “Plenty of the kids I went to school with believed in god. It didn’t stop them from dying in battle. I don’t think God takes sides. I don’t think he exists either.” Argento gasped at the statement and turned away as if to hide her golden crucifix from the blasphemer. “Philosophy aside what are everyone’s thoughts on eating?” Allen asked. His stomach was making a bubbling sound. Whatever it was saying he agreed. As Mitchel passed wind in his sleep Argento began laughing as Boreanaz made a face and covered his face with his sweaty sleeve. “Most interesting thing he’s said all day!” Argento laughed. Despite himself the Chief of Fisheries cracked a smile. Bang! Crash. The sound of glass breaking outside made every head turn. Somewhere nearby, someone had fired a gun towards the building and destroyed one of the artful stained-glass windows which had been rescued from a condemned church. Everyone pressed themselves to the floor. Allen tasted sick in his mouth, wondering if he was about to die. He hoped he wasn’t about to wet himself and be found in a puddle of his own blood and piss. Quiet. Perfect silence but for the breathing of the fearful and the snoring of the old man who had somehow slept through the shot. After a while the sleeper had all eyes on him, all of them disbelieving. “How could he sleep through that?” asked the Chief of Agriculture, still clutching her crucifix. She shook her head. Then she said they should all make an agreement right there and then to spite the people killing each other outside. Allen was all for it. Minister Al-Baghdadi shrugged as if he couldn’t think of anything better to do. There were no more sounds of gunfire. David Coulter, Chief of Fisheries for the opposition agreed. Agriculture Minister Boreanaz said he would talk if they could eat first. Everything was counted and divided six ways. Selena woke her Chief of Finance by shaking him gently and explaining that they had agreed to continue the trade negotiations after food. Javier Mitchell yawned as he nodded his agreement. He groaned as he stretched and rubbed his back. Selena was joined in saying grace by Boreanaz, Coulter and Mitchel. Al-Baghdadi said a du’a. Watching them all, Allen saw some judgement from the believers, divided as they were between different faiths but united in seeing him as faithless. Hoping his hands were clean, Allen broke the four breakfast bars into three pieces as equally as he could. All of them ate, eyes swivelling around and nodding to Fahad Al-Baghdadi for the most nourishing portion of the meal. As he ate Coulter rolled up his sleeves to reveal more of the tattoos. When he caught them looking at the writing, he rolled the sleeves up further and rolled his arms to show everyone. They could see the raw pink of his skin where he said he was having the tattoos removed with laser surgery. After finishing four little bites of cereal bound together by honey David Coulter admitted he had a pocket full of boiled sweets. He placed the opened bag on the floor and counted them out in their multi-coloured wrappers. There were nine remaining. Coulter suggested that Boreanaz, Al-Baghdadi and Willard get an extra each as a show of good will. Argento and Mitchell agreed. Nodding and muttering thanks Allen and his fellow ministers took two sweets while the opposition took one. Allen’s first boiled sweet was lemon flavoured. Despite normally being the one he hated most the energy from it alone made it taste miraculous. He was thankful that the second was grape flavoured and that he could smile genuinely as he let it dissolve slowly in his mouth. Allen’s packet of mints had been in the pile from the beginning. They had all agreed that mints should be eaten after everything else for the sake of taste. It was from eating those and too little else that Willard was so thin in the first place. Fanning himself with his sodden shirt as he asked how they would divide Selena’s half bottle of water. The mention of swigging it brought a grimace to the faces of Al-Baghdadi and Coulter. All of them had been given bottles of water. Allen’s was still in the drawer of his desk, pressed against the door. He pulled it from the drawer and let out a cry of joy to see a cup inside that he had not noticed before. As he searched the other drawers, he found a cup in each. Argento measured out water for each of them as they held out their cups. Little by little she filled them with a drip and a drop, face screwed up in concentration. Like the rest of them Allen thought that there was more water soaked into her shirt than left in the little bottle. All of them raised their plastic cups as if making a toast and drank their share of the water. It was gone too soon. All of them had looks of concern on their face as they stared at their empty cups. Once again Al-Baghdadi said that the army would arrive soon. He popped a mint into his mouth from the pile and gave a little smile and shrug. Argento told them all that after high school she had considered joining the rebel army which had been fighting the government for decades. She flushed with shame as she said so. Mitchel reached across the circle of ministers and placed a wrinkled hand on her shoulder, telling her that there was no point in worrying about things she might have done. “The war went on forever. It took my cousin. Some of my friends.” Selena had a distant look in her brown eyes as she spoke. “It was a waste. Pointless.” “All war is pointless,” said Mitchell, “it’s over now, even if the idiots outside wish it wasn’t.” “Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent,” said Allen. All eyes turned to him, and he shrank back. “Who said that?” Mitchell asked. “Ghandi?” “Isaac Asimov,” said Willard, giving a wry smile as five faces frowned at him. “You’re one of those then?” Boreanaz asked. “I guess so.” “What do you think Asimov would do just now?” Selena asked. “Write you as a man for one thing,” said Allen. “There aren’t many women in his stories.” He shrugged to say he thought it was a bad idea as well. “There are only two women here. That’s not so great either,” she said. “We still have a long way to go for equality.” “I’d drink to that if there was any water left,” said Boreanaz. She checked her phone again. The long sigh she let out afterward said clearly that there was still no signal. Having eaten they retrieved the papers which had been scattered in the scramble to bar the doors. In their sweaty shirts, tired and still hungry despite the small meal. They hammered out agreements for two hours. There was less arguing than there had been. Haggling over rates of tax and import and export limits was more forgiving because somehow it seemed they had become friends. They couldn’t formalise the agreement, but it was down on paper at least. Night fell. One by one they fell asleep. Allen saw Selena checking her phone again without a hint of joy as his eyelids locked down for a few hours. When he woke there were soldiers banging on the doors. He rushed to help the others move the barricade out of the way. As the doors opened the six ministers let out a gasp of horror, seeing the mess outside. Windows were smashed. Furniture had been ripped up by the mob. Threats and slogans were written on the walls. Spray paint called them traitors, to which side they didn’t know. There were splashes of blood here and there, though the bodies were gone. Tanks sat amidst the chaos of the car park outside. Every car had been set on fire. Most were still trailing smoke into the sky. Placards lay broken on the ground. There seemed to be more glass than there had been windows. Bullet holes pocked the brickwork. Soldiers swarmed to make a wall around them and herded them into an armoured vehicle before the heavy doors were slammed shut. They drove through the city for another hour. When they stopped at last the light outside seemed blinding. As Allen’s eyes adjusted he saw his three new friends being handcuffed by the soldiers and dragged away. “What are you doing?” he shouted. “Arresting them,” said a soldier who was pushing Allen in the opposite direction. “What for? We have a peace treaty. They’re ministers in the new government.” “They broke the peace. The junta is in power now. They’re prisoners. You’re civilians. No more peace.” He spat the word peace as if it was the worst blasphemy to stop killing. He was a young man, early twenties if he was out of his teens. Allen looked back and saw Coulter and Mitchell’s heads disappearing beneath black sacks and heard Argento’s scream from beneath her hood as she was lifted off her feet kicking and screaming by more grim-faced soldiers. “This is bullshit,” Allen roared. “They have rights. I am the finance minister. Let them go.” The air in his lungs was whipped out as a fist hit him in the gut. Another punch from a different man broke his nose sending a warm fizz of pain across his face. Falling hard to the ground Allen saw the dance of light between the camouflage of trousers and felt the hard steel caps of booted feet hitting him in the stomach. He curled up into a ball and felt the sting of kicks for several minutes as he counted in his head. They called him a traitor. Some of them spat on him. Eventually the soldiers seemed bored. He lay on concrete ground, turning over. His head was spinning. One eye would not open. When he looked at his hand, he saw blood more than his own skin. Allen saw Al-Baghdadi in his own pool of blood, but the man wasn’t moving. Crawling along the ground he pulled himself towards the man who had fed them with breakfast bars. Trying to check for a pulse Allen wasn’t sure who’s pulse he really felt. He looked around. The boys with guns were still there, mocking the bloody men. Boreanaz was gone. Where had they taken her? Why were teenage boys allowed to have guns? Hearing a scream Willard whipped his hear around towards the noise but the motion made him sick and after throwing up blood and teeth he felt darkness take him as the sound of a gunshot echoed off nearby walls.


Here she is again. That annoying woman. Cannot get a wink of sleep. Every time I turn around she is dusting or vacuuming, or taking down curtains and running the washing machine. When I hired her to do just some light housekeeping, I did not realize my day would begin at the crack of dawn. She is middle-aged and she had excellent references, but even so, enough is enough. I climbed out of bed and stomped down the stairs. "Really Mrs. Spitnik, you think you could tone it down just a little?" It's the middle of the night." She paused in her vacuming, without turning it off, and looked pointedly at the clock. I looked up at the clock on the wall above the refrigerator, and it was indeed eight o'clock in the a.m. I growled something unintelligible, she couldn't hear me anyway over the roar of the vacuum cleaner, and stomped my way back upstairs praying for a little more shut eye before I actually had to get up. God should be so good to me. I hate pro-active people. They're so annoying. They're always trying to improve something. Doesn't anyone ever just leave anything alone anymore? Does everything have to be improved? Does it occur to any of them, we might not like the improvement? What then? We're stuck with it, aren't we? Unless I am in serious danger of sticking my head under the couch and inhaling a dust ball, couldn't we leave the vacuuming for some time other than sunup? Who would know? Who would care? Certainly not me. And I'm actually paying for this level of annoyance. Hard to believe I realize, but that is just the way it goes. No help for the weary. I tried going back to sleep, just a few more minutes, but of course I wasn't able to. I shuffled to the bathroom and began my morning routine. Everything there was the same, thank God. No one had improved my toothbrush and toothpaste. My deodorant, or my hair brush. I am huge on routine. I am a creature of habit. I detest changes. Constant changes bespeak a dissatisfied person. I am a very satisfied person. I take pride in that. Everyone else has a lot to learn in my opinion. Finishing, I dressed for work and walked downstairs for the second time that morning. I didn't have time for coffee or toast, my usual breakfast. At approximately eight fifty I closed and locked the door, and began the ten minute walk to my office. Something I do Monday through Friday, every week of my life. Routine is good for the soul. It is comforting. People should try that. This world would be a much happier place if people would just learn to leave everything alone. If it's not bothering you, why bother it? I reached in my pocket for my key ring before I remembered, we no longer have keys. Now we have key cards. Of course, we had to improve on the plain old key didn't we? Keys were no longer good enough. Now we need key cards. Ridiculous. See what I mean? This company used to have a Doorman named George. George and I had very little relationship, other than George knowing I was an employee at Wilson Grover & Carlisle. Once we got key cards, and a new system for entering the building, George was no longer necessary. Can you imagine that? I do not consider replacing a person with a computerized system, of any kind to be any type of progress, but apparently no one cares what I think. Although everyone would be better off if they did. I am into my senior years so I have seen a lot and I know a lot, and people would profit heavily from my experience and knowledge. Not that anyone ever asks me. It's their loss...though...really. I heard the door click shut behind me, as I walked toward the elevator and stepped inside. I punched the lighted icon for the third floor, as was my habit, and waited patiently. When the doors opened I headed straight for my office. I greet no one. One's place of employment is not a social occasion, and should not be treated as such. Ridiculous. And a waste of everybody's time. I take my lunch in the cafeteria every day, but I eat alone. I have absolutely no desire to engage in idle office gossip. I am proud to say I am above all that. Everyone knows where I stand on such matters. I work hard and I am good at my job. Been with this company for years. I do not bounce from job to job looking for something better. I am a satisfied person with a stable life. Other people should try that. At approximately 4:45 my supervisor knocked on my door, which I keep closed. He opened the door and poked his head inside. ,,,,"Mind if I come in Paul?" he asked. "Of course" I replied. James Davison is a good man. He does not bother me and I do not bother him. Uninvited to, he pulled out one of the two chairs across from my desk and sat down. I was irritated. A long visit. What I was thinking must have shown on my face because James smiled with just one side of his mouth lifting and said, "This will not take very long." I merely nodded and sat waiting patiently. "It has been brought to my attention" he began and coughed lightly, and momentarily covered his mouth with his hand. He lowered his hand and continued. "It has been brought to my attention that you are too set in your ways and are very resistant to change. This makes you difficult to work with. Disgreeable. I am thinking perhaps this company is not the right place for you, Paul. Perhaps another job might be more to your liking." I stared at James. "Your presence is no longer required here" he said rising. 'Please clean out your desk." With that he walked out the door and closed it quietly behind himself. I stared into space for just a moment and thought 'Great. I have spent years surrounded by these people and not one of them has learned a thing worth knowing. I will take my expertise somewhere else where I will be held in high esteem. Any employer would be lucky to have me. I despise the changes that are coming. Change is positively dogging my every footstep. It is like a shadow that follows me everywhere. More faithful I would guess, than my actual shadow. Change be damned!' I'll change if and when I want to.' I smiled to myself, and I began opening the doors in my desk.


“...What about the pilot? Were we able to figure out if they were DOA?” Sai’urn sighs heavily, one of the office chairs creaking slightly as he sits down. “First officer Shaii’kvi died on impact due to engine failure in the pod. An engineering failure in the pod’s design. We suspect she was seeking refuge on station RELLE, before it was taken down a decade ago, sir.” Wait. Mom? “Shit.” Oni hisses under his breath. His heart begins to compete with the officer’s voices, hammering away inside its cage, drowning out the world around him. Slowly, he moves away from the door, his feet pulling the 140lb numb husk of a body and brain down the hallway. When he finally comes back to reality, he’s sitting on a bench where all four wings on the deck converge. His leg looks almost as if it’s trying to blast off of his body, bouncing in place like it is. What the fuck was that? When- when did mom crash? How soon after that was it that they actually told us that she died? A day? A week? A month? Three months? She went offline sometimes for safety on her assignments, she was offline for three weeks before that last contact... Was her pod already crash-landing when she called? What was the last thing she said to me? Shit... “Oni? What are you doing out here?” Sai’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “O-Oh, hi- hello, sir...” I raise my hand for a salute but Sai’s cuts me off, dismissing the act of respect. “Not necessary right now, Onii’kvi. I was actually coming to find you.” Shit, why? Onii’kvi clears his throat anxiously. “Is there... someplace we can talk? Somewhere officers won’t come looking on the station, prefferably?” But... their hiding spots! Where would they ditch classes or responsibilities if an officer knew where to find them? “You can... blindfold me if it makes you feel any better about it,” he offers gently, the action striking Oni in surprise. “You’d... really let me blindfold you and guide you... to somewhere on the station that no officers know about..?” Oni cocks his head to the side, his eyebrows pinched together. Sai’urn shrugs lightly, as if the mere thought of that wasn’t alarming in the slightest. “We have things to discuss, and I need somewhere without authority, and cameras. I’m aware the...lower ranks often have places like this, and I am willing to do anything at this point.” Fuck, this is serious . “Okay... okay, just... you can’t tell anybody. Cross your hearts, hope to die... they’ll kill me without mercy if they knew you were there, alright?” Oni sighs, waiting until Sai’urn offers a firm nod in understanding, and then they’re off. I hope I don’t fucking regret this. The silent, anxiety-fueled walk appears endless, navigating distant corridors and scanning the halls for any high-ranking officials or low-ranking pilots that might be curious why the pair are travelling together. Deep breaths, Onii’kvi. Deep breaths. It’s fine, nobody uses this room anymore anyway. Finally, as they approach the asymmetrical double-doors, Onii’kvi pulls out a counterfeit keycard, swipes it along the pad outside the door, and they open. “So... this is where the pilots go to escape us, huh? Is that why the corridors feel desolate in the middle of the night?” Sai’urn teases as they step inside and the doors are locked again. “Not exactly, we have a lot of different spots, but I think the corridors feeling empty is more of you and I being the only ones awake that late ever, and the station being as big as it is,” Oni shrugs. He gestures around the room to various seating options and the stash bins in the corner with drinks and packaged items. Sai’urn whistles impressively, then takes a seat in front of the circular window peering into the vast emptiness of space; only a handful of planets visible from the porthole window. “Nobody will find us here, or use their card on the door, you’re sure?” He seems... anxious. It’s not exactly a common sight for the Captain to come off like this... Oni shakes his head and sits down across from Sai in the window seat. “Nobody is coming in. The card is a counterfeit, for an access level that doesn’t exist. There’s only a handful of these circulating the younger ranks, for the rooms. Plus, the security’s been tampered with, it’ll only react to our cards, not yours or the Sergeant’s.” As he explains, Sai’s eyes widen slightly and he scoffs in amusement. “I see the younger ranks are much more capable and have more... diverse abilities than you let on, hm?” He probes and Oni shrugs with a small, proud smile. But... nothing good can last. Sai’urn’s smile drops and he adjusts his position on the seat. It almost mirrors Oni’s, his legs crossed in front of him, hands resting on his ankles toying with the branded patch on his combat boots. Oni tugs his knees to his chest, arms wrapped around them and his cheek nuzzled into his knee. He glances outside the window, counting as many stars and planets as he possibly can, a calming technique his mother had taught him almost... two and a half decades ago now. Jeez. “Oni... What we found earlier...” Sai’urn begins and Oni’s heart drops. Even though he knew, even though he had been listening, had put it all together right there outside the door; despite all of that he still truly believed just a little that he had been wrong-he’d hoped he was wrong. “...I’m sorry, I should have been up front with you, but the pod that we found was one of the GCD’s, from a long time ago.” Sai inhales softly. Onii’kvi barely glances over to let Sai know that he heard him when he notices--Sai’s hands are shaking. He’s trying to hold onto his ankles to keep them from moving but he’s... shaking. “Sai...?” “I should have told you right then but I needed to know for sure because... ‘cause...” Sai’urn shakes his head and slowly a hand comes up to wipe at his eyes. “It’s your mom, Oni. Shai-Shaii’kvi, she was... she was in the pod. Her station’s insignia was on the side of the pod-” -flashes of his mom’s jacket with that same design on the patch on her shoulder flash in Oni’s head and it all feels too real - “-we had the body examined, ran DNA samples, and yours is the only one that popped up in our system, besides hers. You’re almost an identical match, Oni, there’s... there’s nobody else that it could be. I’m sorry...” Oni’s grip tightens on his shins, curling the fabric of his pants together in his hands. “She... you said she died from engine failure, right? That’s why her pod crashed?” Sai’urn pauses, studying Onii’kvi. Finally it seems to click in his head that they’d had an eavesdropper outside the door. The Captain reaches out to offer Oni some comfort, squeezing his shoulder. “She was... the body was hard to dissect, to figure out what had happened, but...” he sighs, “I took scans of the pod, the interiors too, while I made you wait at yours. Shaii’kvi had... carved into the inside of the pod what had been happening. She made sure that whoever found her, knew the engine failure she experienced, and when I sent the scans to a few engineers, they confirmed it. There had been tampering with her fuel gauge and the internal fans.” “Someone limited her air supply, and starved her fuel tank to boot.” Oni finishes what Sai clearly didn’t want to admit. “Her pod was clearly marked GCD... and We never heard anything about this, my dad or I, we... they just told us she was MIA, not that she’d died... do you think they knew?” Sai’urn sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, wiping his eyes. “I think... even if someone in the GDC knew what happened to her, they wouldn’t tell you. As fucked-up as it is, it’s the way some parts of it operate, especially if she’d been on something classified when it happened. Do you remember if she said anything to you about what she was doing?” Oni shakes his head, “she never mentioned things like that to me because I was so little when she had been enlisted... and then when she died. I overheard her and my dad talking once before she went on an assignment about something... Zen or Zine... Zi-Zion?” Sai’urn’s body freezes, caught in the headlights of the word that fell from Oni’s mouth. “Sai...? What’s wrong? Does- Does that mean something?” Sai’urn swallows nervously, exhales, and places his hands out in front of him. “Are you absolutely sure that’s what you heard, Onii’kvi? Absolutely sure?” “Wh-” Oni frowns, “yes, I’m sure. I- I remember, it was a city where I grew up, it was something about Zion, I thought we were taking a trip for my medical treatment at first but-” “Oni... what your mother was talking about... is a government project. It was in Kak’ev’s solar system, right next to Ac’ai.” “Where we found her.” “Exactly. The project is extremely classified, as in--only Lieutenant Nal’eid can access those documents and they’re blacked out even for him. This is way higher than we possibly know, your mother- whatever she was doing, it could put your life in danger if they find out you heard them talk, and it can put me in a serious amount of danger, probably already has.” He pauses then mutters softly, “it probably already has put a target on my back, honestly.” Onii’kvi shakes his head and huffs, pushing his sleeves up his arms. “So, what are we supposed to do? I need- I deserve to know what happened to her, she was my mom , Captain.” “I understand, Oni. Believe me, I do, if something happened to mine--if I had a chance to find out what happened to my other mom... I’d do anything to find out. But we need to be careful with it, alright?” He sighs, reaching out to offer Oni a hug, wanting to give him any form of comfort he might want. “I think...” he sighs, leaning into Sai’s embrace. “I think I know how we can get access to those files. I just need to go see Ti-” “Shh-shh... wait a second.” Sai’urn whispers and wordlessly stands from the seat, crowding closer to the door and pressing his ear against it. “I think someone’s listening-”


Jared put the avocado-and-cheese sandwich and the bottle of water in his Saturday backpack, made sure the windows were closed and the switches turned off, and locked the front door. He climbed his bike and started pedaling towards Crescentville. A biker came from down the road. “Morning, Jared,” she called. Irene moved to the neighborhood ten or eleven years ago with three kids and no husband. She was tall and thin, dark skinned, with high cheek bones and long chin, and you could hear her laughter from the other side of the street. “Morning, Irene. Where are you biking today?” “Pony Creek. See you later.” “Have fun. See you,” he waved, and she disappeared behind him. Pony creek was a lovely trail. On one side the water flowed leisurely, and on the other trees, bushes, and flowers were growing in disarray. When the kids were young, the family used to bike there on sunny Saturday mornings, like this one. Jane named each plant and explained its medicinal virtues, and he told stories about the history of the country. These days Stan and Cathy are in college, and Jane ... That damn obstetrician. He pedaled harder, hurrying up the hill and through Greenridge. Greenridge High loomed next to him, a white building with thick red, blue, and yellow stripes running on the walls in all directions. Here, Stan fell in love with debating and with Nicky, Irene’s eldest. The second love was short lived; the first held, and now he was a 3L at Northwestern. And Cathy, dear shy Cathy, who spent her childhood dreaming of ladies and nobles, knights and crusades. The three of them used to play the stories she weaved. Once, she was Penthesiliea, the queen of the Amazons, Stan was Hector, and he was Achilles. Her arrow snapped through his heel, and she crowned Stan as the king of all Greece while sitting on her father’s chest. Another time, she was an English orphan, who joined the service of the high Lord of Birmingham, played by himself, and eventually married him and got poor Stan as her servant. Cathy turned down a fellowship from Stanford and preferred Northwestern, to be close to Stan. Jane, I wish you could see them now, grown up, serious, successful, handsome. The road angled to the right, and the first houses of Crescentville came into view. “Good morning, Mr. Cliff,” called an early-riser teenager who raked the leaves in his front yard. Jared waved his hand. He has known the kids of this neighborhood since birth. On his weekly visits to the town, he saw them crawling on blankets, taking their first steps, drawing on the sidewalks with chalks, batting the balls with their families, clearing snow, washing the family cars. He parked his bike next to a well-groomed lawn. Out of the backpack came the foldable placard and the matching hat. The placard was worn out, and some of the color had vanished, yet the text was as clear as it had been fifteen years ago: “Dr. Olaff killed my wife and baby”. He held the placard above his head and started marching up and down the street. In the first weeks after his wife’s death, dozens marched with him: family and friends and colleagues. Over time they dropped one by one, until only the kids and he continued marching. When Dr. Olaff completed his six-month term at the penitentiary, Jared and the kids resumed their marches. The state may have forgiven the doctor; Jared has not. The Chief of Police talked with him once or twice, trying to convince him to stop harassing the Olaffs. Rumors had it that the doctor refused to complain about the marches, and so the police let him be. At eleven o’clock, Dr. Olaff’s youngest daughter approached him with a glass. “Mr. Cliff, would you like some lemonade?” The girl looked like her mother: blond hair reaching her shoulders, blue eyes, small nose. She smiled at him, like she did every Saturday in the last five years. Winter or summer, rain or shine, he was marching and she offered the drink. Stan once suggested that they go for a long weekend to the dunes. The idea shocked Jared. Missing a march is like forgetting Jane. And forgetting Jane is forgoing love. That Saturday morning they marched, and after lunch they travelled to the dunes. Never again did Stan suggest spending long weekends outside home. But then, in his junior year, Stan started missing marches. And when he applied to college, he preferred Stanford and Yale to Purdue, and settled for the only university that offered a fellowship. Was he too demanding with the kids? Dr. Olaff himself never showed up during the marches. Never apologized. Never admitted the blame. And so, the two of them were locked in a never-ending match of accusation and guilt, loss and neglect. Since Cathy left home, he asked himself whether to continue the marches. But could he do otherwise? He dedicated the last fifteen years to Jane’s memory, and what will remain of her if he stops? His neighbors and the whole town of Crescentville knew his story, the lonely man who shows up every weekend to cry for the woman he loved and to condemn the man who, instead of giving life to a newborn, killed the mother and the baby. Yet the story will die in twenty years, when his energy leaves him. Stan will move to New York or LA and he will see him twice a year, and Cathy will be torn between the love for her brother and her wish to stay in Indiana, next to him. And he himself will become lonelier and grumpier than he is today, after giving up the only thing he fought for. “It is fresh and cold,” the girl said. It was hard for Jared to form her name in his mind. For some obscure reason, most probably to offend him, Dr. Olaff named her Jane. Or maybe it was an admission of culpability? Could it be that this little girl is a tribute for the life the doctor took? Jared looked for a hint in the girl’s face, and anger filled him. How heartless of them, he realized, to name their daughter after the woman Dr. Olaff killed. And have her see the placard announcing his crime every week. And make her offer lemonade to the widower and be turned down. How cruel it is to turn your daughter into a symbol of your mistake. His eyes softened. You are such an unfortunate girl, he thought. “Yes, thank you,” he finally replied and took the glass. The girl looked startled. No wonder, Jared thought, I deviated from the lines we rehearsed in the last five years. She turned and ran away, the front door slamming behind her. Jared enjoyed the cool sweet drink. He could not bring himself to enter the property of Dr. Olaff, so he left the glass next to the gate. Did I betray Jane by drinking their lemonade, he asked himself. Irene’s voice came from behind. “Jared, do you want to join me for lunch?” She stopped next to him, all sweat and panting, her riding uniform tight on her body. “How was the ride?” he asked. “It was gorgeous. There were tons of larkspurs and sunflowers and catchflies. You would have loved it. So, what do you say about lunch? I have chicken pie and mashed potatoes. Tommy texted that he would stay with a friend, so there is plenty of food.” He glanced at his watch. He should keep on marching for two hours, and he had his sandwich in the bag. Mrs. Olaff peeked through the window and came to pick up the empty glass. “Thank you, Mr. Cliff,” she said, nodded, and turned back home. His gaze followed her and then turned to Irene and her high cheek bones. “This is a great idea,” he said. “Give me a minute to pack my stuff.”


Hi, thank you for taking the time to look at my writing. This is the first thing I have written for a very long time due to significant health issues. It is written for a particular purpose, the retirement of the head teacher of my children's school. He has supported me and my children through my health issues and tonight, during a rare quiet moment, the idea of writing a short story for him popped into my head. He won't retire until July so I have plenty of time to redraft and therefore would be grateful for any comments received. Thank you Not the end His hand closed around the handle of his office door. He couldn’t have guessed, if he had tried to, that it would be this moment in particular that would hurl him back to his first ever day, not just as a head teacher, but his very first day teaching. He might have thought it would happen when he woke that morning, full of expectation, relief and some anxiety about the day ahead. He might have thought it would happen in the car, the journey was always a time of quiet and a place where he could think before the ever unraveling chaos of each unpredictable day began. He might have thought it would happen as he sat at the desk in the office that had been his space for the last few years The smell of coffee in the air, surrounded by papers, folders and an egg laying chicken, waiting for the day to begin. But no, it was happening now, as his hand gave the familiar amount of pressure to allow the door to open as his final day as head teacher, his final day as teacher, began. As the memory formed, surfacing in his mind from some deep place, he recreated in an instant the smell of the building. He could see the faces of the people who had welcomed him into the school, blurry as some of them were now, 32 years on. He wondered whether any of them ever thought about how many of them he remembered. Faces or names, sometimes both. Mostly he remembered their stories. And it was with this thought that he realised, something he had known before but had perhaps forgotten, that he was a part of their stories. How much had this played a part in his decision to teach in the first place? It didn’t matter now, of course, what the reasons were. But in thinking about the reasons he chose this career, this path for his life, he was able to conjure images of the story telling, the songs, the expectant faces. He looked at them differently today. Each single face representing the hundreds of children to have come through his door. Each single face a thousand stories, a thousand bleeding knees, a thousand tears turned to first a smile and then, sometimes, some laughter. He could hold that, when he missed it. Sometimes all he could feel was the relief that this day would finally come and his time would be entirely for himself. But it was inevitable that such a large part of his life being gone would leave a vacuum. What a privilege to have such stories, such children, families and colleagues to fill that vacuum with. As for them, they looked at him differently too. Each one wondering if they would be one of the ones he remembered. If they were part of his story, like he was a part of theirs. When your story is a part of the lives of children, then even at the end, it cannot really be the end. So here is where we will leave him, at not the end of his story and at not the end of anyone else’s either.


“Do you think you’ll have kids?” “Ugh and potentially turn into my mom? Probably, nah.” “I mean, you turned out pretty okay.” “That’s still TBD. The effects of forced piano lessons, tutoring, and the deprivation of a social life remain to be seen,” Monica said flatly, accepting her fate. Her mother’s strict control over her life was one of the reasons they were here at Marsling MRT station where Monica could conceivably be perennially “on her way home.” “Okay, don’t judge.” “What?” Sandy’s tone turned confessional, “Once I had a thought that I would have five kids.” “Five?!” “Yeah,” Sandy confirmed with all the confidence of a young woman who had yet to wrap her head around the process of child birthing and rearing. “So, like, the eldest is always in their own category, pseudo-parent and such, kind of close but not close to everyone. And then the younger siblings can pair off so that everyone has a friend in the family.” Monica guffawed, and Sandy smiled back good-naturedly. “That’s bullshit,” Monica countered before softening. “More siblings does not equal less loneliness.” “Coming from someone with no siblings.” “And see?” Nudging Sandy’s arm, Monica smiled, “not lonely.” Sandy smiled too as another train came and left the station. The sun was beginning its descent, turning the sky into a deep orange canvas with the purple of night seeping in at the edges. From her view on the elevated platform, she could see the hawker center across the street start to fill up with the dinner crowd. Men and women claimed tables with little packets of tissue before going to stand in line at their favorite stalls. Drink vendors made their rounds, gripping three to four steins in a single hand without spilling a drop of Tiger Beer. The platform slowly repopulated. Like lemmings, students in uniforms and corporate workers in suits filed neatly off the escalator and into the waiting lines painted onto the floor of the platform. When one line became full, people obediently sought another. There was never a line a person couldn’t join. There was never a wait more than six minutes. Singapore’s orderliness and efficiency could not be beat, and nowhere was that more clear than the mass rapid transit system. Sandy had watched these lines fill and empty, fill and empty like clockwork for the better part of the last hour, dreading the moment when she would join them. Her school uniform would ensure she blended in seamlessly, just another cog in the machine. “I don’t want to go home yet,” Monica said beside Sandy. They sat on the minimalist block placed in the center of the platform. Whether the block was for sitting or decoration, the girls couldn’t say, but it had become their spot every week when they walked from school to the station. “Yeah,” Sandy agreed. “But the homework! When will it ever be done?” She melodramatically threw her hands up in the air. “What good is homework anyway? Like, is writing an essay about chapters 12-18 of Moby Dick really going to help me get a job in the future?” Monica, barely out of high school, was already a cynic. “I don’t know, dude. If you ever find yourself on a whaling excursion in the 19th century, you’ll regret not doing your lit homework.” “Ha. ha. We both know half the class is just going to spark notes the chapter and end up with the same essay anyway.” Sandy grimaced. It was an accurate description of their peers and perhaps that frustrated her more than the educational shortcut itself. Their peers at the international prep school were all ladder climbers and box checkers. Take at least 5 AP classes your junior year? Check. Participate in extracurricular activities? Check? Ensure at least one is a sport, one is an art, one is academic, and one is a charity? Check, check, check, check. Do it all while maintaining a 4.0 grade point average? Check, and thank Spark Notes for the last one. All the requirements cut them into perfect puzzle pieces, shaped with just the right knobs and sockets to fit in the larger picture of hyper competitive, achievement driven, elite college bound 17 year olds. It was exhausting. And friends like Monica--practical, naturally intelligent--gnawed at the edges of Sandy’s spirit. For Monica, school was easy. “Ah, yes, the masses who simply regurgitate the thoughts of other people versus the few who strive for original thought.” Which do you want to be? Sandy didn’t ask. Instead, she deflected to her classmate. “Try-hards like Sarah who you know is going to bring up some obscure line in class and completely derail the whole discussion.” Monica laughed, “Exactly! What a suck up!” Sandy laughed too, masking a deep envy of Sarah whose try-hard tendencies had carried her to intellectual success. “Though I’ll give her credit where it’s due,” Monica mused, unknowingly affirming Sandy’s envy, “her point last week really changed my opinion of the chapter.” “Right! Wasn’t it just profound?” Sandy agreed. Pursing her lips, Monica looked at her sideways. “Sarcasm?” “No, totally serious! I wish I had caught it myself.” The confession hung in the air between the two girls, an admission of effort and failure. The machine of their schooling tolerated neither. Caring was not cool; failure was rare. But at Marsling MRT station, a place between places, caught between the puzzle of school and the weight of familial responsibilities, caring could be given room to breathe. Sandy and Monica could indulge in girlish crushes, hypothesize about the future, and exchange critiques of everything from their teachers to anime. Here, they allowed themselves to want and demand of the world. Over slurped ramen noodles and crispy pandan waffles, Sandy and Monica passed time as if it were limitless. Mountains of homework ignored, chores forgotten, they chatted as the trains came and went. Each time a train pulled up to the station, the girls’ eyes would meet. In two looks, a question was asked and answered amidst a steady stream of free dialogue. A train approached on Monica’s side of the tracks. The sky had melted from orange to purple, and the street lamps flickered on. The universe was telling them to go home, that their sojourn at the station was bordering irresponsible, that their moms would call soon, worried about them missing dinner. Sandy’s brain began to list all the homework assignments she had and how long it would take to complete them. 60 pages of history reading, two hours. French exercises, forty-five minutes. Moby Dick essay... “I kind of want another cup noodle,” Monica said. Her invitation tempted Sandy out of her thoughts. “We could get tom yum flavor this time.” “But what about Melville! Who will write essays of his work now?” Monica melodramatically threw her hands up in the air. Sandy laughed. Monica’s train doors closed and left without her. A new train, Sandy’s train home, approached the station. Grinning mischievously at Monica, Sandy hedged, “We do have a free period tomorrow.” “And there’s always lunch,” Monica added. They grabbed their bags and descended the escalators for their second pre-dinner dinner. Giggling and giddy, the girls relished in their small act of rebellion, rejoiced in their irresponsibility though they both knew they’d pay for it later exchanging texts at 3am about Melville, the Civil Rights Movement, and the physics problem set due tomorrow. On the platform above them, the trains came and went.


We wait. Snow flakes flutter down, like ash from a burning forest. Breath coalesces in the air, swirling and enveloping me. The cheap khaki only comes in two sizes, too big or too small. My own uniform compacts my form, and I struggle for every breath. The cold bites off toes, noses, fingers, and pierces already sloughing lungs. I remember - who was it now? - shouting at me to get up, to man the fire-step. He's not here now, somewhere else. There is no one else. The trench snakes for miles across a diseased land, weaving in and out of the pockmarked landscape. Every now and then, artillery thuds. We can't see where it lands. We have been told to wait, so we do. For king, honour and country, we wait. I chew a stale biscuit, which breaks into thick clumps. Most of the food is gone now, eaten by rats, or men. Or both at the same time. Hunger wracks my body, like a fever. My guts clench and unclench. I remember someone, their name eludes me, who gnawed off his own finger. Got there before the cold did. I have no idea why we are here. Only that if we were not, we'd be disgracing ourselves. Funny thing, patriotism. Sends men into holes in the ground, human excrement up to your thighs; that's on a good day. The only thing that is reasonably dry is our rifle, which protrude like extra limbs, jutting out awkwardly in oilskin cases. I often see an old friend, who only ever has his back to me now, face down, trying to swim in the mire. Doesn't look like much fun. Everyone avoids him as he careers around - sometimes he knocks into the walls of the trench. I yell at him as he passes, tell him to watch where he's going. Everyone else stares at me. With blank, piercing eyes, they shake their heads sullenly. They begin to mutter. I feel something digging uncomfortably into my ribs, right over my heart. It's a piece of paper - a blotched, frayed picture of smiling woman in white, hugged up close to a young, handsome man. Tears streak down my grimy face, passing cuts, bruises, scars. I try to remember who this depicts, but flies away from my stumbling grasp. It's cold. Sometimes, the mire freezes, and we have solid ground to pace along. I see my friends face in the mire, a bellowing laugh on his face. He's enjoying himself now. Then a murmuring begins, and dull thuds shake the earth, disturbing clumps of snow that patters down. Men, before just milling around in the cramped walls, jump up, and yell raucously. A new cloud, otherwise alone in the clear expanse of the sky, drifts towards us. More rain, more soggy biscuits. Someone something over my head, and I fall over, startled and shouting. I want to rip the contraption from my head, but it distorts my vision. I tear at it, but my movements are slow and awkward. I get up, angry at this unnecessary attack. I peer over the barbed wire, cowed by the sudden obscurity of my senses. Shadows approach in the gloom the discoloured cloud. Reinforcements! I wave my arms hysterically and scramble out of the trench to which we have been confine for so long, snagging my legs on the thorns of wire. A red smile grins at me from my leg. I scream louder and louder, and go to say my name, but it catches in my throat, my tongue cloyed by a coppery fluid. I feel warmth spread down my neck, across my chest, painting the picture scarlet. For once, it's warm enough for me to lie down. I crawl back to my friend, see my colleagues make the sign of the cross, a mutter their condolences - but I want to sleep. I close my eyes next to my old friend: now I swim to, but with a smile.


“We are all of us, afraid of the dark” he says it sadly, as though he’s delivering a terminal diagnosis, and in a way, he is. “When we’re kids, yeah,” snorts Philips. Now he’s lazily shaking his head with an economy that makes it all the more striking, “we still are. Every last one of us.” “How do you work that one out?” says Philips, disdain dripping from his words, disdain and the beginnings of aggression. There is a threat here, but it’s pathetic. Philips is showing himself to be that bully-in-waiting and I wish he’d shut up. I dislike conflict, but he’s bringing it and I can see that it will be down to me to shut that stupid mouth of his. I should do it now, but that isn’t how it’s done. Innocent until they prove themselves guilty. Pre-emptive strikes are frowned upon. Even by me. The old man looks up at Philips. Looks into him, then his eyes shift a little and he’s looking through him as though there isn’t much of value in Philips. That there is a damning look and Philips knows it. He bristles, but he doesn’t know what to say, only that he’s not comfortable with the way the old man looks at him and he wants it to stop. Philips has a need to fill the silence and change the old man’s focus, “it’s only a blackout. What’s with all the drama and tall stories?” There is something like pleading in his voice. He wants the old man to go easy on him. He doesn’t think he’s being fair. Since when did fair come into it? The old man sighs and an air of disappointment fills the room, he should not have to say this, in saying it, he damns us. He damns us all. We are not ready, I know that in this very moment. Perhaps we never were. “This isn’t just a blackout that’s coming. The lights aren’t going to come back on. Not ever. There is a darkness within us. Always has been. Forget the wheel, or whatever other invention people bandy about as the most important development in our history, fire was the transformative technological innovation in our evolution. Fire gave us warmth and light. Respite from the unending darkness. When we stepped out of the darkness, we changed for the better. Problem is, we never did anything about our darkness and it has lain in wait for us ever since. We are afraid of the dark because it speaks to our darkness, and when it speaks, we feel it. We feel it and we know. ” “We know what, old man?” says Philips flippantly. I should punch him in that dumb mouth of his, but I don’t. I want to hear more from the old man and Philips serves a purpose right now. He’s asked the dumb question I wanted to, but was never going to ask. “Can’t you feel it?” asks the old man, he looks around the room as though there is something in here with us, something other than his sorrowful disappointment, “if you give yourself a moment. Cease attending to the constant noise we’ve created in an attempt to deny and ignore our very selves, you will hear it. If you look down into your selves, you will see a darkness that goes all the way down into hell itself.” “This is utter cobblers!” cries Philips, “we’re talking about a blackout, not the end of bloody days!” “There’s that noise,” says the old man calmly, as though he’s teaching a class of five year olds, “you’d rather make some noise than acknowledge how close we all are to that dark half. That all we have ever done is turn our back on that darkness of ours. Ignored our true nature and lived a charade that is now coming to an end.” Philips scowls at the man and for all the world looks like that petulant five year old. The again, I doubt he’s made it to five. Right now, he seems more like a grumpy and petulant two year old slinging toys like they were his own excrement. Despite his poor behaviour, I want to side with Philips and that proves the old man’s point. I’m in denial and I don’t have the guts to face the truth. We’ve all been in denial and pretended everything was OK for far too long, and now it is too late. I want to ask him all the same. I want to know what it is that we can do, but this question of mine remains unspoken. I already know the answer. There is nothing we can do. It is too late. Far too late. Silence falls over us then. Each of us forming questions and half thoughts then pushing them away and down. There is nothing of use available to us now. All I feel is a shedding of an invisible skin. The armour of civilisation has turned to dust and now I am red raw and vulnerable. I smell of blood and fear and my very existence is an open invitation for the evil that is coming. I hope it is not going to be painful, but my hope is weak and futile. With a force of will, I consider what it is that awaits us and I face my cowardice. There are worse things than death. Death would be an escape from what is coming. Even a painful death would be preferable to the dark wave of change and what it will bestow upon us. That darkness brings chaos, an instantaneous undoing of all that we built over thousands of years. The dark is our undoing and I can already feel myself unravelling. I really can feel it right now, some of what the old man has told us. His words have summoned my darkness forth and I resent him for that. Now it is not Philips I want to punish, it is him. I swallow this down and I shudder. I have experienced a small taste of what is to come. I can smell it on the wind and I know what is coming with a growing certainty that threatens to completely undo me. So, I fight. I make fists with my hands and I stick with what I know, and I hold it together. I hold it at bay. I do what I have always done, what we have always done, since we huddled over the fire and waited out the long, dark, bitter nights. The darkness crowding in and threatening to take everything from us as we cowered from it and held on in the hope that the sun would rise before we fell prey to the most fearsome of all predators. “This really is the end for us, isn’t it?” the words escape my mouth before I know what it is that I am saying. Thought and feeling made all the more real for them having been said. The old man smiles. It should be inappropriate, but I feel gratitude for both the sight and the warmth of it, “we also fear change. An end heralds a beginning.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” Philips asks. We exchange a look, the old man and I. I know at least some of his meaning and it is cold comfort, but it is at least something. I find that I do not want the coward’s escape of death, instead, I want to see this thing through. Come what may, I want to be a part of what is next. Philips persists, “no! Tell me what you mean! All these ramblings and your mumbo jumbo, it’s all getting on my bloody nerves, you old git!” I’m up on my feet before I know what I am doing, and I’m grabbling Philips’ throat and pinning him against the wall before he can react. I stare into his eyes and all I see is fear. Fear and cowardice. Whether it’s mine, or his, I can’t tell. “Shut up.” That is all I say. The sound of those two words is alien to me. I am broadcasting on another frequency and there is no recognition to be had here, and that casts me adrift on the first waves of the dark tide that will very soon consume us all. So soon? I thought we had longer. I wanted longer. We always want longer, and we are never ready. We go unwillingly into that dark night. My fear is displaced by an overwhelming sadness. I feel the darkness stirring and I can no longer separate the darkness without, from that darkness within. Everything is bleeding into one and I feel it rising up. Counter to everything, I feel that upward movement and an inexplicable elation. I am with the part of me that I have always considered to be the entirety of who and what I am. Now I know how wrong I was. This part of me has had its day and now it is leaving. It rises, only so it can fall, and it will fall eternally. That well of darkness is infinite. That is the hell that awaits us. The hell that has stalked us all of our days. I turn to the old man and we both smile, but this time I see his smile and it does not warm me. It is cold and it is hungry, as are his eyes. His lips move further upwards and reveal teeth that are a threat. I feel my detached response and what frightens me the most is that this does not frighten me. It excites me. I am being freed and there will be no rules. Only me and the darkness. I doubt there will be much of me left after this eternal night begins. Then I understand. I want this. I have always wanted this. Everything before this has been a lie. This is not who I am, because there is no who . This is what I am. This is my nature, and I am returning to it. I am returning to the darkness. There is only the darkness. There has only ever been the darkness. It indulged us. It allowed us to play in the light for a short while, now it is reclaiming its own. This is when the lights go out for the very last time and the darkness finally swoops back into its rightful dominion. The lights go out across the globe, and that is then the light goes out in each and every one of us. This is when the light goes out of me, and this is when the first of the screaming starts. I think some of the screams are mine. It’s so difficult to tell. It’s even more difficult to care.