The roaring of the crowd filled the stadium as the tall oak doors, worn and torn by hundreds of centuries of battle. The Trials were starting. A new Commandment was needed. The doors open to a large stadium with barbed wire at the top where the edge meets the stands. The smell of blood and rust filled the air. My father stood in the stands at the top in a large suite with almost unlimited wine and mead. "Welcome all to The Trials," my father stood up and announced, his voice was booming, "As you may know, we are in need of a new member of the Ten Commandments. These Trials will determine who will fill that role. The first Trial is trial by combat. The first round is my daughter, Lauren," the crowd roared and cheered as I raised my fist, " Against the most dangerous foe in all of Hell and The Demon Realm, The Brooded Wendigo King." The door on the other side of the stadium opened slowly as a loud guttural roar resonated in my very soul. A large beast came out from the door. It was very tall, with lanky arms that reached the waist of its twenty feet frame. Its antlers were very dark, almost black in color and they were really thin. It had pale skin that was bone white with no lips but a mouth filled with razor sharp teeth. They were perfect hunting machines. "Let the Trials begin," my father announced before sitting down. It charged unnaturally fast. I was armed with my Demon powers and a small knife. I knew I had to take this thing out quickly. I rolled to the side as it stopped a few feet behind me. I threw a ball of hellfire at the back of its neck. It screamed and turned to face me, I smiled as I released my Demon Mark, letting my emotions take over. It charged again and tried to swipe at my head, a whirlwind of darkness encompassed it as I clenched my fist. It got an arm out and swiped at my face, hitting me. It sent me into a wall maybe thirty feet away from the center. I slammed into the wall, hearing bones snap and crack, blood came from the back of my head and my nose. It broke out of the whirlwind of darkness, sniffing the air for its victim. When it smelled me, I got up. "Damn it, it's strong," I thought as I got started to black out, feeling an ancient power come out. I looked at the thing and focused on it as I dashed up to it, hitting it hard in its ribs. It screamed and tried to scratch at my head, but I dodged out of pure instinct. I was shocked at what I just did, my body acted on its own. A fire engulfed my hand and set his entire right side on fire. It roared in pain as I took advantage of it, taking my knife into its throat. I slit its throat, kicking off its body to land in front of it. It was screaming and roaring in agony as I threw one last fireball at its left side. It roared one last time as it went to its knees, falling over dead with a thud. I was panting and came to, realizing what I did. The crowd was roaring and cheering as my father was in awe at my power. "Lauren goes onto the next round." I went back to the preparation area where the other Demons were waiting to fight. A royal guard came down and smiled, "Your father requested your presence." I smile and follow the royal guard as my wounds slowly heal. It took a few minutes to get to my father's suite. It had gold and maroon everywhere. Next to him was a bottle of wine half empty. He was sitting at his throne with a hooded figure next to him, whispering to him. He had dark robes black in color and he had a large sword on his hip, it was maybe seven feet long compared to his tall frame. His skin was light but tanned as the tip of his nose and the tip of his lips were visible under his hood. His eyes were one thing that stood out, they were dark red like congealed blood. They were also slightly silver as well as his eyes switched color. I couldn't hear what they were talking about as I bowed in front of the throne silently. It took a second as my father looked towards me and smiled. "Lauren, thank you for joining me," he gestured towards the man, "This is a friend of mine, Mael.” The man smiled and bowed, "It is my pleasure to serve you," his voice had a lot of bass. "It's nice to meet you. Now father, what did you need?" I asked as I stood up. "You did a really good job. I'm proud of you." "Thank you, father," I say, knowing that he doesn't mean it. "Rest easy, your next Trial will be harder," he stood up and smiled, going to my left side and putting his right hand on my left shoulder. I slapped it off and went to the preparation area, a little pissed that he would have the audacity to say he was proud. He's only proud if I do well in battle. "Come on, you pathetic waste of space! Get your ass up!" he often told me during training, "You know you will never be like your brothers." I clenched my fist with wrath as my Demon Mark was showing brightly, the unholy mark pulsed on my forehead in tandem with my heartbeat. "I will become the next Queen," I thought to myself. The next match was about to start. Another Demon against a Seven Deadly Sin member, a clear winner. The match began with the Demon charging at the Seven Deadly Sin, Wrath, as she smiled. Wrath stood there and waited as the Demon charged. She was armed with nothing and the Demon was armed with a spear. She activated her Demon Mark, sending a pressure wave to the Demon's chest. It left a hole six inches wide. The Demon gasped, grabbing his chest. "Damn you!" the Demon yelled and charged. Wrath smiled bigger, waiting for them to get close before slapping their head clean off. She used the spear to disembowel them. Black blood was pouring out as their organs started to fall out. Their small intestine was the first one to fall on the sandy arena floor, his large intestine not long after. The crowd roared in excitement. She bowed and went to her side of the arena. A day passed since the first set of The Trials. Out of the nearly fifty participants, only a handful remain. My father stood up from his throne and smiled, putting his goblet down on a silver platter, "Ladies and gentlemen of The Demon Realm, this is the second Trial. The Trial of Endurance. This will test your endurance and your ability to think on your feet. You will be finding sets of daggers with a dragon handle in less than fifteen minutes in the Blood Forest of The Demon Realm. While you're searching, you will be hunted by each other, monsters, and Wendigos. There will be only two sets of three daggers, so only two can come back. Now, you will be armed with nothing but your powers." While my father was explaining the Trial, Wrath came up to me and she smiled at me. It was unusual for her to smile. She almost never smiled in a sweet way like she did. "Lauren, you know that you will never be as powerful as your brothers. You're a disgrace to the Demon race. Your fight with the Wendigo King was lucky. Your entire existence was luck," She bluntly told me I said nothing as searing anger rose just below the surface. "You are nothing but a disappointment to your parents. They only kept you around to kill you off in The Trials." I stayed silent, sighing a little as the anger rose. A member of the Commandments fired a pillar of lightning in the air to signal the start. We start running to the forest, the smell of blood overpowering our enhanced senses. As we left, the sound of distant roars came out as the Wendigos were released. Our blood ran cold, motivating us to run faster. The forest was filled with trees with red leaves, the smell of iron and death filled the forest. I looked around frantically, but determined to prove her wrong. "Dad, you will see that I deserve the spot," I thought to myself, "I will prove him wrong." When the smell of iron was the strongest, it clouded my mind like I was in a fog. My body moved on its own to a dagger nearby. I created wings from darkness and flapped up in the air as squawk heard. They were Brooded Demons, a flying Demon who is guided by the desire to kill all who the summoner told it to. "Shit," I whisper to myself as I start to fly faster towards somewhere. One of the Demons caught me by the leg, grabbing it and biting deep into my calf. I screamed and turned around, using a fireball and throwing it at its shoulder area, expecting it to move. It stayed in its current position and caught up. I had to use a Hell Strom, clutching my fist and trapping the pursuer in a whirlwind of Hell energy. I took advantage of its idleness to gain distance on it, going down to the thick canopy of red leaves and blood rivers. I perched myself on a branch in the canopy to address the bite. I looked down at it and winced, the outer parts of the outline were black. It looked like the skin was rotting. I took off my shirt and tied it up like a tourniquet. While I was tying my bite, I heard screams and cries for help in the background. Not everyone is fit for The Trials. The screams of the other Demons filled the air as the skin near my calf began to rot away. I had to move fast. I let my instincts take over to find the next dagger. The next dagger was about 300 meters away on the banks of a blood river, a Demon was dead clutching it. I smiled as I took it. The smell of iron was overpowering. I quickly covered my nose. While I was flying away to the next dagger. I passed another Demon with a dagger. I stopped dead in my tracks as the Demon did. They turned to me and looked at me in absolute fear. "Hand it over. You're weak anyway," I tell them They nodded and handed me the dagger. I sliced off their head quickly, smiling a little. When the time was up, it was just me and Wrath. We were given rudimentary weapons, swords and spears and shields. I was given a large spear and shield. She was given nothing. She grinned ear to ear, "Surprising you survived. I assumed you died. That was just out of luck." My father stood up and cleared his throat, "Well, this is the final Trial. The Final Trial of Combat. In this fight, you aren't allowed to use your powers. Only the weapons provided and fists. This will decide who is worthy of the Commandment of Love. Let the battle begin!" At that moment, she dashed towards me and almost immediately knocked me off balance. I let the ancient power take over, dodging out of instinct. She didn't react and tried to end the fight immediately by snapping my neck. He put me into a headlock. I struggled as much as I could until I let my anger take over, I breathed in and took a chunk from her arm. She screamed, letting me go. I took advantage of it and knocked her off her feat. I let rage and hatred take over, pinning her to the ground. I unleashed a fury of blows on her face, laughing a little to myself. "I'm a disgrace?! You are nothing more than shit on my boot! You know nothing of my power! I am the daughter of the Demon King and heir to the throne. You're nothing!" I yelled and screamed as she begged for mercy. "Please! Stop!" she begged as she was pounded into paste. I stopped and smiled a little, standing tall, "Those who ask for mercy are too weak to deserve it," I finally slammed my foot into her head, splitting it into multiple pieces. I panted as my arms burned and felt like they weighed a ton. The crowd roared in applause. "The winner is Lauren," My father smiled as I spit on her body. Several hours later in my father's quarters He smiled as he held an orb the size of his palm. It had his crest on its surface. "With your win, you will be the leader of the Ten Commandments. Do you swear that you will lead the Commandments as best as you can and be loyal to me?" I nodded, "I do," I bowed a little. "Ten they are in good hands," he pushed the orb into my chest. The orb absorbed into my body and immediately felt the power. It made me feel worthy, powerful, and able.


I hang amongst my peers waiting to be chosen. I’ve been here the longest compared to the others. I’ve seen many come and go out of this place, but for whatever reason, I remain. The others come in all shapes, sizes, colors, attitudes, & styles. It’s hard not to compare yourself to the rest. The newer additions seem to bring more of a smile to her face when her eyes land on them, sometimes that makes me feel like my age. The majority that have been around for the past few years haven’t been touched, looked at, or have been outside these four walls in some time. I can feel their angst, usually around the five year mark, once you leave, you never return. No one is completely sure what happens or where they go, but I hear all the rumors. Usually when I get chosen, she has a certain look on her face. It is usually one of a few emotions, When she's frustrated, when she’s in a rush, after a few others have been chosen and brought back, or a sigh of relief. I see her reflection in the mirror once she lays me on the bed, and it brings me a sense of calm knowing I get to see the world again and help her navigate the ups and downs of the days we spend together. She’s my best friend. I can’t speak for her, but I think she would feel the same way. We met at the thrift store over on 5th & Main.. We spotted each other in a crowded room, she thought she didn’t need me at first, but boy was she wrong. We became really close once we started spending more time together. We have been through so much in the last decade I was there during her last semester at school and needed to pass that final exam. We stayed up for three days straight. I don’t think she showered once. I stood by when that man paid for her meal when she realized she didn’t have enough cash in her wallet, and the next day she finally asked for that raise at work. There was a time when she bragged about me to her cousin Mary, and Mary said she wished she had something like me in her life. I don’t think they would even remember that, but I sure do. I had the perfect view when she met her now husband for the first time down at ‘The Gold Room’s’ happy hour. I felt her shake when he touched the small of her back. I helped pick out the color for their front door on their first home as a married couple, we went back and forth for hours, until we decided on ‘Hathaway Peach.’ It really was a nice touch. I held her children and watched them grow, but once they hit a certain age, she didn’t reach out to me as much as she used to. I don’t think it was anything personal, I mean, we were getting older and sometimes people grow apart from you for whatever reason, their interests and taste changes. I guess she wasn't into the same old things anymore, we didn’t spend nearly as much time together the past few years, until her daughter asked about me. The story goes that her and her daughter were looking through old photos, and over and over again, there I was. Her daughter asked if I still looked the same and if I was still around. Her daughter's eyes lit up when I entered the room. She said I was a perfect fit for the party next weekend, the boy she’s been crushing on will be there. I may be worn down and have seen better days, but I was always there when she needed me. And now I get to watch her daughter become a woman. She winked at me when her daughter took me with her to her room, I wonder if she still thinks about me..


"Bobby can't talk." I answer the theater ticket cashier, as Bobby's father accepted the tickets, re-pocketing his wallet. The cashier smiles down at Bobby, "Well, *Coco* is beautiful, he should enjoy the movie either way." We turn for the theater entrance and I think to myself, strictly speaking, that's not true. At five years old, Bobby *can* talk. He just never does. We've taken him to, I've lost count how many doctors, to find out what's wrong. Physically his voice is fine. He has no special irritations, or sensitivities. He reacts appropriately to all sounds and lights, and doesn't seem overly disturbed by anything. His hearing is fine. The precious few times he utters a word, it's clear, and seems to cause no physical pain. Dozens of tests later, he's not *on the spectrum*. He follows instructions to put on clothes, or pick up toys, get in the car, or to pass the salt. He tests physically healthy and typical in every other way. He just won't speak. It's all head nods, shakes, and pointing. We were at the grocery a few weeks ago picking up supplies before the Superbowl, when we where heading for the check-out lane, and Bobby began pointing. Guiding me back to the Chips and Salsa lane. Even to the particular brand his father likes. I was frazzled earlier and left it off the shopping list. But he remembered. He will answer the phone if his father and I are too far away, but, if it's someone he knows, of course, he just holds it and listens. His *memaw* will talk to him, assuming I'm on the way. If it's someone else, and he's having a good day, they might get the single word “Wait.” until his father or I can reach the phone. Maybe, or maybe they just get silence. His first and longest burst was just over six months ago, back in July, when he had a bad cold, and we visited Dr. Gruman his pediatrician, that's routed us through all the other “experts” to try and help him. After the examination was over, Dr. Gruman handed me a prescription for some cough medicine and discussed saline spray instructions to help clear his sinuses. Bobby blurted out, “Dr. Gruman, if someone were sick and I asked, would you help them?” Now we were the speechless ones. It was the most he'd said in one string since he'd been born. It wasn't even clear until that moment that he could form a complete sentence. “Yes, Bobby. If someone were sick, I'd help them. Is there something wrong with you besides the cold?” Dr. Gruman asks. Bobby shakes his head no, and looks to the woman on his right. “Nurse Anna, if someone were sick and I asked, would you help them?” “Yes, Bobby. I would.” Anna replies softly. “Nurse Anna”??? (How the hell does he know her name? She's not wearing a name tag, and I didn't even know her name. I've seen her, but she only just started here a few months ago and this was the first time we'd actually met her assisting Dr. Gruman.) And that was that. Less than five or six single words since that July burst just over half a year ago. The movie is over. Bobby was enthralled, and silent, as predicted. We're driving back home, his father says “We need bread for tomorrow.” And pulls into a convenience store near home. When the car stopped, before his father could open the door, Bobby said: "I need a pen and paper." I look at his father, dig through my purse, handing both to Bobby. He wrote, so slowly and carefully, I began to think he had forgotten about us, and was drawing something to pass the time. A minute later, when he handed it back, the paper read: Pick 3 2 5 6 Pick 4 8 4 2 3 MaxBall $3 15 22 45 56 59 22 His father and I looked at the paper, dumbfounded. Sure, he watches TV, and listens to everyone, but with no response back, it's never clear what is and isn't registering for him. So, he could know about the lottery. I guess. Bobby's father asks, teasing with a big smile, “Are we going to win the Lottery?” Silently, Bobby shakes his head no, looking out the car window to the right. I shrug my shoulders, “It'll only be $5, he never asks for anything.” When his father is out the door, Bobby says “Phone.” Holding out his hand. I know he's watched closely as I dialed his grandparents a few times, but he's never used the cell phone himself. If you don't speak, and can't spell to text yet, why would you? A few slow, careful button presses later, “Dr. Gruman, this is Bobby. Someone is sick, will you help?” Bobby pauses to listen. “Can you call Nurse Anna, and ask her to come, and have her boyfriend drive her to your office?” Bobby asks. Then the phone is hung up, back in my hand. No explanation. His father is back with the bread and tickets. Hands the tickets to Bobby's waiting hand. In a flourish that would do Houdini proud, Bobby's popped the Child Seat latches, is out the door heading right. As I call out for him, scramble to unbuckle my own seat belt, and follow. Before I can reach him, Bobby knocks on the window of a small older brown sedan car, two empty spaces away, seemingly filled to the brim inside with luggage and boxes. The mother focused on her daughter in the back seat, spins around startled. She starts the car to roll down window. "Do you need me to move?" She asks a bit panicked. "This one will be $600. This one will be $100,000" handing her the Pick 3 and MaxBall tickets. “Dr. Gruman will meet us at his office. Follow the blue car.” Bobby says pointing to our car. Without waiting for a response, he's headed back to our car. In shock, I turn back to the woman. “Bobby never speaks. Ever. He just called Dr. Gruman our pediatrician and asked him to meet us at his office. I didn't even know he could use the phone. I don't know what's . . .” Looking at her daughter, a girl about Bobby's age, with shoulder length blonde angel fine hair, in the back seat coughing. I ask “Is your daughter sick?” The woman says, “I thought Angela just had a cold, but now she's starting a fever.” Holding a thermometer up. “Well”, looking at Bobby, then back at the woman, I shrug, “follow us.” I head back to the car and re-seat Bobby. We arrive as Dr. Gruman is opening the office, turning on the lights for Nurse Anna and a man, presumably her boyfriend. I recap briefly what happened, Dr. Gruman and Anna take Angela and her mother into one of the open exam rooms. Bobby hands the remaining Pick 4 to Nurse Anna's boyfriend, who, based on the oil stained “Roger” name tagged shirt, must be some sort of mechanic. “This will be worth $4000. Her mom needs a better car. Can you take her old car and the ticket and find them a better one?” Bobby asks. Confused, Roger looks at all of us, accepts the ticket, saying slowly to Bobby, “Sure. I can do that.” Bobby hasn't started Kinder-garden, and, with the lack of speaking, and few neighborhood kids, he's met precious few children to begin with. I look at Bobby and ask, “Do you know the little girl?” Bobby shakes his head no. He watches them through the open doorway of the exam room. As if he's seeing them a million miles away. Bobby says: “She'll have a baby one day. A son.” “He'll grow up to be a special soldier. In charge of ten men and women. A bad man will make a bomb and try to kill everyone in the city. Her son will have to make a choice. To have the time to do what needs to be done to stop the bad man, he'll have to sacrifice his friends and himself. If he flies away, his team, that he's cared for and worked with for years, will be saved. If he locks them in, and does what needs to be done, they will all die, including himself, but the city will be saved.” Bobby's father kneels beside his chair and asks, "What will the man choose to do?" "I can't see." says Bobby. "It's too close to me." Looking at Angela and back at Bobby, "Because you know the little girl now?", his father asks. "No." Bobby says. "Because he'll be my son too." We all look around at each other, not knowing what to say or do. A minute of silence later, Bobby looks at his father and me and says, “Everything is clearer now.” Bobby looks to his father, then to Angela in the next room, "I know. You didn't tell me yet, but you got a new job and we're moving closer to *memaw*. Doesn't matter. I'll meet Angela again one day. At the end of school, or just after." Dr. Gruman and Nurse Anna come out of the exam room. “Well, the swab says Angela has the flu. But her lungs are just clear enough. And the temperature's still on the low end of high. She'll be just fine. I'm here, and we were closed tomorrow anyway. They can just sleep here tonight.” Dr. Gruman continues, “It seems Angela's mother is a nurse who recently lost her husband to cancer, along with her house in the process, from all the bills. And is looking for a job. Hearing that, Nurse Anna has now informed me that Roger proposed yesterday and she will be leaving in a month. They are moving back to his home town where he's to be head mechanic at a new dealership. So it seems I will soon have an opening to fill.” Bobby hops down off the chair he was in. Looking up at me, Bobby asks, "Can we go home now Mommy? I'm tired." "Yes, Bobby.” Bending over to take his face in my hands and kissing my beautiful boy’s forehead. “We can go home now.


December 2nd, 2022 I swear to god I was woken up by the Red Alert siren from a Shatner Star Trek movie. One of my little quirks, I’m not a good waker-upper. You catch me in the middle of my sleep and whatever dream I was having becomes the initial conditions on reality, and it takes a minute before 1+1=2 again. The alert stops. I don’t know exactly how long it was playing, five seconds, ten seconds, depends on how long it took to wake me up in the first place. Orion’s alarm for radiation was the Apollo 13, airplane cockpit, shrill buzzy kind of thing. But there’s no going back to sleep after something like that, and if for no other reason than to make sure I’m not crazy I “get up” (and by the way if you think it’s hard to get your day started when you climb out of bed, walk over to your coffee machine, and pour yourself a warm cup, you can’t even imagine what it feels like when you’re always, always, just peacefully floating wherever you are, so comfy, so warm, so easy to just close your eyes... And not a drop of coffee aboard). “Mark, am I going crazy? I thought I just heard an alarm,” I said, no need to tell him what alarm. By the way, do you think Starfleet would change their alarm sound every few decades? Or like the captain of every ship gets to pick from a list like a phone ring tone? “Not going crazy Alex, that shouldn’t have happened, and we fixed it on our end. Nothing to worry about.” I’ve only got ten Skor bars left, and I’m really hungry. Eat one now and be slightly less hungry all day? Or save it for dinner and fall asleep with a not-totally-empty stomach? Ahh the glorious choices of space travel. I eat the Skor bar. Future Alex can be angry with me; he usually is. Speaking of things future Alex is going to be angry with me about. Aside from another exciting day of septuple checking valves and gauges, I’m going to write Jess a letter. I know what you’re thinking: ‘Oh Alex no, don’t write a pathetic letter to your ex trying to win her back!’ Don’t worry! This one is going to be classy! Red Alert! Only the first couple of tones play, and then it’s gone again. “Mark, just had it go off again. What’s up?” “Yeah...” he draws the word out, “we’re working that, Alex. Nothing you need to worry about. This one’s a Charlie problem, you’re fine.” Why is the flight director working a problem on the ground that I don’t need to worry about? Why does a non-standard alarm keep going off? Why isn’t Mark telling me about some error in the ship’s food rehydration system or something bonkers like that? You know what I hate? Rhetorical questions when my life is on the line. I give the old instrument panel a once over. Nothing red and blinking leaps out at me. So that’s good. The radio controls do have a caution warning. It’s one of those triangles made of three pieces of string with an exclamation mark inside it, and then X2 besides that. Just a small icon at the top of the display. Then it flashes clear. That’s weird. So, it’s some kind of radio problem, but I can talk to Mark just fine. Just a technical error? But why would a radio sub-system error play the Star Trek red alert sound? Interesting thing about rhetorical questions: sometimes they have an answer. Why would a NASA engineer, someone very much like me, program in a Star Trek Red Alert sound? Answer: They thought it would be funny. No way that went through an official approval. This has to be something buried so deep in the radio system’s code that no one even bothered to test it out. A problem that even NASA thought wouldn’t come up, and a problem that the engineer working on it thought was funny. Back to the bible I guess. If you’ve never seen an index that has three library-dictionary-style pages for “radio” then you’re really missing out in life. No one is ever checking manuals in Star Trek. No one could possibly know this stupid book back to front. You always like to imagine astronauts more like the swash buckling heroes of sea stories, but this whole experience feels more like playing the world’s most complicated board game - with a gun to your head. Can you imagine what the checklists for the Enterprise would look like? Millions of pages. Yet no one is ever checking manuals. The alarm goes off again! This time though I look up in time to see a dialogue box pop up on the radio LCD “Incoming Distress...” and it’s gone, alarm squelched by NASA. A caution triangle appears on the LCD screen, and a second later it blinks away. Someone down on the ground really has their finger on the trigger. Radio plus Distress, oh mighty index of the ship, what wisdom can you bestow upon this lowly stow-away? Page 3,145. Nice. Well, this is a kick in the stomach. “Mark, why is the Orion receiving distress calls?” There’s a very long five minute’s wait. Always pay attention to pauses. They say something. If the system had a screw loose and was throwing off random incorrect warnings, Mark would have happily spent an hour talking my ear off about it. That he needed so long to figure out what to say meant it wasn’t that, which meant it was a real distress call and NASA was trying to figure out how to tell me about it. “Hey Alex, sorry for the delay,” Mark’s voice came back - finally. “Not a problem, as long as you tell me what’s up.” I can feel him sigh over the radio. “A SpaceX launch for the ISS had a chunk of space debris take out an engine. The crew saved the ship - minor miracle there, but they’re not going to be able to get to the ISS, and it doesn’t look like they’re going to be able to perform the braking burn needed for re-entry.” “So, they’re stuck?” “We don’t know that yet. They’ve got resupplies for the ISS but would have to do a spacewalk to get the oxygen tanks in their hold, and then they’re not the same fittings for their own systems. Their orbit isn’t great either but, depending on exactly how much drag they pick up, they could last as long as a month up there. We’re working with SpaceX, the ESA, even the Chinese space agency, and we think we can put together a rescue mission.” Alright, so why are they calling me? “Alright, so why are they calling me?” Long silence. “A month is on the very optimistic side of how long they have until their orbit degrades, on the very optimistic side of how long it would take to put together a rescue, and on the very optimistic side of how long they can last with the consumables they have.” “And I assume they think I could help them. So why don’t we?” “About a dozen reasons. The biggest one though is that we don’t have the fuel. Between making up for correction burns when the computers went down, and what the radiation storm cost us, you’re running very lean. To meet up with them, and transfer the crew over, would take more fuel than you have.” “You told them that, and they’re still calling.” “They have an idea that pulls off the intercept, on paper, but first it would bring you below safety margins for re-entry, still technically above the red line, but we’re talking about your fuel tanks going dry and using up the majority of what’s left over in the piping. Second there’d be no way around you doing some manual flying. You’d be making the intercept with them in space suits drifting out to you. Radar and video are just not accurate enough to handle that.” “But that means if you so much as tap your orientation controls one too many times you won’t have enough fuel to re-enter. Also, their plan has them breathing fumes by the time they get to you. It’s a four person crew, and they won’t have time to cycle Orion’s airlock four times. You’d have to depressurize Orion, leave both inner and outer airlock doors open, and fly the ship like that for the whole intercept. Plus, your flight suit wasn’t great before, and having duct taped it up won’t have done it any favors.” Can I be honest here? I’ve always been a bit of a fan of bad-ass last words. Voltaire was getting his head cut off for blasphemy and on the execution block they asked him if he renounced Satan and all his evils. Voltaire said, “Now’s not the time to be making enemies.” How much of the bad-assery of famous quotes would be lost if you could hear their voices shaking as they said them? Because Christ, just objectively this was the coolest thing I’d ever said in my life, but I could barely get the words out. Come to think of it, Neil Armstrong had his own moment of performance anxiety in front of a live audience. Maybe history is lessened by having video evidence. “Are you going to help me, or am I doing this on my own?” \*\*\*\*\*\*\* I’m Nathan H. Green, a science-fiction writer with a degree in aerospace engineering, and I’m going to be doing daily semi-fictional stories tracking the Artemis I mission. You can follow along through my reddit (u/authornathanhgreen). Artemis I Has A Stowaway is a work of semi-fiction. All incidents, events, dialogue and sentiments (which are not part of the mission’s official history), are entirely fictional. Where real historical figures appear, the situations, incidents, sentiments, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events, personality, disposition, or attitudes of the real person, nor to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. Save the above, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. © 2022 Nathan H.


The kitchen is filled with the aroma of cooking. Faye hums as she bustles around the kitchen, preparing for the dinner. A stew bubbles on the stove, and she can see chunks of meat and vegetable bobbing in the pot. Faye slowly upends a mortar over the stew, letting a fine white powder fall into the pot. Faye stirs the pot, making sure no residue is visible, and covers it with the lid. She settles down at the kitchen table and sips a glass of wine. And she goes over in her mind, once again, how she will kill her husband. Before he kills her first. When she registers the key turning in the lock, Faye has set the food on the table, placed a set of burning candles, and is on her fourth glass of wine. “You’re late,” she says to Josh, who manages to looks slightly abashed. “I bought you this,” he says, holding up a white cardboard box embroidered with golden decorations from behind his back. “Almond mille feuille, your favourite. I have just the one though. The guy in front had to have five.” He smiles, and for an instant Faye is reminded of why she fell in love with him years ago. She accepts the box wordlessly, and deposits it on the countertop behind her. “Let’s eat,” Faye says, motioning for Josh to sit down at the table. As she lifts the lid off the pot, he widens his eyes at the stew. “This is new.” He doesn’t seem to recognize the dish. Faye can see beads of perspiration on his forehead, illuminated by the candlelight. The serrated edge of the knife gleams as Faye slices the loaf of bread. She doles out chunks to Josh, who dips them in the stew and savors the taste. Faye watches him nervously, but his face reveals nothing. “It’s good,” he says, mouth full. She watches him eat, waiting for a chance. The timing must be perfect: not a moment early, not a moment late. After what seems like an eternity, Faye takes a deep breath and says, “Does the stew taste strange?” Josh stops, stares at her. “Strange?” he echoes, puzzlement evident on his face. She forges on, “Do you recognize this dish?” He looks at her, seemingly perplexed. “You made it for me, a couple of weeks ago.” Faye notices a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. “You didn’t eat it though, did you?” he asks. “You said you felt sick.” “Yes.” Faye remembers the first time Josh ever cooked for her, over the five years they have known each other. She had been out for groceries, less than an hour, and when she came back Josh had made dinner. That should be no cause for concern, if he hadn’t been so insistent that she eat it, or if she hadn’t discovered by chance the box of rat poison in the trash. It had been at least half full just the day before. “I know what you did, Josh.” “And what did I do exactly?” He is angry now: crushing the bread in his grip. Josh takes a deep breath, “Have you taken today’s pills, Faye?” Of course. She has expected this question, expected his efforts to cast doubt on her. That was Josh’s plan all along, to make her believe she was insane and could not be trusted. “No. Of course not.” “Jesus, Faye,” Josh exclaims, running his hands through his hair, “You should have listened to Dr. Caldwell; he must have good reason.” Psychiatrists were people too, they could be paid off just as easily as the rest of them. Faye tears off a piece of bread and chews it, almost enjoying the suspense and anger Josh radiates. “I know how to use the Internet, Josh. Antipsychotics? Seriously?” “We’ve been over this. You *need* them, to-” “To *what*?” Faye’s voice comes out as a snarl, reverberating through their kitchen. Josh recoils. She sits down, not even noticing she has stood up. “I *know* what those pills are for. I’m supposed to be crazy, supposed to be unstable, no one is supposed to believe a word I say.” “God,” Josh exclaims, moving over to the cupboard and opens it, withdrawing a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass. He pours a cup and downs it in a gulp, then fills the glass with another. Faye swears there is a glint of a tear in his eye. “You really are messed up.” It has all gone wrong. Faye expected anger, confrontation, even a fight, which would make it easier for her. Instead, Josh says, “I’ll stay out of the house tonight, find a hotel. We can see Dr. Caldwell in the morning, he’ll help you.” Placing the whiskey glass on the table, he turns to leave. No. It can’t end like this. Faye stands up silently, takes a step forward. She makes her voice sound strangled, pleading, “Josh-” He turns around. And Faye swings her arm up in a silver arc, flashing in the candlelight. She only registers a dull thud as the serrated blade sinks into Josh’s throat. Josh’s face is contorted, a mixture of shock, anger, and terror. His hands fly to his throat, as he tries to keep the life within his body. Yet, blood bubbles, slipping through his fingers in a red cascade. Faye watches as Josh slumps to the ground, blood still pumping from the wound as he spasms. Slowly, the life fades from his eyes, which remain fixed on Faye, wide and unblinking. Faye puts down the knife, and studies Josh’s body. Crouching down, she stretches out her hand and teases out a piece of paper, folded up and tucked into Josh’s shirt pocket. It is torn out from a notebook, and three words are scrawled on the lined paper. *Forgive me, Josh.* The handwriting is not unlike Faye’s own. So that was what he was going to do. To kill her, and pretend it was a suicide. She would just have to die: drowned in the bath, her wrists slit, even too many sleeping pills; Josh would put the note beside her, and it would be suicide. She was always unstable, wasn’t she? Faye laughs a bitter laugh. She is the victor, Josh’s plan has failed. She suddenly feels ravenous. She tears open the embroidered cardboard box, and pulls out the almond pastry within. Faye devours the mille feuille, washing it down with Josh’s glass of whiskey. The whiskey and the almond mix in her mouth, giving a bitter aftertaste. Faye stands up. She will go to sleep, wake up in the morning, come down, and find Josh’s corpse. Pocketing the note, she makes her way up the stairs. At the landing, she stops. Her head feels light; her heart is pounding. Faye dashes to the bathroom and vomits. She staggers to the bedroom and falls onto the bed. The ceiling swims before her eyes. Feeling a lump in her pocket, Faye pulls the paper out and places it on the bedside table. She runs her hands over the note, feeling its rough texture. *Forgive me, Josh.* Her chest starts to hurt, and Faye closes her eyes.


A man stands in the desert, and he is alone. The ground, cracked, brittle and dry, crumbles beneath his thick boots, releasing smoke-like wisps of dust carried slowly away by a lethargic wind, rustling the folds of his trenchcoat as it limps across the barren plain. Directly above him lies the sun, a sickly dirty-yellow jewel set deep within a tan sky, casting a toxic glow that made the wasteland seem all the more lifeless. He stands completely still, seemingly gazing off into the distance, towards the one thing that broke up the flat skyline - a great mass of concrete and steel and shards of glass, what was once surely a great city. Now though, its skyscrapers are nothing more than gravestones, monuments to the fallen, twisted spires jutting up like the fingers of some vast leviathan failing to claw its way back from death. Though he seems to be looking at that ghost of a city - after all, there is little else to look at - his face is obscured by a green rubber gas mask, his eyes by glossy circles of black glass rimmed with steel, making it near impossible to discern exactly where he is looking. In fact, no part of him is visible, his hands shrouded by thick gloves and his long army-green coat extending from his mask to his boots. Slowly, as though he carries the weight of that corrupted sky upon his back, the man begins to make his way towards the carcass of the metropolis. Slow and heavy footsteps, muffled by the brittle crumbling dirt, carry the man past the charred mountains of rubble, the only sounds the gentle crunch of the ground and the rustle of his trenchcoat. He seems to walk without thinking, absorbed in the sight of the burnt-out citadel, following a path of muscle memory alone. Every so often, he turns, stopping in his march to gaze up at one of the remnants of buildings, seemingly near-identical to the rest but with some clear significance to him alone. In these moments, true silence settles over the city, for seconds or minutes at a time - and yet always, he returns to his path, his final goal clearly still ahead. City becomes suburb - skyscrapers becoming apartments, apartments becoming houses, and finally it seems his march is at an end. A single house, indistinguishable from those around it, any unique identifiers burned out long ago or covered in dust since - and yet, this house in particular at last brings him off the road. He steps over a half-buried gate, one hinge blown apart, the other barely hanging on and half-submerged in dust, and passes through the half-open door, not running, yet moving markedly quicker than before, and getting faster. Passing through the house in a near jog, he reaches a cabinet, miraculously still standing. On top of it lies a photo, the frame scorched, the glass shattered, the image weathered, clearly damaged by decades of sun and dust - yet still, it had survived. Two children, playing on lush green grass, a woman sunbathing in the background. He pulls it gingerly from its frame and holds it in his gloved hands, looking down at the faded image. The dark glossy eyes betray no emotion, and no sobs can be heard from behind the mask, and yet pure silence settles over the city, and the hours flicker by, until the sun hangs low in the sky and the shadows are long and faded. As the sun touches the horizon, he carefully folds up the picture, puts it in his pocket, and walks out of the house, the weight of the now purple sky on his shoulders seemingly doubled. He makes it a hundred metres or so out of the house before stopping, and looking back at the city he once called home. He turns to those skyscrapers, many with the skeleton frame still intact, and for a fraction of a second feels a decades-old anger return. The arrogance, the blindness of humanity - a species of beings who acted like children and yet thought themselves kings, thought themselves gods, a species smart enough to have built weapons so powerful and cruel they could only be justifiably used against their makers, and a species foolish enough to have given anyone control of them. A species that deserved the price they paid. But then it fades, as it had all those years ago, leaving nothing but shame and regret, and the knowledge that however arrogant and impulsive the rest of humanity used to be, he is far, far worse. A man who, for a brief moment, though it had been long enough to push a button, thought himself god of gods looks upon a city he burned to nothing, on a sky he corrupted and poisoned, on a world he ground into dust, and he knows nothing but remorse. A man who thought himself king of kings looks upon his works, and he despairs. A man, and nothing more, stands in the desert, and he is so alone.


He was still following her. She had stopped looking, but she felt it. His presence pushed against her back and propelled her forward, away from the horrible possibilities of what could happen if he caught up. She didn’t know who he was and what he wanted with her. It was cold out but Megan was suffocating under her coat. Her shirt was soaked in her sweat and her breath left her in short, forceful bursts. She had already passed her bus stop and didn’t know where she was going. Megan had seen these streets many times, but was never on foot when she passed by. Her high heels prevented her from running so she maintained a fast trot. Which meant that the man could catch up to her whenever he felt like it, yet ever since she got off the train, he had remained the same distance away with a persistent stride and obsessive gaze. She hadn’t gotten a good look at the man, so she didn’t know what she would say if she managed to call the police. But she was in no position to be making any phone calls anyway. What was she going to do then? Stop and confront him? Yeah, right. Keep running? That’s what she’s been doing and it wasn’t helping. She was choking with panic when suddenly, she was startled by a woman calling to her from across the street. “ Hola! Hey, miss!” Megan looked to her right and saw an older woman, full-figured and short, headed in her direction. She was wearing a grey jacket over a crisp, collared shirt with two rows of buttons. She had black slacks, the loose kind that a waitress might wear, and black sneakers. Her hair was in a neat bun at the back of her head. Megan was certain she didn’t know her, but she unconsciously slowed down and the woman came right up next to her. They continued forward as the woman said, “Hello, are you okay? I couldn’t help but notice you look lost. Do you need help?” Her voice was gentle and comforting. Before she could make up her mind whether she could trust this stranger, Megan desperately confided in her with a panicked edge to her voice, “I am lost. But someone is following me and I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.” Hearing this, the woman became alarmed. She sneaked a look behind them, and she might have seen something move, but it could have easily been an animal or some garbage rolling around in the wind. She didn’t think she saw anyone else other than the young woman when she crossed the street. But now she wasn’t certain. “Where are you headed?” She asked. “I was supposed to get on a bus to go home, but I can’t stop to wait for it like this.” “Hmm,” the woman looked at Megan sympathetically. “You’re right. And I know we just met, but I can’t leave you alone if somebody is following you. I live in an apartment just a few minutes that way,” She pointed towards the next street leading to the right. “If you want to call the police, you can do it from there and be safe. Come with me.” Under normal circumstances, Megan wouldn’t go to a stranger’s home alone. But she didn’t have a better option at the moment. So she nodded and the woman gripped Megan’s arm reassuringly as she led them towards her apartment. The apartment, Megan noticed when they arrived, was old. The outside had layers of peeling, faded paint and dirt from years of neglect. They went up the stairs and entered a room, it was exactly just that, a room. The bathroom being an exception, all other living spaces were crammed together and none of the furniture was new. However, when the woman turned on the lights, it was welcoming and felt safe. “My name is Margarita by the way, but you can call me Rita.” The women made their belated introductions as Rita locked the door, took off her shoes, and hung up her jacket. Megan was hesitant at first but eventually she took off her coat and held her belongings in her arms. With permission, she kept her shoes on. “Nice to meet you, I’m Megan. Um, I’m really sorry if I’m causing you any trouble.” “It’s no trouble at all! I was just on my way home from work. I work at the hotel down the road as cleaning staff. Where were you coming from? There’s not much around here.” “Oh, I work in the city at an accounting office,” Megan said. “The city! So you took the train here first. It’s not very safe at this time of night. Is that how you usually commute?” It made Rita anxious thinking that this young woman traveled the distance from the city alone every night. Not that she didn’t think a woman could hold her own, she made it through some narrow encounters herself. Rita just didn’t trust the intentions of the people that lurked about during these hours. She had grown up in a place where you had to be vigilant at all times and she was accustomed to the fact that life was always trying to steal something away from you. “No, um, actually I just started taking public transportation recently. I used to take my car but...traffic is insane.” answered Megan. “I understand, but you should really take your car if you have one. There’s sometimes incidents of people being followed like you were. It’s not safe,” Rita said again. Megan nodded but didn’t say anything more. “Do you want something to drink? Some tequila?” “No, thank you. I’ve...quit, drinking.” “Really, at your age? Then how about some hot chocolate? That will make you feel better.” “Sure, thank you.” “Okay, then sit right there and I’ll make some.” Rita gestured to a sunken sofa that looked like it had seen better days. As Rita prepared the hot chocolate, Megan sat on the sofa and intently peered through a window that faced the street. Her leg bounced nervously as she looked for the man. She watched a couple leisurely walking a dog before turning at a corner, but nobody else was visible. Rita brought over a mug for Megan and perched on the arm rest next to her. After blowing a couple times to cool her drink, Megan took a sip. “Wow, this is really good! Thank you.” She drank very eagerly. “I’m glad you like it. It was Chico’s favorite.” Megan looked up at Rita. Was Chico her husband? A family member or friend? “He is my son. Was , my son. My only child, Ezequiel. Everyone called him Chico. He recently passed away.” “Oh, I’m...so sorry to hear that.” Megan had never lost a loved one before. Rita gave her a sad half-smile. Then she got up, grabbed something from the fridge, and came back. “This is him. Muy guapo , handsome, no?” Rita chuckled good-naturedly as she offered a photograph to Megan, who put down her empty mug and held the photo gently in her hands. In the photo, a group of thirteen happy children surrounded an unsmiling, serious-looking man. He had thick eyebrows, a thick nose, and a thick neck. His eyes were dark and beady. He had a wispy mustache and a dark beard that just covered his chin. She expected to see that he was good-looking, but it was obvious to anyone that he was not. Nevertheless, she politely agreed with Rita. Rita playfully patted Megan’s shoulder. “You’re such a nice girl. I’m just kidding. People were always picking fights with him because they thought he was looking at them the wrong way. But that was just how he looked. Here, let me get you some more hot chocolate.” Rita reached for Megan’s mug and went into the kitchen. This time, Megan curiously watched her as she poured milk into a saucepan. She had never seen anyone make hot chocolate like that before. Initially, she had been wary of Rita but now she thought that someone who was being so hospitable to a stranger can only be a kind and trustworthy person. As she stirred the milk, Rita continued, “Chico didn’t have children of his own, but those kids...they were his life. He knew what it was like to grow up Mexican here, to have all the odds against you. Chico always said that he wanted to help educate kids like him, so at least they would have a chance for the life they wanted to live. So he became a teacher.” Megan looked down again at the photo, at the thirteen children, and at Chico. She was still feeling uneasy. Did he look familiar? She glanced out the window again but the street was empty now. “How...how did you say your son passed away?” she asked, turning her head back to Rita. Rita paused. Then she turned around and Megan saw that she was teary. She sniffed and fanned her eyes with her hand. She gasped sharply, “ Oh mi dios! I’m sorry, I’m trying not to cry. Too much of that lately. Chico would be heartbroken to see me like this.” To Megan, it seemed like Rita was the one who was heartbroken. Rita poured the hot chocolate mixture into the mug that Megan was using earlier, brought it to her, and sat down again. “My Chico,” she said after a moment, “he was killed. It was the middle of the week. It took him a long time to grade his students’ homework and it got late. I told him to stay home but he insisted on coming to visit me because it was my birthday, you see. He didn’t want me to be alone. He had texted me when he got off the bus so he should’ve been here soon...I texted him, and called him, but no answer. So I went outside, and that’s when I found him.” It took Megan a second to process what she had heard, and then she gasped. Found him ...found him what, dead? On her birthday? Rita continued, “He was crossing the street from the bus stop when a car hit him. Nobody saw what had happened. It was a hit and run. The police still haven’t found out who did it.” When she heard this, Megan felt a tug at her gut as if her heart had dropped into her stomach. Her underarms stung from the sudden gush of sweat and she began to feel a little dizzy. But she had to know one more detail. “When was this?” “About two weeks ago.” Rita didn’t notice that Megan had started shaking. “Oh that reminds me, you should call the police now. I can lend you a phone,” she offered. “No! Um, actually, I think I’ll be heading home now.” Megan abruptly put down her mug and started to fumble with her things. “What? But it’s not safe to leave without calling the police if that man is still out there. No, you should stay here and call the police.” Rita insisted, confused why Megan was suddenly saying she wanted to leave when she was so afraid from being followed earlier. Megan rose swiftly, but unsteadily, and put on her coat. She wobbled towards the door as Rita stood up, looking upset and worried for her. “I’ll...probably call the police later.” Megan’s voice quivered. “Okay, you’re welcome here anytime. We’re friends now, so you can stay as long as you want to--” “That’s alright. Thank you so much for letting me stay here. You’ve been really kind but, I need to go home now.” Megan hesitated before asking, “Can I have your phone number just in case?” “Of course. Let me know if you need anything,” Rita said and they exchanged phone numbers. “Okay, well, thank you again. Have a good night.” Rita held open the door and Megan stepped out. She couldn’t stop her from leaving if she was that determined, but she was still concerned about the threat that had led the young woman to her. “What if that man who was following you is still there?” “No, he’s not there anymore.” Megan said, almost in a whisper, and then she left. ______________________ When Rita woke up the next morning, she noticed a voicemail from Megan, recorded just an hour ago. She was about to listen to it when she was surprised by a call from the police, so she left it for later. It was enough to know that the young woman got home safely. She picked up her phone, “Hello, this is Rita Sanchez.” [Megan’s voicemail] Rita? It’s Megan. From last night. Thank you for being so kind to me...I didn’t know how to tell you this...I’m really sorry. I’ve done something terrible and I’ve been the worst kind of person since. My guilt follows me wherever I go and I think it led me to you. When I heard you talk about your son’s death, that’s when I realized...Two weeks ago, I had a bad day at work and went drinking afterward. By the time I realized I was too drunk, I was already driving home and I thought I could make it, I guess. I didn’t see him. I was driving near that bus stop when I felt a jolt from the car hitting something. I barely looked, just reversed the car, and drove away. The police can confirm that the evidence matches up. There’s no excuse for what I’ve done, but at least you know now. I’m sorry.


They say my mother gave birth to me too early. By the time the Midwife had arrived, I had already been brought into the world. In my small village of Bhavishnu, it is unheard of to give birth before the Midwife arrives. Mothers are expected to hold on until she arrives, no matter how long it is. You see, the Midwife is a very strange creature; vengeful and easily angered. If she feels any form of disrespect, she is said to obsess over revenge until she finds the perfect solution. Disrespect comes in many forms, from mild to severe. However, to the Midwife, nothing is more discourteous than refusing her the job she was assigned. When I enter town, the people don’t hesitate to stare at me and whisper as I search the shops for groceries and supplies, but I don’t blame them. The purple scars running diagonally across my eyes aren’t easy to overlook. “Cursed Child,” they whisper. Though, not quiet enough to evade my ears. In some ways, I am angry. I am bitter at society for believing in superstitions that could never be possible. Other times, it is easy to see why they act the way they do. My scars still appear fresh, despite having healed 17 years ago. They are still an angry color, raised high on my skin. Miraculously, I am still able to see, which only adds to the superstition. I am the village reject, the outcast. I’ve heard the story of how I acquired the scars about a million times and I know the details by heart, but I don’t remember it happening. However, the villagers’ vivid description of the incident doesn’t disappoint. After my birth, the Midwife went into isolation for forty-two days. There was no punishment cruel enough for me, the demon who had clawed his way into the world too soon. My mother abandoned me sometime after my birth, not wanting to suffer for my disobedient actions. After the forty-second day, the Midwife found me in a warm cottage towards the edge of town. A merciful couple had taken me in, fed me, and clothed me. During that forty-second night, the Midwife entered my cottage and killed the couple watching over me. She didn’t want anyone to stop her when she punished me. She had to succeed or she’d die a disrespected woman. She found me in my room, sound asleep. I’m told she uttered unspeakable words over me, causing three gashes to simultaneously appear on my newly-formed face. After wounding me, she continued her punishment. One that had been carefully planned for multiple weeks. The Midwife then proceeded to take drops of my blood into a vial and brandish a piece of parchment. The Midwife then drank the vial’s components as though she was a pen being filled with ink. Hurriedly, she wrote on the parchment using my blood which now flowed freely from her fingertips. The Midwife then left me alone in the cottage, but a young babe left for dead. I wouldn’t have survived if the mail carrier hadn’t heard my cry. The mail carrier entered the cottage, looking for the source of the wailing and found me in my room next to a piece of parchment with smeared black lettering. The mail carrier picked up the parchment and read the words that forever sealed my fate. “Disobedient birth leads to punishment. Punishment leads to defiance. Defiance leads to societal scorn. Societal scorn leads to loneliness. Loneliness leads to paranoia. Paranoia leads to insanity. Insanity leads to aggression. Aggression leads to violence. Violence leads to death.” To the villagers, this paper was a prophecy. To me, it is insanity. People say I will soon experience the fifth stage; paranoia. I was disobedient and left my mother too soon, they say. I was punished by the Midwife, defiant in my survival. It is no secret the village hates me. I live a life of loneliness. No mother, no father, no siblings. They tell each other it is only a matter of time until my loneliness drives me to that fifth stage. Of course, all of these things are true of me, but I do not believe they foretell of my death. I have gone 17 years without conflict and I’m quite sure I can continue that. No one will even get close enough for me to inflict harm, so I know the ‘prophecy’ is a lie. It is no prophecy and it is most certainly not my future. Every day is a repeat of the previous one, a foreshadowing of the next, but my never-ending cycle of life is comforting somehow. Everything is how I know it will be. I wake up around 4 in the morning, the sun not yet risen and the air not yet warm. I am not someone who needs a lot of sleep, for my body won’t allow it. After waking, I shower off, trying hard not to look in the mirror at the scars that run across my face. They trigger hurt associated with my mother’s abandonment, confusion as to why I had to be born early, and most of all, anger for the villagers who could never understand what it’s like to be a throwaway. I don’t like feeling these emotions because they govern my actions. Anger makes me aggressive, hurt makes me easily frightened, and confusion makes me act foolish. When I feel emotions as strong as these, my mind disappears and my body takes control. I will not allow myself to give the villagers another reason to hate me or believe in that stupid ‘prophecy’. For these reasons, I try to never look at the thick, purple lines running across my upper face. After showering and getting dressed in whatever I can dig around my bare house and find (because I live sparingly and can hardly afford a shower), I go outside and look at the sky until I feel serene and can carry on with my day. After that, my day quiets down, even though the morning wasn’t very busy at all to begin with. I go inside and draw pictures of vast seas and bare deserts, trying to fill the time with the only thing I’m exceptional at. On a good day, I get to eat a few pieces of bread and a small number of wild roots from the back of my house. On a bad day, I go to sleep shivering and trying desperately to ignore the sharp pains in my stomach. Regardless, I won’t let my poverty discourage me. I have stacks of paper to satisfy my ever growing imagination, I have a bed that is much softer than the ground, and I don’t have to worry about neighbors whispering to their children about me. I am alone, but I am not lonely. Or so I’d like to think. Life is hard for me, no matter how much I like to pretend it is not. It’s only natural to crave companionship, only natural to wish for happiness and success, despite knowing you will never achieve it. And on the cold and hungry nights, despite my positive attitude, the doubts and negative thoughts still creep in. I am only human, after all. Some days my mind won’t allow me to draw and instead chooses to blame me for all of my hardships. It’s hard to get out of the cycle of self-deprecation, and some days my mind and the weight of the world won’t let me get out of bed. I want to sleep for an eternity, but my body won’t let me. I want to stop being. I don’t crave death, but it’s hard to live. If everything would just slow down, I think it would be easier. Unfortunately, I know time doesn’t slow down even when my mind does. Focusing on existing takes so much of my energy that I don’t have time to think about the Midwife or my title of the “town reject.” It all becomes far away in a corner of my mind which I know exists, but forget to use. Considering I am alone, I have no one to constantly remind me of the failure that is my life. Instead, my body constantly reminds me that I need to eat while my mind won’t give me the encouragement to do it. I know I have to change something in my life before I crumble into nothing, but I can’t remember what it is anymore. Sometime close to the start of winter, the harshest season for me, I hear a knock at my door and try to think about any importance today may have that would bring someone to me. My birthday is in the winter, but surely I would know if it had happened already. I don’t ever get knocks on my door, so it’s quite startling. Who could it be coming to see me and what do they hope to gain? I don’t have the energy to go to the door and to be frank, my strength has dissipated ever since I sunk further into my depression. I haven’t been to town in months and I know no one would willingly seek my company. I tell my mind to quiet down. “It doesn’t matter who’s knocking. They will go away eventually, just like everyone else. Just like my mother, just like my well-being.” I start to close my eyes, hoping to obtain at least an hour of sleep. I am close to the welcoming void when I hear another knock, this time more urgent and resounding. I start to get upset, mentally wishing the person away. I was about to gain the sleep I couldn’t last night, but I was interrupted. How bothersome. Sighing, I close my eyes again, still feeling the remnants of sleep. Heavy eyelids and slowed heart rate. I breathe deeply, trying to get back to the place I was so close too. My mind finally quiets and my subconscious takes over, painting vivid colors of red and yellow to the back of my eyelids. Knock Knock. I open my eyes, suddenly awake. I couldn’t remember what I was dreaming about, but I knew it was important. Looking around, I discovered the room around me was dark. I must’ve slept longer than I thought. I was still tired, so why was I awake? The answer came to me around thirty seconds later. Two knocks, with an increment of five seconds between each. Without warning, my heart clenched at the sound. There was someone out there and they had been knocking for what appeared to be several hours. This was not normal at all. Why were they still out there? Stomach turning at the thought of a stranger watching me sleep, I slowly raised my head and turned around toward my door. Focusing my attention on the front door, I tried to calculate how long it had been since the last round of knocks had occurred. I looked at the door closely, trying to figure out how long it had been, when I heard a loud succession of knocking. I considered how long I had until my eighteenth birthday, unsure as to why I was considering it. Somehow, a bit of the fog cleared in my mind and I thought of the Midwife. The Midwife, the ‘prophecy’! That was it! I’d blocked it from my memory, but the rest of my punishment would happen on my eighteenth birthday. The Midwife was not done with me and the mental trauma she inflicted on me as a child had caused me to forget this very essential part of my existence. I had never questioned my existence before, just simply accepted it. I tried to think, forcing myself to push past the remaining fog in my mind. Anger boiled inside of me as slowly I started to remember the events that had occurred when I was just weeks old. The Midwife was a vengeful woman, insistent on causing harm to everyone around her. My very existence angered her and before I could even talk, she turned my existence into the same misery she felt. The anger continued boiling inside of me, growing hotter and hotter like a chamber of magma. If I continued to think about this, I’d explode into a spray of fury and poisonous emotions. I felt the anger slowly rise from my stomach to my chest and finally to my throat, threatening to explode everywhere. I thought once more about the Midwife and screamed in rage. She’d left me with these scars, left me with this shattered mind and an aching heart. I thought again of the scars that painted my face and in a fit of savagery, I scratched at them over and over, insistent on getting them away from me. I wouldn’t let a cruel woman that I didn’t even bother hurt me any longer. “Keep at it, you’re just fulfilling the prophecy,” I heard a voice behind me rasp. I turned around, still angry and insistent on releasing all of that anger somehow. I looked at the figure standing before me and tried to decipher who they were. A passing face on the street, perhaps. They reminded me of an old acquaintance who I’d long forgotten. “Who are you?” I asked, possibly too aggressive for a random stranger. “You’re very aware of who I am...after all, I’m who inflicted those wounds on you.” The Midwife. So this is where my punishment would occur. I looked at her, rage and disgust masking my features. This was the Midwife whom no one had seen since the prophecy? She didn’t look powerful at all. How could such a frail woman be as strong as the villagers claimed? She looked pitiful and weak and that very weakness made me want to destroy her. I could probably kill her with a single blow to the head. I looked around the room, searching for something within reach. Nothing heavy enough. “Oh, child, how foolish you are. I can read your thoughts, you know. We are connected, you and I. My blood carries your blood.” That stopped me for a millisecond. I’d never looked at it like that before, just assuming all of my blood had left her when she’d written her ‘prophecy’. I chuckled, amused by the idea of a prophecy. There could be no prophecy because my life was normal. “Normal? You pretended to be normal. Society scorns you because you don’t see who you truly are. You are not good, you are not kind. You have followed almost every single step of the prophecy already. You were disobedient in your birth, you were punished by me, you defied death, you were scorned, and grew lonely. You believe this is where you departed from it? Prophecies can be interpreted in many ways, child. So far, you are correct in how the steps played out. I’ll give you that. However, you haven’t stopped here. You grew paranoid, devouring every ounce of food in your house, afraid that it would spoil before you could get more. You did not want to be wasteful. When you ran out of food, you refused to go to town because you were paranoid the people would harass you. So, you grew hungrier every day, living solely on the roots of your backyard. Hunger mixed with food you don’t know does not equal normalcy. You slowly grew insane, the hunger driving you mad and the roots speeding up the process. You see, those roots were not made for human consumption. Those roots are made for poisons. After insanity, you grew aggressive with no way to get all of your anger at me out. You deepened the scars I gave you as a way to hold onto the anger you held for me. A way to get out all of that pent up aggravation and aggression. Those scars would have been less than visible by now if it weren’t for you. Do you know what comes after aggression? Violence. You wonder often why people avoid you and why no one wishes to spend time with you? You pushed a little girl on the street who was staring at your face. You pushed her into the road where she could’ve died. Luckily she survived, but the town hated you even more after that. They considered ways to get rid of you, but were ultimately too afraid of what you would do to them. Next is death. That role hasn’t been fulfilled yet, but you won’t have to worry about that much longer.” The Midwife smiled at me, seemingly innocent, as though she hadn’t just spewed lies to make me seem completely and utterly insane. As though she hadn’t just threatened my life. I was sure that what she said was wrong, but I couldn’t stop the back of my mind from perking up as though I vaguely remembered doing these things. She lunged forward, grabbing at my throat and pressing the air from my lungs. I tried to fill my lungs back up, but that only resulted in more choking. No one would save me, nothing could help me. I kicked and slapped at her hands, desperately trying to get her off, but her grip only tightened. Slowly, my vision blurred and eventually started slipping into blackness. When it fully enveloped me, I didn’t fight it off. Everything went dark and it was surprisingly peaceful. “ Disobedient birth leads to punishment. Punishment leads to defiance. Defiance leads to societal scorn. Societal scorn leads to loneliness. Loneliness leads to paranoia. Paranoia leads to insanity. Insanity leads to aggression. Aggression leads to violence. Violence leads to death.“


"Hey, hey you wake up." I heard a girl's voice but my eye's didn't want to compel, "Hey! Wake up!" The same voice said in a loud whisper. I slowly opened my eye's, the first thing I saw was bars and a dark room. Groggily I sat up and looked around I couldn't see much there was no lights that was clear. "Hey." I turn my head to look at where the voice was coming from. It was obvious a few seconds later I was in a cage or maybe a cell I could tell for sure not at first. The girl was on the other side of another set of bars to my right I crawled over to get a better look at her. "What's your name?" She asked me her english very broken but english all the same. "Sara, how did you know I spoke english?" I asked her confused it was so dark in the room I could barely make out her face. "Your hair it's red." She responded as she sat down against the bars. I remember putting my hand up to touch my hair than asked, "Where are we?" She shrugged, "Don't know." "Are there other kids?" She nodded, "Yeah but they're asleep right now you'll meet them in the morning." "How many are here?"I asked copying how she sat. "Depends on the day." I remember her shifting than asked, "Got a family?" I hesitated before answering thinking about how I was told by my cousin to never give our info to anyone, but I had nothing to lose, "I have a brother, but I lost him a few months back." I confessed after the words came out tears were streaming down my face the pain I felt, the guilt, the defeat all hit me at once and I just weeped and weeped and weeped. After a well past-do cry the girl patted my shoulder and stated her name, "I'm Cataleya, like the flower." I hiccuped and asked, "Is there just girls or both?" "Both." She said a little bit quieter. "Than have you seen a boy about 4'8 seven years old same red hair and a old yellow toy car in hand?"I turned around as I asked, but she never answered me she ended up saying, "Get some sleep they wake us up early." She moved away from the bars and all I could see was the outline of her back. I don't remember falling asleep that night I just remember crying silently to myself. Bright lights flashed on the next day waking everyone up. I rubbed my eye and observed my surroundings. I was in a big cage like thing, I was able to stand up in it and take three steps left from the middle and three steps right also from the middle it was the same for front and back. I looked over at the girl next to my right she was about in her late teen years with long black hair in a ponytail, she wore a dirty white shirt and jeans I noticed she never had shoes. She had a dark skin tone that had a sickly tint. I looked to my left there was a boy sitting in the corner knees to chest I couldn't see his face but I knew it was a boy because on his short hair and clothes. Finally I took in the rest of the room, it was a big and looked like a dog pound with how the cages were lined up in two rows, the one I was in, the one across a little girl was in front of me and two boys next to her, one teen and the other a little bit younger than that boy. "That's Benni." Cataleya nodded to the little girl, "She's five came here with you last night." I look back at the little girl she was crying to herself silently standing at the "door" looking around. "That's Vicente." She looked over at the older boy, "He and I were brought here in the first week of the raids." The boy was sitting in down looking our way with a emotionless look. "The little boy doesn't have a name or at least I never learned it, he never talked." "What is that boys name?" I motion to the boy that was to the left of me. She shrugged, "Never go the chance to ask he is one of the quiet ones. There's a lot of those." I look back at the boy he looked back at me. Something about him would always different than the others. I walked over to him that day and asked him his name but he didn't speak so I asked him in spanish, "¿Como te llaman?" When didn't say anything I told him my name, "Mi llamo Sara." He smirked a little and looked away. "Hey, Guera." The teen boy called to me calling me white girl it sounds like (weda) though. "¿Qué?" I looked at him how I thought my cousin would back in the states with a blank face. "How'd you learn spanish?" "How'd you learn english?" I countered. He nods with a lopsided smile. "Need it for when white people like you show up." "Shut it Vicente." Cataleya says hearing the footsteps coming. He did but not without giving Cataleya a dirty look. I go sit down in the middle of the floor as a sound of heel clicked against the floor got closer. When she got into sight I saw a woman in a lab clock, her hair pushed back and wearing glasses. In her hand was a digital clipboard, it was made of glass and the handle was white on it was pictures and writing next to them. She stopped every few cages and held it up. She came to Benni's cage first then mine it was like she was confirming everyone after she was done with mine she continued down the endless idle. "That's Josephina, she goes over everyone's states and confirms who's healthy or not." Cataleya explained. "Why does it matter?" I asked. Her expression got dark as she spoke, "You'll see soon enough." I remember how the hours went by there was terror in the air filled with screams and agonizing sounds. People walking by with all types of things and every once in awhile a child or two every few hours but I don't remember seeing most of them coming back. When night fell they let us out one by one with a person holding a gun guiding us. When it was my turn the man didn't look at me just held his hand to the scanner and unlocked the door motioning me with the tip of the gun to start moving than gave me a little push and we walked down the idle to the a doorway and then turned right and walked down a curved hallway with many doors with a tiny window in them. I look back at the man behind me he wasn't Mexican either that much was obvious. "Excuse me." I said in a small voice he looked down at me and grunted, "I was just wondering if my brother was here." I asked he didn't answer. "Please he is my only family I just want to know if he's here weather he's is alive or dead." I almost started crying at the thought of him being dead but with all the screaming and scars I've seen on people throughout that day it was possible. "What is his name?" "Sammy." He looked at me again. "A last name." I shook my head. He sighed then motioned to keep moving. When we turned another corner there was another door that led to the dining room. The man left me at the door while I was to continue to the line of children to get food. I was behind the quiet boy that was next to my left. I was told to grab a tray and to make sure that I ate up. When I was given the food it was just rice and beans with two tortilla's. The people serving it was also children but they were the older ones roughly 16-18 years of age. When I was out of line I followed the boy looking out for a little red headed boy, "¿Puedo sentarme contigo?" I asked if I could sit with him. I will never forget how he responded with half a smile and a chuckle as he said, "Relax chica, I'm not from mexico either I am just mexican born in america." I nod and waited for him to tell me a yes or no I was getting antsy wishing he would answer so I could eat finally. When he looked up with a confused look. "Aren't you going to sit down? We don't get much time to eat." I ended with a 'oh' face and quickly sat down scoping the room again but came up empty again. "I... I'm Sara." I said in a small voice after talking a bit of food. He nodded putting a spoonful of rice in his mouth, "I remember, I'm Richard." I looked up and smiled a little, "It's nice to meet you." He was going to say something but then a tray hit the table indicating that Vicente and Cataleya were here as well, Cataleya sat next to me on my left and Vicente across from her next to Richard. "So finally speaking great name, age and where from." "Richard, 15, California, America." "How'd you get swept into all this compadre?" Vicenta asked next. "Deportation." He said around more food. "Y tu?" He looked at me as did they all. I swallowed the food I was eat and answered, "There was no other choice." I took another bite of my food as they waited for more but I never gave it to them even to this day. "How old are you Sara?" Vicente asked, "14 almost, 15." I said looking around the room again to see if he was walking in or in line. "Have you seen a little red headed boy at all asked them?" Cataleya didn't answer and Vicente shook his head as did Richard. I sighed wanting to cry but pushed it down with a rip of a tortilla and shoved the piece in my mouth. "Terrible things are happening here isn't there?" I finally asked. They all nodded. "What are they doing to all those kids they took?" They didn't want to answer or more like they couldn't. I looked at them closely and for the first time I noticed the scars and scratches on their arms, chest line and the side of their necks. "If anyone hears about my brother even if he is... gone I would like to know." I say finishing my food. They all nod. We made small talk as they finished their food I learned about them before they got here but Richard didn't say much. When it was time to go back to our "areas" We were taken by tables I didn't see the guard that brought me here but I hope I get to see him and he has information about Sammy. We got locked in and after the rest of the kids were put away the lights went out. It was cold that night but there was a blanket was folded in the back left corner. I wrapped it around my body and leaned against the back wall. I woke up to shouting than a girl's face appeared at the front of my cage. I jumped back she was breathing heavily, her eyes wide and hair crazy there was something about her skin that was off. She was about to say something but there was footsteps coming closer in a fast pace. Her eyes her face showed pure horror. Within seconds she was gone. "Sara... Sara..." I hear Richard say my name. I got close to the bars. "What?" "What's going on?" He asked obviously woken up from the feet and not the screams like I was. "A girl was escaping." I whispered. "Really!" He whisper back moving closer to the bars so I could see him better. I nodded. "Do you think she'll make it?" He shrugged. "Sleep we don't know how tomorrow will be." I nod and leaned against the corner closer to him and he did the same. "Sara, despertarse." A guard was a my cage knocking on my cage loudly waking me up. I sat up and looked at the man who was my escort yesterday. He opened the door and told me to start walking. I stood up and walked out the cage and to the left. We walked down the hallway then turn left again after entering through some doors walking down the same hall from the day before but this time we passed the eating area. We reached a open door and the man shoved me in. Inside there was a table with straps and a counter with lot of different bottles and tools, the walls a pale old white and bright lights over head. The whole room gave me a shiver down my spin I took a step back right into the man who pushed me forward causing me to fall. I hear a voice behind me, a woman's voice telling him that was enough. I felt her hand gently wrap around my arm she helped me get up. She told me sorry for his roughness. Than ushered me to the table. "Just lay back and relax Sara it won't hurt, I promise." She hushed in a sweet voice but the look in her eyes said whole another story. The pain was behind anything I have ever experienced. To this day I can still feel it the shocking, the needles, the knives. I screamed so loud I knew it could be heard from a mile away. The sick part was that they didn't stop they just stuck something in my mouth and continued to cut my arms, legs, stomach and back for god knows what. The pain lasted for eternity it seemed after a while I just stopped screaming but the tears never faded. Later that night I was sent back to my cage in a new shirt and jeans. I don't remember how I got back to the cage or how I was cleaned of all blood but the next morning I was clean. "Sara... Sara." Cataleya whispered my name that morning I was already up but I wasn't in a talking mood. I was sat at the back of the cage my knees to my chest tear stained my cheeks and the bandages that covered everything else. "Sara, you'll be okay they won't do it again for another week or two." That didn't comfort me at all. My eyes widened as I look at her. Realizing what she said didn't ease my fear she said. "It doesn't hurt that much after awhile and soon they will dial it down." I bared my head in my arms and cried again silently. Cataleya was right they didn't come to my cage again that week unless it was for dinner time which was the only time we could eat but even than I couldn't really do. The only reason I did eat was because the man that escorted me every night told me they kill those that were unhealthy and I didn't want to die; I couldn't not until I found Sammy. He was the only reason I why I fought to survive. "Does it really get better?" I asked them one night at dinner they didn't say anything they at first but Cataleya reassured me it does, but Richard shook his head and to be honest I believe him. The next time they took me to the white room I screamed and fought back but that just made them angry to the point where they had sedated me. I woke up to them shooting something in my back shoulders with a needle whatever was in the vial hurt so much as it went into my skin. I screamed and started to thrash around in pain but they had strapped me down. By the time I was back in my cage that night I couldn't move if I did it would just be pain, excruciating pain along my shoulders and back I wasn't even able to walk for three maybe four days I couldn't tell there were no windows and I wasn't able to go eat so it was brought to me. The day I showed signs I could move around again I was forced to go to dinner with everyone else which wasn't so bad since Cataleya and them did their best to comfort me I asked them what happens to them when they go back but they didn't want to talk about it and I understood why I could see it in their eye's the pain and horror that I feel. I think a month passed since I arrived and I was in the room twice. Cataleya went back three times she would always come back with silent tears as did the other two but it was like it never happened the next day.


One day as I sat and watched TV, I remembered an incident of a rather unusual friendship which many of you wouldn't have heard of perhaps. It was an experience I had 20 years ago when I was just 18. I used to stay in a rickety, dilapidated old building in Singapore when I heard a sudden noise like a thud and lots of footsteps. I ran across the room, opened the door, and looked at the staircase. I saw this young guy perhaps my age, thin, wearing spectacles, quite tall and well dressed holding something which looked like a bottle in his hand covered with cloth. He looked a bit out of place according to me considering people of low-income groups stayed in my building and this guy was quite well dressed to be in here. He looked at me and quickly ran to the next-door apartment where he had moved in. I waited and looked all around hoping more people were moving in, his parents, siblings, girlfriend, wife but nope there was nobody, he had moved in all alone. I picked up my bag and headed to college carrying on my normal routine. After few days I again bumped into this guy again and since he was after all my neighbor I thought why not make a conversation with him. "Hi there, I'm Ary and you are," I said stretching my hand across hoping to be polite and shake hands, but in return, he said " uh, hi I'm sorry but my hands" he lifted his hand where he was holding a couple of plastic bags which had clams, fish and crabs in there. "Excuse me but I am busy right now," is all he said and rushed back into his apartment. What a weird guy I wondered and quite a manner less fellow did not even tell me his name. That very evening as I sat outside my apartment listening to music he opened his door and said " I'm sorry, I was in a hurry in the afternoon, I am Ryan, I had to keep all those fish and crabs in the water they were alive after all. Why don't you come over someday." ." Yeah sure I will, but I'm curious to know one thing, you stay alone and all those fish and crabs were for you? " I asked surprisingly. " Oh no no, I'm a vegetarian, those were for Jini my pet". " Jini!!" I exclaimed, " you mean your pet cat " though I hadn't heard any meow for days now, " well. no not my cat my pet octopus". "Your pet what? did I hear that correctly, you said Octopus"?, "well yes, I have a pet Octopus, come in tomorrow and I shall show you around". But tomorrow was too late I had heard of people keep exotic pets but Octopus? I went straight into his apartment, and he was very welcoming. It was as if I had entered a different world altogether. Huge glass aquariums covered all his walls full of rocks inside them, and his bed was right in the center of the room with a small table and chair next to it. I could clearly make out he had no guests visiting him ever. "well, you see, when my parents got divorced I decided to move out and live separately so I came in here, and since I have rich parents," he said as if making a statement why he had such an exotic pet and expensive pet, " I asked them if I could keep a pet octopus, they had no reason to deny me that. And I know since it's strange to keep an octopus as a pet and people will make fun of me I chose this building where I could be secluded on my own with Jini", Ryan said. "You see that's Ryan, hiding behind the rocks, he eats live fish and crabs and that's why you saw me carrying all of that the other day," said Ryan while passing me some chips and a bottle of coke. " Jini loves to play games and solve puzzles, I put him in various shaped bottles and tries to find a way out of it, it's actually good fun to watch that", Ryan said while laughing. While I sat there listening to Ryan it seemed as if I was lost in a different world altogether, w=, he was living alone, yet so content had no human company as such, yet so happy. I thought to myself he's actually not as weird as he seemed the first time I saw him but we usually tend to judge people by looks, clothes, and definitely by the pets they keep, which is so wrong. "Can I be Jini's friend too ?" I asked. " well yes of course just that you will have to come every day to visit him and play games with him so he can get familiar with you", " sure, every evening ill be here playing games and puzzles". That day when I went back to my apartment I felt happy that I had made a new friend rather than two counting JIni in too and hoping I could play with him too. It was the most unexpected and unusual pet experience I had ever had and the experience stayed with me forever. Today, Ryan and I are the best of friends though we live in different countries now, we both are married and our spouses are great friends too. Jini would've been a great pet rather a friend too but we lost Jini while Ryan was shifting homes, Jini managed to escape from the container and we only hoped that she had found a nice place in the ocean between rocks along with other friends there. What I experienced 20 years ago is something I always narrate and tell to every young person I come across, never judge a book by a cover and definitely never judge a master by the kind of pet he keeps.