"I can’t sleep," Dahlia lay restlessly in the dark confines of her bedroom, her plea for sleep falling on deaf ears. With desperation, she pulled her beloved orange flat-faced cat, Hamms, closer to her. In response, Hamms let out a shrill meow, expressing his indignation at being prematurely awakened from his slumber. The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on Dahlia's mind. Having made the difficult decision to drop out of college, the consequences were now becoming starkly apparent. Her mother’s resolute stance on not renewing the apartment lease left Dahlia with a looming possibility: the prospect of reluctantly returning to live with her parents. "At least we can still afford food," she said scratching her kitty’s head. She gathered her unruly hair into a scrunchie, jumped from the bed in underwear and an oversized black T-shirt, and made her way to a cluttered desk, switched on the laptop, the blue light casting a glow on her face. With nimble fingers, she typed away, steadfastly searching for a job opportunity deep into the night. Just as the sun began to rise, she stumbled upon it, a job listing that read, 'No Experience Will Train.' She swiftly submitted her application and within minutes, an email pinged her inbox, bearing detailed instructions on the venue and schedule for her evaluation for the position of, Assistance Technician. Monday dawned; Dahlia steered her vehicle onto the grounds of Richmond College. She located the Medical Technologies building, parked, and paused to take in the picturesque campus. The brick buildings stood proudly among expansive, rolling green lawns, intersected by pathways sheltered by a canopy of trees. It was a scene that exuded an air of scholarly charm. Across from campus she noticed a crowd of protesters in front of a steel and glass building but paid the scene little attention. Dahlia entered the building and stood in the bustling lobby with dozens of applicants, she wondered, are all these people here for the same job? The receptionist’s words cut through the chatter and answered her question. Her words carried a sense of purpose and direction. "If you are here for Nursing, take the corridor to room 108. Imaging Tech is in room 204, and Assistance Tech follows Mr. Jade to the elevators." The receptionist pointed to a tall thin man with a shaved head. Dahlia and a small group followed Mr. Jade into the elevator and descended into the depths of the building. With a composed demeanor, Mr. Jade led each candidate to their individual rooms. Alone, Dahlia found herself immersed in a flurry of medical procedures and inquiries. The sterile environment buzzed with activity as lab-coated individuals probed and prodded, extracting samples and delving into the depths of her personal history. Each question felt like a tiny invasion, leaving her vulnerable and exposed. As the hours passed, time seemed to blur, merging into a haze of anticipation and fatigue. Dahlia glanced at the Band-Aid covered cotton ball on her arm, her thoughts swirling amidst a sea of uncertainty. The room held a lonely silence, broken only by the distant echoes of footfalls in the corridors beyond. Mr. Jade entered the room. "Your group was the last we had time to screen before classes start, and you are the only one who made it." His words carrying a weight of significance. "Take this key," handing her an unusual, circular object adorned with bumps. "Next Monday, show the key to the receptionist. She will grant you entry. In the elevator, use this key to access B2. The button won't illuminate without it. I will meet you in the second basement at 5:00 AM. You did well." "I’ll be here," she whispered, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions. The tears lingered at the edge of her eyes, but she willed them to retreat, refusing to let them betray her composure. Mr. Jade's words had ignited a spark within her, an ember of hope that whispered victory and achievement . It was as if she had stumbled upon a prize, a hidden treasure that only she had the privilege to claim. The elevator doors slid open, revealing the familiar presence of Mr. Jade, who greeted her before she could cross the threshold the first day of class. His appearance offered a sense of familiarity. He guided her to an auditorium. "The real work starts today. Be seated." Dahlia settled in, her eyes sweeping across the room. Sixty fellow students populated the auditorium, their ages and genders spanning a broad spectrum. Each face held its own story, a unique tapestry of life choices that had brought them to this moment. Mr. Jade climbed the stairs to the stage and took position behind a podium. "Assisted Suicide is legal as of 2031. The Death with Dignity Act, or DWD for short, has spawned a cottage industry for us Dark Angels to help the sick and dying with their passing." He looked out over the room. "It's not for everyone. Statistics show only ten percent of you will make it to graduation. My job is to try to get that number higher. I will push you hard, so when the day comes to bring your sickle down, your training, your mettle will be enough to show mercy." Mr. Jade took a clicker from the dais, and a slide projected behind him titled ‘Process’, "It works like this: a person with a terminal illness can apply for assistance once their doctor signs off." He pressed the clicker, the screen now displaying an excerpt from the DWD act. "If an applicant is approved, they have Seventy-two hours to complete the end-of-life process; that is where you come in." "Suicide Inc., our employer, has partnered with Richmond College, to provide you with the necessary training to attend to your charges. Sidebar here. We know it's a terrible name. A couple of brothers started the company. They were bought out but were known for getting the job done, so the name stuck. We are working on a rebrand." With a swift transition, Mr. Jade explained, "Within these boxes lay the tool that will soon become an extension of you." Assistants efficiently moved through the room and presented each recruit with a black box. "The box contains your sickle. Retrieve them. I will teach you how to calibrate it to your partner, load the sickle with the dose, and administer it." He paused. "It's not easy to swing that sickle." Mr. Jade admitted honestly, his voice tinged with a sense of weight. Listening intently, Dahlia's eyes focused as she pulled the lid from the box, recognizing the gravity of its contents. The corners of her lips lurched up, as she beheld the tool within. The sickle boasted a sleek titanium handle, adorned with two triggers, and a few lights, but its most intriguing feature was a stainless-steel tentacle, culminating in a menacing stinger. They want me to kill people with this, she thought. Cautiously she tested the weight, appreciating the natural curve, she brought it close to her arm, and the tentacle sprang to life, wrapping tightly around her wrist. Startled she instinctively jerked back, her heart pounding within her chest. "The little guys are quick," Mr. Jade smiled at her. Two other students raised their arms to show they were also entrapped with their own sickle’s. "Both triggers together to release." The smile now gone, "If you listen and try, I can get you Ninety-nine percent of the way there." He flipped to a slide of a horse chained to an old man. Three demons, their claws, dug into the man, trying to keep the horse from pulling him from his pain. "I look at it this way. Your Charge is ready to pass. A mighty horse is there pulling them to their rest, while the demons of ignorance, cruelty, and fear try to hold the Charge in the world of suffering. The horse is not strong enough to overcome the demons alone; that last one percent is you and your partner." "Do you always work with a partner?" Dahlia turned her gaze towards the source of the question, her head on a swivel, curious to hear Mr. Jade's response, her attention returned to her mentor. "Yes," he replied. "Anyone know why?" A young woman with long black hair raised her hand, and Mr. Jade acknowledged her, "The two Dark Angels administer their sickles, each loaded with a dose from a packet of two. One real, one fake. That way, no one knows who the lethal dose came from." "Very good. The lethal and placebo doses can only be administered when both triggers are pulled. It is a fail-safe mechanism designed to ensure that both Dark Angels are fully committed to the action," Mr. Jade flipped to another screen. The new slide displaying the cost to die per state. "Death with dignity is not cheap. Congress has set the tax on an assist at ten thousand dollars, and some states have added heavy local taxes to drive that price even higher, making death another luxury only the wealthy can afford. Luckily for us, private organizations often pay on behalf of the applicant once a request is approved. Groups like Angel Song, The BlueSky Union, and the Satanic Temple will cover some or all the cost to help the suffering pass." "What about resistance?" The young man from earlier asked. "Religious fanatics often camp out in front of the houses of people who have applied, and they may try to block your entry. You may have noticed them in front of the building across the street. Don't engage with them; don't touch them, even if they touch you." Graduation Day. Richmond, Virginia, March 3, 2033, 3:33 PM. Dahlia stood with her eight remaining classmates, who crossed the stage when their name was called. A woman in full body armor passed each of them a sheepskin, pulled the black hoods of the graduation robes over their heads, and gave them their Dark Angel name. "You are reborn as Destiny,” she told Dahlia. Once everyone returned to their seats Mr. Jade stood before the graduates, "Please rise, place your sickle over your heart." In unison, they recited the oath of the Dark Angels: "I am a bringer of Death. I do not pass judgment. Mine is to wield the sickle of mercy. Relieve the suffering of my Charge. For I am now and forever a Dark Angel A hand of mercy, I am Death." After graduation, Destiny embarked on her first working day at Suicide Inc. The journey to the office involved navigating through the elevator to B2 and then traversing a tunnel beneath the street. At roll call, she met her partner. A seasoned veteran, almost a foot taller than her, whose Dark Angel name was SoulDust. SoulDust was waiting for her when she arrived at the offices, his tone made even deeper through the helmet’s voice modulator. "We already have a bounty, and need to leave, if you are fitted and your sickle calibrated, we should go." "The armor is a little tight, but I am ready. How far are we from the Charge?" Destiny tried to adjust the pants of her armor. "About an hour. We have to beat the Thumpers there, or it will be a mess." SoulDust led Destiny to the garage level of the building and a matte-brown van with black trim. No company logo. They climbed in and passed through the security gate, where a group of protesters threw bottles of a yellow liquid that shattered on the van. "Don’t open the window, pretend it’s apple juice." When Destiny and SoulDust reached their destination in rural Virginia, they observed an eerie stillness surrounding the house. No signs of life or activity were visible from the outside. They approached the front door and rang the bell. Destiny stomach turned and her palms began to sweat. She took a deep breath; I need to manage my emotions. "Turn your cams on," SoulDust pressed a button on his bracer, a piece of armor that ran from his wrist almost to his elbow, that housed a phone like screen. "Is no one here?" she asked. Activating her helmet and primary camera. "They're here. The bounty is only a few hours old." SoulDust's attention was drawn to a gathering of dark clouds in the sky. A gentle rain began to fall as if responding to the somber atmosphere. A middle-aged man with red, puffy eyes answered the door wearing khakis and a blue sweater. "We are here for the Applicant," SoulDust said. "I know what you are. Follow me. My father is this way." "Sir, sometimes fanatics will storm the property, could you lock the door?" Destiny asked. "Of course." the man said, locking the door and leading the two to a first-floor bedroom that faced the street. "He’s in here." There, they saw an old man propped up in a hospital bed. "Do you need a minute?" Destiny asked. "No," the bed ridden man spoke. "We have said our goodbyes. I love you son." "I love you too Dad." The son hugged the old man and kissed his head. As Destiny observed the tender moment, her resolve began to waver. Cracks began to form in the walls she had built, fortified by months of classes and conditioning to detach herself emotionally from her work. That one percent was feeling like a much wider gap with every moment. Hidden beneath her helmet, tears streamed down Destiny's cheeks, her heart ached as her emotions threatened to overwhelm her, adding to her sense of vulnerability and doubt. SoulDust processed the man's fingerprints and ran a DNA comparison, his actions were driven by the need to confirm the identity of the individual they were there to assist. Amid the emotional turmoil, the protocols and procedures of Suicide Inc. served as a grounding force, a reminder of the importance of ensuring accuracy and safeguarding the integrity of their mission. Waiting for confirmation, SoulDust approached the window and pulled aside the curtain, a disheartening sight unfolded before him. A van adorned with a church logo came to a stop in front of the house, and a swarm of Thumpers, driven by their own convictions, poured out and hastened towards the front door determined to enforce their will upon the dying man and his heartfelt desire to bid farewell to his son one last time. "We have Thumpers." The veteran Dark Angel crossed to the bedroom door, shut it, and locked it. "You should call the police now sir." The sound of the front door smashing open and the mob scurrying through the house reached the room. The old man's resolve hardened his face, flickering with the memory of the strong person he had been in an earlier life. His tears stopped. "Do it now," he said to the Dark Angels. Destiny’s and SoulDust’s bracers glowed with the affirmative for prints and DNA. SoulDust opened a case from his belt to reveal two identical vials. Destiny deftly loaded a dose into her sickle, while the two Dark Angels positioned themselves on opposite sides of the bed. With their sickles in one hand and gently holding the old man’s hand in the other, the tentacles of each wrapped securely around his wrist. Suspended menacingly the stingers hovered just an eighth of an inch above the man’s skin. Voices from the hall penetrated the room, and the bedroom door shattered into splinters, scattering debris throughout the room. Startled, Destiny was knocked off balance as two men and a woman forcefully burst into the room. She heard SoulDust in her helmet. "Destiny, now!" he yelled. The lights on his sickle indicate he was committed. Time slowed. She watched as the two men moved toward SoulDust. Destiny felt a hand pulling on her bracer. The woman was trying to pry her sickle from the Charge and struck Destiny with a book, the helmet easily taking the blow. "You have no right!" the woman screamed. The son screamed at the Thumpers, "Get out of my house. We don’t want your thoughts and prayers! This is none of your business! Leave us alone!" He dropped his cell phone, the screen showing a completed call to nine-one-one. Destiny struggled to hold on to her sickle but hold she did. Despite her vulnerability, Destiny recognized that her emotions were not a sign of weakness. They were a testament to her humanity, her capacity for empathy and compassion. The image from class appeared in her mind. She saw the horse pulling with everything she had. SoulDust, his hands wrapped around a chain, straining to pull the old man through the veil. The Thumpers twisted into the demons: Fear, Ignorance and Cruelty, and Destiny knew what she had to do. She pulled her trigger, and both sickles flashed for a moment, and the old man was gone. The son retrieved his phone, "We have had a break-in, send the police immediately." The Thumpers screamed and spat at Destiny and SoulDust as the son ushered them out the door. Once inside the van and the doors locked, “How are you holding up?” SoulDust started the van. "Those people are horrible. It was awful." She wept. The voice modulator made her sound like a crying demon. "You saved a man from enduring months if not years of suffering. You did what most cannot. In many ways, you are a hero; don’t forget that." "Hero, huh?" She sniffled, still choking on her words. The numbness passed, running low on tears. She sat up and wondered, Should I return? Could I willingly feel like this again, even to help another? She watched the trees go by as the rain picked up, a single drop slowly running down the window, catching her eye like a tear from a cloud. Suddenly, she understood the oath. Today, she was Death, but could she be Death tomorrow?


“Our new, innovative 2023 Life Glasses model allows instant real-time display of personal achievements of any one you meet. ONLY $5.99!” I don’t usually do internet shopping but I don’t know...seemed like a good prank gift for my mate Jimmy. There was just something about them. Looked like the photos were ripped off from the old Google Glass website or something. Even the company seemed strange, “Enhanced Life Technologies”. There was a legit webpage, with unique images (thanks reverse image search) but everything seemed so...manufactured. Like it was all so artificial. Ah well, I’ve got six bucks to burn and the look on his face will be priceless: Hey, here’s app-enabled smart glasses. Nah, jokes, only some cheap knockoffs but at least you can google stuff if you blink I think. When it came in the mail just two days later, I discovered how wrong I was. Amazon’s smile logo was almost mocking me as I tore it open and found a pristine silver rectangular box with the Enhanced Life Technologies logo emblazoned on the front. I had trouble unwrapping the plastic film but found the Life Glasses inside, exactly as depicted on the website. There was only a single sheet of paper with the instructions: 1. Turn them on. 2. Put them on. 3. Find out more about other people than even they know. Seemed simple enough. I know what you’re thinking: they’re a gift for someone else, you can’t try them on! Weeeell... they’re just six dollars, there wouldn’t be any real harm if I tried them. Looking at them closely, they were simple glasses with a small black box the size of the end of your thumb next to the left lens. After putting them on, naturally everything was out of focus since I don’t wear glasses. Underwhelmed, I took them off and then I saw the small red power button on the black box. After pressing the button, I put them back on to see my vison blurred at first but it slowly started to come into focus. I guessed these really were smart glasses. Not bad for six dollars huh? Bored, I kept them on and went out to do some shopping. There wasn’t any difficulty driving to the shops with the Life Glasses on but when I went inside that’s when they really went to work. Some teenage kid pushing trolleys had: “Has swam a total of fifty one miles during his lifetime”. An elderly lady walking out of the store had floating bright green text to her head saying: “Has travelled to a total of seventy two countries”. The girl at the checkout lane had red text next to her that said: “Suffers from globophobia”. I had to take the glasses off to make sure of what I was seeing, of course, as soon as I did, the text disappeared. I gawked at the checkout girl as I was processing this information. Were these facts really true about people? Can a six-dollar pair of glasses be this accurate? Unfortunately I got lost in my own thoughts and the checkout girl gave me a filthy look, sending me on my way, embarrassed. Walking through the fresh produce section only weirded me out even further. There was floating red text next to a six year old boy that said, “Total live spiders eaten: 3”, the floating yellow text next to his mother said, “Number of people bullied to tears: 5”. Really? Am I to believe the glasses can tell me that? The bald guy picking out apples was really concerning though. “Served six months for aggravated assault.” That can’t be true can it? I took off the glasses and stared at the guy. He didn’t seem dangerous. Maybe the way he’s holding that banana is kind of threatening? No. I couldn’t just assume the glasses are correct. I had to take them off. I had to stop worrying about other strangers. I had to get ready for my date that night... Internet match. Nothing unusual. She decided on a Korean-Mexican fusion restaurant (don’t ask) and I just went with the flow. She was a looker, no doubt, Before you ask, yes I wore the glasses. Now, hold on, there were several reasons why I wore them. One, they made me look smarter. Two, who’s to say that it actually works? I was thinking that it could tell me more about my date... Okay, there were only two reasons, but they were enough. When I first sat down with her the glasses popped up with the text, “likes wholesome memes”, which is okay but I could hardly use that in a conversation. Then there was a lull of information for the next five minutes. She ordered the bulgogi tacos, I ordered the French fries with kimchi. We really hit it off, then the next bit of information popped up. “Has kayaked 300 miles”. That was kind of useful. Outdoors kinda chick. I liked that. So I casually dropped that I sometimes went hiking then the conversation really started flying. Thought she was a real keeper. Then red text popped up next to her head. “Boyfriends killed: 3” Wait what? Did a double take. The glasses maybe got some things right about her but that was next level creepy. “So how did the breakup with your last boyfriend go?” I know, dick move, really soon, but... She just threw her head back and laughed. “It was pretty messy, I have to admit. Never had someone ask that on a first date before though.” I just nodded hoping to play it off. I mean really, was I going to get a full blown murder confession from her? Another red text popped up next to her. “Earliest date until murder of boyfriend: Third date.” At least I have some leeway...might give this another date. Would be cutting it close though.


A young boy and a slightly older girl are sitting on a burgandy shag carpet in a dim, fire lit room by it’s mantle. Behind each of them sits a brown leather chair, and outside it is dark and storming. The young boy had just finished a story. “It reminds me of Ina and the demon.” Says the young girl. “Surely you’ve heard the tale in classes haven’t you?” The boy shakes his head in response. “Oh. Well then, let me tell it to you. Ina was a young girl who longed so badly to be beautiful that she spent hours during the day every morning in order to make her hair look spectacular, because she wanted the prettier girls at school to notice her. And her hair *did* look spectacular. About 300 days out of the year. However on the other 65 it rained, and when it rained it frazzled Ina’s hair. And Ina did not like frazzled hair. Though nobody else seemed to mind. Their hair all got frazzled as well. Despite this Ina decided she hated the rain, and that she would do anything in her power to protect her hair on those days. “Then one day Ina met a demon-- “--and the Demon promised she could give Ina perfect hair every day--which of course included the rainy days. The demon only offered one catch, and that is that Ina must never ever be allowed to sleep over at a friend’s house. Ina agreed blindly and their deal had been made. “Now every morning the demon sends a chariot to Ina’s bedroom door, which will escort her from her home to the pavilion at school, which is covered. Ina was elated and surprised to find it outside her room on the first day of rain. She felt especially powerful when the girls at school started noticing her perfectly curly hair--despite the rain. When they would ask how she had done it she would just chuckle coyly and say ‘it’s my little secret.’ “Well one day a girl named Minnie invited Ina over to her parents’ house for her birthday. Minnie is the most popular girl in school, and *every*body was going to be there. Ina desperately wanted to attend. She told Minnie that she could come but she couldn’t stay over, which Minnie seemed unimpressed by. Ina felt startled by her possible lowering of status, and she amended that she *might* be able to stay over, depending on her parents, to which Minnie smiled and said, “Great!” Ina was feeling particularly high that day, until she met her demon in the chariot heading home. “You are not allowed to stay over at other little girls houses Ina. If you do, I can no longer protect you...” There was a pause and the demon thought. “Correction, I *will* no longer protect you. Do not break this deal, Ina.” And this frightened Ina severely and made her contemplate her next move. “The demon did not show up the rest of the week and Ina contemplated the decision quite studiously, and what she decided she'd go to the party and fake sick to leave early. Well the day came, and an hour into the party Ina knew she didn’t want to leave. Everybody was having so much fun. They were all laughing and playing games. The activities went on into the night, and before Ina knew it, she felt exhausted beyond belief. She decided half out of boldness and half out of fear to test her luck and stay the night, in order to maintain status. “Well at midnight, all the girls chanted that she be the first to play make up, wear the other girls make up each other’s faces. They wanted Ina to go first, and she felt elated at first, but then they strapped her to the chair and cut off all of her perfect hair. You see, the other girls were actually jealous of Ina, and so they planned this event to shave all of Ina’s hair. “Ina left the party crying and running home without calling her mother. It was dark out that night and she didn’t know where she was, but it was still summer and the weather was warm. It was also raining. Ina could feel the warm rain all over her naked scalp, and she realized it felt good. It felt clean. It felt wonderful! It felt right... And she remembered for the first time since school started, that before she cared about her hair, and before she cared about fitting in at school, Ina loved- LOVED- the rain. “She was smiling all the way home.


It all started when I was 5. My dad was picking up my sister from her preschool and I was coming along. Chopin was playing on the radio and I had a big cheese steak in front of me cut into bite size pieces. We turned the corner and I saw my sister. I waved maniacally to get her attention and she did a dance of recognition. I jumped out of the car and was about to go hug my sister when I felt a strange feeling in my arm. A burning sensation. I looked down and screamed. A wasp 5 times the size of a normal wasp had landed on my arm and began jabbing it repeatedly, lacerating it with skin tears and bathing itself in my blood. It cut a bone deep gash and started peeling off the inner layers of my skin. The weird thing was... I didn’t feel anything except a pleasant tingling. Nothing was hurting. I even laughed and ticked the wasp’s wings, which prompted it to stab my head repeatedly. I didn’t mind. When I was 9 years old, 45 doctors from 14 different countries would examine me daily, and on my 10th birthday, they diagnosed me with chromosome 6 deletion and subsequent nerve damage, described by them as the “Superhero Glitch.” From then on, I never felt pain. I was a playground legend. Day after day, I would slit my fingers with scissors until they turned white. I would purposely fall off monkey bars and rip the skin over my knees. My teacher had no clue because I would never cry, I would never yell. I would just take the hit. Bullies were no problem, neither were broken bones. In Grade 5, I had accumulated 17 doctor visits and feigned pain to get out of school. Life was perfect... until my 12th birthday. I was lying in my bed, devouring multiple slices of chocolate blackberry cheesecake when a thought occurred to me. *What is the pinnacle of pain? How can I test myself to the absolute limit? Or are there no limits?* Day after day, I began... experimenting. It started with a simple concussion. I felt a little dizzy, but still no pain. The next afternoon, I hit my wrist with a brick. Nothing major, just a few metacarpal fractures. For months, I confronted the world’s greatest pains, and each time I came out unscathed and relatively bored. The question had to be asked, and I asked it out loud while standing in the middle of the freeway, looking for snakes. Could I die? *Surely not,* I thought. *Dying is just a lot of pain at once. What if I didn’t? Better yet... what if I did?* The stage was set. I had walked to the nearest train station and waited. I looked at my watch. The express train was arriving in a minute. I took a deep breath. *Whatever happens here, you’ll be free of wondering. Think of all those years you took for granted. Think of all your memories. Think of all the mistakes you’ve made, all the pain you’ve endured for others. Think of how selfish, how self-centered you’ve been. You lived a hero, and now you will die a hero’s death. You won’t have to watch as others die around you. Whatever happens here, you’ll be free.* *I’ll be free.* I stepped forward and bent my head over the tracks. I could hear people screaming. I could hear the train, rushing towards me. But I felt nothing, dropping off onto the tracks. It was painless. I would never be free. Every one of my cells was screaming for death, every one of them slowly dying. And yet, I was still alive. Through all this pain, I would never die. I felt helpless, yet, ironically liberated. Because that day, I finally felt pain. I felt pain in knowing I would see my mother, my father and my little sister grow old around me before death finally took them away and I would watch as they were shackled and lifted to Heaven. I felt pain knowing that this torture would never end, I would grow old but never pass on, I would never die physically, but my soul and will to live would have vanished far before. My mind would be nothing more than an animal sent loose in a fenced paddock, I would never know freedom again. As my family picked me up, as I woke up in a hospital bed with cameras and distressed people all around me, I knew my time had finally come. I felt pain, and so I finally died.


Lauren twists the top of a pickle jar well she tries anyway. No matter how much she tries it won’t budge until she finally gives up and takes it to her boyfriend Paul. “Can you open this for me?” She offers the jar over to him. “Sure,” he gets a grip around it and twists hard. It pops and the faint smell of pickles fills the space. He hands the jar carefully back to her. “Thanks babe,” she kisses the air at him then turns and returns to the kitchen. She continues to make sandwiches for the both of them. Turkey and lettuce for her and corned beef on rye for him, both with a touch of pickle on the plate of course. She takes the plates and they sit on the couch together; channel surfing until they both agree on a movie while relaxing into each other. The weekends were the best because they didn’t have to stress about work or anything work related. After there were only crumbs on the plates and the movie was over Lauren looked up at Paul, “what do you want to do today?” He thought about it for a few seconds then pulled her closer, “can’t I have this just a little while longer?” Lauren giggled, “but we have the rest of the day to do this. Don’t you want to go outside?” He puts his hand over his eyes, “no, outside bad.” Laughing more she stands and grabs his other hand, “come on you big oaf! Lets go outside and soak up some sun.” She tugs at his arm to get him up. “No,” he announces like a toddler. “Come on, it will be fun. We could have a picnic...” He uncovers his eyes, “and you thought that would get me outside?” She groans and lets go of his arm. Then she comes up with a plan while going into the bedroom. In the closet she grabs two gloves and goes back to the living room. “Wanna have a catch,” she asks as she tosses a baseball up and catches it. He springs from the couch, “now you’re taking.” Packing up some things you both leave the apartment and head for the park. Holding hands and smiling the whole way they see it is practically abandoned. “I don’t get it,” Lauren looked around, “it’s a nice day why aren’t people outside?” “More park for us,” Paul tosses her a glove. Putting on the glove and a hat she squares up, “ready.” Taking the ball he nods to her and lobs one that nearly makes it. “A little out of practice aren’t you,” she chuckles back. Tossing it right back to him and he catches it. He throws it this time and it makes it and she takes her hand out to shake it. “That one had a little heat on it.” “Sorry honey,” he yells back. “You’re going to be,” she whispers under her breath. Throwing it back to him twice as hard as he did and made a loud crack into his glove. He slides his hand out of the glove and waves it around in the air and shaking it vigorously. “Good lord that was hard babe. You sure you weren’t in the majors?” “Sorry babe,” she yells back. Throwing a few more they stop for a snack. Finding a nice shaded spot under a tree they rehydrate and relax. A few more people in the park now, maybe they missed the memo earlier saying it was a beautiful day. “You know what sounds good?” Paul nearly whispered out as he wrapped his arms around Lauren. “What’s that?” “Eating some of your famous chicken fajitas for dinner,” he coos. Lauren sighs, “it has been a while since we’ve had those. Unfortunately that means I have to run to the store for a few items.” “I’ll go with you if you want?” “Nah, you can stay home and start chopping the ingredients,” she slaps his knee as she gets up. “Lucky me,” he gets up with a groan. They pick up the gloves and head for home. “Got your keys,” Lauren asks Paul. “Yep!” She pats his back, “good then you can go up and get started while I go to the store. Be back in a few,” she kisses his cheek and is off to the corner market. Once there she picks up a basket and skims the walkways. A short list of what she needs and knows exactly where things are. Grabbing the cheese she passes a stack of oranges, not needed for dinner but they looked so good. Picking up a couple she makes her way to checkout. The cashier scans the items and you could tell she was getting hungry from it. “Looks like you’re making something good.” “Chicken fajitas,” Lauren answers back. “That does sound good. Also looks like you forgot the chicken.” “That’s the one thing I had.” They share a little laugh then she reads the total. After paying Lauren picks up the bag and thanks the cashier. Heading back home she mentally goes through the recipe to make sure she didn’t forget anything. While listing in her head she steps on a rock and makes her ankle go a little sideways. Catching herself so she doesn’t twist her ankle she jerks back the other direction causing her grocery bag to go the other way. An orange lands out of the bag and rolls not far under the nearest car. She walks over to it and puts the bag down. Looking around before getting on her hands and knees she sees the orange ball just out of arms reach. With her right arm she gently puts it under the frame of the car and lifts up. The tires on one side leave the pavement and with her right hand she grabs the orange. Tossing it back in the bag she puts her other hand on the car to gracefully return it to the pavement. Getting back up she dusts herself off and picks up the bag. As she straightens up she sees a mother with her girl at the crosswalk across the street. The mother has her hand but isn’t paying attention as she gabs away on her phone. Lauren looks at the little girl who is staring and puts her pointer to her lips. The little girl smiles then Lauren turns on her heal and heads for home. THE END


CAUTION: Language and grisly images and reality TV Nothing had happened at the mansion seemingly in forever . Which kinda, sorta was the whole point. “I don’t give a fuck about manatees,” Mason growled. He then glanced anxiously down at the headset hanging about his neck with his $350 readers and the wood-gripped director’s lens finder that supposedly had belonged to John Ford. He’d hoped for a gig on Yellowstone or at least Yellowstone 1972 , and after some flunkie for Taylor Sheridan told him who John Ford was, figured it might help give him some street creed with the Paramount-Plus folks. It didn’t, and he’d never yet used the thing. There were apps for that now, as if Soul Survivor remotely required technique or artistry. Chest pounding, he flopped back in his Adirondack. “Swear to God, if my mike had been hot just then, I’d have fed you to the sea cows. Even if this is CBS, the whale-humpers on Twitter would have cancelled me quicker than MAX killed Batgirl . Fucking labradoodles of the sea.” Cayl took a measured beat. She’d been discovered by Jeff Probst after her work on Netflix’ Rudderless: Death of a Dolphin , which Probst had streamed while attempting to lure narrator Paltrow onto Glamping With the Stars . “Look, while we’re waiting out the strike, we could shoot some footage of the gang cooing over the manatees. Like you said, people love the, uh, fucking things - I could work up a stringout, maybe on the lines of the alliances forging a temporary truce after the blowout last ep. Harmonizing with nature, all that...shit.” Mason peered out over the ocean. He didn’t get it - he truly didn’t. But he could see it even without fucking John Ford’s magic kaleidoscope. It’s why they’d picked this location on the coast, aside from the fucking ghosts which had yet to show their fucking dead faces and the tie-in with Paramount’s new King miniseries. Public interest in the supernatural - at least among Viacom/PP’s prime demographics -- had surged following the president’s claim to have been visited in the Lincoln Bedroom by the spirit of Ronald Reagan urging closed borders and the sale of the Alaskan National Wildlife Refuge amid a wholly inexplicable spike in Fairbanks and Juneau polar bear attacks. Paltrow’s 60 Minutes comments on the matter tanked Glamping , opening a prime Wednesday slot for Soul Survivor . Which had gone on hiatus four episodes in, amid the network editor/programmers’ strike and the incident that had occurred moments after the network cut abruptly from the live feed to the highly touted NCIS: Key West/NCIS: Chicago crossover accidentally aleady in progress. If you rewatched the network feed, you could see Probst glimpse away without dropping the shit-eating grin. Mason pushed out of his porch chair. “Yep, sure, let’s go shoot some fucking sea cows. Oh, c’mon; you know what I fucking meant.” ** Actually, as Mason squinted down, he decided labradoodles had more intellectual bearing. But Cayl was right - the standard collection of beautiful morons Probst had gathered this time were entranced by the dumb cows. Cows with a Harvey Weinstein face and, well, Harvey Weinstein’s physique. The strike had stifled Mason’s creativity. More agile than Weinstein, though -- at least the enfeebled, bristly version of Weinstein the attorneys had rolled past TMZ during the trial. Had he directed it, he’d once told Cayl, he’d have lost the Goodwill walker with the day-glo tennis balls.“Looked like a fucking Lifeline commercial. Nobody thinks Harvey buys his lube and rohypnol at Costco.” Cayl could but silently concur. One of her greatest attributes as an assistant producer, Mason acknowledged. Right this minute, in fact, Cayl was silently assessing the trio of West Indian manatees cavorting at the edge of the ancient pier as Mason rallied the seven remaining contestants. “This is what the late Coach Hayden Fox would have called a team-building opportunity,” the two-time Emmy short-lister began soberly, assuming these Gen-Zers only knew Craig T. Nelson as Admiral Hornblauer on NCIS:KW/Chi/Hawaii/Vegas - if they even watched scripted shit any more. “I know we’re all pretty still pretty dazed by recent events, and I appreciate everybody keeping the faith while our brothers and sisters in the Editors Guild negotiate a workable contract. Word is, a new contract could be announced by week’s end.” Truth be told, there’d been a virtual network blackout since The Incident - given the unaired debacle in Episode 4, a blessing in disguise for Mason. As for the “talent,” there was a seemingly unending supply of high-end food and drink, the unprecedented on-air hijinks and Venn Diagram fucking that had dominated Season 3 had set most of the gang free of their external obligations, and nobody was in any hurry to leave even a ramshackle, ostensibly haunted Shangri-La. The NDAs had scarcely seemed necessary, and there’d been no inquiries or edicts from Probst or Network. “For right now, though, let’s set rivalries and alliances aside. Nature has given us a gift--“ Cayl snorted; Mason glared. “--and we thought we might capture this moment of contemplation and reconciliation for the winter premiere. Or, you know, the spring or summer premiere, or whenever. There’s no restrictions on shooting, as long as nothing goes into post-production. ” Mason paused, looked down into the blank, bovine faces, then turned back to the manatees. A bristled snout popped above the water, nostrils flaring, and the director moved back a step. Cayl had set him straight after his previous threat, but he didn’t trust anything that big to stay true to its vegan vows. “So what’s say we start the day with a moment of silence for Trey?” A couple of the assembled ghosthunter/warriors frowned, looked out to the roiling ocean and the rocky beach where a flamingo and a gull were tussling over a dead tarpon, back up at the mansion, trying to define that something that seemed to elude them. Then all seven heads dropped into an attitude of prayer Mason had neither requested nor was permitted to request under network HR standards. “Jesus,” Mason muttered, compounding theproblem. Cayl communed with the sea cows, who seemed oblivious to her human presence. ** There was a truly ancient comedy on one of the implant streams -- you could still find it if you were really determined, and if you could put up with the big hair, the outdated P9 references, the clunky coincidences and indecipherable callbacks that demanded the distractive FNote Track, and its quaintly sweet snark and naive notions of friendship and loyalty. Re had seen it but once, at the post-coital urging of an NYU broadcast history student he’d banged maybe 30 years before. A “cult classic,” a “social phenomenon.” It had in fact been a fairly tasteless affair, as it turned out , making light of the near death of a whale for the purposes of promoting a sociopathic liar’s sexual ambitions. Re’d interned with the Global Oceans Rescue Federation, and they’d parted company over breakfast, both agreed, none too soon. Based on amicus filings by the World Wildlife Foundation, Greenpeace, PETA, and Seaworld’s See Cetaceans campaign, the episode was permanently pulled from streaming archives along with the infamous “We had a deal with the squirrels” episode. But Re had savored and thus retained one quip delivered by the grandiloquent sociopath “George.” “The sea was angry that day, my friends - like an old man tying to send back soup in a deli.” The last true deli had been bombed by an extreme No More Methane cell following the U.S.’ fifth rejection of the Paris Global Climate Treaty, soup had all-but-vanished from restaurant menus amid the potable water shortages of the ‘40s, and in three decades watching the Atlantic become its own bouillabaisse and climate shifts rendering meteorology a dead discipline, Re joked (or considered joking) he’d never seen anything BUT an angry sea. There were so many things wrong there, but as a result, it was theoretically nostalgic. Re nonetheless had booked this coastal cruise as his sabbatical gift - a celebration of a life aquatic, as some old Wes Anderson movie had put it, with his guilty avocational pleasure. Processing his mother’s estate, he’d come across three boxes of OG pulp-paper books. While it took some adjustment deactivating his Kinductive Reader implant and fending off the stares on the Metroways and the Impossible Coffee shops, Re rapidly became addicted to the works of Stephen King. The late 20 th Century/early 21 st author had specialized in the horror genre, and had been a key social force in the years leading up to the Second Civil War. After an attack by a deforestation protester on the Times Square food concourse, he’d inloaded the collected digital works. He’d never devised how to disable the background audio track on the bone-conductive Kindle chip, but tolerating manipulative strings and creaky terror FX seemed a small price for keeping Re’s cranium intact. “To your left, you’ll see one of the highlights of today’s Tour,” his Carnival-synched implant murmured. Re perked and stared out the bubble’s hull, above the water line. The old estate was as virtually displayed on the website - a 19 th Century behemoth, weathered but steadfast and daunting on a bluff above the rocky shore. With one significant difference. The latest photo on the site had been taken in the early 2030s, and the fire-scarred clearing just west of the mansion had long-since healed over, if not the west wing itself. “I don’t know if any of you are old enough to remember the television series Soul Survivor, though I’m sure you history buffs are aware of the events of October 24, 2027, and the scandalous legacy of Brookridge Manor. It was here that nearly the entire cast and crew of the paranormal reality show perished in a fire bombing/shooting spree by Trey Reedus, an apparently disgruntled contestant who’d been ‘ghosted’ during the program’s Tribal Séance only moments before. Reedus, a photographer from Ocala, Florida, had been savaged across social media platforms days before for manufacturing a deepfake video of Kellem Brookridge, the manor’s original owner and lumber tycoon, walking the halls of the mansion. Unfortunately for Reedus, Brookridge had died peacefully in his sleep in 1886 after losing both legs in an 1843 sawmill accident.” A man of his time, Re reflected as a pod of dolphins glided below his feet. Reedus, not Brookridge. The Floridian’s photography had primarily appealed to lonely and libidinous web crawlers, and Trey was a member of several now-extinct cultural appreciation groups known for scrawling geometrically skewed swastikas on overpasses and synagogues and waging White God’s battle for the community expulsion of such literary terrorists as Judy Blume, Kurt Vonnegut, Charles Schultz, James Baldwin, and, of course, Father Stephen. Soul Survivor ’s screeners apparently were as well-read as Mr. Reedus, who as they later discovered also had a tendency toward badly filtered transphobia and misogyny. He had, nonetheless, been able to translate the writing on the wall, or Walls, as it were, and managed somehow to quickly stockpile guns and incendiaries in 21 st Century rural America after a failed Instagram campaign decrying “cancel culture” failed to command more than a few thousand likes and concurrent online threats against “the network Jews.” CBS carefully affirmed its steadfast commitment to the First Amendment, “if not to the specific views expressed by Mr. Reedus,” but the execs liked their viewership old and scared, not proactively psychotic. Luckily, Probst and Co. were able to hang their caps on outright fraud, which even by that point was a technical deal-breaker. Well, luckily . “An investigation into the tragedy revealed that the local realtor who leased the historic mansion had for years fraudulently claimed the Brookridge manor to be haunted, by her own admission to pursue historical landmark designation and improve resale appeal without having to make key code upgrades. At the same time, the families of the seven remaining contestants, crew members, and producers filed a multi-billion-dollar suit against CBS, Paramount, and the late Probst’s production company, and with public outcry narrowly edging demand for more of the same, competitive reality ended nearly overnight. As for Trey Reedus, authorities confirmed through dental records that charred remains found in the gutted parlor of the mansion were indeed the arsonist/murderer’s. “And ironically, because of his actions, Brookridge Manor was restored to the National Registry of Paranormal Sites 10 years ago, after an EPA hydrothermic research vessel spotted what looked to be trespassers on the condemned property, heavily dressed and without respiratory gear despite record October temperatures. In photos taken by the crew, the dozen or so trespassers could not be identified, and the crew could find no corresponding human heat signatures... The implant went silent, and for one moment, Re was concerned he might have to have the cortical chip recalibrated or even replaced. Then the AI voice returned, slightly and artificially breathless, with an edge of synthesized wonder. “Oh, my. We have a real treat for our Carnival Paranormal Reward guests today. If everyone could please focus their attention on the pier to the left of the mansion...” Re swiveled as the bubble rose a few feet above the waves. His heart quickened as he spotted it. A half-ring of figures, absurdly disturbing in jeans and flannel on a typical 120-degree October morning. He adjusted his glasses, and could make out that their heads were bent in, what, prayer? Officiated by a short, thin man in an expensive looking down vest, who stood out from the young, svelte men and women seemingly absorbed in his evey word. Several yards away, at the edge of the decipit old dock, a crouching ninth figure looked up, and Re looked abruptly away, uncertain whether what he saw under its shock of red hair was a refractive trick of the superheated water or some veil between spatial, temporal, or dimensional planes, or what he almost certainly knew it to be. Re suddenly felt something nostalgic. Empathy. For this creature, for the seven eternally lost souls seeking, what, release, mercy, forgiveness, just an acknowledgment of something, anything beyond? “The ship biologist informs me an aggegration of manatees has gathered at the shoreline, and although we have no way of confirming it, it would appear the entity you see at the end of the dock is attempting to interact with them. Now, of course, manatees are not at all uncommon in this area - global boiling off the Florida coast forced a number of species northward, and with recreational boating and commercial fishing curtailed along most of the Eastern Seaboard and their habitable range extended, manatee numbers have grown nearly tenfold over the past decade alone. Recent research indicates that like dolphins, manatees may be particularly sensitive not only to sounds beyond our grasps, but also to spiritual energies. Who knows?” Like a weak digital signal, the figures on shore flickered and eventually glitched out. Re fell back in his seat, incredibly both disappointed and...relieved. “Our captain informs me a rapidly moving hyperthermafront is moving this way, so we’re going to head on out. Just to remind you - complementary high-resolution photos of this morning’s occurrence are now available on the forward deck. We at Carnival’s King’s Tour of Paranormal Maine hope it made your voyage even more supernaturally special.” Re smiled despite himself. As the horizon darkened in prelude to the next onslaught, the next overture building to a crashing finale, he was heartened by the notion that there might be another stage, a life after extinction. As the bubble settled back into the cradling sea, Re glanced at the rising depths beneath his feet to find a trio of bristled, bovine faces staring right back up at him, curious perhaps, perhaps pitying. The manatees trailed the bubble as far as their considerable bulk and meager stealth would take them, and as the small aggregation disappeared into the murk, Re tapped his left temple, brought up his library, and, in a moment of impulse, bypassed King for something by Melville. ** Cayl looked up as the manatees abruptly pivoted toward the open sea. It all began to come back to her again, as it did more times than she knew, as she watched what appeared to be a huge bubble rise from the rough surf. Mason and the Beautiful Morons were still eulogizing the psychotic monster who’d somehow caused all this and praying for, what, a timely end to the strike and short network/viewer memory? Cayl shuddered as she reached out again to the pod or whatever they called a herd of sea cows whose GPS had gone woefully haywire, catching sight of the skin running from ruined nails into her jacket sleeves. The trio was about to bolt, and Cayl leaned over the dock to catch one last glimpse. The lack of a reflection didn’t register, and as the manatees retreated, she instinctively turned toward the house, toward the black hole that looked like some gaijin had emerged from this off-kilter ocean and taken a bite for the road. It was watching her, again, she realized. A mass of charcoal and dried blood, one arm now perpetually merged with a twisted, barely recognizable piece of metal. The redneck’s wet dream, Cayl mused, flipping it off two-handed. The briquette-thing’s jaws unhinged, and it mouthed something, vestigial lips pursing on the first syllable, popping on the last. Same thing it’d said to her leaving the Séance Circle for what would be his posthumous 15 minutes. “Wow, who writes your dialogue, you fucking overdone putz?” Cayl Rosenweig muttered.


My throbbing feet tell me I’ve been standing still, staring at the Departures screen too long. It’s decision time. Savannah or San Francisco? That’s the question. I should join the girls, but the City by the Bay keeps flashing at me--each blinding letter a lightsaber piercing my heart. I could go to the ticket counter, pay the change penalty and show up on his doorstep, ending this story -telling nonsense for good. If necessary, I could tolerate the pain of rejection. I stall instead, scour the gate area for a seat, open my laptop, and read. # Chapter 22--ORION and SONG. I prefer letters over numbers, but lately, my life can be summed up by the latter--one hundred eighty absent school days, twenty-two hockey games missed, seven nights in the Pine Grove Psych ward, and ninety-six days at Robin’s Nest Memorial. Finally, I’m home, but little has changed. I’m the same miserable kid I’ve been since the bathroom incident a year and a half ago, and my parents are still desperate for a cure. They’ll never find one because I’m not really sick. I feel fine. As long as I don’t have to go anywhere, see, or talk to anyone, I’m absolutely, perfectly fine. # According to Ms. Rhona Spiegelman, overpriced education consultant extraordinaire, The Red Earth Therapeutic Boarding School in Nowhereville , Utah, has a spot for me. I considered it, imagined a hell so much worse than the one I'm living in, and refused to go. I'd rather die, and I made this clear in the garage last night. I sat in the front seat of Mom's minivan with the engine running, and although I was afraid, I was also filled with anticipation for the end. Now I'm just afraid. Two testosterone-saturated silhouettes are standing in my bedroom. "Good morning, Orion," says the first shadow. "We're here to help you," says the second, and I piss myself. "Orion." It's Dad. He’s there in the darkness. "These men are going to escort you to your new school. They'll keep you safe." I've heard about this. It's called Transport . Before the break of day, hired thugs come into homes and take kids away. I never thought they'd come for me. Thugs One and Two let me change out of my pajamas, but the smell of urine remains on my skin. They each take hold of an elbow, one on my right and the other on my left. Then they walk me, prisoner style, out of our house. Mom and Dad say goodbye to my back. Eazy and Nance don't. Sandwiched in the backseat between my captors, I feel numb. They look straight ahead as a uniformed driver accelerates out of our driveway and onto the street. Thug One slips me a blue pill at the first intersection. "To help you relax," he says. It's a command, not a suggestion. So I take it, but it has no effect. # The air is thick with gray fog when the car stops in front of a woman. She’s dressed in a military uniform and a stern expression. The driver opens the door, and we get out. “Another one with no gear?” she grunts. Then she throws camouflage print clothing and combat boots in my direction. “Wear these,” she says, “it’s hunting season.” The thugs fade into the background, and twenty teenagers arrive at the scene. They are covered from head to toe in camo, and each has a shotgun. All I have is a bow and arrow. The woman, a sergeant of sorts, starts yelling. “Y’all are good for nothing! It’s time you learned to take care of yourselves. Today, you’re gonna learn to hunt for your food. If you FAIL, then you’ll STARVE. Do not shoot each other or yourselves. That would be a waste of bullets. Now go! And don’t come back till your carcass is butchered and prepared for roasting.” The kids are running in every direction. I hear gunshots. I run into the woods with my bow and arrow flopping noisily against my butt. I hide, frozen and barely breathing among the trees until I hear the click of a trigger engaging. Someone is aiming at me. I fumble for my bow and arrow, position my weapon, and take a shot in the direction of the sound. Instantly, I am in agony, my ear ablaze with fire. The arrow clipped my right lobe, leaving a throbbing bloody pulp behind. The car jerks to a stop, waking me from my nightmare, but my ear still burns with pain. The seatbelt has pinched it into a folded crease. I rub, gently kneading the hurt away, while my sense of doom lingers. # At the airport, the thugs resume their vice-like grip on my elbows as we inch closer to the security checkpoint. I scan the terminal for someone to help me, but the situation looks grim. Behind us, there's a family immersed in cyberspace and a man in a business suit who's invading his colleague's personal space. In front of us, a couple bickers. The woman wins the argument, and the man stares at his feet in silent surrender. He shuffles along the switchbacking cue, and our threesome follows him. Suddenly, the reality that I'm being brought to a school for psycho kids gets stuck in my windpipe, and I can't breathe. I'm choking on my immediate future, and the lack of oxygen makes me dizzy. Streams of sweat run down my temples, and my whole body trembles. I'm about to collapse in a heap when another option comes to me--I won’t go. I'll make a run for it. I tug against One's hold, and he tightens his grasp without even a glance in my direction. Then I yank against Two's grip with all my strength, and my arm slips free. He doesn't flinch. To my surprise, neither of them react at all. I see why. A ghostly version of my right elbow remains clutched in Two's hand. I stare at it, then blink, expecting it to disappear, but it doesn't. I look at the businessman, the cyber junkies, and the couple. They don't notice me. Nobody around me sees the magic. I twist and turn, claiming my left arm and wrenching my body free. Then I lunge forward and run. I duck under five security line dividers to get out of the scanning cue and make it to a waiting area before I stop to look back. What I see is incredible--I see, Me . A transparent version of myself is trapped in the line and transitioning to opaque. "Orion!" I whisper-shout. He looks straight ahead. "Orion!" I call him again, but he doesn't acknowledge me at all. I can't leave him. I backtrack as fast as I can until the sight of his changing body slows me down. He's fading as I approach him. I stop short when I can see through him and start to retreat. Me taking three steps in reverse causes his density to increase. I back up to the waiting area, and he's almost solid again. If I go to him, he'll disappear, and I will be in his place. If I don't, I will be free. I pause in confusion. He passes through the scanner and materializes on the other side, as real as me. # “Eeew! Naked boy!” A tween-age girl is shrieking in my direction. Shit! I assumed that my clothes were duplicating too, but they weren’t. Now I’m not only visible, but I’m also totally exposed. I cover what’s important with my hands and run for it. I take the down escalator three steps at a time. I spot the baggage carousel and dive for the conveyor belt just before it disappears into the hidden baggage handling space. Clothes, I need clothes fast! I tear open a suitcase--baby rattles, diapers, onesies, and a mobile with rainbow-colored ladybugs on it. The next two luggage bags are locked. I rip the zipper on a soft, brown plaid bag straight off--toilet paper, medications, and an abundance of toothpaste. I pray the next one, a large valise with a perfectly placed leather identification tag, will contain what I want. Inside are six pairs of high-heeled sandals, a cosmetics case, three bikinis, a shorty wetsuit with a fluorescent pink zipper down the front, and women’s, size nine, bedazzled flip flops. The contents are not exactly what I hoped for, but they’ll do. # Around me, throngs of travelers and airport employees make a commotion. The clamor of traffic wafts in through the sliding doors. Noise is everywhere, competing for attention with the sound of my heart beating in my ears. The chaos conforms to my right, where people are funneling down a hallway. The organized flow draws me in, and I follow the masses onto an AirTrain. I regret my decision immediately. The crowd is dense, aggressive, and agitated. A horrible boy with a tennis racket case slung around his shoulder glances, first at my feet and then at my face. The smoke from his vape makes me sweat. I turn toward a man in a tracksuit. Earbuds peep out from under his white cap. He leers, and a gold tooth that matches the emblem on his hat tries to snatch me. I tighten my white knuckle grip around the handhold. The train stops, the doors open, and a smell enters. It’s a stroller, and people are backing away from it. A rounded woman wearing pink lipstick holds its handle. She spreads her feet wide, taking advantage of the space that has freed up around her. I ride near the stench to the end of the line and follow it toward a turnstile. Hoards of people line up to rotate through the spokes, but I have nothing; no phone, money, or MetroCard. The stroller bypasses the turnstile and goes through a buzzing door. I slither through behind it, and we get on another train together. There’s not enough room for me. Hair and shoulders are filling my personal space. A purse shoves me against a coat. The coat shrugs, and I brace myself for ridicule, but there is none. There are only smartphone-hugging busy people who have no interest in me. I am safe until the masses unload into a dark tunnel that exits under the starry sky of Grand Central Station. Groups of kids everywhere want to drag me under and bury me in insults. The grand staircase invites me to escape them, and I’m up the steps and out the door in seconds. The noise in my head explodes on the streets of New York. I hear sirens and horns. I hear a whistle blow and a car’s sudden screech. I start to run, and the sound of my flip-flops slapping along the sidewalk is a constant that cuts through the mayhem of the city until a geyser of coffee sprays the woman I crash into and me. I didn’t see her coming out of the shop I was passing, and now her leopard pattern faux fur is dripping in latte. “God dammit, child,” she hisses, ignoring her coat and looking down at her splashed stilettos. I wipe my face and hold back the tears inside me. I dodge her giant shopping bags and forge onward toward the safety of my room. I don’t stop until I get to the trees. When the leafy branches give way to the water, the swans in the boat pond let me know where I am, and the familiarity slows me down. I’ve been here before with Eazy and Nance. I collapse onto a bench and suck The Rambles into my heaving lungs. When I catch my breath, I turn my attention to my throbbing feet where red, puffy skin is bubbling up at the flip-flop’s rhinestone margins. The constrictive neoprene edges of the wetsuit are ringing my thighs like sausages, and the pink zipper is digging into my chest. I want to be sitting on my bed in my clothes at home. Despondent, I drop my head into my hands and squeeze. When I raise it, I see two identical-looking swans waddle their way out of the water and think of my double. He will have to endure worse, and this realization makes me gather my strength. I stand up, point my gaudy feet West and head toward the Hudson River. Then I turn right and go North for hours. # I slam my laptop closed, then freeze, attempting to absorb the agony of defeat without attracting the attention of my fellow passengers. They don't know I spent three years writing a novel I can't bring to fruition, and they shouldn't have to tolerate my blubbering. It's not their fault I'm an unknown debut author--an imposter in the truest sense of the word. The crushing sensation in my chest leaves me breathless before I feel the burn. Then heat races through my veins, raising my blood to a boil. My neck, face, and ears simmer until rage lights a fire under my ass, making me jump to a stand. What a waste of time! Sweat, tears, and stupid carpel tunnel syndrome. For what? I'm a mad fool. No. I AM FURIOUS. I grab my purse, planning to go to San Francisco. Only I can't because my pocketbook is stuck, clenched in the hand of my materializing double. I recoil at the image of my faded fingers wrapped around the leather and becoming opaque fast. The irony is almost more than I can bear. Instead of finishing Orion's story, I've written mine, and now I'm the one who has to run.


Taking an old blanket, I pushed aside the carpet of dust formed on top of the heavy wood chest. My once trove of secrets and obsessions that morphed as I grew. At the age of seven it held Matchbox cars, wrestling action figures (and anything else I did not want my little brother to touch). Age twelve it held football memorabilia, at sixteen it held band shirt with dirty magazines folded neatly with them. Its final charge was to hold things I could not bear to part with after college and ready to take on the world. The lid squealed with surprise when I eased it open to reveal its hidden treasures. It had been abandoned in my parent’s attic for seventeen years. The attic existed over the house my father built and lost in the divorce, that my mother remodeled and lived with her new husband, Mark. My father never got his drinking under control and passed away from liver failure only six years after the divorce. I remember being conflicted on how to feel, alcohol always seemed more important than me, and Mark had never forgotten to pick me up from school or one of my science fairs. The attic was not as forgotten as my chest would mislead, Mark liked things orderly, some would say too orderly. There were shelves with labels, totes with labels, filing cabinets with--you guessed it--labels. Only my corner of childhood memories and random items from different moves or projects were left untouched and dust ridden. Mark’s motto has always been, if you care about something--take care of it. But it was not his job to care about my somethings. My argument remained, out of sight, out of mind. Well in sight and no longer out of mind, the chest lay bared open, patiently waiting as it had done all these years. As if not to disturb some waking creature, I plucked off the top quilt with gentle consideration and smoothed out the top, running my fingers along the different fabrics. My grandmother had made it for me. It was a gift for my college graduation. Made up of all my old band shirts, flannels, and jeans. At first, I had been upset because no one had talked to me about taking them (sure they had holes or were too small, but they were mine), after a couple weeks with it on my bed, all had been forgiven. It had been three years since my grandmother passed and I would still tear up if I thought long enough about it. That quilt and I had been through a lot. In college it proved a loyal cocoon while I ate my ice cream or boxed mac and cheese and binge watched a new series or the latest horror flick. It was there when I lost my virginity. When I moved out of state and back home. There until I met Hannah and she bought a new set. For a couple of years, it sat on my recliner in the living room, until Hannah’s interior design ideas covered the house. The quilt had made its way up here, when we got married and well, out of sight out, out of mind. I sat it aside. I will take that home. My fingers found the next item and at first my mind struggled for realization. I pulled them closer and felt a smile spread across my lips. Garbage Pail Kids trading cards. An entire binder of them. I laugh to myself as I open the cover and reveal the grotesque illustrations with clever names like Barfin’ Bart, Leaky Lindsay, and Slobby Robbie. That’s right, I even had an Adam Bomb . I used to save all my nickels and dimes just to run down to the corner store and purchase as many packs as I could. Over the years many friends tried to buy them from me, but no price compared to the shit eating grin inspired by Large Marge. I place the binder on the opposite side of the quilt, to put back in the chest. No way they would pass Hannah’s inquiring eye. The quilt I could lean on sentiment. “Daddy?” I hear from downstairs. “Yes, love?” “Did you find it?” I wait to respond because I can already hear small feet making their way up the steps and I want to make sure there are no slips. The stairs are kind of steep. When I see the blond pig tails bob around the corner, I smile and open my arms to receive our daughter Abigail, or as I called her Abs. Drove Hannah nuts. Even after five years, it still amazed me that Hannah and I created a tiny human and a damn cute one. Before I can shift Abs onto my knee, her neck is craning to peek into the chest, her brown eyes wide and searching. “What’s dat?” T with H’s were still a little tough. “Well, let’s see.” My hands reach back into the chest and pull out the next item. A shoe box. In it is old photographs, letters, lighters, cards, and other small mementos from high school and a little beyond. The span of time Hannah referred to as my idiotic years. Sifting through it, with a deep sigh, I agree with her and set the box in another pile to get rid of. Abs’s small hands sought the next item with eagerness, her fingers grasping onto another small box, about the same size as the shoe box, only metal and with a push lock. Its face is covered in bumper stickers saying things like, Thou shall not steal. The government hates competition. And Why does freedom cost so much? Memories of my college years flooded back, and the meetings held in the small cramped room that used to serve as a dark room, discussing different actions and political views. All nine of our members had a box like the one Abs held, not all made of metal, but containing, what we considered, essential items for a revolution. I did not have to open the box to know what I would find. A copy of Howard Zinn’s, A People’s History of the United States. A copy of Let Me Speak, by Domitila Chungara. A handwritten list of ten lessons from the Great Depression and how the people can survive it. A hunting knife. A magnesium fire starter. Newspaper articles and other obscure articles, and pocket notebooks filled with scrawling from our meetings different ideas, diagrams and statistics. We were gonna change the world and we called ourselves, The Working People’s Union. We were gonna change the world. “What’s dat?” “Love, this is dreams in a box.” An unexpected feeling of guilt washed over me as Abs traced the letters on one of the red colored stickers with a rose on it. I wanted to change the future for children everywhere so they would not have to struggle. All that ambition was shoved into a single metal box and forgotten when the system won and had me working over forty hours a week, making just enough to be comfortable. I had been comfortable. Out of sight, out of mind. I take the box from her hands and place it with the quilt. “One day, Daddy will go through the box with you. Know how I always tell you your gonna save the world?” A nod. “Well consider this a starter kit for when you are older.” “But I wanna save da world now!” So do I, I thought. “I can show you where to begin for someone strong, but pint sized.” “Okay!” I chuckle to myself and kiss the top of her head, breathing in the smell of Dove soap, the only Hannah approved soap for Abs’s sensitive scalp. “Okay.” My hand delved once again into the chest, this time rediscovering my old Philadelphia Eagles, DeSean Jackson jersey wrapped around my signed football. I put it to the side with the binder of cards and reach in again. Abs is squirming with impatience. My old Walkman came next and when I pushed the eject button to find a cassette of Bob Dylan. With a smile I hand the player to my daughter. “That will be your first lesson on saving the world. All we need are batteries.” “Bat-trees...” She repeated in a mesmerized whisper, taking the player and beginning to push buttons. I fondled around a bit until my fingers found the headphones, which I laid with the quilt. “John!” I hear Hannah call from downstairs. “Yes?” “Is she up there with you?” “I hold my finger to my lips to signal Abs to remain quiet. “Did you lose our daughter?” “John! I am serious. She begged your mother for this piece of cake, and she only took two bites!” “Only two bites of Mem’s chocolate cake?” I whispered with an exaggerated shock at Abs, who began giggling into her fists. With a glance at the steps, she whispers back. “I want to help you.” I nod and place another kiss on her head. “She is up here with me! I found the chest! We will be down in a minute or two!” “Abigail Maureen you are finishing this cake when you come down here!” Hannah called back with authority and I heard the door close. “I guess we better speed this up.” Abs nodded. I picked her up and sat her on the floor next to me. Pushing myself unto my knees, I gripped the edge of the chest and hoisted myself into better view. There were comics, my college sweatshirt, a few year books, An Airforce for Math and science award, my diploma (opened once on the day I received it), a few surviving band shirts, and books I considered necessary in case of power failure, Lord of the Rings: Trilogy, The Dark Tower Series (all seven books, plus The Wind Through the Keyhole, and a copy of Charlie the Choo-Choo), and finally Lamb by Christopher Moore (because it makes me laugh out loud). Nestled into the one corner is my desired object. My fingers feel a familiar fabric and I look at Abs, who senses my excitement. Her small fist smash into the sides of her cheeks, her lips pursing out like a fish. It took all my control not to laugh hysterically. I wanted to keep her teetering between suspense and excitement. “Did you find it?” She bounced up and down with expectation. “Maybe...” I said. “Can I have it?” “Depends...” I removed my hand from the chest and grasped within is my old friend. Puddles. Puddles was a stuffed dog. The simplest design, with floppy ears and rounded snout. I imagine at some point he had a nose, but never in any of my recollections and whatever length of fur he had was pilled tight to his worn body. His black and white eyes stared back at me through half lids looking as if I woke him from a peaceful slumber. My favorite thing had always been the beans weighted in his bottom. Given to me by my mother at birth, Puddles and I became inseparable around the age of two. I took him everywhere. The sandbox. The park. School. Sleepovers. The grocery store. My Mem’s. Everywhere. At sixteen, he watched as guardian over my room and through college he was our dorm mascot. Puddles was there the night my parents fought the big one , and when I scraped my knee something fierce trying to impress a cute girl down the street when I was eleven. Puddles watched me cry without judgement over lost friends, lovers, family. Proved a decent pillow on plane rides. A good listener for practicing speeches. He even helped me meet Hannah. A few of my buddies and I were tossing Puddles back and forth, a studying technique we used. Catch the dog. Answer the question. Our door was open, and I went to toss it to my friend Brian who had rolled his chair in front of the door, but I overshot it. It just so happened this cute blond from down the hall was walking by and it caught her in the hip. Lucky for me, she took it with a laugh and the rest is history. After college I retired him to the chest. I felt he needed safe keeping, while I collected my life and put in order. Years past and well, out of sight, out of mind. A week prior Abs was asking for a puppy. Not that I am against dogs, however Hannah and I both worked full-time, and a five-year old’s promise to take care of a living animal is not something to be trusted. So, I thought of Puddles. Maybe it was me wanting to take a trip down memory lane, or maybe it was the guilt I felt when I thought of the old dog stuffed in a chest for years after being number one. I know it is a stuffed animal, but he was more than that to me. He had been my partner in crime. My confidant. My best friend. Abs reached for Puddles, her little fingers opening and closing. I hold onto him a bit longer, but with some reservation manage to bestow the old dog into her awaiting hands. “What happened to his nose?” “I don’t know, love. I’ve had him for a long time.” “I like his fur.” “Me too. He doesn’t shed.” “Sed?” S and H’s were also a little tough. “No matter. You see he has beans in his butt, just like I said.” “Yeah...dat’s funny. How did get beans in dare?” “I don’t know. He came that way I guess.” Turning the dog around in her hands, she inspected him, and I felt my heart stop. What if she did not like him? What if she tosses him back in the chest and cries for a real puppy? She extended both of Puddles’s ears and swung him back and forth, a small smile playing on her lips. “Daddy?” “Yes, Love?” “Why is he named Puttles?” “It’s Puddles. Pud-dulls. And from what Mem told me, it was the first thing I did with him. Jump in mud puddles.” “Oh.” Puddles stopped swinging, and Abs head cocked sideways as she considered his dangling form. A deep breath filled her and then released with what seemed to be disappointment and my heart dropped. I never imagined she wouldn’t love him the way I did. “What’s wrong? You don’t like him?” “I do. He looks kind. I just...” “What, love? Just tell me.” “I wish it were raining. Den we could splash in mud puddles.” She then stood up and embraced Puddles as I had so many times and decided. “Come Puddles, maybe you can help me eat my cake!”


I sipped on the straw of my diet coke nervously as I took a bite out of that wonderful bit of cheeseburger. Every bite of it was like paradise, I swear! I could eat like maybe fifteen of this everyday and not get fed up at all. That’s how much I really liked it. I had been sitting here on my own for about ten minutes now as Bert went to the bathroom again to relieve himself for the fifth time. It could have been a bad case of dysentery, although I couldn’t image why that would happen. He hadn’t taken anything else other than a bottle of mineral water. Either he’s got severe diarrhea, or he could be plucking up the courage to speak for himself so that he could finally break up with me. I sighed deeply. And to think that I was having a rather nice time today! Bert and I had been together for five years now, and for the very first time, my lazy ass of a boyfriend had suggested that we take a sudden out of town trip this weekend. We drove fifteen miles just to get to this province, and we fell in line for about half an hour to get a bite at this posh-looking restaurant. As we neared the entrance to this building, my jaw dropped. I knew this place! I have never been in this province before, and I had never heard of this restaurant, but I am certain I have seen it! I am not the type of person who liked to experiment and go to places, so it was nearly impossible that I had been here, but I am certain that I have entered it before. As I began to recall why this place looked super familiar, I remembered the dream that I had days ago of going inside a high-class restaurant with Bert. Hell, I even laughed at it, knowing how my stingy boyfriend won’t even spend a dime just to get me an expensive anniversary gift let alone treat me into a place like this! However, here I was in the flesh at the restaurant I could only glimpse at when I was in dream land. I knew that the walls inside are teal and that there is a big mural with cats on the left side of this place. Gosh, I knew in my guts that even the restrooms here have scented, plastic flowers on its walls! No wonder Bert was spending a lot of time in the restroom... I gasped as soon as I entered. I was damn right! The walls and decorations were all the same. Seeing all these familiar sights was a sort of creepy but pleasant déjà vu. Bert chose a table overlooking the sea at the back part of the place while I continued to marvel at this seemingly happy miracle. So, I guess this good feeling that I had about this place would all be ruined if he would dump me right here. He had been having gas for like forever now. Bert should just get it out in his system if he seriously wanted his suffering to end. Before I took in another bite out of my sumptuous burger, an attractive-looking young man, probably in his early twenties, walked towards our table. His neon green Hawaiian shirt and long, khaki pants did not seem to match his tentative swagger as he edged towards me. He was looking quite strangely at me, as if I was some kind of angel. He sat down rudely from across me at the seat that was meant for Bert. “Excuse me,” he said with a voice that sounded like he was choking away some tears. “What day is it today?” I pouted a little. What a lame pick up line that was! However, I didn’t want to be bad-mannered at all. Although I can’t explain why, he does look somewhat kind of endearing. “Um, it’s July eighteenth,” I said. I took a bite out of my burger once more. With or without a hunk in sight, I’d still choose to eat my burger. It was really a piece of heaven! “I see... Are you with someone?” the young man asked. He had wavy hair that parted in the middle, just like Bert’s, and he had a pair of cute dimples in his cheeks, just like I did. He smiled so warmly towards me that I had forgotten he was positively intruding my date with this delectable cheeseburger. “Yeah, my boyfriend’s here somewhere, I think.” “That’s nice. I’m sure you’re glad to be with him here. This is a lovely place.” “Uh huh, this cheeseburger is really to die for,” I said nodding my head vigorously in agreement. It was weird that I warmed up to him just like that. I’m usually guarded when it comes to any man but Bert, but this young man had such a nice aura around him that I can’t seem to dismiss. I looked at his chest and a trinket caught my eye. There, on his neck was a silver ring with a big, fat diamond in the middle. The ring was fashioned like a tiara, which I absolutely loved! I had often looked at rings like that in the Internet, and I would show Bert a similar ring almost every time that we were together so that he’d know my type should he choose to pop the question. I guess that would explain him breaking up with me, if ever. I must have turned him off with my not-so-subtle push for marriage. “You’re ring looks lovely,” I said to him. “Thanks. I am going to propose to my sweetheart today,” he replied. I felt a little sad with that. Here I was, positive that my long time boyfriend was just about to dump me, but here was a boy who was significantly younger than me, and he was going to do just the opposite. Really, how can this day get any worse? “Actually, this is my mom’s ring. I wanted to use it to propose to Suzy. Do you want to see a picture of her?” he said. Despite my grim feeling, it seemed I couldn’t refuse this young man. I smiled pleasantly and nodded towards him. He unfolded a small piece of metallic-colored paper and proceeded to show me a picture of a girl with violet, wavy hair. Her clothes looked so ridiculous - her dress, accessories, and shoes were all in unmatched neon colors, but she had a beautiful smile written across her face that made her quite breathless to look at. I could definitely see why this young man would propose to her. I gasped as I stared hard at the picture. Was it just me, or did the person in the picture seem to move like she was in some sort of video - but on a flat sheet of aluminium-colored paper? “She’s pretty, alright,” I said. Man, I must have ingested too much sugar already. How can pictures in papers move like that? I wanted to ask what phone he was using, but that’ll just make my ignorance more apparent. He’s obviously using a new kind of smart phone. Ugh, I really should catch up more on technology nowadays. “I know. I’m sure my folks would have been happy to meet her.” “Why? Is something wrong with your folks?” I resented saying that as soon as the words escaped my lips. Gosh, how insensitive of me! The young man started to look downcast. “My dad’s around, but we are not that close. Ever since my mom died of colon cancer, he had become an alcoholic. I was eventually raised by my uncle, so we didn’t get to bond so much.” “Oh gosh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. I remembered Bert falling into the same temptation - alcohol. He was also a man prone to bouts of depression, but thankfully, he was able to pull through it. I couldn’t imagine if that were to happen to me, to us. I’m positive my carefree brother, Rod, wouldn’t be able to raise our child well. “How old were you when your mother died?” “I was five, so I didn’t get to see her that much... I really missed her...” he said. Suddenly, he burst into loud sobs of tears, and I was so surprised. Me and my big, thoughtless mouth just did not know when to stop! I offered him my diet coke, but he refused. After dabbing some of his tears away, he said, “please take care of your health. Cheeseburgers and other processed food really do kill. My mother liked processed food so much that she used to stack the whole refrigerator with nothing but hotdogs and hamburgers for the week.” Holy cow, how did he know I was just like his mother? A classical tune came by the intercom of the restaurant. The boy stood up after he heard it. “Well, that’s my cue. I have to get back to my future fiancé now,” he said, beaming widely. “Alright, best of luck,” I said. “Thank you! Please take care of yourself, Emmerine...” Oh my effing gosh, I didn’t even remember telling him my name! I stared wide eyed at the odd, young man and scratched my head as he walked away from Bert’s seat towards the door of the restaurant. He stepped out into the sun and started to blend in with the folks outside and the numerous passersby until he disappeared from my view forever. I haven’t sufficiently recovered from this strange encounter yet when Bert suddenly burst in with a bouquet in his hand. Walking closely behind him was a bunch of waiters and other restaurant staff. One of them was carrying a violin and the others began to throw petals of red roses around us. I watched awestruck as he handled me the flowers and as Bert knelt down on his left knee and pulled a small, oval box from his side pocket. He opened it towards me and spoke. “Emmerine Santos, I’ve known you for a long time. Will you marry me?” The crowd cheered wildly at us, but my eyes were stuck at the sight of the ring that was inside the box that Bert was holding. There, in the midst of it was a ring fashioned like a tiara, its big, fat diamond gleaming malevolently at the very center. I’m so throwing all the hotdogs in my fridge and the remainder of this cheeseburger away forever!


Picture a scene. A researcher looks at unsuspecting ants trough a looking glass, the ants working away above and beneath the earth, suspended in a narrow glass box. The tunnels under the ground are visible at the side of the glass box. Weaved into a complex cacophony of roads all intertwined. Above ground they surge upon their dead prey. Bit by bit eating away at the now rotting corpse. Imagine now this as a whole. The ants above ground a representation of a persons outer layer, and the underground maze the inner layer. Impacts are first placed upon the outer layer. The food, the interactions, a small shake of a hand, the way you look someone in the eye. In our lives it takes the same meaning as the prey does to the ants. It is then soaked into the inner layer. Our personality, the way we emphatize, our morality.... It all weaves into a person. And every other person is that researcher. He who tries to study the ants trough a looking glass instead of simply watching them burrow beyond the light. Sometimes i look at how the sun breaches the clouds, its rays shining with a force of a thousand suns. I wander if our little universe isn't an ant farm.


Starving is a painful ordeal. It had been days now since they had recieved some rations and Little Crow and his fellow countrymen, who surrendered to the Ulstermen to receive food and water were now finding neither. The war in the East was now in full swing and the Ulstermen had hardly the resources nor the interest in looking after their conquered subjects and as such the rations they were given were being rationed in turn. It was considered lucky for Little Crow to have been able to even find some hardtack in the camp, even if it was covered in weevils. He had found a nice spot by the wall of the barracks to protect himself from the wind and ate it in peace, bit by bit. It was then that the man he had been avoiding for days sulked over to him and sat down while Little Crow avoided making eye contact with him. It wasn’t that he hated Black Kettle. It was just that he knew what he was going to ask for, and while he couldn’t bring himself to say no to his old friend he didn’t want to say yes. “Please” Black Kettle pleaded with him as he scratched at his arms. He looked at his Black Kettle and his cut-up hands that held a piece of stale hardtack. “It’s been days since I’ve eaten, I don’t know how long I can keep going like this.” Black Kettle said with a withered voice. Little Crow sighed and turned away “I can’t keep giving you food. I barely have enough for myself and that’s something I need to keep.” Black Kettle however was not deterred and he looked at him with sunken eyes and pale skin. He was dying of hunger and Little Crow knew if he wouldn’t find anything soon, he would be as good as dead “you’re the only one I know who can help me. Just give me a small bit and I can make due for the next few days I swear it”. Little Crow sighed and looked around the prison camp. It was a warm sunny day and most of their countrymen were working in the fields where the Ulstermen in the guard towers had their focus turned. Little Crow then sighed and nodded “alright just a small piece then” Black Kettle nodded then as Little Crow took out a shiv and held it towards the hardtack on his hand before slitting his finger. Blood then began to flow freely and he held it over Black Kettle's throat as he began to drink from it. All the while the dark circles around his eyes began to reciprocate and his skin changed color before Little Crow jerked his hand away and the two men remained silent for a moment as Black Kettle wiped his mouth “thank you.. it means a lot to me.” Little Crow didn’t say anything as he sighed and pressed his bleeding finger to his coat while Black Kettle walked off avoiding the bright sun overhead in the process .


I know you all hate me, I know that I am the devil incarnate in your eyes, but I plead for you to listen to me one last time. I remember when I was a young boy, pure and clean, not like I am now, and I thought that the world would one day reach a state of utopia. A grand existence where no human would have to pay for anything at all, and we could all live in the free communion of each other's company. When I got older I fought for that dream, killed for it, was willing to die for it, but now I cannot look at myself the same. I thought they were all liars, I thought they were cheats and hecklers, all saying that the world had to have money because that's how it had to be, the world couldn't function any other way and nor should it. Even when I was a kid I was smart enough to know that that was bullshit, but then I too got it wrong, so how can I judge? I would go on to make the fatal mistake of seeing the world in black and white, one-or-the-other and no in-between. I think the first time I saw someone die is when I realized that that wasn't the case. *** It was a January, cold as hell and brutally windy. The dim sky was blanketed by that awful winter overcast that never seemed to truly go away. I was high up, as ordered, and waiting for my opportunity to do what was right for humanity. It was there that I could look around and see the hidden beauty of the world that can only be seen from a vantage point, a birds-eye-view. The city was white, snow-covered, and relatively quiet. The humble houses seemed to make wonderful large rolling hills of snow that decorated the cityscape. The typical Russian architecture was new to my eyes, and the large church spires and draconic stone streets delighted me, they were right out of a Dostoevsky novel. Below me I could hear the tiny ringing of a silver store bell as its door opened and closed -- It was a bookstore, selling the latest and greatest in Russian literature. I remember wondering if they sold any of the books I'd been reading recently, then I remember that Russia had outlawed them. In the distance I saw a crowd. They flocked the sides of the road like loyal dogs, patiently waiting in the cold and moving around ever so slightly to keep warm. I know I shouldn't have, but I spent a lot of my time looking at that crowd, seeing if I could find black sheep, dissenters of the status quo. I had seen a young boy dancing in the road, waving his arms around like a stage performer and smiling. I loved that kid. I also saw a man standing on a milk crate, screaming to the crowd like a mad man and undoubtedly raining down spit on those unlucky enough to be in front of his wrath. I couldn't hear what he was preaching, but It didn't really matter to me anyway. I was a poet back then, a lovely boy that saw the world through a romantic lens, and who tried to find meaning in ants. In my journal from that day I had written: Birds must be brilliant writers to be exposed to such beauty all of the time. I thought it was a delightful sentence at the time, but now I can only look at it with a shaking head. I also had a book next to me, a small, almost pamphlet-like book called The Great Lie. I had read it many times before, but often re-read it when I needed courage. It was then that I heard it, the echoing roar of engines and the dumb thudding of large tires rolling off of the stone roads. I turned my head and could see them, a river of black cars slithering around the street corner like a silky cobra. There were a lot of them, more than I cared to count. The crowd went ecstatic with their arrival, I could see hands raised to the sky and I could hear their desperate shoutings. The boy was yanked from the road. I remember feeling the sweat drip down from my forehead, and the nervous sensation of shaking hands. I tried to take a deep breath but anxiety filled my blood and doubt clouded my mind, as it often does in times of great opportunity. I also began to have that awful experience of feeling my heartbeat in my ears, a muffled thudding that almost felt like someone was physically hitting the side of my head. It didn't matter though, it was my time, my opportunity. I gazed down at the tattoo I had on my right forearm, the words of my leader: Opportunities can only be properly taken with fire, seize yours and be remembered forever . In my hand was a small black box, it was heavy and felt like a stone. It was awful. On its right side was a switch, and in the center a key to turn. I looked down at the street again and saw it for what it would soon be, a wasteland of bodies. I wanted to turn away, to avert my eyes and try and preserve my soul. But I had made a promise to myself long ago, I had made a promise to never look away from my own actions, and to always make sure that I knew what I was doing. So I turned the key. *** See that's the fucked up thing, that's the grand illusion that everyone is under. I used to dream of a world with no money, a world that had no cost to anything, and harmony could be achieved. The men of today's world dream of more cost, brutalizing their fellow man for more precious capital. I now know that both are wrong, that both are a lie. It all reminds me of a quote from a great man, it said something along the lines of: You can't see the world in black and white, otherwise you always end up on the extremes. You end up in the ditches of the road, the gutters. I used to hate that line, I had spat on it many times before, but now nothing is closer to my heart. I was in the gutters. You see, what I learned that day was that everything has a cost . Even an opportunity. And that by taking the opportunity that I had that day, I cost this world thousands of lives, and possibly more in the days to come. I thought I was a hero, a savior who would help the sheep remove the wool from their eyes and shatter the tower of lies that this world was built on, to be a shepherd for the lands of greater futures. I have only shepherded people into the arms of death. I have only realized that I myself was blindfolded. So, my final call to you, my last use of meaningful breath is this: We are all under wool, life is just many layers of confusions that no man could ever hope to penetrate. Do not fall under the illusion of men who claim to know all, no one does. Everything has a cost. And don't fall into the gutters. - Antonio Gavel Final words from the gallows.