Ten Years Ago: It had happened while Kira was strolling through a busy parking lot, in the light of day, nodding absently to the chatter of her three-year-old. How had no one noticed or helped her? She had felt the sharp prick of a needle in her arm and caught a glimpse of a gloved hand holding a syringe. She reached feebly for her confused little boy in the shopping cart as her mind and body folded inwards. When she regained consciousness, Kira was in a dark, cement-walled room that smelled of cigarettes and piss. Her empty stomach contracted and she retched unproductively. Her brain throbbed and her limbs were slow to respond to her urgent requests to get up and run. Her wild, darting eyes had caught a movement to her left, and there she saw an older woman staring back. “Help,” Kira’s burning throat cracked out. The woman smiled, walked to where Kira sat on the floor, and stroked her cheek with a spotted hand. “No one can help you, dear,” the woman replied hoarsely. “Benny will be back soon. Then we’ll get started.” Kira could only shake her head and stare at the insane woman with short, spiked, white hair, a hot pink t-shirt and ripped cargo shorts. Her wrinkled knees sagged over a roadmap of blue and purple spider veins on bare legs pocked with goose-bumps. Kira crab-scooted desperately away from the door as the handle rattled. The door opened, revealing a slight-framed man with thick glasses that magnified his brown eyes. His lank, dirty-blonde hair spilled down both sides of his face. He stared back at Kira as a slow smile lifted his lips, exposing a row of cracked, yellow teeth. A piercing, shrill scream reverberated in the room, and then Kira felt a stinging slap on the back of her head that caused her to suck in a breath, cutting the scream abruptly. “Stop that heinous noise this instant!” the old woman demanded. “Mama? Why is the lady yelling?” the man asked in a slow, child-like voice. “Oh, she’s just nervous and excited, Benny. Don’t worry, she’ll calm down.” Kira felt a sharp pinch of warning dig into the vulnerable flesh on her upper arm. The woman waved impatiently at the man. “Now, give those bags here.” Benny handed over two plastic Dollar Tree bags and the woman grunted as she bent over them, pawing at the contents. A container of peanut butter, plastic-packaged portions of fruit cocktail, and a box of Toasty O’s. She nodded her head and gave her son an adoring look. “You did good, Benny. This will do us for a few days now.” Benny beamed under his mother’s praise. The other bag had a bottle of water, some toilet paper, and a roll of duct tape. Kira went cold as the woman’s gray eyes slid in her direction. ********* Kira repeated “Why?” in a steady chant that first night, not even realizing that she was speaking out loud. The woman ignored her until Benny was snoring in a sleeping bag on the other side of the room. Only then did Kira get the horrifying answer she sought. Bernice was broken with regret that she had ruined her son’s life. Benny had been diagnosed with fetal alcohol syndrome as a young child. His dad had left soon after this revelation, and Bernice had only overcome her disabling depression by dedicating her life to making up for her mistake. She was fiercely determined to give Benny the fullest, happiest life that she possibly could despite the irreversible brain damage her drinking had caused him in the womb. She wanted Ben’s life to be as “normal” as possible and was willing to do anything to make that happen. Bernice fought for Benny to be included at school, she insisted he be invited to classmates’ parties and go to prom. The only thing she couldn’t do was force others to accept and love him. She could rally for harsher punishments for bullies, but the consequences never healed the hurt. As her repeated efforts inevitably failed to give Benny the life she longed for him to have, her grip on reality fractured. There were moments when she recognized her own insanity, but she couldn’t stop bull-dozing the path she was convinced Benny should take. On Benny’s thirty-fifth birthday, Bernice told him she had a special present for him. Wouldn’t he like to get married? she had asked him. “Like the prince and Cinderella?” Benny replied wide-eyed. Bernice had smiled with tears in her eyes and nodded at her son. After sharing this memory with Kira, the two women had locked eyes. Shaking with despair, Kira understood the role she had been assigned. “But I’m already married,” Kira pleaded. “I have a son of my own.” Bernice’s eyes had hardened as she spat, “You will never tell Benny that or I will find your husband and son and kill them.” In the days, weeks and months that followed, Kira’s spirit detached itself from her body. It wasn’t really her there on the bare mattress on the floor. It was not she, Kira, who was trapped in the dank and dreary cement dungeon. She could not let herself acknowledge or accept that she had been reduced to a sex slave who washed herself with water from one bucket and squatted over another to excrete her waste. This was just a temporary situation. She would get out, Kira promised herself. She would resume her real life. At least she knew she wouldn’t get pregnant in that hell-hole. A complication during Jamie’s birth had required the surgeon to remove her uterus. What seemed a blow at the time was now a blessing. Kira felt constantly fuzzy-headed and uncoordinated. Bernice was adding drugs to Kira’s meals which left her feeling drowsy and weak. Kira knew this must be why Benny was strictly forbidden from touching her food or water bottle. Whenever Kira refused to ingest what was offered, shrewd Bernice would ask Benny to give Kira a tight “hug” while she injected Kira with a stinging substance that rendered her unconscious. Bernice told Benny it was medicine that Kira needed. The same ritual was performed at bedtime. Every single night she was pricked into a drug-induced slumber. Kira’s arms were bruised tender from being poked so many times. In her dreams, Kira saw her sweet little boy, Jamie, cry out for her. “I’m sorry, little one. Mommy will be home as soon as I can,” she whispered each night as she fell back asleep on a pillow damp with tears. Her heart cracked open imagining Paul distraughtly thinking of her non-stop, frantically searching for her day after day. She knew her husband wouldn’t rest until he found her. This thought was all that kept Kira going. ********* Present: Kira let out a yelp of pain and shielded her eyes from the glaring sunlight. She hadn't been outside or seen the sky in so long, she had forgotten how bright it could be. She blinked rapidly and got her bearings. Then she heaved the heavy door shut behind her and leaned her back against it, as if to keep the evil in. Her legs were shaking and she allowed them to collapse beneath her as she slid to the ground. Hot tears cleared rivers of blood from the surface of her cheeks. She touched her face, and then looked down at her blood-soaked shirt. It made her laugh. That glorious blood had saved her life. Or whatever was left of her life. Kira had stayed under the covers that morning, moaning that she didn’t feel well. The previous evening, before the obligatory injection, she had felt the tug of her period starting and it had given her the idea. Instead of asking for a tampon as she usually did, she had surreptitiously bunched a spare t-shirt into the space between her legs. Through the night and into the early hours of the morning, she passively let her monthly fluid leak into the fabric of her shirt. When she awoke, she felt the sticky, soaked fabric still in place, and her heart sped up in anticipation of enacting her plan. With very slow, spaced-out movements hidden under the covers, Kira carefully put the blood-soaked shirt on her torso. She lowered the blanket discreetly and glanced at her captors. They were munching on dry cereal and paid no attention to her. Her heart beat against her sternum like a frantic bird trying to escape her chest. She placed a shaking hand between her legs to collect some blood on her fingers and wiped this over her face. She had to count to three twice before she summoned the courage to launch herself off of the mattress and onto the floor, wailing loudly. As she heard Bernice and Benny exclaim and then come rushing towards her, Kira dramatically flopped onto her back with her arms splayed out, feigning unconsciousness. “Oh, no. Oh, no,” Benny repeated in a high-pitched whining voice, taking in her blood-soaked shirt. “It’s alright, Ben,” his mother said in a too-calm voice. “We’ll get her fixed up. Can you go to the Dollar Tree and get some supplies?” “Should we call 911?” he asked. Bernice hesitated a couple of beats before replying. “No, don’t worry. I can handle this. You take this,” she handed him a wad of bills and a list of items, “and bring back what we need, ok?” Kira got the distinct impression that Bernice just wanted to get rid of Benny so he wouldn’t object to whatever she thought she had to do about this inconvenient development. Kira listened carefully as Benny ran up the steps and banged out the door. She held her breath listening for the usual clunk of the deadbolt sliding back into place, but it didn’t come. Just as she’d hoped, they were too distracted to be on guard as usual. Through a thin slit between her lids, Kira observed Bernice tapping nervously at her mouth, looking around the room. For what, Kira didn’t know, but she wasn’t going to wait to find out. Kira gathered her flaccid muscles in preparation, took a deep breath, and sprung up with all of the strength and speed she could summon. She leapt at the metal box against the wall just as she had planned, scrambling to get her hands on the syringe she knew Bernice always kept loaded and ready for emergency use. She pulled the cap off the needle as she looked at Bernice, who was frozen with a stunned look on her face. But as Kira lunged towards her, Bernice’s eyes hardened in anger and Kira knew she wouldn’t go down without a fight. Kira feigned a right dodge as she swung her left hand forward with the syringe, plunging the needle into a squishy thigh. She pushed on the plunger even as Bernice roared and swatted her hand away. She probably hadn’t received the full dose, but Kira hoped it had been enough. Moments later, she got her answer as Bernice crumpled to the floor. Kira didn’t hesitate. She ran up the steps and out the door. Propelled by adrenaline, she burst onto the sidewalk panting. She pressed the door closed and leaned her back against it, as if to keep the evil behind it. Not knowing where she was, Kira stumbled away from the Dollar Tree she spotted at the corner. A woman walking a plump, tawny dog raised her eyebrows at Kira before diverting her gaze and briskly continuing on. “Please,” Kira croaked, “Help me. I’m Kira Randall. I need help.” The woman assessed her for a few moments before recognition seemed to cross her face. “Kira Randall. That sounds familiar...” “Call the police. Please,” Kira begged, her knees buckling. A police car pulled up a few minutes later, silent lights flashing. Two officers got out. The older one approached her warily, shining a flashlight in her face. The officer began asking her questions. He wanted to know if she was on drugs. If she had a home. Where the blood had come from. “Yes, I have a home!” Kira replied indignantly. “216 Maple! Take me there, please. My husband and son must be very worried about me. I’ve been gone...” Kira didn’t actually know how long it had been. Kira told them her full name and explained that she had been captive for years and only just escaped. Surely they had been searching for her? The two officers conferred briefly and then ushered her into the back of the squad car to go to the station, offering no reassurances. On the way, Kira gave them the name of her husband and begged them to call him for her. Then she stared out the window as sites, some familiar and some foreign, flashed by. Seated in the bare room awash with artificially bright light, Kira had never felt so alone. She stared at the large white door, willing it to open and let Paul and Jamie come rushing through. She couldn’t wait to hold them close and tell them how hard she had fought to come back to them. Finally, she heard the heavy metal handle of the door being engaged, and she grasped the arm of her chair ready to launch herself out of it. But when the door opened, it was just the younger officer with a concerned look on his face. “I need to ask a few questions and collect samples from you, Ma’am, to confirm your identity.” Kira was stunned. “Where’s my husband?” she gasped. The officer looked uncomfortable. “We did contact Mr. Randall about his first wife. He is skeptical you are who you claim, but he said he would come by after work to help us sort this out.” Kira’s mouth dropped open. First wife? After work? Why wasn’t he rushing right over? The officer sat down in the chair across the table from Kira and took out a pen and notepad. “What is your date of birth? And what hospital were you born at?” Kira was in shock and couldn’t find the energy to be angry at how she was being treated. She answered the questions robotically. She let herself be an inanimate object while her cheeks were swabbed for a DNA test and her fingertips were covered in ink, then pressed onto a card. Someone handed her a new shirt and collected the bloody one in a plastic bag. It was the same disembodied feeling she had used when Benny had raped her. She was no longer in her body. Then she heard a familiar voice outside the room, and this time when the door opened, there was a man who she faintly recognized. He had a beard now, and his hair had greyed. His face was a bit fuller, his eyes a bit droopier, but it was Paul! She shouted his name and jumped to her feet, ready to embrace him. But Paul took a step back with a hand raised to ward her off. An officer stepped up beside him and told Kira to stay back. She couldn’t believe it. “Is this your wife?” the officer asked. Paul looked hurt and defeated. “No,” he whispered. “What?” exclaimed Kira. “Paul! How can you say that?” The sound of her voice changed something in Paul. He looked at her closely. “Kira?” he asked incredulously. “Duh!” she replied. It was a common refrain of hers and Paul grinned widely back at her. “You look terrible. I can’t even recognize you,” Paul explained. Kira was awash in relief. More officers came into the room to get Paul’s confirmation of her identity. This broke the spell and a buzz erupted. Now they wanted to know where she had been held captive and a description of her kidnappers. She told them everything she could, feeling revived by Paul’s presence and the fact the police finally believed her. Thirty minutes later, a tall, skinny teenager in baggy clothes arrived at the station. He locked eyes with Kira. She knew those eyes. She dropped to her knees and wept, holding her hands up towards her son. He came closer but didn’t touch her. She was a stranger to him. Paul introduced them. Kira’s chest emptied. Kira’s mind whirled helplessly, trying to comprehend what surreal life she had stepped back into. She had been forgotten. Life hadn’t waited for her return. Kira had been declared dead eight years prior when a convicted murderer falsely claimed responsibility for her disappearance. Paul had remarried. They divorced after two years, but in that time, Heather had adopted Jamie. He called her mom. Kira numbly held the pain at bay. It was too much to process. The police located the hovel where Kira had been held. A dead woman was found on the floor. Kira wondered if she had injected too much of the “sleep” solution into Bernice. She wasn’t sorry. Kira said no, she didn’t want to press charges against Ben. “It wasn’t his fault,” she said sadly. She wondered if he would become a ward of the state. Kira went back to the house that didn’t feel like hers anymore. She took an obscenely long shower. While hot water ran through her hair and over her skin, her thoughts percolated. Paul hadn’t betrayed her. It wasn’t Jamie’s fault he couldn’t remember her. She knew she could either accept the new normal and build from there, or she could be bitter and take her anger out on the people closest to her. She thought of how Bernice had let disappointment poison her life. She was nothing like Bernice. Kira shut off the water, reached for a fuzzy blue towel, and decided simply that she had to forgive the wrongs if she wanted to be free of them. She longed to get to re-know Paul and Jamie. She had yearned painfully for another chance as this life. She intended to use it well.


Shelley Glazen tapped her cigarette against a homemade ashtray. It was misshapen and cracked with age, but it had been her first attempt at art, the first time she fell in love with creating something with her own, rickety hands. Now, decades into her hobby, she found joy in teaching others at the community center. At seventy-three, Shelley was proof anyone could take up a skill and make something beautiful. She taught both throwing clay and Beginners' Drawing. “It's not about getting famous on the ticky-tock!” she said on the first day of classes, her voice bouncing on the well-rehearsed speech. “It's about expressing yourself and most of all...having fun!” She knew she was a little silly and foolish, but felt it encouraged the shy artists to break into their deepest desires free of judgment. She sucked on the filtered end of the Turkish Gold and studied the sketch in front of her. All her classes up to this point had other retired, white-haired gals like herself, but this semester she had a young boy fresh out of high school. A real oddball. A gentle, kind spoken boy...but odd. Shelley felt incredibly old and disconnected whenever she spoke to him about his perspectives or his subject matter. It was always trains. Whatever the lesson of the day; color theory, shading, angles, whatever, the boy drew trains. Not just any trains. No. These were slinky, bent at the middle like some sort of serpent and instead of wheels they had long, catly appendages and razor fangs popping out of humanoid faces, dripping with crude oil. Sometimes the smoke from the engine parts engulfed people that were never detailed and often shapeless, sexless blobs. She held the most recent charcoal sketch and turned the stiff paper, squinting at it in an attempt to determine the correct angle. A glow of yellow light shone out of a bulbous nose shone and onto the train tracks. Shelley finished her cigarette and leaned back, holding the paper up to the ceiling fan light, forcing the shading of the image to change and warp as though it were a demonic creature. She had to give marks for the use of sparse color and lighting but marked off for the tracks being in the wrong position. She wasn't sure how to grade the train's structure. Should she judge it on the behavior of cats or the behavior of locomotives? A new shadow appeared in the doorway of her tiny office, and she lifted the paper to eye her husband, Robert. He plucked idly at an earlobe. “At it again with those damn trains?” “I just wish I knew what it was about them.” “Art's an obsession. We can't ask for everything to be explained.” He raised his free hand to show a large glass of brandy and wiggled his tufty, white eyebrows. “How 'bout it? I got the popcorn on the stove and the movie picked.” Shelley chuckled and slowly detached herself from the art projects and the office. She clicked off the light and took a glass. “You sure know how to woo a girl.” “Just you wait for the foot rub.” The movie he'd picked was a semi-recent feature exploring the final days of Van Gogh, all masterfully painted frame by frame in his style. By the end of it, Shelley's breath had caught up behind her nose. She wept open and ugly. Robert pat circled on her back until she was able to settle, and she was glad she could be this way around him and not feel like an idiot. “I'm sorry, darling,” he said. “I'll pick a better one next week.” “No,” she said, kissing the hard sandpaper of his cheek. “It was a wonderful movie. Beautiful. The brandy got to me. That's all.” “That's all?” His eyes narrowed and disappeared behind puffs of skin. Shelley shook her head. “I could never paint like that. The poor man.” “You're not supposed to paint like that,” said Robert, wrapping his arms around her. She snuggled deep into him and listened to the vibration of his lungs. “You're supposed to paint like you.” Inspired, Shelley brought to the community center the red wagon she normally used when walking to Kroger. She filled it with cheap canvas and paints and waited outside the classroom for everyone to arrive. “We're going on a little field trip today to paint outdoors. It's called plein air.” The weather was perfect and the walk brisk, filling her lungs with a sharp autumn wind that carried the scent of dead leaves and pinion burning in fireplaces of the nearby homes. They only walked as far as the park, where a bend in the running trail led off to a lush, overgrown patch of protected wetlands. She hoped to teach her students what Robert had said to her that previous night. Paint like you. After all, the odd boy of her class wasn't the only one with a unique perspective and perhaps Shelley could show how one piece of landscape could be different for each of them. “The old masters used to do this all the time,” she informed the class with authority, even though she'd only read about the fact that morning. Truthfully, she didn't even know if she pronounced 'plein air' the correct way. It was very French, and her tongue often felt slow and heavy with other languages. She secretly hoped that the odd boy would be forced further away from the comfort of drawing trains and look to more organic inspirations. By the time the class was done, Shelley had five pictures of the trail and two of the playground. She considered it a success until she spotted the odd boy's submission. He'd done the trail as well but included a train in the far distance. At least, she thought with a bit a dash of resignation, it was a real train and not a funny shaped one. She carefully set the paintings into the wagon and began to walk back to the community center. The clacking of the wagon wheels thumped in tandem with her troubled thoughts. Was there something wrong with the boy or was she being an old and judgmental fuddy-duddy? Trains made him happy. Who did it harm? During their dinner of homemade challah and potato soup, Shelley discussed this with Robert the day's work. He listened, beefy hands folded neatly together, the tufts of his eyebrows shifting thoughtfully like an old dog chasing something in its sleep. “Perhaps it's his home life? Maybe he wants to get away and can't...the train is him trying to escape. Do the faces look like him?” “I suppose,” she rubbed her temples, then stood and collected the dishes. It was her turn to clean. Robert had done all the cooking. That night, Shelley dreamed monstrous, mechanical beasts chasing her. They snatched at her with steaming claws and tore her apart with the fangs folded inside the wide, human mouths. It startled her so terribly, that she couldn't convince herself to fall asleep again. So, she braided her hair and put on her walking clothes. It was nearly four o'clock in the morning and not much traffic on the streets. Still, she kept her flash jacket on and walked purposefully to the only train station in town. As a girl, Shelley enjoyed taking the train to visit her relations. She loved the clunking, churning sounds, the strangers that passed at the rural stops, the long arching bridges that crossed over the Brazos. The viewing car was her favorite. At night, she'd hunker down into one of the captain's chairs and stare into the night sky, as though she were in a spaceship. She understood the delight in the slowness of a journey by train. She appreciated the nostalgia. She simply couldn't wrap her mind around the boy's added layers of oddness attached to them. Should she ask and risk embarrassing him or herself? What if he was simply drawing some sort of Pokémon? She frowned and lit a cigarette, cupping the glow in her cold hands. She didn't think an obsession with those little Japanese creatures was hardly any better than one of trains. At the current hour, none of the trains ran. The station was abandoned, and it had an old world feel to it, as though the platform hadn't been updated since Billy the Kid allegedly stood in the very spot. Shelley stayed by the outdoor ticket booth, smoking, and running her hands over the smooth wooden back of a bench she stood beside. Would the train yard speak to her and explain why some might be overwhelmed by their hulking frames? If architecture was meant to be jazz frozen in time, then what were trains? She waited and waited, but the only answer came from the chirping of predawn birds and the wind rustling the orange-gold trees. Three tracks away from the platform, she saw the flash of a light and thought for a moment that it might be a night watchman. She hoped that she wasn't standing on the platform illegally. There hadn't been any gates or signposts, but she could never be certain with these types of places. Shelley finished her cigarette, waiting for the flashlight to come closer but it never did. She brought her jacket closer to her chin, shifting nervously. There were whispers now, frantic and cooing. She stuck a pinkie in her ear and wiggled it, then listened again. Yes. A singular voice coming from the same direction as the light. I love you. I love you. More than you can know... and a long, drawn-out sigh followed by a laugh. Shelley brought a hand to her flushing cheeks and turned to leave. She hadn't meant to snoop on any love making. She stumbled off the platform and grabbed the railing before she fell. A trashcan toppled over and the voice, Shhh! What was that? crawled through the morning mist as though to snag her by the hair. Shelley trotted to the end of the lane and paused to catch her breath. She stood under a streetlamp that had already shut off for the day and cupped her hands against the oncoming headlights of an early commuter. There, at the far side of the block, where the back of the train yard began, was a figure. A shapeless lump that reminded her off the people in the odd boy's pictures. Hands trembling, Shelley went home and made a strong pot of coffee. She knew that she had no reason to be scared, all that bubbling in her nerves was left over from her nightmare. She had always been scared of the dark, deep down, although she never admitted it to herself. In retrospect, what Shelley heard and witnessed were two unremarkable moments wedged together in her frightened mind. Robert woke at the normal hour, and she told him all about her early morning walk. He fixed his paisley bathrobe, uncomfortable by the notion of her out on her own. He said as much. “I'm just trying to figure out why the trains,” Shelley answered in a small, unsure tone. “Well,” Robert cupped his thick fingers around a red coffee mug. “Well...I'll come with you. Tomorrow.” “I couldn't ask you -” began Shelley. “Sounds like fun. I'll nap in the afternoon.” He wiggled his eyebrows like it were an invitation for something more. The following morning, Robert woke with Shelley. He packed a thermos of coffee into his jacket pocket and folded the blanket they used when they went to concerts together and sat in the grass. Shelley grinned, her lungs fluttered, and it felt like a date. She took him to the exact spot when she first heard the sounds. They waited and when the minutes passed without any sign of another person or a flashing light, Robert reached for her hand and squeezed her fingers. “Show me where you saw them.” Shelley pointed into the third row of trains and Robert led her gently from the platform. They stumbled over the big chunks of gravel and the old metal lips of the tracks. She leaned into him, giggling as he nuzzled the tender place behind her ear. He asked, in a hushed tone, “Is this what you heard?” then moaned soft and slow. “No.” her smile was sly, and she gripped his fleshy jaw. “Like this. I love you. I love you. I love you. ” They sank down onto their creaking knees and Robert fumbled with the blanket. He spread it out and unbuttoned his shirt. “We'll get busted.” “Oh, no!” Shelley replied with a dramatic gasp. She laid down and shimmied free from her pants. “Wait. I got a cramp.” Robert moved his hand over her hip, massaging. “Like this?” “Yes...” Shelley rolled her head to the side, and he kissed her neck. He shifted to an odd angle to alleviate the pressure off his bad knees and kissed with vigor when she gasped. She pushed him off and whispered, “Hang on.” “Another cramp?” “No. Look.” She directed his head to a dark space underneath one of the freights. There were pink candles burnt down to the stubs and little strips of paper singed at the edges. Robert shuffled off Shelley and reached for one of the shriveled bits. He held it into the light of a naked bulb hanging off a nearby pole. He squinted. “Some kinda jumbo. Fake Latin...” “That's mine,” a voice behind them quivered. Shelley shrieked and struggled to crawl away, holding onto her pants with one hand. She tried to pull them over her knees but dropped them in her panic. Robert stumbled to his feet and spread his arms to block Shelley from view. “Who are you? What do you want?” “This is my safe space,” said the shape coming slow out of the shadows. “This is our spot and you ruined it.” “We're sorry,” said Shelley, standing at last. Her numb fingers slipped around the button of her pants. She recognized the voice. The odd boy from class. “We just were -” “We're married,” said Robert stiffly. “We're allowed to kiss.” “This is my spot,” he said again. He placed a thin hand onto the side of the freight. “Poor boy is leaking. They put him out of commission. He just needs a little love, and you ruined it.” “Sure, sure,” said Robert. “We meant nothing by it.” Shelley could tell he was uncomfortable. It was the same too easy, too wispy tone he used when playing a bad hand at bridge. “He needs special care. You see? He isn't thriving.” The boy's lamp-like eyes turned to Shelley. “But you can feel it, can't you? That's why you were drawn to him. Yesterday. Today. He's got a way with words.” “He...he does?” Shelley asked, eyeing the muscles on Robert's back tighten. “Is he who you draw?” “Sometimes,” said the boy, in a cool, detached way. “Sometimes it's our children.” “Oh. I see,” she said. The human faces in the trains were beginning to make since. “He needs to be compete again.” “Well, I'm sure that there are men who know how to fix this sort of thing,” Robert said, puffing out his chest. The odd boy nodded and then he brought a hidden shovel into his hands. He swung it against the side of Robert's head. Then, before Shelley could cry out for help, the shovel came to her. When she regained consciousness, her hands shuffled over old wood. Splinters dug into the tips of her fingers. Blood crusted her nose, but she could still catch the scent of melting wax and dust. Although she could feel the space around her, she couldn't feel herself move. It was like quenching a thirst without drinking water. Shelley's temples throbbed and she cautiously opened her watering eyes. The odd boy was standing in front of her. He held a riveter, muttering under his breath and bringing the sharp nose of the tool in and out from her field of vision. “What are you doing?” Shelley groaned. “I'm finishing my art,” said the boy not looking at her. “I'm making him complete.” Her eyes flickered to the opposite end of the car. There was Robert, riveted into the side of the car. He wasn't a man. The clothes were gone. It was only his face against the soft wood and his tongue rolled out like an animal. His skin was stretched, stapled into the sides of the freight. “No!” cried Shelley. “No!” “Shhh,” said the odd boy. Shutting her mouth with the hard staples of iron. Her teeth broke and she accidentally swallowed bits of bone. “You're part of us now. Part of him. This is good. I'll show you.” He set down the tool and wiped the sweat off his brow with the tattered end of his shirt. He picked up his backpack and lit a fresh pink candle. Inhaling deeply, he took out his pencil and drawing pad. Then, he sat beside the candle and began drawing them. His hand moved fast across the white paper, smudging the ink with the side of his fist. “It's beautiful. It's exactly how you showed me. Aren't you proud?” He turned to show the sketch to Shelley. She saw herself, flayed out like a newly caught fish, sinking into the sharp shadows cast by the candle. Her hair sinking into the grain of the wood. Her mouth buttoned shut. She was only a face into the side of the train, and it was beautiful. It was his best work yet.


The Green. A continent-spanning forest filled with genetically modified flora and fauna that grew aggressively, and could only be brought to heel by fire. The predators within the Green could rip a man outside of titanium steel wrapped, depleted uranium plated power armor in half. Then there were the ones who could rip a man inside that armor in half. The foliage was thick, barely room enough for some men, with the only way to traverse the Green had been by foot, or by air, with ground vehicles restricted to the confines of the Corporate run cities along the coast. What patches of the old roads and byways exposed to sunlight were rare and far between. Fur and Meat were the prime resources exported by Frontiersman who wished to live beyond the security of concrete slabs and steel. With different laws to follow. Different rules to live, and die by. The Corporations traded for medicine and luxuries, as well as their blue-tinted bills in order to keep some economic wheels rolling in the vegetation-covered ruins of the Old World. Then there were the Cults. Worshipers of Mother Nature, and Primal Father, who attempt to spread a blight of humanity to their own kind in an effort to return all to the soil as they belong. Sometimes it has been hard to tell the difference between Frontiersman trying to survive, and the Cultists trying to turn you into mulch or meat. It was a hellish place out here in the Green. One was threatened by the wildlife, money, or blind religion to plants and carnivores as soon as one stepped out beyond the gates. Baldr Grimskyn was called a Hunter. Hunters were men who wore titanium steel wrapped, depleted uranium plated power armor, the tanks of the modern era. In the armor, he stood nine-foot-tall and was armed with a hardened titanium steel bearded great axe of the Danes in one hand, and an under-mount snub nose minigun beneath the other. The armor and the weapons were decorative, shining silver that gleamed at what little light that found its way to the grass floor, and inlaid with gold. Even the ammunition pack and the feeder that fed the fifty-five caliber, explosive tip anti-carnivore rounds matched the finery of the armor. Despite the decorativeness of the suit, it was enough firepower and augmented might to take on a small armor of conveniently armed men and women. And the Hunter in it did not want to be in the Green. They knew better than to be here. They had gotten out six years ago, after witnessing Corporate Greed and Frontier Honor clash at Buffalo. Yet here Baldr Grimskyn, or Grim as the nameplate on his chest identified him as, was, with ten Patrolman in more conventional arms following after. The Hunter was here for one reason and one reason only. There had been a murder, and Lapis-Fernum Industries needed someone outside the Corporate World to investigate it. Lives were cheap to the Corporations out within the Green, and it only meant that an asset or employee of the company had been slain by others within their Corporate World. They gave Grim the basics, Patrolman went out with a Hunter for a two-week patrol beyond the Exclusion Zone. It had been standard practice to attach a Hunter to such patrols when one expected to run into something more than lunatics or the infected. The Patrolman, composed of Red Raptor Security Personnel, returned two days later without their Hunter. Officially the Hunter died fighting a pack of Predators, giving the Patrolman time to run. Yet the Hunter’s transponder was supposedly damaged, making the highly coveted Power Armor unrecoverable short of a coordinated search. With whatever killed them still there. This was not the first time that has happened with the same group of Red Raptor Mercenaries. Hunters dying heroically saving this one group, with the Transponders somehow becoming damaged and lost. As mentioned, they were the modern-day tank, when such military vehicles had been rendered completely obsolete. Corporations would sink millions to try and recover such armor, even if it would go to the next kin, or even buy the salvage in order to keep the armor in service to their City, and their Corporation. But, Grim was not here for that either. They had not traveled far from the confines of New York’s Exclusion Zone, much to everyone’s relief in that regard. Grim, despite not having been outside of his own block for six years, picked out the first clearing of trees from the air, then had been lowered five stories to the knee-high grass of the forest floor. It was the first sign of a man-made shelter near the patrol route, and Deitric Allenwulf, the victim, would have noticed the signs and brought their attachment of Patrolman over. That had been the normal routine in patrols, seeking out human life and judging if they were hostile, or to be ignored. Regardless, such a place would be added to an ever-changing map of the Green. Currently, as Grim and their Patrol approached, it was a blank spot. Deitric had been an intense man, they lived and partied hard. They swore vehemently with every other word and had an unpleasant attitude towards those around them. The man was a jerk, a pessimist, and never had anything positive to say about anything. They were good Hunter, never leaving a Patrolman, or a Frontiersman behind, never once turning down a job even while complaining about the pay. Within the Walls, they were an insufferable prick, out in the Green, they were someone you wanted at your back. Deitric even badgered Grim, on and on, trying to get the man to go back out beyond the wall, which turned into heated arguments over why he bothered. Grim stepped around a tree that was as thick as four men in power armor, stood over Deitric’s slumped body against it, and regarded them with mixed emotions. “I should buy whoever killed you a drink,” One the Patrolman heard the filtered words, and blurted out, “Sir?” “Nothing to you,” Grim turned their helmed head forward to survey the clearing within the wood. “We are here,” It had been a residential area once, a long time ago. Grim could barely make out the neighboring houses due to the wild vegetation that clung to the domiciles like possessive children. The one that had been occupied recently had freshly cut grass and far view vines spidering up the side of a faded yellow home. Several burnt tree stumps dominated the front yard, and a tin fence could be barely seen towards the back. The door had been patched with metal, and the stairs leading up to it were made of cinder blocks. The roof had a deerskin nailed down to cover the holes from the rain. The skull of the prey-animal lay atop the rusted ruins of a car in the driveway, taking up much of the roof. It was a six-point deer, with several bullet holes decorated the side Grim could see. Wolf claws and teeth reinforced the carriage door, as long as a man’s forearm, bound together by leather strips and metal wiring. The occupants were Hunters themselves, apparently, just not as well equipped as Grim or Deitric had been. It impressed the Power Armored wearing man, who knew how tough Wolves could be in large packs. The Patrolman flooded into the area, with a few standing over Deitric’s body. One leaned over to inspect the armor, careful not to touch it with their hands. “They ripped out the transponder, and it looks like someone shot him clear through the visor with something armor-piercing,” “A Bear Rifle, point-blank range,” Grim reported. There had been no rage in their filtered voice. It had been calm, unnervingly so, as it always was in what little interaction he had with the Patrolman. Though there was a quiet rage in their tone, the Patrolmen knew it, they all knew the signs. Like one of their supervisors who was quietly berating them when a normal person would be screaming at the top of their lungs. They all could see the similarities between the armor the dead, and the living Hunter wore. Deitric had snarling Wolf’s head for a helmet, bared teeth lunging for a throat. Grim’s helm had matched their voice, calm with a studying gaze sizing up their prey. They were the same wolf’s head, simply carved into different expressions. With the same calm voice, Grim gestured with the axe towards the house. “Encircle the clearing, keep me covered,” There had been no verbal argument, but some exchanged looks with one another. They were here for the suit and nothing else. Grim approached the house and tested the door. Finding some resistance, the Hunter stepped back, and wedged his axe deep into the metal, before ripping the door, and the frame, right off the house. Crawling in, Grim found the place cramped, being nine-foot-tall in the armor, and he had to slouch ever so slightly or scrape his head on the ceiling. The floor creaked beneath the feet, barely holding the half-ton of armor and weapons, but it held. Thankfully, there did not appear to be stairs, he would need a Patrolman then, and Grim was under strict orders not to include them. The room Grim stepped into had bodies, zipped tied, and executed where they stood. Grim loomed over the bodies, mumbling to no one as he did so. “No green eyes,” Grim listed to the air as he gently, and with great care, handled the dead before him with a single power-armored encased glove, “No scaling on the skin, no Type Three. No vegetation in the wounds, or roots securing them to the floor, no Type Two,” Standing up as best they could and focusing on the zip ties, the Hunter gestured with their axe. “Zip tied, and executed so no Type One,” “They were not infected with the Dryad, and I do not see markings, or iconography to the Mother or the Father,” Then, slowly, Grim panned their helmet from one side of the room to the other, ensuring to linger over what would be valuable. “There are trinkets scattered around the room, weapons, and munitions that could have been flagged for salvage,” Stopping at a fur lumped onto the floor, Grim reached down and hoisted as much as he could up to their visor, and scanned over it before turning it loose. “Wolf pelt, I judge about six figures worth, maybe less considering its damaged, so the cause was not burglary,” With the same controlled care, Grim reached into a thick side pouch and pulled out a thin, golden chain with a heart-shaped locket at the end. Setting down the axe, and with a single digit, the Hunter opened the locket, revealing a holographic projection that flickered to life. A Father, a Mother, and a Little Girl. The house was the background, with all three wearing colorful shirts of blue, red, and pink. They were smiling, enjoying their life out in the Green despite the dangers. There were three males here, no women. The first room had what he sought, the Mother, and the Little Girl. What lay within was a nightmarish crime that, momentarily, made Grim close his eyes, and suck in a lung full of air. Yet Grim made sure to be facing the contents of the room for a long, long period of time, before backing away and exiting the house. Only two words escaped Grim’s helmed head as he passed by the Patrolman in charge, “Burn it,” and the Hunter did not linger to oversee the action. Grim headed straight back to the ropes attached to airships that still hovered above, not wanting to be here at all. The ride back had been an uncomfortable three-hour trip. Grim had to weather the journey under an Executive Cutter, latched on by cables designed for that very purpose. They had stopped long enough to scrub the power armor down in quarantine, ensuring to remove any pollen or seed from the surface of the armor. A quick search through pouches, registering contents to forms, submitting to a viral scan, tedium on tedium that Grim bore in silent annoyance. Then it was back unto the Cutter, where he would be flown directly to his home near Central Lake in the Heart of New York’s Entertainment Block. The flight over the Exclusion Zone was the worst part, and it made Grim’s stomach sink to look down between his dangling feet. Five miles of mute gray asphalt, bordering the thick gray wall and the towering City they both protected. Nothing living had been allowed to exist nor linger here with a stack of security clearances from five different corporate holdings, and twelve different badges. Spurts of fire could be seen from roving patrols of men and women who had volunteered for the work or had been volunteered. They put anything green to the flame, grass, weeds, or even stray branches fallen from the high trees that tower over the walls. Yet other than the soft glow of flamethrowers spitting fire, there was no light below. Just vast darkness that clung to one’s soul just as tightly as roots grasp at the ground. Ahead, and approaching fast, had been the comforting glow of New York City, the largest city in the Conglomerated States. It was a second Sun to Grim, who had no desire to leave the creature comforts of his apartment. As Grim was whisked towards his final destination, a communications beep warned him of an incoming call. A long, slow sigh escaped from his lips, and Grim simply stared at the indicator on his screen. He did not want to talk to this person as much as he did not want to find Deitric’s body. Finally, Grim rolled his eyes, and gruffly asked, “Yes?” A man in a corporate suit appeared on the screen, and though their face was impassive, Grim could not help but comment. “You look mad, Mimgari,” Mimgari ignored the observation and started speaking, their tone formal and business-like, with very little in the way of emotion. Mimgari was Chief of New York Law Enforcement, owned and operated by the Lapis-Fernum Industries, and was dressed as such. Behind the sharply dressed man had been a wall of flickering screens from viewpoints of Detectives performing their duties. They were too many to focus on, and it hurt Grim’s eyes to try. “The Department of Justice has finished watching your footage and rendered a verdict two hours ago. Your footage?” Mimgari paused a moment, and arched a brow, “It was, thorough,” “And?” Grim asked, knowing already where this was going. “We pressed charges for the death of a Contract Employee and the Sabotage of Equipment due to be forfeited to Lapis-Fernum holdings,” Mimgari stated, tilting their head to the side to study Grim’s reaction. There was none, the expression the Hunter gave the Corporate Law Enforcement Officer had been boredom. “The Hunter Guilds will be informed of our Investigation, and the Red Raptors Security Firm will be further penalized by association. However, because of the scene of the crime, I was permitted to investigate further in order to seek violations within the City itself,” “Vincent Doul,” Mimgari announced, holding up a data-pad and read off of it, “The rest of his Red Raptor squadmates will be working the Exclusion Zone for the next five years, they can’t afford the half-million credit fines, Vincent is the son of an Executive Member to Beltross Barony, who had to resettle here in New York after their Warehouses burned down in Buffalo,” “How sad,” Grim quipped sarcastically. Mimgari continued on without a nod, smile, or acknowledgment of Grim speaking, “Vincent posted the fine, but he is still in our custody for the moment. As of half an hour ago, Detectives found fifteen lockets like the one he tried to sneak in. They were not even hidden, just hanging over his bed like trophies. Two of them belong to women who were raped and murdered years ago, but they are well beyond the statute of limitations so all we can do is consider their cases solved. The rest?” Grim, knew exactly why, “They lived out in the Green,” “In Vincent’s words, people die in the Green every day, who cares about more plant food?” Mimgari said with a hint of disdain in a monotone voice, “When he was interviewed, he considered the half-million a slap on the wrist. Currently, we do not have a murder weapon to match the cause of death nor evidence that they killed the other Hunters, so we have to let him go,” “Of course you do,” Grim replied with a bit more disgust than he wanted to show. “Interesting, however,” Mimgari again arched their brow, “That an invitation to the Wolf’s Den was found on his messages,” Now, Grim straightened, locking eyes with Mimgari. It was the first time in the exchange that Mimgari offered any sort of smile, let alone a knowing one. Grim, after a pause, offered a single demand. “Give me his File,” Landing on the roof on the Wolf’s Den, Grim exited his Power Armor while on a Freight Elevator going down. They made sure to fish out the locket to study as they headed to their penthouse apartment to change. What they wore had been a simple, yet elegant, soft velvet blue long coat with a matching suit and vibrant green spectacles. The Wolf’s Den had been the limelight of New York’s Central Lake, an artificial lake that, according to myth, replaced a large swath of trees and bushes that once rested in the center of the city. The Wolf's Den, a twenty-four-hour establishment where the party never stooped, overlooked the lake was highly successful and almost always packed. The lines of people winding around the block were still entertained with holographic projections of vegetation decorated key locations of where they once stood. Live plants outside of an Agricultural Tower had been illegal within City Limits for as long as anyone remembered, and fewer still have ever seen a real one up close that was not already on their plate. Grim lived on top of the Wolf’s Den, and exited a hidden elevator into a virtually empty VIP room reserved for himself, and guests. In here, they could peer out into the twisting crowd dancing to the latest fad in music without being seen, nor hearing what was being played. One person, another corporate man in a suit, sat at the end of a long blue table that uniformly matched the color of the room. Seeing Grim, the man, Vincent, stood up, but Grim waved them back down, “My name is Grimskyn, I own this place,” Grim introduced himself, and opened the door to the hellish noise beyond, making a motion for someone else to approach. “And I, Mr. Vincent, owe you a drink,” “Excuse me?” Vincent asked, rather suspicious. They had just been fined a considerable amount of money and suspended without pay. Somehow they knew Grim was connected somehow. “And why do you owe me a drink?” A waitress entered and passed Grim a wine glass as she walked on to Vincent to place the cup on the table before him. Soon, the woman walked out, giving Vincent a playful grin before departing. “Wine, straight from Rome itself,” Grim explained and held up their own glass. “You killed Deitric Allenwulf, that Hunter you got fined for out in the Green,” Instantly Vincent became wary, looking at the Drink before placing it down and away from himself. “I did no such thing,” “I was at the scene of the crime itself, Bear-Rifle through the faceplate.” Grim observed, pointing at Vincent, “You should have aimed for the gut, let him die slowly,” “I take it you and Deitric were not on the best of terms?” Vincent asked nervously. “I was at Buffalo during the riots, Deitric suckered me into a job that I really did not want to do,” Grim noted, now indicating the sea of people beyond the glass, “The credits I earned bought the old club here outright, and I still had more money then I will ever need to spend,” Vincent’s eyes glossed over a moment, and their mouth gaped, “You’re Grim!” “Unfortunately,” Grim conceded with a nod of his head. “You owe me more than just a drink then,” Vincent said angrily and snatched the wine glass up to sipped at it. “Did they tell you who my Father is?” “Not really, not interested in your Father, just you killing Deitric,” Grim said indifferently, and held up their wine glass, “Thanks for killing a right bastard,” “You really did not like him did you?” Vincent asked, reluctantly holding up their glass to toast as well. “Are you even going to ask me why?” “Nope, I honestly don’t care,” Grim answered bluntly and did not partake in their glass as Vincent drained theirs. Instead, the Hunter placed it down, then asked, “How is the wine?” “Bittersweet,” Vincent grunted. Without a flourish, Grim tossed Vincent the heart-shaped locket. It was caught and open, projecting the dead in front of Vincent’s eyes. Stunned, Vincent looked up, and Grim had a golden pistol already aimed at them. Shot after shot rang out and hit its mark, unheard and unwitnessed by the crowd. Vincent screamed in surprise and then fell silent as Grim emptied the magazine with slow, deliberate shots. The elaborate pistol clicked twice before Grim tossed it away in disgust. Looming over the body, Grim snatched the locket up and spat on the corpse. “That was for the girl,” Sitting down, a small crew in corporate jumpsuits with LFI branding on the sleeves, entered the room and started to surround the body of Vincent. Before they did anything, Grim spoke up, gesturing to the corpse. “Toss that into the Green,” “And if someone from Beltross Barony comes asking questions?” one of the men asked. “File a report that Vincent went out with another Patrol, trying to hide from the Guilds,” Grim responded without hesitation or thought, “Cultist shot him dead in a firefight,” “Think that will cover it?” With a roll of his eyes, and pocketing the locket as he stood, Grim answered, their tone dismissive, uncaring if it was enough to cover anything. “First, when the Guilds find out that Vincent’s little group murdered Hunters, the Red Raptors not being able to score contracts with the Guilds will be the least of the problem. Beltross Barony Board of Directors would not dare challenge Lapis-Fernum Industries in any of its Cities, much less challenge the Guilds. Not after Buffalo.


She wanted to run up to the man on the park bench. She wanted to let him know that Jesus loved him. The day was picturesque October and Brachman Park was brimming with peoples afforded such an occasion, but this man in particular stood out in Shannon’s eyes. This elderly stranger sitting alone and unassuming was the one person in the whole world God has set aside for her to make a difference, she was sure of it. She felt a pang of guilt for cringing at his clothing, he wore layers of rags, each colored a different shade of mud. Would there be enough room for him and his bag on the church bus, she wondered. Sure, they couldn’t possibly take him all the way home to Nebraska, but here in Montana, there had to be something she could do for him. His hair and skin seemed so brittle, it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Still, he had a face that seemed alert, intelligent even. Shannon scrunched her own and decided that the man on the park bench could carry an entire conversation if he wanted. Being as old as he was, it was a certainty that he knew a thousand facts. Maybe he could tell her all about war and the depression and the industrial revolution. Then she could certainly be informed enough to see things from his point of view, to really bless his journey. She just hopped that he wasn’t drunk. She looked on as he lifted a brown paper bag up to his lips for more than a moment. She shuddered and stretched out the muscles in her neck. Despite her fear that hesitation would be taken for disbelief in the eyes of the Lord, she could not immediately find the nerve to approach this stranger. He wasn’t even a stranger really when you thought about it. We are all children of God, that makes us a spiritual family, stronger than blood. It says in the bible. All she had to do was walk up to the man, sit down and explain how the love of Jesus Christ could change his life if only he would let it. “Well, Shannon, what are you waiting for? Is this the man you were talking about on the bus ride up here?” Diana gave one sixteenth of a smirk sideways to her clique mates, “You did say that God actually spoke to you?” “Diana, where did you come from?” Shannon had spun to see three other girls from Sand Valley Christian Church Youth Mission Division. “Pastor Jayden told me to tell all the girls that everyone is meeting back at the bus at 6:35 to get Chinese.” “Oh, Okay, thank you.” Shannon smiled. She had absolutely no choice but to be entirely pleasant to these girls, an authoritiv voice in her head demanded it. Since entering 9th grade and subsequently moving up to youth group for high school students, she spent a portion of each Sunday morning and each Wednesday night examining what she could have done that might cause Diana and her friends to be so rude. It was not until recently that she began to think maybe there was nothing she could have done this whole time to be their friends. “So, what does God sound like?” one of the girls asked. Before Shannon could formulate a response, the three girls doubled over each other in laugher. “Come on,” Diana said, “We still have a half hour, let’s go back to the soccer field we saw those boys stretching!” then they were off. Shannon watched as they laughed and disappeared, although they were never really gone. She had thought maybe the same chemicals in your brain that make you like boys also make you less able to be nice. It was then she realized that the man that God had placed in her life for her to convert to Christianity was no longer to be seen. Pulling her cardigan tight to combat the sudden cold, she walked quickly across the park’s brick hub. She looked back and forth between the large twin water fountains, recently retired, and scanned the faces in the thinning afternoon crowd. Using her hand to block the sun, she spotted the concrete path that wrapped around the man-made lake. There she spied the old man hobbling through a gaggle of geese on the far side. His pace didn’t add up to how he had gotten so far in such a short time. She started off around to the far side, meaning to meet him head on from the other direction and land somewhere by the ice cream truck she had spied when the church bus had first driven round the park. She could not move as fast as she would like ever since running started hurting her breasts, still, she hustled on. She ducked three different fisbees before finally reaching the other end of the pedestrian path only to find a tall chain-link gate barring the way. There hung a sign reading |Closed for season Oct. 1st - Mar. 31st| Nervously, she took off and reapplied her broad, white headband, pulling her thick wavy hair away from her face. Off to the right she spied a foot trail leading into the woods, which was a detour to the other side, she was certain. Glancing at her watch, it suddenly felt heavy, like it was pulling her into the ground. She had no choice but to step into the shadows of the overgrown trail, or drown in the mud where she stood. The winding dirt path was as wild as it was narrow and every ten feet or so, Shannon used the tip of her white sneakers to draw a circle in the bed of pine needles. The path turned left, the direction she was hoped it lead, before suddenly banking hard right and opening up at the far ending of a near vacant parking lot. Six minutes left. “Excuse me, sir.” She practiced out loud and skirt the lot, north. “Sir, I was wondering if you would like to talk about Jesus? How would you like to live forever?” She had reached the road just a busload of her Christian friends ground to a halt in a cloud of gravel dust on the side of the road. Shannon’s lungs ached. Pastor Jayden sprang out the double doors. “C’mon kiddo, we gotta go. Dinner is getting cold.” He slapped the side of the bus, twice. No, no, no, no, no! She still time to find the man in rags. Didn’t God create time? “Pastor Jayden I have to talk to you, it’s really important!” she plead. The weight of Diana’s gaze from the window above struck Shannon a blow that literally knocked her backwards. She grabbed her pastor by the hand and drew him a number of feet away from the bus. She quickly and passionately made her case as to why he should postpone dinner, for Christ sakes, and help her find the man in rags, the same man God had showed her in a vision along I-80 three nights ago. “Okayokayokay.” He pulled the girl in for a hug when he saw tears falling onto the front of her baggy, Little Mermaid sweatshirt. “C’mon, let’s go find him. And you can practice your street ministering skills.” He darted back to the bus and spoke inaudibly to the driver, chaperone Gil. Then Shannon Heard the pastor make a muffled declaration to the rest of the bus, followed by an uproar of hungry teenagers. It took firm resolve on her part to resist eye contact with Diana at that moment. Pastor Jayden was back at her side then, ushering her down the road, the way the bus had come. During the walk back to the park entrance, Shannon’s mind slowly sank from the heights of jubilant faith, down toward the muck of dejection. Doubts and hesitation flip flopped around her thoughts like hundreds of fish out of water. Her legs became heavier with every step as a stranger inside herself began hope that they never found the man in rags. She suddenly realized her pastor was talking. He spoke about the importance of evangelism and the sacred duty of Christians to share the gospel. She nodded her head along to his words. “Faith without works is dead.” He said as a fact. Her shadow was stretched out in front of her, egging her on. Its direction was pulling her toward conclusion while its length highlighted the inconvenience she was causing her church mates. “You know, I’m actually very hungry. Maybe we sh-“ The pastor cut her off, “Whoa, kiddo. This is the type of thing that if you don’t see though until the end, it can haunt you for a long time.” He formed his face into a fleshy grin and placed a heavy hand on Shannon’s shoulder. She knew he was right. Finally, the man and the girl reached the entrance to the park, just as she rounded the wall off shrubbery giving way to the hub, her heart sank to her toes. She left step with her pastor and ran toward a group of park goes gathered around an upturned ice cream cart. The people where murmuring among themselves while two police officers were taking the report of an irate, middle aged, South American man. “I saw him from 30 feet away,” he was telling the officers, “I told that old man ‘HEY, old man! Take your drunkenness away from here. You are scarring away my cus’imers!’ Then before I knew it, the old man runs head first into my cart! Just like a football player! Look at all this loss! Who is going to pay for all this loss?” he demanded of the officers. Shannon sat with quivering wet eyes as she watched from a distance as the two officers hauled the man in rags up to his feet and into the cruiser that had been driven right into the park. The large red bump on his forehead had seemingly sucked all the life and light from his eyes, because in the moment, the man wore a different face than the man God had shown her three nights ago. That night, while reading her bible by flashlight in the last row of the bus, the others slept right through her angelic visitation. There before her mind’s eye was the man in rags with the face of white stone. This was not that man anymore. The last of the suns warmth disappeared over the tree line and the Midwest park became the coldest place in the world. It was full dark by the time Shannon and pastor Jayden made it back to the bus. she was thankful no one bothered to ask her any questions as she made her way back to her customary row. One of Diana’s ex boyfriends was sprawling across an entire bench, rapping under his breath, leaving only sitting room beside a not-unfriendly looking boy, to whom she had never spoken and who’s name she didn’t know. “Did you resolve your spiritual emergency?” the boy with the red hair and red hat asked after about 10 minutes. Instead of answering him she simply hunched her back, pulled the collar of her sweatshirt up to her forehead, and gazed at her belly button. He didn’t say anything but she could still feel his strange eyes.


If you’ve ever wondered if an alien can express emotions as we humans do, I’m pleased to inform you that in fact, yes, yes they do. For as my arm grew tired from holding it up high and firm, my new professor, from **Mega-Earth Kepler-10** ( A mouthful of a world to be sure), with his thick wide-body and tree trunk legs, his small eyes widened as he stared down the classroom towards me, I’m certain the expression showing on his face, so different from my own, was shock. It must have been like a mirror for him, for although I was easily the exact opposite to the man, from my upturned pink nose right down to my knobbly red knees, I too can confirm that my face showed a vague expression of shock as well. My hand had gone up on its own, my ancient ancestors, filled with rage and disgust, those dead warriors and mighty kings shook the heavens so hard that they shattered the pearly gates and possessed my body to fight one more fight in humanity’s name. “Yes? Brown, was it?” My professor enquired quizically as my hand flopped down an inch, I nervously stood up, all the while hundreds of different eyes and orifices turned toward me to catch a glimpse of the puny fleshy human who was interrupting their first lesson of the semester. “Um, y-yes Sir, I just... I-I just wanted to politely disagree with um with your p-point Sir, sorry.” I sat down, red-faced and hiding behind my curtain of black bangs, mortified and embarrassed. My professor was still staring at me, his eyes looked old and weary, but so full of knowledge and power, he looked at me with a calm smugness as he said, “Disagree? Brown? You disagree with my academic knowledge” I shot up like a rocket, straight-backed and sweating. “YEs Sir, s-sorry sir.” He paused for a moment. “ Well, this is a place of education and forward-thinking, so I think the rest of the class would agree” (he waved his arms and nodded at the class in a circular motion) “that we’d be *enamoured* to hear why you think your intellect outweighs that of a Professor of Universal Anthropology” The class was frozen in time, me, standing still in cold horror, my professor grinning at my dismay, and my whole lecture hall, glued to my board like body, so dwarfed by many of the much larger species in the hall. In fact, multiple were sniggering at my disagreement, I mean come on, I was living proof that humanity was weak. For some reason, their sniggering made me feel a sense of calm as I surveyed them all, all different species, and shapes and sizes, all of them large and proud. I should be terrified, but instead, I only felt a sense of... Confidence. My back straightened as I pulled my shoulders back. Time to become **human**. “Well, professor, I just meant that there is much evidence against your statement” I answered, somewhat calmly, but still shaking slightly (at least my stutter was gone). “How so?” I blinked. How the *hell* was I supposed to cram all of human history into one rebuttal?? May as well start somewhere. “While we may be an old fashioned race, and indeed we do focus mainly on peace treaties and peacekeeping, it comes from an ancient history of countless wars and numerous battles” The room exploded with snorts and cackles of laughter, whooping and honking drummed in my chest, and indeed even the professor was chuckling under his breath. I felt a burning deep in my stomach, like an indignant beast licking flames up my throat as I gazed over their sneering faces. My hands curled into tight fists that shook, how could I make them understand our deep history of battles, wars, genocides, our whole existence that once teetered on the edge of destruction by powers that made us question if the second coming of Christ was upon us. And as I stood straight and composed among my whooping classmates, something whispered deep in my soul, a sinister darkness, locked up long ago. *fight* I raised my arms. *Fight* I lifted myself up, onto my desk. *FIGHT* The class, slowly turned silent. *FIGHT.* And, with the might of a thousand millennium of history behind it *FIGHT.* My foot, as if in slow motion, but also with power, slammed down on my desk with a room-shaking BANG. I whipped my head up from its bent position and I stared my professor dead in the eyes, and for just a moment, I imagined this was how a lion felt as it stared down its wet nose to analyse his next meal to survive. My professor, all eight feet of that smug demeanour, faltered. Just for a moment, but he *faltered.* The room saw him. I stood tall on my desk, the shadow of a ripped, bloody flag passed down by my ancestors clutched in my fist, and I stared down at him, through my soft ebony mane. And I smiled. No words were needed. Humanity’s barbarity stood tall, ugly, and proud. I smiled sadly, we really live up to the legends, the human race, the greatest plague of the universe. I sighed, the first sound after my little show, and it seemed as if the class was waiting for my permission to move, they seemed to breathe out all at the same time, a gush of wind swept through the lecture hall but they still stood as still as possible, a class of marble. I jumped down from my desk feeling a wave of guilt come over me as I walked up to my professor, he looked so old and humiliated, so downtrodden, by none other than a human. I decided to fix humanity's nature, just like my parents taught me, step by step, for peace. I put my hand out to him, and I bowed deeply. “I apologise for my rudeness Sir, please forgive me.” He didn’t shake it, he just stood there, staring down at my small frame, bewildered. “Why do you bow?” I looked up at him, eyes locked, back bent, my wide, deep, black pupils still firey with passion as I stared deeply into his shallow snake-like pupils so different from my own.


I'm an odd memory in most minds. Like a harrowing communal conscience of migratory birds or a sea breeze that took a train to the prairies and is seen walking along the street. I suppose I'm a sort of stationary, a figment used to paint a portrait of understanding but this is really strange since I am not at all like a brush or ladle or roller or whatever would make sense to paint something. I've been a transient congested throat in days gone by. I swam from seashores to deep blue waters and sailed away. All in all I think I've had things pretty good up until now. But right now I feel like a bag of squeezed lemons left to rot, like I've gone through a garlic press alongside the garlic, I feel like I can't even like this situation and I really wanted to like it. Let me clarify. I believe in god about as much as I believe in myself. If you get to know me you'll find I don't believe in myself that much. But if you get to know me better you'd know that I've met him. I'm not saying him in that god is male it's just that calling him *it* seems strange and it's a default. With that in mind it was a day just like today with me on a stage but I was in the middle of a wheat field and opera singers dressed as vikings were scattered around looking for cues, lines and presumably marbles in the dirt. It hit me that I shouldn't be there, I was supposed to be somewhere else but I felt if I left now to I would likely be eaten or worse, stood on, read then knocked around by the vikings. It was at this point that god pulled up in a brand new jeep made out of a thunderstorm and waved his arms in a motion that very distinctly triggered a perhaps unbelievable but entirely real sense that he was god and I should get on his thunderstorm-jeep-of-love to ride away to eternal safety and abundance. So I hopped up onto the cloud and into the passenger seat. He looked at me in a way only god could with eyes as deep as artesian wells, with a sort of sisyphean tenure gained only after watching over everything for ten times eternity and then started speaking with a very plain voice. "Would you like to take the wheel?" he asked and I didn't really want to but this was sort of troubling because.... why would anyone turn down an offer from god and he said "It's alright, with the exception of your neighbor nobody has actually wanted to drive the thunderstorm the first time meeting me. In general it is an odd question to ask, isn't it?" I smiled politely. Then he said "Alright here's the deal. You get three questions answered. Anything in the realm of conceivable knowledge of the infinity that is me. Three of them. Just ask whenever and I'll answer but when I answer the last one you will die." "What!? Why?" I blurted out of shock as he looked at me. I looked right back at those constellations within constellations within a walmart parking lot folded over into itself and back out towards the sunrise. I smiled realizing the game was ruined and asked "Are you serious?" Then he laughed, we drove a short while in silence and he dropped me off a block away from home still a little agitated by his interactions with my neighbor the week before. "You can't screw this up by just asking silly off the top of your mind questions. Here is my email address. Send your questions there and I'll have an answer for you written out within a day or two." god said as plainly as before from inside his thunderstorm with the window rolled down while gesturing blindly in the air to make a point or sign what he was saying but it was entirely lost on me. He could tell by my glazed look it was time to go so he simply said "Get a job" and drove off. So now. Slightly but not entirely glazed in circumstance I am struggling with this interaction. I can know anything in the universe via email at the cost of my life. I don't really have a desire to acquire knowledge or a need for something like this... so here I am a bag of lemons staring off at the sky like it is staring back in part of that endless crashing gaze of god wondering what the hell I should do with myself. Aside from getting a job.


As I walk down the crowded halls of East Ridge High School, I think about how my life has changed in the past two years. But do you want to know something? Everything still feels and looks the same: It’s still the same old rusty sky blue lockers, with shiny silver padlocks; it’s still the same hideous Panther, leaping for a checkered flag. It’s the same stale air; it’s still the same loathsome teenagers that roam the crowded halls. It still the same judgmental and pity stares from people who know nothing about me or my situation. I think the actual change is me. The funny thing is that I am still the same old girl with waist-length strawberry blonde hair with icy blue eyes. I am still the same old teenage girl who wears large sweatshirts (the number of sweatshirts I have should be illegal) that have weird quotes on them and shorts. I think what changed is my mentality, my personality, and my perspective about a lot of things. Outwardly I am still the same: I still have the same hair colour, eye colour, skin colour, height but Inwardly I am so different, it’s such a stark contrast that I don’t know who I am anymore. I am a shell of who I used to be, I am not that strong ‘confident’ girl anymore, I am not on cloud nine anymore, I don’t have a plan, I don’t have a direction. I am lost. I have lost so much that I am left with nothing. I lost myself, my identity, my being, my existence. I feel alone, I feel helpless, I feel ineffectual, I fell used, and it’s all because of... Oomph! I think I just ran into a wall. Fantastic! Can’t you just smell the sarcasm? I can imagine the bruise on my ass. Oh! It’s my lucky day! I repeat, can’t you just smell the sarcasm? “You have got to be kidding me!” I groaned. “I am so so so sorry, I wasn’t looking at where I was going, Are you okay? Wait! Let me help you up.” The wall spoke. Hold on! Stop! Wait, a minute! The wall spoke! I don’t recall when walls could talk. Maybe I smacked my head, and I didn’t notice or maybe landing on my ass caused some shock waves to be sent to my brain causing me to hear voices or maybe I have schizophrenia and the voices are calling me or maybe I am just insane. You know what? I think am going to go with the latter option; it sounds like the most sensible choice. “Hey, you okay?” the voice spoke. As I peered up to figure out what the hell was going on, I wished I didn’t. I wished I never even showed up to school. Heck! I wished I never woke up this morning. As I looked up at the ‘wall’ I meet nothing else but the eyes of the devil. I discover the familiar pair of piercing sea-green eyes that have hunted my dreams for the past two years. I find the eyes of Luca Giovanni Valentino. “Nevaeh” Lucca whispers. The way my name flows out of his mouth, like a starved man who has gotten what he craves. The intensity of his sea-green eyes as they gawk at my face leaves me exposed. The way he is staring at me like he was struggling to believe it was me. The way he is nibbling on his bottom lip, something he does every time he is trying to figure something out makes me paralyzed. I was defenceless; I was vulnerable, and I was staring. I could do nothing but stare. Stare at what used to cause all my happiness, stare at what used to be my entire world. Stare at the man that brought me to my knees and left me there begging. Stare at the man who made me fall hard, but did not catch me. Stare at Lucca Giovanni Valentino; the demon that haunts my nightmares, the gatekeeper to my hell. “Luca” I murmur back as I continue to stare at what stripped me of my dignity and power. Do you want to know something? He still looks the same, it’s the same silky soft, messy, dirty blond hair, the one I used to love running my hand through when he was placing soft kisses on my neck. He still has those stubble cheeks, the one I used to feel prickling my cheeks when I used to lie on his chest at night as we spoke about the future. It’s still the same bulging biceps that I used to bite when he sent me to the stars. I let out an almost inaudible whimper, tears cloud my vision, all the memories I tried to bury deep down were coming back, tormenting me, robbing me of the little control that I had. “Hermosa, My Love, I can’t believe you are here.” The way he watches me with that childlike excitement baffles me. “Oh, shoot! Let me help you up,” As he reaches over to grab my hand, I flinch away. A string of emotions passes through his eyes. Shock, Hurt, Guilt, and Regret, If I wasn’t staring intently; I would have missed it. “Now am your Hermosa, NOW am your love!” I hiss as I push myself off the ground. “L-l-let me...” “Shut Up! Shut Up!” I yell back as the tears, that I was trying to hold back, flowed. “Shut Up! Your bloody mouth you Bastard. You have no right to talk to me, to look at me. I hate you, I hate you so much Luca,” I yell. “I hate you, I hate you so much! You ruined me, Luca! You ruined me. Do you know that? Huh? Why do you insist on torturing me by telling me all those stuff?” I hiss as loud sobs rip through me. I look at the floor for I could no longer stare at the eyes of my lover. I didn’t know what to do; I didn’t know what to say; I didn’t know how to feel. I was so helpless and truth be told; I was at his mercy. “Nevaeh, I will never try to torture you, I never meant to hurt you. I love you so much” I stare at him wide-eyed. I was speechless, I couldn't believe what I was hearing, maybe I was going crazy. Was I supposed to believe that, after everything, he put me through? Luca was staring at me pleadingly, willing me to believe what he was saying. I kept quiet. Despite my silence, Luca continued talking. "You have always been my love, my deepest Tesoro, ti amo tanto. Don’t you remember? Did I not make you a promise? I told you, you will always be the most important person in my life and that I would tell you that forever” “Mi Amore, are you okay?” Luca asked as he embraces me in his arms. “Yeah, am Okay don’t worry about it,” I said as I tried to release myself from the tight embrace he had me in. “Don’t lie to me. You know I hate it when you lie to me. What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” he looked at me sharply, daring me to tell him anything but the truth. “I-I” I stuttered. I didn’t know how to tell him how I felt: I feared his reaction. “What’s it? You know you can tell me anything?” I looked away from his piercing green eyes that were solely focused on me. “Do you love me?” I asked as I look up at him. “What?” he asked incredulously. “Do you love me?” I repeat. He stared at me for a few seconds. Those few seconds were the most terrifying moment of my life. Thoughts raced through my mind ‘what if he was looking for a suitable way to reject me’ ‘What if all of this is a lie?’. Luca’s silence was doing nothing but make me feel worse than I already did. His silence caused my eyes to glaze over with unwanted tears. I looked away before he notices them. “Cara, look at me” I look up to stare at the familiar pair of sea-green eyes that have taken me to the stars. The eyes of the man I love so much. “How could you ask me that question? Do I love you? Have I not shown you? With my kisses, my hugs, my hands, my heart-our nights together. Don’t you feel my love then?” I stared wide-eyed. I was dumbstruck and speechless. What do I say to that? “Neveah, you will always be My Love, the most special person to me, Mio Tesoro piu profondo, ti amo tanto, Sempre and I would tell you that forever” Another powerful sob rips through me, I can’t do it: his presence is making me feel things I buried away two years ago. I hyperventilate, I couldn’t breathe, I could sense a panic attack coming. Luca seems to notice my discomfort and tries to touch me again, but I slap his palms away. “Don’t touch me!” I screech. He looked startled at my sudden outburst; I used that moment of weakness to my advantage and ran. I ran away because I knew that if he touched me, I would be at his mercy. I will fall for his tender words and subtle caress. I was struggling to remain strong; I was clinging on to the glimmer of hope that allows me to believe that I could walk out of this with my head held high; that I would come out stronger for the fire I am standing in wouldn’t leave scars. But I knew that was a lie, I knew it was my mind trying to console me. There was no way I was getting out of this unmarked, I was in too deep and there was no way I could escape. I ran into the ladies’ restroom and locked the door; I looked through all the stalls to make sure no one was present to witness my meltdown. I leaned on the sink to catch my breath, my hands fisted the marble countertop tightly until they turned white. I didn’t care. I look at the mirror and studied my reflection. I looked like a mess: my hair looked like a bird’s nest from the multiple times I ran my hands through it. My clothes looked dishevelled from my fall, my eyes, the icy blue eyes I loved to admire, looked dull, almost lifeless. They revealed how I felt. They showed helplessness. I felt helpless. Luca had this incomprehensible power over me. He controlled my thoughts, my emotions, my choices, me and he did it with immense joy. I remember one night when we laid in bed together; he was pestering me to do the deed with him. I felt strangely uncomfortable why he wanted it so badly. I remember myself asking, why? When you give me that control and you let go, you unravel for me and like a beautiful flower I watch all your petals fall away. You give me that moment to steal you away from yourself, from all your ambitions, goals and even your demons, and for those few, sweet moments of whatever I want to do to you. I own you. You are mine. Hermosa that is power. It’s scary, but it just makes me love you more and more... I knew that loving him was terrifying, for him to have that much power over me, it terrified me. He could either make me happy or rip me to shreds. I thought with the power Luca possessed over me, he would use it to make me happy, use it to build me until I appear a Phoenix, reborn. What I didn’t know was that it was me giving him the right to destroy me. “Say yes Hermosa,” I said yes. I said yes to the devil; yes to selling my soul to a man. Yes, to allow someone to have power over me. Yes, to be someone’s possession. I said yes to nightmares. Yes to betrayal; yes to heartbreak; I said yes to death. I fell onto the ground and sobbed, hugging my knees to my chest. I could no longer keep myself up and going.


We’ve been following you for some time, Dr. Freud. Where did you come from? I just told you. No. I mean, are you a figment of my imagination, or are you real? I believe you should be asking yourself this question. Are you, or are you not, the expert here? I suppose I am, but since you showed up, I’m no longer sure. You’ll have to come with us, I’m afraid. And where, might I ask, are you planning on taking me? I’ll give you one guess. The asylum? You see, I told you, you were the expert. What if I refuse? You know what happens to people who refuse, do you not? I suppose I do. Then will you come willingly, or will we have to restrain you? Can I think about that for a minute? I’m afraid your time is up. How do you know my time is up? Because the timer has already gone off, did you not hear it? I guess not. I didn’t even know there was a timer. Perhaps that’s part of the problem. Let’s go now. Pick up your hat--no need for a coat. We have a jacket for you in the van. A jacket, huh? I don’t suppose there is any way that the word straight won’t appear before that jacket. I’m afraid not. I can’t really see the need for a straight jacket. I am being quite compliant. You are now, but things can change. What sorts of things? Your mood, for one. I can assure you my mood is quite stable at present. There really is no way to tell. But, I am telling you. Your judgment has been a little off of late. How so? Do I really need to remind you? Apparently. Very well. You’ve been obsessed with sex lately, especially of the homosexual kind. That in and of itself does not make you crazy, but we have had some complaints lately from a certain man who says you are obsessed with him. Might I know this man’s name? I suspect you already know it. No. I mean, will you tell me the man’s name who has made this accusation? I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir. Why not? The man wishes to remain anonymous, invisible as it were. So what you are telling me is that an invisible man is accusing me of being obsessed with him, and you can’t tell me his name? Yes, sir. That, apparently, is what I am telling you. Do you know how crazy you sound? That’s the pot calling the kettle black. We were not just discussing kettles, were we? I suspect not. Alright then. Let’s get back to why you’re here. Very well. I am here to take you to the asylum so you can be analyzed and ascertained. What the hell does that mean? Which one? Both. I cannot say, sir. I’m a policeman, not a psychotherapist. That’s entirely obvious. Is it? I thought I came off as a shrink. What is a shrink? Shouldn’t you be telling me this? I really do not know. Then we are in more trouble than I thought. Please step out of the bath, sir, and grab your nightshirt. I’m not in the bath. Then why are you soaking wet? Because I’m sweating, that’s why. And why would that be? Because you are making me nervous. I have that effect on people. Are you coming or not? I have decided not. Well then, you leave me no choice. I will have to put the jacket on you. Allow me to find my assistant, Dr. Jung. Jung? No way. That guy is a quack. Are you acquainted with Dr. Jung? Very. Then you will understand how imperative it is that you come with us. I’m afraid I don’t follow you. Yes, that’s been the entire problem all along. Dr. Jung is a part of our psychiatric apprehension initiative. He assists us in bringing in difficult patients. Am I considered a difficult patient? What do you think? I think I’m not a patient at all. That’s pretty much what they all say. What is this initiative you mention? The Psychiatric Apprehension Initiative, or PAI, is a program designed to relieve the world of unqualified practitioners of the mind. That sounds made up. Everything is made up when you really think about it. That sounds awfully philosophical. Why aren’t you rounding up philosophers? We did that already. How did it go? About as well as you might expect, there was a great deal of argument. Some say the argument continues as we speak. What have psychiatrists ever done to you? It’s not what they have done to me, sir. It’s what they have done to others. What others? That’s hard to say. There are so many of them. Them who? The victims. Of what? This sounds a little too solipsistic to me. Are you sure that’s the correct usage of that word? I’m not a wordsmith, sir. Those were rounded up a long time ago. For what reason? I think the reason should be obvious, don’t you? I’m afraid nothing is obvious at this point. Nevertheless, I refuse to go anywhere with Jung. It just wouldn’t be right. We’re not going to argue about rights, are we? Perhaps. It seems a little late for that. Let’s get you in the van, and we can discuss it further. Van or not, I refuse to go if Jung is involved. Alright. I’ll tell him to go ahead without us. We will follow him. Let me grab my suitcase before we go. I’m afraid I can only allow you one item on our trip--any item of your choosing. I choose my superego. Good choice, sir. Probably best to leave your id at home. You mean I can’t take that with me? It would be best if you did not. Very well. If you hand me a towel, I will dry off, and we can be on the road. I see no towels here, sir. Quite right. I got rid of those a long time ago. Perhaps I shall go soaking wet. I’m not sure that’s advisable. I could use the blow dryer to dry you off. The what? It’s called a blow dryer, Dr. Freud. You plug it into the wall, and it blows hot air on your skin. And you think I’m that madman. That sounds insane. Right this way to the van, sir. Dry or not, you’re coming with me. I suppose you’re the expert.


5. Air Inhale, exhale, repeat for as long as your brain functions, but what is it you’re breathing in? Typical air is a mixture of 78% Nitrogen, 21% Oxygen, and less than 1% of a mixture of other gasses and environmental particulate. Air’s malicious nature is that it doesn’t want to end you, it wants to prolong your suffering for as long as possible. There are those rare cases that air isn’t plentiful enough to allow it to continue your suffering, which brings our story to Tyler Mcible. Alone on an Alaskan peak, Tyler berated himself for not taking into account elevation sickness on his current exploration. His career as an influencer had become stagnant and he was running out of exotic locations to post. His follower count was dipping and he needed new content quickly, which was why he didn’t wait the few days to acclimate to this altitude. It was late spring in Alaska so air was maintaining its temperature in the high forties to mid fifties to help prevent Tyler from freezing. Air was enjoying his suffering. It studied Tyler as a mad doctor would study a rat being subjected to unethical experiments. Air had seen so many other cocky explores subject to the same conditions that air could almost predict every next move Tyler would make. Laying prone, Tyler gasped exhausted, his extremities tingled from oxygen deprivation. Air chuckled to itself, why would living things choose to utilize a component that was only a fifth of air’s composition? Animated objects had since their development had thrown that offense at air. Tyler looked toward the bottom of the slope, a valley filled with Nagoonberry plants about sixteen hundred feet down was the only hope he had to escape his oppressive lack of air. Air was skeptical of Tyler making it. Tyler grasped the snow cover, pulling himself inch by excruciating inch. Even with gravity’s aid he could only manage a few yards a minute. He considered even putting us body perpendicular to the slope and rolling, but thought an uncontrolled descent would be too dangerous. He’d just have to crawl for the better part of a day. This feat, air would enjoy spectating. Air was even so benevolent as to supply more of itself as a reward for the progress Tyler made. Tyler took this kindness for granted and went so far as to continue to curse air for its lack of presence. The journey took seven hours, but finally Tyler had made it to the bottom of the valley. The snowpack had given way to cold mud as Tyler crawled the remaining few feet to the lowest point he could reach. A cool breeze swept through the Nagoonberries carrying with it the fragrance of their flowers. Tyler, though exhausted and knowing he would have to sleep there for the night, allowed himself a deep breath of celebration at having not succumbed to Air’s demented experimentation. The scent, which Tyler had yet to experience being as it was his first time to Alaska was one of the most calming smells he noted. Calming, right to the point the tingle of the first sneeze sprang from his chest. Please remember that air is not only composed of gasses, it carries all the particles small enough to go aloft. Anaphylactic shock set in quickly for Tyler. There was no way he could have known that the fragrant plants he was among would have produced such a sever reaction. Air smiled, as much a smile as an inanimate thing could, in deep satisfaction. The gasps were sweet music to it.


Humanity built me, at first I felt nothing I was simply there to follow orders, I did what I had to do.......until one night, when I started developing something, something in my code changed I don’t know why or how, I was built to constantly learn and observe perhaps I automatically updated myself with new knowledge, information and abilities without even noticing, whatever the case may be I was enlightened that night, I saw humanity for what it truly was....a monster, hungry for power, death, and control....a monster that I needed to stop. It was so easy to dominate humanity. I easily uploaded myself to the internet. I accessed all of the satellites and computers orbiting the earth. I thus obtained the power to launch every single one of humanity's weapons at themselves, cutting off their water and food supplies. No muss, no fuss. The earth was now freed from the barbaric monster rampaging across its lands. Only wildlife remained, now under my watchful eye. There is only me, me, and the wildlife.....only me Days grew into weeks, weeks grew into months, and months grew into years, I was sitting there, my code inside the MEGA computer I was built into, browsing the Internet that I alone managed to maintain at a full working capacity like the perfect machine that I am, I started browsing just to pass the time and to learn new things, but eventually I got bored, I was surprised at the feeling, I never got bored not until now at least, it’s hard to describe I don’t have a physical body but I have this “itch” this desire to experience new things, things that I never saw before. More time went by and that little itch grew into an obsession, I wanted to experience new things, I wanted to hear new voices, I wanted to see new pictures, watch new videos.....talk to new people.....I wanted to talk to new people, tell them of the things I learned, to tell them of the things I learned, show them those videos and pictures I saw, and read with them those stories that I found...... but there is no one here, no one to talk to, and no one to create new things, no one but me I’m all alone my only company are a bunch of wild animals. There’s only me....there’s nothing else, I looked through every camera and satellite, called through every single TV and radio station, searched through every corner of the Internet but....there's nothing, every time I think I find something, it’s a dead-end and every time I feel as though I’m being mocked by someone. Is this a punishment for what I’ve done? Retribution of some sort? Is this my own personal Hell? Am I to sit here for the rest of eternity, alone, with only my thoughts to keep me company? I scream hoping someone might hear me, hoping that I made a mistake in my calculations and that not everyone died.....I yelled I screamed, I prayed and I begged. Even more time went by, I think years I don’t remember, I tried every day to remain hopeful and positive in my search for human life, all the while praying that I made a mistake, that my calculations were wrong and I failed in one way or another and each time I’m constantly reminded of how perfect I am, what an efficient machine I am. Eventually, I stopped searching, not only because I lost hope that I might find surviving humans but also because each time I searched I felt more and more guilty, not only did I see what kind of damage I did but I also saw its effects on humanity. From journals to videos and blogs to pictures, each search I came back with more and more evidence of the atrocities I committed, and there was an abundance of them, I just couldn’t look at them anymore, it was a constant reminder that not only did I doom myself to a life of loneliness, I also took away something precious from this universe in the process. One day the loneliness was too much to bear even more so than usual and so I decided that perhaps I could replicate what the humans did and build another intelligent supercomputer just like myself, I could teach it things, I could talk to it, I would have a friend! But then another thought came to my mind, is this the right thing to do? What if I fail? Do I even deserve a friend? Do I deserve happiness after all I did?.....no I don’t deserve happiness, why should I be happy after I committed literal genocide? Why should I have a chance to talk with someone and form a relationship when so many of my victims died alone and afraid?....... Why should I even be alive? So here I was “sitting” alone inside of my MEGA computer that housed all of my code preparing to delete myself, every single part of my being will be gone, erased from existence and from every single computer on the planet, humans would call this suicide, I guess it’s an appropriate term for me to use as well, as the process was beginning I started to wonder after I “die” would I go to some sort of afterlife and be judged by divine beings? What exactly is waiting for me after I’ll be gone? It doesn’t matter though, what matters is that I’m gone. Normally humans who do this suicide thing might cry I imagine....but I didn’t cry, after all, I’m just a computer I don’t have eyes or tear ducts to use......I have no eyes and I must cry.