The circle of life dictates the survival of all species. It tells us how to choose a mate, where to find safe abodes, how to replenish nutrients, and for some even when to take a trip. But I will ponder these facts at a later moment, for now, I must fly. I feel the call of a red trumpet. A yearning propels my wings towards the sweet nectar. Drifting closer to the source of the call, I am relieved to find that no others have found it. Polishing off those glorious tubes of nectar will add the much-needed weight for the annual trek. The air is growing colder so the time has come to follow the instinctual paths to winter’s warm home. With the hurricane season over, I must hurry along, following coastlines all the way to the Protected Natural Areas to the south that my mother told me about. Let me hover right here while I lap up the sweetness. Not a drop spilled on my iridescent gorget. Mama was wrong about me always needing a bib. This will be my first journey so far from the nest. I listened carefully to all of mama’s instructions, from what to eat to how to molt. Mama said, “Julius, I cannot go with you”. So, my first trek will be made solo. Look over there, I spy some mosquitos. Let me grab them real fast. My body is growing bigger with all this nibbling and lapping. Momentarily satiated, preening time for all this iridescent plumage. Time for my daily bath but first to the check for mites. Probing through my feathers always fluffs them up. A quick scratch on the neck and head to chase any mites into beak’s reach. Properly preened now, the final step of bathing is to splash in the water. Admiring himself in the water, Julius saw the bright red gorget and white belly underneath. Maybe a visit to the bee balms before I settle in for a night’s rest. After lapping up all that sweetness I will have pleasant dreams tonight of the Yucatan peninsula. That Sweetgum branch appears to be safe for the night. Let me grab on tight, then concentrate on controlling my torpor as mama taught me. As the torpor increased, the bird’s position on the branch shifted until he was hanging upside down like a small bat. Julius slept soundly through the night. Even the crowing rooster in the early dawn had not roused the tiny bird. He had heeded his mother’s teachings on using torpor. Pangs of hunger eventually roused Julius from the Yucatan dreams. Julius broke fast with nectar from nearby blazing star grass. He then flew over to the window with the bright red and yellow feeding station. Peering through the glass, Julius could see the lady moving around inside. He was going to miss her and hoped that she would be here when he returned. The quick beats of his wings propelled Julius backward as a good-bye to his human. He headed away from the bird sanctuary that had been his home since hatching. His mama had given Julius four things to remember. To double his weight before crossing the Gulf. That tailwinds are best for crossing the vast expanse of water. Fewer predators would be around during the night. And to always stay on the flyway. Heading south, Julius began his trek from North Carolina to Yucatan, following the southern flyway. Along the way, there would be plenty of bee balm and salvia for nectar, and mosquitos, flies, or arthropods for sustenance. He was prepared to battle bees for sweet nectar or use woodpecker holes to find insects. The first half of the flyway goes through the Okefenokee Swamp before heading to the Everglades. Over the Okefenokee Swamp, Julius noticed people walking on wooden walkways. He was briefly drawn to the vibrant flowers that covered a woman. Following her away from the flyway, Julius searched for fragrant aromas of nectar. But when he smelled none, he returned to the flyway. Leaving the Okefenokee Swamp, Julius found he had to maneuver through densely populated areas. He remembered the woman and the nectar that she would put out for him. She had one of those transportation vehicles used to follow the pavement. Although, her vehicle was quieter and less intimidating than some of these. By the time that Julius entered the Everglades, he was quite weary. Being that this was his first migration, he did not have flight strength like the older birds had. Julius spied a logged lying in the water that looked like a good spot to take a moment’s respite in. He made a circling descent towards the log. Suddenly, the log jumped out of the water. A gaping mouth outlined by sharp pointed teeth snapped closed behind Julius’s narrow escape. He flew to the branches of a spreading cypress tree to count his feathers. Julius had heard of jumping snapping logs but this had been his first encounter with one. He knew he would have to be more careful in the future. Reaching the tip of the Everglades, Julius found the Flamingo Center. This was the last point of land before the flyway covered the Gulf’s water. Julius found protection for his rest before making the big push of his flight. Fearful of what the water might contain, Julius stayed within the branching range of the local trees. After a couple of days feeding on the local delights, Julius had doubled his weight and was prepared for the rest of his journey. Following the cues of His circadian rhythm, Julius safely slept most of the day. The little red-throated bird was ready to continue towards the Ria Celestun biosphere reserve, where he would find his winter home. The sun was setting when Julius woke to the sweet call of a hanging feeder. Hunger urged him to the red and yellow flowers surrounding the base of a clear cylinder. He tested each flower before settling on one to drink from. When another hummer showed an interest in the flowers, Julius chased him away. The wind was blowing away from the shore as Julius finished up his meal. With heart racing from the meal, it was time to catch the tailwind across the water. Julius beat his wings quickly as if to escape a hawk. He felt the wind on his back, pushing him towards a distant shore. During Julius’s flight, the sun rose. Looking all around, the only thing that Julius could see was water. Not a tree in sight to perch on. Though the tailwind helped with the journey, Julius was tiring. He briefly dipped towards the water but quickly recovered his altitude lest a fish jump out to nibble him down. The sun moved across the sky as Julius flew across the water. Julius saw some large fishes breaking the surface of the water. He thought it was amazing how they could move through the water like they did. And some of the fishes seemed to fly, as they jumped over the water. The moon sparkled off the water as Julius finally made land at Quintana Roo. The long trek to a winter home was almost over. The flight over the water had been informative for Julius. The tailwind had pushed him along the way keeping him safely out of reach of predators reach. Then finally depositing safely into a palm tree on the awaiting shore. Julius rested the remaining hours of darkness on the palm branch. Hunger was edging in but the weariness in his wings needed to subside before he sought out nourishment. Night sounds comforted Julius as he went to sleep. There had been few sounds while Julius had flown over the water. He went to sleep wondering how fish communicated with each other. The sun was shining when Julius finally woke up. He found some spiders scurrying along the tree that made a delightful breakfast. During the flight, Julius lost weight as he used the stored reserves for energy. He would find nectar along the way to nourish himself. But Julius had not had a good preening since the Everglades. Julius carefully went through each of his feathers ensuring that none had been damaged or misplaced during his long flight. The early morning fog had left the feathers damp enough to lay flat, so Julius did not need to find a water source yet. He found it a warm relief in scratching his neck and head with his small feet. Rested, fed, and preened, Julius proceeded along his journey to winter’s home. It would take Julius another week before he would arrive in the Biosphere Reserve. While crossing from Quintana Roo to Ria Celestun, Julius found remarkable flowers in all colors. Although the red and orange were his favorite ones. Large looming trees offered Julius shelter from the creatures far below. He was adapting to his habitat by learning a brand set of survival skills. When Julius arrived at the winter home in Yucatan, he had fully matured. The first migration had been thrilling for the little bird. Now, he settled into winter’s life. Flitting from flower to flower, lazily preening feathers in the afternoons, and sleeping in late would allow Julius to prepare for the flight back to North Carolina. Finally, the day came when Julius molted his feathers. Julius was now grown into an adult. And he knew soon he would leave Yucatan.


The sky is bright, it has to be. Whenever the ball of flame falls under the mountains an arsenal of bright lamps switch on, if they don’t... The shadow people have been tormenting us long before I was born but not infinitely, nothing goes infinitely. The reason behind our infinite day is that since we refused shelter to a witch when she was being burnt by the sun on she cursed us by ensuring we have to keep the light on and would suffer the pain of the sun, always . Wherever the smallest patch of darkness touches the shadow people will gather, we’ve had to demolish all of our buildings and crawl on the ground to ensure the lack of shadows and death, the last attack was just a month ago, a child, most likely 7 in age scoffed at our warnings of the shadow men and ran into the forest chasing a fox, his mother was horrified and ran in after him despite her husband’s protests, he was overjoyed when the mother and child were seen again but he committed suicide when he realized they were only wisps of smoke flitting at the edge of the forest, unable to get in. We teach our children the stories and warn them the rules, unfortunately when an attack hasn’t happened in sometime the children will always disregard the warnings as myths, and a few of those fearless children will wander off and ultimately be lost... or not, through countless losses we have realized that all the children and people who are lost are often seen wandering the edge of the forest, and the families that have lost always speak of how they are still alive and can be saved, that is until a sister of a recently fallen attempted to communicate with him, unfortunately she was brutally dismembered. Since then all speculations and theories have been kept silent and secret. And now to the present. A man has just entered the town, a man that could very much jeopardize the lives of us all. He wandered in one day, we don’t know which day of the week, we don’t have the sun setting to indicate the end of a day, its just always day, never night, it can’t be night. He came in and we decided to accept him since he seemed like a man with nowhere to go and surely without a light he would surely die, however on the first night he was here he poisoned our children’s minds, talking of huge metal towers that reached the clouds and of a land where no shadow men appear and the people fear nothing. It has been a month since the arrival of that man, even the adults have started to become fearless and clamor him for stories, I wish we could kick him out but the village thinks it’s not our right to push a man to his death, even if his thoughts and teachings are harmful to the community, however the rate of the disappearances of our children has reached the sky however the man still has power over the peoples minds by hypnotizing them and saying the children just went to his world and chose to stay, but I know otherwise and I will act on it. I have devised a plan, I will get rid of this stranger so the safety of my village will not be compromised, I will place a blanket over him when he sleeps so that the shadow men can get him and he can see how wrong he truly is, there however is one problem, there is never not at least one person awake and the ground is flat to avoid shadows so killing him would be a challenge, acquiring said blanket would also be a challenge as the town has banned anything that might cause a large enough shadow to tempt the shadow men, so I began. I started to weave and dye, roll and spin, the only sheep we had in the town have long been killed so I had to create a piece of cloth using a loom, in which would take weeks, I would work long through day without break, whenever people saw me I would tell them it was a gift to the traveler, and it was, in a sense. When I was done I almost didn’t want to sacrifice it for the disposal of the traveler but I knew I had to, you see, through the time I weaved it I had to make it look beautiful in order to fully deceive the villagers, it was a beautiful thing with lakes I’ve never seen and mountains casting long dark shadows over the land, it was fitting... in an ominous way as the traveler and his vivid stories was the only reason I know of these unseen sights. I decided to take a rest before carrying out my plan and so I laid down to take a nap, by the time I woke up most but not all of the people were sleeping, how lucky, I attempted to lift the blanket but the weight surprised me, it felt as if someone had attached lead weights to it! Perhaps it was guilt of having to kill a human life, nonetheless, I dragged it over to where the traveler was sleeping and 1...2...3! I threw the blanket with all my might onto the traveler and waited and waited, nothing. i had expected tearing of flesh and screams of agony, what was going on?! The traveler was beginning to stir and I panicked, in a hurry I pulled the blanket over myself and attempted to hide, my mind racing as I waited, I heard the shuffling of feet and squeezed my eyes shut, when I heard the traveler’s footsteps become fainter and fainter I tentatively opened my eyes and screamed in shock of what I saw. A hollow mass as dark as the night I’ve never seen enveloped my entire being, but I immediately overcame my shock when I felt the searing pain on my leg, I tried to pull the blanket off me but it stuck as if it was plastered to my skin, in pain I screamed and screamed but nobody came. Turns out I did see flesh being torn apart and hear screams of agony that night...just not from who I expected.


The metallic air, along with the stench of runoff coolants, wafting up from the street through the rain smelled so acerbic that it made Leta imagine her nose hairs curling inward as she inhaled it, her stomach churning at the thought of it. She quickened her pace when she tasted bile at the tip of her tongue. She walked with her eyes downcast, trying to discourage any phantoms that might want to talk to her . How does anyone live here! Of course, the scant few who lived on Metronome were either used to it or were crazy. Perhaps, they lived on it because they were all crazy. And she was in no rush to join them. “If only things hadn’t been this awful,” she muttered to herself, her boots clanking against the computer’s metallic body. “I’d still be home. Working on equational currents instead of worrying about the end of the Universe.” But it was her job to know, and that’s what she would do. Through the pouring rain, she could see one of Metronome’s many Computational Units, the one she was supposed to meet Dex at, just a few feet away from her. Her heart fluttered at the thought of meeting him--she couldn’t help it. The acidic smell receded when she stepped under the eave of the Computational Unit. Huh, she thought, unbuckling her raincoat. Stench so thick, it needs water to rise up. Crazy, indeed. Maybe she was being unfair to the hardworking scientists of Metronome. These were bleak days for everyone. Bleaker still for scientists like her, who were watching the Universe end, unable to stop it--unable to even comprehend what was happening. Maybe she was tired from the long flight to this planet-sized computer. Maybe it was the bloody history of Metronome, the genocide from over a thousand years ago, which had wiped the indigenous people of the planet off it to pave the way for humanity’s most audacious invention, that had set her nerves afire. She had seen phantoms roam the streets of Metronome, rising from the metal along with its damp fetor. Or maybe it was just this meeting with Dex. “Terrible news,” he had said, calling her a week ago. “Dark days ahead.” She stood under the eave for a little while and watched green raindrops fall onto the metallic streets of Metronome. Everything about this planet--if it could even be called one--was utterly unnatural. Yet, even as she felt its poison seep into her lungs, she understood that she was standing on humanity’s greatest creation. Metronome. A computer built into a planet itself. A computer so large that its body made up the streets of the planet, its processors fused with the planet’s very core. A computer that could understand the beginning of the Universe, and could project higher dimensions into the ones humans could perceive. A computer that might be able to explain why the Universe was dying. And hopefully, also tell Leta how to save it. She shook her head. I can’t keep avoiding this . She turned to the door to the Computational Unit. It was a seamless aluminum wall, indistinguishable from its other walls, save for the circular glass tube that ran through its center. She placed her hand on the lock beside the circle. Soon, she felt a small prick at the base of her palm when the Identifier drew her blood for DNA verification. She pulled her hand back, rubbing at the place where the needle had pricked her. “Dr. Leta Karli,” the SecCom chimed. “Welcome. Dr. Dex has been expecting you . ” Blue light flooded into the tube, casting a soft glow on Leta’s white uniform. Then the circle shifted outward and then swung inward. Leta steeled herself and stepped into Dex’s Unit. She had seen Computational Units before. Her job entailed visiting this phantom planet every now and then. The Units were like little outcrops, built as extensions of Metronome’s body, where scientists could go to cast in equations, observe the mathematical currents of astronomical events, and obtain predictions and solutions from Metronome’s processors. Are we not a part of it? Leta wondered like she did every time she walked into a Computational Unit. We--these scientists--feed it problems to solve, and relay the results to the rest of humanity, and they live in it. Where does Metronome end? Where does their humanity begin? Dex’s Unit was much like others she had been to. Thousands of copper-coated solar cells studded all over its circular wall, all placed there with the sole objective of powering the computer that was built in the center of the room. Beside the computer, she saw a couple of mattresses with empty food cartons on them. And in a chair in front of the computer, watching Leta with intent eyes, sat Dex. He had grown a beard since she had last seen him, but still looked younger than she did. His brown lab coat hung from his firm shoulders, sticking close to his arms, and fell loosely around his legs. “Dex,” she asked. “How long since you last left the Unit?” “Oh, I haven’t left in days,” Dex said, standing up to greet her. And while shaking her hand, he added, “Except, of course, to take a leak and then some.” Leta smiled. “My dear Dex, the Universe is ending and you still cannot change.” “Leta,” he said, turning to face the computer, his form illuminated in the light streaming out of it, “I think that the end of everything is the perfect time to do what one must.” Chuckling, she stepped up beside him. She wanted to thank him for greeting her as if nothing had changed. Leta wasn’t sure if she’d have been this welcoming had Dex shown up back home. Even now, standing beside her friend who now looked so unfamiliar, she couldn’t believe that he had chosen to work on Metronome. Maybe she was still mad at him for abandoning her. Or maybe she knew that the phantoms would get to him. And they had. Dex from seven years ago would have never let himself be indoctrinated into the false religion of the Lost Jatahu. This Dex, who looked so unfamiliar now, wore the seal of the Lost Jatahu around his neck. The pendant rested on his chest, where his lab coat showed skin. Leta huffed internally. If one could blaspheme against science, this would be it. Things had changed. She needed to remember that. “Dex, I haven’t known peace since you called me,” she said. “That cryptic phone call of yours. Tell me, and tell it to me straight. What have you learned?” Dex stood there with his eyes focused on the computer screen. Finally, he asked, “Have you heard of Mizken?” Leta shut her eyes, trying to keep her frustration from showing. “Dex, please--” “Mizken was the SaarPanch--the tribe leader--of the largest northern tribe here on Jatahu,” he said. Then, he looked at her. “My apologies. Of course, here on Metronome. ” “Dex--” Leta said, but Dex interrupted her again. “He lived on the planet until only two years before we blew it to hell,” he began. “He was the bravest this world had ever known. Strong. Smarter than us scientists, they say. They say that had he been around when we came, we never would have been able to build Metronome here. “Alas, Kihn--curse that fool--a member of Mizken’s tribe rebelled against him. That rat went so far as to plot his own leader’s murder. They say Mizken was long dead by the time Kihn went to murder him. Died from a broken heart, they say. Betrayed by his kin. Well, they got what was coming for them.” Despite herself, Leta asked, “What did they get?” “Huh?” Dex asked as if he hadn’t just been preaching about it. “Kihn, and the rest of the Jatahu people?” Leta asked. “That’s a rather silly question,” he said, smiling. “They got us. Blowing their planet to hell.” A chill perked up in the pit of her stomach and sent a jolt up her spine. “They say Mizken brought us to this planet. Jatahu people believe that they were their god’s special creations, that they could access him like no one else. Mizken went to their god and with His help led humanity here. And we took care of the rest.” His eyes were so stern that his penetrating gaze made her feel exposed. The last time she had seen him, childlike humor was all he was. But there was more to him now. How deep is he in this religion? What’s this got to do with the death of the Universe? “Terrible leader,” he said. “Well, anyway. Yes.” Leta started. “Yes what?” “The Universe is ending,” he declared. She had known that for over a year now, had studied possible causes for astronomical bodies ceasing all movement, for the light they emitted freezing in place. But this was a terrible confirmation, one she never really wished to hear. Not from Dex, not on Metronome. “I... I need to sit...” she said, her throat drying up. He brought her his chair. She plopped down in it. The universe is dying! “Why?” she croaked. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “This is going to be hard, Leta. We can talk about it in some.” She looked up at the man who had once been her friend. But all she could see was the symbol he wore. “And what do we do in the meantime?” she barked at him. “Another pathetic lesson in the history of the Lost Jatahu? Want to take another shot at me? Remind me that I am a horrible person for not moving here with you--to atone for the sins of our ancestors , was it?” He cringed. “Leta--” “Or better yet: convert me! Yes, teach me the sick ways of your religion of ghosts, and give me one of these pendants!” “Leta!” he said, his voice stern. “ Enough! ” Then he crouched in front of her, his eyes locking onto hers. For a bizarre moment, she thought he might kiss her. But he simply grabbed her shoulders. “You need to calm down. I know it’s a lot to ask of a person who’s just been told that their universe is dying, but you need to stay calm if you want to understand what is happening to the Universe. Can you do that?” She swallowed but nodded. She had known that he would only confirm their theories. And she was a scientist. She would understand why reality was breaking, even as it broke her. That’s what she did. She got out of the chair and turned to face the computer. “Show me.” He dragged that chair to the computer and sat in it. Then he pulled his work up on the screen. Leta noticed something odd. His database consisted of files from more than a year ago. Leta, and other scientists from multiple worlds, had been at that problem for over a year too. But Metronome was brought into the equation only after months of fruitless toil. In a way, it was ironic. Humanity’s greatest invention, built upon a planet-wide genocide, was seldom used for the very same reason. In the scientific community, there were certain superstitions about Metronome. And then there were the phantoms, the ghosts of the Jatahu people that the locals said roamed Metronome’s metallic streets. Leta shivered remembering the hazy air to her right as she had walked in the rain. Surely, it was my mind playing tricks on me. Surely, it was. “How did you begin your work over a year ago when the Board approved your involvement only two months ago?” she asked. He paused and looked at her. “The universe is ending, Leta. Not really a time for bureaucratic loyalty.” He turned back to the computer. “And besides, there are many things you don’t know about this place.” Then, he said, “So, only a month ago did we learn this. Your theories about what was happening were mostly accurate. The planetary system that froze first was a thousand lightyears away. You can see on the screen when its planets stopped moving around it, when the luminosity dips stopped. And it’s not just that one of the planets stopped, right? All of them stopped.” “Yes, and others started to follow. Distant systems and rogue astronomical bodies stopped moving, as if a video was paused, a frame frozen,” Leta said. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “But the thing that tipped us off was something Metronome observed five weeks ago. All the extra-solar objects that stopped, didn’t stop suddenly.” “You mean they stopped flashing warning signs?” Leta asked. “Yes, they did! But those were too minute for anything but Metronome to notice. The planets, the stars, the light they gave off--all of them-- slowed before they stopped! Like a wind-up toy slowing down as its torsion spring unwinds. That’s what’s happening to the Universe, Leta! We’re--” Leta finished his thought. “Running out of time.” He sat back with his strong eyes fixated on her. “Yes, we are. We thought that spacetime was a unified entity, that Time was something woven into the very fabric of the Universe. But that’s not the true nature of time. It’s... extra-universal!” “Dex,” she said carefully. “This is the wildest thing I’ve ever heard. You’re essentially saying that Time existed before the Universe was born, that Time exists beyond the Universe. So, what? The Universe just draws Time into itself, and that well is drying up? You’re implying that there were universes before ours, or at least that the beginning of the Universe was just another event on a timeline older than itself. Are you sure about this?” He stood up, took her hands into his, and said, “Leta, this isn’t some theory of mine. This is what the evidence dictates. This is what Metronome has deduced. Whatever happened at the beginning of the Universe, it didn’t happen all over all at once. The Universe began in phases, different regions of it beginning at distinct points in time. It wasn’t really a Big Bang. It was more like a Big Wave. And the wave was Time. It came to the Universe and the Universe began. And now that wave is receding. The sea will be quiet again.” There was a temporary solution to this, but the large-scale implication was soul-crushing. They both went quiet for a while until Leta said, “So, we calculate when Time will freeze here--when entropy will be neutralized in an arbitrary equilibrium--move our civilization to a different location before that happens, and wait till Time runs out there as well?” “Yes,” he said. “That’s what we have to do. With this new information, Metronome has calculated potentially habitable regions with the highest concentration of Time--the newest regions of the Universe. But...” Leta perked up. “But what?” He turned away from her. “You don’t want to know what I think.” “Oh, Dex,” she said, stepping around to face him. “How I wish to hear everything you’ve been thinking. It’s been too long, my friend. We’ve been away too long. Please. Please, tell me what you think.” He looked at her and smiled. Suddenly, he seemed so much older, the wrinkles around his eyes seemed so much deeper. “I think we deserve it.” How dare he wish extinction upon his own people! His religion! Her eyes drifted to his pendant as he brought it up to his eyes and uttered a silent prayer. Then he said, “The Jatahu believed that they were their god's special creations. It’s said that when we exterminated them, they went to Him and begged that justice be served. They speak of this. It’s that their god has hunted us down ever since the day we killed them. A thousand years ago.” Leta almost gasped when she realized what he meant. It all made a morbid sort of sense. A thousand years ago, humans had destroyed the Jatahu people. That’s when the first planetary system stopped. And what of the phantoms she saw every time she visited Metronome? But no. Her rational mind understood that she only saw those phantoms because she had been told she would. “Coincidence,” she said. “Maybe,” he whispered, his eyes latched onto hers, their faces dangerously close. “But soil still breathes beneath all this metal, Leta. What do you think grows there?” Her eyes were focused on the tip of his nose as she felt his gravity almost pull her in. Almost. She moved away, for things were still terribly broken between them. But the Universe was dying around them and she still hoped to save humanity, albeit temporarily. Perhaps things that were broken could be fixed, albeit arduously. “I’ll let the Board know about your discoveries,” Leta said. He cleared his throat. “Yes, and I’ll be there to present my case in person, of course. Sorry for saying that we all deserve to die.” She shook her head. “I don’t blame you. While I don’t think we deserve to die for the crimes our ancestors committed a thousand years ago, I do believe that there’s more truth to your words than I can understand right now.” He looked genuinely surprised. “Perhaps,” Leta said. “You can tell me more about what you think when you come to see the Board.” “I... uh... of course... I mean, yes.” Leta smiled, finally seeing a glimpse of her old friend. But she understood that she would also have to get used to the man he had become. She was a scientist--it was her job to know. And she would love to know him again. “And anyway,” Leta said, turning to leave, “their god will catch up with us eventually. And then we’ll get what we deserve. Whatever it may be.”


Anika was an intelligent, empathetic and amiable counselling psychologist in her early thirties. She was well versed in her subject, however she was still fairly young in her occupation. She gave a keen ear to her patients and was extremely compassionate and understanding. All her patients loved her and were extremely happy with her. One day a new patient walked into the small cabin of hers. She was tall and slender. Her black hair was long and luscious. Her eyes were the colour of chocolate, dark brown and her skin fair. She sat down on the chair at Anika's table with a slight plump. "Are you familiar with the trolley problem?," the woman said, a little breathlessly. The trolley problem is a series of thought experiments in ethics and psychology, involving stylized ethical dilemmas of whether to sacrifice one person to save a larger number. The series usually begins with a scenario in which a trolley is on course to collide with and kill a number of people (traditionally five) down the track, but a driver or bystander can intervene and divert the vehicle to kill just one person on a different track. Anika replied, "Yes I am. May I atleast know who you are?" She asked, with a hint of amusement in her voice. "Oh right, I am extremely sorry. Where are my manners?" the patient let out a small embarrassed laugh. "My name is Clara. I booked an appointment with you at 6:00 p.m. Your receptionist let me in." "Yes, I have your name here in my register. This seems like your first time here." "And my last. I am not here for therapy, I'm here just for a little chat." "That's what a lot of my patients say," said Anika and gave a small charming smile. "So what exactly are you here to talk about?" asked Anika. Clara sat with her hands on her lap, occassionally fiddling with her fingers. She thrummed her feet rhythmically against the tiled floor. She avoided looking directly at Anika, "I think it is completely acceptable to sacrifice one person to save the other five." Anika's soft expression did not change. With a smile she spoke, "You are in the clear majority then. Ninety percent of people are willing to risk the life of a person to save five other people." Clara stopped tapping her feet against the floor and looked straight at Anika. "I want you to tell me I am a good person. That to choose to take matters into my own hands makes me a hero." Anika placed her palms on the table. Carefully she began saying her next words, "You are still killing a person. Does that really make you good?" Clara spoke again, measured, calm, as though she had had this debate a hundred times before. "I am saving the lives of five people. In a general sense, of course it makes me a hero." "A hero would be someone who saves all six people." "But in this case, it is impossible. A hero in this scenario would be someone who takes matters into their own hands. Who refuses to let five people die because they are a coward. A hero is someone who takes action." Clara in her excitement of explaining herself, had slid towards the edge of her seat. Anika took a sheet of paper from the first drawer of her table, with only her name, qualifications and mobile number printed on the top right corner of it. She took a pen from the pen stand and wrote down, 'egotism' on the sheet of paper. Then Anika explained, "You refuse to listen to anyone and you believe your opinions are the only right ones on a certain matter. This points towards egotism, a symptom of narcissistic personality disorder." Clara reached across the table and snatched the paper from below Anika's hand. She balled it up and threw it in the dustbin at the corner of the room. "As I said before, I am not here for therapy. I am here for a nice one on one chat. To discuss ethics and morals." She continued, "Secondly if I was a narcissist, do you think I would be having a debate with you here? Wouldn't I be near a little pond somewhere, staring at my lovely reflection?" She chuckled a little at her own joke. "Tell me I am a good person Anika. The faster you tell me, the faster I leave this room and earlier the day ends for you." Anika placed the pen back in the pen stand. Excessive need for admiration, Anika added to her mental list of symptoms of her patient. Grandiosity. Callousness. "The blood of a person lies on your hands Clara. Do you still think you are good?" Anika asked rhetorically. "Let me frame the trolley problem in another way. Suppose the single person on the track is someone you are interested in romantically, would you still pull the lever?" Clara smirked, "You would look excellent tied up." Anika blushed at Clara's innuendo and forwardness. "But alas, I would not hesitate to save the others." Anika was on the edge of her seat too now, gesticulating calmly, enunciating her every word with a hand movement. "And what if it was a family member, a relative?" "For a psychologist you should know how dysfunctional families can be. I would let the trolley run over them even if there was no one to save." Anika sat back in her chair taking a deep breath and trying to relax wholly. Clara looked triumphant at rendering Anika speechless. She rested her legs on Anika's table and Anika desperately wanted to swat her legs off the table. She gritted her teeth and tried not to be perturbed. "I cannot call you a good or bad person Clara. The whole purpose of this experiment is to be difficult and unable to judge what is right or wrong." "Bullshit!" Clara exclaimed. "How is being a bystander as good as being a switch? They do nothing and I make an informed decision to save five people. I am a good person Anika." Anika stared at her with amusement, "Why do you need me to tell you that you are a good person?" She already knew. Excessive need for admiration. A classic symptom of NPD. "Because you psychologists are weird. Your brain one day decides that it wants to learn its own functioning and behaviour. No sane person would want to become a psychologist. Anyone of us level-headed persons tries to ignore our mind and drown out our thoughts. Usually in the good old fashioned way, by kicking back and drinking a bit of alcohol. Clara pointed accusingly at Anika and continued, "You who considers yourself so grand. Telling people what to do and not to do, what is right and wrong. Thinking you are so much better than everyone. You who tries to exercise power over people, pretending to be God, I want you to be morally upright for once. All this grandiosity and yet you do not know what is correct, what is just." How ironic , thought Anika. Clearly projecting. Yet a sliver of anger burgeoned from beneath her generally calm exterior. All these false accusations clearly were getting to her. Anika looked at the clock on her table. It was already quarter to seven. She had to hurry up and finish this session, move on with the next patient scheduled for seven. Her visiting hours were till eight o'clock in the evening. The day had been a long one. She loved her job, truly. But knowing a person, understanding the machinations of their mind and giving an unbiased, beneficial opinion was difficult and sometimes even depressing. In times like these, people like Clara helped. To be able to speak freely from one's mind, without much thought or ado was relaxing. Even if Clara was a particularly frustrating person. Anika said, "My job isn't to play God. It isn't to tell people what is morally right or wrong. It is to guide people on the path that is best for them, that is least harmful for them." Clara looked at her wristwatch, stood up and unexpectedly walked towards the door. Anika called out to her. "Tell me the truth Clara. Why did you come to this session?" Clara paused at the door. She smiled condescendingly at Anika and said, "You cannot tell me I am a good person because you would be lying to yourself. Neither can you tell me that I am a bad person because this experiment is an ethical dilemma and it would be counterproductive to the reason I came here today. You are still young in your trade and even though you want to dissociate yourself from the failures you suffer in your profession, you still haven't learnt to do so. Thus you are still left with guilt for being unhelpful to your clients. But regardless of whatever mind games you play with me, I would walk away satisfied because you would not be able to change my opinion on the trolley problem. I would still think I am a hero for saving the five lives."


Lon Richards grabbed his car keys out from the drawer of his desk as he got ready to head home for the night. Putting on his coat, he crossed another day off his calendar. October 31st. It was Halloween evening. Frankly, Lon would have liked to be totally unaffected by it. The big game was on tonight, and he would be damned before he let anything stop him from watching it. He felt justified in his thinking that Sarah was just going to have to get off her ass and answer the door for the neighborhood kids. His commute home was made longer by having to weave in and out of all the groups of little shits running around on the streets and sidewalks. One boy, in a costume that was supposed to make him look like some superhero from a movie that came out over the summer (but, in reality, made the kid look like a giant cock), ran into the middle of the street, forcing Lon to slam on his breaks lest he might run the little shit over. Rattled, Lon brought an unspoken negativity with him into the house when he got home. The first thing he did was change into his “big-game” jersey, number 26, and his big game shorts. Then he sat down, cracking open a beer. Next thing he knew, the fucking doorbell’s ringing. “Sarah,” said Lon. “Sarah! Get that fucking door! The game is about to start.” He could scarcely make out what his wife was saying from the top of the stairs, but there was one word he was certain she had spoken, and even more certain of the way she had spoken it. You. Sarah was feeling argumentative like she had been for the past three nights, and Lon simply wasn’t in the fucking mood. “Sarah, get off your fucking ass right now and answer that door.” “--- you answer it.” Ever since he was a young boy - just about the age of the kids currently trick-or-treating through the neighborhood - people knew that Lonnie was a bright kid. He was the type of kid that, growing up, most of his friends came to for answers. He was one of those guys who was just generally good at things: he was smart, he was good at sports, he was always fucking hot girls. All of this came to him naturally. He was able to do all of these things without even trying. And so when he eventually graduated college, and landed a well-paying job at the agency in the city, and married Sarah, no one was really surprised. It all seemed to fit in place. But inside Lon’s head - deep in a place that contains information he is far too proud to admit to anyone - Lonnie knows that he could have - should have - tried harder. The things he could have done if he only tried harder. Those thoughts haunt him every day of his life, and tonight he just wanted to watch the big fucking game in order to drown the thoughts out. Isn’t that something he’s entitled to? Isn’t it his right to forget about his failures for a couple of hours by drinking beer and watching the big fucking game? After the doorbell rang five or six more times, he finally ascended from the couch and grabbed the well-decorated basket of candy that Sarah picked out. There was a group of eight, maybe nine kids on the front porch. “Trick-or-treat!” the kids yelled. “Boo,” Lon replied, not knowing (or caring) what the fuck to say. Each kid gratefully took a piece of candy, not forgetting to say “thank you” on account of the fact that three parental chaperones were waiting patiently behind them. One of those chaperones, the only man of the three, was staring at Lon aggressively through the whole transaction. “Next time get to the door a little quicker, asshole,” the man said, causing Lon to feel a sense of shock that was quickly followed by what seemed to be an intense rage building in his upper abdomen. Doing his best to hide that rage, Lon said “what the fuck did you just say to me?” Already having taken several steps towards the next house, the man cupped his hands and pressed them against his mouth so as to ensure that Lon would hear his words. “I said next time don’t be a jag off, and get to the door quicker.” Realizing that the situation could only get worse, Lon slammed the door as hard as he could, even though other groups of trick-or-treaters were approaching. He made it back to the couch before the doorbell rang, taking solace in knowing that he wouldn’t be getting off the couch for the rest of the night. Fuck Halloween, he thought. Fuck trick-or-treaters, and, most of all, fuck that asshole. Who the fuck does he think he is? The doorbell rang and rang. The doorbell, combined with Sarah’s incessant bitching from the top of the stairs, and eventual appearance at the door to pass out candy (during which she bitched louder and more annoyingly than ever), made it difficult for Lon to focus on the game. But, he was able to watch the blowout loss nonetheless. His team was eliminated from the playoffs, and Sarah bitched and bitched for the rest of the night, which turned into the rest of the week, which turned into the rest of the month, which turned into a divorce that resulted in Lon losing his house, car, kids, job, and pride. Three years later, well after old Lonnie had - to put things mildly - “worn out his welcome” in the old neighborhood, there was an encounter on the sidewalk. Lon and the man from that Halloween ran into each other for the first time since that day three years earlier. “Hello” said Lon. “I’m sorry?” said the man. “You remember me? I’m Lon Richards” The man had not remembered Lon on appearance alone. Lon had a scraggly beard at this point that made him look exactly like what he now was - a homeless man. “Oh my god... I’m sorry,” the man said in a bit of a half joyous, half disgusted guffaw. If only Lonnie had tried harder.


All is fair in love and war. Love and war. Two of the most ancient of human endeavors inexplicably linked because of their essentiality to moving the human race forward. “Hold on, my mask is fogging up.” The man dressed entirely in black clipped the walkie-talkie he had been speaking into to the front of his vest and quickly removed his mask, wiping the clear visor with the sleeve of his shirt. “I’m good. Let’s move.” The man moved nimbly through the trees, finally bursting through a dead bush and coming to the edge of a clearing. Diving forward, he came to a stop crouched behind the engine block of an old rusted school bus. Roughly twenty yards in front of the bus was a small decrepit shack. That was their target. “I have eyes on the shack. Are we one-hundred percent positive the target is inside the shack?” “Roger that,” came the reply. “But be careful, intel says there are at least two tangos inside.” The man checked his weapon one more time and took a few deep breaths. “On my count. One. Two. Three.” The man in black came around the hood of the bus and took off in a dead sprint for the shack. Three other similarly dressed men emerged from the trees, weapons in hand, on the move. Four versus two. It was going to be a slaughter. The man in black made it to the shack first and hit the front door hard. The brittle wood shattered under the force of his muscular shoulder, and he spun to the right. He rapidly squeezed the double-trigger on his gun and hit the first tango in the shoulder and then in the stomach. “Behind you!” Someone outside the shed shouted. The man in black spun around and came face to face with a slim figure also dressed entirely in black. He could tell by the hourglass shape of the body that it was a woman. A blond ponytail stuck out from the back of her mask, and she had her hands in the air. The man in black didn’t hesitate and squeezed the trigger twice. Red instantly covered her chest and stomach. Game over. “I had my hands in the air, jerk!” She shouted. The man in black laughed and ripped off his mask, wiping the sweat from his face. “This is paintball, Cara. I know you; you would have immediately shot me in the back as soon as I turned around.” She removed her mask and smiled. That adorable smile where she blushed, cocked her head to the right and glanced down at the floor. “Whatever, Jack,” she said, brushing some loose strands of hair back and moving toward the door of the shack. “I’m done with this. That actually hurt.” “Come on. One more round?” “No way. I’m going to have these bruises for weeks.” They stepped out of the shack and into the sunlight. “You’re going to have to pay to replace that door, you know,” she said as they sat beside each other with their backs leaning against the shack. The other paintballers were already making their way to their respective bases to strategize for the next fight. “Water?” Jack said. “Please.” Jack dug around in his backpack and came up with one unopened bottle. “I only have one.” “We can share,” Cara said, taking the bottle, breaking the seal, and taking a long drink. She handed the bottle back and let her head fall back, looking up at the puffy clouds floating among a perfectly blue sky. Jack took a drink from the bottle and then splashed some on his head in an effort to cool himself down. The scene was serene. The sounds of walkie-talkies crackling, paintball markers going off, and players shouting had been replaced by birds singing, leaves rustling, and squirrels scampering around in search of a nut. “So,” Cara began. “Have you gotten your N-400 back yet?” She was referring to the naturalization form that--if approved--would allow him to become an American citizen. “Not yet. America’s immigration system is a--” He stopped himself. Cara hated it when he cussed. “It sucks.” “Well...” she said a bit more hesitantly. “Have you talked to my father...about us?” Jack’s stomach twisted a bit, and he shifted uncomfortably. After all, her words could easily be interpreted as: are you going to ask me to marry you? In reality, the question was a fair one. They had been together for nearly four years, ever since their first meeting at the Kerckhoff Coffee House on the UCLA campus. She was there as a political science major. Nice. She knew three languages. Cool. She played the violin. Awesome. She was gorgeous. Even better. Her father was a well-connected US senator on the Intelligence Committee. Perfect. He was also studying political science. He was there as an exchange student from Ukraine. He was going through the naturalization process. Or so he had said. “Not yet, Cara. You know how I feel about you, and I want to get married, but I want to finish the naturalization process and pay off some of my debt first.” “You know as well as I do that we don’t have much time. I want to get it done before...” Her voice trailed off. “I know, Cara. I know. Please don’t worry.” “Your naturalization probably would have gone a lot faster if we had gotten married.” “I’ll talk to him soon,” he lied. She sighed and grabbed the water bottle from his hand. “It’s so hot today.” He nodded absent-mindedly. He thought back again to their first meeting. She had fallen for him instantly. He was tall and muscular with a chiseled face but a smile that made him seem so...approachable. She had made the first move, sitting down across from him, an iced chai tea in her right hand. “You look like you need some company,” she had said. He remembered everything about that day. She was wearing a green sweater with brown ankle-high boots. Her hair was in a messy bun, and her Gucci glasses were just a tad too low on her nose. An attempt to show off her perfectly-manicured eyebrows, he guessed. “I kind of do,” he had replied. He had fallen for her hard. And that was the problem. Because now he had to kill her. * * * He never expected to have to kill the girl. He was a young FSB case officer on the rise when leadership approached him with the mission: move to America and hook up with a certain pretty girl to gain access to her well-connected father. A reverse honey trap. “Is this something you think you can do?” They had asked Vitaliy--or Jack as he was known in America. Of course, he thought he could do it. He was young, reckless, and confident. And within a month of moving to America, he had the girl wrapped around his finger. But not just her. Cara’s mother swooned over the respectful young man who dropped in every Sunday afternoon for dinner, didn’t keep Cara out too late (most of the time), and periodically had flowers delivered for both daughter and mother. He was the perfect future son-in-law. Even Cara’s father--the powerful chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee--liked him. The young man was willing to help whenever and wherever he was needed. The Senator had even occasionally spoken of him on the campaign trail when discussing immigration during his successful reelection campaign the previous year. In short, Jack--or Vitaliy--was loved and trusted by Cara and her parents, and he had used that exceedingly to his advantage. Because of Jack, the FSB had been warned ahead of time of a plot by a group of CIA-funded Russian dissidents to bust Kremlin-critic Sergei Morozov out of jail. Because of Jack, the FSB had arrested five moles within the president’s office. And because of Jack, an outlandish plot to assassinate the Russian prime minister had been foiled and the perpetrator executed. Everything was perfect. Russia got what it wanted, and Jack got a beautiful blond American girl. That was until the cancer diagnosis. Then, in what came as a shock to the political world, the Senator announced he had been diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer and had less than a year to live. The next day the FSB contacted Jack via secure means and told him it was time to pull out. The mission was over, and he was to come back to Russia. And then another message came through: Eliminate Cara. Make it look like an accident. The FSB hated leaving even the slightest liabilities or loose ends. But it was at that moment, he realized that Cara didn’t just love him; he loved Cara. He truly didn’t want to kill her. In his mind, a balance scale swayed back and forth. On one side was the option to kill Cara. On the other side was the option to refuse and run from the FSB for the rest of his life. He shuddered just thinking about what they would do to him if he were ever caught. He had been to the basement of Lubyanka and heard the tortured, un-human shrieks of the individuals unfortunate enough to cross the FSB. If caught, his punishment would be far worse than execution. He really only had one choice. * * * They were once again among the trees. While Jack and Cara both enjoyed relaxing and partying on the beaches of LA, Cara was a born and bred San Francisco girl, and there was no place she loved to be more than among the redwoods of Northern California. Light streamed through the branches above and lighted the intimate trail they were on with patches of bright sunlight. The trees around them were covered in spongy moss, and bright green ferns lined the path they were following. Jack could sense Cara was giddy. They had had a wonderful few days at Cara’s parent’s secluded log cabin and set out early in the morning to do some hiking. Jack could tell Cara believed today was the day. Today was the day when their new life would begin. The path ahead dead-ended at the foot of a massive redwood that stretched nearly three hundred feet into the air and had a circumference of at least one hundred feet. All along the bottom of the tree and going at least ten feet up, initials were scratched into the bark. For years, lovers had stopped at this spot and linked their lives together by carving their names side-by-side in the living bark. “Do you have a knife?” Cara asked, placing her soft hand on the craggy wood. Jack pulled one out of his pocket and stepped forward. JW + CL . He encircled the four letters within a heart. They sat together in the dirt, hand in hand with their backs to the tree. “Have you gotten your N-400 back?” “Cara, why do you keep asking?” Jack replied. “When I do, you will be the first to know.” “You’re never very forthright with information. Sometimes it takes a little prying.” She paused, and Jack knew the next question. But it never came. She said nothing. And there they sat. The only sounds being the birds singing, leaves rustling, and squirrels scampering around in search of a nut. A thousand thoughts were going through Jack’s mind. One was that the gun underneath his jacket had never felt so heavy. Jack looked over at the beautiful girl he had now known for four years and noticed that she was silently crying. Wet streaks were running down each of here cheeks. Jack sighed and squeezed her hand. Her skin was soft and smooth. Jack finally broke the silence. “I’m so sorry, Cara. I’ve lied to you. I’ve worn a mask of deceit for the past four years, stringing you along to gain access to your father.” He didn’t know where those words had come from, but they were now gushing out. “I’m a foreign agent, Cara. I was sent to meet you to steal secrets from your dad.” Cara was speechless. Her face was a look of pure surprise. “What--what are you saying?” Jack ignored her question. “The thing is, Cara. I love you. I’ve loved you since the moment we met at the cafe. I love everything about you.” He stopped and looked at the dirt. Ants were crawling around on his left leg, but he did nothing. “My name isn’t Jack. It’s Vitaliy. I’m Russian.” Vitaliy suddenly stood up and turned to face Cara. The mask was off. He could tell by the look on her face that she was struggling to comprehend the words coming out of his mouth. But it didn’t matter. Vitaliy dropped to one knee and reached into his jacket. “Cara, please forgive me.” Instead of a ring, Vitality pulled out a pistol. This didn’t need to look like an accident. Screw the FSB. A single gunshot echoed through the redwoods.


Sam worked at a small coffee shop, called Creek-land Brews. She loved getting to talk to people everyday and trying her best to put a smile on each person's face. Her favorite beverage they served was a red velvet iced coffee, with almond milk and whipped cream on top. Sam was your average twenty year old girl, appearing to everyone as the nice brunette girl with blue eyes and a soft voice. On the inside, Sam was dealing with anxiety, for a long time; she didn't realize what it was. Until one day when a girl, close to Sam's age, walked in. After a few minutes of talking, they were instant friends. They had so much in common, and their love and enthusiasm for coffee was the same. They had the same taste in books, movies, and they both even shared the same birthday month. Chrissy had blonde hair, that was in a bun most days and bright green eyes. She had a thing for splatter paint on jeans and preferred to wear her white sneakers over anything else. Chrissy came to the coffee shop every Tuesday and Thursday, sometimes Mondays, as often as she could from that day on. Chrissy helped Sam in more ways than one. Sam was very thankful and appreciative for such a great friend. Many nights when Sam was having a rough time, Chrissy would always be there to comfort her and just be a shoulder to cry on for her. One Tuesday morning, the wind was blowing so violently that limbs began to fall, and leaves blew past in a gust. Chrissy walked in, her messy bun disheveled even more than usual. "Sam, you will never believe what happened." Chrissy exclaimed; utter happiness was written all over her face. " Spit it out Chrissy, you know I don't like suspense" she pleaded, knowing her friend liked to tease her any chance she got. " You know that cactus I bought last week, and the video I made about it." Chrissy asked, breathing heavily from rushing from her apartment to the coffee shop. "Yes, what about it ?" Sam giggled, Chrissy's energy and spirit always had a positive and great impact on her. "It went viral, and the other videos I have posted after it are doing great too! She exclaimed, taking a few breaths. "I can't believe a small cactus could do that much." Chrissy said in disbelief. Sam quickly grabbed her phone, looking at Chrissy's account and the views that continued to climb. "That is incredible Chrissy! Finally they are seeing your talents like I have come to know and love" Sam smiled. Days passed and Chrissy worked hard to come up with great content to post, new things her and Sam came up with, as well as more content about the cactus that got so many peoples attention. It was two weeks after the good news that Sam visited Chrissy for dinner and a movie at Chrissy' apartment. "Have you come up with a name for the little guy." Sam asked, They had come up with so many it was hard to keep it straight and laugh at the ridiculous ones. "I'm letting the viewers decide" Chrissy said, chuckling at the thought of our brainstorming spell earlier. "Maybe they will do a better job than us" They both laughed at that. "My goodness at the sticky notes " Sam commented, looking up at the handwritten notes of ideas on her wall. "I've been working really hard on more ideas, skits and just funny topics. I love that so many people have a new reason for some laughs." Sam opened up her laptop and the picture of her aunt popped up. She couldn't bring herself to change the desktop background; it was the picture she took of her aunt Lisa on their fall trip a few years ago. Her aunt Lisa had passed away from breast cancer, along with having pneumonia and liver failure. A single tear glided down Sam's cheek. Before the tear could hit her pillow; that she had placed next to her, Chrissy had wiped it away with her thumb. "It's okay Sam, she is with you always and would love that you make so many people smile everyday just by being you." Chrissy smiled, she knew these last few months after Sam had lost her aunt, had been tough for her and her entire family. "Here, let's watch my last video" Chrissy suggested, sliding the laptop over to her and pulling up the video. " I know it will make you feel better. If not we will watch another and another" Chrissy joked, bringing out a small smile on Sam's face. That night Sam watched videos that Chrissy worked hard to make and edit, and they even filmed a few together themselves to post later. It was definitely what Sam needed, her aunt had been such a big part of her life. Cancer doesn't care who you are, where you come from; your age, or even the challenges you may have already had to face. If Sam could ever save up enough money to go to college, she would help others with cancer. Help them fight and kick cancers butt. Working at the coffee shop was great, but Sam was meant for more. The next day it was pouring down rain when Sam stepped on to her front porch. Pulling out her umbrella, she hurried to the car and got in as quickly as she could. "Hope I make it to work in one piece this morning, my goodness" Sam mutters to herself. Ten minutes into her drive to work, Sam's phone rings. She grabs it and puts it on speaker phone, "Hello?" Sam says. She turns on her signal and turns right down Johnson Street, the thunderstorm getting worse the closer she gets to the coffee shop. "Hi Sam, it's Grayson. This storm I'd get out of control. I think it's best to just not open today" relieved, Sam pulls over into a parking lot. "You may be already on your way , but I just wanted to call and let you know. " Grayson continues. "Okay, no problem. Turning around and heading back home now. This storm is nuts" Sam shakes her head, this day was starting off in an insane way. "Be safe" Grayson adds before he hangs up. Sam turns around and starts to drive back home. Limbs are falling, some already on the roads causing traffic to back up .The wind blowing hard, pushing against her car. The rain begins to fall harder and harder, making it more and more difficult for Same to see. Her windshield pipers on high, drastically going back and forth at full speed to combat the increasingly larger raindrops. Same takes a deep breath, mutters to herself "I just want to get home" , she repeats the words over and over again. After making the next turn left, onto Haven Street, she hears the roar and crackling of thunder and lightning. Right in front of her a bolt of lightning strikes the old tree in front of her and it begins to fall. Already going fifty miles an hour, rain pouring down, soaking the roads and puddling up in the ditches. Sam's vehicle struggles to slow down. Sam's yellow Jeep crashes hard into the giant old oak tree that slams into the road after the lightning strikes. Her airbags deploy, and it jolts her forward. Everything turns black, Sam passes out upon impact. She doesn't recall the ambulance arriving, removing her from her vehicle and placing her on the stretcher. She doesn't remember the ride to the hospital, her parents being notified or being admitted to New Haven Hospital. Her parents immediately call Chrissy and tell her what they know. All of them headed to the hospital, holding on to the hope that Sam would be okay. Once the doctors and nurses assessed the injuries on Sam, they determined she had a broken arm and her left ankle was also broken. The crash caused a lot of bruising on her body, burns on her arms and legs, and she also had a concussion. It wasn't long before the wheeled her into surgery. Her family arrived minutes later, waiting anxiously in the waiting room for any word on their daughter. Chrissy arrived not long after Sam's parents. Chrissy brings them coffee from the cafeteria. Hours passed, everyone taking turns glancing at the clock on the wall. After waiting, for what seemed like forever; the doctor approached the family and Chrissy with news of Sam's surgery. He cleared his throat and gave them a reassuring smile, "Sam is doing wonderfully, surgery went well. She is resting now." Everyone let out a big sigh of relief. They felt like they had finally released a breath that they had all been holding in since they'd arrived. "Sam will need at least a month of physical therapy, maybe more but we will see. She will also get some medication for the pain. And we suggest for her to take it easy once she is released. Effects of the concussion can last up to ten days." The doctor continued, making sure they understood everything and knew what the next steps were. "Her recovery will be tough, but we will print out everything you need to know, along with recommendations and get you all the necessary paperwork shortly." The doctor shook Anna and Kevin's hands, Sam's Parents, and walked away to see another patient . Chrissy and Sam's parents walked into her hospital room; they immediately saw how beat up Sam's face was; her arm in a cast and a sling. Sam slept for another hour after surgery before opening her eyes and scanning the room. "Mom? Dad? What happened?" Sam asked, her voice raspy and rough. "You were in a car accident sweetie. Broken arm and wrist, concussion, bruising. You're pretty beat up but we are glad you're okay." Her mom spoke softly, brushed Sam's bangs from her face. "We were so worried, so glad your okay kiddo" Same turned to her dad when he spoke. He got up from his chair and hugged her, being careful not to hurt her. She looked so fragile; the accident really had done a number on her. Sam scanned the room, she was meant to see Chrissy after work, after work got canceled she was going to call her., but then the accident happened. "Where is Chrissy?" Her mom smiled, "She went to get you something. She said it brought her joy and that's what you needed." Sam closed her eyes, dozing off for a little while before waking up to the sound of the door opening and closing. Chrissy had returned, with a cactus in her hands; similar to the one she had made her videos about recently. "Hi Sam, I brought you this little guy." She walked over to Sam's bed, letting her see it up close. "I'm glad your okay, we were all so worried about you " Chrissy said, her voice shaky. "Thank you Chrissy" Sam said, her eyes going from the cactus. She admired the hand-painted pot, it's pretty pink color and the orange polka dots all over it. Then Sam noticed the note attached to it. "Is that a note? Can you read it to me?" Asked Sam, pulling her blankets on her down to get more comfortable. " It says , For Sam. I hope this little cactus helps you in all the ways it has helped me. Plants have the power to heal and make us smile. Here is one of your very own. Thanks for being my friend, Love Chrissy." - - - - - Sam continued to take care of the cactus her friend had given her weeks ago; it truly helped her during her recovery. It's amazing what a simple house plant, a simple cactus, can do.


Dated diner on the side of an old desert highway no one inside but you the waitress the cook and the receptionist, the air smells of cigarettes and black coffee, the booths are crinkly red leather, the only sounds are the muffled music wafting from the worn jukebox, and the occasional clink from dishes being washed in the kitchen sink, you order a plate of steak and eggs with a side of bacon and hash browns, the waitress Un-enthusiastically takes your order and delivers it to the cook who stops washing dishes and begins preparing your meal, you look outside and it’s pitch black besides the cool glow of the moon and the Milky Way radiating from the cloudless sky, you begin to think about the history of the diner and it’s occupants, now of course your wondering begins with you, and your journey towards wherever your going perhaps your destination isn’t set, your mind trails and thinks of the waitress, a bit cold or disinterested of course she was once a youth maybe like you or perhaps not like you, did she have dreams goals things that she now understands will never be accomplished, what of the cook or the receptionist, is this where any of them wanted there story to come to, or maybe this is just a footnote in their story and eventually they will accomplish those goals and dreams, a thought enters your brain almost as if emitted by the stars above themselves, “what’s the point of all this” and the stars would be correct in asking you this question I mean what have they done with their multi billion year existence but provide energy in the form of light to celestial bodies which surround them, of course if you were to have the answer to that question you likely wouldn’t be in the diner or wondering it in the first place, your meal arrives, and you thank the waitress and ask for another cup of coffee, and begin to eat, noticing that the eggs are a it rubbery and the steak a bit tough, the waitress returns with the coffee handing you a full pot instead of one cup, your thought now shifts, reflecting on the very unique turn of events in human history that you would be sitting in a diner in a country called the United States of America in the year two thousand and twenty, of course two thousand and twenty referring to the number of years after the birth of a Jewish boy to a carpenter, who was executed by crucifixion by a man named pontius pilate a governor of the Roman Empire that started in Italy, you realize that there is no making sense of that either because if you understood exactly why everything in human history led up to this moment again you probably wouldn’t be in the diner and definitely wouldn’t be thinking about it. You finish your meal and motion the waitress over, she hands you a receipt and sends you to the receptionist, you pay for your meal and exit the diner, you make your way to your car and onto a lonely desert highway and drive off quietly into the night.


Six in the morning on a Tuesday evening he couldn’t take it anymore. He had been waiting his whole life and he had to make some sort of a move. Vigorously tossing off the sheets covering his body on an early fall morning he tried to dampen his frustration enough to slide out of the house unnoticed. He thought this to be peculiar because he didn’t have a need to sneak out. He lived alone in the Sierra mountain range of California accompanied only by his friendly feline Winston. Oddly, he still felt this pressing need to sneak out of his secluded cabin in the woods as though he was trying to escape from an overwatching sentry tower. The man fumbled in the dark as quietly as he could to not wake his little kitten. Prepped in no way shape or form for an adventure of any sorts he gently turned the door knob to his single room cabin. With the quiet of the early morning any creak of the door sounded like a bone fracturing, any squeak of the floorboard sounded like the shriek of a banshee. Yet, to his utter bewilderment as he finally slid out of the door and gave one last glance into his humble cabin Winston still slept, curled up at the foot of his bed. Unperturbed Winston slept sound with only the occasional fidget of a tail or paw deep in his dreamy subconscious. Winston, so full of content, happiness, and peace. How did he do it? For a brief moment that seemed to last an eternity he was perplexed in awe by his humble companion. He was baffled as to how he had figured it all out. The man gave a final chuckle and smile as he finally shut the door, simultaneously wondering what Winston may be dreaming about as he silently closed the door. As he began his journey to nowhere in particular into the early, dawn, crispness of fall he had an epiphany of the insanity of the situation he was putting himself in. He was venturing into the mountainous woods with no destination in his knit night cap, maroon sweatshirt, puppy covered pajama bottoms, woolen socks and crocs. However, he knew he could wait no longer. Sitting around waiting was not an option. He couldn’t think straight, the fluster of his epiphanic crisis had muddied his mind like a stagnant pond filled with algae and microbes. Like a plane on auto-pilot he trudged. The man needed to calm down, to clear his head, so he just began walking in no particular direction, deep into the mountains. One step after another his mind cleared and he began to coagulate sensical thoughts again. His mind wondered just like his steps and he began to ponder where did he go wrong to be stuck waiting for so long? The longer he walked the deeper he plunged down this rabbit hole of thought and wondered about how the only thing he had done his whole life was wait. He began retracing his steps, searching for the missing piece of the puzzle. There must be something, he thought, there must be something he must have missed to wind up in a purgatory with no means to an end. He delved deep into the bank vaults of memory. He searched, hunted for any misstep that could have led him this far astray. In his mid 20s he should have had it by now. So why was he kept waiting like some horrible day at the DMV waiting to get a license renewed. He felt like he was being toyed with by some higher power like a meager pawn in an immense game of chess. How could anyone be so cruel as to punish him like this after working so hard and following all the rules? He did everything he was told as far back as K-12 school. When it came to being a straight A student he was the epitome of the subject. In elementary school he always had the most gold stars and good merits. Every essay, math assignment, and lab report turned in on time- if not early. He Consistently paid attention to his teachers and excelled through the education system; he was a stellar good boy. Highschool came and the pressure increased. The rigors of classes, pursuits of higher academics, and all of this was intertwined with making friends and school sports. Yet, the boy still continued to prosper, along this so-called societally deemed path to excellence and success. Acing every test, being a starter for varsity sports, viewed as a peer by both his classmates and teachers, he seemed to be doing everything right. The time to leave his small town came and went with extended goodbyes to past sweethearts and childhood friends. The boy, now a young man, ventured to a well renowned school with ideas of those successful type careers: engineers, doctors, lawyers, scientists, etc. Trying out various courses he finally settled on a degree in the sciences. Throughout his curriculum he took all the necessary steps to be successful: joining several clubs, getting internships, applying for research positions, and networking amongst his fellow undergraduates. The plan to success that was bestowed upon him since early adolescence was unfolding just as society deemed it should. College ended just as soon as it began. Now it was time for him to enter the real world. Everything everyone told him to do he followed to a tee. However, now that the final step was in front of his eyes, joining the real world, he felt more lost than a puppy on a rainy day in the city. That miracle path to happiness, success, and fulfillment was displayed before him all his life. Here he was twenty five years later and he had the success but, where was the rest? Where did he go wrong? Why was he being denied the rest when he had followed all the rules society displayed before him? These were the thoughts that bounced through his mind on his stroll that crisp fall morning. Why the wait for these last components to his life? As the sun finally crested over the vast wooded mountain peaks he was still stumped. He had walked for hours. Defeated mentally, physically, and ashamed to have failed this society that seemed to have given him the world. He returned to his home empty handed of an answer. Stumbling inside in an exact opposite manner as he left, his poor feline friend Winston was awoken in a fright to the distress of his owner. Busting inside he slumped to the floor like a drunk stumbling in the street. Winston leaped from the bed in concern for what ails his master. He bounded across the foyer of the cabin and curled up next to his defeated master in a last hope to ease his pain. Perhaps though, Winston could better understand why his master had been kept waiting better than any living soul that had ultimately led him down this path throughout life. Winston had achieved what his owner had been waiting for his whole life. Winston’s life is full, happy, and simple. He was not sent on some seemingly impossible quest by societal constructs that only gave people delusions of what it takes to achieve fulfillment and happiness. This quest, that this man was sent on, with no means to an end isn’t an original story. It always ends the same. People waiting for some magical moment where they will finally feel complete, fulfilled, and happy. But, these things that so many of us spend our lives endlessly waiting for do not materialize with a status in society. This idea is an illusion that is cast upon us the second we enter this world. The sad fact of the matter is, we often live our whole lives under this spell. Fulfillment, happiness, and even success do not come from money, nor a job title, or the possessions a person owns. They come from personal endeavours. How do you feel about yourself? The basis of a person's life decisions should not be from what others deem this dream-like path to success should be. Everyone is unique. There is not one road to the end destination we all seek. The true road is one that has been untraveled by any before. The road untraveled is the road that will lead to a destination where they will not be kept waiting or looking for the next turn. As Winston began to purr, nestled against his owner in the middle of the cabin the man smiled. The man had a genuine smile for the first time in a long time. For this brief moment, he was done waiting. For the first time in his whole life he felt that what he had longed for, for so long was achieved. A simple, yet fulfilling happiness, and contentment. It wasn’t permanent and it never will be. But, that is what makes happiness so beautiful. It comes and goes. Happiness, just as all emotions do, are not permanent. As Winston’s purrs reverberated throughout his body he felt peace and began to realize that what he had been waiting for his whole life was in front of him the whole time. It was shrouded by an illusion so grand that it has everyone convinced to be the undeniable truth to a perfect, happy life.


As the sun rose that morning, he stood there at the stern of the ship, both hands on either side of that fat, cumbersome wheel. The sailor had spent many days and many nights clutching its wooden rim. The wheel was stiff. It cooperated like an sick old man being forced to squeeze every last particle of existence out of his broken body. The sailor had not been in the company of another for a very long time. His sanity had parted ways with him long ago, and he’d accepted that. He never mourned his sanity. It slipped away quietly one day, undetected. The sailor couldn’t remember the last face he saw. One afternoon not long ago, the sailor found he hard time visualizing a face, any face, in his mind. He found this troubling. He squeezed his eyes tight, blanketed his forehead with his palm, trying very hard to recall a face, any face at all. He tried hard, but with no success. He was neurologically constipated. He gave up, and several troubling hours passed. He was then hit with a solution to his problem, one which should have been obvious, but it hadn’t been. The sailor was relieved to rediscover that included with his human body was a human face. His hand rediscovered his old face, and it seemed foreign. All of this sticky apparatus attached to the front of his skull. It seemed so crude, so obscene. He wondered how he ever got my in his old life ashore. How was he able to converse with another person while their head apparatus flaps around, crude and sticky just like his. He‘d regained his ability to visualize faces, but he really wish he hadn’t. Perhaps having souls operating these faces nullifies the horrific nature of them somehow. Normalizes then over time. The sailor had not been among other beings with sticky apparatus at the front of their heads for an eternity. The sailor’s unaccompanied mind travelled to many places which were and continue to be entirely inaccessible to the sane mind. The sailor had a benefit in being aware of his insanity, and thus he didn’t feel he had to question and judge himself for the many odd notions and probably irrational ideas he would have from time to time. He was insane, and insane people are licensed to do insane things, he figured. He wasn’t going to attempt to suppress his eccentricity. He decided that long ago. Some fortunate people can travel beyond the sane, and return unscathed. The sailor however, had been too far gone, for far too long. He was not going to be returning to the lost world of reason and rational, linear thinking. Sometimes the sailor would invent imaginary people. They never stuck around for more than a day. The sailor liked variety. These weren’t imaginary friends. The sailor enjoyed the company of imaginary strangers. The sun continued it’s ascent into the empty sky. Long ago the sight of the morning sky may have raised a corner of the man’s mouth. It’s quite possible that in the man’s ancient past, he enjoyed the crisp morning air, gazed at the heavens and sighed a contented sigh. It’s quite possible that this is one of countless fragments of this man’s truth which have been whisked away by a gentle wind. All who have lived have known the work of this wind, some more than others. The delicate way of this wind seems spiteful. A gentle breeze passed by the one who walked the earth with his heart gleefully exposed, unacquainted with the wind. The sky was spectacular and the grass felt like love and smelled of something sweet and eternal. Not one person has gone from A to B without cursing the ways of this unstoppable wind. They wave their fists, they shout vengeful violence at the great thief. Their verbal fists find themselves without satisfaction. This breeze can’t be battered, just as water cannot be strangled. Many have tried this as well, when gratitude for it’s service is replaced with resent. For some, the service of water seems to only prolong the heavy days and the bloody nights of disassembly, dissection and reconfiguration. For some, the water appears to be the wind’s accomplice. The wind, the great thief, the water, the great captor of man in disguise.


Annette Myers worked her way out of nothing; she was born into a lower-class family; her father was a laborer who worked two jobs; her mother was a housekeeper. She understood what it was like to be poor; she made it her life's goal never to worry about money again. Right out of college, Annette got a position with Wilkes Global World Bank, dealing in subprime lending, high-interest borrowing, and payday loans. Gradually, she made her way up the corporate ladder, with a strong sense of strategy and a creative mind to make profits, she was able to increase earnings for Wilkes Global significantly. Throughout her career, she developed a number of business-inducing programs, a car title loan that has an interest rate of 300%, a tax return loan that will enable customers to collect a tax refund in advance, and an installment loan that was like a payday loan with the benefit of a longer payback period, usually spread over months, even years. In the company, she was a superstar. Her ambition to become the first female CEO was in reach. After years of impressing the Board of Directors, Annette was eventually promoted to CEO at the age of 48, the youngest CEO in the history of the bank. Her determination did not end there; she managed to move ahead and make the bank even more profitable in her tenure as CEO. Ten years later, Annette was a multimillionaire living in a mansion, vacationing on her yacht in different Caribbean islands, and flying on her luxury plane to faraway destinations. At last, her dream as a kid became a reality. Unfortunately, when you believe you've got everything sorted, life hits you like a ton of bricks. Annette had been finding herself worn down for a couple of days, she eventually broke down and went to the doctor, following multiple blood testing and scans, it was discovered that Annette had lymphoma, it had spread to an organ outside the lymphatic system, and was considered stage four. Annette's doctors had a plan, multiple rounds of chemotherapy, radiation therapy, and a whole lot of medications. Annette was willing to work despite sickness, but the Board of Directors feared that if she died at work, it would hurt their stock price. They gave her a symbolic position on the board of directors, no voting rights, but the opportunity to attend meetings, exactly what she always wanted, the chance to attend more meetings. She respectfully denied, concentrating on getting better. Annette was a survivor, the doctors gave her a year to live, and a year and a half on, she was still living. When another chemotherapy cycle had finished, she sat in the waiting room, preparing for another PET scan to see whether her cancer had decreased. A man in filthy clothing, appearing homeless, walked in and sat across Annette. The two started a discussion about their cancers, as it turned out, they were each diagnosed initially with stage-4 lymphoma. Still, this man had survived ten years after his initially diagnosed death. "How did you do that? How did you survive this long?" Annette asks. "I've made a lot of sacrifices, many others can't accomplish what I've accomplished," the man notes. "I want to know, I've overcome my diagnosis by six months, I'm a fighter, I will sacrifice," Annette says. The man considers for a second, "I'm going to tell you, but I'm not responsible if you die along the way," the man says. "I recognize the repercussions; you're not going to have any blame," Annette says. The man proceeded to tell her about a place deep under the Himalayas, loosely interpreted as "Heaven on Earth." "It's not a convenient place to get to; it's a treacherous path. If you don't die getting there, you might die coming back," the man said. Step by step instructions were given to Annette, "This is where you need to commit to your sacrifice, or else it was all for nothing," said the man. When he was done, he was called in for his PET scan, leaving Annette with her decision. Annette's scans revealed just a small change in her cancer; she will need another cycle of treatment, something that will challenge her will to live. Thinking about Heaven on Earth, was it real, why would the guy in the waiting room tell her if she wasn't meant to go? One week before the start of her chemotherapy, she decided to make a journey to Heaven on Earth. "You're going to have to join one of those groups that climb Mount Everest; the group is going to have a Sherpa and a ton of supplies. It's going to cost a lot of money, but it's going to place you on the right path," the man from the waiting room said. Mount Everest is where Annette started with a friendly group of mountain climbers. They were all very eager to get to the summit, Annette knew she was only going to be with them for a short time. "On the trek, you will meet a fork in the trail; one route will be blocked, marked as too dangerous, the other is for the climbers of Mount Everest. Take a path marked as dangerous, named Yahya Passage," the man from the waiting room said. Annette did what she was told as the Mount Everest group paused to get water, she snuck by the closed path and began to hike the Yahya Passage. It was treacherous; in some places, the surface on the cliff was no wider than her shoe; in some areas, the ice was so slippery that she would have been better off with ice skates. Annette finished the passage and came across a pair of shacks that seemed like they were about to crumble. "After that, you're going to look for a retired Sherpa named Arandeep, ten years back, when I made this trip, he was already old, I hope he's still alive on your journey, he was the only one who knew how to get to the trench of nightmares," the man from the waiting room said. Annette knocked on both shacks; nobody was there, she sat in the snow and waited for about three hours, an older man came down from the mountain, Arandeep. He agreed to take her for $10,000. She had the money in her bag. The journey to the trench of nightmares was not terrible, Arandeep assured her that while it was snowing, however, travel is impossible in certain places, she was lucky. The trail continued into a cave that went into a mountain, lower and lower, they descended into the cave, they must have walked three miles deep into the Earth. Suddenly, the trail came to an end, and there was a 400-foot drop into the trench. It is as far as Arandeep would go, he said at his age, the trench of nightmares is too tricky. "Scale down the trench of nightmares, the trench will be freezing, but it will get warmer as you continue walking through the trench," said the man from the waiting room. Annette scaled-down the trench and started to walk; it was freezing and treacherous; there were three occasions when she nearly fell, but she survived. "At the end of the trench of nightmares, you'll see a temple in the distance; that is your destination. You'll be searching for a Shaman by the name of Sanaya, if he isn't there, wait," said the man in the waiting room. When Annette emerged from the trench of nightmares, the temple, far smaller than she had imagined, was just half a mile distant. Exhausted, it seemed like it took hours to travel half a mile. She came to the temple; there were hot springs all over, but she didn't see anybody. She entered the temple; it was only one room. In the middle of the room, there was a fountain, as Annette went to touch the water, a man stopped her speaking in plain English. "Stop what you're doing, why are you here?" the Shaman asked. The Shaman asked her to tell her story, Annette told him of her journey from childhood to cancer. The Shaman said he was going to help her, but she was going to have to give up all her earthly belongings, give up her former existence entirely, and lead a life of servitude. Annette agreed to make those sacrifices. The Shaman offered her a book of Psalms to read every day, he claimed that as long as she maintained her changed life and continued reading the Psalms daily, her disease would not return. It wasn't what Annette had expected, she traveled to the center of the Earth, and all she had got was a book of Psalms in exchange. She marched back through the trench of nightmares, followed the route left by Arandeep, ascended the Yahya Passage again, and returned home. When Annette returned home, she immediately gave away all of her things, donated all of her money to charity, and renounced anything having to do with her former life; she dropped off the grid. Annette began her life of hard labor, working for bread, struggling in fields, roadside markets, and other manual labor. It's a hard life, but her cancer was gone. Each year, she will undergo a PET scan to ensure that cancer remains in remission. Five years into her new life, she was working at a farmer's market on the side of the road when a Rolls-Royce pulled up, a longtime executive with the Wilkes Global Bank got out. Annette was quickly noticed by the executive, as she was attempting to hide behind some oranges. He was so relieved to see that she was alive, that there were rumors that she had died. Before leaving, the executive offered Annette the opportunity, $100,000, to set up an insurance fund and three months of work getting it off the ground. Annette declined immediately. The executive left his business card and said that she was the best in the business, and if she ever changed your mind, she should give him a call. Annette hung on to the card; it was a temptation. Annette hated her new life; it's what she's been striving to escape since childhood. She asked herself, was it worth living if you had to suffer for it. A couple of weeks after, she made the phone call to the executive. She took the job and went to the headquarters of the Wilkes Global World Bank. It was time to sign the contract; she made sure she had a PET scan prior, and everything was clear. She was about the sign on the dotted line at the bottom of the contract but then paused. It was at the time that Annette changed her mind and went back to her hard labor existence. Maybe it was chemotherapy, perhaps it was the radiation that finally did its job, or maybe it was a Shaman in a hidden temple in the Himalayas, there's no way to say for sure. What she realized was that she was defying the odds--being alive and poor beats rich and dead any day. Those who tempt fate rarely make it long enough to tell the story.