Move to the city for a few years and make enough money to buy a home in the country to last them a lifetime. In and out like a bank robbery. Robert taking the architecture firm he worked for, for all he could, and Shannon doing the same with the prestigious events company she worked for. They knew going in this was a decade-long plan. They were a smart, educated couple that grew up working class. They achieved where their peers floundered, giving them a shot at living better than their parents ever did. Regular vacations pinched at their savings, as did the cost of living in the city so close to their offices. They had idle plans to marry one day. Children weren’t a want or concern. If it happened, it happened. Promotions at work were on the horizon for both of them. And still neither felt committed to city life. It seemed too good to be true. Real life would come crashing in, wouldn’t it? Nights out on the town would become nights in, wouldn’t they? Diaper changes. Homemade dinners. Losing contact with friends. Vacations no more than screensavers on laptops to be idled over every few years. It had been years since they last talked about leaving city life behind. Staying had become a forgone conclusion. Both were masters at avoiding the hard questions in favour of distraction. But then...would they become the middle-agers like their employers before them? Would they become the broad faced alcoholics in denial? The ones trying to hold onto their youth by using their work influence as a means to stay close to the new blood in the companies they worked for? The new blood would become their child surrogates? And their friends too? And then one day the new blood would become the old blood too? The cycle repeating itself over and over? This was the inevitable future. It had to be. They worked far too hard to maintain what they already had to be ignorant of that. It wasn’t as if a clean break were possible. There would be leaving parties, and a transition of responsibilities, and the ever present feeling of wanting to stay after all. They knew they wouldn’t be young forever, yet they simply didn’t want to leave. They would have to wait until next year at least to even start thinking about leaving seriously. They were going to Dubai for vacation in two months, and Robert’s firm had won an exciting bid with a Chinese company with a fetish for outlandish spending. And didn’t Shannon owe it to herself to maintain her position in her company? She had worked long and hard to get out of her stuffy little cubicle, and now wasn’t it her right as a kind-of feminist to keep it? At the very least she couldn’t give her position up without serious consideration. She was a core influence in team meetings, codes of conduct, workshops and seminars and, best of all, recruitment. The company had handed her the keys to power without the messy accountability. There was always a job to be done. If there wasn’t she would dream up something knew to do to occupy her time, and consequently everyone else’s time. She honestly couldn’t ever see herself giving up this kind of power and control willingly. The greatest threat to all Shannon and Robert worked for came in the form of a viral outbreak in several far off countries. The virus was coined the ‘Bullire Virus’ by the media. The virus symptoms reminded Shannon of the bubonic plague she had learned about at school. The Bullire Virus expressed itself as a large pus-filled boil which could emerge anywhere on the head, face, or body. The boil varied in size from as small as a marble to as big as an apple. Shannon paid little heed to the growing concern over the Bullire Virus even as cases began to crop up in the city. But in two months the virus went from a fringe novelty joked about during team meetings, to a very present concern across the world. Shannon held two seminars on new work safety standards to keep safe from the virus. Despite these seminars one member of staff after another in increasing escalation was diagnosed as positive with the Bullire Virus. These members of staff were immediately sent home with their pay at a reduced, but still very much liveable rate. Shannon would have worked from home right away if not for her responsibility as role model for her co-workers and the new blood. However with just essential staff in the office Shannon found herself with very little to do besides making plans for when things would return to normal. The back of Shannon’s right calf itched something fierce. Sat in her spacious office Shannon checked her fingernails and saw there was blood beneath the nails on her right hand. Shannon looked to her calf and saw what she was sure hadn’t been there not an hour before: a bulbous bullire boil the size of a golf ball. A single line of blood leaked from the edge of the boil where Shannon had scratched and dug in deep with her nails. Shannon had been disgusted by the media images of the Bullire Virus boils, but now it was on her own skin she felt a deep revulsion. The boil itself looked tender and fragile, almost translucent with the pus visible within. Shannon knew pus was nature’s band-aid; a means to smother a possible infection in an attempt to keep it from spreading, but that didn’t make it any less upsetting to look that. For Shannon the boil was almost too big and obscene to take seriously. It looked like some special effect from a cheap horror movie. Shannon cleaned up with wet wipes and used a first aid kit bandage to cover the boil. This made the boil itch even worse than before. Shannon’s eyes watered from the effort it took to ignore the call to itch as she arranged for a cab to come pick her up outside the office. Once home Shannon ran a hot bath and sat on the edge of the bath trying to muster the courage to submerge herself, and the boil, into it. It was known the boils, though fragile looking, were actually quite tough, and very resistant to heat. Shannon felt immense pain and relief as she eased the boil beneath the hot bath water. She sat in the bath for two hours, occasionally adding more hot water and letting some drain to keep it from overflowing in the tub. She stayed until her hands and feet were pruned and she was sure staying in any longer would do more harm than good. Once she was dried and towelled off Shannon called Robert. She told him she had the Bullire Virus. “Just don’t scratch it or it will spread.” Robert told her, parroting the advice everyone now knew. Shannon asked Robert what he intended to do now she had the virus. “I’ll stay in the office for the next few days.” Robert said, then added, “There’s only a handful of us working on my floor anyway.” Over the following three days Shannon’s boil continued to itch. Shannon barely slept. She sought distraction in her work but the itching made long periods of concentration fleeting. Her usual comfort shows ceased to engage her attention. Finally Shannon turned to what always worked when she needed a distraction: drink. One glass of wine became two, and within just one evening she finished a bottle and a half of wine. Later Shannon woke on the living room couch in her pink pyjamas, with one leg draped over the covers she brought down from the bedroom. The stale smell of alcohol filled the room as Shannon remembered where she was and all she had drank. Then the itching began again. It never stopped, but Shannon was awake now to notice it. And now the itching was twice as intense as before. Shannon eased upright on the couch and felt the back of her neck where it seemed half of the call to itch resided. Shannon’s palm cupped what felt to her like a shell-less boiled egg still warm and slippery. Shannon used her phone to see what she knew was already there: a thick, pus-filled boil. Shannon looked to her right calf. The boil that was there before had popped. Dried pus residue and blood coated the back of her right leg down to the heel. Beside the gooey crater of the popped boil was a new, golf ball sized boil. Shannon ran another piping hot bath and sunk herself into it. The pain temporarily kept the itching at bay so she had time to think. Shannon wrestled with indecision over whether to call Robert. She decided against it. There wasn’t anything he could do. It was better she deal with it on her own until he returned from work. The itching only grew worse, prompting Shannon to open and drink more wine. Days passed with Shannon in a state of drunken delirium. She made sure to drink just often enough to stay drunk to handle the worst of the urge to itch, but also just sober enough not to make the mistake of scratching her boils without meaning to. There were several close calls, but the fear of having even more of these hellishly itchy boils on her skin kept her mind just sharp enough to avoid that danger. On the seventh day Shannon stirred awake on the bathroom floor, having spent much of the early morning hours vomiting into the toilet. Her throat both burned and felt parched as she reached for her phone. There still hadn’t been a single message or voicemail from Robert. Shannon climbed to her feet and slurped some tap water like she did when she was a child. She then wiped her forearm and pressed Robert’s name on her phone. The call went straight to voicemail. Shannon sent several messages throughout the afternoon into early evening. There was no response. The boils were singing their itching song; and Shannon ignored them, albeit with increasingly maddening difficulty. The creams she lathered the boils in weren’t working at all. Come seven o’clock Shannon dressed and took an expensive cab ride to Robert’s work building. As far as she could tell the cabdriver was boil free. And Shannon was thankful her own boils were easy to hide. Shannon stepped out of the cab into the empty city street. The night air was cool and crisp. It made her want to both drink and smoke. There was no security in the lobby. Shannon knew the way up to Robert’s floor. Shannon stepped out of the elevator to find the office floor with all its cubicles empty. The lights were dim. Shannon called out for Robert and received no answer. Shannon’s shoes thumped on the office carpet as she passed one cubicle after another. She reached Robert’s office at the far end of the office floor. From outside looking in she could see a lamp was lit on Robert’s desk. And she could see the glare from Robert’s computer screen. Shannon flinched: there was pornography playing silently on the computer. Shannon looked inward. ‘Not again’, she thought. Shannon felt stupid for thinking something truly ghastly could have happened to Robert. He was simply back to his old ways again. It hurt to think he would still do this to her. That he could still put his own indulgences ahead of her. But Shannon knew where her line was. Robert had never cheated. She’d forgiven him for his worst indulgences before. It wasn’t because she was a forgiving person. She wasn’t. She knew she could be downright vindictive, childish, and spiteful, even over trivial things. But she knew what was fair, and she knew that she would be a hypocrite to cry fowl play over Robert and his weaknesses, whilst he never questioned how much she smoked, and drank. Shannon wondered how she had gotten here. Standing outside an empty office. She felt like her past was nothing more than one big joke. And her future was whatever she walked into. In this moment she saw herself as little more than meat and bone in the shape of a human being. Everything was pointless, wasn’t it? Nothing happened for a reason, did it? Yet why did she feel like she was being punished? Why did she feel a kind of comfort in the sadness she felt? Did she feel she deserved this? That this humiliation was inevitable? Was this shame in some way cathartic? When had their relationship become this? When had they stopped trying to better themselves? When had they become the picture perfect couple of codependency? Shannon spotted a strip of golden light down the otherwise dark corridor to her right. The light was coming from the men’s lavatory. Shannon, sensing some trepidation in herself, made an effort to walk briskly toward it. Shannon eased open the lavatory door. She entered, and turned a sharp corner. She could now see Robert. There he was on the lavatory floor. Curled up and barely moving. He lay surrounded in a pool of yellow liquid laced with red. Like custard and strawberry jam. Robert’s body, neck, and face were coated in popped boil craters weeping pus. And there were at least a dozen new boils that she could see. Robert must have heard her enter. He looked up, clearly in pain. As soon as Shannon and Robert made eye contact, Robert began to weep like a child. Shannon didn’t let herself react to this, though she felt like there were fishhooks in the corners of her mouth tugging downward. This wasn’t the time for tears. Shannon cleaned Robert, and dressed the worst of the boil craters. She found him in just his underwear, so she had to carefully dress him back into his work clothes which she noticed he had taken the time to dress out of and hang on a coat hanger atop one of the interior toilet stall doors. The news had shown that many men and women found themselves addicted to popping their boils. The pain mixed with the pleasure, mixed with a secreted chemical from the boil proved to be a vice for those susceptible to it. Shannon wondered what it must feel like to be awake when the boil was popped. If Robert was willing in his addictive impulse to do this to himself for that pleasure, then it must feel, at least in the moment, worth the pain and regret that was sure to follow. Shannon considered taking Robert to a hospital, but on closer inspection she could see the boil wounds looked worse than they were. There was a strong risk of infection, but beyond the revolting amount of pus the blood loss was minimal as to not be a major concern. It took an hour to get Robert out of the lavatory, into and down the elevator, and out of the building. A new cab and cab driver was waiting for them. Shannon paid triple the going rate, which was already exorbitant, to bribe the cab driver into taking them home. Once they were in the cab and moving Robert sat slumped into Shannon with his head on her shoulder. The empty city and its lights passed by their window. It was a long ride home. After much thought and soul searching Shannon said softly, “We need to get out, Robert.” “Okay.” Robert said, his eyes still closed. He was exhausted from what he had done to himself, but he was lucid enough to know exactly what she meant, and he couldn’t’ve agreed more. It seemed fate, or God, or even the Bullire Virus itself had a direct hand in making the clean break for them. The Bullire Virus brought industry across the world to a crawl. Shannon and Robert handed in their resignations via email. Besides several furious calls from bosses and co-workers there was little to be said and done. Robert’s boils went away slowly over the following weeks. During this time both turned to smoking as their vice of choice. Shannon had drunk all of the wine they had in their home, and from that day on neither replenished their stock. Later they would acknowledge their unspoken agreement to give up alcohol altogether. Perhaps if either of them had acknowledged what they were doing in the moment, they might have talked themselves out of abstinence. One boil reduced in size and was gone once per week, until only one boil remained. Shannon with the boil on the back of her neck. Robert with a boil on the inside of his left thigh, which was an unfortunate spot that often chaffed. The one boil they each had left would never leave them, no matter how many weeks went by. Shannon and Robert were out in their new backyard. They could see the city from their new home far away in the country. Their days were occupied with making the most of their downsized home. They found the boils that remained didn’t itch so bad now they were away from the city. Perhaps the air was cleaner. Over dinner six months since they left the city, Robert idly brought up the question of whether they would ever move back to the city, or even visit for a day or two. They had burned many bridges, but they still had friends there, and there was always something new going on. Shannon even entertained the idea, and more than once they were on the verge of booking a ticket for a train to take them into the city. But they never did go back. \- for more from me.


Page 23, commandment 17: ‘Omit needless words.’ ~~I’m a writer~~ I write. At least I try to. As I write to you now, a copy of the *little book* sits before me. A paperweight sits on it, trapping it. Keeping it pinioned, and away from drifting back into my hands. God knows what damage it could do once it gets back there. I first heard of it in my Freshman year ~~of college~~, sitting in the Music Building lounge waiting for my next class when Jason ~~, my roommate of the time, now deceased~~ came crashing in, with the appropriate amount of chaos, announcing to all “Ah shit, I can’t find my Strunk and White.” Everyone else in the room apparently knew what they were talking about, but I sat with a blank stare. ~~I remember asking him about it later. I do not remember his answer, I’m not sure I even listened. I think I was just trying to make conversation - It got quiet at the house.~~ First contact with this good book came in the form of a ~~writing~~ night class I was taking ~~four or~~ five years after that. I remember as the *professor* teaching the class\~\~, a man whose name, coincidentally, was also Jason\~\~ made us write as the spouse of someone lost to 9/11. This was ~~just~~ two nights after it happened - if that doesn’t tell you everything you need to know about him then I’ve omitted one analogy too many. It was also at this ill-fated night class that I met Her. She was small, she was proper, and, within two and a half weeks, she was dating me. I was obsessed with both ~~of them~~, these catalysts to servitude. They were the guiding yokes under which my life was kept straight. She kept me sober. It kept me fashionable. She kept me respectable. It kept me publishable. I owe my greatest achievements to them. ~~Choosing to part with one, and forcing myself to part with the other has likely ruined me.~~ And wherever I went and whatever I did, those two were always on my mind and in my fingers, nudging me towards a more articulate existence. It was that phrase - ‘Omit needless words’ - that I swore by the most. In most of my writing I ended up cutting good one or two fifths of it. Eventually this habit came to me as I wrote, a page became a roiling sea of struck through parts. My writing group always knocked me for that one, back when I submitted ~~the majority of~~ my work as hard copies. I bound myself to the adage, every aspect ~~and component~~ of my life being branded with it~~s virtue~~. I threw out clothes bought only a month ago. I would pawn ~~family~~ heirlooms to revel in the simplicity of the space created. I ~~even~~ went as far to sell off my ~~town~~ house, trading it ~~in~~ for a railroad apartment just half a mile over. All straight lines and strong borders and perfectly uniform. I was doing it right. Now Her: she was one of the last artefacts of my old life. My ~~messy~~ first draft. *~~Dead weight~~*~~.~~ She would chide me for it at first, just the occasional prod when it was just a quirk ~~and nothing more~~. But when I sold the house - I think that’s when she knew something was wrong. She pushed her whole operation up a gear. I could tell she wanted to leave me, but she wanted see it through first. So, if something did happen ~~- something bad -~~ ,she couldn’t feel guilty for not being there. I told her what she was doing was unnecessary, ~~that I didn’t need it,~~ but she wouldn’t’ cut it. ~~She refused to.~~ I think she had grown sentimental to it. ~~She had built so much on it.~~ I saw what it was doing to her and, in turn, to me. She decided for me to be rid of the book I needed a change of place. She had no real family there anyway so we picked up everything and left. We were to go far away. We had always waxed poetic about Maine. We would have a layover in Nevada. Neither of us had been before so she suggested we make the most of it and stay a while, drive through the Mojave, that sort of thing. I went along with it. We touched down, hired a car, and set out into the wastes. ~~I drove.~~ ~~Within a couple of hours~~ We arrived at that place Nevada is most recognised for: Nowhere. She came to me, ~~I think to make the most of the privacy,~~ but I was elsewhere. I looked about ~~the wastes,~~ the emptiness, I basked in it. All was free of wanting. All was with purpose. All was unimprovable. *The elements of style.* It was in this moment, where I stared into the face of the minimal sublime, that the little book returned to me, its teaching back on my mind. Its ~~burning~~ fervour to cut all ballast from me, from my work, from my life back in my fingers. I say I must go back to the car for water. There is no water in the car. I drive off. I leave her there. I leave her there. I leave her there. And you know what the worst part is? I felt guilty. I did not feel guilty for submitting to a book. I did not feel guilty for leaving her in the desert. ~~No.~~ I felt guilty for ruining the desert with her presence - that place that wanted for nothing. *’The Elements of Style,’* Page 23, commandment 17: ‘Omit needless words.’ Take its advice, tear it from your copy and leave it in the desert. But don’t do it in the Mojave - ’The Elements of Style,’ Page 25, commandment 18: ‘Avoid a succession of loose sentences.


For the fifth time this year I had managed to stub my toe on yet another difficult decision. What was I going to do next? After all, my mom was really getting irritated by my constantly changing spectrum of things to try. The last thing I wanted was for her to start making complaints to my dad. What can I say? I am just an adventurous soul looking for something to feed my energy, I thought as I scrambled to collect the last few ants that had scattered along the hallway. This time I had literally stubbed my toe and fell with the entire box of my new found hobby, collecting fire ants. Come to think of it that was not a great idea to begin with. Mom was deathly allergic to them and was currently in the bathroom weeping her eyes out after one had bitten her and she was forced to take her Epipen. I knew she was tired of all the near misses from everything I had decided to try out this year. Almost drowning while surfing, parachute failure while skydiving and almost losing our dog while dog training had definitely taken it’s toll on her. She had started to form wrinkles along her forehead and a few grey hairs had started peeking through her scalp. “Mum,” guilt laced my voice as I whispered that one word. She did not answer but instead remained quiet. I knew she knew what I was going to say next. After all, this had become our new routine. I do something foolish and then I apologize to her for doing something foolish. I knew she wanted me to stop but she would never say the words because she was always supportive and encouraged me to try new things. “I am sorry, I will get rid of them,” I uttered. I think by now my apologies were played out. Still there was silence. A soft sigh left my lips as I slowly walked towards the front door with the box. *** “Amina,” My dad yelled angrily. My body quaked and I struggled to recollect myself. Painting had not gone how I had planned. How can such a simple task turn into such a disaster? I thought I would have had things under control by now. After all, I had matured, Right? Ollie my one year old Labrador puppy had gotten into my paint supplies and now the entire hallway of dad’s apartment has been covered in painted paw prints. Taking in the scene, I chuckled a bit. Now the dull apartment had a little more color to it. “Is this why your mom sent you to live with me, to destroy my belongings?” He said annoyed at my response to the situation. “Amina, after all these years I thought you would have matured by now.” “Dad, I am sorry. I will clean this up.” I said as I watched him walk away. Not again, I thought to myself as I began to reminisce on how I had almost sent my mom to the hospital because of my selfishness and inability to reason. Now I can only see her on weekends because I was deemed unfit to be around her. Even after that, I was still incapable of recognizing the issues I have with myself, was I using all these hobbies to fill some form of subconscious void? I mean, I have never managed to stick to one thing for more than a few weeks. *** “Are you okay Amina,” A soft voice interrupted my thoughts. I turned my head to look at the tall lean figure sitting on the couch across from me, unable to read her facial expression. Was that pity I saw? Or maybe it was disappointment. I was always unable to tell. I studied her a bit before turning my head back to look at the ceiling. “I think so,” I say a bit unsure. I mean, was I really okay? I had been here for a few weeks but was still unable to figure out my obsessive and impulsive behavior towards exploring the things the world has to offer. After almost setting Grandma’s kitchen aflame for the second time she decided I needed to talk to someone. My parents were completely terrified of me and really didn’t want anything to do with me. My last hobby had caused them to lose everything. I guess that’s why they say gambling is a game of chance. Dad had gotten beaten up and somehow the police got involved and so here I am, staying with grandma. She too wasn’t very fond of me but I was her only grandchild so what could she do? Many people would think I am troubled and I am starting to think so too. Things were not so bad a few years ago. It was just me trying to figure myself out. Things only got bad when finding a dream hobby became my obsession, I would stay awake nights after nights, weeks after weeks trying to find something new to do. Every week it was something else and it was always something detrimental to the people around me. I just could not help it. I always imagined myself doing all these crazy things... and I did, however it all brought great suffering to the people I love. *** I never in my life thought I would be admitted to a psychiatric ward. I watched as my parents spoke to the lady at the front desk. They had come to visit. By now, mom’s hair had completely grayed and the years were printed on her face. Dad had just started showing his age. He always seemed to wear a sad expression whenever he visited. “Hi sweetie,” Mom said reaching out her arms to give me a hug. I pulled away from her. I was mad, why did they put me here; there is nothing wrong with me. Dad came up beside her reaching out his hand for me to take. I looked at him skeptically before grabbing on to it and standing up. Were they here to take me home? Over the years my interest in trying new things became more and more dangerous. Life threatening they said, for me it was more exhilarating. That’s what the doctor had said, I was addicted to adrenaline. I wondered... was that even a thing? “It’s time to go home sweetie,” my mom said jerking me from my thoughts. *** I felt a hand touch my shoulder and my eyes flew open as I emerged from sleep. Is that where I would end up? I thought to myself as I watched my therapist walk back to her place on the couch.


Many had seen her face, few heard her voice, and none knew her name. The Woman drifted about like a nomad -- never in one place for too long, and if one looked away for only a moment, there was a chance she would be gone. A vanishing act with no smoke or mirrors. A bicycle without handlebars. A joke with no punchline. Her days consisted of wandering around downtown engrossed in her own world. A typical morning for her began with jumping jacks and yoga poses in the park’s grass as the sun beamed brightly overhead. Dressed in stained, tattered clothing that indicated her homelessness, her morning workouts often earned curious stares from the elderly men dueling at the chess tables and annoyed grimaces from the soccer moms that spent more time on their phones than watching their children on the playground. It was hard to pinpoint the Woman’s age. Based on her appearance, the best estimate was that she was somewhere between thirty and forty-five years old. She may have actually been younger; though the lines and creases on her face signified the hard life she had lived, her eyes, which shone like two big spotlights of warmth and humility, gave her an impression of youth. She had tried mingling with some of the other local wanders in the past, which led to mixed results. The best being her brief friendship with an elderly woman named Mildred two summers ago. Mildred, known as the town’s “Crazy Cat Lady,” suffered from mental illness, as did the Woman herself and the bulk of the area’s homeless population. To those close to her, Mildred was sweeter than a birthday cake. Thanks to her being friendly with the owner of a small coffee shop, she received a cup of coffee and a warm croissant free of charge once a week. Mildred always made sure to share the croissant evenly; one half for Amethyst, her tabby cat, and the other one going to the Woman. Mildred’s behavior was dependent on both the time of day and whether she had Amethyst by her side. During daylight, with her feline companion in tow, she acted as a delightful grandmother, seemingly unaware (or unbothered) of her station in life. However, if her cat was out of sight or once the sun had gone down, Dr. Jekyll morphed into Mr. Hyde. The kindly grandmother would suddenly become a toxic witch. She would shout at vehicles that drove past. She would travel to the parts of downtown that saw heavy late-night foot traffic, such as the Entertainment District, to harass tourists. Once, on the eve of Valentine’s Day, Mildred traveled down there and caused a scene so bad that the Woman had to calm her down and pull the old lady aside. Mildred had been knocking over trash cans and hurling their spilled contents at pedestrians along with some expletives sprinkled in. “FUCK CUPID, AND FUCK YOU TOO, YOU STUPID WHORE!” was one of the lines she had yelled. The target of that insult was a little girl no older than six years old. One morning, after having spent the night sleeping under an overpass with Mildred and a few of the other wanderers, the Woman woke up to the sound of screams. Her eyes flashed open, darted around, and then she saw what had happened: Mildred’s cat Amethyst was lying in the middle of the street -- dead -- with its eyes rolled into the back of its head, tire marks across its belly, and its mouth wide open, as if it was screaming, the expression on its face frozen stiff like a fly trapped in a chunk of ancient amber. “Look what they did! LOOK WHAT THEY DID!” Mildred shouted, cradling the dead feline in her arms like an infant and pushing it near the Woman’s face to show her the horror. The Woman gagged. She could hear the animal’s bones cracking with each movement Mildred made. Eventually, she and the other wanderers were able to calm Mildred down long enough to get her out of the street and to give her feline friend a proper burial. Later that same night, the Woman was lying down in the same spot as before, under the overpass. Neither her nor any of the other wanderers had seen Mildred since the moment they buried her cat earlier in the day. They figured she was somewhere mourning in private. The Woman stayed awake for as long she could, fighting against her heavy eyelids. She wanted to make sure Mildred returned to her safely but eventually lost the battle with Mr. Sandman and drifted off to sleep. “I’ll be with you soon, sweetie! I promise!” The phrase was yelled over and over again. The screams reverberated throughout the area underneath the overpass, occasionally muffled by the semis driving on the bridge overhead, stirring people out of their tents and sleeping bags, and rousing the Woman from her slumber. Her eyes flung open and she sat up in a panic, scanning the area for the source of the commotion. Her head jerked around like a frightened crow until she saw the scene: Mildred, her hands, face and clothes covered in dirt, handcuffed to a stretcher and being hauled into the back of an ambulance. “No!” shouted the Woman. She got up and raced toward the vehicle. The Woman tried to get into the ambulance with Mildred but was held back by a paramedic and two police officers. She tried desperately to reach out to her, to grab her hand. Mildred reached back. The handcuffs hissed along the railing. The women's fingertips inches from each other. "They're trying to lock me away! You have to stop them!" Mildred pleaded. "Amethyst lives, I know it! Please, dear, you have to stop these bastards! You have to st--" The doors slammed shut. "Crazy old broad," muttered one of the officers. "Tried to dig up a dead cat. The hell's the matter with people these days?" He turned around and addressed the Woman. "Most likely, your friend's gonna be taking a trip up north to the crazy house. You wanna see her, you're gonna have to see her there." He left without a parting word and drove off into the night with his partner. The Woman stood in shock. Motionless. Her eyes watched the flashing lights on the ambulance and cruiser fade into the distance, the pulse of their rhythmic dance disappearing behind the looming shadows and towering buildings. After that incident, the Woman was scarred for life. She would bond with no one else ever again. Already a person of few words, her speech further whittled down to little more than murmurs and grunts. Yet still, whenever possible, she expressed her care for humanity. She once did it by putting a Band-Aid on a child who had scraped his knee after he fell off the swing set at the park. Another time, she managed to revive a fellow wanderer who was in the grips of an overdose by performing CPR on him until the paramedics showed up and took him to the hospital. And always, she would pick up any trash that had been littered in the park to keep it clean and spotless. The park authorities never failed to show their appreciation, making sure to provide her with bottled water and bags of chips to snack on whenever they could. Over time, she became known around town as the “Good Samaritan.” Thanks to her positive impact, people in the city even started treating the rest of the city’s homeless population with more compassion. The indignant scoffs and clutching of purses gave way to a spare dollar here, a bag of pretzels there and words of encouragement. As of now, roughly a year later, it appears that the Woman has vanished. Odds are, she may have met a tragic end, but one should have hope that she has simply wandered into another city to shine some light into a gray, dim metropolis. Wherever she is, one can be sure that none in the area know the Woman’s name, age, or origin. Almost certainly, most have seen her face. And few -- if any -- have ever heard her speak. But all, should they encounter her, will come to know her spirit.


The dirt was dried up beneath my feet as I felt the sun's heat bake my skin. I lifted an arm to swipe the sweat along my forehead, looking up with squinted eyes at that damned ball of light in the sky. God, could sure use some rain about now. “We have water.” I’d said those words out loud. The voice beside me was melodious in my ear, and I turned to see a warm smile greeting me that I then returned. “Not quite enough.” “You whine a lot for a married man.” “Last I checked, you agreed to marry that man.” “Silly me.” Georgia laughed, and I could only let my eyes linger on her golden face before they trailed down to her leg. I noticed a slight limp as she walked beside me and couldn’t help my increasing worry. “Are you sure you’re alright?” I asked. She was always a strong woman, I knew. Held her head high and her pain inside. Both a blessing and a curse, I found - What I both loved and berated her for. “Oh, quit worryin’.” She brushed my words off as she lifted her leg, rolling her foot and flexing her ankle. My eyes were trained on the torn sweater sleeve wrapped around her dark skin, and my mind thought of only the swelling snake bite underneath it. “We’ll find someone to tend to it, then we can get outta this wasteland.” I looked ahead to see the growing silhouette of the town before us. Sand Springs , the large sign had read as we passed it. That was when Georgia wasn’t limping as much. The attack was fast - something neither of us saw coming. One bad thing happened after another - that being after we had to abandon our car on the highway. It had just become dawn, and I was only awakened by the loud yelp of my wife. When my eyes shot open, I’d turned to her to see her hand tightly clamped around her ankle, as well as the fading sight of a small slithering thing making its escape. It was black in the bright sand of the west, and it was quick; that was all I could remember. Clearly, the wound was getting worse, as well as my confidence. But I swallowed it down, the urge to panic, and did my best to remain calm like Georgia was. “Think we’ll find what we need here?” “We better,” I could hear a faint huff beside me, most likely accompanied by a playful pout, if I knew that woman. “Otherwise, this would be a real lousy vacation.” I smiled and shook my head. It wasn’t long till we reached the edge of the modest town. The place was relatively barren, just what you’d expect of a residence in the middle of nowhere. Only two rows of maybe ten buildings lined up on either side of the dusty road - with an inn, a dry goods store, you name it - a large church standing tall at the end, towering over the rest of the town. Its shadow hung over the dry dirt, the tip of it - a lean, pointed cross - stopping right at my feet. “Remind me again why I agreed to a road trip?” I asked, my voice flat as the land around us, only to earn a sudden bump to the shoulder. “Enough complainin’,” Georgia walked ahead at a much faster pace, despite her leg. “Just be glad that wasn’t our best van.” Our car had died in the middle of nowhere, leaving us a map, food and drink, but no signal. The best we could decide was to grab our bags and continue on foot. It involved dragging my suitcase through the dust and a heavy backpack over my shoulders, but I suppose it could’ve been worse. Neither Georgia nor I complained, only kept tight smiles and marched on towards the town. Even in the hot sun, when our bodies ached, with a snake bite , we stayed strong without worry. Georgia was a pro at it while I was getting fed up. “Look at them,” Her voice interrupted my thoughts from ahead- more lulled me out of them. Though Georgia kept her back towards me, I could hear the smile in her words. I followed her gaze to see people across the small dirt road. A few feet away from a group of adults, children sat by the inn, playing some sort of game that involved dice. They didn’t laugh nor scream - only played quietly - but Georgia seemed mesmerized by it. “Think we’ll get to have those someday?” “Maybe once we get out of here.” I joked and looked over at her to be met with an amused smile back at me. Her eyes seemed to light up along with it, but that was after they flickered beside my head. “Doctor’s office!” She exclaimed and rushed past me before I could turn my head. I glanced at the group of adults, half expecting Georgia's boisterousness to draw their attention, but we strangers didn't seem to distract the townspeople. They kept in their tight group, seemingly in quiet conversation. I was pleasantly surprised by the lack of attention, but shrugged it off and turned to follow Georgia. Attention was the last thing we needed. The doors to the office didn’t surprise me, being those typical swinging ones you’d find in an old western. This place really followed the cliche. My brows raised in amusement and what was almost interest - it would’ve been a lie to say the town didn’t lure me in. They swung after Georgia, and before I followed, something in the distance caught my attention in the corner of my eye. I glanced over to see a black form surrounded by the bright, dusty landscape. A man, covered in dark clothing, head turned as if he were staring directly at me. I couldn’t see details with the distance between us, and only stared back before stepping through the swinging doors. Great. The room was empty, enveloped in silence. A dull, flickering lamp hanging from the ceiling and the yellow glow of the sun streaming through the windows were the only light sources in the place. I took in my surroundings - the bare counter, collecting dust across the room, the visible cobwebs clinging to corners of the ceiling - and couldn’t help but hesitate in my step. “Hello?” Georgia called in front of me, placing a hand on her hip and looking around. I watched her scan the counter, most likely looking for a bell or something to call anyone to the front. As said, it was completely empty of anything but dirt and dust, as if it’d been abandoned. The hum that left her showed how unimpressed she was. “Well, you get bitten by a snake, and this is what life provides.” “Maybe there’s no one here.” I said, the atmosphere of the rickety room worsening my unease. She walked further in, right up to the counter. “Nonsense. We saw people outside, remember?” As Georgia moved around the place, continuing to call out, I couldn’t help but feel a slight chill in my spine, as if something yet lingered in the air. A creak sounded behind me, and I turned my head back to look at the doors. One of them swung slightly, as if pushed by some invisible force or the wind. But we'd spent enough time outside to know there wasn’t any breeze in the air. I furrowed my brow, staring intently at the swinging door. The first thing my mind could think of were children, perhaps some kids playing a trick to startle strangers from out of town. Then, I thought of that man in black, staring at me only a moment ago. “Something wrong?” I blinked out of my unnerved trance, then looked back to see my wife staring at me, eyes tinged in puzzlement. I glanced back at the door, only to see it’d stopped its swinging motion, still as if it’d never moved in the first place. “I’m fine.” I hesitated between those words, which most likely made my unease clear. “Just thirsty from the heat.” My wife’s confused look relaxed into an easygoing smile. She walked up to me, only a few inches shorter, and lifted a hand to rub my shoulder. “You’re a terrible liar.” I felt a heat grow in my face, staring back into her mesmerizing brown eyes, glowing in the faint light of the sun's stream. “You’ve just learnt how to read me well.” “Wasn’t hard to learn,” her snip burned, but in a way that made the heat grow. “C’mon. I’ll look in the back room for something.” When her hand left my arm, its lingering warmth stayed. I stood up straighter, pursing my lips. “What? Georgia, I don’t think-” “We’ll just grab something and leave money on the counter. You can scare up a ten-dollar bill, can’t you?” Her back was already facing me, the smoothness in her voice a contrast to the irregular twist in my stomach. I couldn’t muster up another protest before she’d entered an open archway behind the counter - and her sudden gasp made my heart skip a beat. “Oh! I’m so sorry, sir, I thought no one was here!” I quickly followed her, floorboards creaking beneath my boots as I turned the corner. Georgia was silent, still facing away from me. I saw an old man before her, sitting in a leather chair and staring straight back at her. Reflexively, I moved a hand to rest on her shoulder, prepared for an angry lecture to be directed at my wife. “Georgia-” But she wouldn’t move, and it took me only a few seconds to realize the unnatural silence around us. I looked at the man and realized he was still. The eyes that stared back were dull and without life, accompanied by a pale face and a mouth agape. He was dead; He certainly had the qualities of a deceased man. I looked back at the floor, open bottles and pills scattered by my feet. I’d crushed a few in my rush. That’s when I remembered Georgia’s condition. “I don't even know which medicine could-” “Never mind that! We have to get help!” Georgia’s boots stomped along the wood before I could process her words. I looked up to see her gone, leaving only the sound of her panicked steps growing distant. “Georgia!” I pushed myself up, exited the room to see the entrance doors swinging and my wife nowhere to be seen. When I chased after her and ran out into the sun’s heated eye, her disappearance only left me more panicked. “Georgia, wait!” But I couldn’t see nor hear her anymore. As a matter of fact, any residents that previously filled the town were gone then as well. That stubborn spark of hers - the very thing I fell in love with so many years ago - only made my blood boil. Tight smiles. Marching on. Damn all that. I looked across the small town, took in its abandonment. The place was silent, void of any trace of where Georgia could’ve been. Where anyone could’ve been. Then, movement as my eyes flittered about. They trained on the distant figure ahead of me. That man in black walking into the church. “Hey, you!” I called out without thinking, but he didn’t seem to hear me, the door closing behind him. “Stop! Wait!” My feet moved, racing through the dirt-dusted land as I chased after him, reached the church door in only a few seconds. When I opened it, it swung with a tired creak, and behind it was just as expected. Nothing. A dim room with aisles filled with pews, the air full of lingering dust particles. Empty. “Hello?” I spoke into the large place, my voice an echo. Colored light filtered through the stained glass windows of the church walls, laying among the dark floorboards, reaching my feet. Then, behind me, the door slammed shut. I whipped my head around to the point it strained my neck, quickly enveloped in that dimness that consumed the room. Didn’t ya see the signs? An old, gravelly voice spoke close into my ear as if someone stood right beside me, but when I looked forward again, there was only that man in black standing on the other side of the church. When no one would look at ya? He said - I thought. The voice felt so close it crawled beneath my skin. When you saw the life faded from their eyes? When they went an’ disappeared? “What . . .” “ What the hell is going on?” I would’ve yelled, but what seeped out of me was a whimper. My fear was on display for the strange man. I couldn’t see much with the lowlight, but even from where I stood, I could see his face was covered by a dark bandana or mask that matched the rest of his black attire. A large cowboy hat atop his head cast a shadow over his eyes. Even with all the darkness, my eyes took note of the whip in his hand. You should get outta here, boy. I watched as his heavy boot stepped forward, clumped against the wood floor and sent a ripple through my body. I remained still. You should see this town ain’t right. It’s lost. Sunken. A mere memory of what was before the venom. Clump , his hand with the whip lifted. And soon you’ll get poisoned just as well. He took another heavy step towards me, and when he lashed the whip against the side of a pew - akin to the flick of a snake’s tongue - that was when my feet decided to work. I turned and ran towards the door I came in, but when I grabbed the doorknob and jiggled it desperately, it wouldn’t budge. Stop. The voice said with another sharp crack of the whip. Turn back. Now. I didn’t know whether that was the man speaking or not - the voice definitely didn’t sound human. But whatever it was, it sounded close, and I could hear that man getting even closer. Leave Sand Springs. The whips behind me became louder, snapping into my ears as I rattled the door knob. It wouldn’t budge. The voice shouted to go, but I couldn’t even escape. Was this taunting? A fear tactic? Was any of this even goddamn real ? Run. The cracking sound once more, and it sure fucking felt real. And again. And faster than the heavy pounding of my heart in my chest. Before you end up like them. Like her. “Come on, god damnit !” I cursed through gritted teeth, resorted to slamming my shoulder against the thing until I knew a bruise would develop. Before you get bit. But there was one other thing in my mind that overshadowed even the inhuman speech itself. Georgia . With another crack, I felt a burning sting erupt through my back, tearing past my shirt and skin, but my teeth only tightened with no sound. One final slam into the door made it fly open. A crack through the air as I fell forward, body slamming hard onto the dirt below. I felt the blistering heat of the sun on my skin, a heavy cough erupting out of my throat from the impact. But in my sputtering, I noticed the relieving sound of nothing at all. The whips had stopped, and the voice in my head had left along with them. Opening squinted eyes, I lifted my head, looking forward through blurred vision brought on by pain. The wavering town was ahead of me; I was outside the church once more. There was nothing but an empty clearing dusted in sand. No residents. Nothing. Just buildings. But when the vision cleared, when the puff of dust from my fall evaporated into the air, I saw her. That dark brown hair and dark brown skin. Georgia . My body moved before I could even command it too, pushing itself up and stumbling towards her. That sting in my back - from that whip - was completely gone. As if the burn was merely a dream or illusion. But it’d felt so real at the time. “Georgia - oh god, I’m so glad you’re okay-” But when I reached her, my words stopped by themselves. My wife didn’t look at me, didn’t react when I called her name. I stopped before her, stared down at her, and recognized the behavior as matching the one of that old man in the Doctor’s office. After a beat, I sat next to her. The silence consumed us. The warmth of the sun scorched us. “How does it feel, Georgia?” I asked, a break in my voice. Just as I thought, she didn’t answer. I could see it in her blank face the second I got close. The lack of emotion. That warm smile gone from sight. Replaced by a face glazed over by lifelessness. Just like the residents - that doctor in the office - Georgia seemed to be lost. Alive, but lost - carrying all the qualities of someone who was lifeless. I rested my hand on hers and garnered no response. What filled my mind was the words that man - that thing spoke to me in the church. Before you get bit . And in the corner of my eyes I noticed it. The small shape of something moving quick without hesitation. The snake from before slithered up to me, at a speed greater than my ability to process it. But I knew what it was. Its black exterior the same that fled from Georgia after sinking its teeth into her ankle, filling her with that deadly venom that I was too late in stopping - the kind that did worse than kill, but only numbed the brain. I don’t move, and only wince as its fangs puncture my ankle, a sudden sting. Sand Springs seems to fade away, with us alongside it.


Link to the prologue - Link to Part II - She sat stunned, looking at the readout on the monitor. She was not willing to, unable to accept the implication of the data. But Cassandra Alexander had rechecked her findings three times. She had read the notes. She had done the calculations. There could be no mistaking. "This explains the failure at the particle accelerator lab," she thought to herself. "And at the *Lovell Museum*. And, dear God, the *Sea of Tranquility Observation Dome*." But why? Professor Faith Carr was one of the most respected researchers not just at *Zenith*, but probably on the entire moon. Was she capable of going to such lengths to cover her tracks? Did she really hate Nick that much? "*Why*?" She opened another document on the data chip and read. "'*Hestia-3*.' She actually gave the damn thing a name," she whispered to herself. Cassie thought the name sounded like something from Greek mythology. She did a quick search on her PDA. *Hestia* as it turned out was the Greek Goddess of hearth and domestic life. How sickly ironic, she thought. Hestia-3 works at the molecular level. It slowly weakened a standard, five-inch thick haloplex window or container over 5 to 10 hours. Then, sudden failure. "This could be an assassin's wet dream for God's sake," she said aloud. The entire base had been on edge after the S.O.T.O. Dome failure. Everyone believed there was a logical explanation. Sure, there was loose talk about sabotage or a serial killer. However, such ideas were relegated to some obscure forums on the base network. The very idea of an off world serial killer, a first, was too farfetched to take seriously. But a jealous wife? "Why not?" Cassie asked herself as she mulled over the idea. Professor Carr has been intimating for months that she thought Nick was having an affair hasn't she? Cassie recalled dinner at the Carr's the month before. It had started out pleasant. The Carr's had very nice quarters. They were cavernous compared to her three-room hovel. It was one of the benefits of being a highly regarded, senior researcher. Cassie always appreciated being invited there. Things were fine until Faith made that remark about the "leggy brunet" she thought she saw leaving their quarters earlier in the day. Nick seemed amused and took it for a joke. "Not *her* again" he had said with a chuckle. He gave the impression this was not the first time the subject had come up. Professor Carr however showed genuine irritation at his dismissive attitude. For her part, Cassie had let the uncomfortable moment pass and immediately tried to forget about it. However, even if Faith was right. Even if Nick had become a lecherous, cheating, scumbag, she didn't have the right to kill him and his mistress. Nor the ten people who were victims of her "field tests." Under different circumstances, Carr's research and creation would easily have won her a Nobel at the least. She had meticulously documented her research like she was going to make a grant proposal. This brilliant woman had found a unique way to improve haloplex. Then, she turned it into a tool for murder. Safety protocols at *Zenith* and nearby bases had been strengthened since the decompression at *Tranquility* that cost those seven lives. Consensus seemed to be building that a flawed lot of haloplex windows had been produced and installed around *Zenith*. With the recently completed base expansion and renovations, it seemed plausible. Base authorities were assuring the populous that if true, any other windows or containers could be identified via serial numbers and replaced. Haloplex production was tightly monitored and controlled. Everyone knew that. Moreover, the fact two of the three failures had been at interior locations kept people from walking around in vac suits. The death of three people in lab accidents, while tragic did not hold the same terror as death in vacuum. Now, as she sat there alone in the Structural Analysis Lab, Cassie could not see an easy way forward. She could not just make a wild accusation. Carr was head of a major department. She was good friends with several of the base senior administrative staff. And she was her mentor. She wouldn't even be at *Zenith* if it were not for her.


The summer meeting of the Guerrilla Psychology Society (GPS) is taking place right in the open, as they always do, at an IHOP just outside of Omaha. The members are all influential players in the field who have joined forces to correct social psychological trends before they threaten the fabric of human civilization, which happens far more often than the average Josephine is aware of. Included in the meeting are luminaries like Rebecca Mulhooney, who created the empath craze - and Jason Swelte, the man who had put the term 'narcissism' on the mind of anyone with an internet connection. The members of GPS are able to psychologically maneuver the minds of the masses simply by passing information to the media, who then sensationalize it like they do everything else, thus influencing the perceptions of the masses. Janice Chen presses a final fork full of syrupy crepe into her mouth and chases it down with a large gulp of milk and then begins her speech before anyone else is finished eating and has a chance to interrupt. "The greatest problem facing humanity today is nothing new. In fact it has evolved from the very mechanisms which allowed our species to develop such highly social traits. However, as a result of how social media and other internet platforms are constructed, the utility of these traits has been eroded by compulsive elements now attached to them. I am calling this problem Associative Identity Disorder." Her colleagues shoot her curious looks as they stuff bacon, french toast and greasy hashbrowns into their gullets, but do not say a word. "You are no doubt familiar with Dissociative Identity Disorder..." "Multiple personalities," Jason interrupts, as a drop of blueberry syrup falls from his lip and onto the lightly colored khakis he is wearing. "Horse balls!" "Dissociative Identity Disorder occurs when a person's personality becomes fragmented into multiple selves. It is the inability to maintain a strong, single identity. Associative Identity Disorder is when a person's identity concept becomes so strong that all ideas and actions must conform to it." "Interesting," Agembe Eritrea gives her an expression of intense interest. "I have been thinking along these lines myself. Please go on, sorry to interrupt." "I believe," Janice continues, "that it will be easier to explain by providing an example." All six of her colleagues nod in unison. "Subject has become a very active supporter of Black Lives Matter. Over the last several months he went from claiming that policing was a necessary good to calling for that institution to be abolished. This is not the concerning part. What concerns me is the reasoning which led subject to change his mind. It was not a newly formed understanding of policing, or a rejection of the principles or logic on which policing has been constructed. Subject is not concerned about how victimless crime laws erode self-ownership and criminalize harmless individuals to feed the multi-billion dollar industrial prison complex. He has no complaint with the threat of aggression being used to control people. He has simply come to associate policing with racism, and since his identity requires he not be associated with racism, he must now reverse his position on policing to accommodate it." "So what's the problem?" asks Petunia Axelrod. "It seems to me that subject has come to the right conclusion." "I agree. But how he got there matters," Janice responds. "His position is not based on any fundamental principles. There is no underlying moral premise or consistent logic involved. Subject has arrived at his stance in order to give performances which seek to portray his self-image to others." She pauses to take a drink of her coffee and let the information settle in a bit. As she looks around she does not sense any disapproval from the other members of the GPS, so she continues. "Eighteen hours after writing a lengthy screed on institutional racism and the need to abolish policing, Subject reacted to news of the lynching of a black man in West Virginia by claiming that every law enforcement officer in America should be assigned to the case. As soon as it became expedient to his identity as anti-racist, Subject reversed his position on policing on the grounds that they could be used in a way that he found acceptable." "Isn't it possible that anti-racism is Subject's central, guiding principle, then?" Mulhooney asks with genuine curiosity. "My thoughts exactly," Nitish Patel adds. "I investigated this possibility, but I do not believe Subject adheres strictly to his anti-racism stance in other situations," Chen begins to clarify. "There are a few examples, but most notable is his stance on the plight of Palestine. Subject views Israel as a symbol of racial tolerance, as a result of how he has interpreted Germany's genocide of the Jewish people. He therefore supports the right of Israel to maintain an independent nation, free of historically Muslim and Christian cultures and states." "Is that racist?" Swelte asks. "Oh, it is definitely racist," Petunia agrees. "Definitively and in spirit. The eradication of Palestine represents ideas of superiority and entitlement evident in the reasoning of all forms of racial supremacy." "As I said," Janice continues, "there are other examples which betray Subject's claim to being fully committed to anti-racism. But racism is not the point here. The point is that Subject is doing what I see almost everyone doing these days, which is picking and choosing their position on all things based solely on how they believe that choice makes them appear to others." "I completely agree," Eritrea gives a knowing grin. "And not just because my perceived identity is affirmed by doing so." "But how is this a problem?" Patel asks. "To some degree individuals have always conformed to positions which represent how they want to be viewed by others." "To some degree, yes," Janice agrees. "I believe I mentioned that right up front. This is nothing new. However the difference is how much this identity game is reinforced by digital social structures. The like button and upvotes have provided greater impetus than ever conform to that which superficially affirms identity. The same with negation. Do you think Trump would be president if people were making reasonable choices, rather than just conforming to whatever symbolic gestures negate or affirm the appearance of self they prefer?" "The death of authenticity," Eritrea shakes his head mournfully. "Precisely," Janice confirms. "Associative Identity Disorder is shaping our decision making process and emptying it of complexity and nuance. It is leading to a new form of tribalism which is constructed around false dichotomies. It has replaced substance with spectacle. It is leading to cognitive habits which are so superficial that they threaten our intellectual and social evolution, and instead lead backwards into primitive identity games." Alric Forge, whose charisma and intellect have made him the unspoken leader of the group since they formed a decade earlier, finally breaks his silence. "Your concerns are valid, Miss Chen. I have been grappling with similar thoughts, as I am sure everyone here has," he pauses for a moment to make eye contact with each of the others, one-by-one. "The question is, what can we possibly do about it?" The table becomes dead silent. A few of the GPS members stare down at their plates and nudge uneaten food around with a fork. "Absolutely nothing," Janice responds with all the authority she can muster. "These habits have become woven into the entire social fabric of humanity, online and off. At first I thought that maybe dissociative experiences could reverse the course, but it would be impossible to drug the whole world. And even if we did we would return to the same social structures and the old habits would quickly re-emerge." "Miss Chen, this is out..." Forge is cut off. "I quit. I'm out. This is the end of the line for me. No more Guerrilla Psychology Society. In fact I will be leaving my psych career and moving to Tibet to isolate myself from the extreme absurdity that humanity has stooped to. If you are all as wise I believe you to be, you will do the same. Humanity cannot be saved. Does not want to be saved. It is engaged in a performative feedback loop that can only end in our descendants throwing feces at each other and crawling back into the trees." Janice throws a twenty dollar bill on the table as she stands up, takes her coat off the chair and walks away dramatically, leaving the other six members of the secret society slack-jawed and silent. "Are you gonna eat that?" Axelrod asks Patel, as she grabs a sausage link from his plate without waiting for him to answer. "Anybody else wanna go get a drink?"


I always passed the house on the corner on my way to school. It stood out because no other house on our street had a fence around the entire property. The fence was made of brick and steel posts, giving everyone who passed by a glimpse of the owner’s immaculately kept front yard. For as long as I can remember, I never saw anyone in the yard tending to the flowers. Though there were different kinds of plants throughout the yard, whoever owned the house had more rose bushes than any other kind of flower, and the roses were all red. Not until I was a teenager did I know that roses came in other colors besides red, thanks to this one house. Every time I passed that house with my parents, I would ask the name of the family who lived there. Did they have any children? Not that I needed more friends, I had so many that I always had a friend or two over almost every day of the week. But I always had questions, and I wanted to know whatever my parents could tell me about the family who lived in the garden of roses. My father would chuckle at me and say, “Sorry, Becky, I don’t know the name of the people who live there. We’ve never seen them before.” His words only made me more curious about the house on the corner. Curiosity is contagious, and soon many of my friends started asking the same questions I was. Who lived there? And why had we never seen them? We didn’t have such things as the Internet back then, and we could get no information from anything at the library, though some of us tried. Then at a party at my house -I think it was my younger sister’s birthday--my best friend Danny came up with a great idea. He and several other of our friends had joined me in my treehouse to get away from our younger siblings as they played games for prizes and to talk privately this once. I remember we talked in hushed voices so none of the adults could hear our conversation. We thought we were being so sneaky. “I was watching this show on TV with my dad last night,” Danny began. “One of the people on the show was a private detective.” “What’s that?” asked my friend Alice. “My dad says he’s like a policeman but you pay him to find things out for you,” Danny explained. “We can hire one to find out about the people who live at that house on the corner.” “That sounds like a great idea,” our friends agreed. “We can save our allowances to pay him.” It sounded like a great idea to me, but I had one little problem: I didn’t get an allowance. And my friends knew that. But it didn’t stop them from agreeing to it. After they agreed to start saving, we all started wondering what we might learn once we hired the private detective. “A family of vampires live there,” Danny suggested. “I’ve seen their lights on, but only at night, and we all know vampires cannot come out in the daylight.” “I don’t want to live near vampires!” Alice screamed. “I think a princess lives there. Why else would someone have that beautiful of a garden? Who do you think lives there, Becky?” All eyes turned to me. Up until that moment, they had pretty much been ignoring me since I had no money to help hire the private detective. I blinked a few times. I had never thought about who I thought actually lived in that house down the street. I opened my mouth to speak, but shut it when I failed to think of anything. But they wouldn’t ask anyone else until I said something, anything. “I think an ugly beast lives there,” I finally said. It was the only thing I could think of at that moment. The previous evening my mother had recounted the story of Beauty and the Beast only the night before. It was my sister’s favorite fairy tale, and whenever she couldn’t fall asleep right away, one of my parents would tell her the story. “Why does he have the roses?” another friend asked. “He was cursed by a witch,” I replied. “There is one special one that he guards in the house. If he can find true love before the last peddle falls, he becomes a handsome prince again. But if not, he’ll stay an ugly beast forever.” “That’s a fairy tale!” Alice argued. I turned to my friend and stuck my tongue out at her. “It’s about as likely as a princess living there.” Alice snorted, crossing her arms across her chest. “Since you won’t be able to help us with the private detective, I guess we won’t tell you when he tells us who lives there.” I smiled at her and said, “Go right ahead and keep it a secret.” Little did Alice know then that Danny told me everything. Oh, he would try to keep his mouth shut, but in the end, he would tell me. Then I would promise to never tell Alice that he had told me. She stuck her tongue out at me and demanded to be let out. She wouldn’t talk to me for several days after that, I knew, claiming we weren’t friends anymore to whoever would listen. I also knew she would want to make up like she always did. Even then I could see it all play out in my mind, so I didn’t think about it again until a few days later when Danny snuck into my backyard and climbed up into the treehouse where I often hid to do my homework when I grew tired of my sister bothering me. He had a huge frown on his face. When he sat down beside me, he sighed. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “I looked up a private detective in the phonebook,” he told me. “I called to ask how much it would cost to find out who lives in that house.” I know I asked Danny how much it would cost. I don’t remember the amount anymore, but I remember thinking at the time that no one had that kind of money. A few days after that, Alice came over to apologize and to ask if we could be friends again. We never learned who lived in that house on the corner with the garden of roses. We moved away a few years later, as did most of my friends. But sometimes, when I think of the fun times I had with my friends on that street, I will think about that house. I find that I like to think I was right, and I often hope that true love broke the witch’s curse.


With each passing person, their information blinks in the left corner of my vision. Their names, occupations, home addresses, height, weight, hair and eye color and other things deemed “useful” by Tyrex Industries. I am the last of the Vega-12 experimental program. I am the last Replica. I am an android living in a human's world. Replicas have been declared illegal on Earth. Well they’re illegal outside of Tyrex Industries at least. I escaped weeks ago, I wanted more out of my life. I wasn’t about to be someone’s pleasure model. Instead I was trained in hand to hand combat, military skills, along with some self defense and martial arts. Although my body and face are still built as a pleasure model, my body is a concealed weapon of power, force and strength. My escape has been on the down low, I doubt the police informed the public. The last thing they need is thousands of people in a panic. The panic would make it easier for me to leave the city. I’m sure they have Hound Dogs looking for me. Hound Dogs are special police task force units designed strictly for the detection and execution of Replicas. Like me. Luckily enough I have yet to cross the path of one, then again I’m good at passing as a human. If they suspect a Replica they’ll administer the HURA test. Human Empathic Reactions Assessment. I’ve always passed as a human. I’ve only been given it twice, but that still is too many for me. I would have thought a Hound Dog would have found me out by now, I’ve been on the run for three weeks. I’ve seen many Hounds but they never catch on. For a Replica, surviving three weeks is pretty astonishing. Either the Hounds aren’t doing their jobs very well or I’m just exceptionally good at outwitting them. I like to think the latter. Rain starts to patter down on the window of the cafe and people outside flee to shelter. I pull my hair up into a ponytail as I stand up, and make my way to the door. I smile quickly at the barista before exiting the cafe and stepping out into the cool rain. Neon signs glow in the gloomy atmosphere of the city, illumination reflected off of water on the street. Vehicles zoom by both on the street and in the air. The city never seems to stop for a second. There is always movement. I tilt my head to the sky and let the cold rain droplets splash my face. It’s been so long since it last rained. The air is cool and refreshing against my skin. I shake my head to shake away the rain droplets and then down the sidewalk I go. Passing under neon signs and passing by shops, people seem to part and make a path for me. I know it’s because they’re trying to escape the rain but sometimes I worry. I mean I have a valid reason to worry, there are Hound Dogs hunting for me and me alone. I’m worried I might slip and leak that I am a Replica. It’s not terribly hard to pass as a human though. I was gifted with memories and emotions, human qualities. I was given an unlimited lifespan meaning without any kind of external resistance, I can live forever. I have developed my own emotions to things though. My childhood memories are still implanted, fake, but I am aware of what’s real and what’s fake. As long as I “forget” of life back at the Tyrex Industry, I should be fine. Considering all the people who moved to off world habitations, there still are a lot of people here in this city. Lucky for me though there are a lot abandoned apartment buildings and hotels. I step inside my apartment building, and I say my because I have the whole building to myself. No one else lives here. I push the elevator button and the door opens with a little dinging sound. I step inside and press the button for my floor, number eight. After a few moments, the door whooshes open and I step into the hall, my heels clicking and clacking on the floor as the echoes reverberate through the emptiness. I walk down the hall approaching my apartment until I hear movement, shuffling and some cussing. Glass shatters, “Shit!” A man’s voice yells. The door to apartment 850 is open and a young man, about 23, stands over broken glass with some boxes behind him. “Are you okay? I heard the glass break.” I question, gaining his attention. “Sorry, I didn’t know anyone lived here--“ “I live in 852. I’m Robyn.” I reply. I look into his eyes and then focus on my visual information log. Name Ryan Davis, age 23, height 5’ 11”, weight unknown, occupation Hound Dog, badge number 0-1-1-2-5-7, address-- I unfocus from the informational data. This man’s badge number is identical to my serial number. 0-1-1-2-5-7. It’s impossible. This has never happened, this has never happened in the history of ever. “I’m Ryan,” he says softly, his voice warm and tender, not something I was expecting. I plaster a smile to conceal my slight worry, “Nice to meet you Ryan, oh and try not to cut yourself while cleaning up that glass,” I say and then turn away, heading to my own apartment. I step inside and lock the deadbolt on my door. The only other person in this building is a person whose job is to hunt me down and kill me. Talk about luck! Rotten luck, but still luck! The badge and my serial numbers, this doesn’t bode well. I’m not one for superstitions, omens or anything like that but this can’t be a good sign. I turn on my photo analyzer and slide a picture into the examining slot. The screen blinks to life and then the photo appears. I sink down and sit on the floor, carefully looking over my photo. I’m standing on a sidewalk in a Chinatown. I’m standing and smiling while pointing to a neon shop sign, with a doughnut in my other hand. “Zoom in 12 percent, 23 to 34. Stop. Pan right. Stop. Pull back.” The machine clicks with each verbal command. “Enhance and zoom 56 to 73. Stop. Sharpen the image. Clean it up. Pan right two degrees and stop. Print a hard copy.” The machine prints out the enhanced portion of my photo. It’s a man in the background, carefully observing me from afar, with the collar of his coat turned upwards. I can’t see much of his face but he looks somewhat familiar. Rather than go searching for his face, I’ll focus on his coat. It has a small insignia on the right upper sleeve. An image of a bloody snake wrapped around a thorny rose. I’ve never seen this image before but it obviously means something to this guy. I have to find him and get rid of him before he can get rid of me. I don’t want to be executed just because I’m a Replica, I haven’t done anything wrong. In this world the people don’t care about right or wrong though. All that matters to them is that I am not human like them. I shut the machine off, stuff the picture under my couch cushions and then slowly shuffle to the kitchen. In the silence of my apartment, I can hear muffled voices from next door. Ryan’s apartment. It sounds like he’s on the phone with someone. “Yes, I’ve seen her. -- No, I don’t need another briefing. I’VE SEEN THE PICTURES ALREADY. IT’S HER. -- No, she doesn’t know, but she’ll suspect soon enough. -- I know what my job is, I’M WORKING ON IT. -- Look, she caught me off guard earlier. I know it’s her, I’ve been-. -- Are you sure? -- Yep, I can do that. She’ll pass the HURA again though. We both know. You know it, I know it--“ I stop listening. He knows I’m a Replica. But how? Did Tyrex Industries give them a photograph? I changed my hair and stuff but are they that good? Have they known the entire time? Have I been watched and tailed the whole time? I thought I was passing really well. I got a job and everything to blend in. I need to get out of here. Right now. I throw my coat on in a hurry and run towards my window. I don’t know if I can climb down the side of a building in the rain but looks like if I don’t I’ll be killed. I guess it’s better to risk it. I pull the window open and look outside, the rain pouring heavily now. The ledge looks treacherous. Immediate death just waiting to happen. Too bad this place didn’t invest in a fire escape, it would be useful right about now. Maybe I can climb up the roof, it’s a lot closer than the ground. I inch my way out onto the ledge and look around for something to grab. There’s not a lot, a roof drainage pipe and another window ledge a little higher up. I take my chance with the higher ledge and pull myself up. Without hesitation, I kick the window in and climb inside. I exit the apartment and run down to the end of the hallway. I come face to face with a door labeled ‘Rooftop Maintenance ONLY.’ I turn the door handle, but it doesn’t budge, it’s locked. “Damn it!” I exclaim under my breath. With a few solid kicks, the door swings open, revealing stairs. I dash up them to the roof. The rain pelts down on my hair and coat. I look around frantically searching for somewhere to go. Rooftop after rooftop are my only options. If that Hound is looking for me, it won’t take him long to realize that I went up instead of down. I look at the building next door and decide to make a running jump for it. I run and brace myself to not make it, the jump feels like I’m flying and time seems to stand still for a moment, until my feet make contact with the next rooftop. I look back and see that I made it. I almost let out a squeal of joy. I run to the rooftop access door and swing it open, running down the stairs as fast as I can. I follow the stairs, spiraling downwards until I find a door labeled ‘Ground Floor.’ Dazed and confused, I look around for an exit sign or a door. Unsure where to go, I carefully tip toe around, looking for a way out of here. I spot an exit and sprint to it. I shake the door, but it’s locked. I grab the nearest object and smash the door’s glass. I run out into the rainy city, down an alley and away from my apartment building. *** I sit in the cafe, my back to the door. A few other people also are here. I take the cup of hot cocoa in my cold hands, trying to absorb some warmth. I bring the cup to my lips and take a few sips. I then turn the collar up on my coat as a few more people step inside the cafe. “Look, I’m sorry. I lost her, for now. I’ll find her again--” It’s Ryan’s voice, “Can I get a coffee, black?” “Sure thing,” the barista replies. Ryan sits down in a booth right behind me. I slowly turn my head to see that he has his back to me. Maybe I can leave without him seeing my face. I quickly finish my drink and then slowly get up. I take one more quick look at him and notice a familiar symbol on his coat sleeve. A bloody snake wrapped around a thorny rose. I turn so my face is away from him and then I make my way to the door. I slip outside and begin to panic. He’s been following me. Why hasn’t he killed me yet? He recognized me right away back at the apartment. Hound Dogs don’t care about killing Replicas in public. A tap on my shoulder breaks me away from my thoughts. It’s Ryan. “Why haven’t you killed--” “What generation are you?” His voice cold and emotionless. “What?! You should already know--” “I won’t ask again.” “Vega-12. Your people should know that already. They should have told you.” “They did. I just wanted you to admit it as proof that you’re a Replica. Now can I kill you.” His voice empty and cold, like the rain. “What’s your badge number?” I whisper weakly as fear overcomes me. I was trained as a fighter but right now I feel like a field mouse that’s about to be devoured by a lion. “0-1-1-2-5-7. Why?” “Because my serial number is 0-1-1-2-5-7.” “That’s not possible--“ His shock and confusion is just the advantage I need, letting fight or flight take control, I choose both. I fight him and get him laying on the ground, and then I turn to run. I’m not ready to die just yet. *** I can’t run forever, I’m getting tired. It’s been a few hours, so maybe I’m okay for now. I don’t even know where to run to anymore. I lean against a building and try to catch my breath. The rain has finally stopped, giving way to a starry night. I can’t go to my apartment, the cafe isn’t safe, and it would be suicide to go back to Tyrex Industries. I literally have nowhere to go. I hear the sound of a gun getting cocked, and then I feel the cold barrel pressed against the back of my head. “Just make this look good, trust me,” Ryan’s voice whispers. “Like I can trust a Hound, but what choice do I have? You’re the one with the gun,” I whisper back. He leads me down an alley, out of sight from the street. His car sits idling. He raises his gun and fires twice into the air, to make people think he’s killed me. “Why--” “Get in the car. We need to talk.” Despite my better instincts, I obey and get in the car with him. The heater blows softly, making the inside of the car warm. He puts it in gear and we start driving. “Where the hell did you learn to fight like that? You did one hell of a number.” “Classified training. Enough with the small talk, get to the point Mr. Davis,” I sneer. “Okay look, I did a little digging into the Tyrex Industry and your serial number doesn’t exist. It’s not in their system, hell it's not in our system either. As far as Tyrex and this city is concerned, you don’t exist.” “No, I escaped from there! There has to be some sort of mistake, or something!” I raise my voice. “Unless you’re not an original Tyrex creation. You might not--” I cut him off. “What? Someone else creates Replicas? So someone else created me? What the hell is going on here?!” Disbelief courses through me. “I’d like to ask you the same thing, I did my research! According to Tyrex’s and our systems you don’t exist! Which means you can’t be a Replica. It appears that someone wanted to disguise you as one though. And they almost did pretty good, but they forgot to create the Replica files. You would think that someone would have caught on sooner.” “So am I... a human or something else?” My voice quakes with a whisper. “I don’t know, which means there’s something more going on here that someone really wants to hide,” Ryan whispers gently.