In the dew-drenched radiance of an early spring morning, a sylph touched down gingerly on a flower bud. She reached in a tiny, translucent finger and tickled the bud, giggling in a chime-like timbre as her touch coaxed out a wave of infinitesimal seeds. With a wave of her free hand, she conjured a slight breeze, scattering the seeds across the floral field, hoping to fill in any gaps hungry birds and tiny mammals had made. Spring was the season of renewal, after all, after winter where old and weak things were discarded to be replaced or returned anew once the frosts thawed. The eternal dance of the spirits made sure that this cycle continued. The sylph was just one tiny part of that. And even now, she could tell that other parts were moving. She could sense traces of obscure magic known only to the Cenairot, or time spirits, at work in this meadow. The sylph cocked her head, wondering what it could all mean. Every being in Estrevaire had noticed the new darkness infiltrating the world, a slow rot grown from a corrupted seed planted a millennia ago. But whenever Cenairot were involved...well, if the stories were anything to go by, things were about to get real interesting. Curious as could be, the typically flighty sylph decided to stick around. Perhaps she could catch a glimpse of what the time spirits had in store. Come to think of it, she had heard the memories inside flowers as she went about her duties here. Hadn't there been something about a girl imprisoned here? No, not imprisoned; it hadn't been anything so dark as that. What had the flowers called it? A hibernation, that was it! If that didn't have the stink of the Cenairot all over it, nothing did. Wysteria Morningsong stepped from the tiny log hut, taking a deep breath to bring the scents of spring back to her nostrils. It had been so long since she'd last experienced such a heavenly aroma; two hundred and some odd years, in fact. But she didn't have any way of knowing that. After all, she'd been asleep that whole time. Now, it seemed the world needed her again. It had called and would, of course, be answered. But first...you couldn't fault a girl for stopping to smell the roses, could you? Wysteria bent down, not caring about the dew soaking into her the plain linen robe she'd woken in. She set down the empty teacup, which she'd found full and steaming, and sweetened with just a hint of honey, the way she liked it, by her bedside. She wanted both hands to caress the soft blossoms that bedecked this gorgeous field. As she knelt, absorbing the sweet sensations of the living world, unwittingly being observed by a whole host of spirits, the sylph included, she began to hum a soft tune. It was one taught to her years and years before, and across the way, she could see the flower associated with it. Streiaciia, or Star-Glove, it was called. It was a white puffball flower that shone faintly white in the new moon, as if in defiance of the darkness. That was always your favorite, wasn't it, Fennali? I remember the bouquet you gave me on our wedding day, all those years ago. You told me that a million of them could never shine half as bright as my eyes. Wysteria fiddled with the groove in her finger, worn in by many years of love, deeper and more robust than the most potent whiskey, and twice as fiery. Tears ran down Wysteria's face as she recalled her wife, now buried in a cairn like her Rhino clan ancestors, surrounded and covered in a vast blanket of Streiaciia. Some day, Wysteria would dance with Fennali again along the arms of constellations. Today was not that day, however. She had a duty to complete. Fennali had always been a patient woman; she could wait a few more millennia. Wysteria rose to her feet and scooped up the empty cup, banishing tears with a seraphic smile. Spring was the time of rebirth, which meant Wysteria could start fresh. She followed a path through the meadow that she knew well, being extra careful with her step to avoid crushing any flowers. Before long, she could hear the laughing stream that filled the pool around the sacred tree, and with it, the deific song that only one so deeply attuned to nature could listen in on. It was deep and resonant, speaking to a time long before the world as it was known when Quellaphae the Heart Tree had first been planted. It had been a time of entropy when its pink-tinged bark and pointed purple leaves had stood as a symbol of rightness and order in the world. To this day, it stood as a guardian of these same principles. Its song is still healthy and vibrant. I wonder who's tending to it now? She didn't have to wait long to find out. Dwarfed by the massive roots of Quellaphae--the thinnest of which was a meter across--was a singular lithe figure, which seemed to be plucking weeds from the loamy earth around the trunk. It immediately stiffened and stilled at the sound of her approach. Wysteria's smile broadened; very impressive! As always, she'd been reverently silent on her arrival to the great tree, but still, the woman had noticed her presence. "No need to halt your work on my behalf, good caretaker. I'm merely pleased to see Quellaphae in such good hands. It's only just past Tea Hour, and you're already hard at work!" There was a noticeable smile in the woman's voice as she stood and brushed dirt from her pants. "And good morning to you, Lady Oracle. I trust you slept well?" "Very well. There is nothing like a two-century-long nap to make a woman feel lively as the birds and the bees!" The woman turned, and immediately, Wysteria was hit with a wave of sweet nostalgia. Her long hair pulled into two tight braids, looked as soft as silk and vibrant like cloth-of-gold, and her eyes, filled with deep care for all living beings, were a familiar emerald shade that sent her heart beating fast all over again. "That's good to hear, lady Oracle. You'll have your work cut out for you, I believe. Oh, and I believe my great grandsire would smack my soul if I dared forget to relay this.” She scrunched up her brow, as if trying to remember what she had been told to say. ‘Welcome back to the world, dear Wysteria. I'm afraid we've left it a bit worse for wear. But, as I learned from years of working at your side, you're quite adept at cleaning up primordial messes. It shouldn't be an issue for you. Best of luck and love eternal, Brynhildr!" "She looks and sounds so much like you, my dearest friend, but I'm sure you know that," Wysteria whispered into the empty air. "You live inside the tree now, don't you?" On the breeze came a sound that could have been a bug or a leaf caught just the right way, but Wysteria chose to believe it was him, observing the interaction in his elemental state, which he'd achieved shortly before she went into stasis. "Knowing you, you told your children to pass that down to theirs so that whenever one of them met me again, they could say that." No answer was forthcoming, but Wysteria got the sense she was right. She smiled helplessly. Alright, let's see what you've left me with. With any luck, it will be enough to save the world yet again. Wysteria closed the distance between herself and the half-elven woman, extending a hand and pressing it into hers. "Please, after the first hundred years, I grew weary of the formality. Just Wysteria will do." The pretty young woman bobbed her head, a pale blush coming to the smooth white cheeks. In those cheeks, Wysteria could see signs that this woman smiled well and often. She must make others quite happy when she graces them with her presence. Anything else just wouldn't be fitting of Brynhildr's descendants. "Wysteria it is then." She bowed hastily. "I apologize if I seem nervous. There are many stories about you, and many were passed down through our family as if they were our own. Meeting you is such a huge honor. I'm sure the other druids will be equally excited. Um, is it true that you devoured a time god?" Wysteria couldn't help but give a very unladylike snort of laughter. "Is that what they're saying now? I mean, it's not strictly untrue. I don't know how to answer that, to be honest. Give me some time to think, and I'll get back to you." "Well, if the stories are true, then you'll have plenty of it!" Wysteria blinked and then let out a healthy chortle. "We'll get along swimmingly, I can tell already. Now, what was your name? I don't believe you've said it." The half-elf woman clapped her hands over her mouth. "Look at me. You've been asleep for more than four times as long as I've been alive, and I'm the one forgetting my manners! Please, call me Lyfallah or Leafah for short. If you'd woken in time for morning tea, you could have met my wife, Allegra. She's out reporting to the druids as we speak.” Leafah gestured vaguely out of the sanctuary "As you may have guessed by the fact that you're awake right now, things have been pretty hectic. Everyone will be glad to see you back. Not having our spiritual leader around hasn't been easy on morale." Wysteria put a comforting hand on the younger woman's shoulder. "I've always been averse to being the gloating crow upon the parapet, so I'll only reassure you. Whatever is going on here, fear not. Our order has withstood far worse, and we'll do so again. I believe in our strength...What’s the matter?" Leafah was staring at the Tan'yuivar Oracle with open-mouthed admiration. "I see why Great Ancestor Brynhildr held you in such high esteem." "If a few words were enough to win your respect, I'm a mite worried about the state of my precious order," Wysteria joked lightly. "But, in all seriousness, Lyfallah, I'm excited to work with you, your wife, and all the other wonderful men and women. Quellaphae has brought us together, just as it brought together your great grandfather and his wife. We’ll band together to protect Quellaphae and Estrevaire as a whole, and we won't fail." "We don't have a choice," Lyfallah said gravely. "Because it's us, or the world." "Precisely." Wysteria graced the woman with another smile. "And if you fight as well as you brew tea, I'm not worried at all."


Part I~The Pacific “Ok, Aquila , you should be approaching the site about. . . now,” the intercom murmured. A little submarine was inching across the sea floor, about six hundred miles off the coast of what was once California. “No, I’m not seeing it, and we could’ve passed it already. Doesn’t help that the ocean floor’s so. . . rocky here,” Eualia said, lacking any confidence. Eualia was the curator of the Mars Galactic Archives, established in the year 04037. She had named the submarine Aquila , after her favorite greek myth, and Eualia was quite sure she was the only person living on Mars that knew anything significant about ancient Greece, even though Mars was a Greek myth too. She found that rather ironic. “Wait. Stop! Back up a little,”Sulo blurted out. “I thought I saw it,” Sulo Aiken was Eualia’s research assistant, and often was the first to see something. “Okay, where? All I’ve seen is rocks for the last two hours,” Eualia said exasperatedly. “That way.” He adjusted the viewing lights, revealing a glinting metallic object, just barely poking out of the muddy bottom. Both researchers’ heartbeats quickened. “Sorry, you did see. . . is that really the capsule?” She extended a long, slithering robotic arm, and grabbed hold of the thing. With a sharp jolt of the thrusters, the object came free of the sand with a whoomp. Eualia brought it past the glass, and surely enough, they were both staring at an easily four meter long torpedo shaped capsule. One could just make out the depressions of letters milled into the capsule: Do not disturb this vault until 03500 C.E. Left in the year of 02029 C.E. “So the map was right. Huh,” Sulo remarked. In his hand he held a perfect copy of the etched globe they had discovered two years before. Disguised among the land forms, barely readable, was a string of coordinates. And those Coordinates led them here. “Sea Hub, we’re coming up. We believe to have found it at last,” Eualia informed the intercom. “Roger, Aquila . We’ll have the platform ready.” With that, Aquila began the lengthy climb up to the surface. Part II~Location Unknown Deep in a subterranean laboratory, Oddmund De Vroom was pacing furiously. “Damn, they found it ay? Who let this happen ! I thought we sent a crew to intercept their craft!” he thundered in a strong British accent that nobody really had anymore. “I do not know, sir. We shall see shortly,” his young assistant replied with foolish sarcasm. “ What? Ugh, why did I hire you? Security, take him away.” Security did just that, as the assistant half squealed in protest. There was a thud as he was hurled out the door, and the door clanged shut. “He won’t last long in the cold,”De Vroom remarked. “Oh, I have a message?” He checked his computer terminal. Away crew #1 Here. We failed to intercept the submersible craft, they have already docked to the floating research hub. As you know, the research hub is armed to a degree that prevents us from safely making a raid. Obliteration would be likely. END OF TRANSMISSION De Vroom muttered something rude, and furiously punched in the following reply: De Vroom Speaking, the one who happens to be paying you. I don’t care how dangerous it is, get it finished. You understand how valuable that capsule is? END OF TRANSMISSION Part III~The Pacific Eualia and Sulo emerged from the Submarine to a small, but jubilant crowd of engineers and colleagues on the well deck. The capsule was lifted from the Aquila ’s cargo rack, and placed upon a folding table that had been set up. A hush fell over the crowd, aside from an occasional murmur. A friend of Eualia’s produced the original globe, that they had discovered in the Himalayas two years prior. Eualia began to announce the significance of the event: “We discovered this globe due to a stray radio signal that our transmitters were picking up, which turned out to be intentional. On the globe was a number of symbols, which my partner Sulo deciphered as co-ordinates. After multiple attempts to find the location, today we finally pinpointed it, and on that exact site was this capsule. Now, if I remember correctly, by twisting the two halves of the globe apart, a key should be revealed.” She slowly pulled the globe apart, and within, was a short metal rod, with several indentations. Please work, I’m relying on you, key, Eualia thought. With extreme caution, Eualia inserted the key into a small opening on the top of the cylinder. Clik! The top smoothly hinged open, revealing a thick envelope, and many things that looked to be ancient. The crowd began to cheer with great enthusiasm, as she removed the envelope, and passed it around. Booom! The station violently shook, and everybody but Eualia and Sulo were thrown off their feet. Booom! Another shock hit, and this time Eualia tumbled over. “Station under attack!” bellowed the security officer, “Man the laser repulsers!” “The station’s never been attacked before, and of all times, ” Sulo said wearily. “Shut the capsule. Now!” Eualia hollered at Sulo over the roar of artillery. He tossed the envelope back in, and shut the lid. “We can’t move it out of here, it’s too heavy.” Suddenly, the station began to lean sharply, and the cylindrical capsule began to roll rapidly towards the opening in the well deck. “Noooooo!” It was too late. The capsule clanged into the submarine parked in the well deck, and Plunk. Down the capsule fell, into the abyss once more. Part IV~Location Unknown De Vroom slouched on an expensive reclining chair, and giggled. Well, almost giggled. Before him was the time capsule that just a day before had been in the hands of Mars Galactic Archives’s researchers. He looked about it playfully, and upon seeing the keyhole, his face broke into a nasty grimace. He cursed, and said: “ They, have, the key! Ooooh,” he groaned. “Tell the away crew that their job is nowhere near done,” De Vroom informed his new assistant. “But” the assistant stammered. “Of course I know we only have one vessel left! Get out of here.” Part V~Mars Eualia paced about her cliffside apartment, which happened to have a great view of Olympus Mons, as well as the expansive city below. Another Greek name that no one cares about, she thought. Now talking to herself, she said: “There’s no way that space pirates would attack exactly on the hour that we discover something so important out of coincidence. And then that capsule rolled perfectly out of the well deck! They must have targeted the pontoon on that side of the base. All that fuss over a time capsule? They lost all but one ship, which happened to be the one carrying the capsule. Hmm.” At least they don’t have the key , she remembered. “Ah!” Eualia walked over to her micro book rack, home to many thousands of volumes, all printed microscopically to save space. She looked under P, and found a book called: “The most infamous space pirates - A traveler’s guide.” “Maybe this could give me an idea of who did it?” She turned on a micro book reader, and began to cycle through the pages. The security officer aboard the research base had managed to snap a photo of the ship’s flag, and Eualia began to compare the flag in the photo to the ones in the book. “Rabues, no, The Plasmised Gang, no, Alectra Piracy treaty, nope. Ah, is that it? De. . .Vroom. . . Incorporated. What a strange name. Lore: The De Vroom family has long been involved in the piracy community, looking for a so called ‘Cylinder of Ultimate Power’, fabled to hold the secret to creating perfect artificial intelligence. . . So that’s what they are after.” Part VI~ “Hello?” Eualia called out groggily. Her holo-clock read 2:07. Eualia had been startled awake by muffled thumping and something that sounded like. . .glass being shattered? This thought jolted Eualia awake. She sprang out of bed, picked up her stun rifle, and slowly opened her door. The moment she did, the sound stopped. “Who. .Who’s there,” she said uncertainly, inching forward. When she poked her head around the corner, to her horror she saw a figure standing there, just an outline. Eualia reeled back, surprised. She pointed her weapon around the corner and barked “Stop, um Hands Up!” “Don’t mind me missy,”he replied quite rudely. And then, it was lights out for Eualia. Part VII~ When she came to, a worried Sulo was hovering over her. “Let me guess, I have a big bruise on my forehead or something.” Eualia said. “I am afraid so. Here,” Sulo helped her up, and Eualia was shocked to see her apartment an utter mess. The glass coffee table had shattered disastrously, and several shelves had been upturned. “What the. . .” “I am wondering the same thing,” Sulo said. “I can actually guess who did this.” “Who, but why?” “Remember the attack on the research station? I think whoever ransacked my apartment was also responsible for this. Have you heard of De Vroom Incorporated?” “Yes, actually. Once on the news.” “I was thinking yesterday, and realized that they might be responsible for the theft of the time capsule. I looked them up in a book, and according to that, they’ve been searching for the capsule, like, forever and now they’ve stolen the key! Ugh, the second I thought of that , I should’ve got to safety. It’s my fault.” “I didn’t know you had taken the globe when we abandoned the research base. I’m sorry Eualia,” Sulo said glumly. “Hopefully the Police can fix this, cause otherwise the entire galaxy’s done for.” “What? Whaddaya mean done for?” “Apparently the capsule contains the instructions to build the world’s first true AI. Somebody like that surely isn’t going to use it for anything good , right?” “I’ll call the police right now,”Sulo said, rapidly punching in the number into his comms device. Part VIII~Location Unknown De Vroom was growing more and more impatient by the second. The key was supposed to be delivered over an hour ago. “Have those Buffoons lost it?”he muttered. Almost in answer to his question, De Vroom heard a distant tapping of feet along the stone floor. This was followed by a security door opening a hallway down. The footsteps were getting closer. This is it! he thought. When the final security door into his rooms opened, he was greeted by his assistant, with the key on a silken platter. What he wasn’t expecting was the twenty or so armed policemen escorting him. “Hello, sir! You may see I brought some friends. They are here because that poor nice lady you stole the key from tipped them off. And they offered me a pre-tty nice reward if I helped with your capture! Good by, sir,”his assistant said in gleeful mockery. “The De Vroom reign of piracy is over,” the Chief of police remarked. Behind him stood the woman his men had robbed. “I’ll be taking this,”she said triumphantly. She wheeled a cart up to the capsule, and lowered it down. Oddmund De Vroom was taken into custody, and immediately led to the Police Cruiser. On Eualia’s way out, she slipped a small note into De Vroom’s hand. It read simply: The capsule will be waiting for you when you are released. I’ve been looking for you, Father. -E D V


“My chest hurts” I tell the doctor. “It feels like something is trying to escape”. “Hmm... I’m not seeing anything. I don’t hear or feel anything. Without any more symptoms, I’m afraid I can’t help. Hopefully it goes away on its own”. I go through life with this pain. It comes in waves. Some days I hardly notice it, other days it’s unbearable and I can’t do anything but lie in bed. This heavy feeling, like I’m being suffocated, is torturous. I feel it moving inside my body. I swear I’ve seen something push against my chest. Doctors never find anything no matter how many tests they do. Some say it’s even in my head. Walking the halls of school feels terrible. It feels like everyone can see the pain and yet no one sees me at all. I feel invisible and yet entirely exposed. My grades slip. They don’t take ‘chest parasite’ as an excuse though. “You just need more focus. If you would actually pay attention and do the work, you would excel just like you used to”. I used to do amazing. I used to have straight A’s in everything. I used to be motivated and hopeful. I had things I aspired to do. But this pain is so distracting. This pressure and choking feeling make it difficult to focus on anything. The worst part is, I don’t think it’s just a chest parasite. I think it truly is a living creature that grows. I think it controls my choices and actions. I find that sometimes, this creature makes bad decisions for me. I feel like everyone can see it and it upsets people so I stop going out as much. I tell my mom this and she shrugs it off. It’s always shrugged off. It’s no big deal to her, and I don’t even talk to dad. He’d just say I need to man up. But it’s inside me, eating away. I feel it, I hear it, I know it’s there. My girlfriend broke up with me yesterday. I kept trying to tell her about the parasite but she couldn’t see it. She said I changed, that I was exhausting and a burden. At least that’s what I heard. Why couldn’t she see the parasite? It feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest. It constricts my heart, creating bizarre rhythms that feel like a heart attack waiting to happen. I can’t control how exhausting I am, so I guess I’ll stay at home more. I won’t bother finding another girlfriend or making new friends. The old ones left; I became too much of a drain to be around. One night, lying in bed, I feel it move inside me. It likes to remain hidden, make everyone see me as insane. But it tortures me. It plays with me. I watch as it moves in my chest, a small bump sliding under my skin. It moves down my stomach and to my thighs. I feel a sharp slice as a gash appears. I never see the parasite, but it just cut me. It opened me up in a thin red ribbon. It knows, no one will see this. It knows I won’t show anyone. They all think I’m crazy, so why bother. It does another cut. It hurts, but it almost feels good. Sometimes it turns my emotions off, makes me numb. It’s allowing me to feel this pain and I almost enjoy feeling something. I wear pants the next week. I decide to hide the parasite, pretend it doesn’t exist. I don’t speak to anyone anymore. I feel insane, how can someone not notice a creature living inside of me. I have no friends; my ex-girlfriend has blocked me. My teachers have stopped trying to get me to participate. I go home and lie in bed. I don’t sleep. I just stare at the ceiling, thinking through my choices in life. The parasite grows bigger, clutching my heart and lungs. Sometimes I can’t breathe. I almost enjoy the ritual of it slicing my legs and arms. It feels normal. I feel like I can finally see it. No one else does. I stand on a bridge. The water cools the air to an almost painful temperature but I hardly notice. I only notice the pain. The parasite hasn’t let go of my heart in 3 days now. It hurts. I would cry, but I can’t. I feel empty. There’s only one way to end this pain, one way to escape. I’ve written a note, letting my parents know that the parasite finally got me. I feel almost happy. I’m excited to not feel this pain in my chest, my brain, my stomach anymore. I’m confused though. The parasite seems almost happy too. Like this is what it wants. Like this is what it’s been pushing me to do for so long. No matter, as it’s finally time to end the parasite. I’ve been invisible my whole life. No one saw the parasite, no one realized the pain even when I tried to explain it. No one realized that the reason I was so exhausting as a person was that I felt so much pain all the time from this parasite. No one realized that the reason I never hung out with them wasn’t because I hated them, but because I hated myself. Maybe the parasite isn’t real. It felt real to me but I was told it’s in my head. I tried exercise, I tried dieting, I tried going outside and socializing. Just like my dad told me. It didn’t work. It helped, but the parasite stayed there, holding on. I jump. The parasite finally lets go of my heart. I finally can breathe again.


Here's a short story a wrote sometime last year. I think, ideally, this would end up being a scene in a larger piece but I'm happy with it for now.  March had been unseasonably warm in St. Louis. A dense humidity hung everywhere --almost panging for the release of rain-- yet still, after every storm, persisting. This odd wash of jungle air, coupled with the building owner’s miserly decision to forgo turning on the air-conditioning, had turned the examination rooms of Clark-Horace County Hospital into George Monroe’s personal, scalpel-adorned, sauna. The rundown building was poorly insulated and had a habit of providing you with a clear imitation of whatever conditions befell the outside world. If it was windy, you could expect a draft; if there was a storm, the doors would be leaking; and on a day like today, the oxygen choking atmosphere was well-at-home in every hall and office. George, who studied Biology at Michigan and subsequently served his residency at St. Luke’s in Duluth, had a cooler temperament. Since moving to Missouri last September, he found it difficult to adjust to the Midwest’s uniquely fickle climate. These past two weeks, his usually brisk Sunday-morning plunge down the elevators to the basement examination rooms of Clark-Horace felt more like a dive into some thick Amazonian canopy. He had even resorted to taking brief breaks in what was apparently the only room in the building required-by-law to be kept at a comfortable temperature-- the morgue cooler. Dave and Janice, his coworkers, liked to give him a hard time about this particular habit. “Frosty the Snowman's gotta get to his cooler before he melts away!” was a favorite of theirs, referencing the admittedly sluggish nature George took on when the heat started to get to him. It was of no consequence to him. The cooler always reinvigorated George and he - a licensed Autopsy Technician of almost three years now - was never bothered by the presence of dead bodies. But, today, there would be no teasing. He worked alone during the dreaded Sunday morning shift. Honestly, it suited him better. George had never been good at workplace chit-chat and he always felt at his most productive with headphones on and in near-solitude. Still, the workload on Sunday mornings was always a challenge for one person -- a sort-of reverse graveyard shift that rotated weekly between the three of them. Even as he worked, George could feel his glasses slide down his nose. He took near-continuous pauses to push them back up to his eyes with the back of his wrist. A pool of salty dew formed directly under the bridge of his black wayfarer frames, acting as both an irritant to his eyes and a lubricant on which the glasses would languidly shift back down. He didn’t like to wear his glasses while working. He didn’t like his glasses at all, in fact, and had years ago resolved to only wear them when he was colossally hungover, which he decisively was. His friends had made a point to tell him that his upcoming morning shift would not alter their plans of brewery hopping the night before. He had long ago agreed to the affair and so resigned himself to his eventual fate of bludgeoning headaches and nausea. George didn’t have any particular love for the craft beer scene his friends so delighted in. The complex chemistry of artisanal recipes and their ever-expanding hierarchy of styles, colors, ingredients, flavors, and off-flavors had never inspired him to dive nearly as deep as his companions had into the fanatic lifestyle of small-batch brewing. He did, however, enjoy the company of his friends and (being completely frank with himself) he enjoyed the different tastes of the beers they tried. It was the in-depth analysis that irked him. The sense that you must mine every last ore and ingot of knowledge from every sip and understand, not only the complex palette of flavors therein but also the *intention* behind those flavors. Anything less and you were wasting your time and should promptly “fuck off to a sports bar and order a Bud-Light if you just want to get drunk.” But, it got you drunk all the same. One of the dangers of craft beer, and perhaps most responsible for George’s suffering today, was the alcohol content. These were not the canned pilsners that he and his college friends stacked 30-high back in Ann Arbor. Some of these draughts would push north of 11% alcohol-by-volume! All of them deceptively draped in the added flavors of coffee or chocolate so as to slip past your better judgment. Some four or five drinks later, it would be too late, like when hypothermia cradles a stranded climber to sleep. George could still taste the brews from the night before. Or was he smelling them? Yes, the scent must be running out of his pores now, as his body desperately pushed the toxins out via any means necessary. The clear memory of the stygian stout burned clearly in all of his senses. The ghost of the dark liquid shot up his spine: Tahitian vanilla, with the viscosity of milk, high pointed with the ever-present, fiery notion of bourbon. He felt a chill up his neck and his stomach churned like the sea. George got too drunk, he decided. He should not have driven home, either. Usually, he did not recklessly endanger his own life like that. There was something about the jovial attitude of a night spent in drunken comradery that can give a man a dangerous level of confidence -- the kind that, if left unchecked for a few successes, leads one to believe they “drive better when they’re drunk.” He scolded himself. After all, he had seen many grotesque figures on this very table that used to “drive better drunk”. Such was the job, especially on the Sunday morning shift. Dave, another technician and five-years George’s senior at the hospital, had affectionately nicknamed it “Scared-Straight-Sunday” after the increased number of “patients” produced by accidents, overdoses, and any other form of dark debauchery that took place the night before. He used to joke that “after a year of Sundays seeing what people do to themselves when they’re fucked up”, you’d end up sober for the next ten years. George didn’t have to look any further than the bloated figure on the table below him. “D. Vernon.” Drowned. Fallen into some rough tide of the Mississippi, knocked unconscious judging by the laceration on the left-back of his head, and washed up down-river about eight hours later. The cut was deep and had swollen outward like a mouth nestled in the beard of D. Vernon’s long, wiry hair. He had a stern face, even after passing on. The face of a man with a short temper which, seeing his twice-broken nose and scarred knuckles, likely saw him in scuffles. He was the kind of guy who would accost you in the parking lot for pulling out in front of him, George imagined. His eyes screamed back up at George as if to say “Don’t you judge me, motherfucker. I get by.” George closed up the abdominal incision. This hangover had slowed him down more than he thought and he was behind schedule on gathering up the various tissue, blood, and hair samples. D. Vernon had been in the water long enough to cause his body to swell up though not long enough to totally distort his features. The man’s once-well-toned muscles were still visible beneath the quasi-gelatinous coat of his skin and the once-black ink of his numerous tattoos now glowed with an almost putrid green. He was like an action figure- some edgy, anti-hero character, perhaps- that was left out at the playground, melting and contorting under a brutal sun only to be snatched back up a moment too late. Toxicology would need to come back to officially determine whether or not drugs were involved in the accident, but the track marks on his arms seemed a clear enough indication at first. Stomach analysis proving his last meal to be little more than Adderall and french-fries was all the proof George needed. “Definitely time to dial it back,” George told himself. Odd. Suddenly George’s eyes were drawn back to the site of his incision. It had been a clean suture- straight and symmetrical. But now, at the midpoint, there rose a mound of skin in D. Vernon’s mid-section. “Damn this hangover”. George had always prided himself on his organization skills. Everything had its space on his tray and would, without fail, return to that space when its job was finished. Had he really been so careless? Sewn up one of his clamps inside the body? It was a troupe that surgeons heard frequently- leaving some instrument or another inside of a patient- but not during an *autopsy*. George scolded himself and snatched for a scalpel to reopen the poor man when he counted- no he hadn’t counted; he simply *knew*\- that all of his tools were still in their exact place. “A gas pocket?” He thought to himself. “Some residual pressure one of the untouched bloated organs had finally released?” No, this wasn’t right either. The bulge wasn’t rounded as bubbled air would be when pushing up against the skin. It was singular. Almost conical. As if someone had tied a string to the stitching in the center of the incision and pulled it upward. He reached a gloved hand down to the foreign mass and gave a firm press with his middle finger. It was lean. He could almost feel a rough texture to it through the skin. George’s examiner’s mindset must have left him at that moment. In one movement, he had snatched away his mask, uttered a choked shout and slid back against one of the brick walls of the examining room. These were not commanded movements. These were from a long-forgotten section of the lizard brain still intact underneath millions of years of evolution. The part of the brain that knows- truly knows- the sight of danger and when to shield its host from such things. For while George’s hand lay on the dead man’s strange internal growth, it began to move. Feverishly in slid inside poor D. Vernon’s cavity. But these were not erratic convulsions. Even if this man was a fresh corpse, any attempt to explain these movements away as some rare spasm of freshly-dead neural pathways would have to be swept away. These movements had purpose. And they were becoming wilder. They had an almost feral drive- now lifting the hips of the cadaver off of the table as they searched. No, they were not thrashing movements. They were poking, prodding at the inside walls of their decaying prison for any sign of air- like a house cat rooting around under a blanket. And then, all in a moment D. Vernon slammed back to the table, his stomach as flat as when he had arrived. There was a ringing in George’s ears which could only be the sound of that same lizard that pulled him to the wall, now screaming viciously- desperately- in his ear to run to the elevator. His eyes were clasped onto the figure, equally desperate for the cadaver to stay infinitely still- less the madness they had just witness continue and be committed to memory. It must have been his eyes that pulled him closer to the body still, feverishly wishing- begging- to prove that there was no movement left in this bloated corpse. Against every internal instinct, he slid toward the now frighteningly still cadaver, scalpel still in hand. The room was a vacuum, devoid of sound. So crushing was the silent pressure of this moment that George could hear his blood pumping into his brain, and that brain firing commands down to his right hand- *how was it so steady?* Slow and methodical, he began to unzip the stomach again, bisecting the original cut. The cold flesh gave way on either side like a blooming flower. George reached to spread the aperture further to reveal what was certainly madness incarnate within D. Vernon’s bowels. He should have rejoiced, he remembered thinking. The scene was completely normal- as normal as the bloated organs of a drowned drug addict could be. But it was the *lack* of evidence that shocked George. The way the immediate normalcy seemed to laugh in the face of what he, and his eyes, and his lizard brain had all witnessed. No sign of the hateful foreign body that had just moments ago attempted to wrench its way free from his patient. No sign of the damage that such a struggle should have certainly caused to the dead man’s insides. He tasted bile then. The ringing in his ears receded and the heavy gravity that held the room silent finally lifted. He could hear his arid respirations now louder than anything and he was reminded again how humid the room was. He was hyperventilating. In a mad dash, George threw the scalpel to the floor and made desperately for his refuge. He burst into the cooler, gasping and trying to settle his breathing. He leaned heavily on the open morgue drawer that had belonged to D. Vernon. Then George- thinking of the drowned man, and his hangover, and the horrors he had seen- in an attempt to lament, vomited.


Once upon a time - in the world that came before and the world that was to be, in a time long forgotten and in a time long-awaited - there was a boy who lived alone on the moon. He languished there, in solitude and without purpose. Empty. For the moon was forever lifeless and grey, without distinction and without contrast. And so, the boy as well knew not distinction and contrast, knew not love or hate or joy or sadness or anything in between. For how could a boy learn of such things in a land so devoid of everything? Thus, the boy existed - blind and deaf and mute and unfeeling and still, like the cold stone around him. He saw nothing with eyes that had never opened. He heard nothing with ears that had never listened. He touched nothing with hands that had never held anything. And he felt nothing with a heart that did not beat. Yet one day, someone suddenly appeared to him. “Dear friend, dear friend!” A girl of flame called from the rays of the sun, with a grin brighter than any star. “Come and meet with me! For company is sweet and an open ear, even sweeter!” But the boy does not understand. For here in the vast expanse of nothingness, there was nothing the boy wished to tell. Nothing the boy wished to convey. Nothing the boy wished to say. Confused and yet curious, the boy asked her, “Why must we speak?” “Oh, dear friend,” the Child of the Dawn laughed, “is that not a bleak question? Surely, it is better to ask, ‘Why must we not’?” And so, they spoke, and they answered. Questions of their worlds, questions of existence, and questions of each other. The Child of the Moon, once endlessly silent, now draws breath after breath for every uttered sentence. He speaks and speaks and speaks until the light fades and the girl bids him a peaceful sleep. “I’ll return upon the morrow!” She said, waving goodbye with a bright smile as she flickered away. “Tomorrow,” He said. The next day, true to her word, the girl came again. “Dear friend, dear friend!” The Child of the Dawn called merrily from over the horizon, “Come and sing with me! For a song shall surely bring a smile to your lips!” The boy frowns. He is confused once more. For how could one who had never felt happiness or sorrow or bliss or anger know what it is to express such things? So, the boy asked, “What is a song?” “Oh, dear friend,” the girl smiled knowingly, “If you wish to know what makes a song, then you need merely shout your heart to the heavens and let all listen to what comes.” And so, they played, and they sang. The girl laughed and danced with their harmony. Grand wings of radiant light burn with such otherworldly beauty that the boy cannot help but watch her. And as he does, the Child of the Moon - once endlessly cold - feels his lips slip into the barest shard of a simper. Yet, as she had done before, the girl bids him farewell upon the arrival of the twilight. “I’ll return upon the morrow.” The Child of the Dawn said with a tired grin, disappearing into orbs of light - like foam on a seashore - as he raised a hand and waved goodbye. “Tomorrow.” The Child of the Moon said in turn and wondered when it was that he began to notice the suffocating silence that fell upon the barren moon. The next day, as promised, the girl came once more. “Dear friend, dear friend.” The Child of the Dawn greeted him, a halo of light wreathing her arrival. “Come and fly with me. For the realm beyond awaits discovery.” The boy hesitated. For how could someone who had never gazed at the horizon know what it was to wonder what waited on the other side? How could someone who had never walked understand how to stand and leap and seek the mysteries that lay past light and dark? So, the boy asked, “Where should we go?” “Oh, dear friend.” The girl took his hands into her own. “An adventure has no true need of a destination.” And so, they rose, and they soared. Wings of dust gathered and spread over the boy’s back as hand-in-hand with his friend, they raced across the cosmos. As they do, the boy - once as stoic as the cold stones of the place he called his home - set his eyes upon all creation with bated breath. He greeted the sun and the heavens like old friends, marveled at the birth of a star, and mourned at the death of a world. On and on, they dashed through all of existence on flickering wings. Yet, as was expected, when they return upon the dim light of a weary sun, the girl bids him farewell. “Goodbye, dear friend.” The Child of the Dawn said with a sad smile, stepping back and disappearing with the dusk. “Tomorrow?” The Child of the Moon asked hopefully, alone on the grey moon as the girl faded away. Yet when the new day came, no sign of the girl came with it. Alone again, the boy looked towards the horizon as he had always done. He gazed at the heavens and knew something was lacking. He gazed at the stars and could not understand why they were silent. He gazed at the once bright cosmos and wondered when its grandness had become so faint and muted. Questions rage in his mind, and eventually, he realizes that he would not get his answers here. The boy stood. His wings spread, gleaming in the light of day like a kaleidoscope, and with a single, unexplainable longing in his heart, he takes flight once more. He climbed, higher and higher, until the Sun itself notices his rise. “Child of the Moon,” it called for the boy, “For what reason hast thou abandoned thine home?” “I wish to see my friend.” “And yet she is gone. Spirited away to the veil beyond time. To the world across our own. To a place we cannot reach. Knowing this, dost thou still wish to seek her?” I do.” The boy answered without hesitation. “Ah...I see. Just as the Child of the Dawn hast taught thee of companionship, so too hast thou learned of loneliness. Just as she hast taught thee of happiness, so too hast thou learned of grief. Just as she hast taught thee of thine heart, so too hast thou learned of thine self.” The Sun wept in sympathy. “Oh, misfortunate Child of the Moon. Hear mine humble self. Though thine friend is far, not all hope is lost. She waits still, in the realm beyond realms. Asleep and frozen within the threads of time. Bound and imprisoned in a place that both exists and does not exist. Shouldst thou reach her, only then will she awaken once more.” “How do I find this place?” The boy asked desperately. “Thou must search. Search without end - without falter. Strive and struggle with all thine might to reach that impossibility. Never waver in thine faith in her. Believe that just as thou seeketh thy friend, thy friend awaits thine own arrival. Then and only then may thou reunite with the Child of the Dawn.” And so, with steel in his eyes and a hope in his heart, the boy thanks the Sun and flies away. Relentlessly, he pursued that dream. Believed that just as he sought her, she awaited him. Even as eons passed and the stars of old were swallowed by oblivion, the boy continues to search for the girl. He sailed across the universe with wings of stardust, a journey that was perhaps without end and without rest. Yet he continued, regardless.


The night was cold, an angry wind swept through the trees. My dog and I were two miles into a hike near Cedar City, Utah. Most people didn’t like to hike at 2 a.m. in the middle of winter, but I’m not most people. The seclusion and danger of the hike made the trips a thrill. My dog was just excited to get out of the house. Trees stood around me, each of their needled arms trying to block the sky above me. A gentle snowfall had started moments earlier forcing me and Titan to turn back. “Sorry buddy, it’s time to go home.” Titan wagged his tail at the sound of my voice. He responded with a lift of his leg and a sprinkle on a nearby bush. My dog was the best companion for these hikes. A girlfriend might complain twenty minutes into the hike, a friend wouldn’t be interested unless alcohol was involved. No, these were my little getaways, just myself and my good boy. The large black dog cheerily followed me up the mountain, tongue wagging out the side of his mouth. His ears perked at the occasional sound deep in the woods, but he never strayed from my side. A powerful gust of wind snapped a branch somewhere in the mass of trees. The rustle of falling needles complimented the crack of splintering wood. A gentle cascade of snowflakes, shaken loose from the branches around me, danced in the glow my flashlight. There was an unmistakable energy present in the air. A second even stronger gust of wind nearly knocked me on my ass. The howling stung my face, the blanket of snow doubling in intensity. A blizzard had started. I pulled out the leash from my backpack. Titan sat down paw in the air in anticipation of it being hooked onto his collar. “Sorry buddy, just until we get to the car I promise.” He was a great dog, incredibly loyal, but even a loyal dog could get spooked. The nylon loop reassured me he’d stay by my side. Slowly, we trotted through the darkness of the mountain. With every passing minute the storm grew. What was initially a gentle snow fall had quickly escalated to a howling wind of icy shards. My nose and ears burned like I had been buffeted with a torrent of bees. Where had I parked the damn car? Crouching low to the ground, I placed my backpack on the snow in front of me. After a short while of rummaging, I pulled out my GPS. “What the hell.” My expression resembled a child whose nose had been stolen. The GPS wasn’t working. Actually, to say it wasn’t working was an understatement. The device was going completely nuts. My position was changing rapidly jumping to locations miles away only to return to my current position. Sometimes multiple location indicators would appear at different spots. An aura of panic settled around me. My vision was now limited to mere feet in front of me, the flashlight doing little to reveal my path. That’s when the humming started. Titan’s ears pricked up, his attention shifting to a spot just behind us. I tugged on his leash to get him moving but he wouldn’t budge. He was frozen like a statue, eyes unwavering from the location. Just above the gusts of wind, a melody, if you could even call it that, could be heard. A chorus of dissonant hums reached my ears. They were cut short by a bark. Titan’s hair stood us as though he had been statically charged, his tail tucked between his legs. Through the torrent of snow, I thought I could make out a figure. I squinted my eyes to double check, but nothing was there. “Come on Titan, we’re going to freeze to death out here.” I gave the leash a firm pull. A furious growl escaped his throat as he turned and bit my leg. Warm blood trickled into my sock from the spot just below my knee. I kicked him hard in the ribs out of reflex as I tried to retrieve the leash I had dropped. No luck. I watched as the blue leash disappeared into the blizzard like a serpent, Titan barking until I heard nothing. “Come here boy.” My only answer was the howl of the wind. Even through my gloves, I felt the chill of the storm on my hands. Holding the flashlight was like holding a handful of dry ice. “Titan!” I yelled again. I thought I heard a whimper from behind me. Swinging the flashlight around, I limped towards the sound. Each step sent a throbbing pain up my thigh that came to rest in my eyes. Just in front of me, I saw something dangling from a branch. The occasional break in the snow allowed me to glimpse it just barely. I came up to it and saw that it was Titan’s leash. I traced it up to the branch and my light illuminated a figure on the tree branch. Two snow covered legs swayed in the wind devoid of clothing. Naked arms protruded from the frozen torso. The surface of this thing was covered in ice crystals with black chunks of frostbitten flesh where the hands and feet should be. My eyes came to rest on the blank mass of flesh where the face should be. Eyes like snow globes glared back at me. A mangled sound came from within its chest, no mouth opened to let it escape. What met my ears was the hum I’d been hearing earlier. The creature fell forward out of the tree landing directly in front of me. I bolted in the opposite direction, unsure of where I could run. The chorus of hums surrounded me once again. I tried to avoid them as I shifted my direction to anywhere they were not. Behind every tree I would spot the figure. If I stopped to catch my breath, it was there watching me. All the while my ears were flooded with the awful humming. I pulled out my GPS hoping that it would just show me where I was. Of course, I wasn’t that lucky. According to the screen I was everywhere. Dozens of blue arrows appeared and disappeared across the mountain. A bark pulled my attention from the device and with it, the humming stopped. “Titan!” I screamed into the blizzard. I stepped through the snow only to see the dog standing next to... it couldn’t possibly be... myself? There I was standing with his leash; it was the moment he had bitten me. I remember thinking I had spotted something in the blizzard, the words I had spoken reached my ears as a garbled distortion of my voice. Titan growled furiously and bit the other me’s leg tearing away and rushing towards where I currently stood. I pulled back my flashlight and prepared to strike the dog with it, but he never reached me. Instead I found my self postured up against a blank patch of snow. Titan and my doppelganger were nowhere to be found. “What is going on up here.” I found myself speaking to the mountain. My answer was a torrent of increasing snow fall. The cold bit deep into my clothing. I tucked my face further into my hood hoping to shield it from the boreal weather. My world no longer consisted of a forest but instead was replaced by the constant howl of wind. But it wasn’t the wind I feared. All I feared was the hum. Every time the storm let up my ears listened for the pursuer. Not long after a break in the wind, I saw a figure stumbling ahead of me. They were facing away, the large hooded coat concealing their head. “Hey!” I nearly lost my footing as I increased my pace. “Help!” My voice was fighting the gusts of wind, but one soundwave must have won. They turned to me, the large jacket obstructing their face. They bolted away. “No, please wait!” The pleads came out like gravel. I tried to keep up with the person, but I had no luck, soon I lost sight of them. Not wanting to give up hope, I continued charging forward. My mind kept reminding me of the encounter with the phantom me, kept reminding me of how I was an outside viewer of an event that had taken place earlier. My thoughts were interrupted as I tripped over something. I hit the ground hard. My leg landed on a rock protruding from the snow. I rolled up my pant leg to assess the damage expecting a fresh stream of blood. The wound hardly bled. Frostbite must be setting in. My eyes didn’t focus on the leg long as they discovered what had tripped me. A body. Face down in the snow lie a frozen bundle of clothing, the wearer was stiff as a board. I recognized the jacket, the man I had spotted was wearing it. I also noticed it was the same jacket I was currently wearing. My heart was racing as I rolled the body over. I stared into my own frozen eyes. I was stunned. There was no mistaking it was my body, even the dog bite was visible on his leg. My shock was cut short by the familiar hum. It permeated the air around me as suddenly as the blizzard. I had to move. It was as I stood to run that I saw something clutched in the reflection’s corpse. A blue leash. Without really knowing why, I took it with me. It’s hard to say how long I wandered in the storm. It felt like an eternity. The strange sighting continued, draining me mentally. I tip toed around the endless corpses of myself that now littered the mountain, a never-ending blanket of snow burying them. I found myself falling into the snow, my hope for finding the car shattered. Then it was there. As though responding to my helplessness, my car peaked at me through a gap in the storm. The endless humming came from the same direction, but I didn’t care. My body had long since lost feeling, I was ready to escape or die. Although I reached the car with no issues, I couldn’t ignore the endless faces peaking at me from the trees. The entity following me had multiplied into an army. I came face to face with one for the last time as I reached the vehicle. My body sat in the driver’s seat. This corpse had not yet frozen over like the others I had seen. Instead I witnessed it as the ice and frostbite consumed the corpse. The face became a featureless mass as the eyes popped open. What started off as a scream, soon twisted into a familiar sound coming from the corpse’s mouth. The hum. I turned away not wanting to see it. My eyes locked upon the monster standing mere inches from my face. My senses were overwhelmed with the cold, a strong smell of death filling my nostrils. I fainted. One eye popped open, the other slowly followed. I was inside of my car, heater bathing me in warmth. From outside the foggy windows I could see the storm had stopped. I noticed the leash sitting in the passenger seat. Titan. Hopping out of the car I began to yell. “Titan!” Memories of the creature had surfaced as I slowly regained my bearings. I must have run to the car while the storm started and fallen asleep as the storm raged, but why would I leave my Titan behind? As I searched for the dog, I noticed the footprints surrounding the car. I could see that they were heading off into the tree line. I pulled the leash from the car as I followed them. I must have searched for him for hours with no luck. The limp soon reminded me of the dog bite. Blood still stained my pants. This confirmed that at least some of what I had experienced was real. The icing on the cake was what I discovered shortly after. Hanging on a tree branch in front of me was Titan’s leash, exactly where it had been when I encountered the first entity. A large imprint lay beneath the tree not yet hidden by the snow fall. I never found him. I officially gave up hope after a week or two of returning to the mountain. I still return to the mountain from time to time, something inside me keeps drawing me back. Although this event took place years ago, I still entertain the idea of finding him. I guess I should say I would like to find the real him. Sometimes, If I wait until just the right time of night, I can catch a faint glimpse of him. I never see all of Titan, just catching a glimpse of his tail behind a tree or the flick of his ear in a nearby bush. I know this isn’t the real Titan. Every time I see him, he’s always moving away from me, heading deeper into the mountains. I never follow him though. Whenever he appears that familiar hum is right behind him, calling him away from me, luring me with Titan as the bait.


A shadow moved and the chase began. Alec darted from his hiding place behind a battered chimney and dived forth into the night, landing like a cat and immediately springing up after his prey. His quarry - this time a rather plump halfling by the name ‘perrin’ - glanced over his shoulders, eyes wide with fear. Alec was used to this, and held no reservation in using all force necessary to uphold the councils justice. An enchanted obsidian dagger flew from his cloak, burying itself deep in the back of the halflings left Leg, its devilish enchantment shutting the muscle off instantly, causing the small man to crash to the cobbled floor. Alec skidded to a stop over his fallen target, then with a coy smile announced himself. ‘I, Alec Eagle-eyes, hunter and justice keeper for the Vallywall council, am taking you in on charges of theft and treason, resist and you shall be swiftly executed’. He smiled at the last word, in his 4 years hunting criminals on the streets of Vallywall he hadn’t once had to bring the final justice, and he prayed he’d never come across a criminal evil enough, to require it of him. The halfling began to mumble his excuses, the usual sort about being framed or how he needed the thousnads of gold pieces he took to feed his children. Used to these sleezy lies, Alec grabbed his chubby wrists and with a stone cold gaze tied his wrist, just a smidge tighter then he ought too. Seeing how his excuses were falling on deaf ears, the wretch took up a new tactic. ‘don’t see many half elves like you around’ Perrin began, but was quickly cut off. ‘I suppose not’ ‘didn’t think your kind were liked around here, the council being elven they tend to look down on your lot...’ ‘metaphorically, as oppose to how they look at you’ Alec shot back with a laugh. The halflings mouth gaped, though standing at barely above three feet, less then half that of his captor, he didn’t have much of a comeback. The Halfling stayed silent the rest of the journey, as Alec half led half dragged his captive the council hall in the centre of the city, far from the shady allies he’d been caught in. The great building shone in the moonlight, its twin spires reaching high towards the stars, and a waterfall crashing behind it into a crystal clear pool. Statues of the 6 members of the ruling council surrounded the entrance courtyard, though not all was peaceful, much to the half elf’s surprise. A crowd had gathered in the circular court, mostly humans, shouting protest at something, though Alec payed it little heed, as for years the council had been accused of corruption, though when your in a seat of almost complete power (second only to the king) for upwards of five hundred years, people start to question how. With the doors shut behind him the noise faded away as Alec lead the thief down the gilded halls, a yellow carpet spread across the floor and a glass ceiling let in light from the moon and stars, reflecting on perfectly placed prisms to bathe the room in a peaceful light. No matter the criminal, no matter the crime, they always accepted their arrest here, Alec had always thought it was in some way enchanted, though the natural beauty was enchanting enough. Two sleek, Elven guards met him at the end of the hall, taking Perrin and handing him a new scroll. ‘This one’s important, half, don’t mess it up’ one guard muttered with a smile, and the other laughed. Alec stared the guard who spoke down until he shrunk back and stumbled off with an obviously smug halfling. Angered, but unfortunately unsurprised, Alec opened the scroll. He eyes widened at the first words, ‘the king is dead’. As he read on dots started to connect, the crowd outside must be blaming the council, for the council were now the sole power in Vallywall, though they couldn’t be responsible otherwise why wait five hundred years, and 23 monarchs, before striking. The scroll also said they knew who was responsible, though they had no motive. The aura from a local scholar, one Tridus who worked at the waterfall library, had been found in the kings study, and as such the council wanted him brought to justice. At the bottom the scroll was very clear, Tridus is to be considered dangerous and should be killed on sight if he shows any threat. Alec never wanted to read those words, but for the safety of the city he loved, he would follow them to the letter... Wasting no time he returned to the rooftops, still slippery from the recent rain, and charged to the waterfall library, up-vally from him, which made the travel hard as he clambered up walls and gutters, higher into the city. Once he was there he checked his long sword, sheathed at his hip, as well as his enchanted, obsidian dagger. Trisdus wasn’t hard to find, as Alec spotted him in a window still studying despite the late time, likely still too stressed to sleep but wanting to maintain his facade as a scholar, though the experienced hunter expected that his whole purpose had been as an assassin, likely from a rival kingdom wanting to weaking the throne before making an attack. Justice would be swift. Like a panther Alec slid from his rooftop vantage and leaped to the ground at the library entrance, boldly strolling in, his presence immediately noted by all those inside, though they were silenced as he drew his sword and raised his finger to his lips. He passed the stairs rapidly, before kicking the door in and giving the newfound assassin a larger than anticipated panic attack. In a rather un-assassin like manor, Tridus fell to the floor and scrambled away on his back side, not taking his eyes from the cloaked half elf in his doorway, which blocked his only means of escape. ‘Stop right there, traitor’ He spat the last word, and obediently, the human froze, raising his hands to show he held no weapon. He was certainly not like any other assassin Alec had ever come across, though he imagined that was the genius of it. ‘your under arrest for the murder of our king’ he announced, forgetting his introductions in his shock at the lack of a fight he received from the man who had killed the most powerful being in the realm. Flustered, he sheathed his sword but kept one wary hand on his dagger, while moving to take out this rope. Tridus suddenly seemed to wake up, as though finally realising this wasn’t a dream borne of his sleep deprived study session into the rare herbal remedies used by the highland folk in the nearby vallys. ‘I’m sorry... what!?’ he shouted, eyes bulging with fear Stunned, and unsure what to do, Alec kicked the scholar back, and stood over him, ‘The king has been murdered and your aura was at the scene of the crime’ Alec replied, almost shaking from shock at the way the events had unfolded. ‘If it was his study that was from showing him these’ Tridus replied shaking, then went to reach for something concealed in his bag. Noticing this Alec reacted instantly, jumping up and launching his glassy black dagger straight at the mans heart, its enchantment taking instant effect and stopping the muscle working, cutting his life of immediately. For the first time in his life Alec didn’t land with unnatural precision, instead landing like a rock fallen from a cliff, slamming hard to the floor. Over a hundred criminals brought in, but this his first kill, and though he knew the man to be evil, an assassin and a danger to all the civilised folk in Vallywall, he found it hard to see it that way. His facade was convincing, he’d give the man that. After what seemed an age he stood, quickly checking Tridus’ pulse to confirm his grim expectations, then set to retrieve the hidden weapon the man had planned to kill him with. In its place, he found a notebook. His horror rose as he opened the leather cover, for it was page upon page of evidence as to the corruption in the council, aswell as notes on a plot to kill the king and a note from the king himself granting the scholar protection from all investigators, signed by his majesty. Like curtains opening it all became clear. The council killed the king, they framed Tridus as he had been investigating them, removing an enemy while also having evidence as he had been in the kings study that very same day. With one last look at the still warm body of Tridus, a true scholar and noble citizen of Vallywall, he vowed to not rest until all was unveiled, and after slipping the notebook into a pouch, he dived to the night with a tear in his eye and an unquenchable rage in his heart. Justice would be brought to Watervally. Like a shadow he moved through the city; his new quest began.


“This time, can you pick out a fictional book, one with chapters, please?” she says, prodding and impatient. Both boys stop short in front of the glass doors and look back at her, silently pleading. Their bodies instinctively turn toward the section filled with factoids, statistics, and world records. Their shoulders slump and they sigh, eyes rolling up in disgust, but stubbornly they move along. The automatic doors swish open, bringing a gust of air inside with them, a spill of summertime humidity thick as glue. The circulation desk sits empty, stacks of books in queues, waiting to be checked out. The sound of children’s laughter and the sight of bubbles ascending and popping explain the empty seats up front. Storytime sends echoes of Wheels on the Bus spinning around in her ears, the words comfortable as an oversized sweatshirt. She sees a group of chubby-limbed boys and girls dancing in circles, falling down and getting back up again, carefree and unencumbered, and she feels the pang of a memory. Was it not so long ago when hers were this delicious? When they held her hand so tight, out of fear and love at the same time? Now they’re scrolling TikTok, forgetting their deodorant, arguing, eating everything in sight and leaving none for her. Stomping off to their musty cave of a room and sealing themselves inside. “Mom!” the older one calls from two stacks away. How many times did they get the please use your inside voice talk in preschool? It seems they never learned to regulate their volume. And this is the library, after all, the quietest of places. She peers through the stacks, bracing herself for the inevitable shushing, but no one seems to care. Next to her, an elderly woman shelves books from a steel cart, their plastic covers crinkling, as glasses dangle from a chain and bounce off the embroidered buttons of her sweater. She nods a hello as she slinks behind her, moving toward her favorite section. She patiently waits as another patron thumbs through what seems like every available book, and then she is able to slide effortlessly toward her literary wonderland: historical fiction. Running her hands along the shelf, passing covers with heroines of eras past -spies in tweed skirt suits, maidens delivering clandestine messages in cumbersome petticoats, bell-bottomed rebels with fists raised in protest. She could lose herself in all of them, a different time, a different life. She aches to lose herself in any of those stories, but seems instead to have lost her boys. She starts to panic, but remembers they are not toddlers anymore, and they are not unpredictable. She heads straight for the back corner and finds them crouched down like lanky little monkeys, thumbing through back issues of Sports Illustrated. “Busted!” she says and they turn to face her. “I think magazines, while enjoyable, do not count as chapter books. Come with me and let’s go see what’s on display in fiction,” she says. They lag behind her, hunched over, walking with their arms swinging aimlessly. She turns around to ensure they are following her and then almost collides with a tiny wisp of a woman. “You look lost,” the woman says, peering up at her over her cat eye glasses. “Can I help you locate a book or are you ready to check some out?” she asks. “Oh, thank you, that’s ok. We were on our way to the young adult fiction section, trying to get these guys here to level up to chapter books,” she responds. “Yep, you’re almost there. Right straight ahead,” she says. “Actually, if you can see Rod over there, Mr. Storytime, it’s right behind him and the kiddos.” They all shake their heads in silent acknowledgment and walk that way. She looks ahead and sees Mr. Storytime as he rises from his crisscross applesauce position, gently shedding clinging children from his lap and arms. It takes him so long to stand up that when he's finished, she realizes he's the size of one of the sturdy oak trees that surround the building. He turns to face them, and upon seeing her surprised face, moves closer with a welcoming smile. “Hey guys! Hey Mom. How’s it goin’? You guys finding everything you’re looking for?” The boys silently nod their heads yes, but she puts a hand out, interrupts them. “Actually, these two here were looking for some really good YA fiction. Do you have any recommendations?” she asks. And with that, his face lights up and a smile blooms across his lips. “You know I do!” he says, chuckling, reaching out for a fist bump. He turns to start walking and beckons with his bear paw of a hand for them to follow. The younger one slices his high-pitched voice through the silence. “Sir, you are really big! Are you a wrestler or something?” he asks. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry about that,” she says and cuts her eyes at her son, admonishing him. Mr. Storytime laughs softly and shakes his head. “It’s ok, don’t apologize. I like people who ask questions. Curiosity is a beautiful thing,” he says. He looks down at all three of them and shifts his eyes, settling on each face for a moment while he continues. “You’re right, I am big! And that’s because I used to play football. I was an offensive lineman at UNC and then I played professionally for the Broncos for a few seasons,” he says. “But I got injured and couldn’t play anymore, so I came back here, back to where I was born and back to my first love, books!” The world immediately folds in on the children like a weighted blanket. Their eyes stop blinking. They are enraptured. Mother and sons follow him through the maze of shelves, a trusted guide, a giant Pied Piper of pages. He stops abruptly and crouches down to grab a thick, heavy book from the bottom shelf. “Now this is one of my favorites. It’s actually written by a man who lives right here in town. It’s about a boy your age,” he says as he points at the older one, “who takes on the god of thunder!” She lets out a little laugh, thinking about how they’d already have one hand on an Xbox controller if she'd suggested that book, but somehow Mr. Storytime is selling it. Their eyes go back to blinking, and they nod their heads, their mouths gone slack, taking in every word. He hands the book to the older one who clutches it close to his chest like a treasure. She watches as he leads them on a guided tour, both of them getting more excited with each book he puts into their outstretched arms. They rack up such a haul that he retreats for a moment and comes back with an oversized tote bag. She plops down on one of the semicircular couches in the children’s area and cracks open the love story from World War II. She settles in and turns down the volume in her head. The kids are definitely safe with the guy whose job it was to protect the quarterback at all costs. A deep baritone and excited whispers tug her back to reality, and she looks up to see her children beaming. “Alright Mom, just bringing your professional readers back to you now,” he says and turns back toward the boys. “Listen guys, keep it up, ok. Keep expanding those minds of yours. There are so many worlds to explore!” he says and ambles back toward the front, stopping to pat a few toddlers on the head and high-five some older kids surfing on the computers. As the kids mill about near the entrance, she watches as the lady checks out her books, running each one under the scanner at a snail’s pace. “So, that Rod is amazing!” she says. “He’s singlehandedly convinced my children to check out their weight in fiction books!” The librarian looks up and smiles. “Isn’t he wonderful?” she says. “We like to call him The Keeper of Books.” She waits as the printer spits out the due date receipt and hands it over. “Thank you,” she says and turns. “Let’s go, boys.” On the drive home, she hums to herself, lost in thoughts of a woman from many decades ago, entangled in espionage and a secret affair. She steals a glance in the rearview mirror, notices the iPhones flung thoughtlessly onto the console. Her gaze falls to the boys, each holding a book tightly in their hands, absorbed in the words on the page, and smiles at her unexpected good fortune.


"Another day of this and I will die" I mutter to myself. The reality of a man left to his own devices in a building with no outside reality. The beds are nice enough, the chairs comfy, but what I wouldn't give for a phone or even just a drink and a little company. Maybe that tall redhead I met in New Orleans, "What was her name again?" I think aloud. She had a set of tits you almost didn't want to squeeze they were so perfect, I can feel the touch of her skin as if it was yesterday. I feel my mind drifting into the past away from this purgatory. "Wah, wah, wah" an alarm sounds in the distance. "To hell with you" I scream aloud. I don't even know what it means. What was it again? It seems a lifetime that I've been here. Seen another face or even looked in a goddamn mirror to see my own. "Calm Down" I whisper to myself. I have to watch my anger, things tend to get hazy. I sit up on the bed and look back around the room. How long have I been here? I begin to think to myself. It's so hard to remember, I look at my hands and see the nubs of my fingernails, I see they have something under them. "What the fuck is this?" Someone must be fucking with me, they are trying to make me feel crazy again. "I know they are" who am I talking to. What am I doing here? Where am I? My thoughts blend then fade to black. I don't remember anything but that redhead and her fantastic tits. "Wah, Wah, Wah!" The alarm sounds again. "Shut the FUCK up" I scream as I rush toward the big yellow door. I reach for the handle, but I cannot open it! "Help Me!" I scream! "They are trying to fuck with me!" I kick and slam my fists into the door. I can hear a noise outside. "Help" I scream as I curl up on the floor. "I can hear the devil coming for me" I continue in haste "He is carrying chains for me" I can hear them rattling against the door. I hear the door swing open. A bright light flashes in my eyes. I see the dark figures, I reach and scratch, clawing furiously at my assailants. I feel the sting of the needle in my arm. I feel reality fade away.... "What happened to him?" The trainee asked his superior. "What's all that about the devil?" "Fucker lost it" the older man snorted! "Wife left him for another man, he drowned his kids and disappeared into a bottle. Hell, I don't think he even remembers the kids, just some redhead he left behind.


(WP) Follow the Spiders You know what they say, don’t you? They say not to kill spiders, because they take care of other pests. But it turns out that the sentient spider race that had taken over our planet were protecting us from an even bigger threat. The spiders were few and far between, in the decade after the war. Instead of assimilating, humanity decided to fight. As a result, both sides were nearly decimated. It wasn’t until afterward that we knew what we were up against, what the spiders had tried to protect us from. The colony swooped down on the planet like a plague, a dark blur of wings, teeth, and claws, and before anyone knew what was happening, they began to feast, blood and gore and viscera spraying the air with an iron tang. Screams and the sounds of ripping and tearing mixed with the cries of the giant bats to create a chorus straight out of a nightmare. I was one of the few who managed to get away; I found shelter in an abandoned warehouse. Too late, I heard the scuttling of many legs and the clicking of mandibles, and before I realized what happened, I was surrounded by the giant arachnids. “What are you doing here?” One of them said in mangled English, the words coming out thick behind its teeth. “This is territory of The Harvestmen! And you are a human!” The word sounded vaguely familiar, but I just shook my head, struck dumb in the face of these unlikely inhabitants. “I just wanted to get away from the bats--” Muffled, derisive laughter moved through the group, and I gritted my teeth, resisting the urge to lash out at them. Like the bats they fought against, they could kill me before I could get a weapon out of my pocket. It would not do to lose my cool. “In all fairness,” One of them clicked, coming so close I could see my reflection in its many eyes, “We did try to warn you. But humanity hasn’t changed, even after all these years. Always ready for a fight, for a threat.” The spider snorted, a surprisingly human sound. “Tell me why we shouldn’t leave you for the bats,” It added, and I cringed. “The Harvestman doesn’t take in any humans, unless they’re willing to work.” That name sounded so familiar; I knew I’d heard it before, but I couldn’t place it. “Take me to your leader. Please. So I can talk to him.” The spiders backed away from me, conferring in a series of hisses and clicks. After the five longest minutes of my short life, they came back to me. “Follow us. We’ll take you to him.” \*\* I followed the spiders through the dark warehouse, the only spots of color the flickering florescent lights above us. They led me up several sets of crumbling stone steps. One of the spiders shrank before my eyes, slipping into an open doorway. Soft, murmured words I couldn’t make out. The spider stepped aside and I was pushed through the doorway, forced to my knees. “Welcome to my humble abode, child.” The first human voice I’d heard thus far broke the silence, male and raspy. “If you’re asking for a place here, you’re going to have to work.” The man who spoke was middle-aged, with salt and pepper hair and a goatee. The first expression that came to mind was ‘silver fox’, when I looked at him. He wore a pair of glasses, magnifying his bright brown eyes, and he was clothed in a dark sweater, jeans, and loafers. “Welcome to the base of The Harvestmen.


It was the Babylon Day party that started it all. If I hadn’t gone to Harry’s party marking five long, hard years since the events of Babylon Day, when the blackout started, I wouldn’t be writing this letter. But ... But it was, after all, the fifth anniversary of the start of the blackout, which everyone called Babylon Day. The theme of the party was, of course, Babylon V. Everyone came as their favorite alien ambassador. How could I resist? Things were finally settling down to the new normal. The electrical power industry had gotten used to the decentralized paradigm. The superconductor revolution had helped make local power grids possible. That, and solar power, wind power, people power, ... well. You know. So, I thought the fifth anniversary party would be more upbeat! Not so much whining and bemoaning the good old days before Babylon Day. More optimism and looking forward to a bright future. It might have been that way, too, if the Greenies hadn’t been there. Rachel and her boyfriend Cliff started it. They’d brought their phones with them, and they kept looking at the screens, like they expected a miracle to happen. Then, Cliff was rude enough to ask if he could charge his phone from the local grid. That pissed Harry off; it was his grid, his party. He told Cliff that if he wanted to pedal the bike long enough to top up the battery, then sure, he could charge his stupid phone; otherwise, get the hell out. Cliff had had too much of the free beer to pedal for long, so he and Rachel slunk off to a couch on the other side of the room. “Damn Greenies,” muttered Harry. I tended to agree with him, but as usual I was minding my own business. April, who had come with Rachel and Cliff, and who was not drinking the free beer, spoke up. “Have you ever been to a church service?” She pulled out her phone--an antiquated Samsung Galaxy--turned it on, frowned at the lack of service, turned it off again. Really, what had she expected, a miracle? “Hell no,” Harry replied. “That damned green comet had nothing at all to do with the blackout. It was the Earth’s poles reversing that started it all. Electricity behaves totally different in a reversed magnetic field” “No, no,” Eric chipped in his two cents’ worth. He was drinking the free beer and eating too many of the free tacos. “No, it was the Earth’s core that stopped spinning that caused the radio frequencies to shut down. Everything else was just a chain reaction.” “Core does that every seventy years,” protested Harry. “That had nothing to do with why all the radio frequency stuff stopped working!” Finally, I spoke up. “Neither of those events explains why all the high-volume power lines caught fire. We simply don’t know why we can’t transmit electricity at high currents across long distances anymore.” Everyone shrugged. No one knew. No one knew why radio frequency traffic was limited to less than a kilometer. No one knew why electricity worked when generated locally, at low levels, but caused large power stations to explode. Babylon Day was history, and the blackout was just status quo now. “The green comet appeared in our skies,” said April, “as a warning that we had transgressed against God’s will. It will reappear when we have learned to use God’s Essence with reverence.” Harry rolled his eyes. “You would understand if you came to one of our meetings,” April went on, ignoring him. “I’ve seen miracles happen. Sometimes, we get two, even three bars of service, just for a few seconds.” “Right before the church’s WIFI router blows up,” I said, cynically. “Besides, that comet isn’t due back in the inner solar system for fifty thousand years! Are you saying humanity has to wait that long before we get the Internet back, or before we can broadcast radio around the world like we used to?” After that, the conversation became predictable. Sentimental blah blah about how it had been so great back in the day, when we could use our mobile phones. Reminiscences about listening to the radio in our cars ... Wistful memories of satellite or cable TV, GPS, FaceBook, Twitter, Email, texting ... “Sometimes we can text, for a little while,” called Rachel, from the couch across the room. “Email, too. Just locally, on the church’s intranet, before ...” She looked down at her feet. “Before it blows up!” I said again. “Just like all the long-distance lines did, just like the power plants did, the radio stations, ... No one knows why!” From there, talk segued into who had lost people on Babylon Day. Because everyone had. Millions had died, before things started to come under control. Everybody knew somebody. “We remember them all, too, at our services,” Rachel chimed in. “God remembers all those He took when the blackout fell. He will set his covenant in the skies when we are worthy of the gift of His Essence.” “Oh, this is crap!” Harry threw his empty Solo cup into the trash with a disgusted motion. “Things are better now! We generate electricity at low levels, locally! We’ve got superconducting batteries now! You can still use your computers, just ... not for very long at once, and without the Internet, but ... who cares!? If anything, God did us a favor by making high-volume electricity generation and radio impossible!” By that time, most of the free beer and all the free tacos were gone, and the whining and nostalgia was starting to make me vaguely nauseous. It was early morning, and the sun was coming up.Improvements or not, new normal or not, the nights were still darker than before. The colors of the dawn were bright pink and purple streaks across the sky. Their cheeriness stood in stark contrast to the sour mood of the party. So much for optimism. April was fiddling with her dead cell phone. “Come with us,” she coaxed. “If you only felt the closeness to God that we enjoy ...” Harry shook his head. “I don’t even own a phone anymore,” he said. “I’m happy with my old desktop computer for word processing and stuff. The Internet and all that is gone forever, and I’m okay with that.” He walked to the door. “Party’s over, folks. Happy Babylon Day.” He held the door open in a “Here’s your hat, where’s your hurry,” gesture. I don’t know what made me go get my iPhone. I got all the way home, three blocks away through still-dark streets. It was probably an old habit that made me reach in the drawer of the hall table and pull out the phone. It was dead, of course. Maybe I still craved the comfort we all used to get from the LED screens, the cheery little chimes, the music and ring tones and ... Whatever obscure impulse that moved me, I slipped it into my pocket and walked out the door. The closest Church of the Green Comet was only a few more blocks down the street. April smiled at me as I walked in. The place looked like nothing so much as a meeting space for a 12-step program. It was lit by Christmas tree lights. Music played from a boom box. Not surprisingly on the morning after a Babylon Day anniversary, it was filling up pretty quickly. People were plugging in their old phones, and I had to hurry to grab a USB port before they were all taken. Pretty soon, a guy in a Radio Head T-shirt got up on the stage at the front of the room. Was it getting warm in here already, or was that just my imagination? Was that a tang of ozone, the acrid smell of singing insulation? “Thank you all for coming today!” He bowed his head. “We ask the Lord to be present, and allow his Essence to flow through us and our unworthy instruments.” Beeps and start-up tones cascaded through the room like a tumble of coins. “Would anyone like to testify?” “I had two bars!” Cried a fervent voice from somewhere in the back of the room. “Two bars for three seconds!” “Amen, brother!” Came the response from all around the room. “Let connectivity return to us all.” A woman stood up. “I got spam Email from the Prince of Nigeria!” She cried. “Just like in the days of connectivity!” The chorus of “Amen,” was a little shakier this time. I had a hard time keeping the smile off my face. If it hadn’t been so pathetic, it would have been hilarious. As it was ... There were a few others who testified. One guy claimed his GPS worked and saved him when he was lost. Lots of people claimed to have briefly gotten a few bars of cell coverage. All of the testimonials rang with a jagged edge of need and desperation. After a while, the preacher raised his hands and brought the testimonials to an end. “And now, brothers and sisters,” he intoned, “Let us bask briefly in God’s holy Essence, which He has withdrawn from us, yea, until the green comet returns to signify His forgiveness!” He gestured to the workstation beside him. He pressed a button, and winking LED lights glowed to life. “The usual password, children, 1234. Hurry and connect, while God’s grace visits us.” Frantic screen-tapping rustled around the room. I had 30% charge on my iPhone, and wasted no time connecting to the local fragment of the net that was briefly conjured to life. A soft, jubilant “Ahhh,” swirled through the room. People began texting one another, sending Emails to the person next to them or across the room. Someone FaceTimed me; I smiled at April’s image on the tiny screen. Too soon came the pop and sizzle of overheating circuits. The stench of ozone I had been expecting finally arrived. The WIFI router exploded, and the minister yelped and threw up his hands to protect his eyes from fragments of hot plastic. Even so, I saw blood on his cheek. A collective wail of grief and loss came from us all as whatever was causing the blackout proved too much for even this paltry use of radio frequencies. I hastily put down my iPhone, which was growing too hot to hold. I was surprised to find tears in my eyes. The minister dabbed at his cheek. He had a beatific smile on his face. He held up a stopwatch. “Four minutes, thirty eight seconds!” He cried. “That’s a new record!” His face fell. “Once again, God has withdrawn His grace from us,” he said regretfully. “We are reminded of what has been forbidden us! Just as the Tower of Babel was struck down, so has the use of the airwaves been denied to us! In our arrogance, we used electricity to sin egregiously! Now, by the sweat of our bodies do we make the power we need, and no more than we need. Until the Green Comet returns,” he folded his hands in prayer. Silence fell upon the churchgoers, as they bowed their heads. The collection plate came around, but I ignored it. All the useless sentimentality and silliness had left me seething. My stomach felt full of bile. I didn’t offer to stay and charge up the church’s batteries, even though I’d selfishly used their power. I didn’t contribute money or food or anything. I didn’t pray, or thank the minister. I just stood up, unplugged my phone and walked out. When I got outside, I tossed my useless iPhone into the gutter and walked home. When I got there, I charged up my own batteries with an hour of brisk pedaling, until I was sure I’d have enough electricity for the day. I tried to call my mother on the land-line, but as usual the static was too loud for us to hear each other. I tended my garden and harvested a few crops for the local food bank. The restlessness wouldn’t leave me. I paced and did busy-work, cooked my lunch on the small gas ring ... Nothing made me feel better. I didn’t know whether things were better now, or whether they’d been better back when we had radio and the Internet and all that crap. I felt caught between two colliding worlds. This is why I am resigning my teaching position with the Physics Department. No one can explain why the blackout happened; why it is still happening. Millions died, and maybe millions more will die. Physics can’t explain it, and the Greenies can’t explain it, and I can’t keep teaching Physics to kids who are growing up in a world where science has failed. Babylon Day just happened. The blackout is here to stay. It’s time we live in the present, instead of the past.