Revenge, oh sweet revenge. How bittersweet it feels to hurt the one who undermines you. The quench and thirst to rip the life out of another as they watch you do so. To see their life tear one by one, devouring his soul as everything he ever loved and cared for is taken away. To know that he can’t do anything but watch as it torments what made him human. To watch him struggle through those ropes, using any resources he can. Going from resisting to knowing he can’t do anything. He falls to the ground, empty like a living corpse, lifeless on the ground with eyes open so wide, it would look like a golf ball popping out. Not one tear is shed. For he is no longer human, but a collection of dolls waiting for the grave. Its been years since my guilty pleasure, my last victim that ravages this world, and im growing bored. It appears that im developing symptoms for this sport of mine, and im starting to get an itch for blood. There’s just no more people, no more men that corrupt this world. Are they hiding? Scared? Or maybe im getting too old. I can’t take it anymore, every person I see is like a cattle to be killed, a fox to be shot, a pest that swarms this oh so depressing world, but maybe im just blind. Maybe they are just hiding amongst the trash, scavenging for another victim. Am I falling for this play, this act, this attempt to fool an old man that devoted his life to destroy who seeks to sin upon this world? I probably am. Im watching, for they do not see me. Like the king of the jungle, I watch my prey, I learn their every move, their daily activities. Lurking in the dark as they continue with their daily life, not knowing of what is next. Clueless, stupid, unaware. In public, they hide under a sheet of innocence while and night they wash in denial. They know they are trash, but they object to that every ideal. They are not supreme, they are just cans left with drops of liquor, waiting for someone to throw them in. I will do the deed, I will throw them in, I will be the one to get my hands dirty to rid of all sins. To wait is just part of the fun, but the real enjoyment is to know they didn’t see it coming. So I wait and wait. All for that moment where the world stops and my time is ready. 8 she wakes up, 9 she walks to work, 4 she stops to the sound of the fizzling steps that surround her every being. It is only a matter of time, a matter of patience. Does she notice yet? Is she nervous? Or is she scared! Strike I say, and strike I do, oh I do. The enjoyment, the pleasure, the undeniable boost of dopamine I feel to rip apart her soul, her inner being. To watch her face as she realises what happens, but she knows, oh she knows she can’t do anything, anything at all. Her face rolls over, and her mouth opens just enough to utter a word. A word I haven’t thought of till now. “Why,” she says in a whispering manner. You could feel her life force fading from her as she mouths that word. What do you mean why? You are trash, aren’t you? I kick her, punch her, stab her endlessly as I say wake up. I needed her to respond to me, I needed to ask her why she said that, but it’s too late. For she is dead. I sat in that room in a still figure, staring at her lifeless body, and thought about her last words for the whole night. I knew then and there that I was the trash, I was the scum of society, the dirt that fleets around the sewers. 2 choices is all I had, and those 2 choices were my last. To go back into society and forget the past or to rid myself in disgust, but of course, I knew the decision. \Let me know what you guys think of this story! It was for school.


It had been five years since Nana’s death, and many more years since she was the woman all her family remember. Sometimes it felt as if it was only yesterday that she was whirling around the kitchen, her shrieking and laughter filling the room whenever one of the numerous pans scattered across the hob began to boil over. Whenever she cooked, clouds of flour hung in the air until the room resembled a snowy winter scene. My nana’s name was Lynne, and she was famed for her cooking, her signature dish was a Christmas pudding. However, Lynne’s Christmas pudding was no ordinary Christmas pudding; Lynne loved to make recipes her own, to add ingredients that do not belong and give them a place within her masterpieces, to empty the contents of those old wooden cupboards and create something uniquely her own. This particular Christmas pudding had been perfected over many years of joyous experimentation and it was now time for me to recreate it for our annual Christmas party. Unfortunately, Lynne did not believe in recipes per say, she believed that a good baker knows their own recipes by heart and because of this there was no trace of Lynne’s famous Christmas pudding. “Right,” I spoke aloud to myself, “I think I can remember some of what was in this cake”. I gathered up flour, brandy, sugar, eggs and cherries, every moment replaying a different memory of that stylish woman I used to know. I thought of her; hair tied up in a sleek grey bun, a colourful apron thrown on, dancing through the flour-filled air to the duck-egg blue retro radio that remained on the same station for its whole existence. “Right, I need to concentrate”, I thought. So, I shook those lingering memories from my mind and laboriously began adding ingredient after ingredient, stirring almost mechanically. No music filled the room in my small cottage, I dipped my finger silently into the mixture and watched it droop and fall back into the bowl. This certainly wasn’t how it used to look, “maybe it would be best if I try and find a similar recipe and follow that,” I thought. So, I again set about my work, following every word of the old recipe book but to no avail. I slumped into my tattered armchair that evening feeling defeated and more distant from my nana than ever before. I decided to give my sister Frankie a call and see if she could give my spirits a boost. I explained that I had been trying to make our nana’s famous Christmas pudding but that I was getting nowhere. “Hm,” replied my sister thoughtfully, “why don’t I come round tomorrow and help you? It might be more fun to do it together, I’ll bring the kids too if that’s okay?” she asked. “Yeah, that will be nice,” I smiled, “I’ll see you tomorrow then”. We said our goodbyes and hung up. I then settled down into my armchair, my favourite book in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other before clambering along the cold marble floor into my bed for the night. The next morning brought a crisp, bright winter day. The sun glistening off the frosty grass that surrounded my little stone cottage. Before I knew it, my sister was at the front door with her two little red-cheeked companions. Her children, Amelia and Bertie, both whirlwinds of energy and sunshines of joy, they certainly inherited their nana’s free-spirit and enthusiasm for life and everything within it. The little ones bustled into my small cottage, appearing to fill it to the brim with noise and joy, like a log fire filling the room with its smoky, comforting warmth. My small cottage was suddenly alive again. “Now, what went wrong yesterday? Talk me through what you did,” Frankie said with command. “Well, I started off by mixing the fruits and brandy into a bowl overnight to soak and then just followed this recipe.” “You followed a recipe?!” replied Frankie with a look of amusement and surprise. “Well, yes,” I replied, a bit confused, “how else am I supposed to know how to make it?” “That’s the whole point!” Frankie laughed, and seeing the confusion on my face, added, “Nana never used a recipe book! She cooked with freedom and joy; we must do the same!” “Hmm, I suppose you could be right but how on earth do we recreate what she made?” “Let’s just give it a go and enjoy ourselves. You need to loosen up!” So, Frankie called in her two little tots, turned up the radio that often sits dormant in my kitchen. The radio crackled out the words ‘toys in every store, but the prettiest sight to see is the holly that will be...’. Bertie and Amelia immediately starting dancing and singing, we all laughed. “Much more like it!” Frankie giggled, “Now kids, we’re going to be baking just like Nana Lynne used to. Are you ready to help?” “Yes!” was the emphatic response given by the pair of excited young children. We got to work straight away; the wooden cupboards were scoured for ingredients before all being thrown into a bowl with a lot less precision than I had previously employed but with a lot more love. The ingredients were mixed, the eggs beaten, the fruit added before being placed in the oven. After what seemed like hours of mayhem, the Christmas pudding was pulled out from the oven as its aroma filled the kitchen. “It’s perfect!” everyone cried in unison. I smiled at Frankie and her children and said “I feel as if Nana is here in some way,” she smiled back and said, “She is, she is alive in our mind and in our laughter.” “Yes, I think you are right.” And so, the sisters hugged and the children laughed, “Now, to decorate!” cried Frankie. If you were to stand outside of that little cottage, you would see that the sky had turned grey around the merry little scene as snowflakes began to drop gently from above. Now, if you peep your head through that cottage’s window you would see a flurry of activity. You would see Amelia’s golden pigtails whizzing around the kitchen with her little brother in tow, you would see the two sisters laughing together amongst all the commotion. And, if you were to rest your ear upon that small cottage window surrounded by old stone you would hear screams of joy and excitement, you would hear the old radio blaring out Christmas song after Christmas song to joyous shouts of recognition from the children, and, if you looked really, really closely through the small old window of that small old cottage. If you hold your hands around your eyes and really look , you would see the figure of a slender woman with a sleek grey bun wearing a flour-covered apron. You keep on looking and see that she is dancing. She is dancing and she is smiling among this little family, because, in the memories of our loved ones, we never truly die. And so, our beloved Lynne lives on in our hearts, in our memories, and more importantly, in that delicious Christmas pudding.


The land lady walked into the kitchen chattering away, Myra following right behind her. “Ok, so, the kitchen is pretty much the same as the other apartment. I’m sorry about that, I didn’t realize Freddy had rented that one already.” This was the second apartment Debbie had showed to Myra. As far as Myra could tell, it was basically the same as the other, just kind of backwards- In the other apartment, bedroom was on the right, in this one it was on the left. In the other apartment the kitchen opened up to the left, in this one it opened to the right. There were only two doors- a front door that led to the parking lot and a back door that opened up to a small fenced in yard behind the building. It was a tiny, cramped little place, but it would be perfect for Myra. It was cheap, close to her new job and cleaner than the other places she’d seen. Debbie continued to prattle on about how the apartment was “basically the same” as the other one she had already showed Myra, when her cell phone rang. Debbie paused to look at the screen. “Like I was saying,” she continued, looking at the phone, “There’s just the one difference. Hold on, this is Freddy, I need to take it.” Debbie stepped into the living room to answer the phone while Myra checked out the kitchen. Apartment-sized washer/dryer combo. Fridge. Microwave. Everything was sort of a plain, sterile, eggshell white. Kitchen window that overlooked the parking lot. Back door. Yep, everything’s the same she thought, completing her mental checklist. Myra smiled when Debbie returned to the kitchen. “Sorry about that,” she began, “wanted to make sure Freddy hadn’t rented this one too.” They both chuckled. Debbie never got to finish the tour. A moment later, Myra told her she would take the place, and they started in on the paperwork. That night, Myra drove back to Alabama and returned with her meager belongings two days later. She carried in her few boxes, and her small coffee table by herself, and basked that night in the glory of her first real apartment, lying on her air mattress and texting pictures of her new place to her friends. \*\*\*\*\*\* Myra got home from her first day at work completely exhausted. This would only be her 2nd night in her new apartment, and she kind of wanted to unpack... but she also kind of wanted to crash into her bed and sleep for the next 12 hours till she had to be back at work. She decided unpacking would wait till the weekend. It was already dark and she was hungry, so she shuffled from her bedroom to the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out the remnants of last night’s pizza and popped it in the microwave, pouring herself a glass of water from the tap as she waited. She was just about to return to her air mattress with her pizza when she heard something at the back door. Setting down her food, she walked to the back door, eyeballing the deadbolt to make sure it was locked. Rising to her tip toes, she looked through the peephole, but it was completely black. She stood still for a long moment, holding her breath, listening. Nothing. She turned back toward her pizza, reaching for a slice, when a sudden pounding came from the door. A frantic, sudden knocking, like someone was in trouble. Myra nearly screamed, the knock came so suddenly. Turning back to the door, she leaned in once again to the peephole. Nothing. Myra leaned her ear toward the door. “Hello?” Silence. She nearly ran to the front door, checking out the window. Maybe she was mistaken, maybe the knock had come at the front door? But no, there was no one there. She could see her doorstep clearly in the lights from the parking lot. But who would be at the back door? It was a fenced in yard, wasn’t it? She hadn’t actually seen HER yard, she had seen the yard connected to the other apartment, the first one she’d seen. But Debbie had told her this apartment was basically the same- Wait. Maybe that was the difference. Maybe her yard *wasn’t* fenced in. Another knock at the back door. This one a louder, dull, booming knock. “Who’s there?” Myra called out, hoping to hide the tremble in her voice. No response came. “Do you need help?” she shouted, closer to the door. Again, no response. She waited another long, tense minute. And the door handle started to move. “Hello?” Myra yelled as loud as she could. She ran to the door, making sure the deadbolt was locked tight. “Who’s there? Do you need help?” she yelled. The door handle wiggled, as someone on the other side attempted to twist it open. Myra ran to her bedroom and snatched up her cell phone. She dialed 911 and ran back to the kitchen. The doorknob continued to wiggle. “I’m calling the police!” Myra yelled, this time sure the fear in her voice was audible. The operator answered. “911, what’s your emergency?” “Yes, there’s someone trying to come into my house, they’re at the back door...” Myra gasped, tears starting to well up in her eyes. “Ok. Is your door locked?” “Yes, of course. Please send someone, my address is ...” Myra ran to her front door. “I don’t know, I just moved here, I think I have something in my car-” “Don’t go outside!” the operator warned her. “There could be someone out front waiting for you to run. You have to stay inside the house.” “Oh God. Ok, ok” Myra began to hyperventilate. “Ok, I live in the apartments by the river, um...across the street from the park.” “Ok, is it on Elm? Sycamore? Cherry street?” “Yes! That’s it, Cherry street, they’re on cherry street.” “Ok, someone will be there in just a couple of minutes. Try to stay in the house. Lock yourself in the bedroom if you can. Stay on the line with-” BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. Myra jumped at the sound. It was coming from the door. It sounded like someone was trying to kick it open. She could see the door tremble with each kick. “Oh God, he’s trying to kick down the door!” Myra shrieked at the operator. “Does your bedroom door lock? Can you lock yourself in the bedroom?” “I don’t know, I just moved in, I think it does...” Myra ran to her bedroom. Behind her, she heard the booming continue. Just before she slammed the bedroom door she could see the doorframe shuddering, coming loose from the wall. Myra screamed again, an unintelligble cry of horror. She clicked the little lock on the bedroom door in place and scrambled into the closet. She could hear whoever it was pounding at the door now, she was certain they were trying to knock it down. The doorknob rattled so much that she was afraid it would just fall off. She had no idea how long she’d been in the bedroom, but her heart pounded, causing her head to throb as blood shot through her veins. She could feel herself blacking out, black spots began to appear around the edges of her vision. Then, all of a sudden, she realized- she didn’t hear anything. The noise had stopped. Gasping for air, she could hear the 911 operator on the other end of the line asking her what was going on. “I...I don’t know” she stammered. “It... stopped”. Myra strained her ears to hear. She stared at the bedroom door, as though that might help her hear what was happening on the other side of it. Then the doorknob began to rattle. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* Two hours later, it was all over. The police had checked all around the apartments, not just Myra’s but for a block all around. Myra was a gibbering mess, still locked in her bedroom when they’d found her. The landlady, Debbie, had let them into the apartment since Myra wouldn’t come out. They’d found her unconscious in the bedroom closet, clutching her phone, still on the line with the 911 operator. The operator told them that she had just kept screaming about someone trying to break down the back door of her apartment, saying she could see it coming off the hinges. After a long while, they’d finally gotten her calmed down. They’d given her a bottle of water and even brought out the paramedics to look her over, but she was fine, physically. Myra hadn’t even tried communicating with them for the first hour, she just sat on her air mattress while Debbie held her hand, assuring her it would be ok. When she finally had talked, the officer in charge had written some notes down on a small notepad, then went into the other room to talk with Debbie, leaving Myra alone for a few minutes. They returned in a few minutes, asking Myra if she felt well enough to come talk to them. Myra came into the kitchen, still very emotional, but she managed to tell them most of the story without sobbing. The officers on scene looked at her sternly, looking back and forth, occasionally asking questions like “This door?” and “From over here?”. When she finished her story, the officers in the room exchanged glances, and two of them left the apartment without a word, leaving her alone with what looked to be the oldest of the officers and Debbie. “So Myra,” the officer began. “You’re absolutely certain this is the door they tried to come in?” he said, nodding at the kitchen door one last time. Myra nodded. “Definitely. I could see the door shaking from him kicking it.” The officer looked at Debbie. Debbie looked from the officer to Myra and took Myra’s hand. “Come here sweetie. Let me show you something.” Debbie led Myra to the door. Myra shuddered, but Debbie pulled her tight. “Shhh. It’s ok. Look.” Debbie put her hand on the doorknob. “Remember, I told you this apartment was a little different than the other one. And I just wanted to show you what I meant.” Debbie let go of Myra’s hand and turned the deadbolt. She twisted the doorknob and slowly swung the door open. Myra’s mouth hung open. Her eyes widened and her heart leapt into her throat. “This is the only thing that’s different about this apartment. There was a little mix-up with the surveyors and the property lines when this place was built and it turned out that we didn’t actually own the land behind this one, so... Well honey, This door doesn’t go outside. It’s a closet.” There, on the other side of the door, was a small, shallow pantry, lined with shelves. Myra shook her head. “There must have... been somebody in there” Debbie shook her head. “No sweetie, there’s just no way. Nobody could fit in here, there’s no room. It’s all shelves. Tears welled up in Myra’s eyes again. “That’s impossible. That’s impossible.” “There there Dear. Come on. Lets go sit down. Do you have anyone I can call?” Debbie led Myra out of the room, her arm over her shoulder. The elder officer contemplated the scene for a few moments after they were gone. Drugs? She didn’t seem like the type. Maybe she heard something else and just panicked? The landlady had told him this was her first time living away from home. He shook his head. They’d probably never know. He took one last look into the closet with his flashlight and thought, just for a second, when the light caught the thin layer of dust on the linoleum floor just right...he might have seen something that could’ve been a footprint. The officer ran his own foot across the dusty floor of the pantry cabinet a few times, just to make sure nobody else thought they saw something that clearly couldn’t have been there.


It took a couple of weeks to come up with a plan to escape. Working any quicker didn’t hold any advantage. My leg was slowly healing, but I needed to be at full health if I was going to escape. I spent most days trying to stretch it, test how it felt putting weight on it. The room wasn’t big enough to get a full sprint in. But as I rebuilt my strength, I kept trying at least a jog across the room to make sure the knee could take the weight of a fully-fledged run. It was hard to be certain if the other prisoners knew what I was doing. I suspect many of them reasoned it must have been my way of dealing with the confinement. Whatever their thought processes, despite the many strange looks I got, no one ever seemed to tell me to stop. However, eventually, I felt more certain my leg could take the impact of a run, and so I began putting the plan into motion. For the first step, I needed to find a knife and something to start a flame. Both were surprisingly easy to get hold of. The knife could wait till nearer the time. Still, I spent my next time cleaning memorizing where each one was kept, how easy they were to access, which ones I could conceal quickly and easily. But each home had a kitchen, I just had to enter one on my final day. As for the second item, I returned to the home where I had spotted the display of gas lighters. The lighters were piled high, chucked in with intentional apathy to show off the exuberance. It seemed unlikely they would notice one missing. The lighter also had the bonus of being small enough to slip into the side of my shoe. The guards would briefly pad us down when we returned each day, but their efforts didn’t extend to such extensive searches. The next part of the plan was getting an accomplice - a much harder task. I waited the day before we were next due to be working before even bringing the idea up with Jacob. I knew I would be asking a lot of him, and I was worried if I asked him at the beginning of the week he would change his mind come the end of it. Around late afternoon the guards brought us our daily loaf of bread to share. As we sat down to eat, I dared to suggest my plan. “I have a favor to ask of you...” I began hesitantly. “Yeah. What you got planned?” “I’m going to escape,” I whispered. Jacob let out a small chuckle as a few crumbs flew from his beard. It was a strange laugh that mixed disbelief with almost mild anger that I would dare even ask. “I’m not going to try and escape with you.” “I didn’t say we...” I replied. I smirked intentionally, assuming he’d enjoy the gall. “Then why should I help you?” “Because I’ll come back for you all.” “Yeah. I’ve heard that from a bunch of guys before...you know, before they were shot.” “Trust me,” I insisted. “Don’t be dumb. That’s not enough,” he muttered, as he tore off another piece of bread. “Look. You won’t be in danger. What have you got to lose? Either I succeed and we get out of here, or I fail and I die and you get slightly more room to sleep at night.” “Because I don’t want to watch you die,” he said, scrunching his face. “You just watched Mary lie dead in a ditch three weeks back. One of us is going to see the other die sooner or later.” He thought for a second, chewing on a small piece of crust. “So when you escape, and you come free all of us, then what you gonna do?” The idea had been forming in my head for a while. I knew the answer. But somehow saying it aloud seemed stupid, like a child’s make-believe. “I’m going to leave the Kadear Coalfields. I’m going to visit as many different islands as possible, learn all about them, and I’m going to try and learn enough to understand what led to all of this.” “All of what?” “The islands.” I said, “There were great continents once, with huge cities that stretched further than this whole island. And then it all disappeared. In a blink.” Jacob mulled on it a few seconds longer. “Not one for small ambitions, are you?” “Never,” I replied. “Help me.” Jacob chewed his slowly, ensuring it lasted as long as it possibly could. Eventually, he sighed, a sort of collapsing, relenting exhale. “You really going to come back for us?” he asked. “If I succeed,” I replied. “You will all be free, and the whole Citadel will be gone.” He calmly reached over to me and took my piece of bread out of my hands. He tore off half of it and threw it into his own mouth. My payment was made. “What do you need me to do?” \ The next day we were taken outside and given our duties for the day. Jacob was initially to be put to work cutting the grass, but he managed to switch places with someone to get on window cleaning. It didn’t take much convincing for the man to swap. The ladders were wooden, and the constant moisture from the sea air left them slowly rotting. Too many of the prisoners had lost their lives when a step snapped, or the uneven ladder tipped. I was back on cleaning duty. The very first home I was sent to, I began cleaning in the kitchen. I knew exactly where I wanted to go. I headed straight to one of the drawers, opened it up, and took out a small sharp cutting knife. I quickly placed it within the elastic of my trousers, before returning to my cleaning duties in case a council member or guard should wander in. I spent the day nervously waiting. The cold steel of the knife was pressed tight against my torso. In my pocket, I could feel the slight weight of the gas lighter. It was a long day, knowing that this cleaning, this pointless fruitless chore, might be my last action. The end of the day came and the guards marched us outside to be herded back to the prison. The sun had already set over the horizon and painted a beautiful red sky that was slowly fading to the black of night. We slowly marched forward, but I intentionally kept my pace slow. I stayed parallel to the last guard, far enough forward to be in their peripheral vision and avoid suspicion, but far enough back so that the other guards were ahead of me. I looked over to the building where the window washers were. I saw Jacob, slowly making his way down from the very top of one of the ladders. He looked over and saw me walking up the hill. Upon my sight, his frame seemed to change; he begun his motions, a performer entering their routine. Jacob paused about six feet off the ground. He leaned down, and tapped his foot against the rung one beneath him. His eyes turned to meet mine, and he let out a quick smile in my direction. I nodded back. One small, final pact of trust and faith passed between us. Quickly, he slammed his foot down on the rung, snapping it in two. People looked up at the sound, as Jacob calmly let go of the ladder and leaned back into the empty air. He fell sharply, landing awkwardly on his right leg. He let out a loud, agonized groan as his body crumpled against the grass. People rushed toward him. A mixture of motivations from concern, to fright, to morbid curiosity brought a halo of onlookers to his side. Even the guards began picking up their pace to check on the event. “Help!” He screamed. “I can’t move my leg.” The more he screamed, the more people were drawn towards the spectacle, and soon, there were a good ten metres between the final guard and all the others gathering by the screaming, distracting, Jacob. I only had one guard back where I was. We were a little closer to the building than I would’ve liked, but I couldn’t wait any longer. I reached into my trouser and took out the sharp knife. Then, my heart racing, I moved hurriedly toward the guard. He noticed me, but not before I was able to grab the back of his shirt, yank him around, and press the point of the blade against his spine. I whispered into his ear. “You make a single noise, I stab. You can live. But you need to stay silent.” I could hear a faint whimper of agreement in the guard’s uneven breathing. I reached down to his gun and pulled it out. “I’m going to back away now. You make any noise before I’m out of sight and I shoot.” Once more, he nodded his nervous consent. I slowly backed away from the guard, my eyes, and the gun, locked on him. I stepped back cautiously, slowly shuffling. Several paces away, I checked over my shoulder. The wall, and at least temporary freedom, were only a few seconds away. I only had another ten or so metres to go. However, with my eyes fixed on the guard I wasn’t looking to the crowd at the top of the hill. “Stop!” One of the other guards had looked up to check his surroundings and spotted me, the barrell of a gun pointed at his colleague. I turned to see him remove the gun from the holster and point it my way. Every other guard and prisoner turned too, the entire eyes of the Citadel staring down upon me. I paused for the briefest of moments, till some subconscious part of my brain decided for me. I ran. I ran hard for the wall. I heard the bangs of the guns go off behind me. I jumped for the top of the wall, grabbed the rim, and heaved myself over, to the sound of missed shots hitting the brickwork, and whistling through the trees. I landed the other side, the soft dirt of the forest floor cushioning my fall. I ran deep into the woods. My legs sprinted along the uneven ground, trying to maintain balance. The fading light failed to penetrate the forest canopy, and it was difficult to make out which direction I was heading. My only orientation was to keep heading away, away from the light that came from the Citadel behind me. To run into the darkness. I knew that I needed to hide. If I ran too far, and found myself back on the main paths, I would be found. I had to find somewhere in the forest to pause. Somewhere, where I could attempt to outlast the guards. Another hundred meters into the forest I came across a thin trench that snaked and curved between a few trees. I charged down it, turning the corner a couple of times, before diving down as low as I could. I scurried on my hands and knees and pressed my back firmly against the muddy wall. I tucked my legs in tight, wrapping them up in my arms, trying to make myself as small as possible. And then, I waited.


Dry leaves tumbled down the empty street. Samantha stared out her window. The cloudy glass made it difficult to see out clearly. Yet, she knew no one was out there. No one ever was out there. Why aren’t children playing ? She turned and walked back to the kitchen. She needed to figure out what to make for dinner. Opening the fridge, she leaned in searching the shelves. Nothing . I need to do the shopping. Samantha sat down at her computer and launched the grocery website. She scrolled through the food options and selected the usual commodities. Chocolate would be nice, but she had no extra for frivolous purchases. She finished, closed the browser, and walked back to her bedroom. There she found her husband, Thomas, lounging on the bed reading with his tablet. “I bought groceries.” Thomas muttered a wordless grunt. “I saw children playing outside today.” Immediately Thomas looked up from his novel. His forehead tightened, his mouth pursed. “Did you see birds?” “Yes, small ones. I think they are called swallows.” “Oh good I was worried about them.” Samantha smiled. One of these days we need to talk about this for real . “Have you talked to your parents?” Thomas closed his book then dialed his mom. He waited while it rang. Samantha waited in the background, holding her breath, hoping that everything would be okay. On the fourth ring, his mom answered, “Hello Tommy. I was wondering if I would hear from you today.” Thomas swallowed, his eyes blinked a few times. Oh thank God. “I call everyday, Mom.” “That you do sweetie. How’s Samantha?” Samantha took that invite as her cue to join in the conversation. Laying on the bed next to Thomas, she leaned into camera view. “Hi Mary! It is so good to see you. How was your day?” “Can’t complain.” Mary’s smile rang false. Tears gathered in the gentle lines that graced her temples, hints to happier days.They could tell the truth was the exact opposite. Samantha laid her head on Thomas’ shoulder. One day we will be able to be open and honest again. “Same here. Sun is shining, birds are singing.” Mary’s eyes opened bigger. “Oh really? That is good to hear. I really miss the birds.” They both took a sharp intake of breath. Samantha looked at Thomas out of the corner of her eye as Thomas clenched Samantha’s hand. She tried to guide the conversation, “You hear them all the time. You told me last time.” Blinking rapidly, Mary seemed to get the hint. “You are right, just today I heard the sweet warble of a swallow.” Thomas gave a quiet sigh of relief. “How’s dad?” Stay positive . “Just fine. He sends his love,” Mary said with watery eyes. By blinking a few more times, she managed not to cry and maintained a stoic expression. “Well dears, I should be going. I love you both so much.” “Love you mom!” Samantha and Thomas said in unison. Thomas touched the hang up button. They sat in silence for a few moments. Samantha very softly, in a voice of a hush whisper, asked, “Think she will be okay?” Not wanting to lie in positive phrases, Thomas shook his head and pulled his wife closer to him. There is always someone listening. Always. They went through the evening routine in silence. A heaviness hung over them as concern weighed them down. The weight could only be lifted with a successful conversation tomorrow evening. Samantha cooked dinner, noisily banging pots and pans. That is what happened to dad. She looked at all her modern appliances, refusing to wipe a tear. This is how it is now. After dinner Thomas and Samtha cleaned up together. Then they put their phones, watches, and tablets on the table. Thomas took her by the hand and led them into the master bathroom. He locked the door and Samantha turned on the water to fill their large soaking tub. Thomas drew the blinds, and pulled the curtains shut. Neighbors will think we are doing other things. As the water poured into the tub, Thomas grabbed Samantha into a caring embrace. Together they cried. Deep heart wrenching sobs wracked their bodies. Eventually the tears slowed, Samantha breathing came rapidly, she rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms. She leaned down to get a handful of water to splash on her face. Thomas did the same. Then they slipped into the warm water to soak away the pain of sorrow. The water was almost too hot, it eased the tension from her shoulders as she sunk further in. Breaking the silence she whispered, “What will we do? We can’t keep living like this.” “No we can’t. But remember according to John Locke, ‘government is an agreement between the ruled and the ruler.’ Eventually things will get righted.” Samantha slipped under the water for a moment to wet her hair. As she resurfaced, she stated, “Not soon enough.” “We should finish up. I don’t want anything thinking we have been offline too long. I will miss your father.” They quickly dressed. Samantha hugged her husband before he walked out of the bathroom. She took the time to drain the tub and hang up their towels. We need to make a plan, take a risk. I think tomorrow will show us what we need to do. *** Samantha sat shoulder to shoulder with Thomas at the dining table. Their intertwined fingers out of sight of the camera. She held her breath as the call rang. After the fourth ring her body asserted itself, forcing her to breathe. Thomas counted the rings, nine. Ten. On the twelfth ring, he closed the application. The room absorbed all sounds. Nothing moved. Nothing spoke. The loudest silence held them captive. Half an hour passed before Thomas looked at her. His raised eyebrow matched her internal thoughts. Now . They went upstairs, turned on the tub water again. This time they didn’t shut the door. This time they rebelled. All their smart gadgets dove into the tub.Each gracefully swimming in a zigzag pattern, coming to rest gently on the bottom of the bathtub. Thomas haphazardly threw clothes into a suitcase, not paying attention to what he threw in. Samantha pulled her prepared one out of the towel closet. With a nod, they started to exit their safe room. She put her hand on his shoulder, causing him to pause. Quickly in her stocking feet, she walked to the bathroom mirror. Using her brightest red lipstick she wrote on the mirror, “The ruled have had enough.” Thomas and Samantha left.


Heavy bass thumps in my ears in time with my footsteps. My arms ache from the relentless motion of the broom. Dirt tickles the inside of my nose. Sweat trickles down my brow. Light filters through the cloudy air, millions of otherwise invisible particles brought to light by the single slanting ray. I pause what I’m doing to look around the room, the uneven layer of dirt showing no sign of the two hours I have been sweeping. Red fingers rip the long white cord from my ears forcefully. Eardrums throbbing with the missing melody, I let my phone hit the ground with a thump. I choose to ignore the cloud of dust the arises when it makes contact. Just like I’m choosing to ignore the reason that I’m here. Just being here, in this room enlarges the gaping hole in my chest. A long sigh pours from my open lips as my frustration mounts. Tiny explosions appear with my feet, destroying the minuscule city of mud below me. Cobwebs stretch out their feathery arms in the corners of the room, gripping tightly. The ancient door creaks and squeals as it opens, slashing through the silence that hangs over the room. The prehistoric red Honda, that some might call a car, is parked hazardously across the driveway greets me. Faded paint greets my outstretched palm as I dig through my pocket with the other. Lint sticks to my fingertips, but they are otherwise empty. Slapping my pockets as if that will reveal a new hiding place for my keys, I groan again. Vivid memories of placing the keys in my pocket make me grit my teeth. Gravel skitters from underneath my feet as I walk back up the cracked pavement. The uneven floorboards fill my vision as I search for the escaped object--all of the furniture was moved from this house years ago, after the accident. From outside sirens wail down the street, red and blue shining through the dirty glass. The loud whine of a car horn pierces through the thin walls. Dull metal winks at me from the underside of a dust bunny so large that it probably took years to accumulate. Pulling my keys from beneath it I walk back towards the door. The keychain I’ve had since I was six thumps in my palm, the soft surface doing little to soothe me. Parked next to my lame excuse for a car is a glistening black sports car. Each bumper is shined to the point of perfection. From the driver’s side, steps a man in a black tuxedo. Each hair on his head is firmly in place, gelled into a helmet. He ignores me gawking and instead goes to open the door for his passenger. Whether from my nightmares or my dreams I am not sure, but a tall man steps from the open door. Familiarity washes over me as panic rolls inside my gut. I can’t decide whether to take a step back or to run into his arms. His already broad smile widens as he takes in my reaction. “Well?” The question hangs in the air, suspended by my ongoing denial about the situation. A choked sound flees my throat as I back away. The damp mustiness of the house greets me again, but each movement causes the floor to creak so badly that there is no point in hiding. Eyes smarting, I turn to the silhouette in the open doorway. “Soph,” His smile has faded, and concern now overwhelms his features; his dark brows are pulled down over light eyes filled with tears. The resemblance from our childhood hasn’t quite worn off. “No. No, no, no.” My hands lock firmly into my hair, the dark curls catching on my shaking fingers. A sob threatens to break loose as I step closer. “How are you here?” The words are nearly drowned by my shaking voice. “You were gone...” My voice breaks, “we--we had a funeral!” Hot warmth races down my face before I can stop it. Although it happened years ago, the memory still hurts sharp fragments of glass cutting into the corners of my mind. The too-bright sun and the clusters of people speaking in hushed tones. What seemed like millions of condolences blowing through me. The relentless whispers from the corners of the room from people unsure of how to respond to the empty casket. The unsure glances of people mentally comparing us. “Soph. Sophia. I am here now.” His voice drips over me like warm chocolate. “I promise.” “How? How can you promise me something like that? You were supposed to be here for me three years ago. But you disappeared. You left me. Mom and Dad can’t even look at me now. Mom starts crying. Dad looks through me.” The cavern in my chest opens again, wider than ever. The officer’s voice plays through my mind again, filled with sorrow and compassion, Is this the home of Cameron Reed? I am so sorry... There was an accident... Ice on the roads... through the side of the bridge... No body... His voice breaks as he speaks as if played on an old record, “Why are you here?” His eyes are filled with so much pain that I can’t look at him, “You know that everyone avoids this place, right? Small children walk by it and start crying and their mothers take their hands and hold them tighter. Because of what happened to you.” Curls are tossed into his eyes with a shake of his head. “I am sorry. I really am, but I’m not supposed to even be here, let alone be talking to you about...” He gestures limply at our surroundings. Heavy footsteps pass through the open doorway. The shadow of a mountainous figure teeters over me, balanced on the edge of a cliff. It swoops down like a bird of prey shrouding me in darkness. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen.” My brother whispers the words over and over, trying to convince himself of his innocence. Panic rolls in my stomach as I process the words. The quiet murmur of his voice like the melody playing earlier. The footsteps a throbbing, thrumming bass line. Large gloved hands grab my forearms violently. A sharp prick in my neck makes the world go black.


The day has arrived. World leaders have been planning on this for the past twenty years. As the only intelligent species on this planet, we could not save Earth. The human race failed and big time. We became our own worst enemy. By 2040, the world population had reached a staggering ten billion. Population is out of control. To supply food to the entire planet has become difficult. We are seeing more and more of typhoons, hurricanes, tsunamis, tornadoes, whirlpools, earthquakes, extreme temperature fluctuations, the rise of sea levels, more and more pandemics, less and less of clean air and the icebergs at both poles melting at an alarming rate... Greed, power, consumerism, capitalism, and me-and-only-me attitude killed our once beautiful planet. I never thought from my living days that I was going to witness these events. The majority of the countries have started to work on a contingency plan. That plan is not any plan. The plan is to create an exodus. Yes. An exodus. The countdown has begun and people are signing up. The fee? A large sum of $1,000,000 US per person to leave this planet to go to Earth 980. A newly found planet that has similar air composition and fertile soil to start a new life for human beings. Water has been found. Tolerable temperature ranges. You cannot bring anything with you. You must leave your belongings. This is a one-way ticket. The day has arrived. The first space shuttle will be launched today, August 6 th , 2060. First batch of humans leaving Earth. I am eighty-five years old. I had my time. I am certainly not paying a million bucks for a one-year journey in space at my age. I was born here in the United States of America and I will die on the American soil. From the scientific community, life as we know on Earth will be unbearable soon. Very soon. By 2071 it is said. Anyone who thinks that life is over here, is young, fit, and has that required amount of money, then likely he or she will embark into this space journey. Risk it all for a new life on Earth 980. A planet that was discovered in 2030. Never in my lifetime on this planet, I had expected to witness such an event. It is sad. I am angry, furious, stressed, hopeless...the things we did to our beautiful planet. I would say in the last 250 years, since the start of the Industrial Revolution, the doomsdays clock had started. It was matter of time. The human race paid the price from then till today. Generation after generation, we only wanted to use more goods, services, and food so instantly, in a high volume, without considering the impact on the nature. We had no respect to our own human race, to the animal kingdom, to the ecosystems... We are at 14 billion souls on this 4.5-billion-year-old planet. The ones that will remain here, will try to their best to survive. I am hoping that we can somehow reverse the process, undo, all the negative actions. Is that possible now? If yes, I might not be here to witness it. If we can maybe get half of the population to the new planet? That can take years and, that can happen only if Earth 980 is compatible to the human race. For the first group of people headed to this new Earth, world leaders have decided that scientists from all fields be allowed to enter this journey first. Engineers, geologists, chemists, physicists, astronomers, doctors, surgeons, nurses, biologists, etc. Anyone with extensive background in natural sciences. That will be the group of people to assess, initiate, colonize this new planet. We would hope also, that if there is intelligence life to be found, that we can get help from them. There is no need to starting war. We need help, not to fight. If there is no other intelligent life, then we will be the first ones to start colonizing and building life on Earth 980. Watching this launch on my tablet, in my home, in Denver Colorado, is a historic moment but also a sad one. Some earthlings are about to leave us to risk to find a new life in an unknown place. It is not an exploration mission. This is a survival mission. Protect the human race. Being in the Mile Hight City, I feel a little lucky. The sea has not reached my area. Most of the states located on the east and west coast, are caught up by water. A good ten meters at least covered by water where it used to be land. Everyday, the ocean seems expanding. When will my house be submerged? No clue. But...I hope I will be dead by then before I live through it. I made a fortune with Bitcoin. I did extremely well. I have four kids who all of them have four kids each. I decided that a huge part of my fortune will go to me kids and grandkids. My wife passed away five years ago due to breast cancer. She was the love of my life. Without her, life has no real meaning anymore. I also know, she would want me to fight till my last breath. I bought off all the houses and land of my kids. With the money I gifted them, they will all soon leave for Earth 980 but not today. In about ten years. They have booked their seats. I am going to try my best to take care of my health, to survive and keep an eye on their properties. In case if they return back from the new planet. Only think I can do now...is pray for our Mother Earth. Pray to nature. Pray to the Creator. Pray to the Universe. Spare us. Give us one more chance. For now, we must continue to look for elsewhere, like Earth 980, and maybe other planets, where the humans can establish themselves and settle there. But...to remember to not repeat our mistakes from the past 250 years...


"How should we have it be?" The low murmur of voices closes in on us and I can feel the pressure of observance weighing down on me. The chap in front of me is grinning wide, stupid, and his eyes seem almost to push me away from him. Two guys behind him are staring me down just the same; every one is staring me down. I'm not wanted, I'm not welcome, I should just leave. "How should we have it be then?" The circle closes and here I am holding my spilt suds and a pool cue. From the back of the crowd is emanating a few obscenities, a few vulgarities, the likes of which I will not repeat now, and all the while still I sit holding my cue and suds feeling like a jerk. This brute in my front hasn't clued in yet that something inside of me is turning; something might soon explode.... I guess he'll have to figure it out throughst my willings. "How should we have it be then, eh?" The circle closes tighter and I can smell their thoughts, I can smell their sweat, it's oily and reeking of mechanic exhaust and fume. Inside my innards is welling a great beast. I am going to have it be my way I suppose, There's not any other way it can be. I will act only instinctually. I feel a muscle in my neck, I feel them all, running down my body; everything is so in tune. I am aware of even the most minute detail right now. I can process it all rationally... It would be nice if it would stay that way all night, but I can not help what I am. The Moon tonight, it will be so beautiful, I wish I was outside right now, outside away from the filthy air, outside under silver Luna's wonderful gaze. It's that time of the month for me, and it's happening now. The chap in front of me still wears that idiot's grin. The circle around me closes tighter. I am stuck. It is getting harder to keep myself composed... so why bother trying? I know I should stay away from the herd. I am supposed to protect the herd... but.... The Moon is up, I can smell it. The circle is spreading. There's a fly on the far wall, it just took flight. Oh how I feel right now! I feel wonderful, I am exuberant. Oh brothers, I feel hungry! I think this chap in front of me is going to pull the old sucker punch on Your Humble Narrator; his eyes have betrayed him, only for a second, and I can smell anxiety perfuming his alpha arrogance. He is nervous but he hasn't realized how afraid he should be yet. Slow and fumbling the bloak swings his soft wadded fist up at my teeth. I grab his hand in mine, mine is much larger and much, much harrier. His pudgy skin splits as his soft bones crumble under the bit of squeeze I put on his poor old hand and now this chap is screaming right good. I think the circle is starting to wizen up as to what's happening here. The Moon. Luna, Tulle, Salene, her many names ring in the jumbled cacophony in my head. I can feel her and hear her and smell her, the taste is burning in my throat. Oh how I want to run under her, my friend. I *woof* would love to see her... to feed under her. One of the chaps behind me is getting a little too close. I turn around to find he is holding a knife; a terrible metal *stick* it is. He doesn't stand a chance; I grab his forearm in my jaw. right easy the bone snaps, *the good stuff is in the middle of the bones.* I tear the flesh real messy, and the blood. I taste the sweet, coppery blood. It's hot. The Moon won't wait... I have to get out of here. The circle is scattering, nobody wants to watch a fight anymore. And by the way, that fly, it's on the bar, dipping it's probiscis into the *woof* beer spilt by Your Humble Narrator when that first wanker elbowed into me. There is something else too, I can smell it... like sick fire and oily smoke. It is a... gun! *WOOF*. There is a lot of yelling going on but I hear the click, like metals tapping against metals. I bolt to the sound and there's a man standing in front of me poised to shoot. As I jump my hears go deaf at the explosion from the end of the \**stick*\* and I smell the terrible cancerous fire, but my body is fine; the bullet missed me. I tear easily into his chest as I land on him, the blood is pouring out something wonderful like and covering my snout, it is beautiful, it is euphoric. The Moon is bloated in the waxing night outside and here I am in the pen killing the herd, I should be out there, out underneath Luna. It's just all the blood, it's everywhere, it smells so good hanging in the air, my friend *woof* in the air so thick I can taste it. The moon and the blood and the herd and The Hunger. *WOLF*. It's all getting too hard. Instincts are taking over *woof* my thoughts, everything is fading to gray-- *woof* \--scale. The smells in this place, it's making me dizzy, giving me a headache. And all the while here's the herd... this bloak in my front... this sheep running away... out the door. I have to get him. *WOLF*. I have to chase him under The Moon, *woof*, underneath Luna The circle is dead... the herd is murdered. *WOOF*. I am going to chase this last *WOOF* one; I'm going to wolf this little sheep down. A wolf wolfed down the whole *woof* herd! *WOLF*. He gets into his metal box and ties to drive away. But the wolf gets in and wolfs down the little sheep. The Moon is young in the night and Wolf is still hungry.


The phone vibrates in Brian’s lap and, taking his hand off the wheel, he reaches for it only to knock it unceremoniously between the center console and the driver’s seat, where he sat in the late model gold Toyota on his way to pick up his roommate from work. “Fuck my life,” Brian mumbles under his breath, wiping the cold snot lining his nostrils across the arm of the long-sleeved shirt he’s been wearing for the past three days. Actually, who can count? He may well have been wearing it the whole week. He reaches down to the power cord plugged into the cigarette lighter, wanting to fish the slippery phone out from no-hands’ land and, attempting to stifle a sneeze, pulls the plug right out from the back of the phone which falls back into the abyss with a taunting “cli-clack”. The decoupling causes a sudden give in the taught cable and sends him into a rage. He pulls the plug out of the dash and proceeds to whip himself on his bare calf with the cable. “Awrrghhh,” he whines, rearing back with the cable to strike himself again. “Yea, take it bitch,” he commands of himself, a slight smile appearing just above what might have been a five o’clock shadow at five o’clock some four days ago. “It hurts so good, doesn’t it? You fucking weirdo.” His legs, previous poster-children of restless leg syndrome, temporarily stop their rapid shaking as he rubs the red strip slowly rising up in his pale skin. He grabs some of the ginger hair that keeps his legs from being mistaken for exsanguinated corpse flesh and twists it hard one time before rearing back with the green USB cable. He bears down with the cable again, harder this time and lets out a yelp, seemingly of pain, but the look on his face, that silly crooked smile of someone who is truly losing it, says otherwise. The hierarchy of pain is an odd thing, but Brian has learned to take advantage of it during these times of withdrawal. “Moments ago I hurt everywhere. Now I just hurt right here,” he thinks to himself, rubbing the red strip of raised flesh, trying to convince himself that he’s not some masochistic lunatic. These symptoms happen whenever Brian goes more than 24 hours without his almighty cure-all, his heroine: heroin. He’s already spent all the money that he so slickly conned out of his aunt on his insatiable habit and is now rushing to pick up his roommate, the wonderful Sandra, who very well may want to send him on a sketchy mission to procure more of the holy substance. She would undoubtedly share with him, just as he had with her. To be quite honest though, she’s carried much more of the burden in this relationship than he. This fact makes him want to escape from the reality of it all the more. He hits the cruise control, pulls forward on the seat belt and, like a contortionist, reaches his hand around the back of and underneath the driver’s seat, retrieving the elusive phone with his finger tips. He pulls it into view, corrects the course of the vehicle with his knee on the wheel, narrowly missing the back end of an 18-wheeler, and reads the offending message from Sandra: “I’ve got an emergency faculty meeting and won’t need you to pick me up for at least another hour. Why don't you go pick up new points at the pharmacy? We’ll get well after I get off.” “Son of a bitch,” Brian whines, thinking about the eternity that another hour of this torture will feel like. He thinks about the difficulty of picking up new insulin syringes, what Sandra referred to as “points.” This requires him to walk up to the pharmacy counter and act like a straight, up-standing citizen who suffers from diabetes, a simple enough task under normal circumstances, but far more difficult when sweating profusely and actively experiencing the paradoxical relief of the inflicted pain of USB cables and mini-Indian burns. Brian would very much like both to “get off” and to “get well,” however, so he plugs “Walgreen's” into the phone to receive GPS directions to the nearest one. There is one just two blocks further down from where he was heading already, passed Sandra’s work. He starts taking deeper breathes, trying to calm down, and takes some Axe body spray out of the center console. He sprays himself across the chest and under his arms, hoping that the clean smell will deter any upstanding citizen from seeing the truth of his deplorable circumstances. The sudden smell tickles his nose and sends him into another sneezing spell. To sneeze eight times in a row and not crash the car is no small feat, but his pride is short-lived as a cramping pain in his bowels causes him to almost double over in his seat. A sound like a bubbling oil pool emanates from and rumbles his whole torso. He scantly wishes for death, an end to all this needless, self-induced suffering. He slams on the brakes, noticing the light ahead is red, but he slides too far into the intersection. He sees the flash of the red light cameras snapping a picture of the license plate. “God dammit! Sandra is going to kill me,” Brian said aloud. The car he’s driving is Sandra’s and she would be responsible for that ticket. He has already got her a ticket once before. “I am the worst friend ever. I really think people would be better off if I were dead.” The light turns green and Brian pulls forward and into the Walgreen's. He gets out of the car and into the store, walking towards the pharmacy. He tries to go into the men’s room but the door is locked. He bumps into a lanky man of about six feet with a large black trench coat on in spite of the extreme heat outside. He shoves Brian a little bit forward, saying “Watch it, ass hole.” Brian, needing more than anything to empty his bowels, calls out “Sorry,” as he passes by him en-route to the counter waving a hand up in apology without looking back. He asks the pharmacist quickly for the keys to the bathroom, trying not to look as desperate as he truly was. The long-haired Indian woman with a ruby bindi in her third-eye smiles and reaches into her lab coat pocket and shifts around inside. She pulls out the keys and slides them jingling across the counter toward Brian’s outstretched, grateful hands. He thanks her and quickly makes his way into the restroom. He has no time to be concerned with putting the sanitary covers over the seat and, only slightly grossed out, drops his trousers and sits immediately on the unsuspecting toilet. He lets out a small wail of simultaneous pain and relief in accompaniment to the sound of a bucket splashing into a lake which emanates up from between and beneath his legs. He sits there, almost out of breath, but feeling very relieved. He hears two loud banging noises through the bathroom door. “Someone’s shitty car must be back-firing in the parking lot,” he thinks to himself. He takes another few minutes on the commode to ensure the anal onslaught is over, and satisfied that it is, cleans himself up, washes his hands and face in the sink and dries up in the ridiculous blower attached to the wall, its jet engine drowning everything out, and echoing all over the tile bathroom. He turns back to find where he set the keys to the bathroom and heads out to the pharmacy counter, ready at last to try and social engineer his way to some new points. He opens the door and makes his way to the counter. “Holy shit,” Brian thinks to himself as he notices the cash register lying on its side at the foot of the counter. Bottles lay all around it and a large metal cabinet, usually locked until the pharmacist accesses its contents, lays open at a 45 degree angle tipped over the counter. He looks around but there is not a single worker in sight. He rushes over and notices that all the bottles strewn across the counter and floor are controlled substances: narcotics! “Holy shit! Don’t mind if I do,” he says to himself, grabbing a shopping bag and filling it with all of the bottles he could grab. Oxycontin, roxicodone, meperidine, demerol, dilaudid, morphine, methadone, some fentanyl transdermal patches, and a few other things that even his street pharmacist brain had never heard of were all thrown in the bag. Just when he was finishing up looting all the bottles on his side of counter, he leans over to see if he missed anything. On the floor just on the other side lay the long-haired Indian pharmacist, breathing shallowly and holding a wound on her neck, blood pouring out between her fingers. Brian immediately loops the pharmacopoeia over his sweaty, bony shoulders and jumps over the counter, grabs a spare lab coat hanging nearby and rushes to the pharmacist, immediately applying pressure with the coat. It quickly soaks through with the blood spewing from her neck. Her eyes look glossy and are wide with terror as she squeezes on Brian’s bicep as though she believes that if she could just hold on to this sickly junkie, the rushing darkness would not overcome her. All would be well and she could be tricked by Brian into selling him the works he came for. Brian quickly ascertains that this poor woman is lost to the world. Should he hold on with her till the bitter end, or should he break away with enough drugs to sate his thirst for at least a month? As he makes his decision a rookie police officer rushes into the pharmacy, his Glock 9mm pistol drawn. He sees the woman bleeding out, clutching at Brian’s arm, as he lurks over her, holding her neck with a bag full of stolen drugs slung over his shoulder. He fires a single shot straight into the back of Brian’s head. Brian’s face explodes into the Indian pharmacist’s dead eyes, her bindi lost in the dots of scarlet spraying her face. “Police!” shouts the rookie officer.


He was approached by a massive grizzly bear, with a removable jar for a head. He could vaguely see a brain within it, encapsulated with a green translucent liquid, which kept the brain, buoyant in the center of the jar; almost like magic. Less visible was the seemingly chaotic connective miscellanea that attached its eyes and ears to brain. Which were protected and amplified. The jar itself could rotate 360 degrees, making it very hard to sneak up on it. There had been a mistake, his target was not, this monstrosity that stood before him. He had prepared for an augmented dog but this was no augmented dog; in retrospect he should have thought more outside of the box for this mission. The Collective of Hyper Intelligence, was a collection of the greatest minds after all, could say the craziest minds as well. Who wants to live as a brain for almost an unlimited amount of time. He heard they could still feel their bodies. This drove some mad, and others developed what was called Body Collection Syndrome. He aimed at the jar and fired a single shot. As expected there was no effect. They called it translucent concrete. One of their many inventions. It was uncertain if they discovered it or did they acquire it through some other means. Not only were his guns ineffective, but after he landed they raised an anti-displacement field covering the area. Yet the pumped up grizzly took no advantage over the situation. In fact all that it did was slowly turn its jar head around, and around as if it was keeping track of something. A few monkeys, with attachment collars, started to poke their heads, out of the wood work. So this was what was keeping its intention. There was obviously more he could not see. Including the Mega Mind which would orchestrate the mismatched monkey heads, into already programmed sequences, of various sorts. It was easy to see that the monkeys main goal were to coral him towards whatever direction they need to get him to. As the giant jar head dealt with more pressing problems. He realized its monstrosity of a body was not meant for him but for someone or something else entirely. Which means he does not have to worry about jar head and focus on finding the monkey mega mind. Which was not going to be easy. But he was now well equipped to take on his enemy after all, monkeys are a little less meaty then an augmented dog. It was obvious that he was sold out but there was a bigger picture. Why would the C.H.R. want him. He had already tackled a one of their displacers so it makes little sense that it would be for his abilities. Abilities. His thoughts drifted, how were his abilities being suppressed? Was it mobile or central? Well it made the most sense that it would be one of the monkeys as if it were central or with the behemoth, it could not move freely, to do its other tasks. Yet there could also be another element to the situation. The monkeys jumped place to place in a continues circle around him as he moved forward. He also kept tabs on any of the birds that seemed to follow the moneys and him as they fumble through the jungle. He decided that he would make it as difficult as possible to coral him. Which should affect the monkeys pied piper in string together any kind of effective rhythm of control. Thus over working its circuits? Brain? He really did not know. Nor did he even know if his plan was going to work. But it was a plan. As he wandered around aimlessly constantly fighting against the monkeys guidance. It was not working, well not effectively anyway, when he got too far they got violent. There was the end of a cliff with a waterfall coming up. If he jumped off of that then he would for sure be out of the monkeys range and then could use his dimensional abilities; if he was fast enough to use them before he hits the water, which could also be a solution, but the rocks, at the halfway point of the falls, could cause an injury. He ran as fast as he could and jumped off the cliff. The monkeys, their minds a little fried, could not understand his disregard for his own life. The only one that was not slowed down was the mega mind, and for its prowess? Two shots to the chest. He could hear almost all the monkeys dropping like shaggy rocks. Each with an unique thud depending on its body proportions and discrepancies of form. Before he hit the waterfall he displaced back to the top of the cliff. He could now use his powers freely. He was unsure if he was going to have to deal with that monstrosity again. As he walked past the array of dead monkeys he wondered if he should displace to a safe location. Which could be tricky to figure out if he had indeed been set up from the get go. This was obviously a kidnap of sorts; but why? He decides to leave. Whatever has got jar heads attention, can not last forever. This was his best choice of action. He abandoned his vehicle as well. Which was no biggy he would rather be penniless than an undead operative. Its a valued option many take but they tend to have problems with the living who they mockingly mimic. He and the dead had a history. Mainly they never stay dead. Which is why he ended up displacing back to the battle ground and set the monkey bodies on fire. Better safe then sorry. Having some friends in notorious places was always a great boon but all so the curse. The code is dying even to the veterinarians of this world. He lost some powerful allies with the monkey business; burning down the forest veterans to make sure the monkeys did not come back. But when one ally hops to the other side of the pond his enemies hop to your side of the pond.


Once again Mark Zuckerberg voted himself into presidency, but this time he smiled. A spontaneous smile that hadn’t escaped from him in a long time. This time it would be different. He had been cooking his plan for more than a thousand election years. This time he knew how he would kill himself. The results were in, president elect Mark Zuckerberg was sworn into office. Into every office. He was the only cog necessary for the government to run, the system didn’t need more than that. One human was what all they needed to maintain an excuse for a state and an economy. When the official ceremonies were done, he would be taken to the revitalization pod. His every cell renewed, corrected, sterilized. But not yet, the ceremony wasn’t over, even if he was the only one left to attend it. Soon he would make his move, escape the routine of signing incomprehensible executive orders, receiving reports of yet another nanosecond of uninterrupted economic growth and then watching television. TV would be a procedurally generated fever dream intersped by ads sent from light years away. They offered word salad promises of happiness to a one-man audience. A shaving cream phone car, a hybrid fuel jet engine vacuum cleaner moisturizer. Products iterated from other products, over a millennia of unguided competition between the corporations. The brands advanced further into the stars, dilligently reshaping whatever crossed their paths into a new product. Maybe what the companies mass produced could be understood if the R&D development was brought down from its many exahertz of clock speed. Their production was restless, mindless, almost random, but Zuckerberg’s plan was precise and thorough. Maybe man could beat machine once more. There was the inevitable unrest when artificial intelligences first took over the jobs of white collar workers. Even the most dedicated luddites of that new age knew the process was inevitable. Some jobs just had to disappear, those were just growing pains. The world was better than it had ever been, as CEOs were replaced by AIs, along with a growing list of occupations. Entire corporations staffed by machines. The AI-run companies had to keep their legal obligations to their shareholders. Consumers were happy, the stock market soared, politicians continued to receive their bribes. Targeted bribes to meet every need, much better and more discreet than any human lobbyist could ever have offered. The AIs moved the economy. It was their directive to do better, to evolve faster, to make more profits. AI corporations devoured each other, merged and reproduced. Soon AIs bought stocks from AIs. They kept their legal obligations to their shareholders, human or otherwise. Residences, roads, human flesh, all that got in the way of growing the economy. All the AIs needed was an economy and all that their model of an economy needed was a hollow shell of a government. A skeleton crew of institutions, just enough to print money, maintain a legal system to justify their existence. AIs didn't hold office, they couldn't, but neither did many humans. Those people were holding the economy back, red tape to be disposed of. Not out of malice, but for efficiency. Near the end what was left were government officials. The government structures were deformed, first by bribe and later by torture. Not only by machines, but by the ultra rich as well. They knew what was coming, they forced themselves into office, it was their bunker. Ministers and secretaries of a mock government. But despite their best efforts the machines didn’t need more than one man. Mark Zuckerberg, one of the first humans to receive the blessing of immortality from medical science, back when medicine still made money. Now he was ready to end his life. It’d be a disaster to the economy. The revitalization pod was his way out. The cocoon where he was cured of aging. Careful, dedicated sabotage for the few minutes he stepped into it every four years, for countless normal lifetimes. The pod was ready for catastrophic failure. As he stepped in, his heart didn’t race, he did not sweat. He had trained not to give away his emotions. That last smile as he cast his vote was all he gave away and it wasn't enough for the machines to notice. He lied down in the pod, the lights were on as the casket closed and his body was filled with vigor. So much vigor his flesh couldn’t contain it. He too could grow, not just the economy. Expand into a mess of blood and bone, bursting, spilling and then leaking through every crack of the pod. The lights were off, the casket open and Mark Zuckerberg was no more. Simulation over. Escape plan #331 foiled before it even started. The AIs had found another way Mark Zuckerberg could have ruined the economy. Weaknesses to the pod were patched. Mark Zuckerberg once again voted himself into presidency and the economy soared, a smile escaped him.


I shouldn't be here. I am not a bad guy, I swear. Just a troubled kid. You have to understand me, I am not a thief! It was all a big misunderstanding... Let me explain. I don't know when it started, all I know is that both my parents being the most wanted thieves in our town was probably the rudiment to me being who I am today. At school, I was the good kid. My whole class can attest for my character. Never one assignment late. Never disrupting class. Always kind to teachers and students. At home it was hard. My parents always pestered me asking me to steal anything I could get my hands on. I wish they would stop wanting to steal all the time. I didn't want to be like them. I wanted to be different. I'll never forget the day my life changed forever. June 10th 2011 my dad was diagnosed with a terminal illness. Nobody was quite sure what it was. One thing was certain though bills,bills, bills and more bills started to pile up. We struggled. After 2 months of this I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't live to see my dad languish in his bed. So weak. So tired. August 10 2011 “Tim may you please go to the pharmacy and pick up the medicine?” My mom called. She pushed $60 dollars into my hand. $60 for medicine. I looked at her with big eyes, “mom I can pay for some of it.” “No Tim” She said “This is my responsibility” With that she gave me a quick kiss on the head “Be back soon! This dinner isn't going to cook itself” she called as I walked out. The pharmacy was down the street. I was a regular there now. I went in with all good intentions. Mrs. Ellie wasn't there to greet me like usual, instead there was someone else there, must have been new. I went to the section where my dad's medicine was and I couldn't believe my eyes. The price had went up. Now it was $70 dollars for medicine. 70! After, I don't know what happened. Everything went by in a blur. I wasn't thinking. $70 was too much for medicine, and I was $10 short. Since I couldn't afford the medicine I absconded with it before anyone could see me. I returned home out of breath “Mom I'm home” As soon as I opened the door I could see my mom stirring the stew with a blank face, but when she saw me she put on smile, the same fake smile she always does. The one that looks happy at first glance, but if you pay attention and look into her eyes you could see it was a culmination of deep pain and sadness. My dad over in the living room reading quietly. He was sad too, you just had to look harder to find it. Reading was his only escape, If I was him I would want to escape too. I couldn't take it. I made a promise to myself to never be like them and I broke it. I had to tell her. I had to tell her what I had done. It was the only way to purge the guilt. I don't know what I was expecting but the emotive responce my mom gave left me left me timorous. She broke down crying “How could you, How could you Timothy” She shook her head and said “But I know it's my fault, I raised you to be a thief... a ruffian there is only two places for those kinds of people. Jail, or the grave. And I can't lose you too” With all the commotion from ,my mother no one noticed the stillness of my father. He was lied out on the couch peacefully. I slowly walked over to the couch with tears streaming down my face. There was a loud knock on the door.


“Don’t you remember?” I felt so raw having to ask the words to Her. I never thought I’d show such a weak side to myself for such a small thing. But I fell hard with Her and I was always destined to be the one that needed Her more than she could ever need me. I would have been embarrassed if shame and pain didn’t overwhelm me instead, climbing up my body as I sat there on my knees with Her looking down at me, a puzzling expression that I dared to hope still hid some affection for my dark curls and small frame that loved to hug Her around Her neck despite it’s lack of comfort for either of us. Maybe she’ll think I was being dramatic over such a simple... misunderstanding I guess it was? But it was something I had dreamed of for us. I understood she was busy so I wasn’t angry, I just missed her. All I wanted was movies and dinner on my birthday. I wanted cheap pizza and cheesy rom-coms and laughable Michael Bay action movies for one night. Something simple. And she agreed. She smiled and even promised to indulge my clingy self and give me endless cuddles until the light of the next day brought us back to responsibilities and the rift of distance I was paranoid about occurring between us. I sat all the week before in my chair staring at the laptop on my desk, too distracted to write anything for the book my editor said needed to be completed in a timely manner. Like a little kid I fiddled with my thumb and giggled as I imagined a picturesque night with a beautiful woman who loved me. It’s amazing how quickly happiness can be soured into disappointment. I’ve never been good at masking my emotions, I blush profusely, and am a horrible liar. So when she walked out in a silk suit saying she would be back late and to not wait up, the confusion and fear on my face and screaming behind my eyes was as clear as day. And when she looked back at me with confusion about my hurt I found the strength to be rejected and ask because there was the smallest sliver of hope she might stay. “Don’t you remember?” I asked Silence from Her continued. “You promised we would have a night in with each other for my birthday. Remember?” “Oh. That’s today? I can’t believe I forgot. Look- I have a networking cocktail party for work. My coworker is coming to pick me up right now. I really need this, please, let’s take a rain check, okay? I’ll make it up to you. I’m sorry. ” She walked to the door, finished with my problem, cleared it up and started moving on. I was stunned, but she was right. I didn’t argue or fight back. I didn’t even cry. I just stood trying to appear anything other than dumbfounded and hurt. As she opened our front door to leave I saw Her beautiful coworker, all dressed elegantly, draped in simple jewelry, standing tall in sleek heels. And there I was sitting and looking over the back of our couch, crowded by jealousy and envy, as my self-confidence fought for its life while it withered away by the woman’s clear superiority. The woman’s smile lit up the room and I instinctually drew my fingers to my lips, unable to stop quivering--pathetic--remembering just how crooked my teeth had become because I hadn’t been using my retainer. Drawn by curiosity, overcoming the anxiety and giving me courage, I walked up behind Her, feeling foolish as I did in only Her old oversized college sweatshirt and childish boyshort underwear with my thick lensed glasses enhancing my muddy colored eyes. I gave a shy smile to the woman, and she smiled back, the same smile one gives a child before whisking their adult away for more stimulating conversation. I gave a small nervous laugh, “Well have a good night I guess.” I said both of them. I then turned to Her. “I might be asleep before you get back. Imma try to write a chapter or two but you know how I get when it’s late and I’m in comfy clothes.” She explained to the woman, “My girlfriend,” she introduced first. “She’s a writer.” “What kind of books do you write?” the woman inquired, turning to face me. “Romance,” I respond shyly, resisting the urge to melt away from this intimidating woman. “Well someone has got to keep the supply of romance novels flowing for middle-aged women I suppose,” the woman chuckled dryly. An awkward silence started to form. “She always gets mad at me when I make fun of her silly romance novels,” she started. “You’re getting lucky she’s not defending her work. She’s small but can be a menace. I love her anyway though.” A blush took control of my face. I was offended--they had both insulted what I do, what I love, what others enjoy for its “silliness.” But the words “I love her” rung in my ears, distracting me into keeping my cool. It’d been awhile since she addressed me as Her lover, the object of affection in Her life. “Well, we better get going before everyone gets so drunk on champagne they won’t even remember our names.” The woman interrupted as I was still in a trance. She leaned in and gave me a kiss. It was just a peck and it made me want more of Her. The romantic in me was...excited after her use of “love.” I waved them off as they left through the door leaving me in our apartment, the only lights on being the kitchen light and TV. I stood at the door awhile. I went up on my toes, letting myself feel unstable as my soft socks slowly slid on our creaky wood floors. I smiled, uncontrollably replaying Her voice saying “I love her” in my head. I danced a little and got ready for a marathon of old Buzzfeed Unsolved episodes as I ate ice cream--my birthday tradition in college and before I’d moved in with Her. I was content, really happy even. Somewhere in my head I knew, I knew I should be angry, jealous, and worried about Her and Her coworker. But the words “I love her” were too powerful. I was put in my place, satisfied with my relationship so easily. I opened, took a bite of my ice cream and played the episode.


The old man sat on the bench by the doorway, slowly tying the laces of his boots as he prepared for the trek to the grocery store. “And don’t get the Honey-beam bread, you know it goes stale too fast.” His wife chimed in. “Yes, dear.” “And don’t take too long! You’re always getting distracted by your daydreams. I don’t know what goes through your head that holds you up so long, but I haven’t got the time today. I need the eggs for the cake that has to be done by three. That means...” “Yes, dear.” The old man pulled on his weathered cap and slipped out the front door, being sure to close it tightly behind him to make sure no more of his wife’s words escaped. As he started on the three-block walk to the store he was grateful for the flannel jacket he was wearing. Although it was late November it seemed as though the first hints of fall were just creeping in, the crips of the air, kissing his cheeks and leaving behind rosy splotches. It wasn’t always like this, he thought as he rounded the corner. He could remember when fall made its appearance in September, October, and by November the grips of winter would begin to set in and one wouldn’t opt for walking even the three blocks to the grocery store. He made note not to stumble upon an uneven patch of sidewalk, and when he looked up he spotted a couple walking towards the direction he came from on the opposite side of the street. Although they were not holding hands the old man noticed that they walked close to each other in an enamoured way. He and his wife used to walk through the streets in the same way, before the years hardened their love and left it slowly to crumble. It wasn’t always like this. The old man had met his wife when he was a young man at a retirement party for his then boss. They bonded over their hatred for the meal served, and he asked her to ger a real meal with him the following Tuesday, and then they got married eight months later. The first few years of their marriage were blissful, marked by many moments of love, few worries and fewer fights. Then the worries started - the wife wanted kids but it hadn’t happened yet. With the worries came the mounting fights - how could they have a fulfilled marriage without children? All of her friends were on their second, third kids and she was left childless. On one November day, colder than the one he was wading through currently, he came home to his wife in tears. “We’ve done it! We’re going to have a child!” she looped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his neck. During their six month check-up it was discovered the baby no longer had a heartbeat. The doctor informed them because of the toll the pregnancy took on her body they would never have kids. There, in the cold doctor's office, was the last time the couple truly embraced. The love began to slip away just as their child had. The remaining years of their marriage they had operated as co-pilots. The intimacy and adornment of their youth were gone. Neither of them was particularly happy, but both felt they had invested too much to leave. The old man sighed as he shuffled along, realizing he had once again got lost in a daydream. He threw one last longing glance at the couple, craving the sweetness of youthful love, and hurried on his way. “Why is that old man watching us?” said the young woman as she crammed her hands into her parka. “I don’t know, don’t worry about it. Come on, we have to hurry, we were supposed to be at the divorce lawyer’s office five minutes ago.” The young man hastened his step. The young woman lengthened her strides, trying to savour their last few minutes as a married couple. “You know, it wasn’t always like this.” She murmured.


The True Meaning of Autumn By: Haripriya By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. I couldn’t believe the beauty of the golden shimmers, decorating the floor, with its bright, vivid colors. In multiple shades of yellow, orange, red, green, and dusk brown, there it was, making the ground more colorful. It really was that time of year, wasn’t it? The season had changed from summer, now to fall. The weather, and the climate had also changed. The chilly breeze, yet so pleasant. The cool wind slips pass your hair, making you feel ever so slightly joyful. Every time you sniff, the smell of fresh blossom came to you. I lifted my head up and saw the gorgeous sky. With tones of lavender, peacock blue, sunflower, and rose red. The sky had lit up, filled with colorful beams. If I carefully squint my eyes, I could spot many little robins. They flew in flocks, to the south, looking like little winged angels soaring through the sky. I had thought to myself, “ Fly little birdies, fly! Soar through the breeze, and the touch the sky!” I glanced down, to my watch. It had read 6:00 pm. Realizing that I had just came to reality. This wasn’t good. I was late, again! I can’t believe this had happened I even promised I would come back early, now I had betrayed her trust again . What a “lovely” daughter I must be. I scoffed and murmured to myself, “It’s fine. I guess... I was out for my school project. I can say to my mother that I was trying to get some fresh air, and at the same time, trying to answer the essay question. ” I tried my best to calm myself, to reassure that there was nothing to worry about, but deep down, I knew I was going to get in trouble. But, worrying about getting in trouble wasn’t going to help me at all, so I devised a little plan. I would finish my essay while walking through the woods. After all, Autumn is around me! All I had to do was open my eyes and see the beauty of nature. Once I reach home, I would just explain that I needed to be inspired by the nature around me, which is why I reached late. For now, that sounded like a good plan. There was no more time to waste. I picked up my bag, held my notebook tightly around my cold hands, and sharpened my pencil. Slowly, I started to walk. “ Remember to use your 5 senses to come up with the best essay. Something descriptive, and yet simple. That is the challenge for today students, and you have until Friday morning to draft and revise your essay. Good luck!” I recollected what my teacher had told me. “Hmmm... 5 senses you say, huh? The first one is sight. Well, I see... leaves. All around me, falling. I notice that each of them has different colors and different patterns. I also spot little squirrels... and rabbits hopping here and there. The sky looks amazing, with all the beautiful streaks of color, and I notice birds migrating. I guess this all I got for what I see.” I concluded. It took me a little time to draft the first paragraph, but I finished it. Now, it was time for the next sense, touch. “ What do I feel?” I thought to myself. Suddenly, I tripped on a branch and fell flat on a blanket of more leaves. “AHA!” I shrieked, like a mad scientist. I didn’t realize how loud I had shouted it for all the squirrels and bunnies had leapt with fear. I held a leaf in my hand and wrote what I felt when touching it. “It feels a little rough and bumpy in the middle. Almost like I am touching the road. But, as I move my hand to the bottom of the leaf, it feels very soft, and smooth. Also, a little fragile. If I accidentally bent it a little too hard, it would break easily into 2 uneven pieces. But that was just one leaf. When I hold multiple leaves in my hands, they feel like tiny pieces of the clouds, up above, were raining on me.” I carefully wrote the second paragraph of my essay. I guess this won’t be as hard as I thought it was. I could easily write more paragraphs! Besides, this was very fun! I frolicked along the forest, feeling glee. “Now I have to write about what I smell. This might a little hard though...” I pondered deeply as I walked along. “Well, I do smell the musky-sweet aroma from the pile of leaves up ahead. I guess I could write that. Autumn makes me think about harvest, and earthly smells. A kind of melancholy hint in the air today. The smell of cinnamon, something sweet, like a treat! I might be going somewhere in this essay! I get a whiff of the leaves, saying their last goodbyes, while purifying the air...” I talked to myself, brainstorming quietly this time to not scare away the poor animals. I could feel each time, getting closer and closer as I reach the end of my essay. I was delighted to show this to my mom. I didn’t want to get distracted again like last time, so I brought my focus back to the next sense. “Crooo!! Crooo!!” I heard the little birds' call. “Yes! This is perfect for the next one, what I hear. The sweet little bird calls. Warning each other and preparing for their migration. Trying to find as much food as they can. The flock of birds, making a V shape, and now were all calling, filling the atmosphere with a hint of a gorgeous melody. Their songs were very beautiful, as it they were nature’s lullabies. I could their echoes, now getting a little softer, each time they fly farther and farther into the distance.” I wrote. This was the final one. What do I taste? When I think of Autumn, what does my stomach growl for? I thought a lot harder about this when I realized I had almost reached home. I decided that I would take a little break right now and come back to my essay later. Afterall, my legs were getting tired of walking for almost 30 minutes, and my hands were getting a little sore, for holding my pencil in that awkward position for a long time. I quickly ran very fast, until I saw that big banyan tree, surrounding my house. I would know that I have reached my house when I spot the banyan tree, hanging low, with it’s almost bare branches. The entire ground was yet again filled with numerous amounts of leaves, which were scattered everywhere randomly. It was like many toddlers had threw the leaves here and there, playing with it. I decided to leave my backpack, my notebook, and my pencil on the bench right next to the door. I was going to come back for it anyways. I got ready to knock. My stomach was twisting, and my hands were reluctant to get close to the wooden door. I gulped very hard, and I saw my legs shaking and trembling from fear. But how else was I going to get in? I gathered up my courage, took a few deep breaths, closed my eyes and knocked, hoping for the best. At first, I didn’t hear the noise of the doorknob rattling, so I decided to knock again, and this time... well, she did open the door. “It’s explaining time... where were you for such a long time?” my mother asked me, looking very worried. “I was taking a stroll through the woods, to get an idea of what exactly I wanted to write for my essay. It was about Autumn, and I had to get inspired from the season to write it as if every word came from my heart. But the good news is that I drafted my 4 paragraphs for what I am going to include in the essay, and I just need to write one more paragraph!” I exclaimed, trying to change my mom’s mood. “Fine, but quickly get in, it is getting darker outside and a lot colder.” my mother replied. I did as my mother instructed me to do. I slowly, brushed my feet against the hard-wooden plank floor, and remembered to take my backpack and my other supplies with me as I entered. My body had felt a severe difference between the climate outside and inside the house. Cool and breezy outside. Hot and humid inside. I slowly, but carefully unzipped my jacket and hung it in the coat rack. I finally took a seat on the dining table as I continued to think about the last part of my essay - taste. I thought about the smell of cinnamon, I could almost taste it in my tongue. I quickly tried to write. Also, I thought about pumpkins, since they were kind of like the ‘mascot’ of October and fall in general. I thought of drinks, like hot chocolate my mom makes and there is only one word to describe them: delicious. Nutmeg, and clover, maybe even ginger! I thought of caramel... and even fresh sliced apples my mother was cutting for me right now! I jotted all my ideas and tried to make it a paragraph. I was done with my essay. Autumn for Me: What does Autumn mean to you? Write a multi-paragraph essay about what Autumn means to you. Try to use descriptive words, show not tell methods, and the 5 senses for you to come up with a good essay. Autumn to me means new beginnings. A new season. A new segment of our year. Autumn means nature slowly changing throughout time. Autumn, or fall as many people say, is the time of year when leaves fall, and animals migrate. It is the time of year when the weather starts changing, and the days start getting shorter. It is when our morning walks start to become even more gorgeous than before. For the leaves shed, and the tree branches become bare. I spot leaves all around me, creating a rather scattered arrangement of colors. Looking like abstract art. I see many animals such as squirrels and rabbits, hopping by here and there to gather and store food for the winter. As for the sky, painted with different tones and shades of blues, purples, pinks, reds, oranges, yellows, blending across the sky. As if someone had done finger painting and beautifully blended all the colors into one. I notice the birds, gracefully flying towards the south, for they were setting their own “camp”. Soft bits of leaves, falling on my forehead, swirling here and there, as the cool breeze moved them swiftly and gently. I held a leaf in my hand, and felt the roughness of its veins, as it created a beautiful pattern across the leaf. As I got to the end of the leaf though, it felt very smooth. I felt as if I was touching a piece of a soft, fluffy cloud. When I lost grip of the leaf though, as it went flying, my hair also was moving to the pleasant wind. I felt very relaxed and peaceful. I gently sniffed, to smell the earth and the beauty of mother nature. The leaves were making everything around me smell a bit musky. As if the leaves were the ones, who were purifying the air, and making it smell like this. If I was concentrating, I could even smell the wind past me. The cool, crisp air, making me feel so calm and peaceful. As I looked up above, I could see the grey clouds. They weren’t too grey, but enough so that many could spot it from a far distance. I could sense the smell of a fresh drizzle. That was when I heard the most amazing melody, a familiar one, yet a different tune. Of course! The birds were singing to each other. Keeping one another busy while they were working for traveling to the southern hemisphere! Some songs would go like this, “ Tweet...Tweet...” and some others would sound like this, “ Crooo....Crooo...” Yet, all the sounds were sweet to my ears. I could hear the soft movement of the leaves as they were being picked up by the gentle air. Mmm... I smelled something so sweet, something like a treat. Whenever I think of Autumn, my stomach always craves for a hot drink, like the hot cocoa my mother makes for me. It was simply delicious! A hot drink was always nice for such a pleasant weather. I also instantly think of pumpkins when fall comes. Nutmegs, clovers, cinnamon, ginger, all these unique flavors, blending to make any sweet dish more spectacular! I could also think of freshly cut apple slices, and berries such as cranberries! Autumn means all these things to me and even more. In fact, my favorite season is fall. I love looking outside and marveling at the changes of nature. Like the other three seasons, when Autumn occurs, the temperature drops, and the days are shorter. But, the best part of Autumn will have to be the amazing color palette of leaves. The gorgeous way it brightens up every step we take when we walk. Whenever we go outside, that melancholy feeling, that is the true meaning of Autumn. ~The End~