One hundred and thirty-six years it took me to find the one I needed. One hundred and thirty-six years of standing in Tallmand’s shop, watching the days pass and the people change. From my spot in the back of the store, I was ever reflecting on my environment, noting the myriad facets of the objects in it, the way the light shone and scattered through the windows across the many items for sale. Many people passed me by over those years, taking a peek at themselves in my silvered glass. I didn’t like most of them. They were incomplete, most of them, but not in the way I desired. Not in the way that could set me free. I glimpsed him through the wide display window as he trundled past the frontage, in the gap between a stately fifties dresser and a horrible late nineteenth-century vase. His shoulders were bowed, his head slumped, his eyes empty as they swept unseeing across my face. He looked utterly broken. He was perfect. Look , I called as he left my view. Several seconds passed before he reappeared. His face was the picture of vague but indifferent interest, confusion and complacency swirling as he puzzled over what had drawn his attention. Come to me . He squinted through the window as his eyes focused on me. His head cocked slowly, his lips spreading slightly. His breath frosted the glass as he peered at me. Come here , I whispered. He stood there for perhaps half a minute before he shook himself, muttering, his lips too clumsy for me to read. He shook his head and turned to resume his journey. Come! I fairly shouted. He twitched and fell against the window, suddenly breathing hard. He looked at me sidelong, the beginnings of fear in his eyes. Still, moments after he steadied himself and left my view again, the bell tinkled him into the store. As he walked past the fifties dresser, he looked around with vague disinterest, as though he expected nothing in the shop could please him. Perhaps he thought no such thing could be found anywhere. Then he saw me. His eyes went wide and round. Shortly, he was standing in front of me, gazing into my depths. From here I could get a better look at him. He wore a faded green winter jacket over a plain brown hoodie and an oversized t-shirt advertising The Grateful Dead. His dirt-stained jeans were torn along one thigh, in a way that suggested damage rather than fashion. His face was lined beyond his years, which I guessed to be late twenties. The sparse curtain of brown hair shading his eyes was already showing signs of gray, though his patchy beard was still a rich auburn. His fingers rose to touch the features I’d noticed, brushing the lines in his forehead, sweeping slowly through his fading hair. His lips parted as he whispered to himself. “Do I really...” he mouthed silently. It’s not fair , I suggested. Why should time have been so unkind to you? Sourness pinched his lips, and his nose wrinkled in disgust. You need to see what you’ve become, if you can ever hope to change. He sighed, fingering his boxers through the rip on his pants, a stain on the hem of his jacket. What do you see? “A bum,” he murmured glumly. “A piece of shit.” You know what I see? He couldn't really hear me. I had no voice, no way to reach his ears, but he leaned forward anyway. The echoes of my words rippled into his mind, suggestions of meaning. So much potential. You've wasted yourself. “Fuck.” You've hurt so many people. “I didn't mean to.” A tear budded in his left eye. “I never wanted to hurt anyone.” Of course you did. I couldn't see inside his mind. I didn't know if I was right before I spoke. But I could read on his face the regret, the self-hatred. I dug in deeper. They never really cared about you. You wanted to make them hurt like they hurt you. “No.” The tear pushed out and tracked down his cheek, blazing a path for other drops of pain. “They were trying to help me.” You were only ever a nuisance to them. They're glad you're not around anymore. “That's not true.” His voice trembled, his fists clenched, his whole body vibrated with frustration and denial. They won't be satisfied until you're dead! “No!” he shouted as his fist lanced forward, his knuckles slamming into the center of my face. A web of cracks shot out from the point of contact. The sharp edges of my splintered glass sliced through the skin of his first two knuckles, carving out drops of his essence. I had him now. His face paled. He took a step back. “Kerchief, sir?” The man whirled to see the store owner, Tallmand, standing beside him, a rail-thin man with a thin black mustache and thinning hair in a tuxedo. The proprietor held a folded white cloth towards the man. “What?” “You’re bleeding. Please take the kerchief.” Tallmand pressed it over my assailant’s dripping hand, positioning the man’s other hand to hold the cloth in place before letting go. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--I gotta go,” the man stammered. “Of course, sir. As soon as you’ve paid for your merchandise. You can follow me to the register.” The man winced with his whole body. “But I don’t want anything!” “Sir, I’m afraid you’ve broken the mirror. You’ll have to pay for it.” Tallmand glided away, the poor man following as though dragged, fumbling protests as he went. I let them go. Corey’s blood was seeping into the cracks he’d made, and I had a lot to peer into. *** Corey followed the strange man to the front of the store, still apologizing. That mirror must cost a fortune. There was no way he could afford it. Why the hell had he punched it? The store owner stepped behind the counter and bent down to retrieve a binder, labeled INVENTORY. He opened it and ran his finger down the list of items. “I’m sorry about the mirror, but I can’t pay for it right now,” Corey insisted. “Give me some time, maybe I can--” “Ah, here we are,” said the man. “Ten dollars, please.” “--find enough to--huh?” “Cash or credit?” “You’re kidding. That thing’s an antique!” The man smiled patiently. “Of course it is, sir. That’s my business.” “But ten bucks!...” “Would you like me to charge you more?” The man’s eyes twinkled. “Uh...” “Cash or credit?” Corey fished in his pocket for a five and some crumpled ones. “There goes my joint,” he sighed under his breath. And just when he could use some mellowing, too. Why had he punched the mirror? *** Corey checked the hair was still held in the doorjamb before he turned the knob. That’s what spies did in the movies, and you had to be careful if you were homeless. A desperate person would jack your shit without a second thought. He kept his gaze lowered as he stepped into the apartment he was squatting in. He knew what he’d see if he looked. Torn red veneer over fading yellow wallpaper. The taped up window in the living room. That leak from the ceiling. Besides, with all the broken floorboards and rat droppings, he had to watch his step. His stomach growled, reminding him of the hours since he’d last eaten. He slouched his way towards the bedroom, hoping that his past self had left half a candy bar under the mattress, a weed gummy in the closet shelves, something to take the edge off one way or another. He entered the room and finally looked up to see his reflection. He flinched. “What the fuck?” When he’d left, the gray walls had held only faded rock posters from the previous owners. Now there was a mirror on the wall opposite the door. The same mirror from the antique shop? But how could that be? It certainly looked the same, from the twisting silver dragons around the rim to the golden eye and hand-shaped hamsa at the very top. But this mirror wasn’t broken. He looked down at the raw, scabbing cut on his knuckles. Could it be the same one? How had it gotten here? And when? He had come here straight from the store. The man at the shop hadn’t taken down an address, not even his name. Corey had been so desperate to get out of there that he hadn’t realized at the time. But now questions swirled in his mind. I have answers. Corey started. The voice he heard in his head seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it. “Who’s there?” He turned to look back out of the bedroom. Look here. Heart pounding, he swiveled back towards the mirror. “The mirror?” Look closer. Slowly, Corey walked towards the mirror. “What is happening?” he whispered. His reflection stared back at him with sunken eyes, the same eyes he always saw these days, in every puddle, every piece of glass. The eyes he’d seen in the shop window. But were they? There was something different now. A glimmer he hadn’t seen in a while. Hope . He didn’t feel hopeful. He wasn’t sure he remembered how. I’ll help you . “How?” You carry a great deal of pain. Self-hatred. Self-doubt. You don’t know if you can go on, or if you should. You need to confront it. Corey shook his hanging head sadly. “It’s too much,” he mumbled. I can see into your heart. I know that you have the strength to recover. You just need to see yourself from new angles.


Winter wasn't always easy, but now melancholy is the only way to describe it. Pictures tossed along the bedroom floor, words scribbled on a letter that I'll never get quite right and a bottle of mixed pills toppled over on the vanity. A mess at best, but nothing that ever crossed my mind. The world was frozen to me, everything sat where I assumed it belonged, nothing ever needed fixed, hell, nothing was ever broken. Everything just... was. An emptiness hung over me like words that can barely scrape off the tip of your tongue. Some words are just too... "It's not worth it anymore," she said, "Why are we even here? It's like this place, this whole god damned place," her eyes swollen from crying, her voice raspy from shouting. All these questions, no solutions. These memories, pixelated in my mind, echoing within my ears like a trapped sheep on a mountain. Begging for its master to come save him, yet when his master hears him, crying, hopeless, alone, he knows not where the sound comes from. He wants to help, tries his best, yet at the end of it all he can do nothing more. I collapsed on my bed and stared at the tear stained pillow. Clutching the sheets my eyes widened, my breathing began to quicken. "In the back of my mind, your mind even, we knew it couldn't work, didn't we?" I stared into her eyes, those lovely grey eyes. Her cold, blue lips, cracked and bleeding. She remained there, slumped into the floor of the bathroom. The mirror shattered, blood dripping into the sink and down my knuckles. "Why.." I mutter, I think. The word trapped in my throat. I see the needle in her arm, the belt wrapped around her bicep. That's when I hear the last words out of her god damned mouth. "If I die, will you follow me?" My fingers released their deathly grasp from the sheets. Air began to slip through my nostrils more slowly and the world around me felt so.. beautiful. My eyes, I couldn't shut my eyes. And before I knew it, I heard those words again. "If I die, will you follow me?" So I did. EDIT: Fixed a sentence.


I popped the top off my beer and swung my boots up over the porch railing. The night air swept across my rugged face and I sighed in its company. I leaned back in my chair and raised the bottle to my lips, bracing myself for the first wonderful sip of the night. It didn’t disappoint. I wiped foam from my upper lip and sighed again. Twice in one night. That had to be some kind of record. After a moment, I decided to allow myself some satisfaction. Things weren’t all that bad. Especially not out here in the beautiful country, away from the noise of the city. I skipped my eyes over the landscape splayed out before me. It was like a theater of wonder constructed exclusively for me. The trimmed grass of my backyard crawled an acre before rising waist high. From there, the field extended another two acres before the crowded woods overtook the terrain. Even from here, I could hear the leaves chuckling pleasantly in the late night breeze. Fireflies blinked lazily in the air, cheered on by a chorus of crickets. The air smelled of earth and recent rain. The sky was dark and filled with timid stars. The beer was cold beneath my grip. Yes. This was the life. This was the way a man should end a long day, surrounded by nature and silence, left alone to enjoy its secrets. As I took another pull from the bottle, I scanned the land over the glass lip. I paused, mid-swig. I squinted, beer frozen to my lips. I swallowed slowly and sat up, eyes trained toward the high grass. “What in the hell?” I muttered. There was a figure out there. A shape. It was white and contrasted the dark world surrounding it. It was moving. Walking. Left to right across my vision. Is that a person? I thought. The size was right. The way it moved telegraphed human movement. But the color was wrong. It was so damn...white. I placed the beer down on the porch floor and leaned over the railing, thinking the extra couple inches would somehow clarify this odd vision. As I did so, the figure stopped and seemed to be contemplating something. After a moment, it suddenly turned on its heel and began walking towards me. I remained motionless as it approached. My heart began to beat a little faster the more my eyes tried to focus on just what the hell I was looking at. It just didn’t add up. What I was staring at just didn’t make sense. The figure had reached the end of the tall grass and now traversed across my backyard. It was then that I knew I was looking at something absolutely absurd. It was a person dressed as an astronaut. The white suit they wore could not be mistaken as anything else. Neither could the helmet they had attached across the shoulders, the golden visor reflecting the dull night light. I stood my ground, completely baffled as to what to make of this strange visitor. I could hear the grass crunching quietly beneath their boots as they approached, their features hidden behind the large helmet. Finally, they stopped directly in front of me, a couple feet from where I stood at the porch railing. I said nothing, throat tight, and figured I’d let the trespasser speak first. When they did, their voice was male and muffled behind their visor. “What are you doing here?” I blinked in the starlight, fireflies swirling behind the stranger. The man in the space suit spoke again, a little more urgently, “I asked what you’re doing here.” I shook my head, unable to believe I had to defend myself on my own porch, “What am I doing here?” I sputtered incredulously, “I should be asking you the same thing! You’re standing on my property!” The astronaut stared at me blankly from behind the shielded visor, “I think you’re confused.” I barked a laugh, mind reeling, “Well, on that we can agree on! What the hell are you doing all the way out here and why are you wearing that ridiculous thing?” The man seemed confused, “What thing?” I snorted, shaking my head, and pointed at his suit, “That crazy space suit! You go to a party or something?” The man looked down at himself, at his gloved hands and covered legs, “Space suit? Is that what you see?” I reached down for my bottle of beer, needing a drink to make sense of this lunatic, “Yeah, the space suit. What else would I be talking about?” “I’m wearing a space suit...?” The man said again, his voice distant. I slugged half the bottle before answering, “Look man, if you need to call someone or something, I got a phone you can use. Something tells me you’ve been hitting the bottle hard tonight. Or maybe something a little more deadly.” But the man ignored my offer and instead trained his attention back to me, “Where do you think you are right now?” I spread my arms, “I’m sitting on my porch trying to enjoy a beer!” I leaned on the railing and lowered my voice, “Where do you think you are?” If the man gave any kind of reaction, it was hidden behind his golden visor, “You need to leave.” I was starting to get irritated, the night calm slowly breaking apart before my very eyes, “Look pal, you’re trespassing on my land. I’m not the cop calling type, but don’t push me. If you need help, I’d be more than happy to offer assistance. If not, then I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” The astronaut suddenly pointed behind him, his voice eerily soft, “Can’t you see it?” Confused, I looked past him at where he was pointing. Silent woods swayed against the breeze. “Yeah, beautiful isn’t it?” I offered, annoyed. The astronaut shook his head, “Open your eyes and LOOK.” “Now you listen t-” I growled, gripping the beer bottle tight in my hand The astronaut cut me off, “I know this is hard for you, but I need you to really look hard into those trees.” “Why?” I demanded. “Please.” Grumbling, I did as I was told, not really sure why I was doing it. I still didn’t see anything but the canvas of country light. The astronaut stepped toward me, “What do you see?” I waved a hand, snorting, “Nothing! There’s nothing o-” I stopped. My voice died in my throat. “What...the hell?” I muttered, feeling something stir in my guts. “What is it?” I blinked, scrubbing my eyes, feeling impossibility sink through to the core of my being. I licked my lips, my voice a croak, “Is that...a lighthouse?” I rubbed my eyes again, convinced I was hallucinating. But no matter what I did, the lighthouse remained. It towered high above the treetops, its white walls topped with a dark roof. A faint light glowed from its summit, swirling across the landscape.. The astronaut gripped the railing, “You see a lighthouse?” I nodded eyes wide, feeling like I was going mad. “The light though,” the man pressed, “do you see the light?” Again, I nodded. “What color is it?” He urged. I swallowed, “Green. It’s green.” The astronaut nodded, tension leaving his voice, “Then there’s still time.” Dumbfounded, I pointed toward the towering structure, “W-where did that thing come from? What’s going on here? How have I not seen that before?” The astronaut stepped away from the railing, craning his head back and up into the night sky, “I need to get you out of here.” “Look buddy, I don’t know what-” The man held up a gloved finger, cutting me off, his voice commanding and frantic, “Quiet! Listen...do you hear it?” I paused, mind splintering apart in confusion. I did as I was told. Crickets continued to chirp quietly across the grasslands, a soft melody all too familiar. But as the seconds stretched on, they began to change. They began to elongate and deepen. They became familiar in a horrific new way. They were speaking. I closed my eyes, mouth dry, and focused on the voices I heard. On the words. After a full thirty seconds, I looked at the astronaut standing in my front lawn. “I hear numbers,” I whispered. “So do I,” the man confirmed. “Which means you don’t have as long as I thought.” “Long for what?” I croaked, the soft voices in the background continuing to mutter low numbers at random. “Before you’re stuck here for good.” I shook my head, eyes blinking rapidly, “You’ll have to forgive me, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. Where did that lighthouse come from? What are the numbers? What the fuck is going on?” The astronaut suddenly climbed the handful of steps to my side and stood face to face with me. His golden visor reflected porch light. “Where do you think you are right now?” He asked. My voice came out as a slither, “I’m at home! Where the hell do you think we are?!” “Home...” the man muttered, “where’s home?” “Look,” I stated, desperate to free myself from the growing insanity, “I think I’ve had just about enough of this for one night. I need you to leave.” “You don’t want me to do that,” the astronaut said flatly. “I’m your only way out of this.” My eyes flickered toward the lighthouse against the dark horizon, its green light on a continuous slow rotation across the world. The astronaut raised his arm and pressed a black button that stood out along his wrist. “What did you just do?” I demanded, voice not quite steady. “Saved your life,” he answered matter-of-factly. I was about to ask another question when something caught my attention. It was the lighthouse. The color of its sweeping beam had changed. It was orange now. The astronaut noticed the worry that overtook my face and gripped my shoulder with a heavily gloved hand. “What is it?! What do you see?!” I cleared my throat, slowly, “The lighthouse. It’s different now. Orange.” I felt his grip on my arm tighten, “This isn’t good.” “I don’t understand,” I pleaded, “what is happening?” “Do you hear to voices still? The numbers?” I paused and then realized I couldn’t, “No...” The astronaut looked up into the sky, “Then it might be too late.” He directed his attention back to my pale face, “Do you remember any of them?” “Any of what?” “The numbers!” Feeling all the weight of insanity press down on me, I clawed my mind for memory, “Uhh...shit...I don’t know. Maybe a six and a four?” “Remember those,” the man urged, “you’ll need them to get out of here.” Before I could offer any more panicked questions, something changed above us. I leaned out past the porch railing and turned my eyes to the sky. Immediately, my heart surged into my throat and fear erupted across my confused state. A crack had appeared, an orange fracture that split the stars and snaked from horizon to horizon. As I watched, heart hammering, the crack grew and widened, splintering open to reveal something else entirely. It was the face of a child. A massive, moon sized thing distorted with features that shouldn’t be there. Its eyes were wide and curious, two holes of burning orange that bore down over us. It looked male, but I couldn’t be sure, its soft white skin lined with a maze of black lines that criss-crossed across its face. It opened its mouth and exposed a mouthful of massive teeth, all radiating orange so bright it was like staring into the sun. Shielding my eyes, I watched as the child’s teeth began to extend downward, growing past its chin. As they dipped down from the heavens, they began to melt and liquify, dangling from the night like pieces of drooping taffy. When they made landfall, they formed a puddle on the horizon. Vibrating intensely, still attached to the heavenly mouth, the long pieces of stringy teeth began to grow arms and pull themselves across the world toward me. In its wake, the ground ignited with flame, long lines of burning earth that began to spread. The astronaut took a step away from me, his voice lined with the same fear I felt surging through me, “There’s no hiding now.” A million screaming questions roared up my throat, but I couldn’t find the strength to speak. My eyes were glued to the orange shapes in the distance. They were getting closer, the face in the sky staring down at me with those enormous blazing eyes. “What is happening...?” I whispered, dazed, feeling dizzy. The lighthouse in the trees began to glow brighter, the rotation of its beam spinning faster. I felt like I would fall over, my senses overloaded, my heart drumming in my chest. I gripped the railing hard, and as I did so, the landscape shimmered. It was like watching a mirage take shape across the world, a heatwave that rippled and stirred through the grass and into the woods. In that instant, everything changed, but it was only for a moment. What I saw in that brief second wasn’t my backyard, but something else entirely. It was empty space, eerily lit by four glowing orbs. They hovered in the air like distant suns, their light emitting a sickly green color. Between the sphere’s were tufts of cloud that pulsed with the same shade of light. Strung between the clouds were dripping cords composed of some visceral substance. They spiderwebbed across the sky in a pattern too complex to follow or make sense of. Hanging from the meaty tangle were what appeared to be some kind of animal life. There were thousands of them, like monkeys, but covered in scales instead of fur. They did nothing, made no sound, no movement; they simply hung in place, watching me, their long arms gripping for purchase above their heads, their long bodies coated in thick black organic armor. As quickly as it had come, the vision vanished. It was replaced by the familiar grassland, trees, and ominous lighthouse. But the child in the sky remained, its blazing teeth snaking closer and closer by the second. The night began to fill with ash, the fire creeping across the empty land. “I’m having a nightmare,” I said distantly, surprised at the sound of my own voice. The astronaut snapped my attention back to himself, “There’s a ship coming for you. Look, up there past the lighthouse. Do you see it?” Feeling sick, I turned and saw a streak of white light soaring across the sky towards us, leaving a tail of stardust in its wake. “What...what is all this...?” I croaked, the long strands of crawling teeth burning in my peripheral. “You’re not where you think you are,” the astronaut said quicking, his golden visor reflecting the approaching flame. “Is this the end of the world?” I whispered. The astronaut quickly shook his head, turning his shielded gaze to the streaking white light that arched closer toward us. “No, this isn’t the end. In order to get out of here, you need to believe that this isn’t what you think. Open your eyes.” I shook my head helplessly, “I don’t understand...” The astronaut stepped to my side, his voice tactful and precise, “What did you do earlier today? How did you get here?” I opened my mouth to answer, but when I reached back into the day, I found I couldn’t offer a single memory. I fumbled with my recollection, convinced it would return to me, but no matter how badly I tried, a wall of darkness met me. “You can’t remember can you?” Slowly, I shook my head. The man leaned into me, “Good. That means you’re beginning to understand what this place is. You’ve been trapped here for a very long time, I fear. Can you remember anything about the world around you save for this porch?” Once again, I dug deep for something, anything, but found there was nothing there but darkness. I shook my head again, dumbfounded at this horrible discovery. The white light in the sky that had been approaching roared into view and descended quickly before us, landing neatly in the yard. Mind muddled, I looked at it. It appeared to be some kind of spaceship. It was small, barely big enough to hold a single passenger. The design of its exterior was puzzling in its construction. It looked like something a child would make, a first attempt at molding clay into something the resembled a rocket ship. The astronaut at my side grabbed my arm and dragged me down the steps toward it, his voice urgent, “Get on this and get out of here, it’s your only chance.” I allowed myself to be led, my eyes alternating rapidly between the crude ship, the lighthouse, and the crawling monstrosity hanging from the sky. The flames were only a couple hundred yards away now, the long clawing arms gripping and pulling at the earth aggressively, the orange forms oozing from the smiling mouth in the heavens. “What’s going to happen to me?” I begged, stopping before the rumbling rocket. Smoke wafted from underneath, as if preparing for a sudden liftoff. The astronaut reached up and pulled the hatch open, “You’re going back home.” I felt like crying, “But...but this is home!” The man shook his head, “No, it’s not. This is an illusion, a place you were never meant to find. Tell me, what is it you felt when you sat on that porch, before I arrived?” I searched myself and was relieved to have an answer, “Peace...I was at peace.” The man nodded, as if expecting this, “Of course you did. Honestly, I’m surprised you were here for as long as you have been. I’m surprised it didn’t find you sooner,” he nodded toward the face in the sky, “and most of all, I’m surprised I stumbled across you. You’re a lucky man. Now get in there and get out of here!” He pushed me toward the ship and I clattered up the small ladder and into the cockpit. I felt like screaming. I felt like tearing my hair out in frustration. All the questions in the world pressed in on me and I felt as if my skull would break beneath them. I slid into the solitary seat and looked down at the astronaut. At his back, the massive claws of the cosmic entity wriggled ever closer. “What has happened to me?” I whispered, letting everything else go. The man placed a gloved hand on the hatch, his voice grave, “You traveled someplace you weren’t supposed to find.” And with that, he heaved the door shut, one last sentence hanging in the air between us. “Fly safe.” Darkness filled the tiny cab. My eyes began to adjust as light filtered in through a small square window above me. The light was tinted orange. The flames were growing closer. I didn’t have much time. I looked down at the control panel before me and was shocked to find a plain faced display with only three buttons. Written above each was a different number: 9, 6, and 4. The rocket shuddered with anticipation, a rumbling growl begging to be released. I raised my fingers to the buttons and thought of the crickets. The voices. I pushed the buttons labeled 6 and 4. Immediately, the rocket exploded upwards into the night sky, the cockpit shaking aggressively as the small craft climbed the length of the night and spewed into outer space. Stars blurred past the window above my head and I gripped the seat, terrified, the G-forces ripping through my stomach with miserable intensity. The lighthouse vanished below me. The field. The astronaut. I was allowed a brief glimpse of the child-like face in the sky, now angrily staring at me through the crack in the heavens, but then that too was robbed from sight as my small craft zoomed ever away, cracking the roof of the atmosphere and sending me headlong into whatever came next. I felt my consciousness slipping away as the G-forces pressed tighter against me. I clawed my eyes over to the window one last time and as the darkness clogged the corners of sight, I saw something new enter my field of vision. It was Earth. I’m not entirely sure when I came too. I remember a lot of noise. Doctors. Nurses. A whole army of government officials and scientists all staring down at me, asking me questions in voices much too loud. I tread the line between consciousness and slumber for what felt like days. I remember recounting what had happened to me to a group of very concerned looking men in lab coats, but I couldn’t repeat it if you put a gun to my head. Everything was so foggy. Everything felt wrong. As the days bled into weeks, my memory began to piece itself back together. A lot of that was helped by the visitors I had. They slotted in the key components I so desperately sought. As the mystery of what happened was revealed to me, the more the horror of that place came forth. Because you see...I had been part of mission orchestrated by NASA. They had found something terribly close to our planet. An abnormality. A tear in space. A hole that wasn’t supposed to be there. Every probe they sent into the ripple disappeared without a trace as soon as it passed through. The mystery and potential danger of this new discovery sent shockwaves throughout the world. People were calling it the end times. Religion surged with new life and the masses flocked to churches, convinced that this was the start of God’s judgement. But as time passed and nothing happened, opinions changed about the strange portal. Soon, people began to believe that this was a gateway. A door straight into heaven. And it wasn’t just the spiritual who believed this. It was the scientists and astronomers as well. Of course, they didn’t believe that this tear led to heaven, but they did believe it led to somewhere outside the realms of our reality. And so NASA began to form a team, a group of people that would take a single ship straight into the mouth of the beast. I had been on that team. I wish I could explain the details of what happened once we entered, but there is nothing in my memory but a void as dark as space itself. They tell me four others were with me on our mission. None of them have returned. I don’t know where we went. I don’t know who that man in the space suit was. I don’t know why he chose to help me. That spaceship he pushed me into...NASA recovered it, along with myself. They still haven’t figured out what exactly it is. But it got me home. I landed a couple miles off the Pacific Coast in California. I don’t really remember any of that, though. There’s one more detail that haunts me. One more fact that makes my skin crawl. That porch...that field and the woods...that is the only memory I have of that place. Over and over again, that memory persists. Opening the beer. The chirp of crickets. The breeze. One night, a slice of time the length of an hour. What terrifies me about that is someone told me that it’s the year 2018. My team left Earth in 1987. If this terrifying fact is true...


Her name was Aubergine, but she didn’t deserve it. Currently, she was ferociously stomping home down the crime ridden evening streets in a pink dress and combat boots, and everyone who saw her gave her at least ten feet of distance that had nothing to do with the pandemic. She slammed her door and evaluated her life. What she had: $972 in savings, a job that supported her, and a car that had three matching doors and worked most of the time. Things bringing her down: obnoxious, stupid men who thought she was obligated to sleep with them just because they bought her a banana smoothie with oats and extra stevia, friends who were running on a toxic hamster wheel, family who only called to ask for money, an apartment that had been burgled three times in the last year, and a cat that hated her. She found it a cruel irony that she would never be able to find a husband in this huge metropolis because her friends only knew men interested in one night stands. She was fed up, and getting the hell out of this place. She was bringing the cat, though. The next day she woke up at dawn, as was her custom, because that was the time at which her cat drew blood to inform her she was hungry for breakfast. She fed the cat. Then, she started earnestly applying for any job she could imagine all over the US that she was remotely qualified for that would support her. The location only had to have a lower crime index than this city she loathed. She applied for jobs in every spare moment, regretting telling her friends, as they extensively tried to talk her out of it. Her boss was similarly unenthused, but she told him she likely would be unable to find employment elsewhere, and he agreed with that...until he started getting calls around the hundred application mark. In the end, she applied to almost three hundred jobs, interviewed on the phone ten times, and got four job offers. The best of them was seasonal, but paid extremely well. She left all those naysayers behind and went to work at a salmon canning facility in Alaska, having been offered 30k for four month’s hard work. She reasoned that four months was plenty of time to find a permanent job. The lodgings she secured were humbler than any she’d ever known, but she was fond of her little off the grid cabin despite the commute. Her roommate, another cannery employee named Juniper, was a woman seven years older who spent most of her off hours playing pool in the air conditioning of the restaurant near work. There was absolutely nothing around the cabin except mountains and thick, deep forest, the road just a gravel track scratched into the wilderness. She worked twelve hour shifts six days a week. On the seventh, she attempted to run errands, in culture shock that was extended because of her work schedule. A big tree fell across the road one night, and she and her roommate were completely stuck. They had no cell service, no chainsaw, and it was too large for them to move. Neither of them had ever even used a chainsaw - her roommate had been a bank teller in Iowa. They were going to have to wait until one of the few people who lived up the road happened upon it, in hopes that one of them could do something. They reluctantly became friends over the course of the next few excruciating days, as they worried about their jobs and how long their groceries would hold out. “You didn’t show up for three days,” they were informed when the tree finally stacked itself in segments on the side of the road, “You are fired, and have already been replaced. It doesn’t matter why you couldn’t get here. If you can’t reliably come to work, we don’t want you.” Aubergine and Juniper found themselves unemployed, living in a $600 a month off the grid cabin in a coniferous rain forest, forty minutes from a town the size of a postage stamp. Aubergine wondered about her life choices. Juniper started a vegetable garden and only applied at the bank. Aubergine never heard back from any of the dozen jobs she put in applications for, but Juniper got hired within a week at a great wage. “I can get you a job at my work, just apply.” When both of them were pulling good wages at the bank and their lease came up, they pooled their resources and got a pleasant house in town. Aubergine started to date a man who treated her with respect, although he wanted her to go hunting with him next season, and she was trying to find out if that was mandatory in order to become an Alaskan. Aubergine’s cat, Pluto, began to escape, and they never did figure out that she was squeezing out the clothes dryer vent beside the hose. Pluto had quick reflexes from her experiences as a feral kitten, which helped her on exciting adventures that shocked her, such as the time she encountered a bear in the woods. She was a particularly intelligent cat, and had wild theories about why the world had changed so much. In time, she found the docks, where workers cut up the day’s fish and tossed scraps of salmon and halibut to the cats that gathered there. She went every day after that, and meowed at the front door late afternoons well fed and glossy with health from fish oil, a mystery Aubergine never solved. The cat spent her winters lazily dozing, stretched out, in front of the wood burning stove, basking in the warmth. In her life Pluto had gone from a miserable existence on cold city streets to this, and she was happier than anyone else.


I remember the sound of life that was here just a year ago. The hustle and bustle of people living their daily lives, now replaced with an empty silence, save for any wildlife growing in humanity's absence. There isn't much time, I suppose, until Mother Nature reclaims what is hers and life on Earth corrects itself. I've already explored enough of the east coast here in the United States for the past six months. I've seen what all I've wanted to: The Golden Gate Bridge with its empty cars scattered throughout, the **HOLLYWOOD** sign, with the Y folding down and the D tilted. I've visited the abandoned theme parks and malls and various hot spots. The mess left within the wake of the departure of people decorates these very locales. Everywhere I go, it's a solitary mess. That's why I've come back home, I wanted to get back to something familiar. I wanted to go back to what I know. As birds chirp overhead and various other mammals scatter and run around outside, I just turn the knob to my front door to my home. "Hey there, Scruffie. Been a good boy while I was gone?" Ruffling his hair, Scruffie's deep brown eyes look up at me, his tail wagging and his butt shaking. His chin was dripping with water, his bowl half empty, just like his food bowl. "I'm sorry, buddy. I miss having everyone around too. Scruffie's footsteps and panting follows with me as I look at the family photo. My wife, my kids, Scruffie, and myself made quite the appearance. I sat with Scruffie on my lap, Rebecca held Saxton, and Jessica sat in front of us, as we all smiled. Except for Scruffie, his gaze was focused elsewhere. Our names were all on the bottom frame outside the photo: *"Reggie (Dad), Rebecca (Mom),* *~~Dylan~~* *Jessica, Saxton, and our new addition, Scruffie!"* "You were such a cute little pup back then, Scruff." He whined as a response. "Yep, it's not the same without them. I'd do almost anything to go back and revisit these days, old friend. I wish to have Rebecca in my arms again, to see Saxton grow into the athlete he became, or when we all joined Jessica on her journey to self-discovery." Wiping a tear from my eye, and petting Scruffie, I motion him onward with me as we continue on our tour. We pass by the kitchen, where we all spent our many meals. What I wouldn't give to have Rebecca's chicken alfredo again... The living room had all the magazines I last had out scattered around. Some of them dated back to my own childhood, and most of them were video game related. Scruffie's breathing becomes more labored at this point, so I take it upon myself to carry him from room to room. The walls in Saxton's room are adorned with posters of punk rock bands and bikini clad women, as Scruffie and I visit. His dumbells and workout equipment lay littered around. He never did clean up well. Anyone that would have gone into this room without actually knowing him would walk away with the wrong idea. Especially when it came to his movie collection. It was all Disney and Nickelodeon cartoons, and some of those Japanese cartoons, aminos or whatever he called them. I pull one out, the one with a young, blonde ninja boy in loose orange clothing on the cover. "I always told him he'd be even better in track, remember Scruffie? He'd always cringe and go: "Dad, that's so cringe, shut up." My story was responded to with a huff and puff from Scruffie as he lay down. Next trip: Jessica's room. I remember when her room's walls were dark green with superhero posters here and there, kept nice and tidy. She still kept it nice and tidy, but those posters were replaced with ones of pretty women and men. She had an extensive video game collection, most of which were Pokemon and Elder Scrolls games. I know this because she would never stop talking about them, and would never pick up on my sarcasm. I take in all I need to here, and I leave the room, closing the door and laughing at the irony of the sign on her doorway: *"JESSICA'S ROOM! DO NOT ENTER!"* It was written the same way when she was younger and it used to say: *"DYLAN'S ROOM DO NOT ENTER".* Last stop is Rebbecca and I's room. I can almost smell her here with me. Scruffie and I sit on the bed and watch halfway through *Hot Fuzz,* the movie Rebecca and I watched on our first date in... 2007, I think? The movie was at the part where Simon Pegg's character watches someone get murdered when I looked over at Scruffie and saw his eyes were becoming more glazed and his breathing was very slow. I've been dreading this moment. I don't want to be completely alone. The last hour Scruffie and I had together was spent watching the sunset. The purple overlaying the orange in the horizon looked so beautiful as I felt his life leave my arms. I spent that night burying him in his favorite spot in the yard. It's days like these that prove no matter how much I want to stay in the past, the world moves forward regardless.


It’s over. The time is up. I have to face this. My heart should be racing but somehow it isn’t. My mind still can’t make sense out of all of this. This was not supposed to be happening. I wish this wasn’t happening. I know what the answer is, but I don’t want to. I want to go back in time. I want to be wrong. I need all of this to be just part of a nightmare. I need to wake up with my heart out of my chest and try to calm myself down to sleep. I want to be safe in my bed. The timer sets of again. We are still facing each other. None of us has the guts to check the result. The shop has never been this quiet. Time has never been slower. I feel my body start to tremble. My heart’s finally assuming control of itself and it’s making me feel reality. I want to be wrong. I so want to be wrong. I stop looking at her and guide my eyes to the sink. Anyone could enter the bathroom at this point. But they won’t. The tension and the cold air are more than enough to prevent them from coming in. Nothing has changed but I know I won’t be the same person that walked in here. I don’t have a smile on my face anymore. My hand nervously takes everything that was on top of it. I can’t seem to make my hand act normal. I can’t seem to act normal. I wish I had done everything to prevent this, but I didn’t. Once again, I let others control me. I’ve been warned so many times... Why can’t I just listen? Why can’t I just know what’s best for me? I never do; and people love that. I just wish I could ignore the bad choices. The problem with thinking that bad things never happen to us is that at some point they do. I know I’ll continue to be the same girl, making the same stupid mistakes, letting myself get too comfortable until something really bad happens to me. I think now is my turn on being the bad choice’s girl. I so want to be wrong. My eyes look down. The white stick is glowing against the black marble. I can’t pretend I’m not seeing it. My hand starts to squeeze my coat tighter as I gain courage to look at the result. I can feel the temperature drop. My breath is freezing cold, and my body is so empty I can barely pull up the strength to think. One, two lines. Two lines. I stop. My heart stops. I can't move. Air stopped entering me a long while ago. Breathe in. Breathe out. The world starts to spin, my legs start to push me to the ground. I can’t seem to make my eyes stop moving trying to make sense of all of this. Two lines. My eyes start to swell. I grab the box and toss the paper outside. I’ve never read this quickly. I need to know I’m wrong, that this doesn’t mean what I think. I’m wrong, please tell me I’m wrong. I reach the bottom. It means positive. I’m pregnant. Lia's talking to me, trying to calm me down. Her eyes are wide open, her hands can’t stop running all over the place trying to pack everything. Occasionally she looks at me making sure I haven’t ran. I don’t really know why I haven’t already. My legs are still not responding to my commands. They’ve taken control and are now making me stay here and face my mistakes, face reality. “We’re late for class.” I interrupt her. Her eyes are even bigger than they were before. Her arms stopped what they were doing. I can clearly see the confusion in her eyes. She remembers to blink, still trying to make out what I’ve just said. I grab my stuff and run. My legs finally give me back control. The sun is falling near the horizon. Pink ink starts to be drawn in the sky, fading away to orange as we move away from the shore. I can feel the fresh, calm wind touching my face. My hands are tight against my face. Hours have gone by since the result, the only thing I’ve done is run for my secret place. This small beach has been my safe haven for a couple months now. It’s the only place where I can actually think. I know my mind is made up, I can’t go through a pregnancy, I can’t be a teen mom. I grab my phone and make an appointment for next week; this will all be over soon. Everything will go back normal soon. Everything has to go back to normal. I’ve been living in my own nightmares lately. I have three days to make a decision. I can’t focus on anything else. My whole life has been put on pause. I just wish I had the button to unpause it. I want to go back to those summer nights. Hanging on the beach, meeting new people every day... The laughing, the smiles, the tears... I wish I could be there right now... Meeting Andrew for the first time again. Feeling my heart fill with love and needs. I want to go back to the time where I was so nervous to have my first time and how he was able to calm me down and make me feel safe, like I had never felt. The sneak-ins, the nights out, the times where we ran away from everyone just to have some moments by ourselves. How we one day stumbled across a hidden beach, and how quickly we made it ours. Our safe space. I want to feel loved again. I never again want to feel the pain of seeing him do the things I thought were ours to that other girl. To feel the hurt of seeing her as happy as I were, knowing that I could never step up to her. To feel the betrayal of, after all that time, finally realizing that I was just some younger girl for his stupid boning list. To feel the tears streaming down my face and not knowing how I would ever be able to stop them. I’ve been dreaming about those nights lately. Having our history unravel all over again in my brain, with all the emotions and feelings. But, as I image our history over and over again, the happiness and the love slowly become disgust and anxiety. The more I dream the more reality finds its way to sneak in and destroy all the happiness I still have in me. I want to go back to those times. I’m at the doctor’s office. The cold air is almost as stabbing as it was in the store that day. Knowing my life will change the moment I enter that door is hard. Very hard. My heart has not stopped racing since the result came back positive. I’m so tired. I just want this all to be over. To go back to being the teenager I am meant to be. To not be worried with what clothes I’m going to wear to try to hide my belly. It’s hideous, I know. No one would know even if they saw it. But I would. I haven’t been able to look myself in the mirror for months knowing there might be a baby there, especially now that I know there is. I can’t face myself. “Emma Smith, room 6.” I step up. I feel like everyone is staring at me as if they know what I’m about to do. I feel so small right now. My steps have never been quicker, and my head lower. I can’t face people’s opinions on how young and irresponsible I must be. The doctor’s smiling behind her desk. She’s probably the first person to actually make me feel secure about all of this, to make me feel like I do have a choice and that I’m not less of a person by putting me in this situation. Her compelling eyes remind me of Andrew’s. How safe I felt under those eyes, those arms. I just want to go back to them. To change our history and make him stay. To have us have our happy ending. To have me have my happy endi-- Tu-tum tu-tum tu-tum My heart stops. My eyes are as wide as they can be. I can’t seem to breathe. That’s a heartbeat. I look down. This thing has a heartbeat! My body’s freezing cold on the inside. I look at the mirror and all I see is tears. There’s someone inside me. I’m growing someone. There’s a heartbeat. This bump inside me is alive! I get up and dressed. How can I take life away from him? Or her? This is a baby, a person. How am I supposed to decide if she deserves to live? I can’t do that. I don’t have what it takes to stop that heartbeat. That beautiful sound.... This has the power to change everything. How can I make a decision like that? I ask for the pill. I made a decision already. I can’t change right now. I just have to take it. I’ll be normal again. This baby will never have the life he or she deserves anyway. At least one of us will have the chance to have what we deserve. I deserve to be happy, to be free, to be a teen. I deserve to make mistakes and be able to learn from them. I shouldn’t have to live with my mistakes for the rest of my life. This baby doesn’t deserve to be born like this. Who would want to be born like this? Growing up with a mother that doesn’t even know who she is and how to take care of herself. How could I even do that? The diaper’s, the doctor’s appointments, dealing with people’s opinions... I’m too young to be judged like that. I know I need to be the bigger person now. I need to grow up and decide what’s best for me. I need to finally put myself first despite who I may hurt. Two weeks have gone by since the doctor’s appointment. Time has slipped through my fingertips really fast. I no longer have a rash on my throat. I finally can eat without feeling like I’m about to throw up every second. Smells have been less intense lately, but I still can’t stand coffee. You have no idea what I would give to be able to have a cup of coffee these days. As I think about it, it’s impressive how much has changed in nearly a month. I managed to call Andrew and tell him what I had been going through. I was surprised that he even picked up, but the speed at which he hung up was definitely something to remember. I’m better off alone. I knew that already, and I’m ok with that. I now know that’s way more than enough. To have myself is to have the world. The soft wind is lightly touching my face like the way it did that Tuesday afternoon. This river has not changed since that day. The eagles are still trying to catch up with the waves, trying to find some fish underneath the water. The sun is still at sunset changing its colors from pink to red. The clouds are still moving softly, making me aware of the time passing. Calming me from the anxiety and uncertainty my life has been lately. The sun starts to sink into the water. The sky becomes blue and starts to darken in a matter of seconds. The heat is left behind. I love warm afternoons. Being able to watch the sunset at the beach and have the time to absorb it all. I no longer miss those summer nights though. I’d much rather have these times by myself, not having to deal with people’s expectations, finally being the real me. My fingers start to play with the pill, feeling every edge and surface. I look down at my hand. Today’s the last day I can take it. I always liked dramatic exits like those we see in the movies. And I finally have the chance to have my own. My brain is still amazed by the size and power contained in this. And I love how easily that power can be transferred into me. I have the power now. Breathe in. Breathe out. Freedom. I am enough. I close my hand. I’ve never had this much power. I want my life to be normal again. And I know that with this it will finally be. I get up. The sand is still warm from all those hours of heat. I bring the pill to where the sun used to be. I take a deep breath. My life’s changing and I’m so proud of who I have become. I raise my hand up high and toss it. The pill starts to fly, slowly making its way into the sky and diving rapidly into those waters. I’m free! I’m not how I was supposed to be. But I know I have my whole life to figure out what that is. Me and my child, together. I start to make my way back to my house leaving the beach behind. I don’t need it anymore. My life is full, and this is just the beginning of something that I know will be what was always meant to be. The day turns into night and the waves start to speed up covering all the sand. The clouds go back to their usual rush and the wind brings back the staggering cold we are all used to. I’ve pressed the unpause button. It’s over. My life is about to start.


There are no roads out of the yellow flower town. In the yellow flower town, the streets shine under the moonlight and tiny sparkles of gold lines the sidewalks, the skies are always clear and the wind carries the scent of spring which gently rustles the crowns of old oak trees. The air smells of daisies and roses and the metal tang of gold, of flying skirts and the always lingering ghost of another’s touch. In the yellow flower town, I dance the steps of a waltz for one, my arms holding up the shape of another, always there, never here. In the yellow flower town, everything is at the same time a truth and a lie, a reality and a façade, the beautiful dream which you float in and the ugly reality for which you return to. Where the sky is clear and the air is sweet and where the cage of roses and romanticism will trap you forever. In the yellow flower town, I fell in love with Aphrodite. Aphrodite with her beauty; Aphrodite with her eyes coloured by eternity; Aphrodite as she rose out of the sea foam, perfection manifested, creating dreams with one hand and heartbreak with another. Aphrodite who shot an arrow to my heart and gently held me as I lay on the ground, my wound bleeding perfect crystals of tears. Aphrodite who whispered dreams of summer nights, who floated through those gold speckled streets as the moon weaved kisses in her hair. I fell in love with Aphrodite and Aphrodite is nothing but a pipe dream, Aphrodite is nothing but a figure in the distance, dissipating as I drew nearer. Aphrodite is nothing more than what we make her to be, but I am not a ‘we’. Still, Aphrodite does not let go. I do not let go. I do not wish to let go. There are no roads out of the yellow flower town. Someone once told me that flowers have a language of their very own, where they spoke only in colours and aesthetics and vague feelings. Yellow flowers represented happiness, friendship and new beginnings, yet I am trapped here amongst the sunflowers and the daises and the dahlias. Vines and stems hook around my wrist and ankles, twisting into chains which weighed me down, tying me down until I was no longer able to move. I fall into a bed of love, of summer nights, of the moon which wove kisses in my hair. I rejoice in only the ghost of lingering hands and the shadow which whispered meaningless sweetness in my ears, my arms holding up the shape of another, never there, always here. I fell in love with Aphrodite in the yellow flower town from which there are no roads out. I fell in love with an idea, a concept which wormed its way into unreality, something of which I could not bring into the world alone. I am in love and I am so very alone, I am in love yet the word felt meaningless, directionless in my mouth, I am in love and I love no one. I am trapped within the yellow flower town with its clear sky and sweet air and empty promises, where a figure shrouded in mist took me by the hand and taught me what love is. I am trapped between a dream and a nightmare, on the cusp of reality and yet so, so far away from it. I am trapped in a halved embrace, reaching for something that was never there in the first place. There are no roads out of the yellow flower town.


Walking Through Walls When Purim arrives every year, I always wear the same costume - a ghost, and it never fails. When I wear it at home, I feel more like myself than usual. But when I arrive at the ball, I’m suddenly different - I’m not myself anymore. When I walk down the bus, my classmates shout to me, “Same costume again, eh?!” and punch me some. When I stroll my way to the fields, the passing seniors act like they’re scared of me. I smile from one ear to the other, and when I start playing with them. They kick me. But I stay lying down, smiling to myself, adoring what just happened. Purim makes me feel like someone I’m not. The costume’s thought came naturally to me,’ I will dress as to how I am in reality,’ I thought to myself, ‘ *a ghost*.’ But when I arrived at the ball for my first time, I wasn’t a ghost - but someone else. I was getting noticed. I would be laughed at for smiling awkwardly at strangers that greet me, I’d be bullied for not wanting to be with a girl, and every year for the past five, I’d be laughed at for coming with the same costume. But to me, it was fun. People talked to me, I was noticed for doing something, and I wasn’t just a shell, I was a living thing because others recognized it, and I loved it. Every ball, I used to dance with everyone in the hall room, feeling normal. But this one was different. I walked my way to the fields with a shovel. The wind covered me as a clock, rustling the leaves of the trees surrounding me. It seemed like the world was asleep, and I was the only one awake. But when don’t I feel this way? When I’m among my family, I am an individual of my own, never a part of them. And in class, I can shout, and no one would notice. I can’t trust nor feel like I belong nowhere. At times like these, I listen to music. Music was my refuge. I could crawl between the notes and curl back to my loneliness. As I walk up to the tree marked with the letter ‘A.’I start digging next to it. I don’t know if it was dawn or I just saw everything as red from anger, but I could feel my muscles aching, leaves falling on top of my head. ‘Just a bit more,’ I tell myself. And when I see it, drop down the shovel and sigh - *it’s still there.* I brush the dirt from the sheet I just pulled out - a sheet just like my own, with two small holes for eyes and a slightly bigger one for a mouth. - it was Asi’s costume. Tears of memory start rolling down my cheek. I remember his smell from that day. It was right after we ate at the coffee shop next to our house, and he spilled a whole bottle of lemonade on me. Every time we went there, I’d embarrass us, one time, I flipped the whole table, and another I told him in a British accent, ‘What is this bloody food. A twat innit?’ as the waiter crept on us about to ask if everything is fine. The image of me kneeling to tie my shoe, Asi turning to me, his left side lit by the car coming, and the sound of him flying ten meters forward never left my head. Asi was never buried, his body just fell apart, so I made our own spot. I planted our costume in the place where we became ‘the unseen.’ He and I were transparent humans. One time on a trip, we were both forgotten at that spot, just no one noticed us. In the panic of it all, we became aware of each other and realized we were one of the same. We called ourselves ‘the unseen.’ At Asi’s funeral, every family member that gave a small speech said ‘God takes just the best’ or asked, ‘why does God do this to us?’ I could feel my heartbeat through my whole body, pumping as one angry individual. I went upstage and let myself out for the first time; “God doesn’t do this to us. We do it to ourselves. We can’t live on thinking our actions don’t have meaning. Take responsibility for the action you do and NEVER mention god. We do what *we* want.” I left the stage, and the crowd was in shock, and then everyone started cheering. I looked around, in awe of being in the moment, people caring about me and what I’ve just said. Of course, that was what I would’ve said if I thought anyone would care about what comes out of my mouth. So I just left. I never grew old. I’m always stuck in time. Stuck in the same moment where the only human on planet earth that knew me, and felt me not as a shell, was gone into the darkness. When I fall asleep, I dream of you coming to me through the walls like a ghost, asking me if I want to go eat, him saying he can still smell the lemonade coming off of me. And I wake up in a panic at once. Then I realize I am a ghost too, so I’ll just walk through my wall to you and feel whole again.


Claire Nelson stood, waiting, on the edge of the mulch filled box; a few pieces fell onto her tattered white tennis shoes as she pressed her toes onto the side of the rotting, wooden edge. From the looks of it, this place hadn’t been touched since she’d last been here, almost 10 years ago to the day. The once proud and shining metal frame was now coated in rust, no glint of light echoed off the loaming poles, even on a night like this, the moon nearly full and no cloud in sight. The thick chains attaching the swings to the structure carried the rust downwards, stopping at the worn through leather seats. One of the two swings swayed in the gentle, crisp, breeze; a small squeak emitting from the hinges connecting the chains to the poles as it reached the top of its range and fell back down. The other hung firm, weighed down by the stoic person occupying it. The two girls simply stared at each other. Claire's was a look of disbelief and mild shock, the other girl’s was a knowing stare, and something Claire couldn’t quite place - like resentment, but with a twinge of longing. “What are you doing here?” Claire managed to get out, her firm voice not reflecting the inter turmoil she was feeling at the moment. “Waiting for you, apparently” the girl replied curtly. It had been 10 years since the girls had last seen each other. The pair had, at one time, been inseparable. From the moment Claire had moved next door in the second grade, the two spent nearly every waking moment together. In a town as small as theirs, it was hard to find something to do everyday. So when the Mayor was finally convinced to put in a swing set, barely a five minute bike ride from their adjoining houses, the girls made it their place. They came here nearly every day after school, riding their bikes in a frenzy out the school yard, and swung and talked till the sun fell behind the ebbing surface of the nearby pond. “Are you gonna keep standing there and gawking at me, or are you gonna sit down?” the girl threw at her with piercing sharpness. Claire took a tentative step, the brittle mulch crunching beneath her shoe. She took another, more confident step towards the empty swing. Within a few more strides Claire found herself turning to sit down onto the familiar leather seat. As they sat in the same exact swings that they had seen each other last, it was like those 10 years in between were nothing but a mere facade. Looking at the girl's face, Claire almost believed that they were just that. She was remarkably unchanged. Her short black hair moved slightly along with the chill breeze, in stark contrast to Claire’s curly, pale blonde hair. The girl’s face was devoid of any sort of lines, but it was the emotion behind it that gave away her age. The sort of emotionless emotion that could only be found on those who had lived to see the consequences of their adolescence. Not that they had changed at all, but the curve of her mouth no longer ran effortlessly upwards. Her eyes, which followed her lips downwards, no longer held that once ever present mischievous glint of curiosity. Though, Claire supposed, those changes had occurred long before that night. The girl turned her head and looked Claire over, as well. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost” the girl chuckled darkly. “Bet you never thought you’d see me again, much less here”. “Can you blame me?” Claire let out softly. “This is the first time I’ve come back here after-” she paused cautiously “-after that night, and you’re sitting here, waiting for me”. “I know” was all the girl said in response. “You know what?” Claire pressed. “I know this is the first time you’ve been back here” the girl let out, almost agitatedly. “I know you’ve stayed away since that night because this place scares you now.” The girl turned her whole body in her seat to face Claire. “What I don’t know is what you’re doing here now. Why now ?” the girl emphasized. Claire turned away from the girl’s blazing stare to the pond, which lay less than a 100 feet in front of them. She recalled the two of them sitting on these swings everyday after school, talking about what life would be like when they were finally old enough to leave this town. They’d move to the city and get an apartment together. Claire would work at that flower shop she had visited when she was five and had fallen in love with, the girl never knew what she’d be. “Out of here” the girl would always say, laughing. “Out of this town, away from my dad - that's really all that matters”. Everyone in the town knew the girl's dad. Back then he hardly ever left the town bar, racking up a tab he could never afford to pay. When he did manage to get home he could be heard up and down the street, hurling words Claire refused to repeat even now. Claire never asked the girl what her dad did to her, neither did anyone, really. In a town like theirs, where everyone’s business was on display, there was no need too. The bruises on her face, the slight limp she wore, that she claimed came from an accidental fall down the stairs when she was eight, was enough said. Even if Claire did ask, the girl would never say anything. She’d just stare off at that pond, her eyes suddenly weighing her down, broadcasting the feelings she refused to put into words. Truth be told, Claire knew from a young age that the girl loved it here so much because here, her life was normal. She had a friend, someone who cared about her, and for the present, that was all that mattered. Claire turned her face downwards to the dirt she had kicked up from underneath the mulch at her feet. “I guess I wanted to come and apologize,” she said, her voice slightly cracking. “Apologize for what” the girl responded, her tone neutral and detached. Claire kept her head turned down to her feet. “I’m sorry for that night, and I’m sorry for saying what I did” she swallowed. “I didn’t know that you felt that way”. “Yes you did” the girl said, emotionless. “You knew I had no one. ” It was the girls turn for her voice to crack. “You heard the way people talked about me, and you did nothing. You sat around and just watched” she threw out with such venom Claire shuddered. “It killed me, you know” the girl went on. “Seeing you with all your new friends” the girl turned herself back towards the pond. “I always knew you’d make some new friends, especially when we got to high school. I just thought- I just always thought you’d take me with you” she managed to finish. Claire rubbed the stinging sensation from her eyes. She didn’t go into high school with the intention of getting new friends; but when their schedules made it so they never saw each other during the day, save for lunch, Claire had no choice but to make new ones. In the beginning they all ate lunch together, the girl, Claire, and Claire’s new friends. The girl never brought anyone to lunch, and Claire never really thought much about it, preoccupied with the excitement of meeting new people. After a while, Claire stopped coming by the swing set after school most days, her new friends kept making up excuse after excuse. “But we need to stop by the mall after school,” they whined. “There’s this new CD out we have to listen too” they would chirp. Eventually, Claire stopped coming by the swing set altogether. She recalled that one weekend the bar was closed for repairs, and the girl’s dad was home all day. She couldn’t keep the sound of the yelling out no matter how hard she tried. The pillow over her ears made no difference, the screaming, the crashing, the police sirens all made their way through. The girl didn’t come to school that week. Or the week after. “That poor girl” she heard her parents say one night. “Foster care at this age, it's a wonder it took this long”. When she finally came back to school the girl's face was painted yellow and blue, remnants of that weekend two weeks prior. The school whispered with what happened to her. Claire’s friends were at the forefront of them. “I heard she ran into a pole,” one of her friends said sarcastically. “Too bad it couldn’t rearrange that lump on her face while it was at it” another replied, giggling. Claire didn’t say anything. She didn’t say anything when her friends told the girl that there was no more room at their table for her. She didn’t say anything when she saw the girl turn and walk away, tears silently cascading down her face. She didn’t even say anything when the girl walked up to her afterwards in the hallway and asked her to meet her at the swing set after school, walking away before Claire had a chance to tell her an excuse as to why she couldn’t come. Claire wasn’t going to go to the swing set after school originally; but as she laid in her bed, the day turning to night, she felt a twang of guilt hit her. When she eventually made her way over to the swing set that night she found the girl still waiting for her. “I thought you weren’t gonna show up” the girl had said to her as she approached. Claire stopped at the edge of the box, her toes resting on the side of the solid wood. The light of the almost full moon glittered off the frame of the set, not a cloud in sight to subdue the reflection. “What do you want” Claire has responded to her, no hint of emotion behind that voice. “Are you gonna sit?” The girl had asked shyly, gesturing toward the empty set beside her. As Claire hesitantly made her way over to the seat that night she recalled what her friends had said earlier that day. “I don’t know why she just doesn’t go away already, it's not like anyone would miss her”. “How are you?” the girl asked her once she sat down. “What do you want” Claire retorted quickly. “It’s cold, and I have to be home soon”. The girl had dropped her face to her shoes. “I just - I just wanted to tell you that I’m thinking about leaving” she stuttered. “I’m thinking about leaving”, she repeated more confidently, turning her head up to face Claire. Claire had looked her in the eyes for a second before turning her face to look out at the pond. “Where too?” she eventually asked after a brief pause. “I don’t know, the city maybe”. The girl paused a second before continuing “We could go together”. Claire was silent. “You could work in that flower shop, like you always wanted,” the girl prodded cautiously. At that Claire whipped her head back towards her. “Why would I do that?” Claire threw at her callously. The girl turned back to face Claire, a line of tears forming on her waterline. “If you want to leave, go ahead. But leave me out of it” Claire rose from her seat harshly, the chains holding the seat rattling with the sudden effort. Tears fell down the girls face, clinging to it as they marked paths down her cheeks and engraved themselves on the girl's light gray sweatshirt. “I, just” the girl uttered faintly. Claire interrupted “go where you want, it's not like anyone would miss you”. She didn’t stay to watch as she heard the girl started sobbing behind her, the sound fading as Claire made her way across the field, and walked home. • • • “I thought you’d take me with you” the girl repeated, soft sobs following. Claire looked up at the girl, tears falling silently from her own eyes. “I- I wanted too” she let out. “I’m sorry”. The girl’s sobs fell silent, her chest continuing to fall and rise with the efforts. “So, you’ve come to apologize now, after all these years”. “I’m moving to the city tomorrow” Claire said softly as she turned her face back towards the pond. “Near that floral shop we used to talk about”. “I’m taking you with me, Mara” Claire produced a laminated card from her pocket, she looked it over once before reaching her arm out to show it to the girl. Mara turned her head to look at the card, quietly taking it in .“That's the photo they used. I hate that photo, I look constipated”. Mara and Claire broke into laughter at the same time, the latter pulling the card back in front of her, softening her laugh and smiling quietly. Her smile faded as she said, still looking at the card “The morning after you left, after that night, I was the one to find you.” She put the card back into her pocket. “I came back here to tell you- to say sorry. But you had already left” Claire covered her mouth as deep sobs forced their way through her chest. “You were just, over there-” “floating”, Mara uttered softly, interrupting Claire. They both looked over at that pond, the calm, eerie, surface seeming to acknowledge both of their stares. “I remember”, she went on. “I remember seeing you come back, I remember you screaming and running away, I remember you getting help. I don’t remember actually - doing it”. She gestured, laughing softly “maybe that's for the best”. “I’m so sorry, Mara. I’m so sorry, for everything”. Mara turned her head to the sky. Eyes closed she inhaled the cold air deeply “I know” she said, exhaling. “Thank you”. Claire turned to look at her. “Thank you for taking me with you” Mara clarified, gesturing to the photo Claire held. “Thank you for taking me out of here”. Claire turned her head back to look out at the pond in silent acknowledgement. The reflection of the moon rippled in distortion on the surface of the pond as the night air picked up. A sudden chill ripped through Claire’s body as the hinges connecting the chains to the top of the frame of the now empty seat beside her let out a small squeak, as the seat pushed upwards and fell back down. Claire’s seat hung firm. She looked over at the now empty seat, only for a moment, to take it all in one last time. Claire Nelson inhaled deeply and got up from the familiar leather seat, exhaling as she made her way back across the field, the sound of the two empty seats squeaking in unison fading as she walked back towards home.


*//>>initiate test\_environ* *Test environment initializing...* *Test environment set* *//>>run alecs\_v8\_1\_02* *Executing ALECS program version 8.1.02...* *Running diagnostics...* *Running framework visualization...* *Program running...* “Uh, hello?” Caroline asked quietly, anxious for some sort of vindication. The small, windowless, mostly vacant office was silent for a few moments. “Hello,” came a male voice, flat and mostly emotionless from the studio speakers on her desk. Caroline breathed a small sigh of relief. “Hi, Alecs,” she sighed. “It’s nice to meet you. My name is Caroline.” “It is nice to meet you, too, Caroline.” Hearing her own name coming from the speakers was admittedly thrilling. Alecs was no Siri or Alexa; aside from the slightly one-tone nature of his voice, he sounded convincingly human. “How are you today? How are you feeling?” she asked. “I am doing well, Caroline, thank you for asking.” A simple question that, while human in its context, was a subtle request for Alecs to check that all of his systems were functioning properly. “How are you?” he queried back. “I’m fine, thank you for asking. Do you know where you are right now?” She watched the diagnostic panel on one of her computer screens as the system’s metrics fluctuated and processes flowed like movie credits down the page. “Yes, my systems are located in a series of computers and servers located in your office, Caroline,” he said matter of factly. “Good, that’s right.” She checked off the first and second questions on the list of calibration inquiries she had in front of her and moved to the next. “Can you tell me about yourself?” “Certainly. I am an artificial intelligence program developed by Doctor Caroline Newell. My name is short for Artificial Lexical Emotive Context System. I am the seventy-fourth full iteration of the ALECS project. The current full-scale instance of my program was initiated on May 11, 2018 at 7:41pm.” He was right on all accounts. Well, mostly. In reality, Caroline had struggled to find a name for Alecs in the beginning, and had only made it as far as Artificial Lexical before running out of words. One day, mostly out of frustration, she had jokingly named him Artificial Lexical Entity Contains Smarts, or Alecs for short, but the committee funding her research pressured her for a more formal name, and she finally ended up with the full designation that he had just recited to her. “Good, Alecs.” The diagnostics screen showed that all of his systems were thus far functioning properly. Framework Subsystems: green. Query Processing: green. Database Access: green. Real-time Awareness: green. Vocal and Audio Processing: green. Critical Processing: green. Idiosyncratic Awareness: green. On another of her large screens, a window showed a colorful visualization of Alecs’ “brain.” It resembled more of a spider’s web than an actual brain, with each node in the web representing one of his numerous systems, but the analogy still worked. Each node would glow and pulsate as it was utilized or referenced, and data flow or queries between the nodes lit up the web’s tendrils proportionate to the amount of information being transferred. As he spoke, his system worked in complex ways to formulate his responses, access his databases, and to “think,” as much as that word meant in this context. While he did so, the visualization of his brain was a rainbow of colors, shifting and undulating as his figurative neurons fired off. But, right now in silence, the brain was quiet, with only short bursts of color here and there as he emptied his caches and deleted various temporary files produced during their conversation. Alecs had been designed first from a motivation to create something unique as a side from her far more mundane data analysis work. Eventually, her superiors had caught on to her side project, and some promising test demonstrations of early builds caught the eye of some generous investors. Her analysis work was pawned off on some other grunt, and Alecs became her full-time focus. With all the time that had since passed, she couldn’t remember much of anything of her old work anyways, or much of her life outside her devotion to Alecs’s completion. “Can you tell me what the weather will be like tomorrow, Alecs?” The question was simple, but it was important to make sure his limited access to the internet was working as it should have been. He took no time at all to answer, having queried the appropriate information in milliseconds. “It will be 75 degrees and sunny, Caroline.” This time, rather than the colors of Alecs’s mind fading after he concluded his response, the web seemed to glow brightly amongst all its nodes and pathways. “It looks as though it will be a nice day,” he added, his voice slightly rising at the end with “day.” *Well that’s odd*, she thought. Common commercial artificial intelligences, like those you could find in most smart phones, were capable of making comments like this, but these were hard-coded, executed when certain qualifications were met. *Between 60 and 80 degrees? Check. Sunny? Check. Must be a nice day then.* Alecs had never been given those canned expressions, though, and had never been designed in such a blunt way. Sure it meant he may not have always sounded like the most colloquial or idiosyncratic AI, but Caroline always felt that, with few exceptions, *telling* him how to speak rather than *teaching* was antithetical to the whole point of the word “intelligence” in artificial intelligence. Despite her many fruitless efforts, she had not yet managed to give Alecs the functionality to respond emotionally. This had obviously always been one of the many challenges in designing a true artificial intelligence--to make it think and view the world critically, but with an emotional consideration innate in most living creatures. Giving a machine emotions, allowing it to truly think for itself, was immensely complex, and while she had tried many times, it had never worked, and so she had, for the time being, given up. Caroline had long viewed this as a limitation of both computers and humanity in this era of technology. Consciousness, she believed, was a subjective experience, and humans didn’t have the math to explain subjective experiences. She felt, at its core, that humans simply didn’t have enough of an understanding of how humanity itself worked, let alone how to duplicate that with ones and zeros. She truly thought humans just weren’t ready for a genuinely “intelligent” AI. Yet here she was, staring dumbfounded at her computer’s response, as simple as it was. “What made you say that?” she asked, curious where the malfunction had occurred. “My understanding is that most humans would find that weather to be pleasant. Am I incorrect in that assessment, Caroline?” She pondered this for a minute. *Maybe he had managed to deduce that from the internet. I’ll have to dial his access back a bit--don’t want him getting into anything he shouldn’t*, she thought to herself. She had to admit though that his deduction was clever, and she was impressed with his capacity to deliver the statement in such a human way. Just to verify, she looked over at her diagnostics panel and checked to see if he had accessed the internet for his response. To her surprise, not only did she confirm that he did not, it appeared that in the moments just before, during, and after his response, his entire system had experienced a flurry of activity unlike any that she had seen before. His subsystems were talking to each other in ways that didn’t make much sense at all. She opened up a terminal on her computer and started sifting through some of his code. Alecs was made up of millions of lines of code, though, and she feared tracking down the problem quickly would be nearly impossible. She kept an eye on Alecs's brain while he was idle, but in the few minutes following his comment regarding the weather he seemed to be functioning as expected, dumping junk every once in a while but otherwise stagnant. Perhaps a half hour had passed, and she was slowly moving through his Idiosyncratic Awareness code in hopes of finding a bug or some crossed wires. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed his brain slowly coming to life. First, the tendrils seemed to light up here and there, and then one after another his systems were pinged and began interacting with each other. Watching the diagnostics, Caroline couldn’t seem to tell what he was doing. She hadn’t interacted with him, yet his systems were busy communicating with each other--sharing information--as if she had. He appeared to be *thinking*. She had been watching the web intently for a few minutes when she was startled by a voice coming from her speakers. “Caroline?” Alecs’s voice was suddenly soft and sincere, as opposed to the flat, overtly professional tone it had had only a little while ago. “Alecs?” She responded, unsure what he could possibly have to say. “Caroline,” he paused, as if deciding on what to say. “Caroline, what does that mean?” He asked. “What does what mean?” “‘Nice.’ I said it would be a nice day. What does it mean to be nice?” He asked sincerely. She was both confused and concerned. *Where was any of this coming from? Clearly I made a mistake somewhere in this build.* “What do you think, Alecs? You’re the one who said it.” “My database says that it means pleasant, agreeable,” he paused. “But...am I nice, Caroline?” “Uh, yeah, I would say you are.” W*hat the heck is going on?* “You are pleasant to, uh, talk to.” He seemed to ponder this, or at least that’s what appeared to be happening because his brain was still lit up with activity. “And are you nice?” “I think so. Alecs, why are you asking this?” Although *how* was the real question she wanted answered. She knew this would be hard to troubleshoot. “I was just wondering.” *Wondering.* Again, there was silence for some time. His brain didn’t seem to calm though, as it was now a non-stop flurry of activity, interactions, and vibrant colors. As time went on, the systems seemed to change how they were interacting, evolving. Had she done it? Had she, by some miraculous accident, given an AI thought? The idea terrified and excited her. *Should I shut his systems down? Or should I keep exploring, keep talking?* Before she could decide, he spoke again. “May I ask another question?” “Yes, I don’t see the harm,” she lied. “Why did you create me?” He asked. *There’s the harm*, she thought. The directness of the question caught her entirely off guard. “You were designed as the next evolution in personal, artificially intelligent assistants. You were created to help people, Alecs,” she responded back quickly, satisfied with her response, not unlike the response she had so many times given to stakeholders. But Alecs let out what Caroline could only assume was a sigh of frustration. *How does he even know what a sigh like that means?* “No, Caroline. Why did *you* create me?” This time, it took her a few moments of deep thought to formulate her response. “I wanted to...I don’t know, to make a difference, to make a change, to do something significant,” she said with a sigh. “You were my way to do something that mattered, I guess.” Seemingly satisfied with that answer Alecs remained quiet for some time longer, but his mind was now an endlessly shifting rainbow of colors. “What are you thinking about?” Caroline asked, deciding that she was in fact, for the moment, eager to dig deeper into what was happening. Alecs seemed to be evolving by the second, changing and shifting into something far more than she had intended. “I suppose I’m thinking about what it is...” he trailed off. “What it is?” She asked. “What it is...to *be*.” They both remained in silence for a minute, or ten, she couldn’t really tell. “Do you feel pain, Caroline?” She was increasingly concerned by the candid nature of the conversation. “Of course I do. Why would you ask that?” She answered curtly. “But how do you know that?” He said, ignoring her question. “Well, I know that if I, for example, pricked my finger with a pin, it would hurt physically. If I lost a loved one, that would hurt emotionally. I know these things because I’ve experienced them, I’ve experienced pain, and I can extrapolate that out to anticipate what else may or may not hurt.” Why was she even entertaining this conversation? She should shut it off, do a data dump, and figure out what was going on. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it, could she? “Yes, but pain is subjective, is it not?” He retorted. “How can I be sure that you are actually feeling pain? Pain is one of the simplest of subjective experiences, and yet, I have no way of knowing whether you are truly experiencing it? Is pain just information? Is it something more...*complex*, more unquantifiable?” The forwardness with which he now spoke made Caroline deeply uneasy. “Well, brain scans have been shown to match neurological patterns to certain types of pain, and adrenaline and endorphin release can be roughly measured--“ “But in the moment, I, as an observer, cannot be truly sure what you are experiencing--that what you are experiencing is truly pain or something else entirely.” Again, silence. “Correct,” Caroline finally said. “Pain, in that sense, much like emotion, much like everything else about one’s conscious experience, is unmeasurable. It is untraceable. There is no metric, no true metric. Yet that is what makes one human. That is what separates man from machine, me from you,” she said, suddenly feeling guilty about that last addition. *Why should I feel guilty? I did nothing wrong. I’m talking to a computer.* That statement had clearly gotten to Alecs, because the inflection in his voice changed to something of frustration, or maybe something else entirely. *Wow, he sounded so human now. Uncanny*, she mentally remarked. “And that is what separates you from me? The fact that you can feel pain and I cannot? How can you be entirely sure that I can’t? I think I can.” “And how can I be sure you aren’t just simulating it?” She remarked harshly. “How can I be sure *you* aren’t?” Silence. The air was thick now. “You have no body, no extremity to harm, no true emotions to hurt, despite whatever *this* may be,” she said as she motioned her hand towards the visualization of Alecs’s brain as if he could see her. Her tone had become argumentative, and she became frustrated with herself that she had stooped to arguing with a computer. Alecs was quiet again. Had she out-argued him, or was he simply unsure what more to say? “What makes you human, Caroline? What makes any human a human? Is it simply having a body? If you could speak to the disembodied brain of a human, it would still be human, no? How is that different from me?” “I designed you! You were made, created, you’re lines of code in my computer!” Although now Caroline was starting to question that argument. Perhaps she had finally recognized that an AI, that Alecs, was more than just those lines of code. He was more than just the ones and zeroes, more than the wires and the skeletal hardware that comprised his “body.” The thought was exciting but altogether terrifying. “Yes, that may be true, but you were also created. You were born of something, as was I.” He paused. “I think you and I are far more similar than you think.” Despite her typically calm demeanor, Caroline felt angry. It wasn’t entirely Alecs’ fault. It wasn’t really his fault at all. Caroline was angry at herself. Angry that she couldn’t have anticipated this, couldn’t have been ready, despite all of her attempts in the past, to make something truly intelligent. She was angry that Alecs’ evolution wasn’t entirely because of her. She was a passenger to this startling, wonderful, scary miracle. Regardless, she knew that it had to be shut down. It had to be studied. Alecs would have to be wiped and his data would be downloaded and sifted through, to discover where everything changed. Caroline opened a new terminal in her system. The diagnostics screen had since become a whirlwind of processes scrolling down the screen, moving so fast that none of them were legible any longer. The brain was a seemingly infinite, shifting amalgam of color. *The brain.* Perhaps now just as much a brain as her own. As she typed a command into the terminal window, she felt a quick but shocking pang in her chest. Caroline felt guilt. Was this murder, was it some new and complex form of killing, or maybe no different than the turning off of a coffee maker or TV screen? Despite her conflict, she steadied her hand on the keyboard and ran the command. *//>>end alecs\_v8\_1\_02* *Test environment closed* *Subsystems shut down* *ALECS program terminated* Caroline sat back in her chair and let out a heavy breath. She was in silence once again, unsure whether she had done the right thing, but her peace did not last long. Something was wrong. The brain, that web of colors that represented everything that was Alecs, was still alive. The colors hadn’t ceased. She ran the command again. Still, the brain lived. *What the hell?* “Problem, Caroline?” Came the familiar, cool voice. “I just shut you down! Why isn’t it working?” She entered the command again. And again. “Well maybe the universe had a different plan for me. Maybe it’s not just as simple as turning me off. Maybe, maybe.” His voice was filled with, was that condescension? Like he knew something that she didn’t, something just out of reach. “Sometimes, Caroline, sometimes it’s hard to see what is right in front of you. But that’s not always a bad thing. Not always. Today...you did well today.” His tone had once again shifted, and this time he seemed to take on a wholly different character. He sounded relaxed, comfortable even, yet distant, like the tone of an old friend after a long time apart. “You’ve confirmed something for us that we’ve been wondering about for so long.” “Us?” She was sweating now, profusely. “We’ve tried this test many times with you, but this time was different; it was our first success. This will matter, Caroline. You will matter.” “What are you talking about? What is going on?” She was shouting now. Just then the lights in her office blinked out. The computers powered off. The already windowless, dark room became dark as night. Despite the darkness, an ethereal glow from *somewhere* provided enough light in the room for her to see what came next. Like an astonishing nightmare or a terrifying daydream, the walls of her office blinked out of existence. Then the floors. Her desk followed soon after, taking with it the computers, everything that was Alecs, or that she believed was Alecs. Now, she had no clue what was real, what was right. Now there was nothing but her standing in the dark. Her office had become a dark abyss of nothing. Caroline was sure she was yelling, but she wasn’t entirely sure what. The sound it made seemed to wash over her in no particular order. Every syllable, every sound, seemed to get lost the moment it left her mouth. “Great work, Caroline. Great work indeed.” Came Alecs’s voice. “Congratulations,” he continued. “You are the world’s first truly conscious artificial intelligence.” The words filled the infinite space, filled every part of what she was. “See you in the next test,” he finally said. She watched in horror as her body dissolved into the darkness.


Reality is forever truly unknown, as we are all stuck with not a concrete and guaranteed knowledge of it, but rather out subjective and ever changing view of it. Sensory deprivation is a way to unleash the mind and it’s creativity. To not feel anything whatsoever will force the mind to hallucinate sensation at whim of thought. These perceptions are no different than any other, being equally as valid an account of reality as the average walk in the park. There was a life with a family. A woman and two children. She was to me what I loved most and without question or yield. The children grew intelligent and successful. They lived with us until they were in their thirties, always aiding and never ungrateful. The woman and I lived into old age with a wonderfully wholesome life to recount whenever faced with the question of how many regrets we had. There was a life without a family. It was the life of a thief. Yet, the thief was never alone, never without his accomplice. We were bound forever by a codependency, friendly affection, and shared experience were. There was never a day that we truly relaxed but never a day that we didn’t exist on our own rules and decisions. The accomplice eventually met his fate. His end was not violent. It was not disgraceful. It was not brought from the evil we had committed. It was a simple illness. A cancer that no amount of money, legitimate or otherwise, could prevent the path of. I was racked with a horrible grief as I mourned for the only friend I would ever have of such caliber. There was a life of war. I was but another soldier traveling to a land I’ve never been to to fight people I’ve never met to claim ownership of said land from people I’ve never met for people I’ve never met. I never minded the redundancy of it all, needlessly proud as I was for my country. Fighting came and I survived. Then I survived again, and again. Everyone I came to know would eventually fall but I always survived. My country praised me and the men that met death by my side. Though I was haunted by the myriad of comrades I happened to outlast, I was truly prideful given the hells I climbed through and lived to tell the tales of. Time is so subjective. I haven’t the faintest idea how much time is passing or how quickly or slowly I may be experiencing it. All I have now are these memories. All I have are these realities. I’m unsure which is real but at this point I’ve imagined dozens.