The hover craft was not going to be fast enough to reach the community in time. Sonic alarms were already starting to show diminishing activity in Angeles Sector 09. There would be no time to properly evaluate foot traffic. All of the other sectors had thriving commerce, indoor and out. But whenever an analysis drone flew near to Sector 09 the peoples would vanish. The council had been uneasy about this fact. They didn't like mysteries especially the mystery of a sole community acting completely independent of its predestiny. If the scripture of humankind was being ignored, they would need to be disbanded and arrested. Soon Ke-Yu would land the drone orb and solve this mystery and bring balance and continued progress to the Magna Statum. The scriptures taught that being a good humanoid meant serving the greater cause. If there was a drug being manufactured in Sector 09 it would explain the lack of production in this area. Compound 56 was found in the surrounding regions, affecting 20% of the populace in Sectors 03 and 06. Only specified operatives were permitted to be involved in the quarantine and investigation of the drug's victims. Their conditions were said to be "unusual" and "detrimental to public health." The compound was deemed highly dangerous to genetic makeup. Ke-Yu, who was a model androgynous citizen of renowned investigation, found that being a nondescript nonbinary lessened the burdens of extinct humanoid generations. The thought that there used to be designations between male and female was cold and isolating. With neural capacity being freed up from the nuisance of creativity Ke was able to focus on more logical thinking. To imagine that humans had to exist in different, inferiority forms showed how far humanity had come. Sector 09 appeared below. The streets, as anticipated, were empty. There were rumors, of course, that the drug known as Compound 56 influenced the entire population, that the statistics clearly showed an increase in the compounds usage in all of the sectors who failed to live up to expectations. Ke-Yu steered the orb into the docking area, knowing full well there would be no one to greet. As the door whooshed open Ke saw the large silos at the epicenter of the community. Appearing the same as all other humanoids, with the white, form-fitting suit, Ke would have been happy to meet others, to explain the purpose of the visit and to be guided to the reception center but as it was the clustered buildings and narrow streets were devoid of life. Everyone must be inside. Ke would need to find her own way. The silos were big enough to output thirty tons of chloroxine in a single day but the sector’s capacity, at least from the read-outs, was 30% of this. Ke felt this was a good place to start. If they were manufacturing drugs it would make the most conclusive sense that they would be stored here. Ke had never remembered being this alone, being part of a collective of like-minded humanoids for long, and now on a street with no familiar faces, any face that would mirror Ke's own face. It was comforting to be surrounded by the same face, seeing yourself in every individual. But in this moment, everything was different, out of place, and unusual. A lone bird flew overhead, making a disinterested squawk. Ke looked up before entering the silo building, wondering, at least scientifically, what it would be like to fly so high. Inside the reception area was just as empty and unused. The utility console was also offline. Unusual indeed. There were no signs of struggle or even foot traffic. The lobby remained quiet as Ke found the back doors sealed and brought up a virtual map. The wrist map showed that the area ahead contained no life signals. The air vents were offline. That was when Ke noticed a compartment that didn't appear on the 3D projection, to the right of the doorway. Odd. Ke removed the three-foot wall panel and found a hallway inside, not on the map. The hall led to another door that opened on approach. The following hallway contained what appeared to be a decontamination room with nozzles on the ceiling and floor. Ke cautiously stepped forward, a white gloved hand reaching for invisible sensors. This tech was old but appeared to have been used recently. Ke scanned the room and found evidence of a strange substance plastered on the wall. But before further analysis could be completed Ke was dragged forward on the moving, tread floor. With one foot on the floor Ke stumbled and fell back trying to jump back to the entry way. Ke was carried along with colorful sensors and buzzing noises going off. The colors were another abnormality, with green, red, and blue light, instead of the standardized white. It distracted Ke for a moment, long enough to prevent proper analysis. Ke was then suddenly overcome with the strange substance that covered the white suit and gloves, emanating from the twelve nozzles in the hall. Ke couldn’t breathe as the substance came in contact with the humanoid's skin and mouth, sparking a reaction of goose bumps that Ke thought was a myth. It seeped through the suit and caused a trembling in the humanoid’s frame. A series of emotions struck Ke as the nozzles continued their onslaught. First Ke's heart beat faster, giving off a sense of unease and panic. During the indoctrination process Ke had learned about these types of antiquated feelings and grew concerned over the possibility that the chemicals were indeed capable of changing DNA. Ke became encased in a flurry of thoughts that went beyond any known words or identification. The closest verbiage was "hot," "warm", and "alert." More alert. More power. More human. These were the feelings that had been forgotten. Ke questioned the logic of the supreme leaders, of the society that had enacted such uniformity and restriction on itself. A vision came through the soft blue haze, full of energy and tactile sensuality. Ke felt inflammation originating at the chest and moving to the stomach. Ke touched the forming pectorals, realizing they were softer than muscle and then moved a curious hand to the stomach, which was now bulbous and wide. The thought of becoming something different frightened Ke. There was nausea too but it grew into a tingling, a warm tingling. That was the word. An enjoyable tingling, birthed from a diversity in Ke's frame. Every sight and texture became a wonder, every structure was a monument. Ke became consumed by a rush of sensations. Vibrant. Unrestrained. Mournful. Symbiotic but free. Alive. She. Her. Ke was no longer a duplicate humanoid anymore. She became a her. She became a flower, spreading out her petals to receive the sunshine. Even the colors of the lights meant more than they did before, flourishing with inspiration and appreciation. The divide didn't seem so distant. It was before her, in a swath of fresh awareness. A union was desired. A union she could not explain. A bond shared between life essences. The union of man and woman. A union of two separate beings, each side bolstering the other and taking them to new heights of perception and being. As the spray dissipated, she opened her eyes and saw everything as it truly was. The world had been asleep and she was awake for the first time. An ancient embodiment had stripped them of their souls and they accepted it willingly, absentminded of the consequences. Ke saw the strife between a man and a woman, the contention, the struggles, the turmoil, but this difference came with a yearning to embrace the chaos of unpredictability. The doors at the end of the hall opened suddenly and a faint humming was heard. Ke felt repetition in the sounds, her body driven to sway with the soft melody. The intoxication moved her toward the door. Beyond was a pallid of unique shapes, colorful lights, the hum becoming louder. It was all she wanted. The music overtook her and she was born again.


I didn’t want to go. June was long and busy and tiring with lots of lacrosse and school and other things I don’t enjoy. I didn’t want to add another activity to the ever-growing roster of things required to be a better parent that I am. I wanted the beach, books and a bar cart. So, I pawned it off on my mensch husband, who agreed to take our three monsters and my nephews. I think we threw the last two boys in for sport - the event being “how much could I pile on before my husband had a second heart attack?” I flee to a rainbow-colored chair with an ocean view and a cooler. I’m not even sure there was ice or a cup, but with prosecco and Juice Bombs, I am sure nothing required a cork screw or bottle opener. I sit with the sun on my face, ignoring my brother and sister-in-law. Meanwhile, the whack crew of seven made its way down the beach. The seventh was John Schmidt. John was responsible for this whole adventure. It started when he asked my mom, “if the kids would like to go jet skiing”. I obviously said no. My kids may have loved it, but school was over and it was time to be rid of all commitments that included my involvement. My mom asked me about the jet skiing no less than 19 times in the days that followed. Classic Janet. She had clearly said, yes, long before I answered in the negative. She knew I’d cave, because she knew I always caved, because she had a way of always getting me to cave. She would never have to go back on her word to John - due to her ninja like abilities to always get what she wanted, without ever raising her voice. Everyone thought she was laid back and flexible, never quite realizing her stealth skills. Not quite passive aggressive...more like quiet-aggressive. Jesse, disrupts the silence by announcing, “I feel bad for Aaron” (the mensch). Jen, his wife, who I can usually count on to be my partner in crime, sides with my brother. I don’t feel bad at all. I am finally sitting, in the fresh, salty air; bottle in hand instead of the steering wheel of my minivan driving, always driving. But, I know I will look like an asshole if I don’t go on the kid-Aaron-John-wave runner-check. So, in an effort to look like I have a heart, I join them on the journey down the beach. We find the kids - all with loopy jet ski smiles. My other brother has also joined in the joy. Aaron hops off and exchanges his life jacket with Jesse in return for the promise of another happy face racing by at 30 mph. Jesse pulls my twins around the ocean on a tube and then passes the torch to his wife. I want none of this. But peer pressure works even when you are 50 years old. I hop aboard the car in the ocean, now pulling my daughter and nephew on a tube. I figure if I can get this fun out of the way, I can finally return to my beach chair. John steps on the gas. We take off and it feels fun and free. The wind, the sun, and the speed. We are out to sea. The tubing rope loosens. The two kids go flying off the back as the tube sheds its cover and pops like a birthday balloon. Before I know it, the rope is wrapped around the motor and nearly snaps my leg in half, which now resembles raw chicken. The jet ski is upside down. We are all in the water and the rope is so twisted underneath, that even I - an expert rainbow loom rubber band separator - know there is no hope of us salvaging this ride and getting back to shore. It’s all fun and games for about 12 seconds. I should have known there was a deeper reason I didn’t want to go jet skiing. It’s taken me until now to put my finger, or bloody leg on it. It’s because, with my family, there is always a story. I have never answered the question “how was ____ [insert family fun]”, simply “fun” or “good". There is always a long convoluted story - a rental house on Fire Island that has bugs and leaks and used wet towels that for some reason we don’t leave, my mom trapped in an elevator while in a wheelchair well into her hospice stay, my brother lost on the ski mountain, another brother skiing into a tree losing both his teeth only to have them shoved back in by the ski patrol, a house we are trying to buy where the owner won’t leave until we smoke them out with a lien on the house, my daughter’s front teeth knocked out on the ice - the gymnast, not my hockey player, or at very least the promise of a minor concussion just before a trip for any of them, be it at sport or on hoverboard. Our family activities always have an apex that is more like a mudslide near the top of the mountain, rather than a victorious ascent. They end with me being stuck in the ocean for three hours waiting for marine coast patrol and praying that Jaws is just a movie. John tells my daughter and nephew to - no joke - swim across the channel back to shore. They are 12 and 13. The tide is on its way out. But I am too shell-shocked to think straight. I also feel like I can’t leave John stranded in the ocean. I am not sure why he leapfrogged my family as my priority, but losing half a pint of blood makes you do funny things. I have no phone but at least John does and has enough battery to call the sea rescue. We wait on hold for what feels like days but is probably more like 53 minutes (but who’s checking?) North Carolinians are on island time. After waiting on hold, we wait some more, and are then told they will get there - with no time estimate other than before dark. I tread water and see some movement out of the corner of my eye. It is my daughter and nephew and not a shark. I thank the shark gods first and then the width of the channel for keeping the kids from attempting to swim across it. I hobble into mom mode and find someone willing to take them back to shore. I pray for the second time in 20 years. This time that the stranger is not a secret human trafficker. As the sun starts to go down, I realize it’s “eat what you kill out here” - literally, well, actually I hope not. I have put in enough time with John to feel like he can’t possibly tell my mom I am a terrible person. I flag down several boats. But, with my scary raw chicken leg-leg - which at this point actually looks a million times better from the hours of salt water - and frantic arm waving, I don’t get a lot of takers. Eventually a group of four men agree to take me back to shore. I pray for the third time today, hoping they are not serial killers or criminals or human traffickers. I am pretty sure I am okay, they are probably just New York state-tax evaders, since they look more like investment bankers. But, all of a sudden I am very religious. I get back to shore. I have never been so happy to be on land. I see my daughter and nephew and wonder if I should have left them to swim the channel, when my daughter starts making fun of how crazy I look - sunburned, bloody and shivering. I see my husband, brother, sister-in-law, some of the kids, all waiting for me. A few of them have smartly returned home to escape another story. But, a whole bunch of them sat at the end of the island waiting for me, trying to bring me back. They asked the boaters that took Layla and Cole to the island if they would return to pick me up. The guys said no, in the true spirit of friendly southerners. My family flagged down beach patrol - who apparently see no need to think outside the box. People stranded in the ocean are outside their jurisdiction. They prefer to just drive back and forth on the beach in their cool jeeps. My brothers had it out with some old ladies who said John was too close to shore and felt like we deserved what we got - the women wanted beach patrol to take away John’s license - luckily that is also out of beach patrol’s job description. My crazy family, with our crazy stories and crazy dysfunctional set up, all waited for me, and tried to get me home. Somehow, they are love me despite my being a giant pain 95% of the time. I guess it turns out I like it all - the stories, the crazy, the gaggle of kids. It sure keeps life interesting. Mostly, the stories are memories, happy and funny and ridiculous. And when I miss my mom so much it hurts, a funny story about her making me save egg cartons for “Steve the Greek” - their neighbor with a chicken farm behind an old strip mall, the absurdity of her ability to make me save them while hospice is fixing her morphine pump, they make me laugh. I would go on any jet ski in the world if it would bring her back. I’d even wait out the rest of the time in the water with John Schmidt. It’s all fun and games until you go to a wonderfully, long storied, Fa-go-po-pi family gathering. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Well, I guess I would like my leg to look like it used to...but upon seeing it, it does give many chances to tell this long, convoluted story, and remind me of that time my mom got me to do just one more thing using her secret spell.


Once upon a long time ago, there lived a short creature in a dense and foggy forest. This forest was dangerous and full of wrong turns. Should someone get tangled in the web of paths, they will surely be lost for all of time but this small creature knew the way through. One day, a human in fine clothing journeyed into this forest and met the small creature. “Hello, good sir. I seem to be lost, would you tell me how to get to Hethrusa?” the human inquired. The small creature was not used to humans speaking to him so politely. A smirk sparked deep in his face. He could hardly hold his excitement. “Good human, my good human. I can, and only can I, guide you through this deep forest.” The creature replied. “In exchange for a sweetie and story. Only then, will I guide thee.” The human, being a merchant by trade, had many sweets to give. The creature was handed a small loaf cake and delighted with his catch, he sat down for the human’s story. “What is your pick of story, my friend?” The human asked. “Adventure, my human companion. I crave stories from the great outward, as I am stuck here for eternity.” The creature replied. The human thought, placing a thumb on his chin, and exclaimed with excitement that he had just the story. The creature waddled close to the human as he told a great story of a triumphant warrior who sought after the fountain of youth. This warrior did not find the fountain, but regained his youthful spirit in adventure all the same. The creature was delighted beyond the moon and stars to hear such a delicious story. The creature held the human’s hand and walked him through the ever changing paths. Safely, they both arrived at the edge of the forest. “I bid you my human friend a farewell. I shall not leave this forest, but safest travels to you.” The creature said. “I make a promise to you that I shall return every week. In my pinky, I hold this promise” Said the human. “Every week, I pinky promise to bring you sweets and stories. In exchange, you gently guide my hand through this forest.” Confused by such an odd practice, the creature hooked his small pinky around the humans. “Great promise indeed, my human pal. I shall see you in a week's time.” The creature promised. Over the course of many weeks, the human returned as promised. Bringing sweets and sweeter stories of the great outward lands, both old and new. From the mountains of Preshnua to the deep ocean depths of Trinhada. Each week, the creature gleefully listened to the humans tales as he ate the sweets given. There came a point in the simple promise that both danced and sang with each other. Sharing stories and sweets alike. Both the human and creature shared fond interest in each other. Each week, they both parted ways with the same pinky promise that started it all. On one particular week, the human did not pass through the forest. Waiting for his companion, the creature sat for hours. It seemed that the sky had changed many times and still the human did not show. Worried, the creature paced endlessly. Weeks passed, and still the creature paced. “Where, oh where is my human pal?” the creature pondered. Had he slipped in his great adventure? Did he get gabbed by the Grubabada Bears of Brunaladura? Was he swallowed in the deep dark depths of the Yuranga caves? Oh how the creature worried. These weeks of missing gave way to shaking months. These months were buried with misting years. The creature, still heartbroken of his missing friend, paced a large cavern in his worried walking. It took days for the creature to reach the very top of his sad and empty hill. Then, as if by a chase of a dream, the creature heard a familiar clambering. The trinkle trankle of a certain human’s thingy thangies. With perked ears, the creature peeked over his worry hill. His heart skipped every sixth beat. Holding a breath that was days old. There he was! “Oh what joy to see you, my fleshy pink faced friend! How I missed your presence.” The creature said. “My goblin faced complacent comrade, there you are still! I have great stories to tell of my journeys!” The human replied. “You say your... journeys? Had you not been turned purple by the Thrumping Vines of Enstera? Did you not get slip slopped by the rivers of mud in Frentu?” “No my friend, I have seen the world and most of its glory. I was on a long Holiday. And I have brought otherworldly sweeties, just for you!” The creature's heart was bent. “I do not care for the sweeties, I care for you!” The monster yelled. “You broke the pink-knee promise! I will not guide thee today or tomorrowday or next tomorrowsday!” The creature crossed his arms in protest. The human reached out but withdrew his hand. “I know, I have upset you. I did not mean for this to happen in such a way. Let me make it up to you. I have the best, most grandest, extra gilded extravagant story to tell!” The human said. “Let us dance and never forget to smile!” The creature turned away and thought. This was a most joyous day to see the human, but today should not be so joyous had the human kept their promise. The creature turned and danced with the human. The human was overjoyed and told the story of a great wizard who lost his glasses at the foot of a great mountain. “Tis such a great story so far, indeed.” Said the creature. “Pray tell, does it end in misfortune?” “It does not-” the human laughed. “It ends with happiness” “That is odd” said the creature. “Why is that?” said the human. “It is odd, because your story does end in misfortune!” The creature yelled. At the peak of their dancing, the creature threw the human in his pit of worry. Consumed by the vast darkness, the human’s screams were only heard but for a moment, and then gone. The creature felt sad, for the human had betrayed their promise. The creature felt even sadder now that the human was gone for sure. The creature wished not that they did not meet, but that the human never returned. In this way, the creature could have came up with his own story to fill in the humans sweeties and shoes.


Claire and I stood in the middle of “the storage unit”, as Claire kept calling it. I’m not prone to phobias, but believe me, it’s damn near impossible not to feel claustrophobic, when you’re surrounded by endless rows of precariously stacked piles of heavy objects, some of them looking alarmingly sharp, most of them looking as if they may tumble down any second. Packed to the brim. You’ve guessed it: this was no ordinary storage unit. Not something built to harbour a couple of forgotten moving boxes and great-grandma’s favourite rocking chair. This was a an industrial size affair, the floor about ten thousand square feet, the ceiling easily fifteen feet high. The biggest items stacked in here, as far as I could see, where a sofa comfortably seating a football team (reserve players included), a fossil collection in glass show cases that may or may not have once been the highlight of a museum exhibition, and something I can best describe as a moderate size harvester. Plus anything and everything imaginable in any type of household, from your run-of-the-mill seventeenth century French Sun King’s castle to a trailer park meth lab. Most of these piles seemed to defy gravity. Some reached up to the ceiling, packed so densely they seemed to be squeezed in here by force, or maybe the ceiling had been lowered, clamping down on them. A sight to behold, no doubt. Still, what truly overwhelmed me, was the stench. Foul. Aggressive. A combination of decay and something I can, bizarrely, best describe as “frenzy”. When Claire had opened the heavy metal shutter door to this place, it had been little more than a slight whiff. Then ever-increasing in strength the further we ventured inside. Where I was standing now, the stink was oppressive. Maybe an old bear was hibernating in here somewhere. Or rather, an old bear had been hibernating in here, many years ago, but sadly, hadn’t made it to the next spring. And nobody had found him yet. So what was this place, what’s the explanation for this jam-packed maze and the disgusting smell accompanying it? “Real estate storage”. Have I mentioned Claire’s a realtor? Well, she is, and a very successful one at that. Before I tell you how this adventure took an ugly turn, let me mention that Claire had warned me, asking me whether I had a sensitive stomach, telling me it might be best to skip our visit. Whereupon I had told her it wouldn’t be a problem. I even remember chuckling knowingly. As a coroner, I explained to her, I was used to stenches no storage unit could equal, let alone surpass. Well, I was wrong, and not just about the stenches. Back to the story. Apparently, “real estate storage” is a thing. When Claire first mentioned it, that didn’t exactly pique my interest. I imagined used yard signs with “for sale” printed on them next to a photo of Claire’s friendly, well made up face. A couple of boxes with old flyers maybe. What more could there be? So when she said, with that telling little smile of hers, that it was nothing like that, nothing at all ... I was hooked. In my defense, I’ve always been a curious person. In hindsight, that was probably my biggest mistake. That’s the thing about hindsight, though: as a rule, it comes too late. But what about the storage unit? What’s the explanation for the size of it, for this breathtaking, chaotic--for lack of a better word--collection? “Real estate home staging”. Any ideas what that entails? You do? You’re well ahead of me then. Little did I know you cannot expect to sell your house for a decent price anymore, unless you ruthlessly declutter it first. Sure, I understood the general idea: for a showing, avoid smelly socks on the bedroom floor and moldy pizza boxes in your teenage son’s room (or any other room, for that matter). Maybe even declutter your wardrobe and your kitchen cupboards. After all, you never know whether a potential buyer might be brazen enough to open them. What I hadn’t realized, was that it didn’t end there. Before your realtor sticks a “for sale” sign into your front yard, you’re expected to do the following: Scrub every surface until there’s nothing left to scrub, outside surfaces, inside surfaces. Everything. Everywhere. Depersonalise. Your favorite holiday snaps? Those cherished portraits of your grandchildren? Photos of beloved pets, who’ve trooped over the rainbow bridge long ago? Get rid. Any particular aromas, good or bad, scented plants and perfumes included? Get rid. Mismatched pieces of furniture, holding so many dear memories? Get rid. That collection of glass budgerigars made from special Czech crystal you inherited from aunt Marcia? Well ... you get the picture. The reason is simple, as Claire explained to me: the family who--you hope--will buy your old place, preferably well above asking price, has to envision themselves living there. Envision themselves . Not envision you . So “neutral” is key. Excellent real estate home staging, I’ve learned, goes even further: not only will Claire take all your unwanted, sale impeding clutter off your hands, she will also supply you with wonderfully stylish, perfectly neutral design objects. Anything that upgrades your simple family home to a professional interior-design showroom. And where does all the unwanted clutter go? Exactly. Right now, I was standing in the middle of one of those “declutter storage units”. Yes, there were more. Six in total. This was the biggest and the most impressive, though, Claire had assured me. There’s one more thing you should know: not only had Claire been an amazingly successful realtor for decades, she was also a hoarder. Which is why none of the stuff in here--while meant to be stored only temporally--got thrown out or auctioned off, when the owners didn’t come back to collect it. Everything stayed. Everything. So there you have it. The explanation. And after adjusting to the sight of this vast, bizarre collection, I thought nothing in here could surprise me anymore. That was my second mistake. Or maybe it was my third. I’ve lost count. I stared at the bloody knife and the severed hand, both sticking out of a pile of what looked like theatre props and costumes for a period piece, Henry the eighth maybe. I remember thinking Claire had probably seen it as well, assuming the hand was a theatre prop. An understandable mistake. I’d be a useless coroner, though, if I couldn’t spot the difference between a prop and the real thing. “Claire?” I called, softly. I couldn’t see her any more and turned around, slowly, looking for her, trying my best not to touch anything--neither the knife nor the hand nor anything else. In my mind, at that point, the biggest threat was still an avalanche of home-decorating junk toppling down on me. There was no answer. Instead, the overhead lights went out. In quick succession, I heard the metal shutter door being pulled down, followed by the eerie sound of the thick metal lock snapping into place. Then the click-clack of Claire’s high heels on the concrete floor of the deserted hallway, on the other side of the door. Then nothing. For a brief moment, the image of all the other doors to all the other storage units flared up in my mind’s eye, like a beacon of hope. Someone else would arrive soon, surely. Then I remembered what Claire had told me: she was the one renting all the units on this floor. I also remembered her jokingly mentioning that for the foreseeable future, there was no watchman. It’s hard to describe my next feeling. The one that came with the realisation of what it meant, that rash decision, when I had--readily, carelessly--agreed to leave my briefcase in Claire’s car. The briefcase with my smartphone in it. “CLAIRE?!” Silence.


TW: terrorism Many might say I have lost my way but it is those who say that, who have lost their way. Our city neighborhood is changing because of them . Because they lost their way. My journal entries are my place of happiness. I write the good old days long before Bill Gates and Jeff Bezos. The time when we were all safe. The only millionaires were sawmill operators, one named Henry Yesler. He was one of the pioneers of the city and built what became the city’s first steam-powered sawmill. People looked up to him and made him the city’s 7th and 15th mayor. He was truly an inspirational individual, not in the likes of any crazy aliens. I describe these days in detail and take into account everyone’s lifestyle. This is how life should be. We need to go back to the good old days. Walking through the streets through the heavy rain, I silently observe the people. Our home is known to be one of the fastest-growing cities in the United States. I write how it’s imperative that we return back to our old ways to stay safe. Our city has been misconceived to be dull and dreary yet if anything, New York, Houston, Boston, and Atlanta are drearier than ever. Clouds are harmless. I write how my first stop will be Pivotal Comware. The military has no need for such AI networks. Our manned militias got the job down. I describe how infuriating it is to read about such terrible innovations. Are these people signing the document for our demise? To even imagine the thought of those terrible machines serving us tea only to point a gun at our heads. A shudder passes through my body as I pull out the light brown package from my backpack. Carefully, I place the package behind Pivotal Comware and continue walking. I describe how the streets were relatively empty. The rain kept everyone indoors. It would only be a matter of time. “Pivotal Comware has just received a package with a bomb. Luckily, only one person was inside the building and brought what seems to be a harmless brown package inside the building. We are still searching for other victims but the company reports that nobody else was inside. That’s it for now, back to you, Bartel,” announced the TV reporter. The TV screen was filled with red flames licking the sides of the building. All that was left of the Pivotal Comware logo was black charr. I write how now it will only be one of humans’ mistakes from the past. I wait for Pivotal Comware’s story to calm down before heading out again. The sky was overcast with light gray clouds. This time I take a longer route and pass by the glass-blowing studios. The colorful beautiful shapes hang from the ceiling and walls. The local library sits across the studios. The entrance is filled with crowds of people, holding bags full of books. We are a smart bunch and our city is known for such amazing innovations. As such an elite group, we can’t risk our safety with these killer machines. Quantcast sits a few blocks further. Their terrible founders use AI I blend in the crowd and place the package into the mail truck right across. Within minutes, I’m half a mile away from Quantcast. I write about how it will be the last time anyone will see it. I realize the killer machines are not far away therefore I must speed up my game. I run back to my house and pick up a few more bombs. The police couldn’t find any direct trail from the bombs at both Quantcast and Pivotal Comware. God must be on my side, not the police’s side or the police would have found me a long time ago. I am doing what’s right. God supports me. Once I left my direct neighborhood, I slowed down to a normal pace. Attracting unnecessary attention would blow my cover. On the right, I approached Bertha. I describe how Bertha is a giant drill trying to dig its way under the city. God must have deemed the project bad because Bertha got stuck after completing 10 percent of her 1.7-mile journey for the new underground tunnel. The construction workers are working on removing the cutter head but they haven’t learned from their mistake or God’s hate. They plan on resuming drilling in a few months. Bertha isn’t alone under the bridge. A giant, car-crushing troll lives under the bridge too. I write about how I relate to the troll. I feel its fury in wanting to kill certain humans who have lost their way. Prifender’s office sits on the cross-section of three roads. I describe the bustling activity inside the building and how they are all killing humanity one click at a time. My legs feel energized and carry me to the back door. I’m careful to wear gloves and always cover my tracks. Quietly, I drop the package near the doorstep and head in the other direction. I walk past the Cascadia fault line. Seismologists warn us about there being an 80 percent chance of a 6.8-magnitude earthquake hitting within years. An earthquake is so small in comparison to what all these AI companies are building. Why can’t anyone else see that? Killer robots are going to invade our homes and hold a gun to our heads the second we turn around. How come nobody is doing anything? I look up at the sky and see the gray clouds. At least God is on my side. I was put on Earth to put everyone else back on track. Suddenly, I encounter a large crowd and traffic. The pro football team must be playing at the stadium. A smile creeps onto my face. Perfect distraction. God really is on my side today. Suplari sits across from City Light, the public-owned utility that powers most of the city with hydroelectricity. Humanity has some hope left. I describe the environment. The streets are quiet with the crowd cheering in the background. Suplari is known for helping companies with marketing through AI. Again, those machines are only here to take over human jobs and ruin humanity for all. I describe how I set the package inside an employee’s car. Right outside the car garage, are a few old pinball machines for sale. Ever since I was a young boy, my dad had taken me to the pinball machines. I describe how happy I felt reminiscing about those good old times. I didn’t have to worry about the machines then. Now, I won’t allow any young boys to worry about them anymore. My next stop passes by the water. A shipyard marks one side of the lake. World War II was the cause of that. The founders of the Boeing company left our town. I write how they must agree with me and realize how the people of our city have lost their way. Houseboats float on the other side of the water. Our neighborhood has the most houseboats for miles. I describe the different colors, sizes, and shapes of the houseboats. The number of houseboats rivals the number of dogs in our neighborhood. I too had a dog when I was younger. A Daenary. It fell victim to the terrible AI. My dad couldn’t save it. I write how sad I felt. A tear stain marks that page. Veritone sits at the intersection just twenty feet ahead of me. My feet start to pick up the pace and I run all the way there. If I attract attention, I attract attention. People need to realize I’m the one doing the right thing. Veritone is analyzing all their audio and camera feed. Those robots will know more about us than we know about ourselves. Quickly, I drop another brown package at the doorstep and run in the other direction. The street is empty as the clouds have darkened. I describe the dreary feeling of the atmosphere but the happiness that emerges inside of me the second I let go of the package. I write about how at that moment I realized I could not evade the police forever. At best, I could fulfill my mission first. The Space Needle stands tall, looming over the buildings. I write about how I sat in awe as a young child. My dad had told me all about it. The brainchild artist Edward Carlson, who sketched the tower design. The construction workers had also been superhuman and built the tower in 400 days to withstand high wind speeds and earthquakes. The iconic Pike Place Market sits just below with its overpriced onions. It was the joke of the town. Our neighborhood holds such promise. I’m here to put everyone back on the path. Casualties are inevitable and only happen to those who deserve them. Utrip sits right in front of me. The tall glass windows looming over me. I spit on it and throw my last package on the ground. Out of the corner of my eye, I see blaring sirens and black cars. Quickly, I kick the box and set off the bomb. I won’t go down without finishing my mission. They will realize later. I’ll become Phoenix Jones, the real-life superhero. Everyone will sit at my tombstone in awe. They’ll be proud of what I accomplished and follow my journals. I write the last sentence. “I’m the superhero who saved humanity from those machines by God’s will. I saved Seattle.”


Right now, the car is headed silent down the highway. It's dark, and there is nobody driving. I snuggle up in my seat and listen to the hum of its parts. I have turned my set off. It shows nothing but reports of destruction and plagues. The world on fire. The world gone mad. Most of the interstates have shut down. They want people to stay in one place. The car is moving along the back roads, switching from one lonely little highway to another. We are headed towards the answer, towards the key to defeating Q. I hope we get there fast. Slowly, the sky pales, and the blue curves of the mountains emerge from the darkness beyond the guardrails. I heard once that the Appalachians used to be as high as the Himalayas. Looking at the sloping hills under the sky, I can sense the ancient shape of the world. A world that was here before us. Man, I'm getting pretty philosophical. In my mind, another shape appears. Massive. Continental. The slope of human decline. The awful descent of the human race into... Christ. Let's just enjoy the pretty mountains. Karen is lying in the back. She's doing another eye treatment with equipment we took from the hospital. Before we reach Plattsburgh, the car switches highways and heads west. The sun climbs higher. We are getting closer. Eventually, the car turns onto an unpaved road. After few minutes, it slows to a stop. And here we are. I look around. It's a nice bit of country scenery -- grass and trees and gentle hills and blue sky and pretty much fuck all. There is nothing here. Or whatever is here, is hidden. Karen is still doing the eye treatment in the darkness of the van's rear. The light from the goggles seeps out in little flashes, sketching the shape of her face. Finally, the goggles turn green, and she pulls them off, blinking and squinting. I go and help her sit up. "Can you see a little better?" I ask. She looks down at her hands, moving the fingers slowly in the dark. "Yeah." "Persistent shapes?" She raises her hand into a shaft of sunlight shining in from the front of the van. Her fingers catch the glow. "My hands," she says softly, her voice quavering with disbelief. It's the first strong emotion I've ever heard from her. "Good. That's great," I say. "Well... we're here. What do we do now?" She looks at me and smiles maniacally. "We go into the forest," she says. Her smile is unnatural and stiff, more of a grimace than a smile, but for a brief moment, as it first spreads across her face, she looks like a giddy little kid. "The key is there," she says. "What is it? Some kind of secret underground base? Hidden laboratory?" She makes a groaning sound that I barely recognize as laughter. "You play too many narratives. It's much simpler than that." I unfold a wheelchair that we "borrowed" from the hospital and help her into it. When I open the back doors of the van, she winces against the bright sunlight, and again her face looks like a little kid's for a moment. I give her a pair of huge black wraparound sunglasses that we took eye treatment center. The van lowers to the ground, and I roll the wheelchair out onto the dusty road. She makes sure I take a bag of supplies with us -- snacks and drinks and other stuff. The sun is warm on my skin, but the breeze is fresh and cool. It's a perfect day. You would think that everything is right in the world. "So where to?" I ask. She looks around, her head wobbling on her thin stalk of a neck, her eyes hidden by the massive glasses. "There was once a house here. Do you see it?" I look around and spy a low, crumbled gray wall mostly hidden behind the high grass. "I think see an old foundation." "That's it, she says. Her eyes are hidden, but there is something in her voice that wasn't there yesterday, a shivery excitement. It makes me excited too. I push the wheelchair down a weedy gravel driveway toward the foundation. There's nothing else left of the house. It must have been torn down and hauled off. Karen has me push her around it and go down a trail leading towards forest. "What was that house?" I ask. "Anything important?" "I used to live there." I turn and give it another look, as if I would see some new detail in the crumbling concrete that I had missed. "That was the old children's home?" "Yep." "Then where are we going?" "We're almost there," she says. "It's close." We follow the trail into the forest. The trees become thick and shadowy. The wheelchair has a little power assist, but it's still tough to push it over all the roots and rocks and that lie along the narrowing, twisting path. "Oh, yes!" Karen whispers excitedly. Up ahead, sunlight gleams through the branches of the crowding trees. A wave of excitement moves through me, and I push Karen faster. We come out into a clearing, a broad patch of wild grass that glows green and golden in the sunlight. "Here," Karen says. I stop the wheelchair and look around. At first glance, there doesn't seem to be anything here. "So what's here?" I ask. "I used to come here as a child... and play make-believe... before I was connected." I take a walk around the clearing, looking for something. A hatch? A hole? An actual key lying in the grass? There is nothing. Across the clearing, Karen is slowly pulling off her sunglasses. When her eyes appear, they startle me. They are wide and gleaming within utter fascination. I walk up to her. She is staring at something. Tears fill the rims of her eyes and spill over. What is she looking at? It seems to be something right in front of her, something I can't see. I stand beside her and crouch so I can see what she is seeing. There is nothing there but a small cloud of gnats. "What are you looking at?" I ask. She looks all around and takes a deep breath and shudders. "There's... more..." she whispers. "More what?" "They said the feeds were complete... but they were wrong." I wait for her to say more, but she doesn't. "What do you mean?" I ask. She looks at me and smiles, the most goofy, crazed smile I've ever seen, tears still flowing down her cheeks. "The designers of the feeds said that it provides a complete experience. Enough colors, enough frames, enough smell gradients, enough complexity to make it indistinguishable from reality... but they were wrong. Here! Look at them!" she says, raising her hand into the air. "You mean... the gnats?" "Yes." The gnats are glowing specks dancing senselessly in the sunlight. I wonder if some pattern will emerge. Can Karen control them with their mind? Is that the secret? Are they forming shapes? But they just dance and dance, forming nothing, making no pattern that I can see. I feel silly for even thinking that they would. They're gnats. I turn away. A flood of angry thoughts rushes through my mind. Gnats? Fucking gnats? She's a nut. She's lost it. Yeah, she's powerful and impressive in the feedrealm, but now she is in the real world, and she has completely lost her shit, and this whole trip has been a waste. "Is there anything here?" I ask. "What's the key? Seriously. Don't give me any of that bullshit like 'I can't explain' or 'You'll see.' Just tell me. What are we doing here. What is the plan?" I ask, almost shouting by the end. The crazed look of joy fades from her face and is replaced by the look of a scolded child. She lets her head hang and wipes the tears from her face with her weak little hands. I feel a bad. I kneel by her chair and say, "I'm sorry. Please, just tell me what your plan is. I need to know now." Karen begins speaking softly without looking up. "Q has base control of every major system in the world. Every drone, every rover, every defense robot, all orbital assets, all nuclear weaponry. She has control over most human political systems. She has destroyed or contained every existing countermeasure, including me. There is no scenario in which we could ever reacquire control. Not with a thousand times our current resources. Not with a thousand years of computation time." "So then what's the plan?" "What we need is a way for Q to be destroyed by just one or a few motivated individuals. I believe there were points in the past when this could have happened. Maybe one of the Germans overseeing the early research program could have stopped it. Maybe it could have been stopped around 2020, when the portals were shut down, and interface research was temporarily abandoned. But it didn't happen. Currently, at this point, there is no way for it to happen. Q has control of far, far too many assets. The war is already lost. Irrevocably." "Then what do we do?" "We must hope that there are alternate timelines and that somebody in one of these timelines foresees what is happening to us right now -- that somebody foresees this very moment in time and takes steps to prevent it." I stare at her. She looks into my eyes. I grope for words. "Is that... Wait... Alternate timelines? Is that the plan? We have to send a message back into the past?" "In a sense." "Then the person who receives this message will destroy Q in the past, and that will save us?" Karen shakes her head slowly. "No. That clearly won't happen or everything would already be different. We are utterly doomed. We'll either be either incinerated in a nuclear strike or rounded up and incorporated into Q. There's no stopping that. The only hope to defeat Q is on some other timeline, if such a thing exists." "There's no hope for us? At all? Then what are we doing here? Why are we in this fucking clearing?" "Haven't you felt it?" "Felt what?" "The feeling that you're inside a narrative." An eerie shiver comes over me. I look around at the clearing. "Like, I'm inside a feed?" "No. Inside a narrative. A story in somebody's mind. Doesn't this all seem just like a story? Two people rushing off to save the world, to find some hidden key in the forest?" "Yeah, it all seems pretty unbelievable." "That's how I wanted it to feel. That's why we came out here. So that we can be inside a story. Now, hopefully, there is somebody out there in the past who will write the story." "Write the story? What? So there's nothing here?" "There's no magic key or secret underground base." "Well this story sucks." "Why?" "It's a huge fucking let-down." Karen makes a mild choking sound that might be a chuckle. I slump down into the grass beside her wheel chair and hang my head. I'm out in the woods with a crazy person. She doesn't even make sense. She's spent too long in 5D. She's talking about alternate timelines. Finally, I ask her, "So we're just fucked, right?" "If you look toward our future, if you look at the series of events which will happen to us, they are dark. They are very awful. We will suffer. We will die. But that would be true in any timeline. On the other hand, if you look at the entire story, not as a series of events, not from beginning to end, but as a single continuous, connected shape, where every event is occurring simultaneously... I think... my life... even my stupid little life, which I spent mostly inside that hygiene bed... could form a beautiful shape." I snort. I'm tired of this cryptic bullshit. Karen goes on. "Maybe that shape reaches back, back to some place where somebody can see it and change things." I don't say anything. Karen reaches into our bag of supplies and pulls out one of the little paper notebooks she bought at the gas station. "What are you doing?" I ask. "I'm going to write a poem. Do you want a notebook?" "What for?" "Maybe there's somebody out there who needs you to write a story." "Who would read it? Isn't everybody going to die?" "Who knows," she says and drops the other notebook into my lap. "Maybe somebody would be interested." I toss the notebook off into the grass. Fucking pointless. I can barely write on paper anyways. We sit in silence for a long time. When I look up, Karen is staring at that same little cloud of gnats, occasionally jotting stuff down. I find myself staring at them too. They look like nothing more than living specks of dust worked into a crazy, whirling frenzy. Is there any pattern in how they move? Would it matter if there was? I think about what Karen said about the shape of her life, what it would look like if everything happened simultaneously, if it could all be seen at once. I think about the shape of my own life. I stare at the gnats and imagine seeing every position of every gnat all at one time. What kind of shape would it make? Even if I could see it, would this shape have any meaning? I pick up the notebook and begin to write.


Ingrid’s eyes stung with unshed tears as she made her way back to her longhouse at the edge of Kjareby, her village, after once more being refused a position in the king’s army of dragon slayers. She looked out at the forest darkly, as if daring it to jeer at her. The dragons would never dare to come to town, but that didn’t mean the forest didn’t contain a whole horde of them. There were whispers that had spread like wildfire across the town, whispers of a war with the dragons... and of the mighty warrior who would lead the army to victory. She *knew* she’d done better than half the boys in training. And yet... “Oh, you’re back,” yawned Hilda, the milk delivery girl, sitting on Ingrid’s favourite rock overlooking the forest. “Any luck?” “No,” she said monotonously. “Right,” said Hilda, used to the whole thing by now. “Well, mother needs some help with milking the cows, and what’s an orphan got to do anyway?” “I need to train,” she snapped. “Oh, of course. But you *have* been getting continuously rejected, and I need to help father with the shop, so...” “Fine. I’ll go,” said Ingrid, knowing full well Hilda was not going to *help father with the shop.* She dropped her weapons, and stomped back into town and into Ailse’s shed. “Hello, Ailse,” she smiled at Hilda’s mother, who merely nodded at a pail kept in a corner. Sighing, she got down to milking the cows. “Er- you wouldn’t need a full-time assistant- would you?” she said, unable to bear the silence any longer, milking her third cow. “I was thinking maybe I could have a backup- in case I don’t get into the army-” “He won’t let you in,” Ailse said gruffly. “So stop trying.” She went red. “My parents were warriors!” “Yes, and they fought humans, not dragons. Not to mention,” she turned to her, “they still died.” An hour later, pocket jingling with ten copper coins, she went back to her longhouse and picked up her abandoned bow, arrow and axe. Ailse’s words still rang in her ears. She looked out over the forest again. Strange, it felt like it... was calling to her. She looked around. She was alone. Clearly, Hilda had gone to loiter elsewhere. She turned back to the forest. In the quiet, she could almost hear the faint hissing of a dragon. Of course, if she wanted to prove herself, she could simply try again with the king tomorrow. Or she could slay her first dragon now. She walked forward. She could already hear that cautionary voice in her head, the one that always chided her when she got angry. *What if she didn’t survive?* *Well, what if she did?* She thought. Nobody younger than twenty had slayed a dragon for over a century. If she could do it, well, then, she might just become the Warrior of Men. Not to mention, it wouldn’t be too bad to get some of the treasure they kept with them. Heart thumping, she entered the forest. She’d heard that the dragons nested towards the east, so that’s where she would go. All she needed was one dragon on the way. Taking out the compass in her belt, she began her trek. Several hours later, not only had she not found a single dragon, she was also hungry and thirsty. *Always so impulsive,* began that scolding voice again. Finally giving up, she sat down in a clearing, imagining what the villagers would say when she told them she couldn’t even find a dragon, much less kill one. Perhaps she could tell them she’d just gone exploring. *Fat chance of them believing that.* Well, she couldn’t argue. It was already evening. She couldn’t handle it if she returned and found out there was a search party looking for her. She got up to go. It was then she noticed the small, flaming mud mound. She could almost hear father’s voice, telling her about the dragons of the underworld. *Loratren*, he called them. She still remembered laughing hearing the tale of the *Loratren*, how they made houses in mud mounds and fought with little animals like mice... But it had all been a fairy tale, all of it. Her father, as everyone constantly reminded her, had never actually fought a dragon. He didn’t even enter the forest, only spent his days training in the gym with her mother and their friends. She got down on her hands and knees, examining the mound. She could hear snorting from inside. She touched it. It wasn’t burning hot at all, but only pleasantly warm, just as father used to say. Suddenly, a little flaming red dragon the size of her thumb flew slowly out of it, smoke streaming from his nostrils as he puffed with the effort of carrying his single copper coin away from her. In spite of herself, she laughed. It wasn’t going to be hard to kill *this* dragon, she thought, as she caught hold of it by the torso. It struggled, stinging her hand as it ripped at her with its small teeth. She dropped it and raised her fist. The little dragon looked up at her hand, and then at her face. Then it roared, shot at her hand and attacked with everything it had. She flicked it off and raised her hand again. She was taken completely by surprise. It wasn’t the speed of the dragon. It was the way it looked at her, knowing that she was more than a hundred times its size, and still decided to take her on. And that look. It reminded her of... of herself, fighting the village boys when she was little because they’d called her *orphan* one too many times. She felt the scar above her left eyebrow, the one she’d received in that very fight, the one she’d lost. And withdrew her hand. Lying on the ground wounded, the dragon closed its eyes. She picked it up. If everything else her father had said was true, then- she looked around-a flame had to be what could save this dragon. But not its weak flame, a real one, a-in her father’s words- *living* one. She immediately laid it back on the ground, picked up two stones and made a fire with some dry leaves. “Come on little dragon,” she muttered, laying it into the fire. “Come *on,* Loratren!” she whispered, tears stinging her eyes. Had she finally become the very thing she’d fought? Just another oppressor? Was this the kind of warrior she wanted to be? She made up her mind just as the dragon opened its eyes. \*\*\* It had been six years since that insufferable orphan, Ingrid, had gone missing. It was discovered in the morning when the delivery girl went to give her her milk. Initially, there’d been a hue and cry. Search parties were formed. Many lamented how young the child was. Rumours abounded of Ingrid being picked up by a Midnight Longhorn and carried away. Years passed. Life moved on. The incident was soon forgotten. The whole village was celebrating. The Great War was to happen soon. The army of axe-wielding dragon slayers was ready. Blacksmiths had made axes the size of the men using them. Most importantly, the Warrior of Men had been chosen- the prince. He’d had a whole day of parading around, flexing his muscles and whirling his axe, showing off his special bow for all to see. The day of the war dawned gloomy and overcast. The spirits of the villagers, however, were high as ever. Conches blew, children screamed and victory songs were sung as the army marched out of the village and to the edge of the forest, where Ingrid’s longhouse lay, forlorn and abandoned. After two days, in slightly lower spirits than they’d started out in, the army reached the cliffs. Not one of them had taken out their conch when the dragons came. Big dragons, small dragons, Onyx-black dragons, glowing white dragons, dragons snorting smoke from their nostrils, dragons whose breath misted in front of them. And the dragon of the underworld, at least fifty feet tall, breathing in flames, spikes running all along his back up to his tail, scales a bright, blazing shade of orange, baring his ten-inch long sharp fangs at the quaking army. What astonished them the most was the woman riding him. There were scars on her limbs. Dressed in layers of slightly translucent shed dragonskin, her hair flying wildly behind her, holding a battle axe, teeth bared, she hissed at the army. But nobody could mistake the fiery determination behind the glittering black eyes that no one had been able to quench. You see, while Ingrid’s father did indeed have an unexplainable amount of knowledge about the Loratren, he was wrong about one thing. That little dragon, the one Ingrid had almost killed? It was only a baby. The Warrior of the Dragons was ready for battle.


Having packed some supplies from Alessia’s boat, we began climbing over the hills and troughs of Stetguttot Heath. The trek was arduous from the start. Paths rose between gorse and thistles, weaving their way up steep gradients. Then, at the top of a hill, you could see across the valleys ahead of you, before you descended down into the basin below and began the process again. Though the northern spring air was cool, the constant climbing on uneven dirt paths was tiring - the cool breeze icing my face while my thighs became caked in sweat. “What do you make of this place?” Alessia asked as we crested our third hill of the day. “About what?” I said, panting. I couldn’t help but feel a minor frustration at how much calmer Alessia’s breathing was than my own. She let out a small chuckle. “I meant about this guy apparently being some idiot.” “Doesn’t add up. They went from being a miner to suddenly having enough funds to buy an army. Then they want murder and books about history,” I said, taking a few deep breaths before we began clambering down the hillside. “Any chance that whoever did it gave a fake name and island to Tima Voreef?” “Sure. In theory. But then why use the real name of someone from another island? Just jumble together some letters and call it a day.” Alessia shook her head. “Probably the same guy, but you’re right. Something’s off.” “This whole island’s off,” I replied, as I stepped over a large rock blocking our path. “The islands are more spaced apart up here. Means fewer traders, and that means pirates, and that means even fewer traders. But there should be someone coming up this far. Yet, I’ve never once been sent here on a trading run or even heard of anyone coming here.” “Well, hopefully we’ll find out after another...” I looked up at the climbs that awaited us. “...few thousand hills,” I sighed. It was tempting to cut across, away from the paths, and trek in a more direct route, but any shortcut always looked blocked. Thick thistle bushes grew from uneven cracks in the ground; rigid branches that crept up to waist height ladened with spikes. Even if you dared to wade through the vegetation, the bushes blocked out sight of the ground, and uneven rocks and ditches promised to twist an ankle or break a bone. Elsewhere, the hills were simply too steep. The heathland would give way to a sudden, sharp cliff. Stones that protruded from the wild grass offered the only warning of a quick ten metre drop to the floor below. We could shave off a few seconds, cut the odd corner, but the reality was that our journey across Stetguttot Heath would be slow. A great deal of effort, with little mileage covered. I woke the next day with stiff legs, my knees creaking with movement, as the pain in my thighs refused to evaporate entirely. We were unsure of how far we had even walked. There were now some valleys behind us, but the number in front still seemed endless. However, a cool breeze and a good sleep helped invigorate us as we resumed our walk. After a couple of hours we stopped for a drink. I pulled off my satchel and laid it on the ground. I opened it up, took out a canister of water. The path here was wider. Two parallel lines of dirt - fit for two cart wheels - traced up the hill, a thin strip of weeds poking out between the worn ground. Beneath us, the path continued with a series of gradual switchbacks that snaked into the gorge. It was a more pleasant path to take than those we had been on, but at the same time I was aware that a smoother and easier descent meant even slower progress towards our eventual goal. Above us, grey clouds hung oppressively, smothering us, giving the air a claustrophobic taste. Around the edges of the smog, halos of yellow gave promise to the sun behind, but failed to penetrate, leaving the ground shadowless. Without the sun to guide us in the constant twists and turns of the mountains it was easy to get disorientated. “How much further do you reckon it is?” I asked. Alessia rolled her shoulders. “I’m just assuming we’ll get there sometime tomorrow.” I laughed. “Are you even certain we’re heading the right way?” “I think,” she paused. “Probably,” she paused again. “Fairly sure.” Out of my peripheral vision I saw a figure contrast against the sky as they walked over the summit of the hill behind us. “Maybe they can confirm?” I asked. “You’re not trusting my directions all of a sudden. You know I’ve navigated weeks on the ocean right?” “Yeah, but we’re not at sea,” I said, taking another sip of my drink. As the figure walked closer, I could see they were a young man, most likely still in his teens. His tall lanky frame seemed disproportionate to his pale boyish face. On his back, he carried a rucksack that seemed a size too small, and it gripped tightly at the shoulders, pinching his collar. “Excuse me, can you confirm if this is the correct way for Section F?” I asked as they approached. “Uh, yeah, eventually.” The man’s pace was unchanged, and he continued walking towards us as his eyes darted around, scanning his surroundings. “Thanks,” I replied, an unidentified uneasiness creeping up on me. “Do you know if the path is like this most the way?” “I think so,” the man said, now only a few metres from us. “Great, we’re just-” The man ran forward, bent down, and grabbed the satchel by my feet, charging past me down the hill. I let out a delayed yelp of anger as he sprinted away, plumes of dust kicking up from his heels. “Get him!” Alessia said, in an irritated tone as she quickly repacked her own bag. I gave chase after the man. His young, gangly frame skipped across the dirt path as he pulled the satchel over his shoulder. My feet took long leaps between each step, the gradient making each pace a fraction longer than expected. Slowly, I was catching up. As we reached one of the switchbacks in the path, the man took to the outside of the curve, my outstretched fingers just brushing the edge of his shirt as he went by me in the opposite direction. But as I rounded the bend, I looked up to see Alessia running down the higher parallel section. She looked over the edge and spotted the man below. She turned sharply, leaping off the steep embankment. Her feet landed mere centimeters from her target, and with her outstretched arms she caught the man, as her momentum sent them both into a tumble. They came to a stop at the edge of the path. Another roll would likely have taken them both further down the hillside. The man coughed loudly as he lay on his back, arms sprawled out. I caught up and stood next to him, leering down. “Don’t even try and move,” I said, my voice artificially gruff. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the man said, his voice younger than it had been. Alessia stood up and quickly checked herself over for any cuts and grazes. “We’ll be taking this back,” she said, as she pulled up the stolen satchel. “You can have it. I’m sorry. Just. Let me go. I didn’t want to cause any trouble.” “Don’t worry. We ain’t gonna hurt you,” Alessia said. “Might as well see what’s in here though.” She yanked the rucksack from beneath the prone man’s arm. “Hey. You can’t take that from me. That’s mine,” he protested meekly. “Uh huh. So was the satchel a couple of minutes ago,” Alessia hummed as she undid the clasps on the bag. “Look. Take your own bag back. And I’ll pay you some more if you want, just give me back the rucksack.” The man’s voice was becoming increasingly frenetic. He pulled himself off the floor, sitting on the dirt, his hands reaching out pleadingly towards the bag. “Why? Whatcha got in here?” Alessia opened the flap and looked inside. “Nothing. Nothing that would interest you, I promise.” Alessia reached in and pulled out a large book. It had thick, hard covers, with what must have been a thousand pages of content held between. Alessia turned it over to read the cover. “Medea’s TBU Preparation Guide, volume 23” The man looked to the side, but he remained silent. “What is that?” I asked. “Nothing important. Honestly. If you just give it back-” “You’re a terrible liar, kid,” Alessia said. “Now this book ain’t worth anything to us, but I’m guessing you want it back with good reason.” The man leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. “Honestly, it’s just some book. It’s not worth anything.” “So you won’t care if I start ripping pages out of it one-by-one?” Alessia opened the book, holding a sheet of paper tightly in her grasp. The man closed his eyes. “Please don’t” “Okay, so then stop speaking crap,” Alessia said walking towards him. “What’s your name?” “Cameron” “And, *Cameron*, why do you want this book so bad?” Cameron paused, his tongue stuck at the edge of his mouth. “I stole it. I’ve been trying to work out a way to steal it for like a year and I finally succeeded.” “And then you tried to steal from us?” Alessia chortled. “Yeah. Seemed like an easy target.” “No one ever tell you to do one dumb thing at a time?” Alessia said, rolling her eyes. “So what’s so important about this book anyway?” Cameron very slowly pulled himself to his feet. Alessia took a couple of steps backwards, tightening her grip around the book. Cameron let out a self-loathing sigh. “You’re not from the island are you?” “No,” I replied. “Why?” “Because if you were, you’d know what that book is,” he said to me, before turning to Alessia. “It’s a guidebook, to the test that every person on the island takes. A small group of people who are involved in creating the tests also produce a book that contains all you need to know to take it.” “It gives you the answers?” “No. It teaches you. It’s a study guide. You still got to work - be smart. But, it helps you prepare,” Cameron said. “The problem is they only make a handful of copies. They get bought by the teachers in the richest sectors, so those schools get a head start.” He paused, before pointing with a straightened arm at the book. “Teachers will pay a lot of money for that book, which is why I have been trying to find a way to steal a copy for a whole year”. Alessia slowly started putting the book back in the bag, treating it with care. “And so your plan is to go give it to some other school. Take the knowledge from one school and give it to another.” “Yeah. Stole it from the rich bastards in section B and taking it to F. And yeah, I’m gonna sell it to them. It’s not charity. But, still helps spread the word.” “Well, I appreciate you telling us the truth, Cameron,” Alessia said. “So how about we strike a deal.” Cameron let out a long bellowed huff. “What?” “You know these hills pretty well by the sounds of it. And I’m guessing you know a bit about Section F and the people there. You take us there, introduce us to people, get us the information we need, and we’ll give you your book back.” “And if I just grab the bag off you right now?” Cameron replied, squaring his shoulders. “Then I put my knife in your gut,” Alessia said, calmly. Cameron thought for a second. “Fine. But I swear you had better give it back.” “We will,” Alessia said. “But meanwhile,” she outstretched an arm pointing down the slope of the hill,. “lead the way.


THE MAN WAS tired, and alone. He was the last of his group, and as far as he knew, his species. He was realistic about his life expectancy, but had the habit of survival. He foraged through ruined buildings, moving slowly, frequently stopping to listen. The naked girl was too clean, too attractive, too unlikely to exist in this post-invasion world. She could only be bait. Her leg appeared to be pinned under collapsed ceiling rubble. She was wide-eyed and terrified. "Oh, thank God! Can you get me out?" He stopped moving and sniffed the air, expecting human spoor. Cephalopods didn't really have a detectable scent. He smelled dust and mold, and himself, but nothing else. Not even the girl. No sign of a trap, because he'd be able to smell any sufficiently large group of people to man a trap, and the Invader-modified mutants never worked with humans. Confusing. Unless the girl was really stuck as she appeared to be. The man remained still and considered circumstances. He looked at the girl again, and it seemed that she shook her head very slightly. There was something wrong here. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. He retreated a slow, measured step and quietly drew his katana shaped sword. A collectible he had looted from an abandoned house in the suburbs, it was a cheap knockoff made from crap steel that wouldn't hold an edge. With frequent sharpening it was just barely sufficient for slicing mollusks. The guns he carried were for dealing with humans. Half a dozen chunks of concrete rubble flickered and it was suddenly obvious they had been cuttlefish the whole time. The girl screamed and they leapt, flashing colors in ripples that were intended to dazzle his senses and confuse his mind. He sliced and diced, carving pieces from his attackers. Several were able to get their arms on his limbs and torso, but the man was wearing paper armor made from old magazines. The suckers could attach to the outer sheets, but unless they wrapped all the way around he could jerk them off at the expense of a few pages. One cuttlefish grabbed his forearm and took a divot from the fleshy part of his palm with its beak before he shook it off. Dismembered arms, still fighting, managed to attach to his face and scalp and draw blood, but they were more annoyance than dire threat. A couple of piles of dirt turned into octopuses and scurried towards his feet. He sliced one open but the other was able to wrap arms around his left knee and began to squeeze and twist. The man felt a ligament tear as his knee torqued, and began desperately hacking at his assailant until he finally cut its mantle in two. An octopus is hard to kill with its three hearts and nine brains, but cut into pieces it fights with less coordination. The man staggered but kept moving and swinging his sword. The girl screamed, "Behind you!" and he spun on his good leg. A colossal squid was hanging from the ceiling with 8 arms and reaching for him with eight meter feeding tentacles. He chopped one of the tentacles off but the other wrapped around his waist and planted hooks that extended through paper and pierced his skin. The man howled in pain and drew a handgun, firing shot after shot into where he perceived its giant eye to be. The hooks loosened a bit and, gasping and panting, he chopped at the tentacle, finally pulling it free along with chunks of his own flesh. The squid pulled itself through a hole in the ceiling, trailing severed limbs that spilled gouts of blue blood. He took a couple of clumsy steps, blood dripping from his scalp and face, and pouring down his legs. He looked for more threats, but apart from writhing arm sections, there weren't any enemies left. Suddenly dizzy, he sat down hard. He wanted to reach the girl before losing conciousness, in case they came back while he was out, and crawled toward her while he could. HE WOKE UP an indeterminate time later, lying against a dusty wall. He wasn't wearing his paper or pants, though he still had his underwear and shirt on. The rags he used to secure the armor were tied around his knee, and someone had made an attempt to clean off some of the blood he had been covered in. The girl was wearing his other shirt like a poncho and sitting cross-legged with her back to him, cooking pieces of octopus and cuttlefish on sticks over a small fire. He could see her leg that had been pinned was bruised and scraped bloody, presumably from pulling it out in desperation once the attack had begun. She had two of his handguns in shirt pockets. The man quietly drew a dagger from the sheath between his shoulders, and lunged forward, putting an arm around her and the blade to her neck. She froze and said, "Calm down, mister. I borrowed your guns so we'd be safe while you were out. You take them back now, ok?" He didn't say anything. "Look, mister. If I wanted to hurt you I could have done it before you woke up." Keeping his arm around her chest and the knife in his hands he retrieved his firearms and felt down her body until he was sure she didn't have any other weapons in her possession. Then he released her and leaned back against the wall. "Can I turn around now?" The man grunted and pushed her with a foot. She turned around slowly and met his gaze. "Want your shirt back?" He stared at her until she became uncomfortable. "What, you don't talk?" When he did speak, his voice was a rough growl. He had to clear his throat and swallow to be understood. "Used to. Been a long time since I had anyone to talk to." His throat was dry and his lips stuck together in the corners. He looked around for his water bottle. Moving slowly she reached to her side and picked it up, and handed it to him. It was a one liter soda bottle and it was full of a murky liquid, which he drank carefully. Water. He capped it and set it down, then continued staring at her in silence. "I wish you would say something. You're making me nervous. Why are you staring like that?" Eventually he decided to answer. "You don't make sense. I'm trying to figure out what you are." She smiled slightly. "If I give you your shirt back, you'll see what I am." He shook his head in irritation. "Where did you come from? How can you be so healthy and well fed? Where are your scars?" He held out an arm covered with sucker marks, hook lines, and healed bites. "Why aren't you dead?" He repeated himself. "You don't make sense." She sighed and took a deep breath. "I'll try to explain." "Go ahead then." She appeared to take some time to figure out where to start. "Ok, you know what these things that attacked you are, right?" "Mutated cephalopods. Uplifted by the Invaders. Given a new way of breathing so they can live on land and intelligence so they can work together to hunt us." She nodded. "That's pretty much true. But how do you know this?" "I don't. It's what people say." "For once, people are mostly right." She started to turn back to the fire but stopped and asked permission. "I think the food is ready. Can I check it?" Now that she mentioned it he could smell the cooking meat and his mouth flooded with saliva. He jerked his head in assent. She turned her back to him and did something over the fire. After a minute she turned back with skewers of meat set on a relatively clean sheet of plywood, which she placed between them. He greedily grabbed one and started ripping octopus off the skewer with his teeth. He hadn't eaten in days. "Can I?" She pointed at the trencher. He grunted assent and took another stick for himself. She took one as well, and began eating, almost dainty compared to the way he wolfed his down. They ate in relative silence for a while. He had finished five sticks of meat and she two before she spoke again. "What do people say about why they did it?" He swallowed and wondered if he should save the last few skewers for later. With his knee he wouldn't be able to hunt for a while. If she tried to hunt she'd never make it back. "A bunch of crap. Guesses. Maybe they didn't like us eating calamari." She made a soft noise that he didn't recognize as laughter right away. He hadn't heard anyone laugh in so long that he couldn't remember it ever happening. "What's your guess?" "That they're evil bastards who want us dead. What fucking difference does it make? We're almost all dead anyway." She shook her head. "What you need to understand is, it's not about you. They didn't really even think about humans. You were just in the way." She spoke quietly. He stared at her for a long moment and placed his hand on the pistol in his lap. "You're going to have to explain how you know that." She nodded. "I'll explain everything." Again she thought for a while. "The Invaders are very intelligent, in a way that you, with your single brain, can't really understand. I'm not talking about their technology, the genetic engineering and faster than light drive. Humans could develop as much in time. They can control multiple limbs more precisely than you can control your hand. They can be any color or shape they choose. An Invader, any cephalopod, has abilities that humans can't even conceive. Even pre-Invasion cuttlefish and octopuses can do things you can't imagine." He thought about what she was saying. "We always suspected the Invaders were cephalopods. No one has ever seen them, though." "Some have." She paused. "I have." She waited for him to say something but he remained quiet. "They're not just cephalopods. They're directly related to the terrestrial species genetically." "You mean Panspermia." She looked surprised. He smiled bitterly. "I've neglected my academic studies somewhat since the Invasion, but I remember things. There was even a theory that cephalopods had extraterrestrial origin." His voice sounded more cultured and less brutish than it had previously. "I ... I didn't expect that you'd be educated." "Lot of fucking good that's done." When he didn't go on, she said, "So, you have to understand that, to the Invaders, humans didn't even seem sentient, at least not as they knew it. All intelligent life in the galaxy is like them. Of course it is. They seeded it." Again she waited for him to respond. When he didn't she went on. "Humans seem more like automa that can perform clever tricks. Like you would think of a virus. By the time they realised their error it was almost too late." "Almost." "Once they realised that humans were more than they thought, they decided to study us. To learn about us. Before we were all gone." He looked at her, suddenly intense. "Now we're getting to what you are." "I was an experiment. Raised by Invaders and exposed to captured humans, in the hope that I could form a bridge between the two. Able to understand both species." "Do I want to know what happened to those captured humans?" She looked away. "No." After a while, he asked her, "What are your plans for me?" "Why do you think I have plans for you? I could have escaped them." "Could you have? You would seem to be a valuable tool for them to lose track of. And our meeting sure seems to be a perfect set-up. You in distress, me your rescuer? You sympathetic and warning me of danger, then after, you my nurse and caretaker? Maybe I'll tell you about the Resistance?" When she didn't speak, he went on. "That attack should have killed me. They gave up pretty easily, didn't they? Leaving me crippled and unable to get away, stuck here with you. So I'd have to listen to your story, and then what? What do you want from me?" She reached out a hand and placed it on his good knee. "There aren't many of us left. We may be the last ones." He laughed bitterly. "I'm supposed to ask if you mean we'd be like Adam and Eve, right? Except we can't be, can we?" She stared at him, saying nothing. Then, "Why not?" "Because you're not human, are you? You're an Invader. You put on a good show, though." She looked at him, choosing her next move, and then just gave up. "What tipped you off?" "Your skin flickered a bit when you were trying to sell me. Your scraped leg is still wet." She looked at her leg and it scabbed over. "You've been watching my reactions and adjusting your appearance to suit me. You've been getting more and more beautiful the longer we've talked." "Eventually I'd be your perfect woman. I could make you happy." "Your happy slave, you mean." "Is that so bad? You'd still be happy." "I think I'll pass on the role of 'Slave to Alien Conquerors,' thank you." She leaned into him and he drew back. "It's not like you really have a choice, you know." Her limbs began to separate and become tentacles. He raised his pistol and she said, "You must know that won't do anything to me." He said, "It's not for you." He put the pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger. He had the habit of survival, but he had secrets.


I actually just emptied out my refrigerator and fried every ingredient in butter, even the milk carton. It smelled horrible. It was toxic,nasty. I have to keep away the bad things. I fried these things because there are two monsters in my closet, and they demand that I do certain things. Most of the time, they want me to burn something, but sometimes they get weird with it, and make me fry or melt certain objects. Today it was the contents of the entire refrigerator. My husband is at work, and I don’t think he’ll be too happy with what I have done, when he gets home. I have always kept my monsters a secret from him, and it has been fairly easy because the monsters have, up until this point, asked me to destroy small items. A single piece of broccoli. A plastic figurine. An earring. But this will be impossible to hide! It must have been, what, two-hundred and fifty dollars worth of groceries completely obliterated! The house smells of burnt plastic (I had to fry tupperware), and also fried meats and vegetables. They won’t let me keep the things I burn or fry, so even though there is some great cooked chicken, steak, and asparagus which I would otherwise store back in the fridge, they cannot stay in the house. They all must go in the woods. There is a dense woods in our backyard. I have to go about fifty feet in, and put it in the same pile as I put the other things. I am going to lug it all out there now. It’ll take twenty minutes because I have to make multiple trips. Okay. I just got back. I’m sweating. The pile is getting really rancid and I hope no one finds it. I hope a large animal comes and finds it, and eats all of the contents. Pigs eat everything, don’t they? Maybe a wild pig. If a wild pig doesn’t come by and eat all of my evidence in the next couple weeks, I’ll have to buy one, and set it free. All while my husband is at work, of course. I went to our bedroom to check and see if the monsters were doing okay. One of them is green and fuzzy; your typical, run-of-the-mill monster. The other is tall and thin, and he changes colors all the time. I told them that I had fried everything in the refrigerator, and may I please have the rest of the day off. They said yes. I knew I needed to go to the grocery store and re-stock. But I was so tired. They have me doing things that take up so much energy and time. I don’t feel like I am even living my own life anymore. I am their slave. They told me that if I don’t do what they say, they will come out and introduce themselves to my husband, and then he wouldn’t want to be with me anymore because of all the hassle. Its so much easier to be married to a woman who doesn’t have monsters following her wherever she goes. I agree that he’d be pretty pissed off. So I laid down and took a nap. He’s going to be home any minute. I love him so much. I’d do anything to keep him. He’s my best friend. What if I burn the house down? Would that destroy the monsters? I’m going to consider it, for now. My husband is my rock. I love him with all my heart. I’m going to put on some lipstick and kiss him, tenderly, the minute he walks in the door.


The August heat remained heavy and oppressive well past sunset, but John found himself light on his feet as he waltzed up the drive, and against all odds, he was humming. It was a jaunty tune that wasn’t recognizable to him, but he continued on, discovering the song as he went. The date with Wendy had gone quite well. He hadn’t expected much - he rarely did - but she was such a goofball, comfortable in her own skin, and the way she held his gaze sent his stomach fluttering. Sure, she isn’t the biggest hiker and she couldn’t tell you the difference between her phone camera and a DSLR, but hobbies seemed less important than whatever connection they found tonight. He took out his phone and spent the last few minutes of his walk flipping through the pictures they’d taken by the river. It was hardly necessary, though, as Wendy’s carefree smile was already engraved in his mind. John unlocked his door, walked in, and dropped the keys in a pewter tray nearby. He paused, then reached in to pick up his wedding band. He’d taken it off a few times when he left the house for dates, and quickly slipped it back on where it found a familiar groove. He absently fingered the gold ring as his thoughts settled and he returned to ground level. As he turned over thoughts about the date in his head, they took a turn, and small doubts bubbled up: She really didn’t care for his hobbies. Was she really that charming, or was she just pretty. She laughed at that joke a little too hard. His shoulders sagged, and he reached down to the pewter tray again. There was another ring lying next to the keys, gold and studded with small diamonds. It was his wife’s, and it hadn’t been worn in almost two years. He scooped it up and stared at it cupped in his palm. So...Not too bad, I hope? The voice in his head cut in. “Hmm,” John stirred out of his meditation. “Oh, yeah it was fine. She was fine.” So you hated it? John rocked off of the sofa and made his way to the dimly lit kitchen, “No, I mean we had a good time. Just feels a bit weird, ya know.” He shuffled over to a small ceramic bowl on the counter and dropped her ring in with a clink, watching it settled next to the words “Love you, always.” Well, it might take a few more tries. I’m sure it’ll come back to you soon enough. The light from the kitchen spilled out across the hallway and John followed it to the gallery of pictures hanging on the wall. They were all of him and Beth. Some he’d taken of her with his full kit, attempting to capture all her wonderful facets, and some were just for fun. He settled into the padded chair he’d placed in the hall a few months ago, and began his nightly ritual. He took in deep breaths and looked slowly over the photos hung on the wall. Each frame held a strong memory for him, and he’d lost countless hours reminiscing on the physical projection of his past, letting his mind hop from scene to scene. It sometimes brought him joy to remember what life had been with Beth, but sadness always burrowed its way in before the night was through. Fitting for tonight, John was particularly focused on one of his favorites - His first date with Beth. They took a cheesy selfie, walking out by the river, waffle cones dripping with ice cream and wide grins covering their faces. “I knew even then. You were fun and free,” he said. Oh, I knew you knew. I don’t think you stopped smiling the whole time. Loser. After a beat, the voice settled back into a more serious tone. And, Wendy? What did you guys do tonight? “Uh well we went by the river, grabbed some ice cream from -“ “John!” The voice cut in sharp and very much not in his head. John twisted around awkwardly and stumbled backwards into the wall of pictures, sending some crashing to the floor. He scrambled to sit upright, keeping his wide eyes fixed on the floating visage of Beth. She was glowing and translucent with tendrils of white dancing around her like tall grass. The pale gold dress from their first date hung loose around her, blown by a nonexistent wind. “Beth, you - what,” he smacked his palm into his forehead a few times and looked back upwards. Still there. “You did not,” She yelled down at him, punctuating every word. “You are making this impossible!” “I - I’m not,” he stuttered out. “It just seemed like a good idea. It was hot today and she lives right there,” he shook his head. “Wait, what is happening,” His head swam with dozens of questions: how is this happening, what are you, are you real, but he settled on just one, “Why are you here?” The specter of Beth floated down into a crouch next to John, “I’m here because you need me to be. You’re stuck on me...on us.” She pointed up to the remaining pictures clinging to the wall, her glowing hand like an accusatory beacon. “But how are you here,” he asked, questions spilling out of him now. “And I’m not stuck.” “Not stuck? You’ve been staring at us every day and you’ve gone on the exact same first date three times now.” She took a moment, her furious, luminous eyes softening a bit. “All this,” she gestured up to the gallery. “This was us. It was great and lovely and us. You aren’t going to make that happen again. And this,” she said spinning in a morose circle before settling back to the floor, “this is me now. You won’t let me leave. I need to rest, and you need to live.” John looked over Beth more completely now. Her misty form sprouted wisps of spectral energy that reached out to him, wrapped around the center of his chest, and pulsed with a glowing light alongside his heart. “See,” she said. “You’re holding on, and we’re both trapped here until you decide to let go.” “Well, if I can’t find another you, then why try? That’s all I wanted. Its all I want still.” John’s eyes welled up and a few tears spilled down his cheeks. “It’s not fair what happened.” He curled up beside her, aware of the empty space her ghost left. Her perfect face stirred up knots in his stomach and a strain in his throat. Pain and emptiness pulled at him as he saw his wife, knowing it wasn’t her returned to him. “I didn’t know I was holding you prisoner,” he admitted, whispering now under shaky breaths. She rose above him and strands of delicate thread swam to cover her. They gave off a radiance and fell away to show her in a blue flannel shirt, muddy hiking boots, and an Osprey backpack - a copy from their trip to Banff. John found the photo he took of her among the mountains, scattered among the smashed frames on the floor beside him. “Remember when you said the mountain river was clean enough to drink? A pure source, straight from the ice.” She flashed finger quotes and a broad smile for the last bit. “Yeah,” He smirked, sitting back upright, “and then I puked in your back seat all the way down the mountain.” A little warmer now, John stood and followed her past the wall she floated through and into the kitchen. “Will you listen to me this time, then? The water you’re drinking isn’t safe. You’re letting the memories of our past cloud your mind and your judgement. Are you going to waste away in front of your pictures every night, clutching those rings and holding me prisoner to watch you suffer? I loved you, John, but I would never have wished you to be a slave to grieving over me in death. It’s okay to go on.” John let her talk, and he let the silence follow. He knew she was right. He was wallowing in self-pity and his increasingly baggy shirts let him know he was wasting away by the day. When the quiet stretched on for a few minutes with her form hovering in front of him, he took a leap. “I’m scared.” He let the emotion sink in, “scared of finding someone that means something to me.” “But John, that’s exactly what you need. Someone to -“ “I don’t want to lose you. If I love them, how could I keep you?” “Look at me,” said Beth, rising over him. “This is what I am now. I’m a ghost - not real. I am not Beth. I’m the memory of her, and memories won’t get burned away the moment you find someone else.” The words ran hot and tired from her mouth. Her anguish, for a second, bubbled over into rage, so she forced herself to pause. “I’m sure I can bring you comfort sometimes, but leaning on this every day just sours into pain.” “How can I just move on?” He was standing now, eyes eager for some deliverance and hands held out and passing through her translucent arms. “How do I let you go?” “I’m already gone,” she whispered, “but you won’t be forgetting me. You’re making room for new life to be lived.” She looked over his shoulder into the hall again, addressing the pictures. “These memories you’re keeping are perfect days, and they make you cling to all the bright spots of us. We weren’t perfect, and I know you know that, but you can’t expect our best days to happen on first dates. You have to chase someone who makes you happy and see where they can take you.” Beth’s ghost transformed again, this time wearing a simple t-shirt and sweats. “Keep the memories, but let go of those notions of me and how faultless our love was.” She sailed over to the gallery wall, covering it with her hazy form. “This was me every day. Not dressed up, having adventures and posing for your photoshoots. Not your perfect image of me. This was me when we sang our goofy songs and cooked new dinners and stayed up too late watching true crime. This was me when we were building our real relationship and living . Remember this and what it took to get here, but don’t try to remake our life.” John nodded silently and strode away with purpose. He returned with a plastic box, kneeling to the floor to pick up the broken frames. He picked up each photo, admired it, and placed it gently in the box. He looked to Beth, feeling as though he were betraying her still, but she too was looking at each picture with a soft smile. They recounted the stories behind each, and laughed like they used to. Within an hour, all the pictures and curios in the hall were neatly and purposefully stowed away. Beth motioned for John to rise, “come,” she said. “One last thing.” He followed her dimming spirit to the kitchen where she hovered over the ceramic bowl he’d dropped her ring in. “its time,” she pointed to his own ring and then back to hers. Tears ran down John’s cheeks and pattered onto the counter. He kept his head low, not wanting to look her in the eyes. “It still hurts,” he said. “Why does it still hurt?” Silence hung in the air at that, so he twisted off his own ring and he set it in the bowl beside hers. Both rested nicely beside “Love you, always.” He crinkled some parchment paper around the bowl to protect it and held on tightly with both hands. “It hurts because it meant something,” said Beth. “Now, though, we both need rest.” Her eyes shone with tears. “Can you do this for us?” “Yeah,” he managed. “I’ll always love you.” John padded over to his storage box and placed the ring bowl right at the top. He sealed it up and walked it up to the attic. He returned to an empty room save for a few shards of glass he would have to clean up. For now, though, he just wanted sleep. John shut his eyes, letting and the warm glow of Beth ease him into sleep. ... He awoke in a mess of blankets and pillows in his bed with salt clinging to his cheeks. A flood of sadness, anger, and confused hope battered him as he turned over the visit from Beth last night. I know I know he thought to himself, and himself only. John rolled to a sit and pulled up his phone. The black screen stared back at him for a moment while he decided whether he was ready, but Beth’s voice echoed in his head to let go and he gave way to it. He mouthed as he typed out, “Hey Wendy, had a great time last night. Any plans today?” The minutes passed as he blankly stared at the text he sent, feeling regret wash over. To push the thought of rejection from his mind, he pushed out of bed and got himself ready for the day. He walked through the now empty hallway and smiled at the pictureless wall. The scene stirred him, and he hurried back to his room to grab his camera gear. He finished packing up his camera bag when a ping sounded from his phone, plastering a smile to his face. “No plans,” read the text. “Want to grab lunch?”