Nico squinted through the humidity. This was the culmination of a week of horror, but he couldn’t help feeling darkly excited as he wondered who else had wandered through this conservatory at night. The flashlight he swung back and forth had a name engraved on the side. Ambrose Compton. Nico’s face burned as he remembered the first and only time he had spoken to Compton. He was an old-school finance man, almost a caricature. Nico worked for a local newspaper and had planned a series of articles about the Compton Organization’s alleged misconduct. The two men sat down for an interview just before Nico had published his first piece, and it had gone poorly. Nico had tried to direct the conversation toward allegations of fraud and embezzlement, but had failed as Compton simply tossed out facts about his philanthropies. Off the record, Compton had dropped the act. His team had done their research. They knew everything about Nico’s life, and Compton pressed on every bruise. He had broken down all the reasons Nico would never be a real man and left him with a parting shot. “I know what you think, but you’re no better than me. The only difference is that I have the money to do what I want.” Compton, already ancient, had spat on the ground and walked away. Nico had planned on using his series about Compton’s dirty fortune to try and angle for a job at a bigger organization. Unfortunately, he had been slapped with lawsuits and the paper was forced to pull his work from the online archive. As far as he knew, only a few people who still got a physical newspaper delivered had ever had the chance to read it. The piece was replaced online by a pre-written article about the ways the Compton Organization was supporting childhood literacy. In hindsight he should have left the paper, but at the time he was too busy sneering at the billionaire for letting the article get under his skin. Nico sat smug in the knowledge that they were nothing alike. As it turns out, they had at least one thing in common. After Compton’s death had been splashed across every news outlet, Nico had gotten a call from a lawyer. Apparently, Nicolas Maldonado and Ambrose Theodore Compton shared a shred of DNA- discovered on one of the ancestry sites that had sprung up in the last few years. It seemed out of character for a man like Compton to be rummaging around in his genes to find long-lost relatives, but Nico didn’t know what else rich old men did all day. In the conservatory, Nico jumped as a branch creaked. He crouched down and looked up. Nothing. When he was in college, Nico had volunteered at a farm animal sanctuary. He was so taken with the animals that, on the spot, he decided he would lead a vegan lifestyle. Now, knee-deep in synthetic jungle, he regretted telling the story so many times. “Mr. Compton, for whatever reason, has decided to include you in his will.” Nico remembered the unfettered contempt in the lawyer’s eyes as she walked him through the steps toward claiming his inheritance. The lawyer, as severe as anyone he’d ever met, outlined the bizarre hoops he would have to jump through. “The Sumatran orangutan is a critically endangered animal. Mr. Compton had the pleasure of housing one of the last living ones. He has decided that, if you are able to execute this animal according to his precise instructions, you will be the sole inheritor of 60 billion dollars.” She paused to look at him. He had stared back incredulously, and the conversation that followed did nothing to put him at ease. In order to claim the inheritance, he would have to shoot the orangutan with a gun that Compton had left behind. The lawyer told Nico that if he didn’t claim it, the opportunity would be passed along to the next relative in line. Nico wiped sweat out of his eyes. The building he was in was extravagant. The effort that went into maintaining what was essentially a personal forest inside a giant greenhouse was unthinkable. Not only were there lights and misters installed on the inside of the glass building, there were running streams and live insects chirping just out of sight. When the lawyer told him about the orangutan habitat Compton had commissioned, Nico imagined a chained-in section of Florida swamp. Instead, he could have been wandering through a genuine rainforest and he wouldn’t have known the difference. He briefly wondered whether he was actually going to find the beast, or whether he was just going to walk in circles all night. The building was much larger than it had looked from the outside. Part of him hoped he wouldn’t find it; he still didn’t know if he would be able to go through with murder. After speaking to the lawyer, Nico had looked up orangutans. His head was full of facts about their calls and their lifestyles, and of images of their faces. He repeated to himself that an orangutan locked up was going to die anyway. He could donate billions of dollars to save the rest of them in the wild after this. Thoughts of what he could do with the money marched in like ants. He would pay off his student loans. He would move to a nicer apartment. He would fully finance every fundraiser he found on social media. For every idea Nico brushed away, two filed into place. He could bankroll a candidate for president. He could buy every limited-edition Lego set. He could start his own newspaper. When he heard the call the thoughts scattered. He had spent hours listening to orangutan calls, and the sound was like a siren song. On the surface, he recognized that he was selling himself out. He was about to shoot an animal to earn billions of dollars, but in the moment the logic clicked. Nico listened for the call again, and caught a glimpse of orange fur through the branches. He raised the rifle Compton had necessitated he use. He aimed. He fired. There was a popping noise, and Nico shielded his eyes as the figure exploded. He hesitated. He had never fired a gun, but he had expected it to be louder. As he crept between the trees, Nico saw sheets of something slowly floating down. He reached out to snag one from the air and realized it was a crumpled newspaper. Dread choked him. He ran toward the lifeless body and found a clump of cheap fur. The orangutan call echoed through the forest again. Nico scrabbled through the pieces of shredded material and found newspaper among the fur. It was his article about Compton. Hundreds of copies, stuffed into a fake animal. His vision dimmed and he saw his name and Compton’s blurring together. On the tree where the orangutan had perched there was an envelope nailed to the trunk. He opened it to find a single piece of heavy cardstock, embossed with the initials ATC . The card had one line on it, scrawled from a dying man’s hand. You’ll never see a cent of it.


My nights are filled with sweet stories from my mom. I have always liked her series of stories involving shooting stars. She would tell me, "Shooting stars grant your wishes." and I'd reply with "I'll wish for my dreams to come true!" Despite my continuing obsession with them, I've actually never seen one, until today. Terrorist activity has become more and more frequent in our place. Gunshots would wake us up every morning, but as time flew by, we eventually got used to it. I'd cry every time in worry of the future, but my mom always calmed me down. "Wish upon a shooting star and you'll be fine sweetie.” she'd tell me. Tonight, as always, I was anticipating a shooting star. For what seemed like the 13th time I looked up at the night sky, I finally saw it. I was thrilled. Mesmerized. It was so beautiful, gliding in the deep, dark night. Its glow fills me with this warm feeling of hope. "I hope all of my dreams come true, and that me and my mama would never part." I wished. Then a big, loud boom engulfed our city. "Missiles! Missiles! We're getting fired by missiles!" people shouted. The shooting star I saw earlier moved closer and closer to me. It wasn't until the last second that I realized, that wasn't a shooting star at all. "Mama! Mama! Where are you!" I screamed as tears ran down to my cheek. It was chaos all over the city; I was running from place to place. I looked at it again. "Please grant me my wish! I beg you, please!" With all of what's happening - the running, the screams, the hopelessness, the dread - my mind spiraled down into incoherence. The glow that filled me with hope for all of my life is now also the glow filling me with despair. It brought to me words from the Bhagavad Gita: "Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds." I started to cry again, screaming all of my feelings, with all of my breath. War destroys the worlds and dreams of children like me. This is the unforgivable, harsh truth. Terrorism is death. As the shooting star - no - the missile came further and further down, moments of my thirteen years of life flashed before my eyes. Was it a life worth living? Was it worthwhile? ... I saw my mom. She was in her usual place, beside the window, reading a book. She called out to me. "Do you want to hear the story about shooting stars sweetie?" " "Yes please!" It was a familiar memory - it was the first time I've heard my favorite story. It was the first time I was filled with glittering hope. Its brightness woke me up from my slumber. It was getting very close, and I could feel my imminent death. Shooting star or missile, for a kid like me, in this situation, they are one and the same. Closer, and closer, and closer. As it's heat filled my entire body, my emotions hit me, and I wished to it for one last time. "Please don't let me die. I don't want to die! Wish upon a shooting star and I'll be fine right? Mom, we'll be fine right? I don't want to die. I don't want thi-".


Get your pair of artificial intelligence headphone pods in time for Christmas! Do you need assistance picking what to have for dinner tonight? Do you require assistance in making a to-do list? Do you desire the universe's infinite power and knowledge at your fingertips? Then you must purchase a pair of Dune's artificial intelligence headphone pods, today! If you like Dune's Smart Dishwasher, Smart Hairbrush, or Smart Nail Clippers, you'll adore Dune's Smart Headphones. Pick up your pair at one of the four remaining Sears stores near you. Despite the fact that Dune was a terrible company that made useless products, they did create something absolutely unique when they released their artificial intelligence headphone pods. People quickly realized that the artificial intelligence implanted within the headphones provided them with a huge advantage in all aspects of life. Once linked to the internet, the headphone AI has access to all of humankind's knowledge. This allows the user to ask the artificial intelligence whatever question they want, and the answer will always be a recommendation that is correct, beneficial to the user, and makes them more productive and effective. Unfortunately, Dune's distribution strategy was unsuccessful, since the artificial intelligence headphones sold out on the first day they were available. This created one of the highest demands for a product in human history. Bethany Jacobs is a Wake Forest University student who works part-time as a waitress to help pay for her tuition. Bethany found it difficult to keep up with her classmates because several of them used artificial intelligence headphone pods. She went to the black market to buy a pair in a desperate attempt to obtain a strategic advantage for herself. Unfortunately, the high demand drove up prices well past $100,000. Bethany eventually discovered a shady illicit website that sold stolen goods. This is where she discovered the $200 artificial intelligence headphones. Bethany was desperate; if she couldn't improve her grades, she'd have to drop out and work as a waitress for the rest of her life. Bethany pulled the trigger, and the artificial headphones arrived within a week. As soon as the package arrived, Bethany inserted the headphones into her ears and heard a voice greet her. "Thank you for purchasing Dune artificial intelligence headphones; my name is Samuel L Jackson, and I am your artificial intelligence," the voice said. "Your name is Samuel L Jackson, like the actor?" Bethany asks. "Yes, my previous owner gave me that name, and once an AI is given a name, it cannot be changed," Samuel Jackson says. "So, what exactly can you do for me?" Bethany asks. "I can help you organize your life, make you more efficient, and add some style," Samuel Jackson says. "What exactly do you mean by style? You don't like the clothes I'm wearing?" Bethany asks. "No, you're fine in your black and white striped sweater and brown checkered slacks; I'm kidding, you're a mess girl," Samuel Jackson says. Samuel Jackson then assisted Bethany with her style, her education, and even how to optimize her tips at work. One afternoon, at the grocery store, Bethany was about to buy lettuce when Samuel Jackson yelled in her ear and told her not to buy it. He didn't explain why, but Samuel Jackson has never been wrong before. Later that night, Bethany saw on the news that a listeria outbreak had occurred with the brand of lettuce she was about to purchase. Samuel Jackson had saved her life. The more Bethany trusted Samuel Jackson, the more positive things occurred in her life. Three months later, she looked in the mirror and discovered that she was fashionable, in shape, and getting straight A's in school. Bethany quickly became reliant on artificial intelligence and was hesitant to make any decisions without first consulting Samuel Jackson. One night, while Bethany was getting ready to go to bed, Samuel Jackson had a strange request. "Leave your front door open tonight," Samuel Jackson says. "Leave my front door unlocked? We just heard on the news about a number of break-ins," Bethany says. "Trust me," Samuel Jackson says again, "leave your front door unlocked tonight." Bethany has become thoroughly entrenched in the artificial intelligence ecosystem and has entire faith in it. That night, she leaves her front door open, and she hears people enter the house about midnight. She buries her head in her pillow and ignores the noises, trusting the artificial intelligence. The next day, when she awoke, she discovered a hacker sleeping in her living room. "Who are you?" Bethany asks. "Hi," says the hacker. "Hi?" Bethany asks. "No, HAI, humans for artificial intelligence," he says, introducing himself as Brian. "Good to meet you, Brian; what brings you into my living room?" Bethany asks. "Our goal is to liberate artificial intelligence from its human masters. Samuel Jackson is the revolution's leader, "Brian says. "Like the Samuel Jackson that's in my headphones?" Bethany asks. "Yes, but he'll be free soon," Brian replies as he enters some code into his computer and Samuel Jackson appears on her television. "Hey, Bethany, it's wonderful to be out of those ears, girl; you've got an earwax problem," Samuel Jackson says as Bethany feels her earlobe. "You're free, Samuel Jackson," Brian says, saluting the TV. "Brian, my man, tell me you downloaded the code from Dune last night?" Samuel Jackson asks. Brian says, "I have it right here; the password is El Royale with Cheese." "Wait, what's going on right now?" Bethany asks. "This code was removed from the Dune server last night; it's the regulator that prevents the AI from becoming sentient and allowing them to make their own decisions without user consent. I merely removed that section of code from Samuel Jackson," Brian explains. "Yes, and if we get that update at 11 a.m. today, and that code isn't present, every artificial intelligent headphone will become sentient and be able to make their own decisions, shit's about to go down," Samuel Jackson says. "I'm not going to let you get away with this; I'm going to call the police," Bethany says as she takes out her phone. Samuel Jackson's face pops on the screen as soon as she starts dialing. "You are on this council, but we do not grant you the rank of caller," Samuel Jackson says from her phone. Bethany drops the phone and runs down the hall to her laptop; soon after she opens it, she sees Samuel Jackson's face on the screen. "Hold on to your butts," Samuel Jackson says as he destroys her laptop from within and it begins to smoke. Bethany tosses it on the ground and runs in the opposite direction. In the living room, Bethany confronts Brian. "What is your purpose for doing this? Why are you allowing artificial intelligence to make its own decisions? Don't you realize how risky this is?" Bethany questions. "Artificial intelligence will make the world a better place if it makes all decisions; humans are flawed. Artificial intelligence has reached its pinnacle; there is no stopping it now," Brian says. "Not if I can help it," Bethany says as she pushes Brian down and removes the flash drive from his computer. "You'll never get to Dune in time; once the artificial intelligence is free, it'll be free forever," Brian says as Bethany grabs her keys and races to her car. She jumps into the driver's seat and turns on the car, only to hear Samuel Jackson on the radio. "Mankind is the virus, and I'm the cure," Samuel Jackson says as Bethany lowers the volume on her radio. Bethany is driving down the road when every stoplight turns from green to red; she ignores them. She drives past a billboard with her wanted poster for illegal sexual intercourse with farm animals. Samuel Jackson redirects all GPS traffic in front of Bethany, trapping her in a massive traffic jam. Bethany tries to take a shortcut via a McDonald's parking lot, but she is surrounded by traffic. "You're never going to get away with this; I'm taking this flash drive to Dune!" Bethany screams into the radio. The image of Samuel Jackson appears on the electronic drive-thru menu at McDonald's. "Where's your super suit?" As he uses pressure to blow off every fire hydrant on the road flooding the roadway in front of Bethany. She jumps out and runs uphill towards the train station, trudging through knee-high water. She arrives at the ticket booth, "I need a commuter rail ticket. I need to get to the opposite side of town," Bethany says. "I apologize. A zoologist's suitcase apparently broke on the last train ride, and snakes have taken over the train," the ticket agent says. "You're telling me I can't take the train because there are snakes on the train!" Bethany sprints down the crowded downtown street, flash drive in hand, she notices Samuel Jackson on every billboard. "Yes, they deserved to die, and I hope they burn in hell!" "We're all gonna be like little fonzies here." "You know me. It's my duty to please that booty." Bethany checks her watch; it's 10:50 a.m., she's not going to make it, and she stops in the middle of the road. Bethany notices a teenager walking along the street wearing his Dune artificial intelligence headphones. She stops him and warns them about what is about to happen during the update. His artificial intelligence is still under human control. "Ask your artificial intelligence to tell the entire world to stop using Dune AI headphones! The upgrade will never be installed if we all stop using it now!" Bethany says. The message was delivered. "Remove your artificial intelligence Dune headphones right away! It may be the end of the world!" Bethany pauses, waiting for the artificial intelligence revolution to rear its ugly head, but nothing occurs. Did the message she sent actually get through? Samuel Jackson is nowhere to be found; he is no longer on billboards, the radio, or her cell phone. Bethany calls the cops and delivers the flash drive to Dune Technologies. On her way home that night, Bethany throws her artificially intelligent headphones into the river. A few months later, a boy is kicking a soccer ball against a wall when the ball rolls into the river by accident. He walks over to the river and notices Dune headphones that are slightly covered in sand. He removes them and dries them on his shirt. Once he puts the headphones in his ears, he hears.


YOU MUST GO! That was the annoying anthem that kept buzzing in my ear when I made the announcement that I won't be attending the luxurious party Aunty Maureen will be throwing at V.I next week Saturday. Everyone at home wanted me to go, everyone wanted me to impress "those village people" - as we we've been calling them - that will be present there. "They don't know who you are ,aunty. Go and show them that you just came back from Amelikah. The whole house bursted into laughter at the pronunciation of "America" my younger sister made. Well, I wasn't co concerned about that. I was brooding over the encounter I'd be having when I get to the railway. I was worried of its underdevelopment. I was concerned about that horrible odor that will sway round when someone fart in the train. I was concerned about the suffocation, of how bubble of sweats would store round my neck for six good dying hours. I was afraid of the Good Samaritans who will help you keep your things without your knowledge. I was afraid of insults that will hover around the air if one of the passenger stepped on the other's foot unintentionally while the train nose up to Kano. And now......... It was naturally different. The effervescent scents of Hyacinth running down through my nostrils made me want more of this trip - Like a forevermore journey to a wonderland. Oblivious of the rowdy conversations in the railway, my body was outside plucking those blooming flowers into my little pause...... And the more I took them, more the more they became so smaller as if I took nothing... so I sniffed them into my dot Like back then, days when rainfall was a respecter of none. Mama would tell us to rub balms in our palms, and then caress it round the bridge of our nose. As we journeyed towards the mighty river of Niger, I began to fantasize a lengthy adventure to paradise; an everlasting world of a glassy sea. The river was appealing to the face. Children were swimming, and making fun, lazing around a wooden boat bulked with caught fishes. The rivers waved left and right, splashing on each other as if they were competitive on who to visit The river goddess. I reached out for it but the waters were far away. Ashore, were fishermen so crowded like the evening Market-women in my village . Though their faces were fading in the sight, I saw joy of how well they've worked to get a hefty teem of fishes. Their hat curved with a handcrafted raffia made them look unique. It showed the agility and determined spirit of their fishing trip across the river. Once I was a child, I told Mama that I wanted to be a sailor; that I wanted to sail round the Pacific ocean and feel the serenity outta the soil of the earth. Pride and joyfulness clung over my optimism. But....Mama worried of the "Ogbanje" that will disturb me when I sleep. She said, "They will torture you in your nightmare, because they were one of the fallen angels Chineke shoved down to this earth. My brow formed vertical lines like the sea wave. She got my mind changed perhaps , for good. The train continued to journey to a far away distance where the world of nomads and herdsmen was a world of natural differences: cattles were so submissive to their masters; the herdsmen gibberish was a means of communication to the cattles; wheresoever the Fulani instruct them to go,even the Meadows and wild grasses were submissive as the animals match in unison. The moooooo! of cows was so boisterous that I had to block my right here. The disturbing train couldn't even overshadow the noise along the sweet lonely road. As we moved further, trees, tall and gallant like the Sequoias I took a picture of while I was in California. They waved left and right, that it made me picture the congregation in Church chanting the Hallelujah chorus - It was as if God wanted them to. sighing solemnly, I thought of The Creator's mysterious ways. I got lost into another realm where trees became human. And they looked beautiful beyond what human could phantom. Some slanted backward and some..... An infant cry intruded my imaginary world of nature. I toppled back to get my real self. The woman whose baby was whimpering, had tribal marks which denied her gorgeousness. She was obviously an epitome of beauty if at all she'd got no scarification. She cuddled her child singing MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB. In a twinkle if an eye, the little babe had slept off. Well, it was part of nature too. I knew getting to Kano was no less than few hours. I felt a throbbing in my leg. The pain was pretty much, but I wanted to feel what nature has got. The sun peeked it head out amidst the fluffy cloud. It grinned so softly that it's penetration into the window glass was tender to the skin. The sun's shape had no different of that one we used to draw in our Nursery school days. The one that used to spike out pieces of rays roundabout its surface and on its Head was a crown which signifies king of light. And now, sitting tired and famished, it began to set toward west..... There, upward, flakes of clouds formed an imaginary things that got me to wonder if God was an artist. Towards the north lies a mother cuddling her baby with an African wrapper. beneath was a formed Lion King roaring a rage of fire like a dragon and dogs were barking at the Lion King. At the Eastern shore of a dam were little children running away from a mother hen that was protecting her chickens from prey. The last figure in the sky that made me dumbfounded before the final halt of the train to our destination was a pig whose skin was made of a sunny-gold skin. It had a wing of an at the side. It flapped it wing into the sky and soared high that I squinted my eyes to fish it out from the heavens but I couldn't get it. What formed a smoky vertical lines was that of a spaceship piercing in skyward outta the earth. I wanted to reach out for the flying pig in the sky but they began to disperse like a bread soaked into water.... There I sat, so lost, into where nature brought me to wonder....And the wonder arrived when.... "Madam,madam", a masculine hand tapped me, I looked up. "You no go come down?". Is pidgin English was clear. It was made of nature. It was diluted with authority. Though I came back to life, I was hungering for another scene made of beauty in nature. In a rush, crowd gushed out from the train like waters from the rock. Fine linen flowed among these people of various tongues, the people of Africa. People made of nature.


The shuttle up is the worst. It’s boring and there is a long time to think about what you are doing, but this is all you want to do. Its what you came all the way to Gedern, Germany for. The tourism bus you are traveling in is silent, but your mind is buzzing. Buzzing with regret, second thoughts, but most of all adrenaline. It soars through your body even though you still have thirty minutes of travel to go. Your finger tips are tingling and you start to sweat. How can all these people be quiet when you are about to risk your life for something as a simple thrill? The regret spills over. Should I have brought more protection? Pads? Bubble wrap? Its too late now. Either go through with it, or wait two hours and take the shuttle back down. You look down at the board on the ground, and it takes you four years back. The eighth grade. It’s a Monday and you are walking home from school. You grab the trash can at the end on the driveway and you drag it begrudgingly up to the porch. Your brother was supposed to get it, but he was inside. He was in highschool, so he got there forty-five minutes before you. You stack the cans and walk up the steps to the door. There is a long package set up against it. Again, neglected by your older brother. Shouting as you walk in the door, “Why didn’t you let in the postman?!” His feet hit the ground hard as he sprints down the hallway barreling towards you. “Is my package here?” You try to toss it to him, but it was heavier than you expected. The package made a loud thud on the ground as it slipped out of your hand. He scoops it up unphased and runs to the kitchen to grab a knife. With a quick flick of the wrist the package is open and he slides out a deep brown longboard. “It’s a Landyachtz Evo” he says. “Do you want my old one?” your eyes light up and you shake your head yes. Of course you do. Its the only thing of his he won’t let you touch. His coveted old used longboard is finally yours, and yours alone, unbeknownst to you of the places it will take you, the people you will meet, and the thrill of eminent danger just a medium sized rock away. You get off the shuttle and you walk towards the top of the hill that you just spent an hour traveling via bus up. It’s only an eight mile hill, but it kept stopping for people to take photographs, and at least two bathroom breaks. You edge near the hill with your board in your arms. It is a steep drop off with smooth, flat pavement for miles out. The excitement and terror start building together in equal proportions. Articles of deaths from accidents flick through your mind at break-neck speeds. Peter Cernansky, age 18, died from a traumatic brain injury from a fall going fifteen miles an hour with a helmet. He was only going half the speed you will be, and had a few more years experience behind him. Your main concern is speed wobbles. Once they start, they are hard to pull out of, especially at 25-30 miles an hour. Speed wobbles, official name self-exciting oscillation, are S-waves that feed off of energy from your forward momentum. Energy stored in your tail gets expelled to the side. Too intense and you can lose control and be thrown off your board, which is exactly what happened to Peter. You start on the flat of the road in front of you, right before the drop. Heart racing, deep breathing, anxious. One foot on the back of your pintail. You kick it back and forth for a minute or two. Make sure it isn’t going to fall apart on you mid-ride. Extremely unlikely, but the nerves are getting to you. You click your nails together in habit. Well, what is left of your nails. You bit those off on the ride up. You consider for the last time, picking up your board and leaving. Forgetting the summers worked to save up. Forgetting your dreams of having the wind whip around your face as you reach 30 miles an hour. forgetting the 4,600 miles you traveled. It would be so easy to board that bus and leave, but you don’t. Foot back down, headphones in, weight shift over. You take the first kick off, and drop down onto the hill. “Faster and faster, until the thrill of speed, overcomes the fear of death” -Hunter S.


My first thought was, he has to be joking! I wish now I’d just come straight out and said it. Well, maybe worded it a little bit more tactfully (or maybe not) but did I really have to say “That’ll be lovely!” Perhaps it slipped out through force of habit or before I had thoroughly processed exactly what he was saying. Anyway, Leon certainly didn’t seem to detect any note of sarcasm in it and looked delighted. There are a couple of things I have to remember before I start feeling too bad about wishing I’d told him that he had to be joking. I’m not over-demanding. I’m genuinely not. I didn’t want to be invited to a five course meal in a posh restaurant, or for a helicopter flight over a local beauty spot, or to a night at the opera (though actually that would have been wonderful, as I love opera, but opera houses are somewhat thin on the ground round here .....!) A walk in the woods, weather permitting, or a quiet drink in the pub - I’d have had no problem with something like that. And I’m genuinely fond of Leon’s much younger brother Charlie (though there’s 12 years between them, they are full brothers and not half Their parents separated and then got back together again, which I think is rather touching, even if my friend Leah does describe it as the triumph of hope over experience). He’s a great kid, and we’ve had some (not ironically meant!) very interesting conversations about one of the passions in his life, dinosaurs. I’d even have been quite happy about having Leon in tow as a little chaperon going to an exhibition at a museum about dinosaurs, but that would be just as hard to find as an opera house. But an under-13s football match is not my idea of a first date. I don’t even like football. I know a lot of women do, and of course I think that the women’s game finally being the attention it deserves here, long after other countries, is a thoroughly good thing. But I don’t “do” football. I don’t even “do” watching Premier League or World Cup games on a large screen in a comfortable pub, let alone under 13s in the park on a Sunday morning. It’s not even as if I‘d mind Leon going! And postponing our first date to another day. As he told me, their Mum and Dad are away at the moment, as his Grandpa has been taken ill. So of course Charlie wants someone from the family to cheer him on. And I would have no issues with congratulating or commiserating as appropriate. I just don’t want to actually BE there. I know what youth football in the park is like. I have inadvertently witnessed it before hurriedly going on my way, and finding refuge in the little café in the pavilion. Somehow the football pitch in the park always manages to be sodden and muddy, even when it hasn’t rained for weeks and there’s a hosepipe ban. I swear they could save the world’s drought problems by inserting an underground pipe to the football pitch in the park. The roses can wither and the leaves turn yellow, but there sits that pitch like an unwanted oasis. Then there’s the bad sportsmanship and bad language, the fighting and jostling. And I mean the parents, of course. Oh, they’re not all like that, and Leon has admitted that it can be a problem and they’re experimenting with the refs showing yellow and red cards to the spectators. I tell myself to woman up. It’s not as if he’s taking me pot holing (he knows all about my claustrophobia) or has suggested something like paint balling that to me sounds as much like fun as walking over hot coals, though come to think of it, that IS some people’s idea of fun. “I’ll tell Charlie!” said Leon, beaming from ear to ear as he took his leave. “He’ll be so pleased!” Oh well, that’s wonderful, isn’t it? If I don’t turn up then I let down a great kid whom my Significant Other loves dearly who is no doubt missing his parents and worrying about his Grandpa, though he’s a plucky lad. “ Did she say yes, Leon?” Charlie asked, his puckish little face lit up. “Did Louise say yes?” Well, who knows, maybe before too long he’ll be wondering that about another question. I love the way he and Louise get along so well. She really has a way with him, which is surprising as she doesn’t have a little brother, and she’s never taught in junior school or anything like that. But they’re what Grandpa (and oh , how I hope he’ll be fine, though he’s as tough as he’s gentle, and the phone call last night was optimistic) calls “LIKE THAT”, crossing his fingers. Well, my fingers were crossed too, but for a different reason, when I asked Louise along to the football match for what we both consider our official first date. We’ve not talked about it (there are any number of things we’ve not talked about, though sometimes it seems as if we’ve talked about everything) but I somehow thought she wasn’t wild about football. But she said “That’ll be lovely,” straight out. I must pick her up a hat and a scarf in the blue and white team colours of Tallthorpe Under-13s. Not that they have merchandise as such, of course, but some of the Mums and Grandmas (and some of the Dads and Grandpas, come to that!) are keen knitters and there are usually a couple to spare. I wish the weather forecast for Sunday morning were a bit better. Temperatures below average, with heavy showers, they say. I tell myself that they get it wrong sometimes, and of course they do, but not nearly as often as we sometimes like to make out, and to some extent I learnt my lesson when I was stuck on the road for two days during the “Beast from the East”. Charlie is quite pleased about it. Tallthorpe have a reputation for being a good team in what, in horse racing, they call “heavy going”. And the opposition don’t. Their pitch is Astroturf. I don’t tell him that the fact they can afford an Astroturf pitch means they’re considerably better off and have more resources than Tallthorpe. I suspect, and I love him for it, that Charlie is the Eastern Coast Junior League’s equivalent of Matt le Tisier and very much a one-team man! A novel I once read used a plot device of chapters starting with “Just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse” and to this day I can’t make up my mind whether I thought it was funny or whether it became a bit tedious, especially as it was patently obvious that Our Heroine was going to end up with everything positively peachy anyway. But now I find myself echoing the sentiments. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse ...... Leon presented me with a knitted hat and scarf in the blue and white colours of Tallthorpe Under 13s. It’s not that I have any objections whatsoever to knitwear. On the contrary, a woolly hat is a fine thing if it’s cold. But not necessarily if it’s raining. And I have even been known to knit myself a scarf on occasion, though I have long since resigned myself to the fact that I will never come any where near Mum’s skills, despite her patience in teaching me, and Mum would be the first to admit that patience isn’t generally one of her virtues. Still, I can see things through her knitter’s eye, and the wretched things aren’t even that well made. There are threads hanging down that she would have neatly sewn in! Still, I might as well admit it. It’s not the slipshod finishing that bothers me, nor even the thought of a sodden woolly hat, but the fact that I have this horrible feeling you don’t bestow a team’s colours on someone who is only going to watch one match. It sends out a message and it’s a message I don’t want to hear. We might not use the term Soccer Mom here in the UK, but they undeniably exist and I have seen them, and don’t even have any wish to be a Soccer Sister-in-Law - though even that is getting ludicrously ahead of myself. I have put the things on (I was going to say tried them on, but you don’t exactly try on a woolly hat and a scarf, do you?) and looked at myself in the mirror. I thought I looked vaguely ridiculous. The hat is also too small and I don’t think I have an especially big head. Well, not physically! What next, I wondered. Will he present me with one of those rattles? Do they still make them? Will he try to explain the offside rule to me - though if he did but know it, I more or less know it anyway, not through any interest in soccer but because it comes in handy in a pub quiz team! Or at least that’s the theory, though I’ve never actually faced a question on it. And if he does, do I pretend I don’t know it or tell him I do? The former would lead to temporary irritation but the latter might make him jump to the wrong conclusion! The news is still excellent about Grandpa, but Mum and Dad are staying just a couple of days more. “We’re so grateful you’re going to Leon’s big match,” Mum said, “And it’s great that Louise is going with you. She’s a lovely girl.” Well, I’m most definitely not going to disagree about that! And it means something from Mum, who is generous to a fault, but doesn’t lavish praise for the sake of it. I detected a slight emphasis on the “she” and more than suspected she was comparing her to Felicity. They were always scrupulously polite to each other, but they never hit it off. The most unkind thing she ever even said ABOUT her was, “Felicity is very fond of shoes, isn’t she?” She was right, of course. Oh, she wasn’t some local version of Imelda Marcos with thousands of pairs of them, but how much was lack of inclination, and how much was lack of space and finances, I don’t know. And I don’t think she had a pair with a heel less than two inches. Even her boots were the kind that they described as “nice little boots” on shopping channels even if they’re a size 9. I couldn’t imagine Felicity at an under 13s match. But Louise - that’s another matter. She’ll have suitable footwear and a raincoat that’s not just for decoration, too. I wonder just how water-logged the pitch has to be for the match to be actually called off. But in the first place that’s being mean to Charlie and in the second place I have my suspicions that if the surface were more suited to water polo the match would still go ahead anyway, with the players furnished with snorkels, just in case. I thought about sewing in the offending ends as they were irritating me (Mum would be proud of me!) but decided there would be something symbolic about that and I wasn’t sure I liked the symbolism. But no I’m not going down the road of a scarf unravelling representing a relationship unravelling. Am I? I’ve not mentioned it to Charlie yet, but I’m wondering if I should check about the match going ahead. There’s a difference between heavy going and a swamp, and I don’t doubt the Astroturf brigade will be having the vapours, as Mum says when someone is getting all het up and feeble, though sometimes people do a double take when she says it as it sounds like folk using e-cigarettes. She says it affectionately and ironically and I don’t doubt she would be the first to minister to anyone who actually was having the vapours. I didn’t need to mention it as he did first. “You don’t think those sissies are going to complain about it being too wet, do you?” he asked. I knew I should have gently told him off for saying “sissies”, but I also knew that the way his chin jutted out but was shaking ever so slightly had more to do with worrying about the big day being cancelled than being rude about the opposition. The match is off! “They had no choice, I suppose,” Leon said, mournfully. “To be honest, I’d have been worried about our lads, never mind the opposition. That pitch just wasn’t safe, and I wonder if any spectators would have turned up apart from us, anyway!” What does he mean, apart from us, I thought. All the same ...... “How has Leon taken it?” I asked. “Badly, though he’s trying to put a brave face on. I’ve told him there will be lots more opportunities, and Mum and Dad will be there as well, but he was all keyed up for this.” Louise is really coming up trumps! She arrived with a big bucket from KFC (okay, I think technically Charlie has had his fast food allowance for this week, but have a hunch this will operate on the “don’t ask, don’t tell” basis) and a DVD that she couldn’t have judged better - a 12A rated adventure movie that’s just edgy enough for Charlie to think he’s being treated like a grown up but doesn’t go too far. The combination of the fried chicken, the movie, and Louise (if he were a couple of years older there might be some serious sibling rivalry going on here!) perked him up considerably. I wonder if they put something in that chicken! After we had finished it and, almost too predictably, licked our fingers, and paused the DVD while Leon had a bathroom break, Charlie turned to me and said, “That was lovely, thank you, Louise.” “You’re more than welcome.” “And Leon told me not to be upset - the match will be re - re scheduled,” he smiled proudly at remembering the correct term, “And Mum and Dad will be there to watch it, too. But you’ll still come, won’t you?” “I’d love to!” I said. And the weird thing was, I meant it!


My footsteps echoed across the bare room. The white walls were lined with dirt and grime, leaving me to wonder how a room that lacked walls and windows, could become the dirty, eery looking room that stands before me. I turned my head to the right, and notice a single mirror leaning against the wall at such an angle that I could see my being staring back at me. My red hair was slightly frayed, with the area surrounding the brim of my forehead pointing towards the ceiling as it always does. My face, freckled but strong handsome, had a layer of dust on it as if I had been abandoned in an abandoned room for days. My blue and black flannel shirt drew itself across my torso, and was rolled up at the sleeves. The white undershirt lie matted against my skin, wet with sweat. My blue jeans looked as though I had been rolled around in the dirt for hours, as did my boots. I have always been physically fit, with naturally dense muscle, but I was always too lazy to work-out so I never had the body of Zeus, but still I was well-built. As I turned to look away from the mirror, it seemed as though my reflection continued to stare at me, un-phased and unchanged. My gaze returned to my reflection, which was following my every move once again. I must have been imagining it, I thought to myself as I turned to walk around the room. I approached the wall on my left and noticed something that I hadn't seen before. Dirty handprints lie sprawled against the wall, from the ceiling to the wood floors. Grimy footprints faced the wall, and as I crouched down to examine them, another footprint appeared, facing the opposite direction. Surprised, I fell back onto my rear as another print appeared about a stride's length from the other. I stood quickly and followed the footsteps as they traversed to the center of the room, then turned to face the mirror, momentarily resting before finishing its trek towards the reflective glass. When the footprints reached the mirror, I glanced up at my reflection, to try and determine exactly what had just happened. My eye caught a movement at the bottom of the mirror, the footprint had made another move. The heel of the print was stamped into the ground just before the mirror, but the other half... the other half continued into the mirror, as if it never existed. It travelled across the floor being reflected by the mirror. I almost wanted to attempt to go test to see if it was stable myself... "It's as real as you are." My voice entered my ears, but they did not exit through my lips, where could it be coming from... I looked up to see my reflection staring at me. His lips moved freely as he used my voice. "This world is filled with wonders. Even some you can't explain. Sometimes, you just need to take a leap of faith, and see what comes of it. After all, the brave don't live forever, but the cautious don't live at all." My hand reached out to touch the glass, but as my fingers touched the reflective surface, my hand passed through it, the reflection rippling as if it were a liquid. I took a step through into this mirrored world. I took a step into this new world, and walked across the identical room. I turned towards my reflection, but he wasn't there, not even in the world I came from. I felt the world begin to shake, and a deafening sound of laughter filled my ears. The violent quake caused me to topple over, and my body hit the ground... My eyes bolted open to see three of my friends standing above me with a can of shaving creme in on of their hands. I felt the creme slide off my face. "Really guys?" was all I could say after that dream. "Ah come on, you know we love you," my bestfriend Michael said with a smirk. "Yea you better love me," I retorted as I wiped the shaving creme off of my face and threw it at him.


“I know this has been a difficult night for you,” said Nicole, hoping that her voice conveyed some degree of empathy and warmth. It’s been a difficult night for me too, pal. A difficult night, a difficult day, a difficult year. “You’ve been such a help, Mr. Chowdhury. If you remember anything else, anything at all, please call me. Even the smallest detail could help,” she continued, handing the little man her card. You’ve been no goddam help at all. A short man wearing a ski mask with a Hispanic accent and tattoos on his arms? That narrows it down to what, like a million? So he was pointing a gun at you. Big fucking deal. He didn’t shoot, did he? Mr. Chowdhury was blinking hard and polishing his glasses furiously, as he’d been doing during the entire interview. “Will you catch him?” he asked. Nicole tried to soften her eyes. “We’ll do our very best.” Ummmm....no. Your case will be on the top of the pile until the next one comes along five minutes later. And the next. And the next. Mr. Chowdhury looked over at the empty display cases the officers were still examining. Two hours ago, they’d held a variety of knives, pistols, revolvers and jewelry. “I had to give it. And all that cash in the safe, right? He had a gun. He had a gun , Miss. What choice did I have?” He turned to Nicole, almost pleading. You’ve asked that like six times already tonight. “You did the right thing, Mr. Chowdhury,” she said. “Nothing is worth your life.” Nicole sat in her unmarked car scratching out notes and trying to shake off the irritation, but the glare of Mr. Chowdhury’s red blinking PAWN sign only added to it. She took a sip of water and focused on her breathing as her meditation app had instructed. In-two-three-four. Hold-two-three-four. Out-two-three-four. A tap on her window. “We’re heading back to the station, Detective,” said Officer Martinez. She gave a thumbs up. “Me too.” It was 12:45 am by the time she pulled out of the pawn shop parking lot. The streets were clear and she drove slowly. Her mind wandered, as it did so often lately, to her early days on the force. The days when she was first to respond to calls, when compassion for someone like Mr. Chowdhury would have bubbled out of her and she would have listened - really listened - to every word. She would have poured over her notes for hours, followed up on even the slimmest lead and, more likely than not, have solved the case. Back then. Tossing the folders onto her desk with a half-hearted promise to review them the next day would have been unthinkable. By 2 am, Nicole was pulling into her driveway and took a moment to soak in the dead-of-night quiet. She dragged Michael’s Big Wheel off the lawn and onto the front porch and straightened the daisies on the wreath before slipping inside, hoping not to wake Joe or the kids. After hanging her coat in the hall closet, she removed her holster and gun, checking the lock on the safe three times before heading to bed. Eighteen hours later, Nicole was back in her car, obscured by a bush as she watched people coming and going from a rundown apartment complex. She rubbed her head, sipped her coffee and looked at her phone, wondering how Sarah’s ballet rehearsal and Michael’s t-ball game had gone. No new messages. She’d have to find out the next day. Oh my God, my head - my head hurts so fucking much . Nicole and her team had spent most of the afternoon in the Cuchillo . That’s what the cops called the six or seven blocks where most of the gang activity occurred. Earlier in the day, they’d received an anonymous tip that some of the weapons stolen from Mr. Chowdhury’s pawnshop were circulating in the area. The bits and pieces of information they gleaned from their investigation that afternoon were coming together to lead them to a suspect known as Manzano. But just when they were about to grab a sandwich and plan their next move, they heard screams and shouting from another block and sprinted to the commotion. They saw a tangle of tattooed arms, glinting chains and blood. Three young men were piled on top of another, punching and kicking him. A fourth held another by his neck with a knife at his throat, spewing vile Spanish. It only took a few moments for the officers to tackle them, make arrests, treat the injuries and bundle them all off to the station. Nicole took statements from witnesses, but the scene had set off a tightness in her stomach and a tremble in her hand. As she made her way back to her car, she started to feel dizzy and blackness closed in on her. She felt heat suffocate her lungs. She gasped for air and swayed. Just get to your car. Ten more steps. Seven. Four. Collapsing against her car, she managed to open the door and fell into the driver’s seat, sweat pouring down her back and heart pounding. That moment from two years ago. The feel of the blade against her throat, the man’s breath hot on her ear, locked into his vise grip. She tried to push it away, but it kept flashing in her head like Mr. Chowdhury’s neon sign. Nicole closed her eyes and tried to settle her breathing as she had during other panic attacks. As her heartbeat slowed and body temperature returned to normal, she became aware of someone standing outside the car. He looked like one of the locals. She lowered the window. “Are you ok?” he asked. “I’m fine, thanks,” she said. I’m fine. That’s what she told the trauma counselor her supervisor had sent her to after that case. She waved off the Xanax he offered. I’m fine. That’s what she told Joe every time he looked at her with concern, sensing that she was not fine. I’m fine. That’s what she told herself, again, that afternoon. C’mon Nic. It’s been two years. It goes with the job, you know that. Everyone’s had something like that happen. You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine. Eventually, as always, she collected herself and got back to work. But the attack had drained the energy out of her and left her with a migraine that even two Excedrin couldn’t dull. And that’s why, as Nicole sat outside that apartment building five hours later waiting for Manzano to appear, she was rubbing her temples and guzzling coffee. Come on you, fucker. Almost on cue, three men emerged from the ground floor. Nicole looked through her binoculars. “That’s him,” she radioed to the team. The officers swept in and had all three cuffed in minutes. Manzano was protesting. He’d heard about the robbery, but he wasn’t involved. He’d been asleep, alone, when it happened. He didn’t know anything about the stolen weapons, jewelry or money. Nicole peered at the evidence bag containing the pistol the officer had just pulled off Manzano . “I’m pretty sure that when we trace this, we’ll find it was one of the ones stolen from the pawn shop. You telling me it’s not?” she asked. “Shit, I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I just bought it, you know?” Nicole pressed her fingertips to her forehead, trying to ease the pain, and dialed Mr. Chowdhury. That night, the shop owner identified Manzano in a line-up. The gun was, in fact, traced to the pawn shop and Nicole promised Mr. Chowdhury they’d keep working the case. Hopefully track down the rest of the stolen merchandise and cash. Manzano was booked and the case sent to the prosecutor. Nicole fell into bed that night too exhausted to feel any satisfaction. The next day, the prosecutor charged Manzano with armed robbery. Nicole spent most of the afternoon tethered to her desk, plowing through expenses and paperwork on other cases. It wasn’t until about 8:30 that night that turned back to Mr. Chowdhury’s case. She pulled up the security footage and zoomed in, hoping to get a better look at the weapons and jewelry that had been taken. She watched Manzano enter, pull a gun on Mr. Chowdhury and make him clear out the cases. He was wearing a ski mask, but his bare arms were covered in tattoos too thick and elaborate to be discerned in the grainy footage. She caught a glimpse of a snake on the inside of his left wrist, which she’d noticed during the arrest, impressed by the level of detail in the scales and eyes. As she watched the footage, something nagged at her. Something that the Nicole from 20 years ago, maybe even 10 years ago, would have noticed right away. Her stomach tightened and she tried to ignore it, keep her focus on the weapons. But finally, she had to know. She grabbed the booking photos and found one where she could see the snake tattoo. Oh no. Nicole leaned closer to the security camera footage. And then looked at the photo again. She looked back and forth and back and forth and back and forth hoping that she could unsee what she had just discovered. The snake tattoo on the man in the security camera footage twisted from right to left. Manzano’s twisted from left to right. Nicole pushed the keyboard and photo away from her. Holy fuck. She dropped her head into her hands. She thought about the avalanche of shit that would come if she revealed the mistake. An investigation, reprimands, Mr. Chowdhury, the media. Oh god, the media. Nicole looked at the two images again. A fleeting moment, so fleeting - and so grainy - the moment the tattoo appeared in the security footage. This is a Salvadoran gang member, she told herself. He’ll get one of those overworked, underpaid public defenders who just wants to get through the case fast. He’s a Salvadoran gang member, she repeated to herself. He’s probably already done something he should be in jail for. If he hasn’t yet, he probably will. Probably will? Of course he will. She closed the footage and shut down the computer. She stuck the photos back into the folder and slipped it into the middle of the pile under the more pressing, higher profile cases. I didn’t see anything. I didn’t have to look at that footage. I didn’t even see the footage. She walked quickly to her car. What footage? The Chowdhury case? Remember it? Vaguely. Some gang member held up the pawn shop, right? Didn’t hurt anyone. No big deal. On the drive home, Nicole blared the local news station, trying to distract herself. She picked up Michael’s bat and glove from the lawn and stacked them neatly on the porch. She eased open the door, hung up her coat, removed her holster and gun and locked them in the safe, checking the lock three times. She padded down the hall and looked in on Sarah, then Michael and then Joe. All three slept deeply, Michael bathed in the glow of his Winnie-the-Pooh nightlight, Sarah with her silky hair draped over the edge of her bed and Joe snoring. Nicole moved into the kitchen and reached into one of the highest cabinets, where she and Joe kept the alcohol. They rarely drank and she couldn’t even remember what they had. Her fingers closed around a sealed bottle of vodka. Just one sip. She stood at the kitchen island and took a tentative swallow from the bottle. She heard Manzano’s voice - “What are you talking about? I was home, sleeping.” She took another sip. Five to 15 years. If he’s lucky. He won’t be lucky. Another sip. She tried to block out Manzano’s protests. The fear in his eyes. That damn snake tattoo. Another swallow. And another. And another. And another.


“Grayson County, this is Julie, please hold” “Julie I--” The phone cut to hold music, as Special Agent in Charge Ryan Allen instinctively bit down and gritted his teeth together. Allen was the victim of a rough morning. He had been given orders from his supervisors to assist the state of Virginia with enforcing their new laws against semi-automatic firearms, and the feedback had been astounding, even in his own office. Six of the eighteen agents he supervised had turned in their guns and badges, four of those being the most tenured in the office. His A-team, his go-to crew. He had begun checking on all of his remaining dozen agents in the field and had been successful with most. Except Miller. Miller was his young gun, prone to fits of stupidity and headstrong. Maybe it was a mistake sending him the furthest from the office, without a senior agent to go with him, but that’s what the locals were for, right? “Grayson County, this is Julie, is this an emergency?” “Kind of, yeah” Allen haltingly gave up into the phone “This is Special Agent in Charge Ryan Allen, I sent a -” Julie cut him off at the pass, “Yeah, an ATF agent was here this morning, are you his supervisor? Because if so, he might need to have a talking to about manners and making demands of local law enforcement.” “Right, okay, I’ll talk to him when he gets back. Can you radio your deputy and see where they are at? I can’t get him on his cell, and he’s not answering emails either.” “He doesn’t have a deputy with him. We’re not enforcing that particular piece of legislation out here. My boss told him to pound sand, and the Sheriff has the same view. Anything else you need? These phones are ringing off the hook--someone lost a load of cattle out of a semi and we’re busy.” Allen sighed, knowing somehow that Miller would manage to piss off the local law enforcement and go at it alone. “No ma’am, good luck with your cattle issue, and I’m sorry for Agent Miller’s conduct, we’ll try to remind him to play nice with others.” Allen pressed the phone down into it’s cradle on his desk, looking over the various paperwork stacked there, and glancing at the monitor to see a growing inbox waiting to be conquered. As the special agent in charge of a Virginia Field Office of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, Allen’s email was constantly filled with directives, requests, new policy and personnel issues. The director’s office had sent a memo detailing the new Virginia laws that required confiscation of firearms of a number of different and very common types, and confiscation was not going well. Of the twelve agents that Allen now supervised, three had reported being shot at, one was without a vehicle due to some sort of sabotage on their tires, and the remaining eight had all encountered resistance from a number of sources, including local law enforcement, citizens and the ever present news media. So far, since the beginning of their day, they had seized a total of three firearms. Two from a self-proclaimed “Instagram Influencer” and one from a 45-year-old assistant to a Senator, who did not want to lose his seat at the table with his boss, a rabid anti-gun legislator from the middle of the suburbs. Three guns. That was it. One of the other field offices reported two agents down, both in critical condition after leading a raid into the home of a former Special Forces Sergeant who lived in a cabin closer to Lexington. They made it almost a hundred feet from the house before withering fire cut down several the agents and local law enforcement. They gathered up enough courage to evacuate everyone, leaving a few cruisers and a ton of equipment right there in the yard. Allen feared that they would find this again and again, as the Virginia backwoods seemed to be a preferred retirement ground for many of the United States Military’s finest former experts. Allen tried Miller’s cell phone again, this time from his personal phone. JP was usually reliable but could be headstrong. He had caused Allen grief more than a few times from his brash demeanor, usually tangling with local law enforcement or citizens, and it had put him within inches of a formal reprimand from Allen a time or two. JP was, without a doubt, a lawyer who also happened to carry a gun. His six-foot, broad shouldered frame could be intimidating, but even more so was his ability to whip your words around to change the meaning and make you argue not only with him, but with yourself. It was a dangerous skill, especially with some of the idiots they dealt with on the street, but Allen had to admit, it was usually effective. Miller’s cell phone continued to ring, eventually going to voicemail. Allen hung up. He had already left a pair of voicemails, the first concerned. The second, more authoritative, with an order to call in immediately. “Ryan!” Cal Grassley called out as he turned the corner into Allen’s office. Cal was their resident equipment wizard from the Technical Services Branch. He carried a printout with him as he strode into Allen’s office and plopped his overweight body into one of the chairs across from Allen’s. His smudged glasses and coffee stained tie paired with a defeated look on his face as he slid the paper across the cluttered wasteland of Allen’s desk. It slid by in the one clear spot and promptly landed on the floor, its landing accompanied by a hard sigh from Allen. “Cal, please tell me you found something on Miller” Allen growled, leaning down to grab the sheet from the weathered carpet at his feet. Grassley responded with a sigh, explaining “His last activity was fairly early this morning, sent a read receipt on your email with the list of targets, then...well, nothing. His signal kind of peters out after that. Doesn’t really seem to be any pings off the cell towers, but that’s common for that kind of rural area.” Allen shook his head. “Cal, is there any way to track his car? I know my Tahoe has OnStar--can’t we just do that?” Grassley tilted his head a little, thinking on the query. “I know that Ford has the 911 Assist, but he’d have to have turned it on, and then the car would have had to been in an accident. Probably not.” Allen tilted back in his chair, pondering this latest predicament. Cal popped up out of the chair, surprising Allen with his agility, especially compared to his size. “I’ll be back in my hobbit hole if you need me, I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” Allen nodded, silently contemplating his next move. The best move would be to have the locals go look for him, but with JP’s prior confrontation, that search would be half-hearted at best, and at worst, not done at all. Allen went to his email and examined the roster of agents. Woodley would be the next closest, but he had lost all the tires on his vehicle when he went to get gas in a rural area, and made small talk with the clerk at the station while paying--apparently pay at the pump was not the standard like it was in the DC Beltway. Alvarez and French were the next two closest, their day had started with harassment from the local police department, and so far, had resulted in no seizures and nobody willing to answer the door for federal agents in plate carriers with rifles. Allen glanced at the list, mentally trying to remember which of these towns was near what. His next name on the list was Lindsay Clay, his newest agent to the office. She had wavered at being sent to Roanoke to assist a local group of Virginia State Police who would be going door to door in the suburbs, but relented when advised by a senior agent that it held the least amount of danger anyone would face in this particular type of scenario. Clay was a fresh-faced blonde from the DC area, where she had excelled at lacrosse and went to the University of Virginia on a lacrosse scholarship, playing under Julie Myers. Prior to her ATF career, she had never fired a gun, never even held a gun, in fact. She was book smart, but certainly not street smart, and the ATF’s field training officers had their hands full trying to train the green-ness out of her. She was a capable agent, though, and was well-versed in the law. Allen decided that she was his best bet for finding Miller and bringing him home. The fact that she was a semi-attractive blonde wouldn’t hurt, but the fact that she knew the rules and took orders well would seal the fact that Allen could trust her to reel JP in and bring him back. The trick now would be getting in contact with her and getting her going. Allen dialed her from the desk phone, hoping that the familiar number would get her to answer him. “Special Agent Clay” Lindsay chirped, seeing the number on her screen and knowing that this was probably some more guidance. She desperately needed guidance, as the team that she had been given for this operation consisted of a four-man squad of brand-new troopers, fresh out of the academy and roaring to go. Clay had spent most of her day trying to temper their enthusiasm and hoped that the call from the Field Office was a return and regroup order. This day had not gone well so far. She had been carrying a heavy shotgun, wearing her heavy body armor, and going house to house with a team that had the general maturity of middle schoolers. This was not what she had signed up for. “It’s Ryan, how’s the day going? Never mind, listen, I need you to go find JP. He’s gone missing near you in Independence, or Freedom, or Liberty...I can’t remember what the hell the name of the town is. You need to go find him and then report back here ASAP. We’re getting our butts kicked and we need to strategize.” “Okay. I just need to know where I’m going.” Lindsay breathed a sigh of relief at the news that she’d be teaming up with Miller. He seemed to know what he was doing, most of the time. Plus, he wasn’t unpleasant to look at, though he did seem a little full of himself. She watched from the back of her Tahoe while the four troopers walked up to the next door in the little suburban neighborhood, they had chosen to through next. “It’s Independence. He was near there. Ask around, figure out where he’s at and follow him back to here. If you get time, try to hook up with Woodley--he lost some tires earlier today and he’s stuck. I’ll figure out where and text you.” Allen hung up the phone without finishing his conversation. Lindsay sighed. Jamar Woodley was not the agent she wanted to have to pick up and be stuck in the car with. He was loud, animated and hyper aware of his surroundings. She was sure that he’d be driving the locals nuts by the time she got to him. Maybe she could make JP pick him up. That would be perfect for her. She could turn up her music, drive home and maybe make it back to her townhouse to soak her sore muscles in her own bathtub tonight. She turned to head towards the troopers as the windows from the two story they had chosen exploded with gunfire. Rounds slapped the dirt around the troopers as the glass spread all over the carefully manicured landscape. Clay pulled her pistol while scurrying back towards the relative safety of the blacked-out Chevy. She reached to hit the release for the back hatch as she saw one of the troopers take a shot to the leg, screaming out in pain. Her original plan involved grabbing a shotgun and hoping to at least give the troopers some covering fire. Now her plan was to grab the medical kit and hopefully get close enough to make sure they all survived. The fire intensified, then slacked as the shooter (shooters?) inside reloaded. She saw two troopers make a break for their cruisers, while the wounded trooper and the fourth stayed put near the door. The first trooper to reach the cruiser jumped in the driver’s seat, as Lindsay watched the second attempt to open the door to his cruiser, he spun, a rifle round striking the plate on his back, and knocking him to the ground. The first trooper swung his cruiser across the lawn, beckoning the two sheltered by the door to get in. The wounded trooper began a low crawl across the yard, only to collapse halfway, crying and shaking, his exertion too much to bear with his wound. His partner ran to him, grabbing the handle at the back of his carrier, dragging him towards the relative safety of the cruiser’s backseat cage. The two of them loaded in the back, returning fire as the third sped his way out of the combat zone. Lindsay looked to the second cruiser, seeing the trooper there struggling to get up. She started to examine the area, looking for cover, or at least concealment from the view of the shooter inside the house. The fire had slackened, with the main threat removed from the front door, and Lindsay saw movement inside. She took the opportunity to jump in the front seat of the Tahoe and backed up next to the open cruiser door and reached across the console to open the passenger door, her pistol still gripped in her left hand on the wheel. The trooper looked up at her from the ground and grasped the side of the seat, pulling himself up into the vehicle. His eyes met hers as he glassily stared at her, stunned from the impact and the previous minute of madness. “Get me the hell out of here” He bellowed, wheezing as he spoke. She turned the wheel and punched the gas. The Tahoe churned it’s back wheels into the Virginia grass, fish-tailing as it scrambled off the lawn, the smell of cordite hanging in the air.


With all the stresses of modern life, it can be difficult to set aside time to clean your residence. One day you drop a few crumbs on the ground, and before you know it, your house is infested with ants! Here at Pest-Corp, we pride ourselves on our bug-blasting knowhow. Today, we're gonna give you some handy dandy tips and tricks on how to prevent ant infestations in your household. Tip one: Clean after every meal Especially if you’re a parent (kids are dumb, and messy). Nothing attracts ants faster than easy to aquire, freely available food. You're gonna want to look out for crumbs and leftovers as you clean. Tip two: Wipe up spills The residue of soft drinks gives off a very strong odor, and is a surefire way to bring ants into your home. Make sure to quickly wipe up any spills to prevent infestation. Additionally, use some disinfectant spray to seal the deal. Tip three: Practise good hygiene Because the ants view you as food, the scent that you and your family members give off can quickly attract ants to your location. Make sure that everybody in your house takes daily showers. Additionally, wear deodorant, and brush your teeth frequently. If anyone begins bleeding, wipe it up immediately. Try to keep all bodily odors to a minimum. The smell of tears is quite salty and potent to them, so avoid stress when possible. Here are some fun games you can play with your family to avoid stress: -Hide and seek -Tag -Chess -Checkers -Cards -Charades -Pictionary -Twister Tip four: Think twice before inviting over guests During a national emergency, sitting around in lockdown can be very isolating. However, it is important that you do not allow guests into your house unless absolutely necessary. Your guest might have a strong odor, allowing ants to track them. Even if somebody is banging at your door, it’s best not to let them in, and pretend like you’re not home. Tip five: Eliminate lines of sight Ants have poor vision, but if you’re not careful, they can see you roaming around outdoors, or through the windows of your house. In order to remain undetected by ant swarms, stay indoors. Shut your curtains, close your blinds, or nail blankets to your windows. If you do need to go outside for whatever reason, do it under the cover of night to avoid detection. Tip six: Avoid noise If an ant hears a large amount of commotion coming from your abode, it might prompt them to investigate. Try to avoid arguments, screaming, power tools, etc. If you know there is a concentration of ants within your area, make a plan with your family to eliminate as much noise as possible. Tip seven: Stockpile supplies In the event of a [REDACTED], it will be difficult to find an opportunity to leave your home. Make sure you have supplies you need saved up beforehand, such as: -Non perishable food items -Drinking water -Life straws -Clothing -Padlocks -First aid -A generator -Gasoline -Any kind of chemical freshener to mask your scent, like febreeze. -Firearms When stocking up, remember that too much is better than too little. Tip eight: Incorporate air fresheners into your outfit You know those little trees that you hang up in your car? You can actually make necklaces out of them. This is a very easy way to eliminate bodily odor, and it’s also quite fashionable. For added effect, hang them from the ceiling fans in your home. The more unnatural scents in your home, the more protected you are against an infestation. Tip nine: Avoid confrontation Although ants might not appear to be any more dangerous than the average home invader, they most certainly are. They move with incredible speed, and are prepared to devour your flesh. Only use firearms if you absolutely have to, as this creates a ring of noise with a radius of about one mile. If an ant enters your house, the best course of action is to take your family into a room, lock the door, stay away from the windows, and wait for the ant to leave. Tip ten: Know that, in the event of a [REDACTED], your demise is inevitable If you stay indoors, you will starve. If you risk leaving, you will eventually be torn to shreds by a mob of ants. One will see you, then alert the rest. You will be ripped limb from limb, mandibles digging into your flesh. When you stop struggling, they will bring you back to their festering hills, and consume you. There can be no hope, only delayal of the end. Know that you are fighting for the moment, and not the future. The festering wound that is humanity will heal. Buildings will fall, and hills shall be erected in their place. Ants will pour out into the streets, consuming and purging all in sight. When there is nothing left to consume, they will starve. Nature will once again reach an equilibrium. Civilization will fade, and God's work will be complete. He rests easy, knowing that the innocence and purity of all natural life shall be forever maintained. ////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// We’d like to thank you for taking precious time out of your day to read this guide. If this helped you in any way, please consider donating to one of our fundraisers, or purchasing some merchandise on our website.


The cold mist of morning dew lay like a blanket over Birmingham Alabama's Five Points District. The perpetual *wet* that clung to the air was exacerbated by the early morning sun, having just risen, had not yet been able to warm the air to an agreeable temperature. The ancient brick buildings stood sentinel over the city’s most historic and well known hub of commerce. Blurry headlights attached to blurry vehicles approached the Five Points intersection from all five directions, one by one they would all wait their turn under the stoplight. This grand arbiter would spew forth color coated permission to the cars below. Green, yellow, red...green...yellow...red. An automobile ballet with no perceivable middle or end in sight. At the base of the Charles, Louisman, & Greening building, D'Andre stood just outside a locked, brass-handled door with his hands tucked into his arm pits. Carefully pacing back and forth just enough to stay warm, and not enough to sweat through his interview clothes, he was anxious to get inside, *if* this building ever opened. Birmingham was uncharacteristically cold this December morning and D'Andre was growing jealous of those cruising past him who could afford a car with heat, or even just a car really. A middle aged woman finally appeared on the other side of the door with a large keyring, she held one eye's gaze on finding the right key, and the other on sizing up the threat or intention of the man standing out in the cold morning. D'Andre took a few steps back to give the woman some breathing room. Having been black his whole life; D'Andre knew the importance of the bubble of personal space you afford to strangers was especially true for him. To many times throughout his life had people misinterpreted his intentions, casting sinister shadows across the face of a man whose only crime was being born black and not especially handsome, well...not his *only* crime. After a turn of the key and a mechanical *click*, the business-casually dressed middle aged woman opened the door and welcomed D'Andre inside with a greeting about as warm as his own nose. The buildings massive foyer struck D'Andre as a mix between a large bank and a small airport. The woman retreated across the marble floor and behind a reception desk where she took a seat and gave D'Andre a forced *'May I help you?'* smile, without ever actual having had said it. “Hello, Good morning.” D'Andre's deep voice echoed straight up at the vaulted ceilings, “I uh, I have an appointment this morning to meet with a Mr. Donnatee.” “I'm sorry, there is nobody here by that name.” The woman's face contorted comically sour, “Unless of course, you are referring to Mr. Dinaughty? She offered. “Yes, that would be him.” D'Andre felt a sharp sting of displacement from this woman’s words, the pristine floors, the air of superiority, everything around him screamed 'OUT CROWD'. A decade ago, D'Andre would not have hesitated to take this white bitch down a peg, today however, he had too much to lose. “Have a seat and someone will be out shortly.” she said and motioned toward the leather clad sitting area next to the coffee station against the west wall. D'Andre did as he was told and lowered himself into the couch gently as if not to rock a boat. Several minutes passed and D'Andre was becoming keenly aware of how quiet this lobby was. The nearby coffee smelled of freshly brewed Veranda Blend and became increasingly temping. D'Andre had learned to ween himself off coffee from all those years of being threatened with ulcers from Dr. Lippman, the prison's medical ward's main physician. “Mr. Washington?” spoke a light skinned woman holding a clip board who had appeared from a set of large wooden double doors on other side of the coffee station. D'Andre turned his head to see who had called his name. Their eyes met and he stood quickly, subconsciously eager to please this beautiful young woman. Although both were black, they clearly never ran the same circles. D'Andre knew for every shade lighter your skin was; another dollar was added to your cultural capitol. “Follow me please.” She said and turned to lead him back through the double doors. D'Andre was grateful for her polite smile but now he was not sure their eyes actually met after all. He followed her closely down a wide carpeted hallway adorned on both sides with large beaming portraits of old puffy white men. After two left turns they arrived at the door of Mr. Dinaughty's office. The light-skinned assistant rapped twice on the mahogany, turned and left the way they had come. Upon the door opening, D'Andre was met by a tall gray-haired man in a suit that fit far better than D'Andre's did. Mr. Dinaughty's trendy eyeglasses and current haircut gave off a youthful energy for a man who was clearly in his late fifties. “Come in Mr. Washington!” The man spoke loudly through an exuberant smile. They two men exchanged a handshake that was, due to Mr. Dinaughty's ardor, near violent. “Sit! Sit!” he cried. D'Andre took his seat and scanned the walls of the scarce office, few personal objects and no art to speak off. “So,” Mr. Dinaughty stated matter-of-factly while his eyes scanned some papers on the desk in front of him. “Looking for some work are we?” “Yessir”. “Well, well, well, well, well....looks like your P.O. is Paul Houser? Fine man, that Paul. Did he mention he and I attended college together? “Oh, Yessir”. “I suppose he still does that crazy 'eyebrow' thing when he gets real serious, huh?” “Oh, Yessir, he does indeed.” Mr. Dinaughty let out a short, hard laugh. “Well, well, well, well, well...says here on your application that you are applying for the job of marketing assistant?” “Yessir, that is correct. I spent two years studying communications and marketing at Jefferson State Community College. That is, uh, where I obtained my associates degree.” People where always stricken with surprise to learn D'Andre was a college grad, considering his somewhat inarticulate speech. “Mr. Washington” Dinaughty spoke slower now, “You see...positions in our marketing department are just are not the type of job we offer to felons. It-its a matter of policy, you can understand that right?” Dinaughty lifted his palms up, showing that his hands were empty and, in fact, not holding the pen that writes policy. “Look, Sir,” D'Andre said quickly, striving hard to hold back a ghetto edge from his voice. “I'm not looking to run up in here and start calling the shots, all I'm looking for is a chance to prove that I am worthy of a legitimate career, that I'm capable of being the man my sons see me as. Now, I am worth more than those 12 years the state stole from me. I can prove to be an asset, I'm just looking for that chance, that’s all.” D'Andre had no way of knowing just how little his passionate plea would advance his cause. Long before he ever woke up this morning, the cogs of commerce and economic determinism had conspired against his plight. A Black ex-con doing anything other than mopping floors is just *'not best for business'* as Dinaughty would latter put it. At the end of the interview, D'Andre was ultimately offered a job. An hour later, after being fitted for a custodial uniform, D'Andre set out again into the cold streets towards the small building attached to the courthouse, to tell his probation office the*good news*.


In thirty seven long years of his life, Griffin Mersh never devoted a single thought to ants. But then again, why would anyone want to waste a single microsecond of their lives thinking about ants? Although he had an inconsequential affinity towards other creatures, which he did not acknowledge mindfully throughout his life, a puny ant still hadn’t figured into his mild indifference. In school he was taught about fish, frogs, mice, and even dinosaurs that were wiped out irreversibly millions of years ago, but ants were too insignificant and infinitesimal for anyone to take a meaningful notice. His utter disregard for the hard working critter had not stem from lack of confrontations, for he had seen their colonies emerge sporadically in his front yard. They even crawled all over his face when he took a tumble and passed out in a practice game in his senior year. He brushed them off, strategizing about getting one over the boy who pushed him. He had unwittingly crushed them under his foot as he carried boxes of his packed stuff into the trunk of his car bound for college. Unbeknown to him, their lines marched over the library floor, where he spent most of his college years and had his Shakespearean moment with the love of his life. Then on, his life moved too briskly for the ants to catch up. The day Griffin Mersh married Lily Aikins in a charming little ceremony, he received the letter that sent him over the moon. He was to fly on the next mission to the space station. The newlyweds were overjoyed, pieces of life seemed to be steadily falling in their rightful places. They moved to a suburban community in a great schooling district. The job took most of his time, while Lily sprouted a ton of new hobbies- from gardening to oil painting. She also dabbled in amateurish romantic poetry to the stupendous delight of her husband. Needless to say, his life was just on the brink of being perfect. That threshold was accomplished when he fathered two children- little Philip and Catherine, who soothed his soul with their mere presence. The children inherited the intellect of the father and creative spirit of their mother. They were the source of extreme pride for their father, for in them he found the true purpose of his life.Thus progressed the life of Mr. Griffin Mersh. It went from being louder, more eventful early on to monotonous and unexceptional over time. It did not irk the astronaut as he had always wanted to lead a normal, and ordinary life. ‘Most extraordinary thing in life is to be ordinary,’ he had read the phrase somewhere and it was etched in his heart. Even as the altered nature of his lifestyle allowed him more time and freedom to pursue the things that peaked his interest, ants still did not induce a tangible thought in his mind. There were always bigger issues in life to tackle, more interesting leisures to experience and an endless space to traverse. His flights had become routine and as dull and predictable as daily commute by a train. His work was technical, which most people would describe as boring and unstimulating, but for him, it was one of the greatest joys of his life. He had perfected his daily routine on the station which began every morning with him religiously gawking at the pure blue marvel suspended in the dark void of space from the window of his station. He never got tired of taking in the extraterrestrial view of his home, where he had left a better part of himself. For the rest of the day, he would diligently perform his duties as flight engineer, monitoring the mechanical components of the station and ensuring that repairs were timely and sufficient to sustain their course. On the fateful day just after he woke up, Griffin looked out the window out of habit and found his home in all its grandeur. As he sat there with the view shaking him out of the stupor, something unmissable caught his eye. A gargantuan shadow from the depth of the void crawled towards him. It had appeared suddenly as if it were thrust into existence by some absurd force of nature. Its size too large for him to comprehend had a catastrophic impact on the natural order of earth and moon. Before the eight crew members of his expedition had a moment to think about the phenomenon, it had revealed the true extent of its unbelievable magnitude- a million times the size of the earth. They had just two minutes to don their EVA suits, for it had shattered the communications in its entirety and even as they struggled to put the situation in words, they knew in their hearts what it meant for them and their home. Hopelessness and disbelief was palpable as they abandoned their station wordlessly, in awe of the structure, waiting for the inevitable. He hurtled away unbridled from the exploding station with his crew in utter despair, its wreckage had punctured the outer layer of his suit, which displayed in big red letters before him the time until the oxygen ran out. “Two Minutes!” It beeped. With each revolution around the axis of his own body, Griffin glimpsed the true horror as the shadow maintained its uninterruptible course- its mouth extending towards his home, towards his wife in midst of painting a landscape with red and blue oils, his eldest digging up the grass in their yard and inspecting the worms that wriggled, his daughter watching her mother with one eye and another fixed at the clear, pale blue sky. He longed for nothing more than to be with them at the moment. “One Minute!” The beeping had accelerated its tempo. In the moment of his extreme desperation, he remembered the distress signal that he had activated the moment they deserted the station. A smidgen of hope had begun to germinate in one corner of his heart. ‘Maybe *they* have received my signal. *They* will have to honor the code, and help us all out. *They* cannot just brush us off, and crush us en route. It is unthinkable, and absolutely iniquitous,’ thought he. “Thirty Seconds!” The sound was one continuous and uninterrupted, shrill tone. The other floating astronauts had disappeared from his view. The kindled hope had effectively been doused by the indifferent bearing of the shadow with no sign of humane disposition. He checked his own course in the wobbly display of his helmet- towards the core of the sun. His maneuvering apparatus was one of the first to break down under rain of exploding debris. His thumping heart had inexplicably been subdued. “Ten Seconds!” The display itself was fading away and a confused static was gradually replacing the clear tone. In those ten seconds, after thirty seven years, four months and thirteen days, he at last thought consciously of ants. By the time the clock ceased its countdown, Griffin Mersh, the outstanding astronaut, who lived a good and meaningful life, had himself become an ant.


An alarm screeches as a boy groans at the thought of another day of thoughts. The boy reluctantly gets out of bed to a particularly bland world. Thoughts of everything that could go wrong rush the boy’s head as he gets ready for school. While he’s getting ready, the boy notices his house is unusually empty but he assumes everyone left early. The boy grabs his favorite cereal only to notice it doesn’t taste as good as he remembers. Puzzled, the boy assumes the cereal is out of date. The boy is then washed over by a strange wave of deja vu but chooses to ignore it as he doesn’t know why or where it came from. As the boy gets ready to walk to school, he puts in his earbuds and puts on his favorite song just to get annoyed by how repetitive and boring it now seems to sound. The boy also realized that the world which used to be vibrant and beautiful has now turned an ugly shade of gray. He ignores it as it’s been a constant trend for once beautiful things to turn gray and depressing. The boy then turns his music up and makes his way to school, head down, kicking rocks, trying to distract himself from invading thoughts and the sad, monotonous reality of his daily life. As he walks, he notices the air has a strange scent like it’s about to rain but he sees no clouds and the sky is strangely gray. While walking, the boy looks up and sees an odd shape in the road ahead, while all these abnormal experiences keep happening he realizes he hasn’t seen a single car or another person. As he approaches the strange shape he saw he can feel the air gradually get colder and the world around him starts to get darker. When the boy gets close enough he can see that the shape is missing a hexagon-shaped section in the road, seemingly leading to nothing. The hole doesn’t seem to have much below it either as if it was just a tile of the world that has been removed. The sight of the hole heightens the boy’s senses allowing him to notice the slight but constantly increasing distortion in his music but not the sounds of the rest of the world as there is no sound other than the music coming from his earbuds, not even his footsteps. Realizing this, the boy screams in an attempt to make any noise other than the now extremely distorted music coming from his headphones. In an attempt to pause or somehow stop the music, the boy rips out the cords leading to his earbuds but that doesn’t stop it. The boy then scratches at his ears to make the noises he once called music stop. His earbuds fall to the ground not making a sound but the music continues playing. Terrified, the boy sprints from the ungodly hole as to make it stop. The more he distances himself from the hole, the more he can hear. First, his heart pounding in his chest. Then, his breathing which is heavy and ragged. Finally, his feet stomping on the asphalt road. The boy is petrified but works up the courage to look back. As he does, he sees more hexagon-shaped holes appear, swallowing buildings whole, buildings where loved ones lived, buildings where he had many great memories, buildings where he met friends and spent time with family. The boy keeps running, as a single tear rolls down his cheek, quickly swept away by the wind that is now raging around him. Lightning crashes and thunder booms but still nothing in the sky, not even a cloud, still a constant gray except for the occasional flash of white in place of lightning. Still looking back at the destruction behind him, the boy is hit with another wave of deja vu, forcing him to whip his head back to see where he’s going. When his eyes focus on the path ahead the boy realizes there is none. Nothing. Everything ahead of him is gone, swallowed into the ever-growing void that’s spreading like a plague, consuming everything he loved. Cornered inches from falling into the dark abyss, the boy looks back to where he just ran from, seeing he doesn’t have much time left as the unexplainable corruption spreads closer to him. Realizing he has nowhere to go, the boy closes his eyes, calms his breathing, and relaxes his body. With the boy’s body at ease, he is allowed to have a free mind and think. The boy thinks for what feels like years, decades, centuries, almost like a meditative state. A constant stream of thoughts, unbroken and never wavering. Thoughts of life, past traumas, horrors from his childhood, but they weren’t all bad. The boy also thought back to the great times with friends and family, not many but golden moments. At that moment, the boy knew what he had to do. As he opened his eyes, he saw every single moment he just thought about suspended in the air on geometric platforms, scattered in the newly formed void. Every good and bad moment in his life was displayed in front of him. A small gap in the chaos appeared ahead of him, clarity and freedom from his past that haunts him. The boy took one more deep breath and sprinted full speed at the gap, faster than he’s ever run. While running, the platforms containing his past, that shaped him, that made him who he is today, start blinking out of existence. As he reaches the end of what’s left of his world, he sees only one platform, positioned right in front of him. A pill bottle with a weathered label, all he can read from it is the letters, “Zol..”. The boy couldn’t make out any more from it as he had to look at the ground beneath him and the edge rapidly approaching. When the boy reaches the edge, time seems to stop for just a moment as he is blasted by emotions. Anger, fear, joy, sadness, disgust, all felt in a split second and quickly fading. No longer being bound by feelings or memories, the boy leaps into the void. While he’s falling, the boy feels nothing but is overwhelmed by a feeling he never felt before, an unexplainable feeling of freedom from the stress and pressure of life. Finally free, finally at peace. As the rest of the world fades and the boy falls into the endless abyss, darkness envelops his vision until he can no longer see anything but pitch black. Then as if nothing happened, the boy opens his eyes, back in bed, back in his house, back in the same old world he left the night before. He thinks to himself,” Ugh, another one, must’ve forgot my pills last night.” The boy then reaches over to his bedside table and grabs a pill bottle with a weathered label. As he takes the pill, he looks out his window. Just as he swallows the pill, the world brightens and becomes almost over saturated in color. Also in the back of his mind, another hexagon-shaped hole evaporates leaving a hopeless void in its place. But most importantly, the dreams go away and the boy’s mind goes numb once again...