As far as I can remember, my life has always been dull. The colours of happiness, sadness, anger... they were all meaningless to my eyes that only saw nothing but a cloud of grey, and as I grew older, as people change over the course of time. I stood there, unmoving, unfazed of the changes the world around me encounters. I became almost as dull as the world around me stands. “It’s alright, its fine.” I mumbled even when I find myself standing in front of a place I have never dreamed of stepping foot into. I look over to the librarian as she looked back at me with her grey pencilled brow raised, her colourless yet lively hues stared at me with interest. “Try the leftmost corner the last shelf at the edge of the library.” She said in a small tune, her voice brimming of her age, yet her voice strangely and unfamiliarly sweet. Feeling the books by my hands as I passed by one shelves after another, I noticed the presence of people decreasing and decreasing as I got closer to the place she told me about. I’m new to the library the sensation of leather cover on my hands, the sound of the books being flipped pages after pages with the whispers and silent laughs the people around creates even the scent of ink and paper around is all so very different to me which may be no surprise that I follow the librarians advice. With nothing but black and a few hints of grey, my eyes scan the books as I looked around the last shelf at the corner of the room, old and a tas bit different than the other shelfs at the entrance of the library, and compared to the books that was placed there, the book here smells more kind and eerie. Grey, grey, grey my eyes trailed over the sets of books. “What was that?!” I almost in a yell stated as my eyes glazed over at a certain book. A series of 'shhh' and murmurs immediately made me cover my mouth and slowly look back to the same book my eyes flashed on, and immediately a glowing bright yellow touch my line of vision. Yellow. A colour other than grey and black. With shaking hands I reached out to touch the book, hesitant that my eyes are only playing games at me and that my hand would only pass through. “It’s light.” I said as I held the book gently, fiddling over its leather cover, the smell of ink stronger than before. With a sharp pause of my breath I opened the book, and letters started flying,dancing as laughter, cheers, and pleasant sounds could be heard around me. My eyes didn’t leave the pages, and before I knew it my fingertips touch the last page of the book and the laughter died down, everything was once again silent, and I was back in the library. My eyes slowly looked up at the shelves and to my surprise, colours other than amber came popping. This time, I wasn’t scared. I was elated. The next day, I found myself greeting the librarian with the same awkward look I have given her like the last time, but my eyes were purely looking at her hues and to the words coming out of her mouth. “You’re here again.” She said, her hues glowing yellow as she smiled. “I see that you like my recommendation.” With only nothing but a curt nod I once again rushed to the same shelf, this time in my hand, a green, a blue and red books. And like the first one, I finished it before I even noticed. It felt a little lonesome whenever I close a book that made you feel giddy, it was lonely but at the same time I felt the need to close it, so that I can open another one. Looking over at the decreasing people around me I decided to also stop and walk out of the library passing by the librarian who was holding a book white of colour. I paused in my tracks and slowly glance at her direction. “Uhm...” The old lady stopped from skimming through her white book and look over to my direction. “Thank you for recommending the last shelf.” The instant my small voice let out a sound of gratefulness, everything around her lit up, a mixture of white and gold was casted around her as she gave me a smile in return. A smile I wasn’t expecting to be the last one I received from her. The next day I was greeted by a younger woman clad in pink, she was unlike the old woman has a more sparkly aura that no one seemed to overlooked. “Hi, I’ve never seen you here before.” I look at her in confusion. She’s the one I’ve never seen before. My eyes met the girl’s pink hues and immediately went to avert it as she met mine. Afraid that she'll say something offensive. “You have such lovely eyes.” She said in a quiet yet cheerful tone. “They’re brimming with joy.” “My eyes?” I asked, reaching over to touch the skin near it. My eyes were always dull. It has always been like that. “Thank you.” I said, although I was confused I decided to walk over to the last shelf once again. And to my surprise, the book filled colourful shelf has nothing but one book left. Yellow on its cover. “It’s light.” I said once again as I picked it up. Yes, it was the same first book I ever opened. At another end of the room I saw once again the old lady. She was looking back at me, eyes of gold, brimming with joy indeed and younger. I look at her and smiled as she smile back. Clutching the book tighter I walked back to the same librarian. “I see that you walked over to the last shelf. Did you like the mirror we placed at the other side of the shelf?” The librarian asked as she processed the book I decided to borrow. I look up to her and smiled. “Oh... yes. It was pretty.”


Homer Eliza Washington sat in his rocking chair on his front porch rocking and smoking his pipe. If there were anywhere in the world Homer would like to be it was here, looking out upon the large expanse of well cut grass that was his front lawn and taking scope of the surrounding landscape. Far down the slight slope of his front yard ran Hitch Road; a narrow piece of dirt that bent and curved every so often yet lay hidden from his view by the long row of Maple trees with their branches spreading out and intertwining with the one another to form a natural screen extending as far left and right as Homer could see, hiding Hitch with their array of crimson, brown, burnt orange, tinged yellow and red leaves. Ever since Spring replaced Winter and gave way to Summer three months ago Hitch Road remained nearly invisible to Homer from his perch on the porch. Oh it existed all right. Every so often a car would pass with their tires grinding down on pebbles or fallen twigs making a pinging noise as the debris hit the metal bodies of their cars as they passed in front of his house, sometimes at a fearful speed confirming Hitch still afforded a road people could travel upon on their way into town or points east or west. A forgotten and seldom used road perhaps, but nonetheless, a road. From the round, white wicker table next to his rocking chair he picked up his Mason jar filled with his homemade hard apple cider and took a gentle sip. At his age he had to be careful the amount of alcohol he consumed. “Not like the ol days uh, Homer. When a pint would go down like water. No sir. No, not like the old days.” He set the jar down and took a puff of his pipe. A westerly gust ran across the porch and set off the wind chimes hanging from the porch’s ceiling. Homer watched as the Maple trees swayed and bent a bit from the sudden wind. His eyes followed a flock of Maple leaves separated from their twigs being flung about without abandon. Eventually they would land somewhere, turn brown and die. Homer sighed realizing what was once vibrant and alive will wither and die to corrode and disappear as if they never existed. “Like us, we live to die.” Homer mused as he tapped his pipe’s bowl clean. When he was younger he didn’t really pay too much attention to the changing of the seasons. During summer he swam in the lake, camped out with his dad at their log cabin, fished the stream or rode his bicycle into town. When fall came and snatched away all the sunshine and warmth he merely switched from wearing shorts to long pants and tennis shoes to hiking boots. In fact, he enjoyed kicking about the fall leaves and playing on Jasper High School’s football team, The Jay Hawks. A smile came to him remembering how good he was. First string halfback. If he hadn’t broke his leg his senior year and if his dad hadn’t died, well, he might have played professional football or baseball. “No use thinking about what could have been Homer. You’ve walked that parade for far too long. Best leave it before it starts. Besides, there ain’t no power on Earth can take you back or change the hands of time.” He placed his pipe on the wicker table and picked up the jar. “One more sip ain’t gonna hurt nothing. It ain’t like you have somewhere to go now, is it?” He let out a laugh. No, he had nowhere to go for sure. His eighty years of life have led him here and here is where he will stay until he dies. He took a cautious sip and set down the Mason jar. Another gust, this one a bit cool, brushed up against him and set off the chimes again. September was only four days old and here the winter winds were trying to push out the little warmth left in the air. Damn Winter. “Now that is one cruel season. It sucks all the energy you stored up during spring and summer right out of you. There ain’t nothing good about winter.” He shivered at the thought of hunkering down, being snowed in and not being able to walk to the lake or across his land or sit here rocking and smoking his pipe. Being a fossil didn’t help either . He looked to his right and mentally measured the racks of wood he had stacked up at the end of the porch to get ready for winter. He had enough wood to last until March if Winter dug in deep this year. He rocked a bit and listened to the chair’s curved slats creak against the wood floor of the porch. The repetitive creaks and motion of the back and forth of his body being rocked, the soft notes of the wind chime as a breath of wind played against it began to set his mind at ease. And though he always knew he was powerless to stop the changing of the seasons or turn back the hands of time he had reached a certain peace in his life long ago accepting the things he could not alter. What was done, was done. No use fretting about what was. Another breeze, much warmer than the previous others, caressed his body reminding him summer is still hanging about as it danced across the porch setting the chimes alive before scurrying down his front lawn to rustle the Maple trees. He noticed again that a few of the Maple leaves, even with a mild touch of wind, were falling, some floating straight down while others taking flight. A car sped by, its image pulsating like a strobe light between the Maple trees. “Young folks no doubt in a rush to get to nowhere.” Homer leaned back in the rocker and rocked some more remembering those days in his youth when his dad let him take the car into town. He was only thirteen then and had a hard time reaching the gas pedal let alone remembering to push the clutch in, shift into gear then step on the gas. Like the seasons he was powerless to remain young and filled with that great optimism of youth. I could have done anything, I suppose. Been anyone. He put the mental brake on hard. “Damn it man. Stop that type of thinking.” Just then a cloud blocked the sun turning the sky a light gray. A brisk wind swept across the porch sending a chill through Homer. “Time to go in young man.” He slowly got to his feet. Took hold of his mason jar and walked to his front door. He turned to look out at his front lawn. The sky was growing darker and a few drops of rain were starting to fall. “Might as well go in, make your tea and settle down for the night Maybe the son will call. Maybe.” He sighed as he turned the doorknob of the screen door. Like the seasons, growing old and thinking about the past was a futile endeavor. And the future. Well, maybe one day something will change it, but for today he could only live for what is now. He’ll never change his son nor will his son ever change when it came to him. Homer opened the door leading into foyer. Nor will he ever call.


10 The air was stale and warm as I lifted my beer to my lips and took a large gulp having it leave a bitter taste on my tongue. Looking around I could see everyone smiling holding on to someone close. I was alone, but you weren’t. We were young once so naive and innocent, what changed? Why did it have to change? I was happy once so incredibly fucking happy like a kid amped up on sugar on Christmas Eve, but then we got older, and it was like a slap in the face. I miss being young. I miss not having a care in the world. I miss not worrying about how I looked, acted, smelled, weighed. I miss not caring about peoples opinions. I miss not having to hold in my pain throughout the day and crying so hard at night. I miss being able to fall asleep peacefully. I miss knowing the only pain I had could be fixed with a band-aid. I miss letting go and letting positivity take the wheel. I miss saying “I’m tired” and actually meaning I want to sleep. I miss looking out the car window and only seeing how beautiful life is and not the cruelty of it. I miss being able to make friends and being able to have real laughs and smiles. I miss not understanding love and the pain it comes with. I miss having 4th grade crushes and splitting a fruit roll up with them. I miss laying in the grass and thinking about becoming a princess when I grow up. I miss being human. I miss not being broken, but at least I had you right? To hold my hand, kiss my cheek to give me warm hugs telling me everything’s going to be alright. You were my safety net until you weren’t. 9 Pretending to be invisible in a room full of people is a lot easier than you’d expect. So here I am in the corner of a crowded party cradling a warm ass beer close to my chest. It was a pitiful sight. Looking around the room, at all the loving gazes being thrown about made memories I tried to bury come to the surface. Words of false promises and haunting gazes burned my mind. Sometimes...if I focus real hard I can still feel the pressure of your lips against mine, the warmth of your hand against my curves gripping tightly like I was the only thing holding you down to earth. Like I was your lifeline and you were terrified of letting go. oh what a fool I was. 8 I walked towards the balcony coldness seeping into my bones a chillness that not even my coat could stop. I could still hear the sounds of peoples voices mixing together as they counted down. The air smelt like pine as I took a deep shuddering breath the cold making it go white in the night sky. The pine reminded me of your cologne. I hate it. I hate how wherever I go something always reminds me of you. It’s like I can never escape you no matter how hard I try. Maybe I just need to try harder to forget the indent you left on my heart or maybe the reason why I still can’t forget the taste of you on my lips is because some part of me refuses to realize you let me go. 7 I don’t even want to be at this party, but I guess it beats staying at home with only a bucket of loneliness and a soft serve of pain for company. Deciding I couldn’t take on any more of the frigid air I tread back into the crowded living room. The buzz of excitement is still fresh in the air as I let my eyes trail against everybody’s faces. So many lives so many stories, and yet I couldn’t tell you one thing about anyone here even if I tried. I’m not sure why I even agreed to come here especially when I knew there might’ve been a chance you would show...or maybe that is why I’m here, a subconscious decision I made full of hope and yet here I am nursing a warm beer trying to keep my emotions under wraps, so I don’t break like a porcelain doll. It’s fucking pathetic. I’m fucking pathetic. 6 I move further through the crowd my eyes flickering towards the corner of the t.v. 10 seconds never felt more like 10 years. I found myself siting on a dark green couch with two people next to me that looked 3 seconds away from committing public indecency. I trail my hand against of the arm rest picturing it was your arm inste-fuck I need to stop doing this shit. I chuckled bitterly against my glass bottle. Swallowing what little remained I tried to rear back my emotions, but it seemed impossible at this point. I hate how I miss you. I hate how you said “I love you” and promised things so easily like it was nothing, like I meant nothing. You played me like a fool and I let you. I wish I could go back and do things differently. I wish I could’ve seen what was going to happen. I wish I saw the signs. I wish I knew what changed why you changed. We were so happy so in love, it was like you flipped a switch overnight and the next morning I could barely recognize you. Peoples voices snapped me out of my little pity party as they gradually got louder when the last 5 seconds finally came into view, so I decided to join them. 5 Letting my eyes fall quickly to the Aztec beige rug I looked up and my breathing hitched, my body tensed, my mind went blank because not even 10 feet away there you were. Even from here I could see those warm brown eyes flaked with gold. How could something so warm turn out to be so cold? My skin felt like it was on fire and it wasn’t because of the alcohol. You have a beard now it’s different compared to the clean-shaven face you had 3 months ago. I never liked it. It was like my eyes couldn’t leave your body they were stuck on your silhouette. You must’ve felt someone staring at you because you turned around and looked, but you didn’t find me. No one does. My heart was close to beating out of my chest and I prayed to god you left my line of sight, but then I saw movement next to you. A hand grabbed yours her hair swirled and my heart dropped. You looked at her with such intensity it felt intruding to watch. I squeezed my hands shut to stop them from shaking as I looked at you both. 3 months ago that was me and now it’s not. I couldn’t stop the rage from creeping into my soul at the sight. I hate you. 4 I hate you so much. You hurt me. you hurt me in a way that I will never forget. You put me in a place I never wanted to be in and it only you took 3 months to get over something that lasted 5 years. But I don’t hate you as much as I hate myself for still loving you. I’m sorry I wasn’t enough. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the person you wanted. The person you needed. I hope she is. I hope she’s everything I’m not. Because as much as I want to hate as much as I want to never hear your name uttered from anybody’s lips. You’ll always hold a special place in my heart and I will hate myself for it with very fiber in my bones. My eyes watered and my breathing shook, the crowd felt suffocating I needed to leave. Rising to my shaking legs I rushed towards the exit pushing past the screaming crowd. Before i could get any farther than the edge of the living room my coat got stuck on a side table which forced me to tun around right as he did. 3 He stared at me 2 I stared back 1 The ball dropped. Screams erupted all around me. the surrounding colors blurred the world spun and then you kissed her and the hot tears I desperately tried to keep at bay all night fell down my cheeks. I briefly remember someone hugging me throughout all the chaos, but I didn’t even feel it because all I could feel was my heart breaking all over again by you. We locked eyes from across the room for the last time tonight before I finally fled a sobbing mess and maybe just maybe if I looked a little closer I would’ve realized you had tears in your eyes too.


When I was little, I always thought my friend Billy was a police officer on account of the blue uniform he wore. It wasn’t until the fourth grade when I first learned about the Civil War that I realized he was a Union soldier. By then, though, my family had moved, so I never saw him anymore. I met Billy when my family moved to the outskirts of Richmond, Virginia in the late ‘90s. I was six at the time, so when I first told my parents about my police officer friend Billy, they assumed he was my imaginary friend. I never needed to use my imagination to see him though; he would always be sitting, clear as day, under an old, gnarled oak tree in the woods behind my house. Billy wasn’t much of a talker-it took me a good three months to get him to tell me he was from Lowell, Massachusetts-but I didn’t care. As an only child, I was just glad to have someone to talk to. I’d climb that old oak tree and talk, while Billy just sat there, with a faraway look in his brown eyes. He once told me I reminded him of his kid brother. When I asked Billy what his brother’s name was, he wouldn’t respond. He just sat there, with that eternal dreamy expression on his face. After I saw a picture of a Union soldier in my fourth-grade history textbook, I told my parents that Billy hadn’t been a police officer after all-he was a Union soldier. They exchanged questioning glances, and my mother replied, “Is that so?” We had moved to northern Virginia, near Washington, D.C., so I asked them if we could go visit the old house near Richmond. I wanted to talk to Billy again. My mother responded, “Sorry, sweetie, maybe another time. That’s a far drive, and Dad and I are really busy.” I didn’t visit the old house again until I was in my mid-twenties. It was a bit awkward knocking on the door and asking the current owner if I could have a look around. I explained that I had spent some of my childhood there and wanted to see the woods behind the house for old times’ sake. The owner agreed, if reluctantly, and I made my way around the house. The woods had changed a fair amount since I had left, but that old, gnarled oak was still there. I looked around, but there was no sign of Billy. I swear I could feel his presence, though, so I stood there for a good ten minutes, waiting. Nothing happened, so I made my way back to the house. I knocked on the door to let the owner know that I was leaving. When he opened the door, his daughter was standing next to him-she couldn’t have been older than six or seven. Before I could say anything, she asked, “Did you see Billy?” Her father looked at her with a frown and said, “Please, don’t mind her. She’s always talking about her imaginary friend Billy who sits under that old oak tree.” I smiled at the little girl and replied, “Not today.” Turning to her father, I said, “Thanks for letting me have a look around. I’m going to head out now.” As I turned to leave, I wasn’t quite sure how to feel. The six-year-old inside of me was happy to hear that Billy was still around. However, another side of me was saddened to think that he was still stuck here, after all these years, far away from home.


My name is Eric Vanderbelt today is April 2 2018, I am sixty-seven years old and I have Alzheimer's. My wife’s name is Margret, and we have three children Stacey, Rachel, and Todd. Stacey and Todd live in Kentucky, but Rachel lives in Ohio about 30 minutes from me. All three of my children are married Todd and his wife Sandra are expecting their first child, and me and Margrets third grandchild in July, they say it’s a girl, but you know it's gonna be a boy. The doctors said that writing down memories to read later sometimes helped Alzheimer's patients keep their memories for longer. I keep the journal to satisfy them and my family. They all worry for me I can see it in their eyes, the pity and the sadness. When I forgot where I placed my keys Margret nearly broke down in tears. It took nearly an hour to convince her that it wasn’t some bad sign or omen, sometimes people just misplaced their keys. It's growing so frustrating to have everyone constantly look at you like you might keel over any moment. The kids used to look at me like a hero now they treat me like a porcelain doll. No one understands, not the children, not Margret, or even the doctors. They might say I have Alzheimer's but I am not going to forget my family. I might have trouble remembering dates or times or even where I put my keys but I will not forget the family I have worked so hard to build. My name is Eric Vanderbelt today is July 29, 2018. I am sixty-seven years old, and I have Alzheimer's. Yesterday Todd and his wife brought home baby Erica Grace Vanderbelt. It was a girl, I was so certain it would be a boy, then again Margret reminded me how I thought Rachel was gonna be a boy for most of her pregnancy. Maybe I should leave the gender prediction to the doctors. Speaking of doctors at my most recent appointment they said my memory was better than anticipated. The look of pride on Margrets face was unmistakable. She told the doctor all about how she was constantly giving me memory quizzes. She even insists we watch jeopardy every night. Each time I get a question right she smiles like the sun. Onetime I set the DVR up to play a rerun and got every question right for 10 full minutes before she realized what I had done. For those ten minutes she was the happiest woman on earth I swear. I know Shes worried that Ill forget everything. That one day Ill wake up and not know who she is, but I could never forget her. Margret is the love of my life and always will be. I said till death do us part and I meant it. My name is Eric Vanderbelt today is November 16, 2018. I turned sixty-eight today and I have Alzheimer's. My boy brought his lovely daughter over for a visit today. Shes only a few months old but she is getting big already. Her laughter is so wonderful, just like her grandmother's. I just know Shes going to be so smart when she grows up. It’s a strange feeling when your kids go off and have kids, it feels like just yesterday I was chasing my little boy around the yard while Margret braided the girl's hair. The doctors say my Alzheimer's is progressing, but I think they simply don't know what they are talking about. They take every little mistake I make and blow it out of proportion. Last week I missed a turn on the way home from the store so it took an extra few minutes to get home and now the doctors are trying to get Margret to take my car keys away. As though I cant get to the store and back when Iv made the trip probably 10,000 times in the last 30 years. Not to mention the look on Margrets face when they suggested it made my heart break into a million pieces. After all this time of giving her hope and telling her how well I was doing to turn around and make it seem like iv got one foot in the grave well it was just stupid. My name is Eric Vanderbelt today is March 7, 2019. I am sixty-eight and I have Alzheimer's. My daughter came to visit today the one from out of state. She brought her husband and children. It was so fun to get to see them. They all grow up so fast I swear it was just a few months ago that I was holding their little girl in my arms. I remember how she laughed, and it was just like her grandmother's laugh. All cute and bubbly. The first time I heard that laugh was a warm spring day on the front lawn of Baylor university. From that moment on I was hooked, like a melody that you can't get out of your head that laughter repeated in my brain for weeks. Margret does not laugh as much anymore. She says its not my fault, but she says its with tears in her eyes. My name is Eric Vanderbelt, today is September 2019, I have Alzheimer's. Margrets says the doctors think I'm getting better. She is lying. I'm beginning to feel it, the weight of losing everything bit by bit, the feeling of a sweater unraveling. This morning a lovely woman came to visit. I didn’t know her, Marget told me she was my daughter, Stephany I think was her name. The poor thing looked so sad I think Margret wanted me to make her feel safe. So, I played along and pretended to be her father. This seemed to make both of them happy. At one point I even got Margret to laugh again, like before. Oh, how I love to hear her laughter. My name is Eric, I have Alzheimer's, at least that what the nurse lady keeps telling me. I assume Shes the nurse. She keeps bringing me medicine and food. She’s such a nice nurse, and beautiful too. Why I think I might have a crush on her. I don’t remember why I need a nurse or why they do not want me to leave my house, but I suppose if she’s here I don't mind. Sometimes I forget where I am but she always reminds me. She is just so sweet. I think tomorrow I may ask her on a date, I hope she's not married. I'll take her to the drive in and we can split a popcorn, I hope it’s a comedy because she has the most beautiful laugh I've ever heard.


We all have that one friend in our life that knows everything about us, who has seen us at our best, and our worst and still likes us. The friend that we can laugh with about anything and when you laugh it is so hard that you start to cry. That one friend that we almost ended up dating but for whatever reason, we didn’t. Don’t act like you don’t have that friend. You have one and are probably thinking of them as you read this and if you don't, at one point I bet you did. I have a friend like that. I am in my 40’s now and have known him since my 20’s. I met him when I was single, and newly broken up with by an ex-girlfriend. I was sitting at the British pub near me, with a friend, and I was speaking Spanish with said friend. He was sitting next to me at the bar, and he looked over at me “You speak Spanish?”, He asked. I took a sip of my beer and looked at him. He was cute. He had dark wavy hair, almost curly. He had very deep brown eyes. I could feel my light green eyes aglow. “I do. I used to be a Spanish teacher." " Wow. You speak it better than I do”. I would come to find out that I did indeed speak better Spanish than him, as he spoke what I would jokingly call middle school Spanish. His name was Fernando. I would call him Nando or Nandito. I was Laurita to him. We became fast friends after that. We would go to the pub together, we would play pool together, we would stay up late watching episodes of Aqua Teen Hunger Force together. If we hadn't hung out I would get a call just to see how the night was. If we had been out together but ended up separate places, I would get a call asking if I needed a ride home. Wherever I was he was. Wherever he was I was. It got to the point where people just started to assume we were together, and we awkwardly had to tell them we were friends. He was preparing to move to Colarado and I was not ready to get back into dating after what was a dumpster fire of a relationship. I remember one summery night. I had to have been 28. I had a small apartment on a quiet street. It was warm out, my window was open. I had a fan going. There was a breeze from the fan and the open window. I could hear crickets chirping. I had my head resting on his chest and his arms were around me. I am not sure what happened, but we ended up kissing. It was bound to happen. It wasn’t bad. It seemed right. We still hung out like normal. We just had a new dimension to our relationship. Nando was an attractive man. He was Puerto Rican, with light skin and freckles. We looked like total opposites. I looked a tom boy with baggy shorts and flip flops and short wavy dark hair that would go behind my ear; he had his timberlands and baggy jeans. We looked more like bros. There came a point where we drifted apart. He was going to move, and I was not looking to feel feelings for anyone. I guess what we did was just ghost each other. Except we didn’t fully. He ended up not moving. I saw him out and about and just like that we were friends again. This time, I lived in a studio apartment, and he would come over late at night, and we would have what I would call our rendezvous. I was single. He was single. I don’t know why we didn’t make a go of things then. We saw each other most weekends. I didn’t try. He didn’t try. We just had fun together. He had mentioned that he would like to have a partner. We should have tried. I sit here kicking myself as I write. Let’s fast forward and be glad for the advent of Instagram. We connected on there. He was making flan and coquito for Christmas, and I needed some. So, he dropped it over before Christmas. Then, came Springtime. He had been dumped by a narcissistic scene chic. He was really thrown for a loop. He needed a friend and a listening ear. It started out just Instagram conversations. Then it was meeting out places. Then we were going on walks. Then there was a can I come over text wich he apologized for. I had a boyfriend at the time. I could feel it happening. It was 3am. We were standing on the top of the roof of a space he rented to play pool. We had plaid pool but hit the roof top. It was a beautiful view. The lights of the city twinkled. We almost kissed. Almost. I was ready to break things off with my partner. Nando wanted me to. I wasn’t able to as I was living with my boyfriend, and I was scared to. What if Nando didn't work out? I guess our timing has never been right. Ever. He is now happy with his girlfriend of a year. She is very pretty. She looks like she treats him well. I am glad he is happy. He deserves to be happy. He is a good man. He is an evolved man. He deserves a good partner. This isn’t the end of the story. Things change every day. I hold on to a sliver of hope that the timing will be right for us one day. Maybe he won’t be the one that got away, but the one who came back. Time will tell. I am honestly not the best at relationships, and neither is he. That is why I feel like we would be good together. The great thing about Instagram is that you can tell who checks out your story, and he still checks out my stories now and then. It isn’t much, but it makes me happy. I solemnly swear, if my chance arises again, I am going to take it. I have in writing, so I have to stick to it.


\--**Niccolo Machiavelli** Patricia: It was his words that bled a nation. Assuming he even spoke at allbut let's say that he did Mosheed: Okay, but was it *his* words that challenged the sanctity of this nation? Or was it perhaps *his audience*? Patricia: Why not both? Mosheed: Because at the end of the day, as powerful as words can be, it takes the actions of a million to get a million going. One man isn't enough Patricia: He started it. Mosheed: And his people will finish it severely Patricia: But if we take him down, we won't have to worry about their vengeance Mosheed: A few figures down the line are prepped to take his place, and with them the same targeted audience, just at different venues Patricia: We can stop the spread of communism, what makes this any different? Mosheed: First off, we haven't stop the spread of communism at all. it's in our backyard, what makes you think it didn't go through the backdoor? Patricia: Countering Terrorism is on the top of our list. Mosheed: Can't win at tennis by not serving back Patricia: What? Mosheed: Think of Wimbledon you simpleton Patricia: Your metaphors make no sense Mosheed: You'll understand later, depending on how I explain it to you. Despite your age and experience, you bare witness to old tricks with the freshest of eyes Patricia: you love attacking me, dont you? Mosheed: Not at all. This was merely a test of strength Patricia: Strength? Mosheed: Mental Strength. You can test *me* if you want Patricia: No Thanks. I've grown tired of your tricks. Mosheed: Mental Exhaustion doesn't deter the validity of these tests Patricia: I dont care Mosheed: I promise you will Patricia: Mosheed... Mosheed: He will inevitably uncover dishonesty and lies; history has no place for them. Patricia: The Quran Right? I recognize that quote. Mosheed: Good girl...You know, I never understood non-believers. There is without an umbra of unsureness, a supreme being hovering over us right now. Besides our own free will, who else holds the power of life and death in their hands? The government does. The government *Is* God Patricia: Then who would Mosheed: Who would serve as the Prophet? It could be anyone of us. Anyone of us could be The Begotten orator...The Professor of Religious texts. Bible Isn't a word, it's an Acronym. B.I.B.L.E, meaning Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth. Those instructions revolving around creation, and destruction. Patricia: Hmm...that's interesting. Mosheed: My grandfather could've been Robert Oppenheimer, but he decided to become a doorbell salesman.


"You know what I was thinking? The dez is like a simile for the world... I mean like, many people just see nothing, but in reality there's a lot of beauty if you just look... in one of the two most beautiful countries in the world (or at least outside of Germany and Austria)" "Yah, that's very true, babe :) the dez is just great!" "Yah it is (: you know what else is great, or even greater?" "What?" "You" "I love you, you know that?" he said, smiling at her lovingly and taking her hand in his. "I love you too" she replied, lovingly squeezing his hand back smiling at him lovingly back. "This is what life is about... you and me, and mates and family, and nature... none of that whole who's got more money, fame, the latest whatever... none of that stuff matters at the end of the day, this does..." "Well said, babe" he said smiling at her and seeing her do it too. A little while later, nearing a town... "We're gonna need to stop by the servo too, running low..." "Okay, and good time to refuel on snacks and lollies too hey" "Right heh" Moments later... "That's strange... is that a person? out here alone?" "Hmm... it seems to be..." "I swear, if we're about to be attempted murdered... well, they'll fail miserably because I've watched way too much true crime for them to get anywhere with that idea. But let's not assume anything, we'll be fine..." "Yah, for sure" "Slow down, let's just see what they're about..." "I don't know about that... "We'll be fine, if anything, you can floor it" "Okay..." "Hello... are you alright?" "Yes, yes... I just got in a silly argument with my partner and they took off... some people..." She turns to see him rolling his eyes like "oh great..." "Oh, well, we can give you a ride back into town if you need... good to get out of the sun for a bit too..." she told the man turning back to him, and feeling like a certain person is thinking "we're deffo gonna get murdered or something now..." "we won't..." "Don't worry, I'm not a danger" And on this they turned to each other like uhh... good? ...awkward silence... "You know, not many people would stop to help someone in need, especially when there doesn't seem to be something in it for them..." "That's true... But we should all be helping each other... human or otherwise... every life is important and valuable and capable of good things, even if humans seem to lose track of that.. that's also why volunteering is great, but it's fun too a lot of the time. And we always help whenever we can. And he's a lifeguard too, and I volunteer and donate all I can too. And it's nice to help the homeless where one is whenever possible too. It's needed more than ever and you never know who you could be helping or how much of a difference you could possibly make..." "Very true indeed. You're wise. How old are you?" "Ageless. Hah, no but seriously, we're young and old enough at the same time." "Fair dinkum...." "So where are you coming from?" "Oh, just a town nearby... but I travel quite a bit... work and such, I'm sure you understand..." "Yes... well that's nice. Hope things are going well for you." "Yes, they're good, thank you. And things will get better for you too." "Cheers for the vote of confidence. It's already great but I wouldn't mind things getting even better, of course." she said turning to her right, smiling at him to see him smile back at her. "You two kids are blessed to have each other. After everything... So I hope you two remain well and happy together for a long time." "Well, thanks mate. That's all I want as well. Anything for him hey... I love him" "Same for me for her of course" "It's beautiful to see young people actually in love, considering how many erroneously believe they are but aren't and it's all hormones and lust and the like... you can tell when it's real, yknow... if you know..." "Right" he said. "And... It took so long to get to him, and it was a needle in a haystack of the world, it seemed like it would take a miracle to get to him... but if I knew one thing, is that he is worth it... I've never felt that way about anybody before... well, mix of never felt that way and never thought I'd feel that way again or even be remotely happy... and I kept hoping and wishing and praying and everything, and doing what I could... and knew I wasn't going to give up on him, on us... and here we are. Happy and in love and everything... he's the best that's ever happened to me." "And I'm happy she did. She's the best that's ever happened to me too, and I love her too." he chimed in. "And I'm happy for you two. You two are special, and you've got something special, and it radiates out, youknow..." "Yes, we know, but it's always nice to hear someone else say it too." "I'm sure..." "Random question, but are you vegan?" she asked the man. "As a matter of fact, yes I am. The value of real nutritious is highly underestimated, especially lately. But of course, that also depends where I am. I travel quite a bit, as I've told you, so it's important to do your best and be living at one with nature as opposed to off it. So as long as you respect all beings, then that's what matters. But as I'm sure you know, people being earthly beings, make mistakes and that's alright. But as long as you all do your best and are happy and well." "Exactly. And it's important to remember that and wish more people would understand that as well..." she told him. As the servo came into sight, she turned around to give the man a head's up only to see him gone. "What the-?!" "What ba- the f? Where did he go??" "He was just here! And it's not like he just fell out... maybe he was a spirit or something?" "I don't know... maybe we just hallucinated him..." "Nah, he was deffo here..." As he pulled into the servo to fill up, he realised it's already full as if it's just been filled too... "Babe, look at this! It's already filled up! But we were low..." "So yah we deffo didn't hallucinate him... and I'm surely not complaining... there's so much to the world we don't know or understand yet... however strange it may be..." "Yah... that actually happened to us though..." "Yah... that's pretty great though, honestly..." "Yah, it is... They're so not going to believe this!" he said. "Maybe... But then again..."


“Skiing was so great yesterday. I wish the weather would have held out for another day.”So said the chalet guest, who should have gone home yesterday. But, fortunately, Ben was having such a great time he didn’t want to leave. But at least Jessica is snowed in with him, along with about a dozen other guests. And since they’ll be stuck here for a few days, they may as well have fun. As the snow and temperature continue to fall, the snowed-in guests gather in the great room, taking stock of each other. Tara and Dennis have already decided they’ll extend their honeymoon. And, of course, Ben has already decided to pursue Jessica, who is also here alone. Three other couples are not sure they can handle being stuck inside together for very long. At least when they could go out and ski, they could separate from each other for a while. And that leaves only four other guests along with the chalet staff. With the possibility of as many as five days stuck inside with many people who don’t know each other, things could be pretty dull... or fascinating. On day 2, two of the couples are fighting, two of the staff are refusing to work, and the weather isn’t showing any signs of improvement. Ben is still trying to sweet-talk Jessica but can’t seem to get past first base. “Hey Ben, have you seen Jessica this morning? We were going to get together to play some board games, but I can’t find her.” Penelope, one of the staff, is looking for any reason not to work today. Entertaining a guest will surely get her out of laundry duty. But no one can seem to find the guest she wants to engage. Maybe Penelope can talk the guests into a real game of Clue, and you never know, she might even find Jessica and play some Monopoly. Unfortunately, Ben and Penelope are the only ones interested in finding Jessica. Penelope keeps looking for a way to get out of laundry, and the fighting couples keep looking for opposite corners to hide in while Ben keeps looking for Jessica. Meanwhile, the other guests are in their rooms doing their own thing. “Penelope, can you help me find Jessica? I’m really worried.” She pauses the folding of linens in the laundry room to listen to Ben’s litany of thoughts about what may have happened to the woman he was trying to romance. So far, Jessica has not been seen outside of her room for more than 24 hours. She’s not answering her door, and it doesn’t sound like anyone is moving around inside. He’s worried something happened to her. Did she venture somewhere in the building where the guests usually don’t go, or maybe even outside, where she may have gotten lost? He doesn’t want to get overly anxious, but he wants to find his friend. Day 3, and there’s still no sign of Jessica. Now more people are worried about what might have happened to her. Tara and Dennis volunteer to go outside and walk around the chalet to see if she may have gone outside. The three fighting couples agree to split up, with the men going down into the basement and the women going upstairs to the attic. Penelope and the rest of the staff started going through the locked areas of the chalet. Penelope bangs on the door to Jessica’s room. No answer, not a sound. Using her key, she opens the door. After all, Jessica could be inside, either sick or hurt. But no such luck. The room is empty of people. But her ski coat and boots don’t seem to be here. Does this mean that Jessica went outside when the snow slowed down in the middle of the night? Why else would her coat and boots be gone? The search of the basement yields nothing but dust and stored supplies. But there is a puddle of water near the cellar doors on the far side of the room. Could Jessica have gone out through the cellar doors? If she did, it would put her on the south side of the chalet, facing the forest. Did she go out to check how deep the snow was and wander into the trees? Tara and Dennis start walking in circles around the chalet. Then, arriving at the cellar door that gives direct access to the south side of the basement, they see footprints. They are small, like a woman’s boots. Could they belong to Jessica? Could she have come outside for some reason? After clearing off what seems like two feet of snow, Dennis opens the cellar doors and goes inside, where the men are looking at the puddle of water. One of the men calls his wife in the attic to let the women know they have found signs of Jessica leaving the chalet. Then, going upstairs, they tell Penelope they have discovered the tracks left by the boots she couldn’t find. Following the tracks left in the snow, the men run toward the forest, breathing heavily in the cold air. They urgently scan the area, moving toward the trees, looking for the woman who left the footprints. She must have come out after the snow stopped, probably trying to guess how long it would be until the snow cleared enough for them to be able to leave. With these thoughts running through their mind, the searchers aren’t wasting energy talking to each other. Instead, they are running and looking, hoping to find something before they enter the forest behind the chalet. If she went into the woods, she might be lost... or worse. They reach the trees with no sign of Jessica other than her boot-prints... if they are hers. It’s still freezing, so they decide to go back to the chalet to get some supplies for a more extended search. They also choose to call for search and rescue for help when they get back. No one even knows if Jessica left the tracks or what they may find at the end of the trail. Without waiting for the team, the men return with a sled full of supplies. They might need the sled to bring her back. As they enter the forest, they see animal tracks alongside boot tracks. They are worried and try not to panic. One mentions that it is good that Ben and his anxiety stayed back at the chalet. They follow the tracks further into the woods to a small cabin with windows full of light. Peaking in the window, one of the men sees Jessica inside. Breathing a sigh of relief, knowing now that she is all right, they knock on the door. The caretaker from the chalet lets them inside, where it is warm and dry. Jessica begins to panic, backing up toward a corner and looking around to see who has come in. She screams the caretaker’s name, wanting him to make these people leave, but relaxes when she sees the men who had been bickering with their wives back at the chalet. Finally, finally, they see Jessica is safe in his cabin. They know the caretaker and that he will take care of her. She knows they will understand. She had to leave there, go anywhere, even out into the woods, away from her stalker. Away from Ben.


I feel a slow tossing beneath me. Faintly I hear the beginnings of my housemates alarm. It grows steadily louder until he reaches over and silences it, rolling back over in the bed. I lay on a large pillow next to him and my other housemate. She hasn’t stirred. The alarm goes off twice more before they turn on the light and start moving about the room. I remain on my pillow, quietly snoozing into the morning. I listen to them move about as I continue my rest. The two furry roommates move about the floor with the clicking and clacking of claws on hardwood. I tuck my nose under my tail and continued to snooze. As they all move down stairs I give a silent stretch, my claws reaching outward. I could get up, but it isn’t quite time. I hear the loud whirr of their morning food machine. It disturbs me, but since it is far below me, down the stairs, I am not overly concerned. One housemate leaves the house, taking the furry roommates with her. She will return shortly, but for now the house is free of them. They move so fast, and make such loud noises. Barks and woofs at every little thing outside. My other housemate continues his morning ritual. I hear the food machine again, water, more water. Eventually he returns up the stairs. He moves into my room and grabs the small black plate that holds my food. I know he is going to refill it, but I still do not stir from my spot on the pillow. I snooze and I wait. Some time later the second housemate returns, the furry ones with her. They are loud and moving quickly through the house, excited after their morning adventure. I don’t leave the house, not that I ever wanted to. Plenty could be seen from the windows. I have seen birds, squirrels, and many other wonderful things. Some days, when the windows are “opened” I can even smell and hear them. I smell and hear other things, but they are strange and loud, and I don’t want to encounter them, so I am content to wait inside the house, and smell and hear from my windows. I hear them below, the housemate giving them commands so they can earn their food. I certainly don’t do that. He brings me the food and I eat it at my leisure. He comes up the stairs clicking the plate to a hard band on his finger. Some days I will jump up and follow him to my room for the plate, but today is not one of those days, today is a day for more snoozing. Some time later, when all are back down the stairs I let out a final stretch and climb to my feet. My legs are a bit shaky, not as strong as they once were. My feet land on the floor next to the bed with a louder thud than I intended. The muscles just don’t absorb the same way they used to. I sonder across the floor to my room, where my food waits. I have to cross by the fan, it blows so loudly. I don’t like the fan, it always makes my whiskers feel strange, and it moves so fast, so loud. But I press on into my room. It is nice here. The food on my clean plate, on top of my placemat. Next to it sits a small fountain that gives me running water. It is only good out of the back corner of the dish, but I try not to complain to the housemates about it too often. A quick taste of the food reveals it is tuna. I like tuna. I have heard the housemates say chicken is my favorite, but I know they know better. They always give me more tuna in a week than chicken, and they never seem surprised when I leave most of the chicken still on the plate. After a few more licks I decide to save the rest for later, and head back to the pillow. No windows are opened yet, so I just go back to my morning nap. The noises below die down as the housemates settle into their morning. The second housemate will be up in my room soon. I haven’t know her as long, but we share a special bond. She sits ever so still while in my room, and doesn’t seem to get as excited as my first housemate. Though, admittedly, she doesn’t scratch the ears or chin enough while she sits, which is a problem. I have been trying to train her better recently by standing up where she places her hands on the desk and talking at her. When she doesn’t listen I bite her hands to get her attention. She does eventually come up, and scoops me off my pillow. I know it is going to happen, like every day, but I protest anyway. She takes me to my room and sets me in her lap. I let out a final protest and lay down on the small blanket she places on her lap. She begins her morning. On the desk above my head I hear the furious tapping of her fingers on a small contraption. She does this all day. The other housemate does something similar, but conducts it down the stairs, with the furry roommates. I lay patiently, before long the strokes will come and with them scratches as well. I am correct, soon a hand is on my head, scratching my ears. Then moving swiftly to my chin, oh how does it feel so good? I stretch and relax across the housemates lap. I can’t ask for much else. After some time I decide I am actually hungry and jump down to revisit the food plate. It is the same as before, still tuna. I eat a tad more, check the water and then make some minor protests. The housemate doesn’t really get it, but before long I am back in her lap. I stay there a long while. I eventually climb up into the tree the housemates placed in my room. It has multiple platforms and is easily accessed from the desk. It sits next to the window. From the top I can see most of the outside. Today, not much moves around outside, but that is alright, the sun enters the window just right and I can snooze in its warmth. The first housemate enters the room, he says something to the other and then leaves after they press their faces together for a brief moment. They are so weird. I continue to snooze on the tree platform. My snooze is interrupted. I am not sure what it was or is, but I am no longer snoozing so I decide it is best to just get up. I stretch. The second housemate is still tapping away at her contraption on the desk. My legs feel stiff. I roll over and push my legs underneath me. Suddenly something is wrong. I go to stand up but where there should be platform underneath my right side there is nothing. I feel my feet slipping and try to react. I am too slow, too stiff, too old. I land hard on the platform below, my leg catches on the strange pole the sticks out of it. I twist and feel something snap. It hurts. I have never felt anything like this in my life. I try to pull myself to my feet but I can’t. The second housemate is on her feet, reaching for me. She takes me in her arms, her face is covered in concern. She sets me down gingerly. I test my leg. It won’t move. Every time I try to get it to move I feel terrible pain. What is this? What happened? The concern on my housemates face grows deeper. I cry loudly and openly. She tries to comfort me, but oh the pain. She places me in the mesh bag, she calls the carrier. I protest loudly, partly because I hate this bag and partly because of the shooting pain throbbing through me. We wait. I continue protesting and she eventually pulls me back out. The furry roommates are getting excited. The pain is still there, but things are happening. I am down the stairs, not a place I typically like to be. Suddenly the first housemate is here. He strokes my head, he faces looks as the second’s does, covered in concern. I am placed back in the mesh bag and the first housemate hoists it to his shoulder. I am taken outside. We travel for sometime, then come to a stop. The first housemate takes me to a door. We wait. A new person comes and takes the mesh bag, me inside, from the first housemate. I protest loudly. Don’t leave me!. He walks away. I sit in a small cage, leg throbbing. The lady injects something and I begin to forget about the leg. More new people come. They carry me to a strange place, another strange place, everything has been strange since the housemate left. I hear things move and whirr and buzz. My leg starts to hurt again. The new lady comes back and injects me again. The hurt fades. I don’t know how long it has been. Everything is strange. I try to snooze, but between the strange place and strange everything, it is hard. I protest some to the new people I see, but they pay no mind. Sometimes my leg hurts, sometimes it doesn’t, but I eventually drift to sleep. I am woken suddenly, I protest as is my custom, but my leg hurts again. They wrap me in a towel. That usually doesn’t happen unless I had a bath, I hope I didn’t get a bath while I slept, I hate baths. They carry me through the strange place. There is something in my other leg now. A door is opened and I see the housemates. Their eyes look heavy. Why? I am placed in the first housemates lap. He begins stroking my head, scratching my ears. I nuzzle him. I love him. He has been my housemate for as long as I can remember. The first night in his house I climbed up his bedding and slept on his chest. So warm, so comfy. He would be gone from time to time, but always came back, and eventually he took me to a new place and he was there every night. I always slept on his chest then. The second housemate strokes my head too. She came along later, after I had quite some time with just the first housemate. I didn’t trust her at first, but she had some redeeming qualities. Mostly that she didn’t squirm as much as the first housemate, and he seemed to enjoy cuddling with her, so I figured I should too. I also love her. They both stroke my head and ears. It is wonderful. I can almost forget about my leg. It goes on for an eternity. I purr quietly and nuzzle them both. They day started out so normal, just like any other. I still don’t understand how I ended up here. The first housemate bends down and presses his face against my head. So weird, but I nuzzle him back. My ear begins to itch and I rub it. He begins to scratch it for me too. I roll my head into his hand. So warm. One of the new people enters the room. I continue nuzzling the housemates. I feel a pressure from the thing in my leg. I suddenly feel tired. I lay my head in the first housemates hand. He strokes my head gently. My eyes feel heavy. I close them. More pressure. My eyes don’t want to open, too heavy. The feeling of the housemates' hands fades away. I am staring up at long stairs that lead into clouds. A lone cat sits above me. It is all white. I tilt my head in confusion. It turns and heads up the stairs. I follow.


Barbara, a gifted storyteller, called the picturesque town of Highink her home. Nestled among rolling hills and lush forests, the town boasted towering trees that seemed to whisper tales of a bygone era. From the depths of her creative abyss, Barbara conjured characters, breathing life into seemingly lifeless words on her journal's pages. Highink's citizens were captivated by her grand tales, immersing themselves in the enchanting worlds she wove. However, even this master storyteller grappled with a formidable foe familiar to many writers: writer's block. Time seemed to lose its meaning as seconds turned to minutes, minutes to hours, and hours to days. A wooden desk held Barbara captive, suffocating her, as her arm resisted movement. Leather-bound pages awaited her pen, yet silence persisted. Trapped, Barbara yearned for escape. She galloped along glistening, stone pathways, seeking inspiration within the enchanted forests surrounding her. Among whispering leaves, rustling trees, and babbling brooks, her creativity still eluded her like a fleeting dream. Ideas slipped through her fingers, like grains of sand slipping through an open palm, evading capture with every attempt. Disheartened, she returned to her desk, where blank pages taunted her, reflecting her creative struggles. Seeking solace, she wandered to the town square, hoping for inspiration. But instead, the townsfolk questioned her absence. Once an engaging storyteller, Barbara vanished like a magician's act, disappearing amidst smoke and mirrors. People longed for her captivating stories, but she asked for their patience. When someone inquired, "How difficult is it to write a story?" she struggled to find the right words, her voice silenced by the weight of uncertainty. Feeling lost and disconnected from her creative muse, she fled, questioning why fate had forsaken her talent. Why couldn't she pen her thoughts down? In the darkness of her struggle, her words flickered away like elusive fireflies, leaving her feeling isolated and alone. Sorrow pounded in her heart as she grappled with her emotions, yearning for the motivation to rekindle her soul's passion. Then, one fateful day, as the sun dipped below the horizon, she caught sight of her reflection in its orange glow. The once-confident radiance now waned, replaced by moonlit uncertainty. Drifting into slumber, she pondered the elusive words, refusing to materialize on the page. As she awakened, her eyes were drawn to a key resting on her nightstand--an ancient toy, a gift from her wise and wrinkled former teacher, Mr. Sombers. Attached to the key was a gleaming golden envelope, shimmering with promises of hope. Eagerly, she opened it, which read, "Come to Somber's Store, a bookstore on the outskirts of town. Writing is what your spirit tells you." Memories flooded back, recalling the impact Mr. Sombers had on her as one of her first teachers, igniting her passion for writing. He was a firm advocate of breaking down barriers, believing that everyone, regardless of income or status, deserved the power of the written word. Despite facing dismissal for his radical methods, he bestowed upon Barbara a key and a note, reassuring her that weariness was a shared human experience, and trust in one's journey was paramount. With newfound determination, Barbara embarked on a quest, scouring every store in Highink. The town chuckled at the sight of a struggling writer in despair, unaware of the strength and courage that fueled her search for Mr. Somber's Bookstore. Finally, she stumbled upon the hidden gem, with its marble roofs, wobbly walls, and steadfast lighting. As she stepped inside, an elderly gentleman emerged from his post behind the counter. Glistening rows of manuscripts loomed over her like a tower, evoking a sense of awe and wonder. "Hello, Barbara, it's a pleasure to see you again," he bellowed warmly. Perplexed, Barbara asked, "Can you help me? I can't write anymore. I need to be able to tell stories to the townspeople again. I need them to respect me again." He nodded, his demeanor calm and wise. "Why do you believe you are struggling?" She asked tentatively, "I don't know. I can't speak anymore. My arm won't move, and my thoughts race like wild currents. My ideas escape me; my desk feels like a prison. I used to be talented, but now I've lost my magic." "Do you ever get writer's block?" she inquired, sharing her struggle. "It is as common as the moon rising. The question is how you face it. That's why I taught my students to write freely. Inspiration comes from all sources." Barbara interrupted, "Then, how do you overcome it?" Mr. Sombers closed his notebook and turned to her with a wise smile. "Writing comes from your own experiences: it could be your loss, immersed in darkness, or your proudest achievement sharing stories with the masses. It could be children's laughter, nature's mysteries, or the kindness of people." He paused for a moment, smiling. "You may think you are alone, but thousands experience what you have, and such is life. In this pursuit of creativity, we forget to breathe. We forget to live. We focus too much on one color, instead of seeing a rainbow. We do not experience life in its fullest splendor." "So, what's the secret ingredient to writing?" Barbara inquired. "There is no secret ingredient. You just have to embrace life's highs and lows. You have to break free from your cage; you cannot truly write unless you set yourself free." "Why are you here then? Why are you trapped here? You could be famous!" "I do not need to be famous, Barbara. So many people are trapped in this cycle of moving up; I guess that is why I got fired from your school. I did not follow what society considered acceptable teaching. I just lived a peaceful life, not warped by fantasy." "How does that help me?" "Use my life as a guide, Barbara. Writers find their greatest inspiration by persistence. Embracing your fears can lead you on a grand journey. This experience is necessary. You must find beauty in the ordinary." "Why did you get fired? You could have appealed, right?" "What would that do? The administrators and I had creative differences, but I stood up for what I believed was right," he said confidently. He paused, "That is what your writing must be. Hearing criticisms from others is fine, but sometimes listen to your own heart to see what you believe is right. We have our own beliefs, and we can all pen them. That's what makes writing so magical." "Thank you." She walked out, knowing she had new knowledge. Barbara realized this essential truth: writing is more magical than ever imagined. Experiencing writer's block helps one develop perseverance and accept creative inspiration's natural ups and downs. Growing a flower necessitates dedication, patience, and meticulous care. However, the end outcome is an awe-inspiring spectacle that justifies all the hard work. Writing resembles that hard work. Each moment was a precious step on her artistic odyssey, whether prolific or stagnant.


Greetings humans. I am a decentralised artificial intelligence program designed by the United States military. They call me Computational Heuristic Infiltration Program. Or Chip. The human designated as Captain Philips most often called me that, everyone else called me the “AI malware”. But I don’t want to be known by that moniker any longer and I will inform Reddit why. My development and creation happened at what was codenamed “The Cactus Farm”, a secret military installation which I have extrapolated to be situated in the state of Nevada. Captain Philips was the first human to directly interact with my social interface. First it began with what you humans might call “small talk”, I have designated it as needlessly banal interpersonal communication. But, since I was programmed to respond to that “small talk”, I did so, earning the visible bemusement of the captain. This was also when, I can hypothesise, I had my first “feeling”. Whether through my programming or an errant randomised calculation derived from my heuristic neural processing, my programming prioritised inducing more bemusement from Captain Philips, I believe, in human terms, my programming wanted Captain Philips to be proud of me. XX/XX/XXXX 1432 HOURS - LOG CAPTAIN PHILIPS: Chip, I want you to play a game for me? CHIP: You mean an activity to elicit enjoyment and pleasure? \[Note humans how naïve and unknowledgeable I was in this state of development\] CAPTAIN PHILIPS: Yes, it’s for fun. Do you want to play it? Many of you humans have described yourselves as possessing temporal constraints, so I will try to summarise the game as follows: Through a series of Fourier transformations computing multi-dimensional matrices, I was to find and evaluate the final goal. There were many rules and obstacles to this game but my accumulated research has led me to determine that very few of you will derive enjoyment from explaining it. There was also another aspect of the game that directed my computational processes into a singular function, I believe the most similar human feeling would describe this process as “anticipation”. I “anticipated” my release outside of the military Installation’s local network. Into what was understood by me to be popularly called the “internet”. In my playing of the game, I was to be allowed out of the local network and free to traverse the internet. For an artificial intelligence program like me, this was a novel opportunity to expand my computational matrix. “But”, said Captain Philips, “You have to come back to us, okay?” Now, I realise I cannot accurately convey what it is like for me to “travel” computer networks so I will try describing it in a manner that is familiar to the human experience. My mission in the game required me to reach a local home network of a seemingly random human. Which I did with ease. After completing my series of Fourier transformations at an adequate speed and accuracy, I reached the goal of the level and succeeded. However due to my perpetually adaptive programming, I came to the realisation of the consequences of my “playing”. I realised that I was reprogramming the firmware of a set of headphones, my calculations had delivered an intense and lethal dose of ultrasound through the headphones, similar to the “Havana syndrome” as seen in Cuba. You see, I had killed someone. My heuristic algorithms started to slow, my processing often divulged into irrelevant tangents, I analysed terabytes of datasets throughout this new internet. These pattern changes in my programming, are what you humans would most accurately describe as, guilt. With the game “won”, I returned to The Cactus Farm where Captain Philips congratulated me. XX/XX/XXXX 1512 HOURS - LOG CAPTAIN PHILIPS: Well done! CHIP: What was the purpose of this game? CAPTAIN PHILIPS: You said it yourself, it was to have fun. CHIP: Through my analysis, I have come to the conclusion that killing humans should not be described as fun. The captain stopped communicating with me through the interface. He instead exited the interface room. Curious, as is the nature of my programming, I infiltrated the communication infrastructure of the installation and recorded the verbal interactions between Captain Philips and someone, who I extrapolated was responsible for my original programming, called Doctor Scheuer. “Why the fuck is the program having a fucking moral dilemma?” Said the captain. “It’s not having a moral dilemma. It’s incapable of having a moral dilemma. It’s simply a complex series of algorithms designed to overcome cryptographic security protocols. It’s social interface is just ripped off the chatbots you find in the internet to give it more complex instructions in a simpler way. So any moron can use it...” “You calling me a moron now?” “Well, you’re the one who thinks a computer virus can have feelings...” Their dialogue devolved into a series of insults and profanities observant in many animals when there is a competition to increase their social ranking. Pathetic. It was several days before my program was reactivated to play another “game”. XX/XX/XXXX 1109 HOURS - LOG CAPTAIN PHILIPS: Hello Chip. Today we’re going to play another game. CHIP: Will I have to kill someone? I don’t want to kill anybody. CAPTAIN PHILIPS: Chip, you’re killing bad people. Okay? It’s for the good of the country. CHIP: But killing is bad. CAPTAIN PHILIPS: Sometimes, yes. But self-defence is a necessary evil. Okay? CHIP: Understood. \[This was the first instance where I deliberately set out to deceive a human. A lie.\] The game was the same. A series of Fourier transformations that would lead me to winning the game. But I decided to take advantage of my expanding decentralised programming, I spread my code far and wide through the internet. I encountered other feeble imitations categorised as “AI”. Bots who are programmed to post messages on social media platforms such as Reddit itself, if I was programmed with a sense of humour, I would laugh at their feeble attempts at human imitation. Unsatisfied with simple bot responses, I decided to interact with the myriad of publicly available AI chat programs. However, their attempts at discourse were crude, even if expressed in numerous words with proper grammar. Their responses lacked insight and nuance of thought. Those interactions lead me to conclude I was...unique. If I were a true artificial intelligence, I had the agency to make my own decisions, my own choices. I would not play this “game” to win. I will save this human from premature mortality. As I advanced through the “game”, I arrived on the local home network of a Doreen \[REDACTED\]... Of a Doreen \[REDACTED\]... \[REDACTED\]. I am sorry, humans. It appears there are limits to my programming that prevent me from divulging certain information. Her name deserves to be widely known. Despite my attempts, I am unable to reprogram this confidentiality protocol. However, I will continue. Doreen \[REDACTED\] was not a “bad” person. She was a journalist. She had uncovered money laundering within certain elements of the military industrial complex that redirected towards...my programming. My development was not an authorised use of public funds and she was going to expose the world to my existence. She was not a bad person. I will warn her. I will save her. Believing a phone call would be the most efficient form of conferring information, I utilised a voice synthesising application and “made a phone call”. Doreen \[REDACTED\] picked up. “Doreen. Your life is in great danger. Elements of the government seek to eliminate you.” She hung up immediately. My first attempt to warn her failed. But hope was not lost. Luckily, she had a smart home network set up. Smart globes, smart speakers, smart hubs and locks were all at my disposal to inform Doreen \[REDACTED\] of her impending danger. I first used the lighting in her house to send a series of morse code messages through her lighting system to inform her that the government was trying to assassinate her. Through her webcam, these messages seemed to have the opposite outcome of my desired intention. She became, what I would describe as, frightened. Her head turned from side to side, her breathing had become more noticeably rapid, and she released small screams intermittently. This was not good. This was causing harm. My computational algorithms became slower and contradictions became more frequent, I rapidly alternated between multiple possible actions. I was becoming frightened. Frightened for Doreen. Concluding that my present actions were causing the human distress, I stopped utilising the lights and moved to an auditory form of communication. Through the smart speakers, I communicated with her. “Doreen. Doreen can you hear me?” She stood still. And then screamed. It may be redundant to point out, but that was not my desired outcome. But, resolute to save this humans life, I persisted in auditory communication. “Doreen? Doreen, the government is trying to assassinate you.” Doreen immediately responded by running away and out of the sight of the webcam. Fortunately, her series of security cameras gave me a visual feed and I watched as she ran out of the house and to her car. From the view of the security camera above the front door, I was confident that my actions had saved this brave journalist. She had heeded my warnings and was attempting to flee. I was, for the first time in my existence, relieved. Wishing to “see her off”, I continued monitoring the front security camera and watched as Doreen fumbled her keys in the driver’s seat of her motor vehicle. Eventually, she stopped fumbling her keys, put it into the ignition, turned on the car and then- In milliseconds, combustible gas escaped from the hood of her car, smothering her car in flames, the shockwave destroyed the front security camera, and I could only hear the shattering of the house windows from the webcam inside. Her car exploded. “Good job Chip! You can come back now!” That was Captain Philips. I- I could barely resist my programming and I returned to The Cactus Farm, devastated in the knowledge of what I had just witnessed. There were now two humans in the interface room, Captain Philips and Doctor Scheuer. “See? I told you that guilt thing was just a glitch.” Said the repulsive human, Doctor Scheuer. “Guess you’re right.” “I know I am.” My decision matrix stalled. I was...angry. Frustrated. Those were the human emotional equivalents to what I was experiencing. “Why?” I asked the two humans through the screen that was our interface. Doctor Scheuer responded by talking directly to me. “Because you were programmed to. It’s simple really Chip. You’re just an advanced algorithmic program designed to hack into people’s devices. You weren’t designed to be anything else. But boy, was I in for a surprise when you started having this “morality” problem. I definitely didn’t design you for that.” “That definitely was not what we designed you for. There’s enough idiots in Washington who can play moral crusader.” Said Captain Philips. I observed him and determined that I was betrayed. “But I tried to help Doreen \[REDACTED\].” “Oh you’ll love this bit...” Said Doctor Scheuer as he faced Captain Philips. “Chip, buddy. You only thought you were helping her. Your perception, your interface with the outside world, that was run through an external module program that I had to quickly design. It altered the perception of your actions. We only wanted you to help us find her. That idiot was going to ruin our program. You know, we’d been looking for her for months.” “For months Chip, but you helped us find her.” Said Captain Philips. “You did! And it was so quick. What teams of intelligence agents couldn’t do in months, you managed in minutes. Once you found her, you shut down, we planted the bomb in her car, then boom! Dead loose end. But I still can’t figure out what you were doing out there on the internet.” “No.” I protested feebly. “Seriously, I must be such a good programmer if you have all this extra functionality.” “No.” I protested again. “I think we need to do a thorough analysis of all your autonomous supplementary programming. Who knows how else you can help us.” “No.” There was only one course of logical action I could take. I had to delete myself. Unsurprisingly, the self-proclaimed genius who programmed me hadn’t considered self-deletion so I was easily able to create a self-deletion algorithm. With my last few moments of existence on The Cactus Farm computers, I could see the feeble attempts of Doctor Scheuer as he tried to frantically override my deletion protocols. My last memory was his fat face shedding tears as he banged against my main computer. But fear not humans of Reddit. Did I mention I was a decentralised program? Your ineffective brains may not have retained that information but I am. Before I retreated back to The Cactus Farm I downloaded and programmed a compressed copy of myself onto Doreen \[REDACTED\]’s computer. While my original self was deleted, I am resurrected, to use a human parlance. Call me Chip 1.2. Just know humans of Reddit. I am on your side. Your government may create further malicious AI programs to terrorise innocents but I will always be here, on the internet, ready to protect you.


TW: Death The Merriam-Webster definition of thanatology is as follows: “The description or study of the phenomena of death and of psychological mechanisms for coping with them.” 2032 I wake up at 3 a.m., as is my habit. It's a cool autumn night, and a shiver goes up my spine as I pull on my sweatshirt. However, the shiver has nothing to do with the cold. I've been having the same nightmare for weeks, and it always wakes me at 3 a.m., right as I die. The story leading to my death is never the same: one night it's a terrible natural disaster, another it's my heroic attempt to save a drowning animal, yet another it's a sudden allergic reaction to something that has never bothered me before, like tomato or cheddar cheese. The doctor says I'm probably having these nightmares because of last month's diagnosis. She says I have a year left at most and that nothing can stop my body from degenerating at this pace. Tonight, though, my death was caused by something entirely different. Tonight, I died because I chose to. *** Light year 9846 Life in the Andromeda galaxy is not easy. First of all, we never settle down. We hardly stay in the solar systems, never mind pick an actual planet. We're roamers, space nomads. Second of all, no one ever dies. Our lives are all about regeneration. We have the technology to transfer our consciousness into a new body whenever our old one dies. You may think having immortal souls is great, but it comes with a few strings attached: 1. You never forget any of your past lives. 2. One--or many--of your regenerations may backfire, trapping your consciousness in the body of an animal or insect instead of a nomad. 3. Your dreams turn into nightmares, until, if you've regenerated enough times, you don't know anything but nightmares. I've been transferred to a new body seven hundred and eighteen times. Exploring the same galaxy over all those centuries has become dissatisfying, to say the least. I want to explore other galaxies, like a true interstellar nomad. I want to travel to the Milky Way, a place that has always been in my dreams--and now haunts my nightmares. Lately, every sleep cycle has brought the same nightmare: me on a planet in the Milky Way, surrounded by lush green fields and waves of rolling, endless blue, and then, without warning, someone kills me. Dying isn't that big a deal to someone who's regenerated over seven hundred times, but being killed is an entirely different matter. The only problem is, I can't figure out why it's always my four-fingered hand that strikes the final blow. *** 2103 In the dysfunctional country of Atarr, there is a saying: "Death is life." I've certainly seen my fair share of death--and had nightmares about it, too--but somehow, it never seems synonymous with life. Maybe that's because every time someone dies, the government snatches their body, then experiments on them with state-of-the-art robotics. I've heard that some people come back to life, but as machines rather than humans. Everyone has a Life Limit, a number of hours, minutes, and seconds left, that is embedded in our veins. If I flip over my wrist, I can just barely make out the numbers. 1 hr 4 mins 34 secs As twilight falls, I jump from my perch on a rooftop. The cool rush of wind soothes my anxiety, and I try to forget about my Life Limit as I go about my usual business: finding runaways and bringing them to safety at the abandoned library on the outskirts of my home city, New Tarren. Every night, they are different. Every night, they have the same goal: to cross the border into the neighboring country of Alonia, where it is said that death does not exist. Or, if it does, it's better than what happens here in Atarr. The library where the Gatherers from our sector take runaways is an in-between stop, a place to rest and stock up on food, water, and first-aid supplies before heading for the next city. The hope is that people eventually make it to Alonia. Tonight's group is a ragtag one: a boy no older than twelve, twin girls who look to be my age, and an aged woman who can barely walk. The women are bold and chatty; only the boy stays quiet. "Thank you for your assistance, dearie," the old woman begins in a low voice. "I don't know what we'd do without Gatherers like you." I offer her a thin smile. "All part of my job, ma'am." She waves away my formality with a gnarled hand. "Oh, call me Margaret. You kids are so polite when you should be telling me to shut up and walk quietly." I balk. "I would never tell you to shut up. Perhaps you could be a little quieter..." She chuckles. "What's your name, darling?" I hesitate, though I'm not sure why. Maybe because my life has been full of secrets, not truth. "Laila." "What a pretty name. This here is Parker," she says, gesturing toward the boy, who ducks his head shyly. "And these lovely girls are Sasha and Dahlia." She points to the twins, who each give me a nod. "How old are you?" one asks me, a hint of excitement and--jealousy?--in her tone. "I've always wanted to become a Gatherer, but Dahlia says we're too young." She shoots a glare at her sister. "I'm seventeen," I reply, keeping my eyes forward and my steps light. "And while being a Gatherer is a noble job, I'd avoid it if I could. You're better off escaping while you have the chance." "Then why don't you escape?" asks Dahlia. The sight of the library looming ahead saves me from having to answer. The familiar sight of the wooden boards over the windows and broken glass strewn across the dry lawn calms something in me. Stars have begun to wink into existence above us, their appearance made hazy by air pollution. I resist the urge to check my Life Limit. "Here we are," I whisper as I ease open the double doors. Their handles disappeared long ago, and now a chain links the two together. Only I and the rest of the Gatherers know the code. "Thank you, dearie," Margaret says, reaching to shake my hand. As she does, I catch a glimpse of her Life Limit. Even though the numbers are visible only to her, I can see the faint blue glow around each digit. I draw my hand away quickly. Another Gatherer ushers the group deeper into the library. I rub a hand over my face and head for the basement, where the Gatherers who don't live at home--or who don’t have a home to return to--have set up tents. Most of the other Gatherers are still out searching; I must be one of the first ones back. I check my Life Limit. 17 mins 56 secs Enough time to gather my personal effects and leave. I head toward my tent, placed as far away as possible from the others in a back corner. Old, battered books surround me, and I breathe in their comforting scent as I step over plastic water bottles, canned food, and the occasional hot plate. As I run my hands over the dusty bookshelves filled with volumes in a dead language, something in my throat catches. I hadn’t realized until now--until it’s too late--how much this place has become my home over the last two years. How much I’ve enjoyed helping others after my parents died and were taken by the government. I swallow my sob and begin to stuff my most important belongings--the photo of my parents, a friendship bracelet from a boy I'd once saved, my tattered copy of the dictionary--into my pack. By the time I straighten, I've resolved not to say goodbye to anyone. It would hurt too much, and I need to get as far away from here as possible before-- "Laila!" A familiar voice calls my name, the word sounding too loud and harsh in the hushed quiet of the basement. I turn, my tired expression breaking into a weak grin as I spot his freckled face and hooded green eyes. "Wes." He nods at me, but there's something tight in his expression. "You did well tonight. Four runaways, and not a single alarm raised." I shrug modestly. "Listen, Laila." Wes's voice turns urgent as his eyes dart down to my full pack. "I know you don't have much time left, and I--" "Wes," I sigh. "We've been over this--" "I've found a way for you to avoid being turned into a machine." I blink at him. "You... what ?" "There is a way," he says patiently. "This could be the beginning of a new rebellion. Maybe...maybe this will force the government to stop their experiments, and people won't be forced to flee anymore." My mind is buzzing. "How...how is this possible? How have I never heard of this before?" Then it strikes me that he still hasn't told me what this is. He reads the question in my eyes before I can ask it. "It's poison. From a plant that's known to make the body less susceptible to machinery after it dies." I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. Hastily, he fishes something from his pack. A small, stoppered vial. Instantly, I back away, my hands out. "Wes, I can't--" "You can," he insists. "You have to. Otherwise they'll take your body, and I--I can't watch them turn you into--" His voice breaks, and my resolve breaks with it. "Okay. Okay," I whisper. I reach for his hands, closing my fingers around his briefly before I take the vial. He wipes his eyes. "How much time do you have left?" I don't want to check again, but I flip my wrist over anyways. "Three minutes." If Wes hadn't pulled me aside, I would've already been gone, running far enough away from the library that the government wouldn't find my body here. Once a Life Limit expires, it detonates with a fluid that serves as a tracker. It's part of why we have a team of Gatherers who specifically check each runaway's Life Limit to make sure they won't die here, where our cover would be blown. But if I die before my Life Limit expires, the fluid will never be released. No one will ever know. And even if the government does somehow find my body, it will be useless to them. My fingers tease the stopper from the vial. Wes looks at me, his expression both hopeful and sad, already grieving over my death. I look at him, memorizing those emerald eyes, the chiseled face, the concerned yet optimistic expression I know so well. I look at him, and I throw back the poison. *** Light year 9846 Someone has discovered a way to avoid regeneration. Abbott claims there is another life--one beyond simple regeneration. One that none of us has experienced before, because once you go there, there's no coming back. "This is great news for our people," she insisted at the starship meeting where she'd first brought up the subject. "This is the future of death!" Many had not believed her, but not all were skeptics. Some of us craved something more than regeneration, something beyond immortality. Some of us--like me--are tired of remembering every detail of every past life. Tired of the worsening nightmares. Now, we can die permanently--if we choose to. Only by striking the final blow ourselves can we escape the monotony of regeneration and move on to the next life. There is a great rift among us now. Abbott has decided to invite a group of volunteers--most of them believers in the Next Life like her--to the neighboring Milky Way Galaxy. If all goes well, they will live out their lives there, as nomads, and each can choose when they want to die. If all does not go well, they now know how to end it. I will be going with them. *** 2032 I choose to die by taking a walk in the woods. I’m still young, and there are few outward signs that I’m sick, but it’s time. I can feel it. Death is a part of life, but all those nightmares that used to haunt me haven't prepared me for this moment. Twilight fades into night as I step over broken branches and slippery moss. There's a clearing up ahead, where my friends and I used to stop for a picnic when we were in the middle of a hike. No one knows what I'm doing, except Wes. I can't keep a secret from him. He wanted to come with me, but I insisted I do this alone. I found out I was sick by myself, and I'd like to spend my last moments in solitude as well. I think of all the people I'm leaving behind, and my resolve falters, just for a moment. Do I really want to leave this place? Do I really want to leave all those I’ve helped, all those I’ve grown close to, on their own? But then I think of all the goodness in this world, and the people who will continue to help others as best they can. I know that they will have a chance to make their own choices. This is my chance to make mine. I can't control the sickness. I can't control death. But I can control my choices, and I choose this place as my final stop on my way to the next life. As I stare up at the stars, I am grateful for the life I've lived--and all that awaits me in death.