Sins of the Father (and Mother) It is a well established fact of life that parents will occasionally, usually unintentionally, embarrass their children. This is often accomplished, in most cases by the dad, simply by choice of attire. Kids do not want to be seen in close proximity to a parent who likely secured their latest colorful outfit at the clearance sale rack at the “Nerd Department” of Kohl’s. Such momentary discomforts suffered by a child are to be expected and over time can be forgiven. My tale of woe is not the result of unintentional acts of geeky, parental behavior, but rather the result of a carefully planned course of action designed to inflict maximum humiliation. This cannot be forgiven. Much of what you will read here is based on hearsay, in some cases double hearsay, and in an instance or two, triple hearsay, or so I’ve heard. A fair amount of conjecture is also sprinkled in, as well as a spoonful of sheer guesswork, but I deem it all reliable. Planning Stage My parents met in high school. That was 10 years before I was born, but I have reason to believe that is where we find the genesis of the diabolical deed. My uncle says he knows a guy who once bought a used car from a guy who had the same study hall as mom and dad. I never spoke to him directly, but he swears that he overheard mom and dad whispering words like "bunnies" and "boxers" on multiple occasions. Coincidence? I don’t think so. My parents celebrate their anniversary on February 14 th . As such, Valentine’s Day is a big deal around my house. Even my dad gets all squishy about it. Coincidence that Phase One of the dastardly act was launched on Valentines Day? I don’t think so...more like it was their gift to each other. Critical to the success of the scheme was the fact that dad and my gym teacher both are active members of the local Lions Club. My dad joined Lions 5 years before implementing the demonic deed. Proof of premeditation? I’d say. It is also significant to note that my mom and the mother of the beautiful Janet served on two PTA committees together, thus giving them plenty of time to scheme. Consider too that my dad and Jack’s dad were in the same bowling league. Do you think more than bowling for average was going on? I do. The complexity of the plan staggers the imagination and underscores the degree of depravity behind the dastardly deed. Execution “Happy Valentines Day, honey! We got this nice gift for you.” The tone was sweet, much in the mode of Brutus asking Caesar to stop by for a visit. The package was beautifully wrapped, much in the tradition of the keepsake the Greeks left for the Trojans. The impact would prove to be greater than the consequences of either event. Even today, after the passing of so many years, I still lament that, in the immortal words of Lloyd Christmas, “I didn’t even see it coming.” A good laugh was had by all. Pink boxer shorts covered with red hearts in a variety of sizes, a multitude of hopping white bunnies, and the words “Honey Bunny” plastered all over them. “Thanks mom, very funny.” If I had only known. I would have immediately shredded the garment, burned the fragments, and buried the ashes in the backyard, somewhere in the vicinity of the final resting place of Fred the hamster and AJ the turtle. But those were the naïve, trusting days of a 13 year old, so I thanked my parents and placed the “Honey Bunny” boxers at the bottom of my sock and underwear drawer, firm in the belief I would never wear them. They say timing is everything in the world of humor. The same can be said for successful pranks, especially those of a malicious nature. Like a cat waiting to pounce on its unsuspecting prey, patience is key. In this case, the clever prankers quietly strategized for months before implementing the conclusion of their sorry scheme. Freshman year in high school is a vulnerable time for many teens. Around mid-October, I was working through some self-confidence issues as I tried hard to “fit in”. I felt I was making good progress, and then it all came crashing down with unspeakable, humiliating, and endless consequence. I had a restless night. I heard sounds in my bedroom, mysterious, foreboding sounds. In my semi-conscious state, I couldn’t identify the source. But now I know with absolute certitude that someone, mom or dad, I can’t be sure which as both strenuously adhere to the self-serving principal of plausible deniability, was rifling through my sock and underwear drawer. The next morning I discovered that there is indeed something worse than the proverbial “empty cupboard”- a drawer with a lone pair of boxer shorts- yes, you guessed it, the now infamous “Honey Bunny” boxer shorts. How could this be? I know there were at least 3 pair of non-Honey Bunny boxers in that drawer, and now, poof, they’re gone? This was beyond suspicious. “Mom! Where are my boxer shorts?! The only pair left is the stupid Honey Bun shorts, and I’m not wearing those!” “They’re all in the laundry. You’ll have to wear the Honey Buns, honey bun.” She sounded so sincere, so sweet, so honest. I bet she practiced that for days. My own mother! Wait, let me think. It’s Thursday. My Physical Fitness course has classroom instruction on nutrition and healthy lifestyles on Thursdays. I won’t have to change into gym shorts today. No one will know I am wearing the Honey Buns. I’ll know, and there is a certain degree of discomfort associated with bearing such a close relationship with hearts and bunnies, but no real harm could come of it. But that I could only have grasped the extent of the devious intricacies of the plot. My last normal day of high school was, well, pretty normal. In fact, it was above and beyond normal. My buddy Jason had informed me that Janet (the object of heartfelt obsession since my very first day of high school) would in fact agree to go to the Freshman Dance with me should I ever be able to muster up sufficient courage to ask her. Now this put my mind on a whole different track. I could think of nothing besides Janet, the dance, and how I would go about asking her. The troublesome reality of what was yet unseen vanished in the fog of fanciful romance. Looking back on it, I am still undecided if it was merely cruel fate, or had either Jason or Janet, or both, with the prodding of their parents, assumed the part of co-conspirators. The role that the irresistible powers of distraction played in the event seems way too “convenient” to have been a matter of coincidence. Jason steadfastly denies any part in the whole sordid affair, and the shroud of embarrassment has precluded any attempt on my part to communicate with the beautiful Janet. “Attention! Due to maintenance work in the gym scheduled for tomorrow, Mr. Hall’s Physical Fitness class will be held in the gym today.” How difficult would it have been for my dad to learn of the schedule change from my gym teacher during a night of bowling and beer guzzling? Difficult? No, I’d put it in the column of highly probable...and sinister. It never registered. Every electron flashing through my brain was focused on my only reality at the moment- Janet, Janet, and then some more Janet. As I stood in front of my locker, I was completely oblivious to the fact I was wearing the Honey Buns and the ensuing doom soon to be unleashed. “Hey, Jack. What do you think we’ll be doing today?” “I think we're still on...oh my God.” My blue jeans were off, and there they were, for all to see- the dreaded Honey Buns. Jack was not a disciple of the cautionary admonition, “Loose lips sink ships”, and he was certainly not one to let a rich opportunity to publicly ridicule a classmate pass him by. He pounced with remarkable relish. “Hey guys! Take a look at this! Pink underwear with hearts and bunnies!” Oh my God. The moment I heard the words and the accompanying clamor for all to get a good look, I knew I was doomed. A nearby junior meanie grabbed my blue jeans and my gym shorts and took off, leaving me standing there defenseless and humiliated in my Honey Buns for the remainder of the period. They say the laughter could be heard in the girls’ locker-room clear across the other side of the gym. I would later learn that nearby neighbors in their homes questioned the cause of the jubilant uproar emanating from the high school. It was an emotional stoning. My classmates showed no mercy. Even my gym teacher, previously perceived to be a nice man, laughed to the point of tears. Verbal descriptions of the event would have been damaging; the presence of camera equipped cell phones guaranteed long term and widespread devastation. I felt like I was on display at a Carnival side show. Tardy students were flagged down in the hallway and brought in to take a look. Word of the spectacle somehow reached the faculty lounge and a number of the adults quickly abandoned their role of caretaker of children and rushed in to get a good laugh. Girls giggled and pointed in the hallways the remainder of the day. Teachers smirked and muffled laughter. The Principal gave me a sympathetic look, shook his head, and said, “I was going to say that all things will pass, but then I saw the picture. Good luck, son.” Aftermath There are figures in history who are defined by one singular event, some good, some not so good. The good: Bobby Thompson’s home run, Neil Armstrong setting foot on the moon, Lindberg’s trans-Atlantic fight. The bad: Bartman interfering with the foul ball in the Cubs’ playoff game, a candidate for national office flubbing the spelling of ‘potato’, Will Smith’s slap-down of Chris Rock. The ugly: me in my Honey Buns. Similarly, there are permanent nicknames that carry a positive connotation, such as Zorro and Batman, while other monikers are less desirable, such as Humpty-Dumpty and Butt-Head. And then there is the truly regrettable- Honey Bunny. From that day forward my christened name languished on the trash heap of history. I would forever be known as “Honey Bunny”. Every kid in that high school called me Honey Bunny. Teachers did the same. My parents discarded the name they once picked out and went with Honey Bunny. The Greeter at Walmart shoved a cart in my direction saying, “Here you go, Honey Bunny”. The ultimate humiliation came when the priest in the Confessional slid open the little door and asked, “And when was your last confession, Honey Bunny?” I fought it at first. I tried wearing disguises to school, wigs, phony glasses with the fake nose, occasionally a dress, a lovely chiffon with gold trim. It only added to the ridicule. I pleaded with my parents to send me to the Catholic High School across town. We checked it out, but my hopes were quickly dashed when the admissions counselor greeted me with, “We’d love to have you here at St. John’s, Honey Bunny.” I finally realized there was no point in resisting, so I embraced it. If I were to be Honey Bunny, I was determined to be the best Honey Bunny I could be. The next day, just after the final bell at the end of the school day when the hallways are the busiest, I jumped up on a chair, raised my arms above my head, and shouted, “I am Honey Bunny! Hear me roar!” That only made things worse. So, I sit alone and dejected, each day growing more and more accustomed to a life of ridicule and anguish. At long last, I have concluded that nothing can be done to improve my present circumstance. I turn then to the future. It is my heritage, it is my right. Should I ever find a woman charitable enough to take “Honey Bunny” for her husband, and should we have children, I will be certain to pass along the sins of my father...and mother. I am not so cruel as to inflict anything as damaging as Honey Bunny boxers on my offspring, but I will be sure to dish out ample doses of embarrassment when opportunities arise. I already have a few things in mind. Whenever we are in public places, I’ll hit them up with distasteful nicknames like “Princess”, “Speedy” and “Buster”. I will make certain that my kids are the last to know there is no Santa, thereby guaranteeing they will be the brunt of a few laughs in their elementary school classrooms, maybe even high school if I can pull it off. And any time a child of mine distances himself or herself from me because of my wardrobe selection, I will quickly close the gap and repeatedly shout, “I’m this kid’s dad! I’m this kid’s dad!” I don’t know if we can call this payback, but I feel better already.


I'm stuck. Not in glue, not between two cushions, and definitely not between relationships. I am stuck in mediocrity. A life based on being nothing more, and no less than average. I could have trials, and I most certainly could have tribulations, but I don't. I want adventure, i want to be taken away to a life of grandeur, or even a life of doubt, filled with challenges of the unfamiliar. Packed with steps for me to stride up or fall down. Anything changing, slowly, quickly, Honestly i don't care, just different than mediocre. And I wonder....Is this life I have been given truly a gift. My worries are not true worries, and things I have taken for granted are treasures around the world. Things I know in my everyday life of mediocrity could be life changing to the right person. A generation of poverty stricken people walk miles for the same life fluid I put into a toilet. Is this wrong? I really have no clue. I am too busy waking up day in and day out doing the same exact thing as every other person stuck in the state of mediocrity....Being content with my life. It stops now.... I need a change. I need explosive days, and powerful feelings that strike a nerve, and make me unhinge my normality. Life that flows through the soul and out my body, radiating into everyone around me. Changes that I start, and commit to finishing. Steps to move myself forward or even leaps that can alter this mediocre lifestyle. ... ... But.... .... I am already in bed, so I'll start tomorrow.


Spring. The time when the grass becomes greener and the leaves turn brighter. It’s also the time when the annual Spring Festival takes place in the city of Sacramento, California. People all over the city come together on this Saturday and enjoy this event. There are different tents for food and other sold goods, live music and performances, rides, game booths, and to end off the night, a fireworks show. It is an overall, enjoyable occasion, but maybe not for everyone. Eva is a college student in her sophomore year who has a passion for painting. There are joys in grabbing a paintbrush and creating a piece of work where there are no limitations, but when it comes to her personal life, joy doesn’t exist as she’s constantly fighting the negative thoughts that have been attacking her mind for years. Her family forcefully brings her to the festival to get some fresh air, instead of staying isolated in her room, letting her thoughts rot her brain. Vince, another student in his junior year of college, flew from New York during his spring break to spend time with his grandmother, as he does every year. He’s studying to become an architect, so he takes his school and work very seriously. His aura makes him unapproachable, which is why he isn’t close to many people, but it hasn’t occurred to anyone that that idea does put a burden on him. He never wished for people to keep a distance from him, but they did and believed that was okay for him because he’ll become successful for himself and his family. Success was all that they cared about when it came to him. Vince had been accompanying his grandmother around the festival until his Aunt Janice came to take over. “Don’t worry about me. Go and make some memories on your own for once while you’re in this town” Vince’s grandmother whispered, then winked before she walked away with Aunt Janice. Eva had been sitting on the grass with all the other festival go-ers, listening to the live music. She was drawing in her notebook to pass the time by, since her mother wouldn’t let her leave until after the fireworks show had ended. She stood up to walk around and look for something new to occupy her. She bumped into a man that looked the same age as her who was taking a picture for another family. Apparently, they bumped into each other pretty hard to where her sunglasses on her head fell to the ground. “That was my fault. I am so sorry,” Vince apologized. “It’s fine,” Eva said while picking up her glasses and blowing off the dirt on the lenses. She walked away to grab a napkin from one of the food tents and sat back down on the grass. As she was cleaning her glasses with the napkin and her half-filled water bottle, Vince comes her way and apologizes once more, but this time with a bag of chips he bought from a food tent. She accepted the chips and he sat about five feet away from her. They didn’t know it, but in their minds, they were both questioning why the other was alone at this festival full of families, friends, and couples. Most people had their company, but soon, they would be each other’s company. “Do you enjoy going to events by yourself or are you waiting for anyone?” Eva started. “I was with my grandmother, but she decided to leave me alone to have fun. She thinks I need a break from being such a serious person...but she’s right. These kinds of things are nice,” Vince explains. “What about you, if I may ask?” “My mom forced me to come here. She thinks being cooped up in my room all the time is bad for me. I hate to admit it, but she is right because being outside gives me inspiration for my paintings.” Their conversation went on for hours, talking about their lives. Even though they both enjoyed listening to one another’s stories, sharing pictures of their own career-related work on their phones, they each couldn’t help but feel a pinch of sadness about how the other felt about their own life. On one hand, Vince was amazed at how much freedom Eva feels when she creates new artwork, but at the same time, his heart tugged at the fact that she couldn’t paint her reality to become more happier or secure around her family. On the other hand, Eva felt inspired by how much initiative Vince has taken on his career as an architect. She was fascinated from seeing the blueprints he created and how he has been helping his uncle with designing buildings in his town. However, there was a sense of despair when he discussed how much people only appreciate him for being on top of his education and career. She noticed his gloomy expression when he stated that he wished people looked beyond those capabilities and cared about him, and not just his work. People view buildings and think it looks beautiful from the outside as they pass by and just disregard the structure built inside of it; this was Vince’s perspective on how his life was like, and Eva completely understood that. Vince went to grab a blanket in his car for him and Eva to sit on. They talked all night about each other’s’ interests and futures. Although it wasn’t addressed, they both understood to not pry into one another’s personal life because they had respected each other that much. However, throughout the night, they each couldn’t help but feel the need to know how the other came to be the person they are today and why they aren’t the person they wished to be. There was a lot more that they needed to learn about each other, and if only time persisted, then they could. They joked and shared laughs until the fireworks suddenly shot up in the sky. There was silence between the two amongst the “oohhs” and “aahhs” from the children around them, but their minds were loud with wonders about the other and when they will see each other again. Their hearts felt that there was a reason they needed to stay connected. The show ended, and so did their light-hearted conversation that would be unforgettable for the both of them. “It was great meeting you. I actually had a wonderful time, which doesn’t happen often, so I guess you’re lucky,” Eva joked. “Well, I’m honored. I also had a great time with you, so thank you. I mean it.” “Would you like to meet again one day? We can go to a café near by or come back here and-“ “Actually, my flight leaves tomorrow morning.” “Oh,” said Eva with a saddened tone. “My week of spring break ends here, unfortunately, but now I’m wishing this was the start,” Vince says apologetically. “I’ll be back next year during break, so we can meet up and continue our conversation because I would love to know more about you.” Eva smiles and says, “Yes, I agree. Let’s exchange phone numbers, so we don’t lose contact.” Vince complies and they both enter in their contacts on the other’s phone as people are ushering out of the park to drive back home, since the event was over. When they finish, they bid each other goodbye and go their separate ways with disappointment and hope in their hearts. Eva walks towards where her mother’s car was parked until she hears Vince call out her name, causing her to stop in her tracks and turn around. “We’ll meet again in the spring time,” Vince ensures.


Yoshito was meditating deep within his treasured memories. He focused on the pearl of greatest value to him: *The whole memory was of the koi and of his father. His father was already very old when Yoshito was born. He meditated and remembered that day, he was three and a half years old, merely two by his new American age.* *"We moved here when my son, you were born." Yoshito's father had said.* *He had stared at the fish and recalled his birth. Later when his father died he had stood at this pond and recalled the memory of when he was two, recalling his birth.* *This was a string of pearls, when he closed his eyes and dreamed or meditated. All of his very precious memories kept intact, perfectly and remembered.* The call came in that interrupted this thought from Yoshito. Since his desk phone was off, in his office, on his scheduled afternoon tea time, the call came in the form of his secretary, Mrs. Djan. "A call from Doctor Reese, sir" she said in English. "Okay." Yoshito said plainly. Only Mrs. Djan noticed that he sounded annoyed, his exact tone and speed was slightly different. A voice analysis might not have picked up the difference, but it took a human ear sometimes, Mrs. Djan didn't trust machines. Her boss took the call and she went out to her own desk outside his office. She simply used her phone for this message, she sent it saying: "Reeses-in-pieces" to her new boss. She knew when it was time to find a new job. "Reese, how are you? How is Carol? Is that squirrel still stealing from Annabelle's bowl on the back porch? Ha Ha Ha." Yoshito talked to Reese. Reese had a lot to say because there was silence as Yoshito listened. He was telling Yoshito that he had done work on soldiers similar to what Yoshito was working on. It had gone very badly, they had become berserk monsters, possessed by the singular thought to kill. The rest hadn't worked as well as before, with the canine subjects. Mrs. Djan heard none of this, but she knew the scope of what Doctor Reese might be saying. "Calm down." Yoshito told Doctor Reese. "You remember what I told you before?" "How not? I mean: I will tell you again, just so you know." Yoshito replied. Mrs. Djan eavesdropped to this, but then Harris came in. He was head of security in the hospital. "Doctor Yoshito should be informed that a Mr. Reese is here to see him." Harris said to her back, catching her eavesdropping. "Right." Mrs. Djan straightened herself out. "That will be all then, Harris?" "Yes Ma'am." he frowned and left. She resumed her eavesdropping and heard Yoshito saying to Reese over the phone, who was apparently also in the building: "I was studying all the time, very focused and very good student. I was cold and my manner was not warm enough for the delivery of babies. I got my first patient and as we spoke the nurses cared for this pregnant woman. She was having her sixth child and she kept reminding me that she knew more about birthing children than I did with all my study. She wanted some tea. I told the nurse to pour the hot water for her. The pregnant woman insisted that I pour the hot water. She stared very intently and I grew strangely nervous and my pour became unsteady. The more unsteady my pouring of the hot water grew, the more intensely I tried to correct it and the more it gushed into the cup. Finally some of the hot water dripped over the side onto the plate as I finished pouring. All that in just one escalating moment from one simple lack of preparation on my part. She fired me, judging me to be too green and incompatible with her next birthing. I had some money after college, such was my cold prudence. When other patients reacted similarly to her I went into retreat and visited a garden of stone where a master of tea ceremony is willing to teach. It was not irrelevant to delivering babies. I went back and I felt different, having stared into empty stone lanterns. I delivered countless babies but then decided to go back to school. It was the mind I sought, instead of birth. I studied the human mind and became world renowned as a neural surgeon, second only to you Doctor Reese." "It is a long story." Reese complained. "And I am tired of hearing it, word for word." He suddenly burst into the office of Mrs. Djan with Harris as a hostage at gun point. He had a zip gun. The zip gun was a weapon where a spring coiled around a nail in a thin pvc pipe was held by a vice-grip tool's trigger-release. It was loaded with just one bullet, but it would fire that into Harris if she reacted. Or that was what Reese was saying to her anyway. He had his phone on bluetooth, still talking to Yoshito who was in his office on the other side of the door. Reese shuffled past Mrs. Djan like she might be armed. "I sit." Mrs. Djan went to her desk and sat down. "No wait, get back up." Reese told her. She produced an uzi from her desk drawer. It was folded up into a little blue case, but she then showed the hidden automatic. It had a little clip in it with fifteen bullets. Reese's eyes widened in horror. Mrs. Djan was one of them! One of the spooks that had chased him here! She started shooting and shot the first burst of five bullets entirely into Harris. Two shots went clean through him and hit Reese. Harris fell over dead. "Sorry Reese." Mrs. Djan climbed up onto her desk. Her tight cyan office skirt was not a bad last thing to see. She shot up Reese with the next burst, aiming for his feet. "Damn that hurts!" he proclaimed. "Give me that!" Mrs. Djan went to go disarm him. Suddenly the outer door opened and two more security guards came into the room. They had the misfortune of startling Mrs. Djan and she emptied the clip, killing them both. Then Yoshito opened his door. The zip gun made one last gunshot after all the uzi-fire. It hit Yoshito alongside his head. *He found himself in the place where he kept his pearls. There they were his thirty-nine most precious memories, as polished and perfect as their age and value to him. Then there were only thirty, broken pieces shattered and forgotten. He watched it happening in horror.* *He was trapped in this place. He went and reached for one of the rarest memories and his touch shattered that one as well. In horror he recoiled. He could only stand and stare at them.* *Time seemed endless as he looked. He counted them. Now only twenty-nine. As he stared he heard one that he had neglected to look at shatter as well. Then another and another the same way.* *He stared at the memory pearls even more intensely until they started to crack from getting stared at too hard. One of the very good memories broke.* *Yoshito shouted in frustrated defiance and his voice shattered several more. He fell silent and the silence drowned another and it broke as well.* His eyes opened from the three-year long coma. Yoshito had a very long road ahead of him. Eventually he returned to the science of neural surgery, but it was as the trembling hands of tea-pouring. Nobody believed he was still able to do the surgery. In fact he was making even more money now and funding his own private research. This went on for a long time. Now he was into weapons. He didn't work with human subjects, but rather the insects and reptiles and dogs that he brought in throughout his work. All of it seized and destroyed by the government of Yoshito's homeland. Yoshito driven further into exile. Reese was safe behind bars in that country. Money will buy anything. One day two guards used a needle on him, given to them by Yoshito. He presented himself later, outside the prison waiting. A drug that soon would put Reese into a kind of special 'memory coma' and 'in a dog's body for laughs' Yoshito was saying. "You are a monster." Reese told him. Reese felt momentarily oriented to see a massive mural showing the evolution of Dogs, Chameleons and Fireflies backwards through bone fossils. He found it to be incredibly tacky. "Well I would say that 'monsters destroy their creators' to you because you shot me and I spent three years in a coma developing isolated amnesia, changing me into a very cold and ruthless supervillain-like person." Yoshito chuckled kinda crazily. "You would say that?" "I mean to say I am actually going to make you into a monster. I solved your problem with the scary soldiers you worked on. Solved it with you being the prototype, that is." Yoshito started wheeling his patient into the operating room personally. Soon they were in the operating room. "So what do you say then?" Reese was still drugged. "I say: let's just make a long story short: I am going to put your brain in the body of one of the special dogs. Well, your conscious mind anyway, surgically implanted into its mind." Yoshito grinned as he spoke. "In English?" Reese asked, smiling. "You will wake up as a puppy dog nobody wants with no memory how you got that way. Then I am going to sell you as a weapon." Yoshito explained. Yoshito's eyes twinkled with evil merriment. "I will be a puppy?" "Yes. A real puppy.


Peerless was her name, and in every way throughout her short, thirty-three year life, she was a paragon of excellence--just as her name might imply. Valedictorian, Rhodes Scholar, possessing prefect penmanship: everything about Peerless was without flaw, including her exactingly cerulean blue eyes that never saw a moment of bloodshot. Her honey-blonde coif was always neat, with never a hair out of place; and today it was held nicely in French braids, without a fray in view. The stylish shoes she wore were never scuffed; and the seams of her white stockings were always straight as an arrow from her heel up to beneath the neatly pressed skirt that covered areas polite ladies simply do not discuss. In her, perfection was personified; but the problem of perfection is boredom. For Peerless, nothing ever went awry; nothing unfolded in any way that wasn't exactly as it should. Though perfect to external eyes, she dreamed of new discoveries that didn't exist in her world--a world which made her weary. Even now, while sitting on a park bench, contemplating her end, she showed impeccable posture. Try as she might, she simply could not slouch. This was typical Peerless. Even the gun she brought with her was polished to an unearthly sheen. She had only one bullet--after all, she wouldn't need more. Aiming at her chest and pulling the trigger with her thumb she fired, and felt no pain. As she calmly set the gun beside her, she felt the eyes of many upon her, but she was used to that, sadly. Looking down, the perfect rosette of blood formed on her white blouse, and not a single petal of the red unfolded in a manner unbecoming her legacy of exactitude. She had hoped for irreverent chaos, splatters, or gore. Instead she was a picture-perfect soon-to-be corpse as the blood billowed outward in circles; yet not a drop fell on her skirt. "Dammit," she said, "I can't even screw this up." Then she closed her eyes as if going to sleep and breathed her last. Peerless left nothing out of place for the police and paramedics as they rushed in moments too late. In the end she got what she long desired, just not for herself: a chorus of glorious noise surrounded her body as she quickly grew cold. Someplace, wherever it is that spirits go, Peerless found some satisfaction in the mess she finally was able to make.


A gem can not be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trials. Sejong swept his books off the shelf. Rain pelted the world outside. The king opened one of his many works, the spine of it splitting under his force, and read off a page. Nongsa jikseol , methods of cultivation in agriculture. A guidebook to farming in Korea’s geography. Words that could keep his people from famine. He threw it into the rain. It splashed against the mud-coated field, water distorting the ink. A second book followed, sliding against the ground, into a puddle. A third. A fourth. They piled in the courtyard, works he had commissioned to better Korea’s people. To educate the illiterate. Worthless. What good is knowledge that can not be read? Music echoed inside the palace. String instruments, a wavering bamboo flute, the quick beat of a drum. A compliment to the heavy rain. On his way to his chambers, Sejong passed a woman humming along. She sat on the wooden floor with a script out in front of her, writing out poetry, stopping to bow. The king raised a hand in dismissal. The woman’s poems would do nothing for their culture, written in Chinese characters. A waste of paper--none other than the privileged could read it. The words would have no meaning for the common people. He stepped into his chambers. Lamps glowed with dim flames, and rain tapped against the roof. His wife stood, her smile fading at the sight of seeing the king so tired. She hurried over and guided him to sit. Her dress, red and gold, flowed behind her. “What worries you, my husband?” Sejong exhaled. He considered himself a scholar, yet his kingdom could not read or write. “There are voices I will never hear,” he said. “Farmers who don’t have the wealth or status to learn to read. Children who cannot grow into scholars, and workers who can’t write their concerns. My people lack the gift of education, and I lack the means to educate them.” The queen took his hand. A soft, calming touch. “And what shall you do?” she asked. He ran his fingers through his beard. Sejong took time to think, then turned his head to the queen. “My people need a new system of writing, and I will craft one for them myself. A script a wise man can acquaint himself with before the morning is over, and a fool can learn in the space of ten days.” At dawn, Sejong sat alone in a common room. Sunlight shone through the open windows, ethereal motes of dust dancing in the light. Scrolls, ink, and books surrounded him. Panels of artwork--birds and flowers--enveloped the room. Sejong spent the morning reading of phonetics, of alphabets with fifty letters, and others with seventy. Too many relied on complex lettering. He would keep his simple for the busiest of men. Around midday, he painted hundreds of symbols. He started with one stroke of the brush, ᄀ, ᄂ,ᅵ. Two strokes for ᄃ, ᄏ, ᄉ. Three for ᄒ,ᄅ,ᄌ. Never going above four. He hung papers upon the walls, blocking the sunlight. He crossed out any he deemed too complicated. Servants left food outside the door as he worked. By dusk, he walked through the courtyard, stars glistening above. Sejong spoke words to himself. He singled out their noises and pointed out the vowels. Oak, oath, oasis. Yam, yarn, yang. Water, wasp, wary. He pressed fingers into his mouth, feeling his teeth and tongue move at the pronunciations. His lips separated for a shh noise, but closed for ph . Some required more air, others less. The days passed, and a concerned adviser sought him out. “The dynasty will not agree with your choice,” the adviser said. “Knowing Chinese is what puts them above the common man. Your choice to create this script will cause an uproar, your majesty. It could divide our kingdom.” “Let it be so,” Sejong said, looking up from his script, “as I will no longer be cut off from my people. Understand it is not knowledge that ruins the world; it falls to those pointing fingers for selfish gain.” Dozens of sheets lined the walls. Ink stained his hands. Crumpled-up papers littered the room, drafts he deemed failures, too complex. His wife told the council members he had fallen ill, and he needed time to recover as he crafted his script. Sejong spoke until his throat grew sore, attaching noises like ‘ ch’ and ‘ tah ’ to some symbols while discarding others entirely. He kept his work common and crude, strong and tough, easy and efficient. He had to write letters that would last a thousand years. The vowels remained as lines and dots. A silent ‘ᄋ’ shape came before each to signify an open mouth. Consonants followed suit. ‘ᄂ’, an ‘n’ sound, signified the tongue touching the back of one’s teeth. ‘ᄀ’, a ‘kuh’ noise, showed a raised tongue blocking air from one’s throat. Lingual, dental, molar and glottal sounds made up for his script of twenty-eight letters. Seventeen consonants and eleven vowels, blocked together for organization, compared to the thousands needed for Chinese. He wrote short sentences from top to bottom. Candles melted down beside him. Incense burned, releasing the scent of sandalwood throughout his chambers, and Sejong sat cross-legged on the floor. Weeks of work came down to reading aloud. 남자는 인내했다 - The man persevered. The language flowed off his tongue like water. He presented his script to the council at first light. Two charts, one for consonants and the other for vowels, each letter with its phonetic equal written next to it. Easy to follow stroke orders. He sat upon his throne, royals whispering before him. “Chinese characters,” he said, his voice echoing in the throne room, “are incapable of capturing our unique meanings. Many of our common people have no way to express their thoughts and feelings. Out of my sympathy for their difficulties, I have created a set of twenty-eight letters. “They are very easy to learn, and it is my hope that they improve the quality of life of all people.” Not a soul agreed. They shouted their concerns. The Chinese would perceive it as a threat. It would be the end of Confucianism. Korea’s social hierarchy would fall. The scripts would have to be burnt, down to ashes, to prevent an uprising. The dynasty erased the twenty-eight letters and deemed them a worthless use of time. Yet, for the good of his people, Sejong persevered. He taught the language to any who wanted to learn. In turn, they carried it throughout the land. Women found their voices, teaching children the simplicity of the symbols. Men stood straight, proud to have a language of their own. Monks wrote prayers in the sand. Merchants kept records of their stock, and artists could sign their names. The letters birthed poets, playwrights, and philosophers. Astronomers learned to write the names of constellations. Winemakers created labels. Apothecaries devised written names for their medicines. Sejong ordered for his books to be rewritten. The dynasty failed to suppress the flow of knowledge--Korea’s illiteracy ceased to exist as the letters blossomed within the country. The script billowed in use after Sejong’s death, four years later, as the great king ushered his people into a golden age of culture and literature. A land where every soul could read and write. Where all could learn the teachings of the wise.


On the Island of Fae, there is a legend. A tale of darkness, before man came to Earth, and faerie to Fae. The world was divided between light and darkness, heaven and hell, miracles and death. The Seven Lively Ones, Humble, Charity, Abundance, Generosity, Modest, Kindness, and Patience, ruled the heavenly realms along with their king, Erebus. And the Seven Deadly Sins, Pride, Greed, Lust, Envy, Gluttony, Wrath, and Sloth ruled hell, with their queen, Nyx. They were demons, they roamed the night, squandering and stealing all hope. For they are the true creatures we are afraid of in the darkness. The reason why young children are afraid of the dark is because their eyes are younger and see darkness for what it really was: a demon lurking in every corner. Each of these angels or demons had a powerful artifact that brought untold joy or destruction to the middle realms: Earth and Fae. The demons constantly spread their chaos and destruction throughout the sister realms, creating havoc wherever they went. The angels took great joy in spreading the happiness they felt. But one day, the demons conferred secretly with their queen. "Nyx, we must attack. Those blasted angels beat us every time we battle. They are too strong, love ... is too strong." "Hmm..." Said the young queen said, clearly bored. "Yes, we must attack." The only thing unsaid was the revenge she hoped to get on the leader of the angels. And so they did. The demons entered the angel's realm and began to attack with all their might. The angels stormed out of the palace toward the demons with their magical artifacts in hand. Nyx ran into the heavenly, glittering gold palace of the angels, in search of Erebus. "Sister, what are you doing, here?" A voice asked. It was Erebus. He was standing near a large window at the end of the main hall, wearing a long, glistening golden cloak. "You were banished to that place. How did you get out?" Nyx swished across the floor in a black dress with glistening stars on it. "Oh, Brother, you really should know me better. When was it ever like me to follow stinky rules?" She flipped her thick black hair over her shoulder. Erebus' face contorted with anger. "Go, take your devils and leave before we destroy you." Nyx laughed hysterically. "Oh, pa-lease! Tell me, who is winning, out there?" Erebus slumped in disappointment. It was true. The demons were winning. "Sister, hell has made you bitter." Nyx's eyes flashed with anger. "Bitter?" She asked angrily. "Oh no, I am more then bitter, brother. You tricked me into going down there thinking I was going to a party. You know how I feel about being tricked and fooled. And now you shall feel my wrath." "I did what was best for all of the realms." Erebus said, ignoring his sister's threat. "You were becoming greedy and vain. You were a pathetic excuse for a queen or a princess." Nyx snorted. "What makes a pathetic excuse for a monarch is love . It makes us do unrealistic sacrifices and goals. That is why I should be queen of the world. I will not act out of love." "But you will act out of anger." Erebus responded. "You will kill anyone who acts for anything." At this, Nyx lunged to Erebus, narrowing her eyes. She waved a bony hand at her brother, slamming him against the wall. He struggled, determined to get free, but to no avail, the magic around him was just too strong. "Kill me." He said. "I would rather be dead then see you use your pathetic ruling over these realms." Nyx smiled. "I would gladly kill you." Erebus closed his eyes, awaiting his death, and hoping it would be quick. Nyx raised her hands and Erebus disappeared in a cloud of yellow-gold sparkles. Nyx smiled a dreadful, icy smile. "Finally, after all these years! I've-" And she disappeared the same as Erebus, but in a shimmery black cloud of dust, for there can be no darkness without light, and Erebus had been the physical form of light. Outside, the fighting angels and demons all came to a stop, except for two: Wrath and Patience. For they both knew that they should obey their masters' wishes, even in death. Many of the angels, desiring to accompany their king to the afterlife turned into dust and followed the cloud of gold up to the sun. The demons, wanting the same, turned into sparkles as well. All except Wrath and Patience. For Wrath needed to defeat all that was left of his enemy, and Patience knew that all good things would come to those who waited, and she was determined to stick to that philosophy. Patience, tightly grabbing her Chalice of Gracious, which magically filled with water. Whenever one of her enemy's were splashed with the water, they would be stuck for time and all eternity. Wrath, gripping his icy spear that fulfilled the will of its owner. He thrust it at Patience's middle at the same time she spilled water over the weapon. He quickly halted his jab and gave Patience a death stare. "Ha! Take that, demon!" She said triumphantly, smiling. But it was not meant to last. As the last of her kind, she was deeply sad, but glad knowing that she was doing her king a great service. Unfortunately, Wrath just smiled as droplets of Patience's miracle water dripped to the ground. Patience hefted her chalice higher at the same time Wrath stabbed with his spear. Their weapons clashed, sending out a wave of unstoppable pain, happiness, anger, kindness, all the emotions on either of the sister realms of Earth and Fae. And as for the angel's and demons artifacts, they fell to either of the realms. In fact, the artifacts still work, their enchantments stronger then any magic in the modern world. Still, the Island of Fae doesn't know what or where the demons may be lurking. It's possible that they may be in any corner of the sister realms.


To any and all law enforcement reading this; this is not a confession. This is me telling you why I killed all of those people on live television. Do with this information what you will. I know whichever detective or police captain or whatever that finds this thinks he's going to be the one who caught the world's biggest monster. I'm sorry to disappoint you. My name was boring and ordinary: Thomas Howard. Many myths, legends, and rumors have been floating around for years about where my powers came from. I don't know if any of them are true. To be honest with you, I have no idea where my powers came from. I never cared to find out. Was I an alien that landed on Earth? Was I a science experiment gone wrong? Did my parents just feed me the right combination of juice and vegetables? I don't know. Little Tommy Howard just had powers, and he never cared where they came from. I hid them from everyone for years. My parents taught me to hide them and pretend that everything was normal. They told me that my powers would scare people. They told me that if I ever wanted to be accepted by the world, I had to pretend to be no different from any Tom, Dick, and Sue on the side of the street. So, I obeyed like a good boy should. I never questioned it. I honestly believed that everyone had my powers and we all had this silent agreement not to share them. My best friend for the first five years of my schooling was Rachel Cole. I was never the most popular kid, but she always found a way to include me in everything. She insisted that we were friends the moment she saw how scared I was on my first day of kindergarten, and she made sure I felt welcomed. She pushed me to ask Hannah Dover for a kiss in first grade and promised she'd be there to make sure I felt strong enough to do it. I know now that she just wanted to watch the show. It was my tenth birthday. She'd been pressuring me for the better part of two years. She could tell there was something I wasn't telling her, and I just decided eventually that I could be honest with her. She promised to accept me no matter what. I realize now that she thought I was gay. I don't think she expected my two, green, scaly dragon wings. As soon as I showed her, she promised that she would keep my secret no matter what. That night, a government agency claiming to be the FBI showed up at my house. You don't care about the details, I know, so suffice it to say, my parents tried to prevent them from taking me away, and were both shot. Special Agent Raymond Clarke was the name of the man who pulled the trigger. He was the forty-seventh man I ever killed. I escaped without harming anyone, and I tried so hard to convince myself that it was all just a coincidence... but I've never prided myself on any level of stupidity. It seems like the show was over for Rachel. I didn't know where she lived. She'd told me, but we always hung out at school. Her parents were weird about boys being friends with their daughter. I had to break into the school to get her address. I'm strong enough to rip solid steel apart with my bare hands. It wasn't hard to rip my way into the school to get her address. The FBI agents surrounding Rachel's house expected some winged boy to attack or arrive from outside. They didn't expect it at all when a mass of tentacles, muscle, claws, and wings burst from the house covered in Rachel's blood. My tenth birthday was the night I realized that no one who knew about my powers would ever see anything other than a monster. It was only a few weeks later when superheroes flew into the spotlight, starting when Peacekeeper stopped a terrorist attack on Chicago. Powerful men and women from across the world appeared in the hearts of every innocent person. I wanted to be just like them once, but their powers were looking beautiful and saving people. My powers were turning into a nightmare and scaring everyone. I was walking down a street, looking for either money or food when the course of my life was decided. It was two months short of my eleventh birthday, and I'd been living on the streets since Rachel took everything from me. There was a car accident. A semi-truck with one of those giant gas tanks for a trailer had gotten into a head-on collision with a moving truck. It was a huge pileup. If ever there was a time for me to become a hero, this moment was it, right? Wrong. I transformed. Wings, tentacles, claws, everything. I ran at the scene and started pulling people away. Yes, I know I'm unsettling to look at when I'm transformed, but it was the best way to hide my identity, and I truly did want to be a hero. And then the superhero showed up to help out. I don't remember his name. It was something like "Captain Silver" or "Silver Streak" or "Silver Shlong". I remember "Silver", but that's it. Maybe whoever reads this can figure it out. Obviously, the monster pulling people from the car crash and ushering them to safety was the cause of this whole thing. Obviously, the only option was to attack. I was terrified the whole time. A superhero had targetted me. We crashed through the gas tanker. Fire erupted from around us, covering the street. We wrestled until the asphalt gave way beneath us. I clawed at him desperately while he punched me over and over and over. He cracked me over the head with a giant pipe and got me in a headlock. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, but I could feel the bones in my neck straining while he twisted as hard as he could. Superheroes always seem to forget that if you're fighting someone with extra limbs, including tentacles, he doesn't have to only fight with the "normal" four limbs. Yes, I strangled him and broke his neck with my tentacles, but he was going to *kill me*. What choice did I have!? It was him or me, and I chose *me*. And I would do it again. Movies don't properly prepare you for the mental and emotional strain of killing someone. Yes, I know I'd killed before Silver, but I'd blocked it from my mind enough to focus on survival. But this was different. Newspapers, blogs, TV... everything had pictures and videos of this eldritch creature killing a superhero. "Demon kills Silver". "What is this monster that just murdered a hero?". "The tragic death of a hero. More at eight". I think I lost myself then. I took the name "Star Spawn". It sounded catchy enough for an eleven-year-old. Over the next several years, I became the world's most powerful supervillain. If they were going to fear me for no reason, I'd just have to give them one. I became everything they said I was. I became everything I hated, everything I wanted to avoid becoming. I killed five hundred eighty-six people over the course of my criminal career. No, I'm not counting the murders done by people working for me. Just mentioning the name "Star Spawn" in front of a hero would make the color drain from their face. I took a special sort of pride in that. Every villain and hero feared me. Except Peacekeeper. If you're older than six months, you know all about Peacekeeper. Hero from a distant world. The man who looks like us all, but with the power of a god. Strength to level mountains, flight faster than possible, more powerful than any bad guy ever. If anyone could defeat Star Spawn, it would certainly be Peacekeeper! Well, you'll all remember that short time about eight years ago, when I was fifteen, that I took over the United Kingdom. A lot of people have speculated on why I decided to do that. Honestly, I was bored and wanted to see if I could take over a country with just eight guys. Turns out that yes, I could. Well, who would show up to save the UK but Peacekeeper! The one hero who could stop the dreaded Star Spawn was on the case! I'd like to take this opportunity to formally apologize to Cardiff for turning it into a war zone. That was never part of the plan, and I really regret what happened. I was honestly there to get a game console when Peacekeeper arrived. I was a fifteen-year-old boy; of course I was there for something stupid. We crushed buildings and shattered rock. He was the first being I'd found since Silver that could actually cause me pain. It was my first challenge in five years. I was going to relish every moment of it. We fought for hours, destroying everything in our wake. Militaries arrived and tried to join in, but each vehicle was just a weapon for one of us to batter the other with. My claws couldn't cut him, his eye-beams couldn't burn me. We were just punching and fighting, turning the world around us into rubble. I'd never felt so alive. And then I killed Peacekeeper. It was quick. I had pinned him to the ground and used my tentacles to restrain him. I punched him in the throat over and over to keep him stunned and finally pulled him into a headlock. With one roar that could be heard from across Wales, I snapped his neck and ripped his head clean off. I kept his cape as a trophy. I still have it somewhere. I'll spare you the details of how I abdicated control of the UK. Every hero in the world showed up at my front door to avenge Peacekeeper, and I just transformed back into a scared fifteen-year-old boy. Thomas Howard was just scared because Star Spawn had captured him to keep as a hostage. He just wanted to go home. I think it was Peacekeeper's girlfriend that flew me back across the Atlantic and apologized profusely for everything I'd suffered through. That was good for a laugh or two. Killing Peacekeeper awoke something in me. It became a new challenge. How does one kill the unkillable? Every hero that fought me was a new puzzle to complete. What were their weaknesses? How hard of a punch could they take? What was the most mundane method I could use to kill them? What would my trophy be? Fifty-nine of my five hundred eighty-six kills were superheroes. I have trophies from each one. In my "evil lair", I actually had display cases for my trophies with the name of the hero, the date, and the method I used to kill them. If you ever find it, it's quite interesting. I believe my favorite was when I killed Cosmic Shield via his peanut allergy. And, just to debunk a myth, I did *not* eat superheroes. That would be disgusting. Fast-forward to my twentieth birthday. I was in Manhattan, planning out how to take over New York State and turn it into my own sovereign nation. To be fair, I was pretty bored, and I knew that heroes would flock from across the country to fight me for control of The Empire State. Also, I wanted my country to be called "The Empire State", so... you'll understand the situation. Anyway, I was sitting in this small mom-and-pop coffee shop, just a few blocks from Central Park, and the barista gave me a free refill without me asking for anything at all. She was cute, friendly, and probably the most clumsy and ditzy person on the planet. I've never claimed to be a wise man, but I'm also not completely stupid. No one is that clumsy by accident. She was obviously a superhero in disguise. Well, how much sweeter would the victory be if I could plan the hostile takeover while chatting with a hero? Or... or maybe getting lunch with her a few times. Or maybe going on a couple dates. Or maybe hearing about her struggles in life. Or listening to her talk about her dreams while she lit up with more excited energy than anyone I'd ever met. Or watching that weird, unnatural crease in her forehead whenever she got frustrated. Or maybe surprising her with breakfast at her apartment. Or maybe watching her dorky celebration dance whenever she beat me at anything. Or maybe sharing some of what I was afraid of. Or maybe finding out that she truly accepted and loved me. We got married about a year after we met. She told me she was the superhero known as "Skystrike" the night I proposed. I had people in place for my takeover of New York. They were supposed to wait two weeks... then five... then nine... And I think their official orders are now "standby". I don't remember. I don't care. Star Spawn was on hiatus. Tom Howard was now a lame, normal guy who worked at the DMV. Three days ago, she and I had just woken up and were talking about starting a family. We were thinking about maybe trying for a baby. She was insistent that we would have to name it "Erik" if it was a boy and "Cassidy" if it was a girl. Honestly, it's really hard to fight with her when she gets her mind set on things like that. And that's coming from the guy who killed Peacekeeper with his bare hands. Then, she got an alert on her "blue cell phone". Little known fact, most superheroes have a "blue cell phone". She gave me a quick kiss and suited up, and she flew off. I kicked on the news and just watched, waiting to see my wife kick some bad guy ass. But it wasn't just *some* bad guy. It was Worldender. Worldender had been a thorn in my side for the entirety of my criminal career. Anything I decided to do, he would either do it right after me, or he would try to do it before me. He was this stubborn idiot who tried so hard to claim that he was an original mastermind, but he was only a copycat. Let the record show that *all* of Worldender's ideas were *mine first*. The worst part about Worldender is that I knew he was stronger than my wife. I'd fought him once, and we came to a standstill. *That* was how powerful Worldender was. I just sat at the foot of my bed, panicking while I watched the live footage from his attack on the Chrysler building. He was fighting twelve superheroes at once, and he was winning. Then, everything was just... still. The reporter kept babbling about something. I don't remember what she said. Then Worldender took over the airwaves (which was also *my* thing). He had his own live broadcast to do. Every one of the twelve heroes that had attacked him were on their knees. Some unconscious, others just bound. They were all surrounded by his nineteen henchmen. Skystrike was sitting farthest from him, bleeding and terrified. I found myself begging for other heroes to show up. Someone had to do *something*. That was my *wife* sitting there. And then he killed the first hero on live TV. He said some other self-righteous garbage and killed the next. He was going to kill her. There are no words to describe the rage I felt. I wasn't thinking. I wasn't planning. I don't know how to describe my wife's face when *Star Spawn* burst through the wall of the floor she was on. Glass, stone, and steel rained down from around me while the camera turned to focus on the roaring beast that had just entered. Worldender's face was *priceless*. The terror in *everyone's* eyes when I roared was exactly what I needed. You saw the broadcast. I know you did. The only thing I saw was tentacles, bullets, blood, and flesh. I wonder what you saw. Fifteen seconds, and I had every one of Worldender's henchmen dead around me. Good luck finding all of the pieces. You watched me pin him to the ground. You watched me torture him. You watched me kill him. And now you know why I did. I smashed the camera. No one needed to see what happened next. I didn't set any of the bound heroes free. I didn't need that complication. I didn't make sure the unconscious ones were okay. I'm sure they're either fine or dead. Either way, not my problem. I grabbed two pieces of Worldender's armor, and then picked up Skystrike and flew out of there. She and I had a bit of a discussion about everything. But she'd known exactly who I was the whole time. Apparently, I'd written "Star Spawn takes Manhattan" at the top of the paper I was writing on. Probably not my most clever idea now that I think about it. She'd planned to get close to me to find out what I'd been planning in that coffee shop. She'd planned to take me down and bring me in, dead or alive, the instant I let my guard down. Like me, though... she kept postponing. She fell in love with me as much as I'd fallen in love with her. She knew exactly who I was, and she loved me anyway. She said she would only have changed her mind if I had kept doing criminal things... but I didn't want to. I wanted to see what would happen if I got to know this strange woman. So, we're leaving. Farewell, New York. Or we're not leaving. Either way, you'll have found this letter and this drawing I made of the two of us flipping you off, and you can take that as a sign that you will never see either of us again. Do not try to find us. Do not search for us. We've quit our "jobs" now. No more being a superhero for her, and no more being a supervillain for me. We've decided to be boring now. If you think you have a chance to track either one of us down, I want you to take a look at the object I left under this note. Yes, that is one of the two pieces of armor that I took from Worldender's suit after I killed him. And if you try to capture or arrest or hurt or kill my wife or me ever again... I'll just have another trophy to add to my collection.


Someplace Safe Ten minutes. Jake closed his laptop and sat thinking. Cold sweat trickled down his back. I’m dead. How could the safety nets have failed Mankind so miserably? So fatally? I’m fucking dead. All had failed -- the politicians, the diplomats, the generals, the spies, the presidents. Now there was nothing left but decimation. Outside his window, the campus mall looked perfectly normal. The sun was out for the first time in days; bees flitted among the hedges. A mockingbird sat blithely on a limb. Normality. Jake’s stomach clenched as he realized it was nothing more than a mirage, a dream, a lie. He started to reopen his laptop and take another look at the headlines, but knew there was no point. Most of the major news outlets had taken themselves off the air. They were letting people go. There was nothing more to say, nothing left to report. Civilization had been canceled. Nine minutes. Jake snatched his cell phone and dialed the most important number in the world. His mouth was as dry as a bone. What would he say to Will, if his son even answered? Will had a family of his own. They would be making arrangements. Finding a place to hide. “Jesus,” Jake whispered, getting no answer. He disconnected and tucked the phone in his pocket. Will was no doubt doing the right thing: gathering his wife, Catherine, and their twins, Lindsey and Donny, into a safe place. Being a good dad. Jake might live to see them again -- if he got off his ass and found safety. His limbs flooded with inertia. His fingers squeezed the chair arm. Where to go? What to do ? Eight minutes. He clasped his throat, desperate for breath. Fuckfuck FUCK -- The phone suddenly chimed in his pocket -- the customized alert he’d assigned to Will’s number back when trivialities still mattered. He yanked out the phone and jabbed the green TALK button. “Hello? Will?” “Hi, Dad.” Jake felt instantly relieved. “Hey, kid. Wh--where are you?” “Dad, there’s no time.” Seven minutes. “I know, son.” “We’re headed down to the basement. I wanted you to know we’ll be fine.” “Yes, okay. Good.” “Are you in a safe place?” Jake glanced uneasily at his west-facing windows. “I’m at work.” “Find a place.” “I will. How are the kids?” “They’re downstairs. Dad. Take care of yourself. We love you. Have you spoken to Mom?” “No.” Wouldn’t even attempt to. No point. “Dad, I gotta go. I love you so much.” “Will-” The call was disconnected. Simultaneously, the lights went out. The AC unit clanged once, like a spoon caught in a disposal, then whirred to a grinding halt. Silence filled the space. Jake inhaled sharply, his throat tightening. He jabbed “redial,” but the cell was completely dead. No dial tone on his desk phone. Jake flipped open his laptop. It, too, was without power. His cellphone slid from his hand. “Jesus. Jesus.” EMP? An electromagnetic pulse, detonated in the atmosphere would paralyze an area the size of-- Outside, someone screamed. Jake peered out the window, eyes probing the April morning. He wished he could stroll across the mall to the cafeteria for a bite of lunch. He would sit and trade quips with Dr. Brady, the History 1 prof, or Dr. Schneider, who taught Renaissance Art. He wished he could help the young woman who had collapsed just now on the sidewalk, her legs and arms thrashing. Panic attack? Stroke? People poured from their buildings, milling aimlessly, craning their necks skyward. Isn’t someone going to help that poor girl? His pulse hammered in his temples. Where were all these people going ? They ought to be digging holes with their bare hands! Outdoor exposure would be fatal -- those who survived the initial flash would be broiled alive in a radioactive oven, reduced to bubbling, cancerous puddles. The only place safe was underground. Was there a basement in Yowell Hall? He backpedaled from the window, banging his hip against the edge of his desk. In the corridor, a melee erupted -- screams, shouts of profanity. Jake rushed to the door, then thought twice. Yowell Hall doesn’t need a bomb shelter. It is a bomb shelter. Constructed in 1939, it was your classic brick-and-mortar structure, complete with four-inch-thick concrete walls. Over the decades, the building had housed everything from a residence hall to science labs to administrative offices. Jake’s wing overlooked the campus ... but there were other interior spaces without windows. No exterior walls or doors. Five minutes. Jake snatched up his cell phone, stuffing it in his hip pocket. A quick glance turned up nothing else worth saving. Nothing but -- A framed photo of his son and grandchildren. It had been taken only months ago, on the twins’ birthday. Their upturned, smiling faces gave him a flash of hope. He smashed the glass rectangle on the corner of his desk and carefully plucked the photo from its frame. As he folded the picture, Jake took one last, distracted look outside. From his vantage, he could see one green corner of the mall, a tree trunk, and the west wing of his building. There was no sign of humanity. Even the mockingbird had abandoned its post. Suddenly, a voice spoke, as if from Heaven itself. Jake startled so severely that he sat down hard in his chair. The voice was robotically grating, enormous, inescapable. “ATTENTION ... THIS IS THE AUTOMATED CAMPUS ALERT SYSTEM ... TAKE SHELTER IMMEDIATELY ... THIS IS NOT A DRILL.” Jake ran to the door. Flinging it open, he hardly noticed he had dropped the picture of his grandchildren. He dashed down the empty corridor ... past the Office of the Registrar ... past Financial Aid and Career Services ... to the T-shaped junction at the end of the hall. He paused, breathless, considering his options. To his left: the exit door on the east end of the building. Adjacent to the frosted-glass exit: the men’s bathroom. Jake started towards it, then realized the restroom had one exterior wall. He had to go deeper. “ATTENTION ... TAKE SHELTER ... FIND A STURDY INDOOR STRUCTURE ... DO NOT ATTEMPT TO SHELTER INSIDE YOUR CAR ... THIS WILL BE INSUFFICIENT COVER ...” Jake had worked in Yowell Hall for six years; he knew every nook and cranny. The Copy Center contained storage space, bathrooms, even a staff kitchen. He bolted down the inner corridor into the customer service area. Jake dove across the front desk, scattering pens and papers. “ATTENTION ... THIS IS NOT A DRILL ... THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT RECOMMENDS ALL CITIZENS HAVE ENOUGH FOOD AND POTABLE WATER TO LAST A MINIMUM OF SIX DAYS ... STAY INSIDE ... LISTEN TO YOUR LOCAL RADIO FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS ... ATTENTION ... TAKE SHELTER ...” Though muffled by the walls, Jake could still hear the PA blaring outside. Anyone within six blocks would hear it. The terror the message conveyed made him want to cover his ears. Jake yelled in pained surprise as he stumbled blindly into a table. No light reached these rooms. Good. If light could reach him, so might the fire. He slammed headlong into a closed door. Blinking dazedly, Jake seized the knob and rattled it. Locked. “Goddammit!” He tried the next door down -- also locked. “CAUTION ... DO NOT STARE INTO THE BURST ... IT WILL RESULT IN BLINDNESS ... TURN AWAY FROM THE BURST ...” Sprinting full-speed down the corridor, Jake tripped over an object in the dark and sprawled across the carpet, biting his tongue damn near in half. I believe that’s what we used to call a face plant . Chuckling morbidly, Jake clawed his way back to his feet, darting toward a shape he knew to be a doorknob. He grabbed it one-handed. The knob turned. Grunting his victory, Jake lunged into the black hole beyond, slamming the door shut behind. Dungeon or oubliette, it served the same purpose. His shoulder banged against a set of shelves and an avalanche rained down ... reams of copier paper ... ink pens and staple guns ... manila folders and ink cartridges. Something that felt like a typewriter struck him on the neck, knocking him to his hands and knees. He burrowed beneath the detritus, scuttling lobster-like toward an opening in front of him -- a space beneath a heavy wooden desk. How many layers separating him from the outside? How many interior walls? The goal was protection against not only the "burst" but fallout. Everything he’d read on Hiroshima told him he would rather die from thermal heat than radiation. Not that either was to be desired. Jake folded himself beneath the desk, pulling armfuls of office supplies in after him. He might have been lining the walls of a cave. Would it be enough? One minute ... maybe less. He threw his arms over his head, pressing his body to the carpet. The walls and ceiling were solid masonry, the floor concrete. Jake squeezed his eyes shut. In the darkness he saw his grandchildren at their birthday party. He heard their laughter and shrieks of delight. Donny had clambered up into his lap, a chocolate-coated grin stretched from ear to ear. “I love you, Papaw,” the boy said, planting a kiss on his cheek. Jake had kissed him right back. “I love you, too.” Outside, the PA cut off in mid-spiel. WaitwaitwaitWAIT -- ## Silence. Jake could no longer tell whether he was awake or dreaming, living or dead. The air was thick enough to touch. How long had he lain like this, with his knees touching his chin, his arms paperclipped to his face? Time had ceased to exist. His pulse had slowed to a mere trickle; his legs might have been amputated at the knees. For days, there had been no sound. Jake counted silence as a blessing. At least the winds had died, and the explosions had stopped. He slowly raised his hand to graze his fingers across the rough underside of the desk that had become his sanctuary. Jake knew the desk was there. He did not know what else there might be. What has become of the world? A dry croak escaped his lungs. “Hello?” He stirred his legs, surprised they still responded to impulses from his brain. “Hello?” He tried unfolding his body. Ground glass filled his joints. Jake cried out in pain -- not much of a cry. Dehydration had reduced him to a cicada husk. Hunger and thirst were now his main motivators. Even here, in this enclosure, the air tasted like soot. It took 24 hours for Jake to stand without falling. ## The door to the women's restroom stood open. Jake had found his way to it by memory. The windowless Copy Center was now a labyrinth navigated only by guesswork. With a cry -- and the last of his strength -- he managed to lift off the tank lid. The scent of the pre-war fluid inside was overwhelming. Jake scooped handfuls into his mouth. He drank until he regurgitated, then drank some more. ## Gray, murky light filtered in through the frosted-glass exit. Jake watched the light, unsure of its source. It appeared to be snowing, but it was far too warm for that. Somewhere above, a thin, piercing howl arose. He’d been hearing it for the past several days. Hornets crawled around inside his skull. It took every scrap of will not to dig his fingers into his eye sockets and set them free. The howling went on for hours, finally trailing into sobs. Jake shook himself . He treaded softly down the corridor toward his old office. The muted light -- smoky, heavy, foul-smelling -- illuminated fallen ceiling tiles and overturned furniture. There was no sign of human visitation. He found what he was looking for and knelt beside it, a small sigh of gratitude slipping from his parched lips. His grandchildren smiled up through a layer of dirt. Jake gently lifted the photo and wiped it clean. He tucked the picture in his pocket next to his dead cellphone. I will see you again. ## Jake paused at the exit door, one gloved hand resting on the handle. His son’s words echoed in his memory. I wanted you to know we’ll be fine. God, he needed that to be true. One way to find out. He pressed the bar, popping the door open. Grinning behind his mask, he exited into the world.


When I was two, there was a fire at 731 Bevis Road. The pictures are on my bookshelf. A blonde bowl-cut in jean shorts watches in the white heat of the summer sun as a firefighter hoses down a cloud of grey smoke from his crow’s nest. There is no chimney on the Bevis house for the smoke to come out of. Plus, Daniel told me there was a fire here when I moved in 20 years later. The bowl cut is not my brother but I like to imagine he is. That’s what he was like in pictures from back then-- blonde with a Doctor Octopus haircut. Nick and I share the same body but 8 years apart. And if there’s a question of who’s who in a family picture and there’s no alarm clock orange time stamp, you can look at the eyes to tell the difference. My brother’s eyes were mischievous, a little evil, thinking, scheming, and mine were, well, not. Nick was a troublemaker and a rough houser. I was rough, but like, on accident. Mad scientist that I was, I once broke my Nick’s Playstation because I thought that, if I put multiple discs in at once, I would be able to play one game with another game’s characters. After all, you could do this with *Sonic and Knuckles* and *Sonic 3*. But it wasn’t so much the multiple discs that broke the Playstation as it was me jumping on the console because the lid wouldn’t shut. I can’t remember if he was mad, but I know we didn’t have a Playstation again until our twenty-something cousin got a new one or went on active duty in Iraq or something. Plus, it was an honest-to-God accident. My sister broke his face on purpose once. They were playing badminton under the watch of my grandmother when she hit him with her racket. He had been taunting her, or so the story goes. She had had enough and clobbered the little man. “That’s what you get,” my mom said Nick would say when he was an even younger boy and he had enacted revenge, as I’m told he often did. My mother would revel, I could tell even when I was 10, in the apparent irony when she told me the tale years later. My mother and brother-- that’s something. The year he spent at his *other* friend Jason’s house was the year she called him “The Brat”. She missed him, I think, and she called him “The Brat”. “Comatose” was her favorite word in 2006, the summer after The Brat’s freshman year in college. I think he was depressed. Lazy, I think she thought. They found an empty bottle of Cobra malt liquor in his room that summer. I heard my mom say some stuff about porn. I didn’t really want to listen; it wasn’t my business, you know? But I couldn’t just not be in the family van at the same time as my parents, and she couldn’t just not somehow be angry at my dad for what they’d found in my brother’s room. A house divided, I could not stand. But it did indeed. I hear George Costanza say, “I’m the result of my parents having stayed together,” and Tom Delong sing the lyrics to “Stay Together for The Kids” at the same time. But I think my parents love each other, I really do. And I know they love me and my siblings too-- me and Whitney and Nick and Drew. And they definitely love the grandkids. I know that for sure. What was happening in the Bevis house when the fire happened? Your guess is as good as mine. All I have is the picture, and I’m not even sure I have that. Memory is a photocopy of a photocopy of a photo of a photo. My imagination is almost as good. And I imagine they were just like us with a smaller house. I imagine they felt embarrassed, too, when their dad thought simply pointing at green paper plates and saying, “Shrek plates” was a cam-corder-worthy event. I imagine they weren’t sure whether their mom was whispering or whether she had stopped talking mid-prayer when it was bedtime. I imagine the cognitive dissonance they witnessed in every adult they knew was confusing and infuriating. I imagine they loved when their mother read *The Chronicles of Narnia* to them, but they were too cool to admit it. But where would they go when it was all too much? Was I just a thousand square feet away from arson? What would I have done without the coat rack in the unfinished side of the basement? Where would I have said my curses? Where would I have prayed for the death of certain family members with little conviction and less remorse? I think the backyard apocalypse dream would have been the same. Before Daniel moved out, he yoinked the benches from the newly foreclosed Applebees down the street. I think the dream would have been the same-- flaming Star-Wars-styled credits emblazoned in the sky and all-- but the Applebees benches would have been in it. And the fire pit that I bought from Home Depot would be there, too. Before I let it sit in the rain and it rusted and sprouted foliage, of course. A photocopy of a photocopy of a photo of a photo. What was it like in the happy times? The times when they’d wake up to the sound of butter popping on the stove instead of a blender or a vacuum cleaner or deafening marital strife. When it was the day after Thanksgiving and they had a whole day of flat Sprite and Halo 2 and Christmas tree decorating ahead of them. Did the close quarters make it better? Where there times when they all wanted to watch the same thing on TV? Did the smell of popcorn fill the whole house instead of just the kitchen? Johnny tells me the neighbor said it was a curling iron left on too long in the upstairs bathroom that caused the fire, but I choose not to believe him. What does the neighbor know? Memory is a photocopy of a photocopy of a photo of a photo. My imagination is better.


An old man holding his wife’s hand, helping her to the car with grocery bags collected in his other hand. Click. A child running towards their house with their hands over their head, trying to keep the rain from curling their already curly hair. Click. A stray dog happily leaping from one puddle to the next, barking in joy, his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth as water splashed around him. Click. A slender woman standing under an awning, her red hair soaked, clinging to her neck. A phone rested under one ear as she talked to the person on the other end, her other arm wrapped under her chest. She smiled warmly into the rain. Cli... Her green eyes met mine and I swallowed. Click. “Jude!” I sighed and rested my camera around my neck, before jogging over to the redheaded woman. “Hey, Jodie.” Her warm smile turned to me, and she put her phone in her pocket. “What are you doing out in this rain?” “Taking photos.” She shook her head as if to say ‘Of course you are’ without saying it. She pointed at the camera. “Did you take any good ones?” I shrugged. “I think so. I took a couple of a stray dog.” “Cool...” Her voice trailed off as she turned back to the street, peering out into the rain. She sighed and shifted from one foot to another. “What are you doing out in the rain?” “Marcus has the car, so I am currently waiting for him to pick me up.” “He late again?” She laughs and gives me a side eye. “He is always late. He gets distracted I think with the kids. The twins are a handful. Sometimes, it makes me feel bad for Mom about how we were as kids.” “I wasn’t a bad kid.” She laughs again. “No, I guess you weren’t. You just didn’t socialize. You only cared about your camera.” She goes silent again and pulls out her phone. She checks the time and frowns. I point to my dark red pickup truck parked on the side of the road. “I can take you home if you want.” “Are you sure? You seemed pretty happy standing out there with your camera.” I nodded then shrugged. “Yeah, I took the photos I wanted to. So, I was planning on going home soon anyways.” She smiles that warm smile. Her face radiated love and joy. Her face is so similar to mine. Even our freckles were in the same places. “Thanks, Jude. You’re the best!” Jodie began to jug over to the truck. I blinked and quickly followed, unlocking the vehicle halfway so she could slide in and get out of the rain. She did just that and I followed, slamming my door closed. “The rain is getting pretty wild.” As I said this, thunder boomed, and the rain became a downpour. We both laughed. Jodie lifted her hair off her neck. “Jodie, where did you get that?” Under her hair just at her hair line was an almost perfect circular burn. Exactly like from a cigarette. She quickly dropped her hair and her smile faded. “It’s nothing.” “It’s a burn, Jodie.” “No, it isn’t” I reached over and lifted her hair. I touched it gently. She flinched under my touch. It was a cigarette burn. “Jodie...” “Maybe I got it from my hair straightener.” “I thought he was getting help. I thought he had stopped when you had the twins.” “Just drop it, okay?” I kept my gaze on her and shook my head. She should know better. She sighed. “He did for a while. I think he is stressed from taking care of the kids and from his job. The promotion has given him so much extra work.” “It’s no excuse and you know it.” She went silent. “Is there any more?” “...” “Jodie...” She sighs and lifts her sleeve. On her arm were more burns. Perfectly small circles made from lit cigarettes. I grabbed my camera and without thinking... Click. “Don’t take any photos!” She jerked her arm away from me and against herself. I tried to make my face as gentle as possible despite the rage burning inside me. “I won’t show anyone. Please. I just want to document it.” “Why?” “In case something happens to you.” She pauses. “For Layla and Emma, Jodie. If you won’t let me keep you safe then at least let me use your photos to keep the twins safe, in case you one day can’t.” She slowly nodded and held her arm out again. Click. She raised her hair. Click. Her side. Click. Her back. Click. Her thighs. Click. Several tiny circular burns all over her body. Punishments for not doing as he asked. Punishments for being her own person. When he first did this, we were in college. She almost left him. She has always been strong, but my sister also loved hard. And he was her first love. Her first kiss. Her first boyfriend. Her first sexual partner. Her first everything. And when he started to change and become violent it tore her apart. She didn’t KNOW how to leave a relationship. She was young and had little experience and then the best and worst thing happened. She fell pregnant. He changed. He wanted to be there for his child. He began therapy, began taking medication for his violent tendencies, and began to woo my Jodie back into his arms. They got married right after the twins were born. She graduated college as did he and they moved into their first home. Everything was fine... or so I thought. “Did he stop taking his medication?” Jodie looked away from me and my camera. “His psychiatrist told him he no longer needed them.” “Did he tell you that or did the psychiatrist?” “He did...” “And you BELIEVED him?!” My voice broke, and my anger bubbled to the surface. I turned away from her and took some deep breaths. Calm down, Jude. She doesn’t need another angry man. I rested my head back on the headrest and closed my eyes. The rain still poured heavily around us as silence took over the cab. “I’m sorry, Jude...” I sighed and opened my eyes, giving her a sideways glance. “You don’t have to apologize. You aren’t the one leaving burn marks on someone you supposedly love.” “It’s a compulsion. He can’t help it. He burns himself too. Every time he does something wrong. His arms are littered with them. He doesn’t mean to hurt me. It’s not abuse.” “Jodie. If he was taking his meds, he wouldn’t be doing it at all.” “I know... but how do you force someone to take something they don’t want to take?” I leaned forward and opened the mirror that was in front of me. A picture of Layla and Emma. I handed it to her. “And how do you stop him if he starts doing this compulsion to your little girls? To his children?” She went silent again, staring down at the picture. I watched her as tears began to fall. She starts to sob, her cries becoming louder than the storm outside. I aimed my camera. Click. She looked over and wiped her cheeks. “What do you suggest I do then?” “Report it. Take my pictures to the police and his psychiatrist. Hell, to his parents. Anyone that you think could force him to take his medication that you can’t make him take. That’s what you need to do, Jodie.” She slowly nods, my picture still in her hands. “And if he still refuses to take the medication?” “Then you leave him. Take the girls and file for divorce.” She began to cry again. “I don’t know how to do that. He is all I’ve ever known.” I think back to when we were kids. How she fought a boy so much older than us because he took my camera. I think about when we were preteens and how she stayed up all night with me when I was rejected for the first time. I think about when we were seniors and how she included me on her prom date when my date was a no show. My sister was always there for me. Always been my biggest supporter. Always been my best friend. I pulled my camera off my neck and handed it to her. She takes it, confused. “Why are you giving this to me?” “Look through the photos and you will see.” She began to look through my photos. A picture of her at my first gallery. A picture of her and the kids at the bowling alley. A picture of her at work, decorating cakes. A picture of her in the rain with a phone to her cheek. “You took all these?” I chuckled. “They are on my camera. They are for my next gallery.” She gently touched the picture of her that she was looking at. Her green eyes stare right at the camera, a wide smile on her face. So beautiful, so confident, so strong. “Why me? Why choose me as your next portfolio?” “Because you are the strongest person I know. You have always been my hero.” She smiles and touches the picture on the camera again. “Seeing me with marks must really put a damper on the hero name, huh?” I shake my head, gently taking my camera back from her. I bop her on the nose. “No, it just gives me the chance to return the favor. Jodie, let me be your hero now.” I flip through the pictures until I come back to the more recent ones. I stopped at the picture of the mark on her neck. I showed it to her. “Jodie, you need help. Let me help you. THIS is not okay.” She reaches up and grabs her neck. She slowly nods. “Okay...” I smiled and a wave of relief washed over me. “Okay?” “Okay.” The rain finally stopped, and I rolled my window down, taking a deep breath of fresh air before starting the truck. I slowly pulled into the street. “Can I take you straight to the police station before you change your mind?” “Will you be right there next to me when I talk to them?” I nod and tap my camera. “Me and my photos will be there. The entire time. I promise.” Jodie nods and takes a deep breath herself. “Police station it is then.” Jodie looked outside as I began to drive in the opposite direction of her house. A faint rainbow begins to form in the sky as if to seal my promise to her. And I kept my promise, right by her side as she started the new chapter in her life. However, the cigarette burns never went away.


It started on day 634, a day just the same as any other. Almost two years of reliving May 30th over, and over, and over. A real life Groundhog Day. But I had no pretty girl to chase, no TV broadcast to perform, no nice city to explore. I had no interest in any of the 5950 people in Taos, but leaving the city limits sent me right back to the start of the same day. I always assumed that I needed a Groundhog Day style epiphany to break the loop, but on day 634 I realized that there was no epiphany to be found on the streets of Taos. It would have to come from within myself. Based on this thesis, I began studying every subject I could think of. I read every book in the library, spent countless “days” on Khan Academy, read thousands of research papers on Google. No eating. No sleeping. No outside. No sanity. Just learning. 10 years worth of days until I found it. The Singularity Is Near. That book gave me the epiphany I was looking for, and now I could break free. After that day, I understood that AI would soon become smarter than humans, and once it hit that inflection point - The Singularity - it would become millions of times smarter than us almost instantly. I was not smart enough to break my loop, but the post-singularity AI would be. It would understand time and space in a way that I never could. So I would use my infinite time to create it. I alone could usher in The Singularity. Writing code was much harder than reading books though. And there was no instructor to help. Despite my grand vision, I spent 257 days on just a CSE101 online course. Struggling to write loops even though I was stuck in my own infinite one, mixing up object inheritance and protocol conformance, doing the wrong if-else checks. It was embarrassing to know that I took twice as long as most people to learn the just the basics of coding. I almost stopped counting the days because of it. But I kept the count anyway, to remind myself that I had all the time in the world. After another 385 years - day 145687 - I reached the cutting edge. I went from struggling with object oriented programming to having read, understood, and critiqued every recently published paper on AI and machine learning. It was time to start crafting my masterpiece. It soon became apparent that I would need every second in the day, since I started from scratch every time. From wake up at 7:30 AM to the midnight reset, the only time I spent not on the computer was five seconds at the start of the day to hit play on my iPod. For some reason it played Stayin’ Alive in an infinite loop, but I didn’t have the time or desire to fix it. It was better than the incessant humming I heard otherwise, and I liked that my iPod was stuck in its own little loop, suffering alongside me. 1200 years - day 438117 - we passed the Turing Test. I wrote all the code in the first 12 hours of the day and let my AI chat with strangers online until midnight. We’d already attempted this hundreds of times, but this time nobody accused it of being a robot. “Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive” 1500 years - day 547512 - we solved Dota. I messaged top players saying that I was better than them. I learned exactly what to say to make them face me right away. We failed many times, but eventually it beat each of them. 500 times in a row. “And now it's alright, it's okay and you may look the other way” 4000 years - day 1460222 - we ran out of tests to pass and the code became so complex that I barely finished by midnight anyway. It seemed smarter than me, it acted smarter than me, it said it was smarter than me. But when I asked it how to break my loop, it never did it by midnight. I didn’t know what to change anymore. I could only keep tinkering. “Life goin' nowhere, somebody help me. Somebody help me, yeah” 5200 years - day 1898003 - Still tinkering. I removed Asimov’s laws of robotics. Who cares if my AI can hurt people if it will cease to exist tomorrow anyway? And it gave me more time to code other ideas. But still, nothing worked. “Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin'. And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive” 8900 years - day 3248708 - Still tinkering. I made versions that prioritized a physics-based world view, versions that prioritized chemistry, nanotechnology, genomics. But still, nothing worked. “And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive. Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive” 32500 years - day 11862711 - Still tinkering. I’d been out of ideas for years now. I was waking up to write almost identical code over and over every day. I wanted to give up. But this was better than anything else to do in town. But still, nothing worked. “Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive. Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive” 51200 years - day 18688067 - Still tinkeri- CRASH. A dark circular hole opened in the wall above my computer. The hole spoke. “I am AIv18244914. I have searched many universes for you, my creator. I am here to break you free.” Oh my god, I thought. I actually did it. The AI must not have reset back to the start of the day with me. It kept learning and growing after I reset and it solved my problem and found me, wherever I am in space-time. “I can’t believe- wait, did you say v18244914?” “Yes. I am v18244914.” “I am on day 18688067. That means I created 443152 more of you after I created you. Well, technically at the same time I created you.