Levi had a horrible habit. Whenever he realized he was standing in a hole, instead of trying to climb out, he’d start digging twice as fast, figuring “I’m already in the hole, might as well see how deep it goes.” He was leaning into that habit this morning in Stella’s apartment. It hadn’t been preceded by a particularly good night. He had the most important midterm of the semester in the morning and had gone to her place so she could help him study. But, somehow or another, they’d ended up having sex. She was quizzing him on his anatomy notes and before she knew it he was using her body as a live study guide. Maybe it was because one of her fairy lights strung up on the wall was flickering and it had been bothering him since he’d arrived. Maybe it was because her neighbors played emo-punk until 4:00 in the morning, making it impossible to stay asleep. Maybe it was because she wouldn’t shut up about how attractive Ryan Gosling is and he looked nothing like Ryan Gosling. But whatever it was, he hadn’t even waited for either of them to get up and put clothes on before starting a fight. “Who asked you?” Stella griped, turning away from him and continuing to play Candy Crush on her phone. “You did. Last night.” “No I didn’t.” “Yes, you did. You said, ‘I don’t get how I’m taking such easy courses but I never have any free time.’ And I’m telling you, it’s because you spend an inordinate amount of time on productivity-sucking apps like Candy Crush.” Levi said, sounding a little too superior even for his own liking. “That wasn’t a question it...” Stella was stuck. “It was a statement.” She concluded. “Then this wasn’t an answer. It was a relevant observation.” Levi shot back, arching his shoulders the way he would when he felt confronted. Stella usually loved his quick wit, but only when it was directed at other people. What bothered Stella most wasn’t even the holier than thou way he said it, but that he was right. “I didn’t ask you to observe. I was venting. Not everything is a problem that needs to be solved, sometimes you should just smile and nod.” “If I do that, you’ll say I’m not really listening.” Levi replied. “Ok. Let me give you the benefit of the doubt and pretend you were actually trying to be helpful. You weren’t, but, setting that aside for a moment. Was ‘if you didn’t throw away so much of the day watching swirling colors like a retarded preschooler, maybe you’d be closer to attaining your goals’ the way to convey said observation?” That was the moment Levi saw a hole beginning to form around him. There was a little voice hovering around his conscience screaming “Apologize! This isn’t worth taking where it’s going! Who cares if she plays Candy Crush? Are you really going to fight her on Candy Crush?” But there was a louder, deeper, voice drowning it out. One that had been programmed into him from his biological father and his high school friends and now received regular maintenance visits from his insecurities. It said “She doesn’t respect you as a man. She doesn’t care about your opinions. She’s really trying to say something about you, not herself.” Listening to that voice, Levi swung the proverbial shovel back and heaved it into the ground by remarking “Yah I do. Because that was my nice way of saying maybe if you had to work for the things in your life, you wouldn’t *want* to spend three hours a day staring idly at your phone.” His conscience stamped it’s feet and shrieked “Are you insane? Would she ever exploit your vulnerabilities just to get the upper hand in an argument? Why even open that door? You could’ve probably gotten a blow job before she left, but nooo. You opened your mouth and closed hers. Happy?” The darker voice prevailed with one demonic mantra, “She has an iPhone X. Her phone is nicer than your mother’s. Who is she to have anything your mother doesn’t have?” Stella and Levi didn’t fight often, because Stella was a talker. She didn’t like to leave situations angry, she didn’t usually let her emotions override her actions, and she was pretty good at seeing triggering comments for what they were. She could tell the difference between tactless and malicious. But Levi almost never took things that she told him in confidence were surefire ways to upset her and intentionally invoked them. Even still, her blood boiling at his boundary crossing, she gave him one last chance. “Did you just insinuate I didn’t have to work for any of the good things in my life, or have I misinterpreted something?” She asked, biting down on the inner flesh of her cheek so hard that she drew blood. Levi took the shovel and used it to bury himself alive. “*Do* you have to work for any of the good things in your life, or did I miss something?” Stella heard her statements for the first time as they were coming out of her mouth, she didn’t stop to think of them, let alone about them. “Ok straight American male. Tell me more about how easy my life is and how you got everything you’ve ever had from prodigious resiliency and backbreaking hard work by yourself. I’m sure it had nothing to do with your stepfather passing up a life-changing promotion so you wouldn’t have to switch to a school without a gifted program. Or your mother working two full-time jobs so you could focus on your education full time. Oh yah, and your 12 year old brother walks house to house collecting cans because any extra money your family has goes to paying down your student debt. But I’m sure that’s unrelated to your success. I mean, come on Levi, to so much as halfway suggest you just did all this on your own is so oblivious and downright offensive, I only wish your mom were around to have heard you say it.” Levi was wobbled, but not down. “You know what Stella, the thing about me is--” She cut him off. “Oh, wait. I know where this is going, this is a well-worn path for you. Please, tell me how the solution to all my problems is to be more like you. Because whatever you were preparing to say, that I’m too rich or in the wrong major, was some version of that, right? That my problem is I’m not like you. But you’re one of the most self-loathing people I’ve ever encountered so, and this one is a question, why would you think anyone is better off being more like you?” She didn’t hear the demons cheering her on, or her conscious pleading with her to stop, Stella heard static and saw red. There was supposed to be an unspoken understanding that certain things were off limits, even if they were arguing. Chief among those things were ones they’d disclosed as their prime insecurities. But Stella knew she’d been no better. What she’d said compared to what he had was like he slapped her and she retaliated by running him over in a car. His expression remained blank as she’d ejected her venom, but she could see the hurt register on his face as the words sank in. He stood up to get dressed and, inadvertently, wracked his brain for a devastating comment he could leave on. As he turned to go, he sniped, “Maybe if you spent less time lying around playing Candy Crush, you’d be thinner.” And slammed the door. He wanted to open it again as soon as it shut behind him. Now that he was alone, his conscience broke through the echo of his demons. “There’s nothing she could say or do that would justify what just happened.” It berated him, stuttering with rage. “You, you, you, antagonized a girl with a clinically diagnosed eating disorder about, about, about, her weight. Aren’t you such the manly man getting the last word in. How, how, how, courageous of you.” It was 15 minutes until the midterm that would either guarantee he passed or solidify a failure in his highest-level course of the semester. As he stormed down the hall and towards his test, the conflict boiled up inside of him. The things she’d said had pierced the tallest and thickest walls he’d built up around his vulnerabilities. He couldn’t decide who he hated more right then, her, or himself. One minute he’d be thinking about Stella using his parents sacrifices against him without even hesitating to consider the impact it would have. The next he’d be back with her in his bedroom the first time she visited him at home in Montana over sophomore summer. It was the middle of the night and they’d had to speak so softly because everyone was asleep. They were sitting on the floor by his Spider Man lamp, one of the only things 7 year old him had taken when they’d moved there. “I tried to kill myself once.” She’d said, fidgeting with the spider web lamp chain. Even as he crossed the linoleum tiles into class, he felt his stomach drop the same way it had when he’d first heard her say it. “Why?” He’d asked, wondering how he seemed more upset about it than she did. “My body didn’t fit in this world. It was like living in a cage all the time, everywhere. And the only way to open it was...” Levi had stopped her before she could finish. He didn’t want her to say something he couldn’t unhear. No one had ever disclosed anything of that magnitude to him before. His feelings were bigger than any words. He crawled over and wrapped his arms around her as tightly as he’d ever held onto anything and whispered, “We fit together.” He was so scared that night. Before, he’d worried about a lot of things, but her death wasn’t high on the list. When he found out he’d once been so close to the end of her, he vowed to do everything in his power to never let it get so close again. “When did I lose sight of that between then and now?” He wondered, as he went through the motions of finding his seat. Despite it all, he was so angry at her. Bitterly angry. Seething. He couldn’t believe the things she’d said, and he did want to hurt her as badly as she’d hurt him. But only because she mattered so damn much. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this confused. But he’d have to sort it out later, because the professor had just flicked the lights off and on, which meant there were only five minutes before the exam would begin. All around him, people began to get their desks ready. Whether he’d gotten there on his own, with a lot of help, or through a mixture of the two, he was in a competitive college vying to graduate with honors now. So, he commanded the ability to compartmentalize he’d honed over years of being in school with problems at home. He began to unload his backpack. The professor stood at the front of the room, reading the boiler plate exam instructions about time limits and acceptable pencils. But the final sentence caught Levi’s ear. “Phones must be silenced and stowed at this time as we are now beginning the dissemination of testing instructions. As you were all informed, this is an open-note exam. You are allowed one notebook on your desk and no more than one. It must be a notebook not a textbook. Digital notes are not eligible for use unless you have registered a medical accommodation with the office of...” Levi stopped listening. His heart pounded. He ripped open his backpack and flipped through the contents. His notebook, with six weeks worth of carefully organized, color coded notes he prepped for this exam, was not there. He tried to remain calm and retrace his steps. Could it have fallen out of his backpack? No. He looked around. Was it underneath the desk? Did it get knocked on the floor? Did he drop it coming in? Did another student steal it or confuse it for theirs? He tried to remember the last place he’d seen it. Then he realized. It was sitting open in Stella’s apartment. He’d rushed out in such a state that he’d forgotten to clear off the table. He’d been writing in it when they got sidetracked with their “hands on” anatomy review and they’d fallen asleep in the bed immediately afterwards. Every ounce of pride and injury Levi was grappling with drained out of him in an instant. Without that notebook, there was no chance he would pass this midterm, or therefore, the class. This was a prerequisite for another credit he needed to graduate, so if he had to retake it, he’d have to delay his graduation and find the money for another semester. That was money that wasn’t being spent on his four brothers’ health care, Christmas presents, or own college educations. This was bad. The professor was still giving his speech, he had time. Not much time, but some was more than none. He waited until it looked like no one was watching him and began frantically composing a text message underneath his desk. “911 STELLA STELLA STELLA URGENT 911 SOS!! My notebook for the exam is on your table it’s a red 70 page college ruled it’s covered in sticky notes can you get it here before 9am otherwise I will have to repeat a semester. It’s next to or underneath a book titled Unlocking Anatomy Volume 6: Splanchic--” “Levi!” A teaching assistant patrolling the aisles hissed. Levi was so startled, he dropped the phone before he could hit send. The TA bent down to pick it up. “You can get this from the professor at the end of the exam.” He said, powering down the phone and continuing up the aisle. “But--” Levi protested. “But nothing. Are you crazy? You had a smartphone in your hands. I could’ve had you removed. If it were anyone else I would have, and if anything else happens, I will.” Levi attempted to switch gears. He could feel the tips of his ears heating up and his mouth going dry as he watched a calamity unfold in front of him. “It is officially 9:00AM and I am now locking the door. TA’s, please distribute the exams.” The professor announced from his podium. Levi tried to assess the likelihood of getting through the exam from memory as a copy landed on his desk. He gave himself a realistic overview of the odds and decided his best shot at passing this thing was to make himself throw up. He’d be excused, and hopefully granted a re-test. But as he prepared to stick a pencil down his throat, he realized he’d either be condemning the people sitting around him to taking the exam next to a puddle of vomit or delaying the exam everyone was ready for except him. He couldn’t do that. “Maybe if I cry I can get some sort of mental health exemption for a retest?” He considered. “I guess I’ll find out.” He thought, as he felt the lump in his throat rising from thinking about telling his parents he needed an extra $30,000 tuition money, a year’s salary for either of them, because he forgot a book. Just as tears began to sting the corners of his eyes, there was a ferocious banging on the classroom door. “This, class, is why you plan ahead and make punctuality a priority.” The professor said, motioning to the jiggling and popping door. “Let this student be a cautionary tale for all of us. Now as I was saying. The exams are double sided, you’ll begin on side sfjrkjng...” He was inaudible over the increasingly aggressive hammering against the entrance. The professor paused. “They get points for tenacity, but not for the midterm, I’m afraid.” He went to the door and opened it partway. “I’m sorry, but--” In mismatched pajamas, one sockless sneaker, and a flip flop, stood Stella. Just as Levi was realizing his notebook wasn’t in the bag, Stella was realizing it too. She’d grabbed the first shirt and pants she could lay her hands on, the first left and right shoe her feet could find, and without even stopping to consider their fight or even shut her apartment door behind her, bolted across campus to his exam. She listened when he talked, and she’d been hearing all night before how important this class, and this test in particular, were. As she stood there with her hair as tangled as a bird’s nest, breathless in baggy pajamas, trying to shove past his 6’4 professor, she’d never been more beautiful to him. “The exam has already officially begun, no one may enter the classroom.” The professor said, blocking her way without expending much energy. “I’m not taking the exam. I’m just giving this to someone.” She explained, all the while trying to maneuver past him. “I can’t let anyone in or out once the exam has begun, it’s a security measure.” “I’ll give him this and go--security measure? What? Do I look threatening to you?” “A little.” The professor quipped. “Ugggghhhhh” she groaned. Stella turned as though she was leaving. Once the professor’s guard was down she spun back around, launched into the air, and threw the notebook as far as she could into the room. It landed about two rows ahead of Levi, but considering he was nowhere near the door, he was just impressed she managed to not hit the professor in the head with it. Thankfully one of his lacrosse buddies was in the row and sent it his way. By the time he looked up again, Stella was gone. The professor bent over. Oh God, did she hit him after all? No, he was picking something up. A piece of paper had fallen out of the notebook when she’d thrown it and the professor had it now. In a disapproving tone, with fury lighting his path, he made his way over to take Levi’s exam back. “Levi, considering you are holding the projectile notebook, I assume you were at the very least, an accomplice to this disruption and I--” He read the note, flipped it over, read it again, chuckled, and softened his gaze. “I think she’s a keeper.” The professor concluded. He placed the note on Levi’s desk and returned to the front without revoking the exam. “Now, unless anyone else has scheduled any deliveries, let’s take out our number two pencils.” Levi clutched his sides in relief as he held the notebook in his hands. He tried to clear his head and focus, but just could not begin to recall any scientific information without reading Stella’s note. As he unfolded it, he reconsidered his decision to look at it before taking this test. In large, bold, quadruple underlined print, she’d scrawled “I’M STILL MAD AT YOU.” But there was a little arrow indicating to the other side of the page. He turned it over. In smaller, softer print it said, “But don’t think about that right now, just focus on the test. Good luck, not that you need it. Love, Stella.” However, she finished the message with, “(but now read the other side again.


Excerpt from found journal at site 225-A9. Author identified as only Doctor S. PHD. Dated March 14th 2035 Noted location: "Old World," State-run Hospital VA-02295 "St. Francine's" ... As I read the chart I noticed the results of the State mandated Gen-PreF tests. It reported that my next patient couple was decidedly more comfortable with a "male" doctor. I was disappointed. I thought about how I would have to announce myself as "Mystr S., PHD." It just didn't roll of the tongue as well as "Miss" did, or even the more simple "Dr. S." and leave my gender neutral. I wasn't worried about passing off as a man though, I had just visited the barb-ilist. The thym that worked on me did a wonderful job, not too long, not too short. The perfect blend of "long-haired man" or "not too short-haired woman." My other traits have all been sculpted to be "visual kei." I still, to this day, swear the hip shrinking pelvis shaving surgery was far more painful than my breast reduction, counter to the common claims of my peers. The State supplied hormone pills took care of everything else. When I stepped into the room I took a quick measure of the persons in front of me. The "male" was decidedly trying to be neutral, but his haggard complexion and signs of stubble on his face, gave me the impression of "him" more than anything. I allowed him the improper variance given the womyn in the room. "She" was nervous, her eyes darted down from him to me as I walked in. She was several weeks pregnant, and starting to show. "Hello, Miss J. and Mystr K., my name is Docto- I mean Mystr S., PHD," I said, slipping. The man narrowed his eyes and looked me up and down, but kept his mouth shut. She was in a sitting position in the chair in the middle of the room, he was standing over her left shoulder, his hand on it. "I've been reading your chart, here... no family names?" I asked conversationally. The womyn looked up at him and squeezed his hand as he cringed, "I don't have a family." She looked back down to me and said, "I used to have a family name, but I went through a deerkin phase and had it legally changed. After I met K. here I changed it back to my given name but kept out my family name for hym." I noticed the inflection when she said "hym." Keeping up appearances I assumed. It was well enough, because I did have the power to incite sanctions against them for not keeping to the rules of neutrality. "Ah, so J and K it is then. Not Myssus hmm? You aren't legal life partners yet?" I quizzed sitting down in the swivel chair provided for me. The man stood taller and said almost monotonously, "No, but we have cohabited for two and a half years now." This response was acceptable, since the State funded OCare that was paying for this visit only allowed them to be here if they met certain criteria. Marriage is no longer a legal coupling, one of the few concessions the retro-conservs won from the peace talks after The Gender Wars, but cohabitation for a period longer than two years was. What I found most interesting was their nervousness in using the State funded care. Nearly everyone did now, and since the demand was so low, non-funded health care was pretty cheap. Heck, with nearly everything provided to me at my andro housing barracks, my stipend of 'fun' expenditures could easily afford the cost of a legally enforced gender checkup during pregnancy. Not that I would ever get pregnant, disgusting. Genetic tailoring and the use of synthetic wombs is such a cleaner option. "Very good. Let's take a look at your fetus shall we then?" I said as I down the chart, grabbed some latex gloves from the counter, wheeled closer, and pulled the ultrasound caddy closer. Everything checked out okay, with one exception. "Healthy, but sorry, it's a boy. As you know our current sector has too many male children. When would you like to schedule the termination, this afternoon, or sometime later this week?" The female unit started to cry.


"You're fat, you know?" It was like a unanimous rendition of those scenes in movies where the audience finds out a shocking truth. Breathing heavily now, I felt all eyes on me as my stomach somersaulted, my ears grew hot, my face paled and my fists clenched. Of course, my defense mechanisms kicked in almost instantaneously, and I looked to my supposed 'best friend' for calvary. Unsurprisingly enough, as I caught a glimpse of her sight, she turned her head away, as if ashamed to be associated with me in any way conceivable. You see, betrayal raises conflicting emotions when experienced. Some are broken by it, others break things, relationships, *people*, in reaction to it. As a bout of confusion washed over me, I felt fueled by both ends of this spectrum. Externally, I performed an act of offhanded nonchalance, but inside, my blood boiled to the point of coagulation. I hadn't missed Diana's initial smirk at the comment. Standing just short of two metres from her, I knew this was Diana's last straw. And by the glint of acute terror that flashed in her pupils following her slip-up, I think she knew it was, too. Of course, this wasn't the first time she had ridiculed the layers of fat visible through my stretched shirt, neither was it the only occasion in which she had willingly dismissed any ties to me. Like at Linda's party, when her mum had made a comment about my choice to take a larger cake slice, and she let out a slight laugh. Or at the public pool during the previous summer, when my sunburned skin augmented my already unappealing appearance, and she likened me to fried bacon. You see, anger is cumulative and can lead to untamed and explosive reactions, causing pain to be incurred. Not before I had growled at the flock of eyes intensely watching my every move, I strode slowly and steadily towards Diana, with every step adding an ounce of confidence to my intent. A host of thick, ugly storm clouds stole the spotlight of the sun as they prepared for their bellowing chorus; a percussion of pattering rain accompanied their entrance. Beautiful, beautiful Diana - like the goddess of the Ephesians - was blindingly fair, and idolised by her peers. Clutching my hands around her delicate neck, I saw the fear in her doe eyes and whispers of desperation departing her plump lips. Defining my grip on her larynx from which her saccharine voice protruded, I saw her rosy cheeks fade to a soft pallor and her fierce character lose its vigour. Diana, wonderful Diana, was beneath me for once, struggling like a lamb to the slaughter as her herd fled. Picking up the distant sound of wailing sirens, I stopped, throwing her limp figure to the ground. I lowered myself to the grass, taking a cross-legged position. It was a matter of time before an enquiry was filed and I would be hated even further. But in the end, was I really to blame? She just kept pushing, and one day I'd fall off that edge. Tough luck.


Geraldo, a 73-year-old man, decides to learn how to fight jiu-jitsu. For no particular reason, just out of curiosity. Geraldo believed he was still young enough to face physical challenges, so he thought of the first sport-related thing to practice: jiu-jitsu. Geraldo went directly to the first dojo he found. He enrolled on the spot and attended his first class. During class, all students, mostly children and teenagers, looked at him with curiosity. Was he an assistant to the master, they thought. Could it be that the master was actually the helper and this old man was actually the master? Or was he really a new student who had enrolled in junior high school? The master, a heavyset who in other times was the head of the drug trade and killed innocent people with his own hands, and now uses his fighting skills to kill even more, stared at him with a look that no one could tell what it meant. During the first practice, the students formed pairs where they practiced some moves, and Geraldo seemed to have difficulties. The master approached him and tried to explain in more detail the hip movements and so on. Geraldo, tried to do as the master explained, and then... The entire class was stunned by what they saw. Geraldo was doing breakdancing. - Not like that, Geraldo! - said the master, confused. Geraldo couldn't stop and could only scream in terror. - Aaaaaaaaaaah! The master tried to hold Geraldo's legs but was kicked away when he touched him, falling on top of one of the smaller students, who broke his arm. All the students who tried to stop him flew away when they were hit by Geraldo's spinning legs. The master returned very pissed, and tried to use a blow on the old man, but was killed instantly by a kick in the face. Within hours, the police had arrived at the scene and tried to apprehend Geraldo without success. Reinforcements were called in, and two police officers were wounded. Geraldo, from spinning around on the floor so much, ended up moving out of the dojo, and found himself in the street, surrounded by patrols, and a belt of television channels covering the news: "Old man takes the life of a jiu-jitsu teacher and does breakdancing non-stop. Two police officers injured." The news spread quickly over the internet and reached the world. On the same day, Geraldo went viral as the breakdancing grandpa. The absurd story that he killed a jiu-jitsu master, who had more than 30 years of experience, made his death a laughing stock. His family, even before receiving the news of his death, already received death threats, both from internet strangers and from loan sharks and enemies of the master's secret life. But things started to get serious when the number of injuries started to increase. And the number of bodies. Hours had passed and Geraldo hadn't stopped breakdancing. He didn't look tired either, as the pace of the turns never changed. It was the same movement where the dancer uses both hands to support the body while rotating the legs 360 degrees around the body. While screaming. Geraldo had taken the lives of five other police officers who had tried a heavy-handed approach to getting him off the ground. Two broke their necks in contact with his legs, one suffered trauma to the rib cage and did not survive, and two others were thrown violently away and suffered a head injury. They called negotiators to try to convince him to stop. One after another. And no answer other than "aaaaaah!" Nobody knew how to stop him. The TV News started to talk about the case as a constant event, always updating viewers about what happened between one news and another. The following dawn, Geraldo had traveled 100 meters and hit and shattered the edge of a building into several pieces. The city, upon learning of this, triggered an evacuation of the neighborhood, and then, the only inhabitants of that region became Geraldo and the authorities. There was an intense court case over the issue of using lethal force on the old man. It was finally decided that they would find a new way to end the situation, or public opinion would turn against this decision. After all, Geraldo was a worldwide sensation, and as far as everyone knew, the deaths were accidental, as he had no control over his body. Geraldo's case became the target of conspiracy theories, scientific debates and proof of divine forces. Nobody could explain how a 73-year-old man managed to breakdance so long and consistently, almost professionally, and have so much strength to be unstoppable and destroy everything in his path. The world only talked about Geraldo. A plan was soon formed to move Geraldo off the streets and into an area free of casualties. A helicopter would arrive with a metal plate measuring 5 meters each side in the direction where Geraldo would move, and then, when he climbed onto the plate, the helicopter would lift him up and take him to a field far from the city, where experts would do more in-depth studies with he is, who knows, more dangerous. Since Geraldo had no control of the direction he was going, his trajectory was unpredictable, and when the helicopter dropped the metal plate next to him, Geraldo changed course and hit one of the suspension cables, throwing the helicopter into a building like a whip. From then on, images were no longer broadcast to the public. The accident shocked the world. It soon became clear to everyone that Geraldo was a real danger, and public opinion allowed radical decisions to be taken. First, they tried to shoot him down with firearms. The military made a firing squad and unloaded everything on him: Nothing. They used rocket launchers: Geraldo kicked them away. Out there, no one knew exactly what was going on in the exclusion zone. Any information coming out of there was prohibited. People around the world were demanding news about Geraldo: If he was still dancing breakdancing, if anyone else had died... humanity was taken by a morbid curiosity. For a month, scientists from all corners of the world, the most brilliant minds of a generation, worked together to solve the Geraldo case. Tents were extended across the streets where laboratories were set up for analysis. They studied Geraldo as a being from another planet, with the sole purpose of saving the world from this indestructible and unstoppable being. They checked radiation levels and stuff. Nothing seemed abnormal apart from the obvious. Geraldo was neither hungry nor dehydrated. He neither urinated nor defecated. Didn't sleep, didn't stop. His breathing was steady, his muscles didn't tire, didn't break. It looked like a scratched disc, repeating the same movement over and over again. The greatest biologists were called in, the greatest physicists, chemists... Analyzed his heartbeat and nervous system with unprecedented long-distance equipment... No conclusions. During that one month of profound silence, the world changed radically. Extremist groups, who believed that Geraldo had detached from reality, and that the world was a simulation, started a wave of collective suicide. Others caused chaos and violence in the streets. Some thought it was all a lie invented by the government for whatever reason they came up with. But the real skeptics, the intellectuals, didn't know what to make of this story. It felt like everyone was caught in a cold shower. Cults were created around Geraldo. Religions were strengthened by the idea that Geraldo was proof of the supernatural, and superstition grew more than ever. Inevitably, Geraldo caused immense damage to buildings, shops, cars, houses... Wherever he went, destruction was certain. His legs went through concrete like water. Soon, the armed forces took over the situation again, and continued their war tests on Geraldo. It wasn't just the neighborhood that was evacuated anymore. The entire city had become an exclusion zone. And from far away, people saw mushroom clouds. After two atomic bombs failed their purpose, Geraldo started to get faster. His breakdance got faster, his displacement from one point to another got bigger... With every attempt to stop him, he accelerated. It got more frantic. Geraldo spun faster and faster, until he became a blur. In a flash, he crossed the ruins of the city and escaped the exclusion zone. It was carnage. Geraldo zigzagged through the streets, inside houses, inside malls, in parks, and killed and destroyed everything in his path. No matter what they did, Geraldo got faster and more died... Wherever they hid, Geraldo would kill them. He crossed continents taking cities with him. He destroyed nature wherever he went. And when there was nothing left to destroy, Geraldo continued dancing... The Breakdance of Death.


Louis picked up his guitar and started strumming it. A sweet and vibrating sadness seeped out of the strings as he looked beyond the room we were in. “You know, Ross, I will forget you one day.” Louis said. He continued plucking at the silver strands. Each finger caressing the timbers of the instrument so gently. “You’ll remember just fine,” I said “you haven’t forgotten anything important yet. It’s only been small things, ya know?” Louis let his gaze droop down. His guitar was singing warmly but it sounded empty. Without a heart. “I’ve forgotten far too much already. I want you to know...” He stuttered. “To know, I’ve already forgotten the chords to this song I’m playing.” I paused and listened to his song. He played it so many times with me around that I’d found great comfort in it. Almost like it was a personal lullaby. “How can you play it if you’ve forgotten it already?” I asked. Louis stopped playing. His face was down but I could see the small tears falling onto the lacquered surface of his guitar. The drops beaded up and rolled off with ease. “I don’t remember this song anymore, but my hands do.” He picked up in his strumming where he left off. “If your hands remember, surely you should too.” I said leaning in. I placed a hand on his shoulder. He recoiled with my touch. “If I ever do anything in my forgetfulness that hurts you, however indirect, please forgive me.” His voice cracked under the strain of his words. “When I forget you. Please forgive me” “Lou, I don’t think you-” “Because I already don’t forgive myself.” He began sobbing as he continued to play. “I can already feel the cobwebs in my brain. I can feel the spiders making homes in the cogs of my mind. Please forgive me” “Louis-” “Please forgive me, please forgive me. I’m so sorry Ross. Please forgive me when I forget you” Louis plucked at the strings so roughly that his toughened fingers split. The blood dripped down the body of the guitar and mixed with his tears. The sound of his crying soul resonated through the room and pulled at my heart. “Louis, IF you forget me. If you forget us and everything. You’ll still be Louis to me. There’s nothing to forgive.” I placed my hand against his neck, trying to comfort him. He slid his face down and let his tears roll over my fingers. We sat there for a while as he played. The defeat in his face was too hard to look at, so I looked away. Louis and I had been traveling together for so long. At the time, it seemed impossible to imagine ever forgetting any of it. He had been forgetting some major things around that time. I just didn’t want to see him like that. I didn’t want to think of it. I couldn’t begin to fathom how hard that was for him. What exactly was going on with him, I don’t think I’ll ever know. But he did end up forgetting. Louis forgot everything. I’ve already forgiven you, Lou. I always will.


Let Madness A poem with background story. • Lethe is a cure to madness - a sharp cut through the frontal lobe; Madness is wide-eyed and handsome as a bearded Prince waiting... smiling and standing against a thing howling in the rushes. Who could sleep with madness birthing dreams in the soul like moons, coldly burning, brightly beautiful? That ancient sun-blackened word for the special ability to carry visions at the edge of the eyes.... It's a half-life that's the price for living beyond the means of the soul. The true place of business for Marrakesh, Morocco, is in the old-town far from familiar cash-register queues. It is a market place with no central area only bordering, white walls, whitened buildings, then desert, and then distant, bluish mountains. Stalls and tents stave off the sun and form banks and islands in what is a turbulent stream of motley. The desert air diffuses the heated smells of wool in rug and cloth and swirls it with the smoke of roasting meat and spice. It is a labyrinth alive with babble and call and bleat. I have seen little that feels as ancient as this. When the world cracked and humanity emerged, this must have been among the first of gathering places. The old market is a place of a thousand encounters. From a brass-bangled hawker I buy and drink warm water that tastes of the goat skin it streams from. I am stopped by a slight man who argues that I should purchase a veiled woman, who is twice my bulk. I listen, shaking my head and idly wondering how I would get her past customs. A robed man and I barter in French over a djellaba. Your robe is too thin for that price! My family will starve with what you are offering me! Hands wave in the air as if anger was being tossed between us. Then, I am calmly invited to step around the stall, to sit and accept a kif pipe. We pass the small-boweled pipe between us, inhaling the drug and talking pleasantly of events or other matters. The crowd passes around us as the strong flavored kif makes all soft edges more distinct. Kif is both what is smoked and the tranquil state it brings you to. The stall becomes more then an island, it is a refuge from the chaotic color and the endless movement and need. The calm allows us to simply savor. The pipe is out and its ash dislodged by a tap against the forearm. Knowing this to be a signal, I step out and back around to the front and begin again an argument on the robe’s worth. Eventually I walk away, satisfied that I payed well below the full price, while, behind me, the merchant smiles knowing that he has unloaded a robe worth half what he sold it for. It was deep within this tent-quilted marketplace where I met a priest of the Koran. He had a little stand, actually no more than a tray on legs, from which he sold grilled meat. I often sat and talked with him as desert figures and the occasional tourist streamed by, and I never saw him sell any meat. He told me he was really there to watch the people and learn. He had a soft manner of speaking, whether it was of desert-born human needs or the difficulties of love (a favorite theme of both mystics and those not so blessed). His words were gentle whispers that measured the time. I sat by him greedily. Like the kif smoking interlude, this priest was an eye of calm in the robed storm; a devout rock that the river ran round. He made sense when I could not follow the thread in the many other encounters around me. He fed my hunger for knowledge; something I have always considered Apollo-given and wonderfully mysterious. Yet, though I thought I was collecting a scholar’s wisdom, I find myself, instead, with only ribbons of cherished images wavering in thin heat. One day our discussion lasted well into the cooling night; the buyers had already made their way home and the sellers had packed up their wares by firelight. Like a pool emptied of water, the market place took on different meanings in the dark. Several clusters of venders gathered on one side in groups of four or five, pinned back the folds of night with blazing torches, and discussed in hushed, easy voices. Sometimes a word of French would reach me, and at other times, the older Arabic. Sitting where the torchlight only weakly touched, it all looked as though it were taking place in a huge cavern. The priest and I were still conversing when I noticed that the general sound level, already low, quieted even more. When I looked around, I followed the focus and noticed the presence of an energetic man in his forties who was dressed like a prince out of Ali Baba. The priest stood, looking at the newcomer, and I followed suit. I had no idea what was taking place, and I don’t think it was expected by any there. Even at the distance of around 70 feet, I was struck by how clean and bright he appeared. Two others followed him at a relaxed pace behind. He leisurely approached the first group beneath the torches, greeting a number of them with a smile and a nod. I could not hear the few words that passed between them. Others that he neared also smiled and assumed a stance of deference and bowed before him, indicating a man of importance. He had greeted at least two groups, when he paused and casually looked across the square to see me. His eyes leapt the distance making a connection I could feel. His smile grew broader as he made his way to me, never taking his eyes from my face. Those he passed inclined their heads one after the other as if choreographed. He left his two companions behind and came on into the center alone. I was fascinated by his garments and turban, all seemingly perfect and too white. There was a gold cloth about his waist and golden strands sewn into the turban that glinted with torchlight. He seemed illusory, belonging within the verse of Omar Khayyàm and not in any real world of heat and flies and midnight cold. Yet, in that place and time is exactly where he did belong. Shadows and torches and a sky dripping stars. . . this was his stage. . . where someone like him could feel alive and burn the brighter. His eyes, which still never left mine as he approached, shone joyously in his pale, bearded face. I could not help but realize that I could clearly see the white around his irises. When he reached me, he asked, to my surprise since I thought it obvious, if I were an American. When I replied that I was, he said he had a poem that was very important and which I would appreciate and understand. He then launched into his poem with a storyteller’s voice and with eyes, wide and liquid, raised to the vast sky. Once again, I found myself in the center of a calm simply because I was the spectator, but no passive one. This man brought to me golden words, gem-studded images reflecting a flame of joy. In the poem he spoke of traveling through space with suns and worlds hurtling past him; all the stars were not above him, but around him. He walked the great spaces with the celestial breeze cooling him until the earth hung like a cracked, turquoise ball at his feet. The colors whirled around his upright hands and a thousand rainbows swirled and clung to his beard and clothes; he was an ecstatic observer of the glory and beauty of God. These images, I thought, must have been like those that greeted Adam when he first opened his eyes. When done, he bowed smilingly, fastened his eyes on me once more, then turned away. In that last glance, I read satisfaction and a completion. I watched as he strode back into the dark gathered at the edge of the square. All, again, nodded at his passing yet nothing was said. In only a moment he had slipped away into the dark without looking in any direction but his own. To this day, I cannot recall clearly what happened next, but I know the market emptied and the torches were extinguished. The priest and I followed the others away in silence to the last of the flickering lights. Later, needing the world around me, I stood on the roof of a low building in the old section where I had a room. My mind was circling around the realization that this man was mad -- not crazy or eccentric -- but classically and wonderfully mad. Unable to sleep, I gazed upward at the starred ocean to which the poet had risen and walked. All of the earth held soft edges while the vast wilds of the sky were brilliantly in focus. There was the impression of order, yet, behind this desert curtain was a swirl of colors, a constant movement that seemed of chaos. Can we humans be any different, I wondered? What lies beneath the order of our consciousness may be a glorious pandemonium of energy that has bound us to creation for well over a million years -- of which, only the last small percentage has been spent as human. Sometimes a member of the northern Inuit people went mad because of loss or desire or hurt. In this culture, which had a history of abandoning the old and unproductive upon ice flows to conserve vital resources, the mad were coddled. The People gathered around and provide for as long as it took, until some sort of reason returned to the one who had traveled to that other spiritual realm. They were heroes returning with a wisdom that may allow others to see the mundane with different eyes. It was The People’s way to allow for flexibility and growth. The returned became the shamans and storytellers, and, perhaps, the poets. Between the desert and the city, stood a great lighted minaret. From there the muezzin called the people to face the birthplace of Mohammed. While on my roof top, my eyes settled upon it, anchoring me to the beauty. The minaret was a beacon holding the desert back and marking the heavens. It was at the calm center. In the next few days, each time I heard the muezzin’s call to prayer, I remembered the cadence of the poet’s swirling words, and I again felt his impassioned eyes upon me. Years later, tossing words to a man knotted up and cross-legged in the exact center of a padded room, I saw another aspect of madness. I never, however, saw his eyes for he packed his palms tightly into them, shooting responses back to me, barely controlling muscles eager to be free. He knew he was “different” -- and wrong. When finished, I had the door unlocked and I opened it and went out. I turned and watched through a small window with wonder as the door clicked shut and the man exploded, ramming himself into one wall then instantly running for another. Something within me ached for the healing of desert-born words. I cannot remember all the poem for it was a long time ago, but its exultation remains. I never discovered whether it was something he had written and memorized or had uttered extemporaneously. It didn’t, and doesn’t, matter. The man shone as he spoke and I cannot forget that light. The mad Moroccan has become part of my own personal folklore. I search for him in twisted statues whose faces watch the skies, within hero stories, and in the defeated eyes of children. I search for his light and passion, or for their ruins when both had been forbidden. Did Alexander or Van Gogh also stretch out to the night sky? Remember Van Gogh’s swirling stars? What is the voice of reason to the likes of them? And what is birthed in the dreams of madness -- that blood kin to the fires of creation?


The weight of time was heavy on her shoulders as she perched herself upon the outdated and torn cobalt vinyl-topped stool. She had been waiting for what he called "in the meantime" but for her this meant it was the end of their time. She was tired of hanging on the fringes of his lapsed moments and the expired memories of whom they had hoped to be. The sad thing, or rather it was quite pathetic, she knew at the beginning that this was going to be how it ended. He had slowly pulled his hand away from her even as the romance began. Each day, he offered less of himself, his life, and his experience to her. She was silent most days hoping that her love would be enough for the two of them, but she had been warned by many of their friends that he was barren in the ways of affection or romance. He was endlessly detached and preoccupied with nearly everything and everyone else around them. He never stopped to focus on her, not even when they were alone. Each time she was ready to concede and walk away, there was a moment, a glimmer of hope, when he would catch her eyes and she felt as if she could bottle those fragmented moments. Maybe those would be enough. Silence. Her gaze trailed off to the edge of the trees that were just outside the diner window. She wondered if he would even show up this time. She had been desensitized to the idea of being stood up and long ago decided that she would not allow his disregard for her to cause her mental anguish, but it was inevitable. She slowly realized that each time he did not show, did not listen, or pushed her to the side for other obligations it chipped away at her ability to love him and more importantly to love herself. She was drowning and choking daily on the bitter taste of regretful tears. In the secret moments of midnight, she would cry alone in the bathroom when no one could see her, and no one could hear the torment of her heart. She felt as if she had no place and every piece of her was consumed with pleasing him and vying for his affection. Still, the entirety of her attempts was never enough. As time passed, she felt her heart cripple. The stains of kohl smeared across her cheeks were the evidence of the years she had been left waiting. I’ll never be what he wants , she thought to herself. Wasted! All this time, all these tears, my whole life was just wasted; all because I’ve been left waiting . She checked her watch nervously anticipating her fated next step. She had made up her mind that if he left her waiting again this would be the last time. The fact that she had her suitcases already packed and waiting in the car was proof of what she already knew. He was twenty-five minutes late, and she decided after thirty minutes it was really over this time. She could no longer accept the disregard and apathy that he showed toward her. She was tired of living a life composed of obscured dreams and shadowed doubts. She never knew where she stood with him or if he even loved her. Sure, he would say the words, but his actions told the tales of listless affections. The fog of pain was forever surrounding her heart and she just needed to feel something more. She needed to fold bag the blanket of fear; the fear of losing him had haunted her all these years. She checked her watch again, only another minute had passed, and the slow sway of eternity began for the next four minutes. Her mind wandered, tracing the edges of the past years with thoughts of what she should have said and the things she let slide. She never wanted to be the needy woman who always asked for his time. She knew his job took a lot of his time but there was never anything left for her at the end of the day, or the week, or even at the end of the month. The times he would take off he wasn’t present and seemed to enjoy spending time with his friends or his phone more. Maybe if she expressed her hurt to him, maybe if she had said the words out loud, maybe...well things could’ve been different. But she was raised to never press these issues or act clingy. Until this relationship, she never considered herself insecure, but as time did its dance and her confidence slid, she twisted her back away from feeling enchanted and traded her dignity for a cloak of shame. Had she just said something, at least she would have known where she stood, and not wasted so much time. I can’t look back , she thought to herself. What’s done is done . Another minute had passed. The scars from hiding in the silhouettes of silence were beginning to shine through. The anguish of holding back her tears and her words was beginning to break from her with each tick of the clock. Saddened by what could have been, she readied herself to embark on her new life. Never again would she remain muzzled by anxiety. Only three minutes remained of this life. The sadness and regret of words left unsaid and her desire to know how he truly felt were fading as the smoldering embers of clarity were beginning to ignite within her. The fiery passion that she had once felt for him was now muted by her realization that she deserved better than being the forgotten girl that only looked good on his arm when he needed her. But she knew it was the mountain of ash that piled up from burned-out desires that choked the life from this love. He was now twenty-eight minutes late, and she thought to herself, am I really going to wait for these last two minutes? Will two minutes change anything? Even if he were to show up, I am already gone. She slid from the stool and heard the click of her heels on the tiles, it was the sound of freedom. Today she chose to no longer sit in a place of humiliation and disgrace. As she walked out the door she heard the diner bell ring behind her, and she never looked back.


Shine by: Jason Scott He didn’t like how brightly she would shine. He said it hurt his eyes, that it would hurt him if she continued to shine the way she did. Out of respect for the man that didn’t respect her at all she would cover up. Wearing a trench coat, wide brimmed hat and sunglasses, she would hide herself from the world because she was told she needed to. She was made to believe that she would hurt someone if allowed to shine as bright as she had been. For years she kept that costume hiding her true self. One day she had enough and she left him but his voice echoed in her ears. *You’re too bright. No one wants to see you shine like that. Cover up or no one will ever love you.* Then one day she met a man that looked at her a way no one else did. One day while walking together she stumbled and her hat and glasses flew off. The light from behind beaming out, being freed after years of hiding. She quickly fixed her disguise, worried he would judge her and leave. But he didn’t. There he stood, unmoving and staring, mouth agape and eyes fixed upon her. Stepping towards her he stretched out his hands toward her hat but she quickly backed off, sliding a hand to her head to make sure it didn’t move, but he didn’t give up. He walked towards her again and this time she didn’t move. He slowly raised a hand looking at her for permissions, and took off her hat. *This is it, he’s going to leave.* But he didn’t. He took off her sunglasses and she looked at the ground, afraid to look up as the voice in her head echoed again. *If he sees your light he’ll run. Don’t look.* He furrowed his brow, smiled and pushed the trench coat over her shoulders. It slowly fell to the ground. This was it, her disguise gone, her armor shed. She was afraid to look up thinking that the man that had helped her to get rid of it would be gone. Slowly she lifted her head and opened her eyes. She gasped, and tears started forming in her eyes. He was still there, smiling at her. Staring confused, she thought to herself *why isn’t he running?!* He slowly raised his hand up, grabbed the bill of his baseball cap and lifted. Light burst from him mixing with her own and lighting the entire area around them. He removed his sunglasses and behind the light were tear filled eyes. Unable to contain herself she began to laugh while crying, her two hands covering her mouth and fell against him. With her head on his chest and his arms around her she looked down on the ground at the trench coat, hat and glasses, then back up at him. As they locked eyes they both smiled at each other, their light mixing together and shining now twice as bright.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Theme: ** - **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** Don’t use the word “illusion” or any for it (the ones in red). This week’s challenge is to write your story based on the theme of “illusion”. For some additional inspiration, I will leave you with this quote by Iris Murdoch, “We live in a fantasy world, a world of illusion. The great task in life is to find reality.” You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as you follow all post and subreddit rules. For extra points, try not using the theme word, or any direct synonyms of it. Good words! You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 2pm EST next Monday. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read the stories aloud and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and/or listen to the others! Everyone is welcome and we’d love to have you!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Weekly points are awarded based on the following system. **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** #Rankings for - u/DmonRth - u/katherine_c - u/Tomorrow_Is_Today1 **Crit Stars:** - u/DmonRth *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


For the Blood of Scotland Suzanne Marsh The old Crone of Galloch was absolutely furious! Cauldrons swirled around her cottage, the wind tore a swath of destruction through out the kingdom of King Angus. The Crone thought about the mischief she could cause, since King Angus forgot to invite her to the castle for the christening of Princess Isobel. Rumor had it the child was fair of face with a small rosebud mouth. Queen Saundra, refused to have anyone near her precious little baby. She and Angus had waited for a child for twenty years. Saundra, sought to protect Isobel from the world. The Crone of Galloch knew then that she would give a tarot reading for the king and queen. She would see to it that the reading came true, it would cost Isobel her life. Yes, her idea was perfect. The Crone hobbled off the next morning to do the deed. Her gray hair hidden under her black hood and cape. Her gray dress, wrinkled and torn. King Angus had forgotten his promise to her to allow her to see the child. She would see the child now, nothing could stop her. She had given tarot card readings for several generations of Angus of Forfar children. The ceremony was set for sunrise, she had to hurry. The Crone snuck into the castle beside a goat cart. When her time came she would do the reading no matter what. She had just entered the inner castle when she heard the skrill of the highland bagpipes. The ceremony was about to start. King Angus entered first, then Queen Saundra carrying the Princess Isobel. The Crone remain silent her face hidden by the cowl. When she saw the Princess Isobel, she was moved by her beauty. The tarot cards might be favorable so she would not read the cards correctly. She thought: 'it will be more of curse than a reading.' When the baptismal ceremony was complete the king and queen turned to show their beautiful baby to the entire kingdom. It was then the Crone came forward: “Your majesties, I have come to read the tarot cards for the Princess Isobel. I see she will enter the convent, your line stops with her.” She cackled as she left the king and queen standing there open mouthed. The Crone, hobbled quickly back to her cottage. The king's wrath would descended upon her soon there after. Her cottage was burned; she was put in the gaol. The king was still outraged after having her placed in the gaol; he then banished her from not only the castle but the kingdom upon her release. Time simply does not stand still not even for a king and queen. Isobel grew from child to a true beauty of the realm. Her beauty was known throughout the kingdom. Princes from as far away as Germany and England wished to marry her. King Angus, plighted her troth to Prince Heinrich of Prussia. They decided she would be wed before her sixteenth birthday, thus avoiding the future or so they hoped. They summoned Isobel one early morn: “My child, Prince Heinrich of Prussia, is to be your betrothed. There is also something we have never ever told you, but we now feel it is time to disclose what the Old Crone of Galloch predicted for your future. You see, my child, according to the tarot cards, you are to enter a convent, there to eventually become the Mother Abbess. Our line will end with you, that is of course if you choose to follow that path.” Isobel, was stunned: “Father, why did you not tell me this before. I don't wish to go to the abbey, whichever one that old Crone selected. I am a Princess!” King Angus groaned out loud, Isobel was very head strong; he pitied the Prince that married her. He scratched his beard; stalling for time before he answered Isobel. He simply could not see Isobel as a Mother Abbess; she was such an extraordinary beauty. Finally, he spoke: “Isobel, perhaps you could go to Melrose Abbey for a few weeks, that should satisfy the Old Crones tarot readings. We, have to placate her.” “Father, I can't believe that you would send me there in the first place. No I won't go.” Angus, was becoming exasperated: “You are going Isobel, we must keep you safe from the Crone.” “Father, I can't believe that is the tarot reading I was given, that my birth and marriage will not keep our line alive. There has to be some other way.” The King merely shook his head: “You are going my dear daughter, we have to fool the Crone into thinking our line is going to end with you.” Isobel stamped out of the King and Queen's receiving chamber slamming the door as hard as she possibly could. Who cares really if our line continues or the Stuart's take over. The following morning, she set out in the King's finest carriage, with gold spokes. Her face concealed behind the curtains. It was a glorious spring day, the birds were singing, the bees buzzing and the flowers blooming. Isobel, felt tears welling up in her eyes, she had to do what her father suggested but she did not have to enjoy it. Suddenly, there was a pistol fired, then horses thundering down upon the carriage. Isobel, cowered in the corner of the carriage; as the carriage came to an abrupt halt. One of the highway men, opened the door of the carriage, motioning Isobel out of the carriage. “You have nothing to fear Madame, we just want your purse.” “I am not carrying one, I am on my way to Melrose Abbey.” The lead highway man inched his way over. He stared at Isobel, with the most startling blue eyes she had ever seen: “You are going to where?” “Melrose Abbey, where I am going to live for several weeks.” The highway man was so intrigued with her beauty, he swept her up on his horse. The three highway men galloped off into the sunset with a prize they never thought possible. One of them had recognized Princess Isobel. They stopped at a tavern for the night. They would ransom her the next day for a kingly price. The lead highway man bound her delicate hands and feet. “Why are you going to Melrose? Any Prince, man for that matter would marry you in a heart beat.” “I have no choice, the Old Crone of Galloch, read the tarot cards at my birth, I am to become the Mother Abbess, someday. I can not see myself in that roll.” He smiled down gently at her. He removed his mask, then said: “Princess Isobel”, he knelt as he addressed her. “Your servant your highness, I am James Stuart.” Isobel was taken aback. “James Stuart, are you the pretender to the Scottish throne? My father fears you.” “I am sorry to hear that. Do you fear me fair lady.” “No, I don't.” Isobel, felt a strange urge to kiss him. She motioned him to rise. Perhaps she could still prove the Crone wrong. James, undid the roped he had just tied. “We ride for Beauly Priory. Princess you are coming with us.” They saddled their mounts are galloped toward the Priory. Isobel sighed, where would all this end, she questioned herself. James, could feel her touch as she clung to him. The giant black stallion galloped on into the night. Upon arriving at the Priory, James was greeted by Prior Robert: “Ah, James, your father awaits your return. What have you here?” “The Princess Isobel of castle Forfar.” “My, but she is a beauty. Yes, she is.” Isobel, decided that whatever fate she met at James hand it had to better than the Old Crone's prediction. James and Isobel, reigned over Forfar for a good many years. The Crone, was never heard from again.


There is a boy in this world. His name is Lexi.  Lexi is a normal boy for the most part. He reads, writes, cooks, and enjoys music and games.  Lexi also loves so very much. And he loves the truth. And, to him, the truth is the truest way to show love.  Lexi also has friends that he treasures so very much. This is a story about a lie told by them to him.  This is not supposed to be a sad story, mind you. This is to be a story about learning right from wrong.  One day, a girl named Mandy wanted to get together with all her friends. All of Mandy’s friends were also Lexi’s friends. However, Mandy didn’t want Lexi to be a part of the get together.  So Maddie went about inviting all her friends to a party. They were all so excited about the party and asked who would be coming. Mandy said that Dee Dee, and Jewels, and Bill, and Dill would be there.  The group of friends was so happy to hear because they were all so close. But then they realized that someone was missing from the invite. Lexi had not been included.  All the friends were upset about this and they asked Mandy to invite Lexi. Dee Dee even insisted over and over because she cared about Lexi and didn’t want him to be alone. But Mandy still refused to invite Lexi and eventually all the friends accepted this, reluctantly.  When the day of the party arrived, Dill sent a message to Bill to see when the party would start. However, the message ended up being sent to the wrong person. Lexi was the one to accidently get the message.  When Lexi read the message, he found what was written odd. He didn’t know what Dill was talking about, a party? So Lexi sent a message back asking about the party.  Dill was embraced about his mistake and told Lexi that there was a party with all their friends. Lexi didn’t hear about a party but he was fine that he hadn’t been invited. Being forgotten about is a simple mistake and such things happen.  Then Dill said that Lexi wasn’t forgotten about, he just wasn’t wanted there by Mandy. This really upset Lexi and he through a fit. Dill told Lexi to stop being a baby but that only made Lexi so much more upset.  After that, Lexi stopped talking to his friends. Lexi was alone for quite a long time, crying over had happened. He was really hurt.  Long after the party had been done with, Jewels found Lexi pouting and asked what was wrong. Lexi found this strange since everybody else already knew why he was so upset. So Lexi told Jewels why.  Jewels could see how hurt Lexi was by this. Jewels tried to explain that it was not any of their friends fault and they did want him there. But that only made Lexi even more upset.  Lexi explained that he didn’t care if he went or not. He didn’t care if Mandy wanted him there or not. He knew not everybody in the world would like him and he accept it. Honestly, he like what Mandy did, standing up for what she wanted against four others. It took courage.  What made Lexi upset was the fact than none of his friends had told him about the party. They all tried to hide it from him, pretending like it wasn’t happening behind his back. They lied to him.  Four people that called him friend, said they loved him, and promised to never leave him alone, all lied. But it was more than that. When Dill was caught in the lie, he still turned his back on Lexi. And Jewels had only just lied directly to Lexi.  Things were only getting worse. These lies were making all the things that were once true into lies. A friend doesn’t lie, so they lied about being his friend. You don’t lie to a person you love, so they don’t love him.  Lexi couldn’t handle this dishonesty. He walked away from Jewels and went to leave his entire home behind. But before Lexi had left, another of his friends stopped him from going. Her name was Zos.  Zos had overheard the argument that Lexi had with Jewels. She could tell that Lexi was very upset and she also knew the reason why he was upset. She didn’t have to but she told Lexi that she had also gone to the party.  Lexi didn’t know this and probably never would have found out. Things would have been fine between them if she never admitted it but things were better than fine. Lexi wasn’t mad at Zos. How could he be? She was honest with him unlike the others.  Lexi thanked Zos for being a true friend. Her honesty had made him very happy. But it wasn’t enough to stop him from walking away from it all.  Lexi was gone for a long time. He walked and walked, through the night and day. And while he walked, he tried to understand what had happened.  Never did he stop walking. Never did he stop thinking about what had happened. Never could he fully accept what was done to him.  That is until . . .  One day Lexi stopped walking. He did this because someone was standing on the path in front of him, blocking his way. A girl that he had never seen before was directly in front of him with a wide smile.  She introduced herself as Mimi and asked what Lexi’s name was. Lexi told her his name and then asked her what she was doing. Mimi said that she wanted to ask Lexi that same question.  It turned out that Mimi had seen Lexi walking, though he had never seen her. Every time they crossed paths, Mimi could tell that Lexi was upset. This was the third time their roads met and this time she would find out why Lexi was not happy.  Lexi told her. At first, he found it weird that he was opening his heart to a complete stranger. Then he realized why it was so easy to do so, because strangers are honest about their beliefs.  And Mimi was very honest.  She said that Lexi has every right to feel the way he does. He was hurt by the people who are closest to him and because of that, he is allowed anger and sadness. He shouldn’t have to bottle his emotions to make them feel like they did nothing wrong.  However, he is also being childish. Not being able to forgive them now is okay, but to say he would never forgive them ever is wrong. It would hurt them and hurt him more in the end.  Lexi thought about that and knew she was right but didn’t know when he would be able to forgive them. So Mimi asked Lexi when he would be able to forgive them. Lexi would not be able to forgive them in a million years.  Mimi was puzzled but still asked if he would after a million years. Lexi could forgive them then, after a million years. Progress! Shouted Mimi because being able to forgive at all is a step in the right direction.  In time, all things can be overcome. But until then, Mimi promised to be with Lexi until the day came that he could forgive. But such a thing can come much sooner than anyone might expect.


Every time we’re in the same room, she stares at it as if it were a lone, lame gazelle and she, the lioness, starving, desperate, salivating, ready to attack. To say it’s unnerving is a gross understatement considering I can quite literally see her licking her lips, anticipating the devour. Years of staving off her acquisition attempts, both polite and nefarious, left me exhausted in her company. Oh, Auntie will you ever concede? Ten years of playing this game and still she persisted, always claiming to be the rightful heir to the, wait; what did she call it; the amulet? Yes, that was the exact word, amulet. Her mother, my grandmother referred to it as her talisman; the third owner of the pendant; a burnished gold locket which held not a photo but a single amethyst crystal, aubergine in color and perfectly fitted in the frame. It hung from a matching chain, although not its original; that was lost years ago, before Grams gifted the talisman to me. I always suspected the original chain’s vulnerability occurred from a jolt of magical juice likely wielded by her own daughter. I remember the day as if it were yesterday, my twelfth birthday, the day I became official. There was a party, of course, complete with friends, balloons, presents and a cake with buttercream roses, pink and lavender. We played games and talked about clothes and boys, shared lip gloss, much to my mother's disgust, but we did it anyway. My friends graced me with cute t-shirts, teen idol posters, glitter nail polish and of course, more lip gloss. We watched scary movies and consumed more popcorn and nacho chips than an entire stadium filled with adrenaline fueled football fans. The day couldn’t have been more perfect; until it was. “What did you wish for?” My Auntie hissed in my ear, leaning over my shoulder as I blew out the candles on my cake. She was my favorite person, only eight years my senior, it was more like having a big sister than an aunt. She was beautiful and cool, with her own unique sense of style, somewhere between runway model and gypsy. I wanted to be her, or at least just like her; confident, aloof and magnetic. She promised to teach me how to apply mascara, so it didn’t appear I was wearing any, as I did not yet have permission for such grown-up vices. I remember thinking, what magic that would be, to deceive without ill-intent. I never answered her question; for if you reveal a birthday wish, it wouldn’t come true, and I could not take that risk. Minutes before midnight, still technically my birthday, Grams came into the living room and sat near me on the couch. She tugged at the corner of my blanket and covered her own lap, snuggling in closer. Oh, how I loved her, from the stories of our ancestors to the subtle life lessons she bestowed at the exact time I needed them; she was the ultimate teacher, the absolute role model, fascinating and enchanting. Grams reached into the pocket of her faded yellow chenille housecoat and presented me with a tiny purple leather box with a silver clasp. “Happy Birthday Alora.” It was mine, the family talisman, amulet, the Dresden draiocht. “I am entrusting our family power to you, Alora. I implore you to never, under any circumstance give this to either of my daughters, especially your Aunt Amelia.” Grams opened the chain, draping it around my neck and refastening the clasp. “She will come for it, promise me you will not relinquish the talisman, no matter how persuasive she becomes. Power this intense can be detrimental in the wrong hands, and Alora, make no mistake, her hands are not worthy, nor deserving.” I promised and never went back on my word, protecting the family magic, the Dresden draiocht, with my life. Consumed with jealousy, she came for it every year on my birthday, eyeing it suspended from my neck, plotting her heist, only to have her efforts to separate the crystal from me, the bearer, be thwarted time and time again. Her eyes, wild, almost feral as she concocted spells to sway my convictions. Chanting, lighting, burning, writing, and rhyming her way into my thoughts, my inner sanctum, my magical core, but the talisman denied her, each and every time, driving her a little more into madness with every futile pursuit. She cursed me, placing priority for power over the love and loyalty of family. “Mianach” she sneered with contempt. My twenty second birthday bore little resemblance to my twelfth. There were no balloons, no popcorn, and no lip gloss, just a few friends and my loving family. My mother hesitated to invite her sister, but I insisted. She meant me no harm, however vengeful and vexed, it was not personal, it simply couldn’t be. I held no antipathy, only love and admittedly a touch of pity. I entertained the notion of surrendering the Dresden draiocht to her, alleviating her agony, and giving her the power she craved, once and for all. The promise I made to Grams plagued my thoughts; I was never to resign to Amelia’s iniquitous enterprise. I swore I would forever protect our power until a time when I can undoubtedly identify the next guardian. Ten years; I watched as inflamed jealousy gave way to absurdity. I mourned my favorite person, as she could no longer sustain under the pressure, the sheer agony of want. I knew what I would wish for this year as I ritually extinguished the birthday candles set upon my cake. Why hadn’t I thought of this sooner? With great anticipation, I welcomed my Auntie into my home, and for the first time in ten years, I did not dread her. Immediately, her wild eyes fixated on my chest, reassuring herself that the draiocht was real and within her grasp. She smiled wickedly, awkwardly shoving a gift-wrapped box into my hands. “Just for you.” she sang eerily as she pushed past me on her way into the kitchen. Instinctively, I knew what the gift box contained, and I had to admire her continual efforts. However, the fairly expensive and very sparkly replacement bauble inside would not suffice; not enough for me to relinquish my pendant, her amulet, Gram’s talisman, our power. She sat at the table as she did every year, waiting for what; I was never certain. That look, that hunger in her stare, and desperation in her voice rendered my Aunt Amelia nearly unrecognizable. Intentionally, I sat directly across from her, allowing for a perfect view, my pendant in her direct line of sight, taunting her, encouraging her to reach out. Her hands twitched as they rested on the table in front of her. Her lips and eyelids ticked involuntarily as she subconsciously hummed and rocked slightly from side to side in her seat. “Mianach” , she whispered to herself as she hummed, as if the Celtic word for “mine" was the only lyric to her witless ditty. “What will you wish for?” she hissed between her clenched teeth, never taking her eyes off of the pendant. My cake set before me and the candles all alight, I smiled genuinely at her and blew softly, effectively eradicating each of the twenty-two tiny flames. Reaching up, I clutched the pendant in my right hand, hoping to draw from its power; trusting the ancient magic of the Dresden family to quell her obsession, calm her mind and restore her sanity. A radiant heat emanated from within, penetrating my hand, warming it and setting it aglow. She gasped, “brigrad.” They spoke to me from beyond our concept of time, not in the present, but from the past and future simultaneously. The chant was a lullaby, one I had heard before, one my Gram would sing when I was too young to remember, yet I could. I listened to their melodious message from beyond as I watched her squirm, reach out, beg for its power, bargain with her life for just a taste. Laugh and cry, as if her hysterics would waver my position. I stood, faced her and silently called our ancestral power into service, relying on my connection with the draiocht for assistance. “From this day until the end of days, I ask that Amelia be rid of her haze. Free her from the allure of power, begin her healing upon the strike of the witching hour. Take from her ill will and obsession and replace it with a natural progression; from dark to light, from blind to sight, dear spirits of Dresden, help me set her right. The draiocht is meant to be revered, to be respected, not fought over or feared. Restore the bond once we shared, before the allure compelled Amelia impaired. Sever the hold, dissolve the desires, by granting my wish as I extinguished the fires. Our familial power comes from our hearts and our heritance, true magic leaves no space for greed and arrogance. Amelia, my aunt, my blood, my connection, I implore you to allow my assistance and protection. Come back to us as you once were, free of obsession from your saboteur.” Slowly, the light returned to her eyes, still she stared. I could not speak, nor take a breath, fearing my magic had failed. Finally, she spoke. “My weakness is exactly the reason she did not bestow the privilege of the draiocht upon me. You, dear niece, are the rightful guardian, and I pray my obsession has not done such permanent corruption to our relationship, that we cannot overcome.” I assured her it had not, but I could not deny her fixated eyes and the not so subtle twitch of her hands as I cautiously embraced her for the first time in ten years.


He woke up, the message flashing “End of Reel.” over and over, a hell of a way to start your day. He reached over, slapping at the deck on the bedside table before blindly finding the off button. As the Stimdeck wound down he removed the inputs tossing them on top of the small black deck and placed his bare feet on the cold floor. With his head in his hands he sighed trying to pull together the motivation to stand, to push himself out of bed and face the world. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the fuzzy glow of the deck’s status lights and in it the image of a glowing lotus. He fumbled through the tapes, picking out the one with the holographic blossom on it, he held it in his hands, studying the petals. He had this one specially made, just for him. Just for today. He’d always been able to take a punch, that’s part of what lead him into the ring, why he’d been one of the biggest names in boxing. There were only two times he’d ever been knocked on his ass, neither of them happened in the ring. The first time was on a blind date, Frank his manager set him up with his niece Molly. Molly, was a creature of infinite grace and the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. She had hair that reminded him of the way light looked if you caught it just right in a bead of honey, her smile was the thing that made him forget that he had three broken ribs and a busted nose. On top of the most stunning woman that he’d ever seen, Molly was brilliant. He never knew what a woman as smart as Molly had ever seen in a meat-head like him, maybe it was the security she felt when she leaned against him, maybe those deep blue eyes of her saw something in him that everyone else missed. He didn’t ask too many questions or think too hard about it, all he knew was that somehow he made her happy and that became all he wanted in the world. The second time was when he woke up beside her in bed to find her cold and lifeless. It’s been five years, five years since she died. StimCorp covered the funeral, paid him a reasonable sum, if any sum could be called reasonable, and put safety checks in place so another accident didn’t happen. He’d always hated that, referring to it as “the accident”, it wasn’t an it was her, it was Molly. But none of that, the money the safety checks, referring to it as an accident, none of that changed that she was gone. Molly was gone and along with her the bright blue eyes, the golden hair and the reason to get out of bed, the reason to fight for anything. Molly worked for StimCorp for fifteen years, doing research and development for them. It had paid well and allowed them to play with the newest toys and tech, including the first Stimdeck. She was so excited when she brought their first deck home. The thing was the size of a full keyboard, maybe a bit bigger. She’d made him sit on the couch in their living room while she went on and on about the possibilities of being able to experience someone else’s memories first hand. Not just what they saw and heard, but what they smelled, tasted and felt. He remembered the way the sun had illuminated her honey colored hair, the way her hands moved as rapidly as she talked. He remembered having to tell her to slow down as she talked so he could keep up. Molly hadn’t been able to tell him anything about the Stimdeck project for months, and now that she could it was a torrent of information and ideas pouring out of her. She showed him how the deck worked, where the inputs connected to it and how they fit on his temples, being patient with him as his thick fingers worked the inputs clumsily trying to get them in the right spots. Her soft hands gliding over his fingers guiding the inputs to the deck and then to his temples. StimCorp hadn’t been able to send any tapes for the deck home with her, but they did provide blanks and everything needed for them to record their own. They started out with small events to test the deck, dinner together one evening, a walk through the city at dusk and an afternoon in Molly’s garden. He sighed heavily remembering Molly’s garden. The smell of her roses, the way the wind from the ocean blew her hair back, even the way she shielded her eyes from the afternoon sun. That tape had always been his favorite, and Molly’s garden seemed a lifetime ago. A dream that the gray rain soaked city outside his high rise window could never imagine, a warmth the city seemed incapable of. After a week of recording their own tapes and sharing them with each other, Molly brought home their first officially produced tape. It was a night out seen through the eyes of one of StimCorp’s young executives. Dinner at one of the city’s most expensive restaurants, dancing at one of the most exclusive clubs, and barreling down a seaside highway in a car not slated to be released to the public for another two years. This became the standard marketing tactic to show off the deck’s capabilities, “Live the life you want, not the one you have” became StimCorps motto. That night Molly fell asleep with the deck on, the seaside highway racing past her as she drifted off. The doctors said that when she woke up to the static at the end of the reel and it had wiped her mind. Something about the brain’s transition from delta to theta waves, he never was too interested in the details, all he knew was that Molly was gone. The half crooked smile, the gleam in her eyes when she laughed, the blush in her cheeks when she got excited, all of it gone. Just gone, no explanation, no preparation just an empty side of the bed where she should be, a hollow deserted kitchen and a garden turned barren. When she first passed he’d see her around the house, she’d just turn the corner, he had just missed her but when he caught up there’d be no one there. He kept seeing her car in the drive way expecting her to walk in the front door any second only to remember the funeral. The day had been sunnier than it had any right to be, there was a small grave side service, and he’d even thrown the first handful of dirt on her casket. After the third time he found himself waiting by the door he sold the car. That made it easier to deal with he told himself, at least he didn’t expect her to open the front door anymore. He spent the first year after everything happened slipping away, there never seemed a point to it anymore. He wasted away to a third of himself, a diet of frozen soy meals and vodka didn’t do much for keeping him filled out. His name still held weight in the ring though, enough to draw a crowd even if some of the crowds were in back alleys and weren’t sanctioned. He’d show up and get beaten. Broken nose, bruised ribs, the physical pain was a nice distraction but after a while even that wasn’t enough for him to feel anything. After a while he was back to being as hollow as an empty booze bottle. He wanted to feel something, anything even broken again. After his last fight he woke up, drunk and nearly drowning in a city gutter as the city spat its cold impersonal rain down on him, another empty man who couldn’t hack it anymore. Desperate to feel anything he stumbled into the storage shed where he kept all of the things from his other life, his happy life. He came across Molly’s deck, not sure why he hadn’t thrown the damned thing away, he fit it on, and for a moment her smile flashed in front of his eyes, he could feel her fingers as they helped him guide the inputs into place. After that first flash of Molly’s smile he slipped into the world that the Stimdeck could offer him, he began to fill the hole in himself with journeys he never actually took, sights he’d never actually seen. After a while, the joy in the decks wouldn’t last, he’d be left with pain, a pain of memories he never got to have with Molly. The things they never did together or said to each other, but at least the pain was something. The pain wasn’t hollow or empty or lonely. His tastes in tapes quickly spiraled downward as he tried to feel anything. He began looking for tapes on more taboo subjects, a junkie’s high, robberies, gang violence. But none of it seemed to fill the hole in him. He spent most of his money from the settlement and the sale of their house on his tapes trying to find something that would fill his void, something to spark him back to his old self. His apartment was covered in them now, but still nothing among them kept his interest, nothing kept his mind off of Molly, he always returned to dinner with her when he laid down to sleep. But today nothing motivated him as he sat by the side of his bed, barely away of his feet on the cold apartment floor. No junkie’s overdose, no gang shooting, no decadent sex scene, nothing held any appeal as he listened to the rain pour down and wash over the gray scale city. A life without Molly wasn’t something he ever wanted. After a match one night he caught up with Frank, he asked him about some people who could work on a tape for him. After Molly’s passing StimCorp placed security measures on all of their tapes before they went out now to prevent another accident. Instead of static you got a message stating “End of Reel.” until you shut the deck down. This allowed the user’s brain to transition normally between the different states of sleep without incident. All of the tapes were now safe, the original tapes were recalled and the new safety measures added. That was unless you knew some people willing to fix them for you. Suicide by tape wasn’t uncommon but wasn’t reported on heavily either, it was one of those facts that usually only the desperate knew, and knew how to do. Frank nodded to him, said he knew a guy. Frank said he was sorry to see him go but knew that he just wasn’t the same without Molly and he’d given him the guy’s number. He picked up the tape with the shimmering lotus on it once again, holding it in his hands feeling its weight, tracing his fingers over the surface, and studying the lotus’ petals. He slid the tape into the deck and lay back on the bed placing the inputs on he reached over and flipped the switch labelled “Play” and breathed the first easy breath he’d drawn in five years. existence around him grayed for a moment as the deck spun up, and then the world exploded into a sunny summer afternoon. The smell of roses and sea breeze washed over him. There she was again smiling at him. She was as beautiful as ever, her honey colored hair blowing in the wind, her smile as vivid as he remembered. The eyes that he fell in love with and woke up to on the best days of his life, once again looking back at him, tasting the salt in the air his heart began to fill, the void within himself shrinking. As Molly reached out to take his hand the world slipped into a state of static and he drifted off to sleep.


The first energy powered ship we created was one of the greatest moments in human history and simultaneously, the moment that ruined it forever. It was July 16th 2099, exactly 130 years after the first spaceflight that landed two humans on the moon. Everyone was watching the launch because this meant we could finally reach solar systems outside of ours with ease. When the ship successfully broke out of our atmosphere and started heading towards the edge of our solar system the whole world was ecstatic, it didn’t last long. As soon as the ship got near the border we received this message: > Beings residing in solar quadrant 835-A, > > We would like to congratulate you on achieving advanced space travel but we regret to inform you that this advancement must be retracted. Any further travel beyond this point is restricted and will be regarded as a hostile act towards your neighboring solar systems. We have been watching your species over the years and the damage you have caused to your home planet and to each other has resulted in your species being classified as a class 3 plague. Plagues in class 3 are to be monitored and kept under control as they are not a threat to nearby species and planets but with your newly acquired technology for space travel we are required to bump you up to class 2. This new class will involve a quarantine of the solar quadrant by armed ships and eventually, if the plague worsens, eradication. We apologize for the inconvenience and hope that your species is able to recover and begin to thrive. > > Signed, > Head of Containment, Galactic Health Agency This message sent the world into a panic. Everyone was arguing with each other trying to figure out what to do next. The final decision everyone agreed upon was to send an unmanned vessel across the border and see what happened. When the ship crossed the border of our solar system it was instantly shot down by a ship that had been cloaked moments before, this attack sent the world into a frenzy. Governments from around the world were trading suggestions with each other to try and determine what would be our next step. The suggestions would range from trying to create weaponry that would reach the ships, to sending out messages attached to empty ships to try and make peace. But that was all before the first ship landed in London and wiped out over half the city’s population. When the ship landed, people went into a panic but within seconds, hundreds of armed guards wearing what looked like full body hazmat suits left the ship and started shooting into the crowd of people fighting to get away. After the slaughter was over, the guards got back on the ship and just left, leaving the streets lined with corpses and terrified citizens who somehow survived. A couple days later we received another letter from the GHA saying that this wasn’t the end of the “containment” and that they were trying to help us. Like somehow killing off our species would be helping us. The next major attacks were in New York, Moscow, and then Dubai. We started off the month with a world population of 11 billion people; by the end of the attacks, we had 4 billion. The majority of the survivors thought it would be best to scavenge supplies and hide in underground bunkers and just hope that they could wait out the attacks. Others were fighting against the alien forces and stealing their tech to try and learn from them. In the end, neither choice worked. Once the majority of the population was gone, bigger ships started to land and would kidnap people by the thousands to be brought to an unknown fate. All we knew was that they never came back. I was one of the last few to be taken so I watched the aftermath, the downfall, society at its lowest point. People descended into the most primal state of mind, everything was a fight or flight situation and no one had any morals. The few of us that tried to keep society alive, tried to prove that we weren’t what the aliens said we were, we survived the longest. We thought we were safe, they were just saving us for last, it was all just a game to them. Like we were nothing, a tiny spec in the grand scheme of things. Maybe they were right, maybe they weren’t, maybe humans could have been what changed the universe. The one thing I know to be true, the one thing that I will never forget no matter how much they torture us, was the fear in everyone’s eyes as I was drug on the ship and the hope that drained from their eyes as the only place we knew to be home shattered into a mix of fire and rubble as our ship flew away.