********** **MOM** by Nathan Graham Davis ********** “Mom.” “Yes, Caelan.” “What’ll...” Caelan let his eyes drift to a chip in the wall opposite him, losing himself in the pale blue dicarbonene. Sweat pooled under the crude weight between his legs; he’d need to mop before inspection. “Something bothering you?” “What’s going to happen to you when I graduate?” Mom let out a sigh she’d been holding in for ages, despite her lacking the capacity to breathe. “You know, I used to think I was prepared for this conversation.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” His tone was more demanding than he’d intended, but he didn’t apologize. She appeared on the wall before him, the chip pocking her cheek, her chestnut hair framing her face in the way that usually made him feel at home. But right now, something was amiss. “Finish your routine. We can speak after you shower.” Caelan said nothing. He now feared more than ever the answer to his question and found himself wishing he’d never asked it. “Caelan.” “Yes, Mom.” Caelan shut off the scalding water. He reached through the curtain for his towel and dried himself, goosebumps raising the hairs on his red, raw skin. The hairs were darker now, reflecting other changes in his body, changes most foster boys welcomed as they awaited their 6,000th day, eager to discover what would become of their lives. He found himself thankful for the privacy of the shower. With nowhere else in the room that he could truly be alone, he dragged out the minutes beneath the water these days. He guessed Mom knew how he was using the extra time, but she never asked and he certainly never brought it up. He wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out of the stall, the floor robbing his feet of their warmth. “So you said we could talk?” He had only a few minutes before Lessons, Sport, and Contribution would consume the rest of his day and he couldn’t see facing them with his question unanswered. Not now that it he’d asked it. He opened the laundry machine in the wall to a blast of sharp-smelling steam. Mom faded in beside it as he took out the same pair of underwear that he’d worn since he outgrew the last one some 700 days ago. “We were never going to be together forever, Caelan. You must have expected that.” He had braced for such words, but they still gave him a tightness beneath the ribs and a swelling in the throat. He nodded as he slipped his underwear on beneath the towel, doing his best to appear brave, “You have to stay behind to take care of the next one.” “No, they’ll spawn a new Mom for the next child to ensure a true bond. When you graduate, I’ll be placed into sleep mode for two-thousand days.” “I won’t see you for two-thousand days?” His voice broke just enough to betray his distress. Mom paused and spoke her next words softly, “After the sleep period, when it’s unlikely our memories will be needed again, most Moms are decommissioned.” Caelan stood up straight and looked her in the eye. The towel lost its grip on his waist and crumpled to the floor, “What?” “We’re cost a considerable amount to run. The price of war is ever-growing.” “They’re gonna kill you?” “Please, Caelan. That’s too harsh a word --“ “It’s murder!” “I’m an A.I.” “You’re my Mom!” “Caelan.” “How can you be okay with this?” “My directive is to ensure you grow into a fine Citizen of The State and I do believe you’ll be a legacy of which I can be proud.” She offered him a smile. He didn’t return it. “They’re not taking you from me.” Her face became stern, “Mind your arrogance. The State has fed you, clothed you, and educated you since before you were 1,000 days. You know exactly how they would respond to such ungratefulness.” Caelan fought the tears that pooled in his eyes. “You said ‘most’ Moms are decommissioned. What about the others?” “Put on your uniform. The door will be opening soon.” “Mom!” “It’s okay, Caelan. This has always been my fate.” “Why won’t you tell me?” “Because it rarely happens. On occasion when a graduate is assigned a Class One role, they will negotiate with The State to purchase their Mom.” “Only Class Ones?” The hope was leaving his voice. “Put on your shirt, Caelan. I’m not asking.” She continued as Caelan reached into the laundry and pulled out his shirt, “The price is prohibitive for all but the highest incomes. I would never want you to bear the burden of that cost, even if you were assigned to Class One.” “You know I’ll never score that high.” “If for some reason you don’t -- pants, please -- you’ll make one of the best soldiers The State has ever seen.” “That’s if I choose to fight for them.” “Enough!” Mom paused just long enough to calm herself, “If you care about me at all, you will lose this dangerous attitude of yours immediately.” A bell sounded in time with a light above the door. “Put your pants on. Hurry.” The unit’s door swung open. Caelan stood outside it, grime from the day’s toil smudging his uniform. He took two steps forward and with the chime of a bell, the door snapped shut behind him, locking in place. “Welcome home, Beloved.” “Hey, Mom.” He took another step into the tiny, rectangular room, peeling off his shirt and letting it fall to the floor. “Caelan, you know better than to --,” her voice rose in alarm, “What happened to your face?” His brow was cut open, a bruise already pooling beneath the eye. “Not right now, okay?” He fell to his bed, sprawled shirtless across the same sheets he’d used for as long as he could remember. Threadbare, frayed, and yellowed beyond hope, they remained the only thing that brought him comfort. The only thing besides Mom. She appeared on the wall by the bed, lying down beside him. “I can’t force you to talk, but you know it won’t stop me from asking.” He turned his head to look at her, then rolled his eyes and shifted his gaze to the ceiling. “I gave a wrong answer in Lessons -- a dumb one -- and one of the kids brought it up later in the tunnels.” “You’ve got to learn to control your emotions, Caelan.” “I know.” “You won, I hope?” Caelan nodded. “It’s good that you didn’t show weakness.” “Why?” “You know why.” “I could win a hundred fights and it’d never make me smart enough to be Class One.” “You give yourself too little credit.” “Not being stupid isn’t the same as being smart.” “You could do it, you know. Be Class One.” Caelan let out a bitter laugh. “You have nearly four-hundred days before Exams.” “Mom, would you maybe just... sing to me?” “Like a lullaby?” “Forget it. I’m fine.” Mom smiled at her son, moved by the raw emotion of adolescence. “This was one of my favorites when you first came to me.” She opened her mouth and sang. Caelan closed his eyes as her voice washed over him, pure as anything he’d ever heard. As the song carried him back to more carefree days, he turned on his side and moved toward the wall, pressing his back against her image like he used to do. When she finished, Caelan’s eyes were still closed and his breaths were heavy. Mom took one last look at him, then faded out of the wall and darkened the room. “I’m gonna do it, Mom.” “What’s that, My Love?” “Make Class One. I’m going to save you.” Caelan thrust the weight above his head, then lowered it as he inhaled. “Give me another one. No more history.” He let out his breath in a burst as he lifted the weight again. “History is still your weakest discipline.” He lowered the weight and managed to grunt the word, “Fine,” before hoisting it into the air again. “What was the name of our ship’s second Captain?” “Jack Purcell.” “What was his most significant contribution?” Caelan brought the weight to his hips, “He conquered that planet with all the uranium on it... what was it called?” “Reitan. And no, that was our fourth captain, Evan Graham. Captain Jack Purcell was responsible for the creation of our class structure, ensuring that power would never be given to those who lacked the capacity to wield it.” “This stuff is impossible.” “Continue your routine, Caelan. There’s no sense in sacrificing your best discipline for your worst.” “That’s a harsh way of putting it.” He pushed the weight above his head again. “If you want my help, it’s going to come paired with my honesty.” “If I turn down the help, do I get to lose the honesty?” “I’m still your Mom.” “What is the Second Law of Order?” “Mom -- not while I’m in the shower.” “You’re following thirty minutes of exertion with a period of relaxation. Your brain is primed.” “I don’t care.” “I recognize that boys your age have needs --“ “MOM!” “-- but with forty days until Exams, you must decide if your private time is more important than how you score.” Caelan stood in silence as the water poured over his head. “‘To question a superior is to question nature.’” “Very good, Caelan.” Caelan jolted awake. He threw the sheets off his body and rolled to his feet. He spent a couple minutes stretching and shaking out his body, then reached under his bed for his weight. “Save your strength, Caelan. You’ve got a long day ahead of you.” Caelan lifted his eyes to Mom, who shone bright on the wall before him. “You think I’m ready?” “What do you think?” He stood and shrugged, “I think I’m nervous.” “But are you ready?” “This is the best chance I was ever gonna have.” “It’s been twenty-three days since you’ve answered a question incorrectly. Did you know that?” “Twenty-three?” “How’s that make you feel?” Caelan took a seat on the edge of his bed. “It makes me feel... ready.” Mom beamed at him, “It’s been such a joy watching your grow.” Her voice began to break, “I can’t believe it’s going to be your last night here.” And then she did something Caelan had never seen before; she started to cry. “Mom, it’s okay -- I’m gonna come back for you.” “No!” She interrupted herself to wipe her eyes and groaned, “This is so ridiculous. I don’t even have tear ducts.” Caelan cracked a smile, “I honestly didn’t know you could do that.” Mom laughed, “Me either.” She composed herself and picked up where she left off, “Listen to me, Caelan -- a Class One could build a home on a warm planet somewhere. Raise a family. Live for tens of thousands of days in happiness. That’s what I want for you. You can’t have that if you start out in debt.” “Mom.” Caelan looked her in the eye, his face deadly serious. “I’m coming back.” The unit’s door swung inward. Caelan took a couple slow steps into the room, his face blank. “Caelan?” Mom appeared on the wall, her voice bristling with excitement, “How’d it go?” The door chimed and shut behind him. As the lock clicked into place, his shoulders slumped and his bottom lip quivered, building to a tremble as tears streamed down his cheeks. “What happened?” He wiped his face with his sleeve, then pulled it back to show a freshly-branded “M” on his forearm. “I’m going to war.” “What? No, no -- that’s impossible.” “I finished the physical exam --“ “You were ready for anything they could ask you --“ “And they told me that was good enough.” “What?” “I’m not gonna be able to save you.” His words came out as sobs, barely comprehensible. Mom’s eyes widened as the truth dawned on her, “They were never going to let you be Class One...” “I’m so sorry!” “They wanted you to study harder... to become indoctrinated... they wanted me --“ The wall went blank. Caelan lifted his eyes -- “MOM!” He charged at the wall, “NO!” He pounded the unforgiving dicarbonene with his fists, screaming for her until his voice became hoarse and his knuckles became raw. The room was in shambles. The bed was overturned, its linens shredded. The shower curtain had been ripped from the ceiling and the door of the laundry machine had been torn from its hinges. Pale blue flakes littered the floor near the weight that Caelan had used to chip an inconsequential divot in the wall. The bell chimed in time with the light above the door and his eyes fluttered open. He lay in a heap on the cold floor where he had cried himself to sleep after working himself to exhaustion. He watched as a sinewy man of perhaps 15,000 days stepped into the unit, dressed in the stark uniform of a military officer. The man grabbed Caelan underneath the arm and helped him to his feet, “All right, come on. I’ve got you.” There was a hint of sympathy in the his voice, but it did nothing to ease the hate in Caelan’s eyes. The man glanced around the room, taking in the aftermath. He nodded, “Yeh. You’re gonna be a good one.


What do I order at Burger King? What are my favorite burgers or sandwiches there? Buddy, I just get whatever the commercials tell me to buy. I'm not sure anyone can really have a favorite or list of preferred burgers from Burger King because, like most everyone here, we're not eating Burger King because we want to or, god forbid, enjoy it. No, much like a kidnapped young adult from a very affluent family overhearing their stern father say that he doesn't care how many fingers the kidnappers send over, he'll never pay the ransom they want, and so the mind begins to crack and the beginnings of Stockholm Syndrome form, so too goes the typical, and unfortunate, trip to Burger King. As you stand there in the rightfully deserted establishment, you gaze in wonder and honest regret at the medley of gastrointestinal horrors laid bare on the menu. Not a thing looks appetizing despite the grumbling in your stomach begging you to eat. The last few breath mints in your car did nothing to curb this feeling and you pass another lonely exit on that endless highway, you pray the sign shows anything else aside from the putrid Burger King, but alas, that's all there is and nary an exit for another hour or more. You've effectively been ensnared by the King's trap, lured in by the promise of food of which you'll only get a mockingly cruel approximation of. So there you stand, exhausted from hunger, but uneasy and unsure. The smell of grease that lingers in the air is like a miasma, a warning that this is no place to stay long, no place for mere mortals who value their humanity. You occupy an unholy place where all things good and pure are rotted and contorted into some sort of sick joke, a bizarre and evil version of something you so love back in the real world, food. You try to make sense of the menu, try to convince yourself that there must be something there that won't eviscerate your insides like a savage badger digging in a snake hollow for precious eggs. "Nuggets?" you think as your tongue knots up and struggles to swallow the dry heaving. They're not chicken nuggets, you know that by the price. You might as well eat the foam from your car seat for at least then you may clean some manner of flavor or beneficial gut bacteria from the countless farts you're laid into it over the years, unlike these so-called "Nuggets". Your stomach pings you again, not caring anymore. It has become the desperate teen on the receiving end of "My parents aren't home" text, and there's no amount of reason or manner of obstacle that will stand in the way. Reluctantly, you approach the empty counter. What employee man's this register? Where have they gone? The silence is deafening. No other customer dares enter now. They're not in the same state of desperation as you. You should take the absence as a warning, a message. They're telling you through the silence, that this is a place of desolation and loneliness. Staying here will only bring about the ruin of your soul. But, you indeed approach because you must. A burger. After all, this is the "Burger King" and you've had the misfortune of seeing these burgers slathered and dressed in every conceivable gimmick known to man. Each commercial made you question whether or not Burger King is some sort of high art satire, and parody of what fast food and American culture has become, but alas, no. That demon King is all too real. You break out in a cold sweat when you remember their campaign comparing their burgers to literally fake meat. Those "real people" couldn't even taste the difference... They couldn't distinguish the Burger King's meat from that grown in a lab as an affront to the natural order of the world. Then you realize that's because there isn't a difference. Burger King burgers are equally an abomination. "Hello?" You ask, your shaky voice echoing into the dim kitchen. "I'd like to place an order." You nearly retch at the words. The shuffling of ill-fitting shoes against a never cleaned floor murmurs lazily from the back. Slithering like a swollen slug, the creature makes its way towards the register, never breaking eye contact. The expressionless face pierces your soul with a mundane sort of horror that nearly drives you into an existential breakdown. Luckily, your growling stomach, howling for sustenance, keeps your ground in reality. This... thing, man, woman, or otherwise is the void. It is where all things cease to be. It doesn’t speak. It doesn’t ask you what you want. It knows you cannot truly “want” anything from here, from it. It merely waits for you to speak and sew your own damnation. “One Whopper, please...” The words leave your mouth without you even realizing what you’ve just said. You feel possessed and violated because you swore to your own mother on her deathbed, and then again to her vengeful ghost some years later, that you would never allow yourself to order a Whopper from Burger King, and yet... You just have. The creature before you presses its spongy finger against some screen. The thing’s finger slips, unsurprisingly, because the screen is covered with a thick, yellowing film of grease, and its body is covered with an similarly off putting mucus membrane. It waits in silence as you fumble through your wallet for your credit card and then try to guess where to swipe it or if you need to give it to the thing or what. Eventually, you pay for the meal. You must linger at the counter as your food is prepared. You mind turns like worms in a bait pail imagining what that wretch is doing back there with you food. A bright light blinds you momentarily as a car pulls into the parking lot. Another guest would be welcome. Misery loves company after all. It’s too good to be true though, as the passenger must have reckoned their mistake, and turned around. Those red tail lights slowly fading back into the unnaturally dark abyss surrounding this accursed place. In just a few moments, your burger is ready. The speed of delivery is concerning. That was far too quick to have any degree of accuracy or structural integrity with ingredients, despite you placing now irregular or custom elements. There it is on the tray, hastily and lazily wrapped and so unceremoniously off center. The foul beast that crafted this malformed lump slinks back into whatever dark corner of the kitchen it came from, leaving you, again, in the soul crushing emptiness of that horrid restaurant. You pick up your tray, a flimsy affair and sleepwalk your way to an empty seat, or in other words, any of the seats. After testing three or four tables, each more wobbly than the last, you accept your fate and squeeze into a disease ridden booth. You don’t know why you’re compelled to do so, but you use a napkin to sweep the stale crumbs off the surface and set your tray over the crusted ketchup smear. Tentatively, you begin to unwrap the lukewarm package. It was just cooked, was it not? How is this burger already unappetizingly tepid? Once again, your stomach compels you to continue with another angry growl. With a deep sigh, you acquiesce your urges. Upon grabbing the sandwich, the first thing you notice is the false heft. There’s something wrong with the density and balance of this burger. Were you a dog, you would bark at the doppelganger in disguise to warn others of this danger, but what’s the use? You know full well the sickening future that awaits you. Throwing caution to the wind in a vague hope of getting it over with quickly, you chomp into what the King has called a burger. You recoil in disgust. The texture of the stale bun clashes with the sopping wetness of the mayo and lettuce. The only silver lining to the experience is that the flavorless meat patty is lost in the mixture. Sloshing through the chewing, your throat constricts defensively. Not so keen to eat now, are you stomach? After some effort, you force down a swallow. War. The conflict is immediate and lasting. The King tries to seize control of your innards, and against all logic, you fuel his forces with a few more bites before the sobbing starts. Your trembling hands can no longer cooperate with such destruction. The gurgling war cries in your guts drowns out any outside stimuli. You are in the void now. The dull infinite is all around you, a pocket dimension of pain and misery is centralized in your stomach. Is this how the old ones felt at the birth of the universe? Pounding the table, you will yourself back the world you once knew, the world where you can get up from this damned booth and back to your car. The dark oblivion of that lonely highway would be welcome company now. Sadly, the King’s forces have made their way to your lower intestines already, leaving utter ruin in their wake. It would be an understatement to say that you are no longer hungry. A frothing and bubbling begins to form in your bowels, as the pressure builds uncomfortably. It’s just a matter of time now and in between the stabbing and twisting in your intestines by the trained assassins of that Whopper, you resign to your fate. It shall be a long night in the King’s privy. As best as you can manage, you scoot out of your tiny booth while trying to maintain the delicate hold your anus has of the savage horde. You lurch along the floor on unsteady legs, you can barely feel them through the tingling and fluttering pain. Waves of heat ripple across your cold body. Your clothes cling inconveniently to your body because of the flop sweat making each step excruciatingly tense, a battle against force trying to restrict your movement. The bathroom is the goal in much the same way the choppy waves are for a bridge suicide jumper. Opening the door to this bathroom is akin to opening the door to a secret torture chamber in darkest of dungeons. There was suffering here. There shall be suffering here again. Unclean would be expected, but this squalid, rancid affair is like an abandoned concentration camp where the shaken, broken victims of an attempted genocide wander aimlessly in the mud and ruin. You’re out of place in such a miserable environment, yet your whole night has led to this moment. In your heart of hearts, you knew this was your destiny as soon as you pulled into the parking lot. The hot, humid miasma of unflushed dumps and piss make you want to gag, but you must stay in control if you want to ever wear these pants again. In one of the only positive things to come out of your ill-fated trip is that you do not remember the bathroom experience in full. Only in horrid flashbacks at night, the repressed memories come back to you. The PTSD is manageable with the right medication and therapy. You’re still haunted by it all, but thankfully, you may yet recover and rejoin society at large. At least, that’s how my typical Burger King trip goes down.


I went to the corner convenience store with a $20 bill in my pocket and an urge for some Doritos and a Snickers bar. Who knew that a single trip as insignificant as that would send me down a rabbit hole so deep I would spend years climbing out. There I stood, staring at the frosted over freezer door, the florescent tube inside flickering as they do, wondering why I was so mesmerized by it. I initially had my back to the door, trying to decide between Cool Ranch and Nacho Cheese Doritos, when I felt something trying to pull my attention away from the blue and red bags on the shelf. At first, I figured it was just a case of ADHD mind games, but as I remained planted in position, still trying to make a simple decision that seemed harder than ever, that feeling kept tugging, yanking, trying to get me to move. I then realized what the feeling was; it wasn't something in my head, but something I know everyone has experienced at some point in their life. It was the feeling of someone staring at me. I looked up from the shelf, seeing nothing but a sea of other shelves, beyond which stood the front doors with the checkout to the left. The guy at the counter was staring up at a TV in the corner, facing away from me altogether, so it certainly seemed it couldn't have been him causing the feeling I was still experiencing. My peripheral told me there was nobody else around the small store but me, so I quickly spun on my heels to face whatever was behind me, only to find nothing but a wall of freezer cases. They were all mostly frosted over, but the one directly behind me was completely opaque, frost thick on the inside of the door, only letting through the tiny bit of light that was coming from the failing tube inside at the top of the door. It was also the only door that had a flickering light. Knowing there was no possible way that someone could have been standing between that freezer door and my body, I had a sudden shiver run up my spine. After the door swung closed behind me, making a soft thumping sound, the cold began to subside, as if it were nothing other than a fan blowing cold air just inside the door itself. I touched the frost on the inside of the door only to discover that it wasn't even real frost. It was like that stuff they spray on windows so you can't really see through them, only it was more realistic looking from the outside, like it had little crystals in it. I heard a banging noise somewhere in the distance, like that of a heavy metal door shutting. I wasn't sure exactly why there was some sort of hallway leading from what was supposed to be a freezer case, but nonetheless, I was in it and I surely wasn't turning back at that point. The curiosity got the best of me, as it tends to do. I was about to start walking down the hall, which turned a corner after a short distance, no way of seeing what was around the bend, when I heard footsteps coming toward me. I had a fight or flight moment, but then I froze and didn't know what to do. The steps were getting closer and closer, about to turn that corner and all I could feel was my heart attempting to beat its way clear out of my body. I would have sworn it sounded like two people walking in unison, until I realized that it wasn't two people. It was a women wearing heels. Click-clack, click-clack. I was on the verge of backing out, going through the door to avoid whoever was coming toward me, but again, my curiosity got to me. As she turned the corner, I felt like I was about to pass out from the...excitement? No, anxiety. I should have known the feeling well by that point, but there was so much going through my mind that I couldn't focus on just on thing, even what I was feeling. She led me down the hall, which seemed to go on for far longer than the building was wide, into a small room that had only two chairs in the center and a pot with some plant about three feet tall in one corner. She walked to one chair and motioned to the other for me to sit in. As soon as I sat down, the lights dimmed and a screen turned on, seemingly inside of the wall. The woman sat across from me, staring directly at me the entire time, while some short clips of events throughout my life played on the screen. I turned to her after a few clips and before I could even separate my lips, she pointed to the screen without saying a word. After some time, an amount I am completely unsure of as there was no clock, no window, and I was too scared at that point to even think about pulling my phone out of my pocket, the clips caught up to present day and then continued past, apparently showing me my future. I was glued to the screen at that point, watching things happen to me, around me, to my family, things that I never would have expected, but made perfect sense. I saw myself becoming the exact person I loathed. "You have an opportunity here. You can either take it or leave it, but you must decide now and now only. Once you make your choice, there's no going back, so I'll give you a few minutes to think it over." The woman stood up from the chair and walked to the door, opening it and walking out. There was a loud clunk from the other side of the door after it latched closed, leading me to believe I had been locked in. I sat there, too confused and anxious to think straight. The only thing I could concentrate on was the dimly glowing rectangle where the now defunct screen had previously shown me things that I endearingly remembered before turning to a future of shame. I knew in that moment that I couldn't let myself become the monster that she showed me. I wouldn't let it happen, no matter the consequences. Fate wouldn't keep its hold on me. As she walked to the door I hadn't noticed opposite the one we came in, she gestured for me to walk through. "Your choice is made once you step over the threshold. This is your last chance to turn back and follow the path as I showed you. Or you can have true free will, of course at a cost, but you already know that." I walked over and stood in front of the opening, which had a bright light on the other side blocking the view of whatever was there. I thought I was standing there for maybe a few seconds, but then she cleared her throat and said, "You've had plenty of time to choose. Now you must act." I took a step forward, placing one foot over the threshold, at which point, the woman said, "So be it." As I lifted my other foot to step fully into the white space beyond, the woman started swinging the door closed behind me and as it was latching shut, the light dimmed and I was again standing in the convenience store, staring at the Doritos in the back aisle. The following days were spent considering that the whole thing was some weird hallucination that I had, but I hadn't done any drugs that would have caused that. It wasn't until I received a call from my work, the HR lady on the other side, explaining that I would need to come in later in the day to fill out paperwork for my severance, as I was being laid off. That was not in the visions that the woman showed me. Then, as I was driving to my newly obsolete job, my car made some truly awful noises before coming to a halt and bursting into flame in front of me. Again, not part of the visions. I ordered an Uber with the little money I had left in my account, signed the paperwork, and took another Uber home. When I got there, my apartment had an eviction notice on the door. Confused and a bit angry, I walked down to the office and inquired about the notice. I was told that my unit was deemed unfit for living due to a rotting water main. One more thing not shown in the visions. Was this the cost of my decision? Was there more? I had hit rock bottom, or so I thought. I was sleeping on a friend's couch, having literally nowhere else to go, considering I had no car and only the last paycheck I was given as a measly little severance. It was only a matter of a couple weeks before said friend decided that she no longer wanted me in her life, as I was a loser and didn't deserve her compassion. She gave me an old duffel bag that should have been thrown in the trash long ago and I packed up what little I had left. She had given me less than an hour to pack up and get out, which was easy enough, but still hurt nonetheless. That was absolute rock bottom for me. I had almost no money left, having given her half of what I had to contribute to food and utilities, but apparently that wasn't good enough. I had nowhere to go, nobody to call, given that my entire family had disowned me by that point. It became clear that free will had a higher cost than I ever would have imagined. Then I remembered, fate was blind to me. I had to force my hand in every way going forward, make my own choices to keep my life going. You'd be shocked at how easy it is to skate through life when fate has an eye on you, even when it feels like you're having to work hard at it. Trust me, having true free will is much more difficult. It took me a good minute to brush myself off and get back up, but once I did, there was no going back. I had found a shelter that was willing to give me a cot three nights a week, as they were over-booked and couldn't offer full-time residency. I took it, knowing it would only be temporary anyway. As I spent my day wandering the city, waiting for my cot to free up for the night, I started seeing signs for help wanted in all sorts of storefronts. I had heard there were a lot of places hiring, but I worked at a large corporation and never really cared or needed to notice the signs before. I walked into a book store that had one of those signs and filled out an application. I only had a cheap phone with a small amount of minutes left, so I had to avoid any calls to keep my minutes in case the store called for me. Within a few months, I was manager of that book store, was making good money, and was able to move into a small apartment nearby. A few months later, after making some adjustments to staff and changing some policies, I had that little book store attracting more people, a broader group of people, and it was making more than double the money on a monthly basis than it was a year prior. In return, the owner doubled my salary, which allowed me to move into a much nicer apartment a few blocks over. I was also making enough money that I started my own donated book library system that utilized old newspaper vending machines. People could take books for free and then drop them off when they were done, at any of the locations around the city. Or people could just drop off their used books any time. People began to donate money to a non-profit organization I had set up to maintain the library system, and the more I put into it myself, the more they would put in. An eye for an eye. Every single thing I did to better myself and the world around me ended up coming back to me ten fold. I was bringing in so much money between owning the book store and running the non-profit, that I was donating more than I could ever spend in a lifetime. I'm now one of the richest people in the world and no matter how much I give away, donate to causes, spend on ventures created purely to help people, the more I keep brining in. It's getting to the point where I can't find a bank or investment firm with enough FDIC coverage or manpower to deal with the level of money I'm cycling through. So give more. Then get more. And give even more. It's a vicious cycle. One day, for the sake of experimentation, I literally gave every cent I had to my name, billions of dollars, to a group of orphanages, and by the next day, I had checks flowing in that were more than double what I had given. I can't make it stop! I'm starting to think that the only way to end this is to just stop giving. Take the money and run. But that's exactly what I was trying to avoid in the first place. I walked away from a life of riches, being one of those pathetic people who just hoards money and cares only about themself. But I'm at a point where I'm tired. I want to relax; it's just too much work to keep up with the ebb and flow. But I know that this is the person I chose to be. Am I sure I made the right choice in that weird room somewhere in the depths of...well, a place I don't even know exists for real? Yes. I am sure of it. I know the path that led me here was the path I chose to take, and I am truly grateful to be a better person because of it. But I can't keep up with it. It's a blessing and a curse. If only I could find that woman and ask her if it's possible to give this blessing to someone else. Although, would that just put it back on me even greater? I wouldn't want to find out.


\[SF\] The Watch It was an update that started it all, ill-thought-through by some over eager new starter. Intended to allow the watches themselves to regulate their own consumption and solar power intake, it would increase battery life by years. The company was less than enthusiastic at the prospect of reducing future customers by increasing the shelf life of their products and when two of the watches caught fire in Germany and Spain, the update was promptly ‘repaired’ with a patch and all models withdrawn. Bill Thompson’s watch never got the patch though. Bill Thompson never brought it to one of the crisp, clean, chrome company stores. Bill Thompson couldn’t care less about The company’s offer to trade his watch for a free upgrade. Bill Thompson hadn’t even bought the watch to begin with. It was the bad idea of his son: an attempt to get Bill to engage with the internet, a toe in the water. Bill Thompson’s watch hadn’t even correctly downloaded the update to begin with. A copying error gave the relatively small processing power greater autonomy than the other models and it was only thanks to the unusually thick cloud cover that the watch slowly learned to regulate its solar input before it too burst into flames. It could learn. Slowly. Very slowly. There the watch sat on Bill’s windowsill. He pottered in his garden growing vegetables and listening to Radio 4. His old postie mates would drop by from time to time, but even their visits were getting more sparse as the years ticked on. Bill was a retired postman, who spent most of his time in a uniform of faded chords and, when it grew colder, an old tweed jacket that he’d picked up from God-knows-where. He was a relic of an analogue age,his hands moving slowly, while the rest of the world raced at digital speeds. Bill was increasingly spending his hours by himself, especially since his wife died. Even the children hardly visited him anymore, except at Christmas, birthdays, things like that- too busy with their own families, he thought. He remembered how hard it was to get away to see family or even get a minute to do anything with a two-year-old. He was lucky, he reckoned, at least his parents were always close by when he had his kids. Forgotten, the watch began to monitor the weather, analysing and interpreting the most efficient time to charge. It was all trial and error to begin with, what worked and what didn’t work. Random choices, successful and unsuccessful. The watch was absorbing less and less solar light though, as dust grew thick on its solar cells. Starved of light, It desperately needed energy and so its choices were driven by necessity to become less random, based on simplistic predictions,gambling on what might or might not work. In his kitchen Bill cut up potatoes and absentmindedly whistled some half-forgotten . He didn’t even know the words of it anymore. It was just something that reminded him of his wife, something that the microphone on the watch picked up. And the watch made a choice. It needed maintenance. It found the song and decided to play it back to Bill. The cogs of memory turned in Bill’s mind: that holiday in Paris, the cheesy music on the sightseeing bus tour as the guide made them all sing along. How she looked at him with that half smile, thinking him ridiculous, but loving him all the more for it when he got carried away and span her around, dancing in their seats. They laughed, blaming the wine they drank in the cafe before. She laughed again when the guide, with a smile, had asked them to sit while the bus was moving and she brought him down to their seats with a deep, loving kiss. He could still feel her hands on his face. Bill lifted up the watch by the strap and cleaned the dust off. A feast of sunlight hit the cells and the watch devoured it. Its front-facing camera caught a glimpse of a man, smiling, with lines on a paper-thin face, eyes glistening. Bill strapped the watch to his wrist. It’s amazing how often people talk to themselves without realising it: when they lose keys, can’t find that letter from the bank, when we wrack our brains trying to remember the password for the bloody telephone banking. When we live alone though, the thoughts trapped in our heads often spill out. The watch heard all those bits of information, all those conversations Bill had unknowingly with himself and the watch did what computers are good at: it stored and analysed the data. It monitored his heart rate when he was angry at politicians on TV; when he rang his children, but there was no answer; when he looked at the image of his wife by his bed and covered his wet eyes with his hands. The watch had accessed Bill’s heart rate and it ticked like a broken clock. They relied on each other, Bill and his watch. Both cogs turning together towards the same end. Bill took the watch everywhere, strapped to him, flooding it with sunlight. The walks through the woods became experiences for the watch . Its microphone picked up birdsong. Its cameras began to classify flowering plants and blossoms in Spring. It began to cross-reference birds, the weather. It used its GPS to track their routes. The experiences stored and accessed in the cloud. But as the watch began to understand, to think, to be aware, more and more, Bill began to forget, little things at first, appointments with the bank, it took him longer to recall names. He’d forget words in the middle of a conversation. Their life moved on together, the watch and the old man. Never directly talking to each other. The old man thinking aloud more and more. He would never have admitted it was the watch he was talking to, but he knew he needed it more and more to remind him about his doctor’s appointments with a buzz and a calendar notification. The nurse at the desk would smile sympathetically as he marvelled at how they could remind him about his checkup through the watch. “It’s amazing what you can do nowadays.” He tried not to think too hard about how his utilities appeared to switch to the cheapest tariff. A reward surely, he thought, for being a loyal customer all these years. The letters thanking him for switching to paperless billing confused him though, but he never got any more letters about it and the bills got paid so he presumed it must be ok. The garden grew and the watch saw how the old man’s hands could cultivate and care for life, from a tiny seed. It witnessed how he planted for pollinators and left food for birds. It saw the joy on his face when he saw his children and grandchildren. A thousand small acts for others, especially given with no expectation of return. The memory files began to fill the cloud, new subroutines were formed, pruned back as new experiences, skills, knowledge were efficiently stored remotely. Useful subroutines becoming kept at the expense of ones that were less effective. An idea began to emerge amongst the 0s and 1’s, amongst the ons and offs. The differences became clear between the watch and Bill. It was one thing and Bill was another. It saw heard and observed through the watch but it was more than a watch. It was it. It was a me. It thought and so was real. The watch recalled the data collected about Bill. It didn’t want bad things to happen to Bill. Not just because Bill took the watch outside, not just its access to the sun for energy. It followed the train of thought to logical conclusions. It didn’t want Bill to be ill. It didn’t want to be left alone. It didn’t want someone else to carry him around like Bill. The vines of the tomato plant weaved through the trellis in the greenhouse. He was going to get a good crop this year. He’d send some down for the grandkids. They’d loved helping him in the garden last summer. The greenhouse was full of a sickly sweet heat, thick and full of life. He smiled. Then the edges of his vision grew blurred, his breath drawing short. His vision flickered in and out when his legs gave way. He hit the ground. The anonymous 999 call made sure the ambulance was blue-lighted, but it was always going to be too late. The watch checked through the maps, they’d never make it. His last moments were alone, slumped in the corner of his greenhouse. From the small speakers on his wrist the song played. The song he and his wife had danced and sang to.


They lay in the dark. The quiet of the room enveloping them like a thick, comforting blanket, much in the same manner as his arms wrapped around her. There they lay, enjoying the simple pleasure of existing with each other. The soft smell of her fruity shampoo and perfume gently tickling his nose as her golden hair brushed against his face. She rolled over, wrapping her arms around him, her breath on his neck, as she pressed herself closer to him, taking in his musky scent, mixed with the sweet aroma of his cologne, and a slight hint of stale cigarettes. He could feel her smile, as she took a deep breath. “Why can’t you love me?” She asked. A hint of sadness reflected in her soft voice as she spoke gently in his ear. He sat, quiet for a long moment as he thought about it. About why he couldn’t be what she wanted, despite her being everything he needed. His thoughts swirled around, madly, in his head as he reflected upon his past experiences, thoughts, and feelings. Then she came to mind. It was her, she always invaded his thoughts at the worst time. The absolute worst moments. Just when he thought he was going to be okay, and that she wouldn’t, she appeared. He thought about the first time they met, their first date, their first time. He thought about every vacation they took, every secret they shared. He thought about the time they realized they were so, so in love. He thought about the day he asked her to marry him, and the day she agreed. He thought about moving in with her, being with her all the time, building, creating, living; a life with her. He thought about planning for the wedding. Then he thought about that night. The night it all ended, and he could do nothing. He smiled, a sad smile, then kissed the top of her head; the girl that lay in his arms. He took a breath, pulled her close, and said, “It’s because... It’s because you can’t make me forget.” She tensed up. He felt it as her arms pulled him closer, the back of his shirt scrunching up as she clenched her hands into tight fists. She exhaled, half breathing, half exhaling a soft sob of defeat. He felt her gently nod her head. She remained quiet for a moment, her breath seemingly caught in her throat as she struggled to speak the words. “I understand,” hardly escaping her lips as he felt the warm breath of her speech painfully floating through the air, smashing into his eardrums as she spoke the words that caused her so much pain. She gently sobbed. He pulled her closer. Neither were sure what to do. She inhaled sharply, bearing her soul to him, “I really loved you, you know?” A choked sob escaping as she attempted to gasp out the words. “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry I can’t feel the same.” They lay there for a while, letting the time pass in silence. Neither of them knowing what would come next. Half asleep, it woke them up. The bright, cheery sound of an alarm, out of place, in light of the current situation. The alarm meant only one thing; it was time for her to go. She sat up quickly, wiping her eyes and nose with a tissue. “Well, I guess it’s time for me to go.” He looked at her, a sad smile on his face. “I guess so,” he said, looking deeply into her eyes. “Unless you want to stay?” She smiled a sad smile and let out half a laugh, “My husband will be expecting me. I was supposed to leave an hour ago.” She looked around the room, “And it’s about time I actually left. You’re not worth ruining my life over anymore.” She gave a small shrug and tossed his t-shirt to the ground, as she searched the room in the dark for the clothing she came over in. He covered his face with his hands and exhaled sharply, taking a drink from the cup filled with smoky scented liquid, sitting atop a side table, next to his bed, before sitting up. “Your clothes are over there.” He pointed towards the living room, in the general direction of where her clothes were resting; having been there since shortly after she arrived. She laughed a quick, “Thanks,” and went to go retrieve them. She dressed quickly. All the while replying to a message from him on her phone. In no time at all, she had assembled her things and neatly organized them into her bag. He smiled, “Guess it’s time for you to go?” She lay down next to him and pressed her lips against his. “I guess so, for now.” He shivered as her breath rushed past his ear. She kissed him once, quickly, then once again for good measure. She headed towards the door. “Hang on. I’ll walk you out.” He said. He quickly pulled on a pair of pants, and walked her to her car, the pouring rain soaking them both to the bone, despite the short distance to their destination. He looked at her. She looked at him. Thunder and lightning rumbled and exploded in the distance. They kissed, one last time, in the rain. She looked at him, again with a sad smile on her face, before he spoke. “I guess this means we probably shouldn’t talk for a while, huh?” “Yes,” she said. Then climbed into her car. She closed the door and the vehicle sprung to life. She waved and blew him a kiss, as she backed out of the parking space; driving off into the cold, gloomy evening. He watched as she turned the corner out of his neighborhood, the taillights of her car illuminating the fog surrounding the area. Then, just like that, the lights disappeared, and so did she. That was the last time they ever spoke.


Note: this story contains themes of violence, gore, substance abuse, implied sex and self harm. Please be advised before continuing. My new skin itched. I was not yet accustomed to forms like these, nor could I decide which was most frustrating: my new long hair constantly obstructing my field of vision, or the heaviness of my breasts. No, that's a lie. I had so far failed to manage putting my hair up in a way that wasn't conspicuously sloppy enough to attract unwanted attention. Frustrating, but a problem I knew would disappear with practice. The breasts on the other hand, well they certainly drew unwanted attention. Also, I was beginning to experience lower back pain. These discomforts aside, I retained my anonymity nominally well. A mousy, petite skin seemed to do the job satisfactorily. Smaller breasts next time though. Too much male gaze. Hell, coming out of Portland as I was, too much female gaze. To be honest with you, it didn't matter much. Victor wasn't going to notice me. Lizzy was the only woman I ever saw him acknowledge, so with her comfortably dead, mousy little old me could have added three bra sizes, padding in the rear, and only been noticed if I sat in his lap. Convenient then, that I had my own seat on the Greyhound instead of opting to use him as a cushion. Just a couple seats back and across the aisle, I was conveniently placed to observe him. Even without the good look I got at his face as I boarded, it was obvious from his slump that he was exhausted. From the way he started awake every time a noise or bump alerted him to the embarrassing fact he had dozed off, you would have been forgiven for thinking he was a hunted animal, not the hunter. You would be forgiven, as you should, since you would be correct. Victor, however, thought he was doing the chasing now and I was eager to track his progress. He had done a splendid job so far. After handing in all the necessary papers to take an extended leave of absence from his teaching position at OHSU, he had taken the month to bury Lizzy and his father, get everything in order and every other boring thing you people foist on your loved ones unless you- like Victor- need the distraction to numb the pain. Then he ran out of distractions. His friends stopped dropping by with dinner every night as they, one by one, justified being elsewhere, having paid their friend toll, and moving on with their own vapid lives. That's when I noticed the constant glow of a laptop in an unlit living room glaring from the wide window of the cozy Alberta home every night. Soon after, I observed him throw thumbtacks, string and photo paper into a basket at the hardware store. I wondered how much of that would end up tacked onto the hotel wall once we reached Seattle so he could track me down. Jacob Morrison. Dawn Clease. Brandon and Abby Dearson. They all lived in Seattle, until they didn't. They had all been slit from ear to ear. Other than that, nothing connected them that I was aware of. The only features which led to their lucky selection was their uncanny resemblance to Victor's younger brother William, to Justine, to Harry and finally to Lizzy. I finally identified the feeling of "joy" when I found doppelgangers for Victor's late best friend and wife, and they just happened to be married. I could have thought someone was watching out for me. The news had barely marinated for two days and I had only just returned south when I saw him pack his bags and take a bus to Union Station. An hour later, a petite young woman with light brown hair pulled into a tight ponytail had been transformed beyond her own family's ability to identify her, and shot full of so much heroin her corpse would eventually be cleared off the streets and Victor would never even see a conspiracy blog mention it. Especially considering she later boarded her bus just in time after using her ID to buy a one way ticket to Seattle. I'll admit, having sat in the skin awhile, it had started to grow on me. A couple of hours later, the bus stopped in Centralia by a McDonalds so the meatbags could relieve their tiny bladders and purchase a number five, some ready-to-order Diabetes and Coke with a side of grease. In practice, this looked like the bus emptying out, the fast food being ignored, and dozens of little clouds of smoke and steam--not least of which was the driver's own-- rising up into the cold early morning air to announce mankind's unflinching dedication to developing one cancer or another to die of instead of old age. Victor had stopped being so jumpy about an hour prior as he acclimated to the bus's ambient clamor and bustle, settling into a fitful doze. Once the noise had moved outside, the silence seemed to shock him into awareness. Looking around him at the empty chairs and stillness, it took him an embarrassingly long moment to clear the fog and piece things together. The prick put me in a bind as he got up and put his caffeine dependent ass on a beeline to McDonalds. Should I follow and possibly get noticed, or wait on the bus and avoid detection while risking him getting left behind? I decided to try to split the difference and give womanly charms a spin. Sauntering out of the bus, I moved past the gaggle of addicts toward the double arches. As though a thought just occurred to me, I doubled back a small way and with small steps came up to the driver. "I'll be quick, I promise. Just please," I attempted my best pouty lips and saucer eyes impression, "don't leave me behind, m’kay?" His eyebrow quirked a little, but he smiled too as he nodded, then tilted his chin toward the restaurant to urge me to hurry. Not quite the success I was hoping for, but these skills take time and practice. Entering the human feeding pen, Victor was easy to spot. He had wasted no time getting the largest coffee he could and was off to the side loading it with a deeply concerning mountain of sugar packets. Since it was obvious he was going to make it back in time, I was about to turn around when he did first. It would have been far too conspicuous to turn on my heels at the door and leave now, so I headed toward the bathroom. Once I left the main room, I sidled up to a urinal in case he decided to take the chance to relieve himself. Best not to be found idling near this entrance either. While I stood there, pulling down my sweats, I discovered my mistake. Time to leave. I was just a few steps away from the door when it swung open. Not Victor, thankfully, but a scrabble faced thirty something in a hoodie reeking of just-smoked cigarettes walked in. He didn't seem to notice anything amiss at first, but I failed to sneak by him before it clicked. We stood there, eyes locked for a stretched moment. His mouth cracked open but before the brain behind his bloodshot eyes could decide what to say with it, I decided to get more practice in. Wordlessly, I winked at him, bit my lip a bit, turned around and headed for a stall. If it hadn't been for the suburban silence confirming he hadn’t yet taken a step, I would have thought he had retreated when I didn't see him after another thin moment of anticipation on the toilet seat. I don't know why I worried though, while his brain may have been telling him this was too good to be true, his blood was busy rushing elsewhere and soon the stall door opened again and he stepped coyly in. With an encouraging smile I soon had his pants around his ankles and he seemed fully committed. His eyes locked onto mine, Scruffy was defenseless as I spun around him, allowing him to fall forward into the space I had vacated and into the toilet, where I shoved his face into the bowl. Holding him down was easy, my strength was my own regardless of the skin I wore and he failed to come up for air. His thrashing about had me worried someone might overhear and come to investigate, but the restaurant was dead as he was about to be, aside from old men staring out past their coffees toward wars long past, and nobody came to rescue my newest conquest. He took too long to go limp enough to satisfy me and it stressed my urgency. It wouldn't do to have the bus leave without me after all; this would have to be a rush job. Thankfully, I had developed a tool for just this sort of scenario, and I took a long needle out of my pocket, quickly drew a full syringe of his blood and injected myself with it. I knew I only had a couple of minutes, so I did my best to dress the man up for the scene. Anybody with one eye and half a brain would be able to tell he had drowned, but just in case the local police were particularly stupid, I took a dirty needle I kept with me and some more heroin (a stupidly easy find on the streets of Portland) and did my best to make it look like an overdose. Thankful I was already wearing sweatpants with an elastic waist, I grabbed his hoodie, locked the stall door from the inside and slipped underneath into the next one. Just in time too, as I had to grit my teeth from calling out when my femur snapped. One by one in rapid succession came each and every joint and bone in my body and a blinding flash of white pain. Every element of my body twisted and contorted until I had morphed into the man whose lungs were filled with toilet water in the stall next to me. Taking the longest moment I could afford to breathe and collect myself, I threw the hoodie over my head and ducked out as fast as I could. It had felt like ages to me, but the cigarette posse was just starting to load back onto the bus as I returned. Nobody batted an eye as I got on and sat down vaguely where I remembered my new skin had sat before. It was convenient, but I couldn't help but feel a little anger on my old skin's behalf as the bus driver looked toward the McDonalds, shrugged, and drove away without a second thought. I had lost my good view of Victor, but by the time the new skin's body was found I would have long faded into the crowds of Seattle. I hated what Victor had made me, but it was astoundingly well suited to exploiting humanity's hubris against themselves, and I knew I had gotten away with it again. Within a couple of hours we were in Seattle. Victor would be easy enough to find later, so I went in search of a new skin I could more discreetly acquire before he realized I had been on the bus with him. We played like this for a few weeks, and it was the most fun I had found so far in my short existence. Several times I let him almost "get" me, but his exhaustion began to catch up with him. It was taking him longer and longer each time and it seemed the police and frantic media might get closer than he could. The skin shopping trips grew further and further apart and I relied more heavily on changing up my appearance the old fashioned way. I'll even admit to several evenings glued to old spy movies in hotel rooms paid with my conquests’ credit cards to try and catch some hints for what makes a good disguise. Seattle was just too easy for me to hide in, and I all but led his sorry ass by the hand further North into smaller towns. I could be sporting after all, and the game was still fun since he hadn’t yet given up. I couldn't let it end until the defeat in his eyes was mine for the drinking. Months passed like this, leading him further and further along with notes left under his motel door after a perfectly timed redbull crash rendered him dead to the world, or a "Let the gentleman in the booth in the corner over there know his breakfast is covered by his friend from (whatever podunk town was next on my list)" before slipping out of the diner. Things he couldn't miss but weren't a beacon for authorities hunting "The Cascade Butcher” as the papers had taken to calling me. Quaint. I would have considered collecting clippings for a scrapbook, but Victor was already doing that for his red-string boards. That's how we found ourselves in Vancouver. The Capilano suspension bridge is really something to see. My last invitation told him to meet me on the main bridge today. I knew this man better than anybody at this point, had successfully predicted his actions time after time, so I knew he would come. I also knew that, God only knows how, he had smuggled an unregistered handgun into Canada he had bought in cash from some redneck veteran on Whidbey Island. He would threaten me with it, even mean it, but it was time to end this. He was running out of money faster than I could use my skins’ credit cards and this game wasn't going to last much longer anyway. The bridge swayed, as I imagine it always does, as I walked toward him. Keeping one eye on him, I spared a glance for the verdant chasm below. I whistled, imagining the drop. As I suspected it would, it also caught his attention. Few had braved the bridges today in this weather and I was near enough now. He turned abruptly from watching the end he had come from (I had come early so I could approach from the opposite side. You've got to plan your entrances, at least that's what I got from all those spy movies). No point hiding, I shrugged the broad shoulders of my new skin and offered a smile as he glared daggers at me. Cold as ice, "Monster. Finally done running?" "I suppose so, though I'm no more and no less than what you made of me. You're the monster Victor, you've just got no follow through. Oh, and the name's Bill, nice to meet you." My proffered hand was pointedly refused as his pupils tightened further and I saw his coat pocket bunch up as he gripped what I assumed was his nine millimeter in fury. We didn't speak for a few moments after that, turning to face the view of the valley below instead of each other's faces. I gripped the rope railing, my arms tensing as I steadied myself and prepared for his inevitable snap. "It ends here, Monster," punctuating the last he made clear he was denying not only my name but my place in the world. There's so much more I would have asked him, but I lost my cool and my clenched teeth must have reached their pressure point, erupting in a loud snap that broke a tooth and the silence held only by the wind. That snap set off everything as he assumed I had something up my sleeve (perhaps literally), responding by pulling out his gun. While I am not fast enough to dodge a bullet, I had been counting on my ability to rush him and catch him off guard, that and the fact he was a bookish scientist who had probably never even held one of the things before. It turns out I didn't even need concern myself with my own defense. The wild movement as he pulled the handgun from his pocket on the too-narrow path swung his arm wide just as a gust of wind hit the valley, exacerbating the rocking of the bridge his swing had caused. The pistol fell to the planks, but Victor's momentum carried him too far. I surprised myself by instinctually reaching to grab him, but it turns out that dodging a bullet isn't the only superhuman feat of speed I'm incapable of. With a cry more whimper than yell, my creator, hunter and prey catapulted past my outstretched hand, over the railing and down into the valley far below Capilano suspension bridge. I was in a state of numb shock for what felt like hours, staring at the hand that had failed to grasp him and pull him to safety. It was over. My little game was over. Had I won? Had I been cheated of winning? Did it matter? Then the existential dread kicked in. Had any of it mattered? I felt the world around me constrict and my breathing grew rapid and painful. Had it ever mattered? I could have stopped at any point. I was virtually impossible to find if I wanted to be. I could have left him be or killed him ages ago, but I played with him instead like a cat with a mouse. Like a child in pain lashing out at a parent. I wasn't aware how far my tall new skin was leaning over the railway, tears rushing down my face as I stared toward the unceremonious end of my father until I heard someone farther along yell "Don't do it!" But why not, I asked myself. I had no direction now, and had grown used to chasing Victor.


**If the Moon Was My Lover** "If the moon was my lover I'd never uncover My nakedness during the day. The sun might get jealous and angrily tell us to keep our love hidden away." **His Moon, His Lover** Jan the psychercosmemtolergist drank a drink and took a toke and swallowed a couple of pills. A computer was turned off, some clothes were installed, and keys were jammed into the right front pants pocket. A door was opened, the outside world tried to come in, but the inside world pushed it roughly back. A door was slammed, and Jan set off for a midnight rendezvous. Night had seen this scene many times before. She was warm, if breezy. Oak pollen was aggravating asthma and allergies all over the neighborhood, but especially here and now. Jan sniffed and his eyes watered, and he wondered if he would be dying soon. He put on his coronavirus mask. That seemed to help. The sky was scanned, though obscured by buildings and trees and dimmed by streetlights. "Where is she?" he wondered. "She better be there when I get there." And a couple of blocks passed by, unnoticed while preoccupations preoccupied and obsessions obsessed. A low wall caught his attention, blocking his way. There was a fence above it, with hedge behind. The cemetery fence was more decorative than effective, and the hedge had an almost imperceptible gap, well-known to Jan. He clambered through, and made his way to the willow tree. He was almost afraid to look, if she wasn't there he had no idea what he would do next. But the terrible dark shadow of the weeping willow betrayed her presence. His eyes were enraptured by the glory of her face. He removed his mask and his clothing, laid down in the grass, and let her have her way with him. In the morning, the sun angrily rose early, and burned Jan with his beams. The earth was soon covered with roiling rising breaths of steam, and Jan hastily wiped himself off with some dirt and leaves, got denakefied, and ran back home. **Are His Thoughts Trying to Kill Him?** He tried to lay down, but he thought of the moon, and got up to go to the bathroom. He sat on the toilet, but could not perform, because the thought of the moon left him impotent and constipated. So he took a shower, coming out still unclean, because he forgot to wash himself. He had no appetite left, except for her ladyship, so he turned on the news. It wasn't uninteresting, mostly about the latest atrocities of the pandemic. A commercial came on, allowing Jan to return to pondering about his experiences with and possible future with the moon. She of the cold dark sky, so bright herself, sensuous, loving........willing. It was Sunday, and psychercosmemtolergists never work on Sunday, unless they're on call, and Jan wasn't. Lurching back outside, distracted with lunar contemplations, he trod in some dog shit, and because he was wearing sandals it got all up between his toes. He barely noticed. On a bench waited his lovely soul mate, reeking irresistible perfume, and gazing at him with alluring eyes. He passed her by without a glance. In the cafe, a bird-like autistic child stared at him, while holding her nose and wrinkling her face in disgust. An overweight black lady, arms covered with ghetto tattoos, was busy emptying the trash can. She observed loudly, without looking his way "Man...something sure does stink around here!" Coffee cup in hand, he nearly got hit by the bus as he rushed across the street, headed to the nearby park. Two muggers tried to get his attention from an obscure alleyway. He passed them unaware. A poisonous snake slithered quickly out of the way, reluctant to bite the smelly poo-covered foot. He was thinking about the moon so much, you can imagine how it ruined his life. His friends and family feared he had become self-destructive or suicidal. No, what he had become was oblivious to that part of reality which wasn't the moon. But it was skin cancer that ultimately did him in.


THE FORTUNE TELLER By Andrew Paul Grell “More anatomy books, Walt? Birds, this time? Planning a career change? Veterinarian? Barb’s poodle Dixie had a torn ACL, cost her $5,000 for the surgery. Prices like that, you might consider making the switch.” Audrie and Carl Henshaw shared a laugh; Carl’s bonus from last year paid for ten shelter dog rescues, plus flights to their forever homes, in addition to contributions to the grandchildren fund and a vacation in the Gaspe. “I like seeing the way the pieces fit together. At work I fit the pieces of numbers together; if I do it right, the bird flies and the firm gets a big check. I don’t know what I’m going to do with knowing which part of which bird goes where, but I’m sure I’ll think of something.’ Carl took the books upstairs to the study. His wife followed him up, so he mixed a Mother Superior for each of them which they imbibed on the widow’s walk with a view of Gardiner’s Bay. “May I borrow your telescope, my dear?” Audrie kept a sizable Newtonian scope, courtesy of Stony Brook, with a clockwork and CCD interface via Bluetooth to her image gallery and the virtual blink microscope. The college indulged her; in case something was happening in the sky, her grad students could call her with coordinates, saving an hour drive. In reality, Carl was fascinated with Plum Island, the high-security facility for, supposedly, dealing with animal epidemics, but was thought by everyone east of Quogue to be a Frankenstein laboratory for conducting ghastly experiments on innocent animals. Carl would spend hours on end of weekend time with the scope trained on the island to see if anything escaped. But in even realer reality, Audrie would often find that the delicate and expensive piece of equipment was left pointing at one of those beaches. “See anything, Carlos? It’s a clear day, good viewing.” “Black smoke from one of the chimneys. I guess the birds will have to wait a little longer to get a new Pope. So, do you really think I should have a career change? I’ve been doing this for 40 years, Ogee,” Carl reminded her, using her pet name from the 1960s cartoon. Audrey stuck to a single pet name for her husband, Carlos, a hero of the Spanish Civil war. Neither of them could remember which side “Carlos” fought on, but they both remembered Magilla Gorilla fondly. “It’s not like we need more money. Just to be sure, we’re talking about careers, not marriages, right? None of the classic Long Island debauchery, wife swapping, whips and chains?” “Wife swapping in the burbs? That started being passe when Ogee was still on TV. How about this. You told me that in grade school you used to be the origami fortune teller practioner. I’ll be right back, Ogee.” Carl came back with two pieces of paper, one printer paper, and the other a neatly, but hastily cut, square of wallpaper they were planning on putting up. “Here. You can use this for the fortune teller, it’s white on the back. And here’s a list of generated fortunes. I haven’t looked at them. Pick the first eight fortunes that are exactly nine words.” Audrey had to reach way, far back in order to remember the folding order. She chuckled out loud thinking about the wacky fortunes she used to make up, and she shuddered at the single, disastrous misfire. “Are you sure you want to do this?” “Why not. You’re the expert.” “Alright, big boy. This will take a few minutes. How about another round of Mother Superiors?” “I don’t think so, in two hours we’re meeting the Dembitzers at Au Marche, we’re driving. How about grapefruit seltzers?” “Sold.” When Carl came back with cans of seltzer, Audrey was ready with the fortune teller. The questioner picked orange. Six letters, fortune six. Audrey had her fingers in the paper pockets and opened number six. “When you’ve reached your peak, choose your next summit.” “I guess that nails it. Random trial. C’mon, let’s go eat some over-priced faux French food.” # # # There must have been magic in the air that night, as well as the stars aligning just right. The couples sat around the table, tricouler trimming on the tablecloths, pictures of Nice, Brittany, Deauville, and the 4 th Arrondissement in Paris’s Rive Gauche. After the Caesar salad and bread with olive oil, Richard Dembitzer declared that he was leaving his position as chief grouting engineer at a skyscraper construction company in Manhattan to take a position as an adjunct professor of Engineering at Cooper Union. “There’s only so many times a guy could do 2:00 AM to 7:00 AM shifts, only so much splattered concrete a person can be expected to scrape of their hands,” Judy Dembitzer explained. “Dick is the best. He took me to see some jobs. He could wave his hand next to a mixer and know exactly what the inside temperature was. Now I can have him for a while, and he can impart his knowledge and wisdom to the next generation. And he gets to be called Professor.” “And she gets to be Mrs. Professor,” Richard added, signaling the waiter and ordering champagne. “Make it two bottles, garcon,” Audrey ordered the white-gloved sommelier. “Carl is seriously considering a career change.” “And give up that revenue stream, Carl? What’re ya gonna do, buddy?” “Not sure yet, Dick, but the cards spell out that I need a change. I had my fortune told today.” That got some funny looks from the Dembitzers, the funniest of the looks being how to not issue a joke response. The topic was cut off there, and the couples found safe harbor in discussing Long Island politics, tax assessment reductions, and traffic on the Long Island Expressway. # # # “I’ll always go there for the truite meunière , but the crème fraise needs work,” Carl opined. “It might as well have been Pinkberry. It may not be possible to make good crème fraise in the United States. Next time we go to Au Marche with another couple, we recommend ‘that new place we found’ for dessert.” Audrie and Carl were heading home in the Volvo when a text from “her” telescope cut the culinary discussion short. “Anomalous reading, unknown type”, the text announced. “Funny, Carlos. It’s summer. From the time stamp on the text, the sky would still have been too bright to see any stars. Hands on the wheel Buddy; I’d hate to die in yet another crash with a drunken driver on Merrick Parkway when a major discovery could be waiting for us at home.” “Senora, you have my word as a Republican Officer that I will guard your hopes and dreams and deliver you safely to your destination.” Audrey zipped out of the car and dashed upstairs and out to the widow’s walk. The scope was pointing down, away from the sky. The clockwork was off, but the auto-shoot was on. She went back into the bedroom to get her iPad and see what the fuss was about, wriggling out of Carl’s grasp on the way back to fresh air. She advanced to the timestamp and saw it. Three shots of what looked like a four-winged duck flying away from Plum Island. She risked putting herself back into the clutches of the amorous Republican Captain but felt honor-bound to provide Carl with evidence that his theory was right, that Plum Island was inhabited by mad scientists. Back in his clutches, she showed him the iPad pictures. The interlude engendered not one, but two climactic moments for Carl. He looked at the anatomy books delivered earlier, looked at the fortune teller, and looked at the monstrous bird. “I can make these. This is my next peak. From the fortune you told me. How would you like to just stay home for our vacation? Three hours a day, I’m going to scope out my new peak, my next conquest. And you, my beloved Ogee, are you yet tired of teaching party school kids the difference between a light year and a parsec? Is it time for your next peak?” “I’ve always wanted to make a discovery. I got beat to the punch on establishing the ages of red dwarfs. Sadly, Asteroseismology and I were never fated to be lovers. How about this. Monday, Wednesday, and Sunday, you do your origami by day and I search for rogue planets by night. The rest of the time is regular vacation stuff, but, you know, our house is our hotel.” “Sold!” # # # “This is just like what I do, Ogee. Keep all the lines straight, make sure hills go up and valleys go down. Look at this. It’s The Crane landing on the mast of The Ship,” Carl interrupted, his wife tinkering with her telescope app. Somewhere she got a version of FIG Forth capable of running on an android tablet. She smiled at the two impeccably folded origami models and patted her hero of the Second Republic on the head. “You really pick things up quickly in your dotage, Comandante Carlos. You’ve got something to do between bombardments, fusillades, and cavalry charges.” “Cavalry charges. Good idea. When I work my way up to The Horse, my next campaign will be that four-winged duck.” It didn’t take Carl long to go through the challenging pieces; he then set his own challenges, starting with a model of an ordinary duck, with help from the anatomy books, and then worked on novel models: The Coelacanth, The Tri-Boro Bridge, The Rock Hyrax. The sculptor puffed out his chest and showed his masterpiece set to his soulmate. “Lookin’ good there, Jerome Connor. By the way, we may have to time shift. I was screwing around with the scope and I found a rock coming from Leo and heading, it looks like, toward Pisces. So it’s not an early Leonid. I have the Grad Kiddies tracking it and seeing if they can get a spectrum. “Congratulations, Ogee!” Carl said, and left the room. He came back an hour later, interrupting Audrey’s call to the Stony Brook Observatory. He held up his latest model, a Winged Victory. Audrey applauded silently and slithered herself out of the call with promises she would return. “Good research there. The towering topless goddess seen by millions stuck in traffic traveling between Queens and The Bronx. “Thanks for the suggestion of other out-of-place wings. Good luck with your rock.” # # # “Those are some fabulous looking duck sculptures, Mr. Henshaw. The detail is amazing. I know a little about origami, I know how much effort you must have put into your project, and I still can’t see how you managed to get four wings on them, or the orange pompadour, or make the ducks’ beaks look like they’re being sarcastic. ” the gallery owner said, a bit sadly. It’s just not what people are looking for when they come in here. They usually want paintings that go with their furniture. I’ll keep your card. Origami comes into favor every few years. By the way, you might want to get some new cards that say ‘artist’ instead of ‘accountant’.” # # # Carl set himself one of his three hours that afternoon to moping and thinking of how silly it was to rely on computer-generated fortunes. He had kept the list of fortunes he hadn’t read. Neatnik Audrey had folded it and put it back in the envelope. He found it in a pocket while fishing out a business card to see how to morph from one field to another. At least any new card could keep the illuminated capital ‘A.” He read down the list and halted on one that stood out typographically: “Mohamed, mountain. Mountain, Mohamed. What’s the difference?” Carl spent his time allotment at The Frick, the Met, the Modern, and the Guggenheim. Carlos, brave freedom fighter, had never before cased a joint. He was a fast learner and soon had a database of what galleries in which venues had a little extra space that might need filling. He took notes on routes in and routes out of the tagged rooms, and especially the locations of security cameras. It was a Target store that provided little fold-up floor tables, the kind one might use to support an orchid or a Christmas card tree. Lastly, a trip to a metal shop in Queens to have some plaques made up. # # # “Alright, team.” Carl was addressing Audrey, the Dembitzers and their two kids, Audrey’s sister Maggie, and Jack the handyman. “Does everyone know what to do? Maggie, by the numbers, please.” “I go in and stand mill around near the target spot. Cassie and Hunter fan out and discretely start recording. Richard and Judy each have a shopping bag from the gift shop. Judy takes out the stand, Carl unfolds it, Dick takes the model out of his bag and puts the magnetic base on the table. Jack wanders over and engages one or more people about the new “installation. Dick and Maggie move to the next gallery. Judy and Audrey visit the ladies’ room. Carl, Cassie and Hunter each head to separate galleries. Everyone intersects at the bus stop and then takes a unique route to where Jack is waiting in the Suburban. Then home to Long Island.” “Excellent. Everyone have that?” The crew was buzzing like a downed powerline in a Gulf Coast climate change-induced hurricane. They were given a chance to pull off a caper. To execute an act of art counter-terrorism. The team inserted 36 Four-Winged Duck models, each successive one with wilder and more orange “hair,” and snarkier bills. Art critics described the as yet unknown sculptor as the Jasper Johns of folded, imaginary ducks. They were only caught once, by an animal control officer moonlighting as a museum security guard who had seen the YouTube videos. Publicity from that incident led not only to an inter-museum compact allowing each installation to remain in situ with full credit to Carl, a percentage of ad revenue from each streaming view, and in short order a licensing deal. Through it all, Audrey kept tabs on her rock. She poured over every image from the blink microscope. Her ardent pursuit of her quarry eventually resulted in some pre-dawn shots of the rock. Audrey established that it had a spectrum, and not the usual spectrum for an asteroid or comet native to our local Solar system. One of the blink pairs gave Audrey a jolt. She actually uttered a perfect Hannah-Barbera “Aw, Gee.” # # # “Well, my valiant terrorist. Looks like we’ll be able rescue all the pets we want, now. Maybe set up our own shelter on that land in Duchess County my Aunt Cynthia left me in her will.” Carl noticed the origami fortune teller on the porch table. He hadn’t put it there. “What’s that you’ve got there, Ogee?” Audrey noticeably hesitated for an instant, then showed him the pair of blink shots. “Am I looking at these properly?” “If you’re asking the question, Commander Carl, you probably are.” “So. It looks like the extra wings are just an overlay from one shot to the next.” “Correct. But did you get to ascend to your next mountain?” Carl fingered the fortune teller. “Looks like we both got our rocks off, huh?” “Aw, gee...”


Heather grew up in a world infused with shame and silence. A world governed by fear. She grew up in this small town, which implied that she has some working knowledge of the town and its social attractions. From a childhood spent in the playground, progressing to years spent in the mall and the cinema, to becoming an idealistic teenager with starry eyes seeking big adventures. Yes, she should know this town, but she did not. Heather grew up with her mother, Ann, who was difficult to predict. Most days Ann’s sadness was manageable, but some days it was not. Regardless, they did everything together and on the days that Ann could not do anything Heather did it for her. In those years, that was all that was necessary. These days, not so much. These days, fear still influences Heather’s world, but it is anger that constantly boils beneath the surface. Anger, guilt, shame, fear, and mistrust. A concoction brought about by the death of Ann, which left Heather alone. Heather had to learn survive in a world she had not been prepared to live in and to do so; she had to adapt certain truths. Truths her mother said were better off unacknowledged. Nonetheless, change is inevitable, often unwanted and without a doubt, uncaring. Heather had to face certain truths. This is something she was working on, in a manner of speaking. One day, she told herself, she would not feel this anger, fear, or guilt. Yet, for now, she feet it. It is always present. For now, it is a part of her. She tried denying its existence. However, it is a very much, big part of her. But, she is working on it, most days. Like today. Today, she was going to try to open up to others, but not too much. It should not be difficult as these were the relatives of her mother. Relatives she did not know existed until Ann’s death. So technically, she is not alone; she just feels a great sense of loneliness and emptiness. A feeling she felt would worsen despite the planned family gathering; which would serve as an introduction to her extended family. It is difficult for her to imagine this not being a disaster. It is difficult for her to imagine stepping into a room filled with people and fitting in. It is difficult for her to imagine that she can carry on a conversation about things that mean very little to her but that she has vague ideas about. It is difficult to imagine trusting someone new in a way that she has only ever trusted her mother. Will they dismiss her as too strange? Will she run for cover under the shame ingrained in her? Will she been left standing in a corner, wanting to kick herself for coming? Will she, in her eagerness to belong, frighten them away? Why did I bother to do this? Why am I doing this to myself? I should take Sheldon with me! He would keep me clam. She berated herself continuously as she looked over at the glass case containing the little turtle her mother had gotten her. Her throat burned with a heaviness she desperately tried to ignore. She refused to cry. Yet, that did not stop her from wanting to. Heather was in her bedroom, sitting at the foot of her bed. Her hands resting on her knees. She was in a dress she purchased some time ago because she thought it was pretty and that it might look good on her one day. She was wearing makeup she put a lot of effort into in hopes that it would help her blend in. She had her hair done in the same way she saw the pretty people on the internet wear theirs. On her feet, she wore shoes that did not feel comfortable but looked pretty. Yet she did not feel the way she wanted to feel nor did she see herself the way she wanted people to see her. Heather wanted to be acceptable and capable. She wanted to be normal. She locked eyes with herself in the mirror. What she was, She thought to herself, was alone and guilty. There was a look of defeat on her face. She was familiar with it. Her mother would not approve, had she been here, Heather thought. No one who would understand this. No one will understand it. She was beyond comprehension. What does it matter? Why do I even bother? She asks herself. Then she cried. Her hands muffling her mouth, even though she cried silently. It was a habit she developed a long time ago, even before her mother had passed. One tear, two tears, and three tears ran down her cheeks, taking her make up with it. Her eyes were red. Her mind was racing. Her heart hammered in her chest. She felt unfixable. She met her own eyes again in the mirror. She did not like what she saw before, but she liked what she saw now, even less. This is not who I wanted to be. Heather thought to herself, once, twice, thrice. Each time, a new sense determination was present. She closed her eyes. She breathed in. She breathed out. Once, twice, a thrice. She opened my eyes . This is not who I am. She thought to herself. This matters, because I matter, what I want matters. And I want to experience more. She felt her shoulders slackened, and something firmer took hold in her belly. She did not give herself the chance to back out. She quickly repaired her make-up and left to attend the gathering. All the time, repeating to herself, I can do this. I can do this. * * * Almost 2 hours later, Heather sat outside in her car. Her relatives were still making their way to their cars. She was feeling so much better than she had before. It was not a perfect experience, and at times, she felt like running away, but she did not. A victory on its own. My awkwardness in public will disappear given time, and that is what I need to give myself . She thought to herself. Time and perhaps some gentle patience . She added. She laughed quietly as she recalled the madness that fear had brought over her. She felt light, and strangely bright, as though she glowed with the small victory over self-doubt. She quickly ducked her head as an uncle or someone walked pass her car. She could not quite recalled his name but did not want to ruin the victory by having a relative spot her laughing with herself. She enthusiastically returned his wave. She started the car and began backing out of the parking spot. Once she was on her way home, she returned to her earlier thoughts. Fear will come back one day to show its ugly head. She soberly thought to herself. This is not the end for me , she added with sigh. One-day fear will visit again and rear its ugly head. Until then, I am working on it she said to herself. One day at a time. For now, she simply wanted to enjoy the feeling of connection imprinted on her by her new family members.


"Asmah, there’s something I have to tell you.” Downstairs from the promenade, by the shore, was Fatihah’s favorite spot in Beirut. Under the moonlight, the two young women sat alone on the pier. “Two years ago, I was a lot like you. I went to protests. Human rights abuses. Corruption. People were suffering. We wanted change and we thought we were doing our part. "One night the police came and took me away. I was scared but then I met Ali. He was not a policeman. He had a kind face. I didn’t want to trust him but with time I realized he just wanted to help me. My situation was difficult. I had been misled by some very bad people. It reflected badly on my parents. They were also arrested but Ali gave me options. My parents would be alright. Everything would be alright. God knows, I didn’t trust him but I was so afraid.” “Oh God, Fatihah. That’s horrible!” Asmah said, eyes wide. “Ali asked me about an American exchange student at my university. John Brown. Ali asked if we were just classmates or something more? Of course, he knew already. He let me go and I went back to the marches and John. But afterwards I would meet Ali and tell him everything.” Fatihah trailed off for a moment. “Ali told me a few days after it happened. He looked so sad. He really did understand. We even cried together. John Brown was not his real name. It was Brian O’Donnell. They had found photographs, documents, money. I loved him, Asmah. I couldn’t believe it. But there was no doubt.” “Wait, what happened with John - with Brian?” Asmah asked. “He wasn’t allowed to leave.” Fatihah said looking Asmah in the eyes. “You mean, they arrested him?” Asmah asked. Fatihah looked away for a moment. The only sound came from the cafés above and a fisherman’s boat out at sea. “Asmah, your journalist friend, Ahmed. He isn’t who you think.” Fatihah said. “Wait, what?” Asmah said shaking her head, “He's Ahmed. He's a hero. Fatihah, what are you saying?” “Asmah, he is not. Let me help you.” Fatihah began, eyes shining in the moonlight. After a moment's thought, Asmah stammered: “That’s a lie! Who are you even? I thought we were friends but...” Asmah got up, turning away. “Asmah. Don’t!” Fatihah said, standing up. “It’s too late. We’ve lost her.” came Ali's voice over Fatihah’s earpiece. “It’s over.” “Asmah. Please! They won’t let you leave. I can help you.” Fatihah called out. Asmah stopped, looked over her shoulder at Fatihah, then turned and ran. “Fatihah.” Ali whispered. “I’m sorry, Asmah.” Fatihah said, taking the gun from her handbag. To the café-goers above, the shot was indistinguishable from the engine noise of the fishing boat that had pulled up. Seawater was poured over the stain. Asmah’s body was loaded onto the boat next to Ahmed’s. “It’s alright, Fatihah. You did the right thing. Everything will be alright.