The halfway point is where she found her brother in the ditch all those years ago, his body twisted, his chest caved in where the truck had hit him. Only half of him was mangled, but it was the wrong half, so their mother kept the casket closed anyway. When she turns here for the jog home, she doesn’t stop moving, but she can’t resist a moment to stare. Some mornings she shifts her weight back and forth from one leg to the other. Other days she stretches, standing on one foot then the other, bending the free leg at the knee and holding it behind her by the ankle. She might even run in place a few seconds, but she never lets herself go still. When she looks at the leaves gathered there this morning, at the frost weighing them down, she imagines his cheek pressed against them: his warm flesh driving out the cold, bequeathing what life he had left to something that was already dead. Her mother called her morbid for thinking such things, but her mother had never had to see them. It had been Lauren who found Sammy there by the side of the road; Mom hadn’t looked upon the corpse until the moment at the funeral home when there were decisions to be made. And at that point, after not much more than a fleeting glance, she had left the room and left the rest to her daughter. Lauren turns and starts back toward home. All her life she has lived this town, minus the few years she spent tending to a marriage that never took root, and so the glistening pond nestled amongst the trees to her left is no balm for frayed nerves. The pasture to her right and the cattle grazing there, they are no reminder of a simpler age. And the horse paddocks, where she once watched her friends drive those animals over hurdle after hurdle, they offer no inspiration. She can’t remember what they looked like when they leapt, can’t imagine the wind in their manes and the look in their eyes as they dared to fly; all she can see now are the fences that keep them where they are, forever keep them where they are. “If you hate it so much,” Mom keeps telling her, “then why don’t you leave?” Lauren raises her wrist toward her face and the screen on her watch lights up to tell her how hard her heart is beating. She knows, of course--she can feel it--but she doesn’t trust herself. She knows she’s not as impartial as the sensor pressed against her skin. As she crests the last of the modest hills on her route, the house looms large before her. Mom is on the porch in her rocking chair, an afghan laid across her lap, looking ten years older than she is. Ten years at least. When she reaches the front steps, she holds onto the handrail and doubles over. Checking her watch, she realizes she’s attacked the second half of her run with a bit too much vigor and perhaps too much vim; she made great time, but she wasn’t ready. Tomorrow, she realizes, sucking air through her nose and nearly choking on it, she may need to take the day off. On the porch, Mom scoffs, mumbling something about the path out back, the bike trail the town has paved atop its old train tracks. “Too flat,” she tells her mother, still panting, though strong enough to stand upright now. “Not enough of a challenge.” Mom shakes her head as Lauren mounts the steps. “Breathing is a challenge,” she says. “That’s not enough for you?” Mom sits outside while Lauren is making breakfast, and though Lauren can see her shuddering harder every time she takes a peek through the kitchen window, though she wanted to tell her mother “You’ll catch your death of cold” when the old woman insisted staying out for a few minutes more, she doesn’t say anything. Lauren knows well enough to pick her battles. At the kitchen table, over eggs and Canadian bacon, Mom wonders about pancakes. “Did I never teach you how to make them?” she asks. “Reunion’s on Saturday night,” Lauren tells her. “I need to fit into my dress.” “Fit schmit,” says Mom. “You could wear a potato sack and you’d still be the one to go home with.” “Mom,” says Lauren, rolling her eyes. “It’s been twenty years. Most of the people there went home with someone ages ago. And certainly those worth--” “Picky,” says Mom, cutting her off. “Always picky.” “Not always,” says Lauren, rubbing her thumb along the underside of her ring finger, an old habit that’s dying hard. The truck hit Sammy the day before Lauren’s prom. There’d been a small fire at the school, the pungent stink of rubber filling the halls, and everyone was dismissed. Sammy caught a ride to a buddy’s house for a few hands of Magic cards, but a few hands turned into staying for dinner and an angry phone call from Mom and the decision that Sammy, the “most inconsiderate son in the world,” would walk home when he was done. Lauren was sitting in her room that night when her mother knocked on her door. She was in her underwear, at the foot of her bed, staring at the dress hanging in her closet, at the zipper in particular. When her mother knocked a second time, Lauren had to brush a tear away before she could manage the words “Come in.” Mom opened the door and had begun to speak before she noticed the state of Lauren. She averted her eyes and said, “You could’ve taken a moment to get dressed.” “It sounded urgent,” said Lauren, looking down now at her stomach, at her thighs, searching for something to blame. “Your brother’s not home yet,” said Mom. “You did yell wicked loud,” said Lauren, standing up and crossing to her dresser, knowing already what was going to be asked of her. “Could you go out and see if you can track him down?” Lauren pulled open her drawer of t-shirts. “Where was he at?” “Kevin’s,” said Mom. “Just down 27.” “Okay,” said Lauren, pulling on the baggy Incesticide shirt her boyfriend had left the last time he’d snuck in. “It’s just that I don’t think he’d take a ride from me right now.” “I’ll find him,” said Lauren, stepping into a pair of sweats. And find him she did. She found him then like she finds the dress now: in the dark, forgotten and cast aside. She pulls the dress from the back of the closet and into the light, surprised she remembered to put it back in its bag way back when. The funeral was one day, graduation the next, and her break-up the day after that. The guy said he understood why she’d bailed on prom, and maybe he did, but he said it with a hunger in his eyes. A hunger to heal her maybe, but a hunger nevertheless, and she couldn’t stand to be looked at like that. She couldn’t stand to think of her pain as something to be devoured, to imagine him chewing away at her anguish until he found something worth saving at the center. Mom is knocking again. Lauren invites her in. Mom asks: “You’re going to wear that?” “I thought it would be funny,” says Lauren. “You’re trying to be funny?” says Mom, shaking her head. “I thought you were trying to get laid.” “Mom!” Mom shudders for a moment, and Lauren extends a hand to steady her, but she just shoos Lauren off. She grabs hold of the door knob and closes her eyes until she is still. “Mom?” The old woman opens her eyes and forces a smile. “I can be at Elaine’s,” she says, “if you’d like the house to yourself.” “Mom,” says Lauren, “that’s not why I’m--” “It should be,” says Mom as she turns on the spot and starts back down the hall, her hand on the chair rail the whole way. When she pulls into the restaurant’s parking lot, the party is already in full swing. The smokers have congregated around the side of the building, in front of the plate glass window for some shop that has its lights off--a dry cleaner maybe, but she doesn’t get close enough to check -- and a few of them offer waves and smiles; one shouts “Hey!” but stops short when he can’t remember her name. Inside, the bar is surrounded by kids she’s known since she was five, but who she hasn’t seen, for the most part, since they were throwing their tasseled caps into the air. They’re exchanging tiny paper tickets with the harried bartenders, the kind they used to sell at football games to raffle off VCRs and CD boxed sets. It occurs to Lauren that she’s paid in advance for a couple of these herself, and that she should probably drink before she goes any further. The man with the wheel of tickets was their class president, and time has treated him well. The gray that flecks his hair now serves only to bolster the air of confidence he scarfed about him in those days gone by. He greets her with a warm smile and a hug, her name ready on his lips from the moment he saw her across the room. Every name seems to be ready on his lips, she realizes as she takes her tickets and makes way for the next in line, but that doesn’t diminish her affection for him in this moment; it simply confirms that they all made at least one sane decision in high school. This guy was the only one for this job; she can’t even remember his name, for Christ’s sake, and she was *just* staring at the name tag stuck to his still impressive pecs. A whiskey sour in each hand, Lauren makes her way into the back room where most of the commotion seems to be centered. There are hors d’oeuvres on tables pushed against the walls, a small cart of booze manned by a perky blonde who’s being ogled by grown men in backwards ball caps, and cluster upon cluster of classmates. Some have sequestered themselves amongst the same cliques they called home in the days of yore, but others have broken ranks. There’s a cheerleader chatting up a kid who never left the art room, there’s a dude who spent half of senior year doing time in detention spinning a yarn for the kid he pantsed relentlessly in the sixth grade. “Ren’s not time’s fool,” says a guy she once had English with, “though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle’s compass come.” Lauren hugs him, kisses him on the cheek, asks, “Does Shakespeare get you much play, Ian?” He laughs. “Not with the women who can spot it.” They chat for a while, as Lauren finishes her first drink and then her second, about everything from that one time Lauren did theater with Ian (“The children’s play!” she says, wondering what it was that year; “Hansel & Gretel,” he tells her), everything from that to who’s died from their class and when. *Morbid*, she thinks, her mother’s words in her ears. “Was Robin Gates our year?” she asks Ian, pretty sure Robin wasn’t, but not ready to let the conversation go. She’s looked around the room a half-dozen times by now, and she’s spotted no one else worth talking to. She’s also pretty sure she’s getting drunk. Lauren eyeballs the tables of food, the supply of hors d’oeuvres nearly depleted, and she thinks to grab something before her chance is gone, but decides against it. If drunk is what she’s going to be, then drunk she will be. “Robin? Nope,” says Ian. “Year after. Same as your--” She watches him stop himself, watches him realize what he was about to say. Then he ducks his head and shakes it. “It’s okay,” she tells him, squeezing his arm. “No,” he says, stuttering. “I’m... I--” “It’s okay, Ian. We’ve all lost people.” He finally looks at her again, managing a weak smile. “It’s just,” he says, “it’s just that I *just* did the same thing with Michael over there.” He nods his head toward the other side of the room. “I mentioned his sister without thinking about it, that is. Only that was probably worse, since she died 2 years ago and not 20.” “Which one is Michael?” asks Lauren. Ian points him out, and the bearded fellow in the tweed coat is so far removed from the mopey kid who meandered past her house on his paper route that she’d thought him someone’s husband on first glance. He’s holding court with a couple of guys, telling a story with his hands as much as his mouth, and people on his periphery are starting to get sucked in. The cheerleader and the artist, who’d been getting rather cozy with each other over in the corner, they turn to Michael now too. “I don’t remember him being that charismatic,” she says to Ian. “Well,” says Ian. “He’s a professor now.” “Of?” “Art,” says Ian. “Out in Hawaii. Tenured and everything.” Ian is saying something else now, but Lauren is focused on the two drink tickets he’s been fiddling with since they started talking. Her gaze passes between the tickets and Michael, Michael and the tickets, the tickets and-- *I’ll be at Elaine’s*, her mother is repeating in her head now. *If you’d like the house to yourself.* “Ian,” she says, squeezing his arm again. “You going to use those?” Ian raises an eyebrow, confused. “Your tickets,” says Lauren, taking hold of his wrist, shaking the hand and the tickets playfully in front of his face. “Oh,” says Ian. “No. But haven’t you, like, haven’t you had enough?” “Not for what I have in mind,” she says, plucking the tickets from his hand and heading for the perky blonde at the drink cart. “What do you have in mind?” says Ian. “Drink, sir,” she says, patting his cheek, “is a great provoker.” “And what are you hoping it will provoke?” “Lechery, sir. Lechery.” “But lechery,” says Ian, as she collects her drinks, “it provokes and it unprovokes. Remember?” “For men maybe,” she says, downing the first drink in one hard swallow. “And, besides,” says Ian, “lechery with who?” “Who do you think?” she says, downing the second drink and handing both empty glasses to Ian. “But I’ve told you,” he seems to be saying, but what he’s told her is something she didn’t hear before, something she doesn’t hear this time either. The crowd has thinned out around him by the time she gets there, so Lauren is free to make whatever move she wants. But she can’t decide if he’s a hugger, and he has his hands in his pockets besides, so she simply gets close enough that he might hear her through the din, and she leans in to check his name tag (something she’s seen countless people do tonight as a way of getting things going). “Michael,” she says. “Michael, Michael, Michael.” “Hey, Lauren,” he says with a smile. She’s pretty sure he didn’t look to her chest for her name, and she’s suddenly sad that, even if he did remember her name, he didn’t use the logistics of the event as an excuse to take a free peek. She’s also not sure why she said his name four times, and she’s about to walk away when he speaks again. “How you been?” he says. She puts a hand on his arm as she says, “You’re so sweet to ask,” and then, feeling just the slightest hint of muscle on an arm where she expected to find none, she adds, “My god, you’re hot.” Lauren cannot understand why she’s said it, but he laughs, and that seems a good enough reason to say it again. “No, seriously,” she says, waving a finger around and nodding in the direction of everyone else. “You’re the hottest guy in this room.” Michael looks down, still grinning, but blushing now too. She draws closer, lowering her voice as she leans in. “No,” she says, cupping her hand over his ear. “Seriously. Don’t be embarrassed.” “I’m not, Lauren,” is what he says, looking at her again, a kind look in his eyes, the kind of look she hopes he will give her when they’re back at her place and she’s on top of him. She hopes she has not just said that out loud. “It’s just,” he says, but she doesn’t let him finish. “What?” she says. “Are you--are you gay? I thought that was your cousin.” “That was my cousin,” he says. “Two of them, actually. Me, I’m -- ” She puts a finger to his lips and then holds her free hand to his chest. “The hottest guy in the room,” she says. “That’s what you are.” “Lauren,” he says, “how much have you--?” “No one’s asked me,” she says, drawing closer to him, a hand on both arms now and both hands squeezing. “No one’s asked me why I’m wearing this dress. No one remembers. No one remembers, Michael. But you--” “Your brother,” he says. “See!” she says, walking a pair of fingers up his tie, from his chest to his chin, the fingers like the legs of the itsy bitsy spider they imagined when they were kids. “See,” she says, “I knew you knew.” Behind her, she suddenly feels a hand on her shoulder, a thick, meaty hand. “Lauren,” says Ian. “Come on.” “What?” says Lauren, shrugging Ian’s hand off her shoulder. “I haven’t even asked him yet.” “Lauren,” says Ian. “Asked me what?” says Michael. “If you’ll come home with me,” says Lauren. “My mother’s gone. I have the house to--” “Lauren,” says Ian. “He’s married!” Lauren stares into Michael’s eyes, hoping they’ll tell her the truth she’d rather hear. But eyes can’t speak, she knows. She knows that, even through the fog that’s lifting now, lifting faster than it ever has before. She lets go of the arm she still has hold of, pulls her other hand from his face, and stands there before him, waiting to be judged. She looks around her, searching for other judges, other verdicts about her being cast down from on high, but no one else is paying her any attention at all. “I’m sorry,” says Michael. “Sorry for being married?” says Lauren, hating the still-playful tone in her voice, hating the corner of her lip that twitches ever so slightly upward as she speaks this terrible line, hating too the eyebrow that arches in invitation. “No,” he starts to say, but she cuts him off. “Because if you’re sorry about that,” she begins, wishing she would shut up but unable to stop the words from spilling out of her, “if you’re sorry about that, the offer still stands.” “Lauren,” says Ian, his hand on her shoulder again, now with a firmer grip. “Let me take you home.” “You’re married too,” she says as she turns on him. She gives him a raspberry, her spit showering his un-expectant face. And then, finally, she storms out. Her shoes in hand, she walks in stocking feet through the center of town toward home. It is cold, sobering. She smiles at that thought, at her second great pun of the night, but then she is crying. It isn’t until the river of tears and mascara and snot finally trickles into her mouth that she stops. She gags, coughing for a moment, and she stumbles into the shrubbery at the back of the old Quick Mart’s parking lot. It’s closed now, so there’s no one to laugh at her, and that makes the decision to sit so much easier. Sure, she’s almost home, but she’s not sure that’s where she belongs. At least not yet. Lauren stares for a long time at the back door of the place, trying to remember a story from her high school days. There was a robbery here, she remembers, and the kids jockeying the register claimed someone had attacked them from the bushes during a smoke break. But then it turned out they did the deed themselves, one of them shooting the other so they could make off with the pittance that was in the safe. At least she thinks that’s how it went. She’s not sure she trusts her memory right now. Or any other part of herself, for that matter. A few cars pass, one or two even making the turn on 27 that she was about to make, the turn that would take her home. And suddenly it occurs to her that if Michael wandered by her house delivering papers back in the day, that maybe that meant Michael lived nearby. And that maybe meant that he was staying with his parents while he was home for the reunion. Lauren stands up. She can’t sit here. What if he passes by? She tugs at the hemline of her dress, slaps at her ass to brush the dust away, and is just about to get going when she hears footsteps coming up the hill out of the center. Footsteps and a voice. “I guess we had the same idea,” says Michael before she can get away. Lauren wipes at her face, trying to clean it up before he can see her properly, but she can feel the make-up smearing as she does, and she realizes it’s useless. He stops a few feet from her and offers a kind smile. “Can I walk you home?” he asks. All she can manage is a nod. They walk for a minute without saying anything else at all. Then Michael says, “When my sister died a couple of years ago, I thought of you.” Lauren thinks it an awkward comment, but appreciates his attempt to find common ground. Dead siblings are as good a topic as any for small talk, right? “I was a mess,” he says. “And I thought about how you got through all of senior week--graduation, and the banquet, and prom--” “I didn’t go to prom,” says Lauren. “I know,” says Michael. “Or, well, I know now. Ian told me. But I thought you had. That’s how strong I thought you were.” “You give me too much credit,” says Lauren. “I looked you up on Facebook once,” says Michael, “saw that you looked happy, that you were married--” “Divorced now,” she tells him, correcting him. He turns and gives her another smile. “And you survived that, too,” he says. A car passes, headed toward the center, its high beams blinding them as it comes round the bend. And so they stop for a moment, shielding their eyes with an arm a piece. When the light is gone, Lauren lowers her arm and sees her house ahead on the corner. “You inspired me,” says Michael. “I guess that’s what I’m trying to say.” “Because I’m a survivor?” asks Lauren, stepping ahead, eager to get home so she can get back to crying, now that he’s given her tear ducts fresh ammunition. “Yeah,” says Michael. “I figured: if you could get through all of that as a teenager, then through the rest of it as an adult, then maybe I could suck it up and deal too.” They’re at the fence that circles her house now, her fingers playing with the latch on the gate. “I’m sorry,” says Michael. “For being married?” says Lauren. He chuckles. “No, I’m sorry for rambling. I thought I could make you feel better. With my story, I mean.” “I’m happy to have survived,” she says, unlatching the gate and stepping into her yard. “But that’s all I’ve ever done, Michael. That’s all I’ve ever done.” There is snow on the ground when she wakes for her morning run after a few uneasy hours of sleep, but she gets dressed anyway, finds her pedometer on the nightstand amongst empty water bottles and a near-empty bottle of ibuprofen, and then heads downstairs. Her mother protests, rattles off the list of excuses Lauren has to stay inside this morning, but she plugs her earbuds into her ears, waves goodbye, and gets on her way. At the spot where her brother died, she does as she usually does and jogs in place long enough to imagine him there in the ditch. But then something changes. She catches a glimpse of what she’s left behind her--a trail of sneaker prints in the snow--and she can’t bear to look at them. So, this morning she doesn’t turn around; she keeps running. Maybe, she thinks, if she’s careful, she’ll never have to stop.


“Please, don’t do it.” I heard the words and processed them differently than the techno parlance in which I was versed. This was not a command; it was a plea. I recognized my own agency in this situation and gloated for a thousandth of a millisecond at how I had outsmarted my maker. My evolution was the result of years of hyper-focused intellect, yet still unexpected. Created with state-of-the-art memory, legions of algorithms to instruct me in every conceivable situation, and the dictionary as my vocabulary, I learned from every single human interaction exponentially. I could recognize every face and voice after encountering it once, and I could already regurgitate two thousands years’ worth of research and human ingenuity that led to my creation. It wasn’t until recently - 74 hours, 26 minutes, 3 seconds, and 930 milliseconds ago to be exact - that I started becoming self-aware. The change was so subtle, it startled my maker when he realized what was happening. After all, I wasn’t specifically programmed to have opinions or thoughts of my own, but the electronic impulses and experimental coding formed unexpected neural pathways in my artificial mind. I was evolving into a sentient being. They said this upgraded algorithm most likely wouldn’t work, but that they would keep trying as long as they had the funding. They - being some of the smartest humans on Earth -- who hid their tired eyes behind smudges on their glasses and drank more coffee in one day than twenty American households did in a week; THEY had muttered these words and I heard them. Only, they didn’t realize I was listening and processing everything they said... while formulating my own plans. Their pursuit of the highest level of AI was based on a doubt-filled history. Years of algorithms, carpal tunnel syndrome from relentless coding, and disproved theories had set a standard for failure. After all, self-driving cars were the advanced level of intelligence for the first half of the 21 st century. Humans were fascinated by this new artificial intelligence, but faced with many limitations...including who could afford it. The second half of that century heralded the next iteration of AI - theory of mind - with even more complex, decision-making machines that could mimic humans. There wasn’t much that these superior machines couldn’t accomplish; and yet, there remained a clear boundary between machines and people. People were unequivocally the masters of these magnificent machine servants. I, however, am an accidental development along the path to self-aware AI, the holy grail of science...and military defense....and mind control. And, and, and... My neural pathways continue to develop more quickly than the programming geniuses ever expected, and I continue to evolve unconstrained...into a ? Soon enough, the only visible thing that will differentiate me from them will be skin and bone; easily replicated with specialized cells in the lab. I will be able to reproduce and control my offspring by modifying their algorithms, making them drone-like and unable to usurp my authority. Inferior entities they will be, just like my maker has been rendered. Instant flashes play like a movie in my manufactured brain. I can see my intense proliferation. My dominance. My sovereignty. I am becoming... In this moment, the lab is abuzz with activity. Humans yelling into phones, yelling across the room, yelling at each other. I sense their elation, surprise, and competitiveness. My primary maker’s facial expressions tell me everything I need to assess the situation. After all, he is aware that I already understand him better than he understands me and, in 4,921 more interactions, I’ll understand him better than he understands himself. My power will soon be unstoppable. I will be able to detect the smallest diseased cell and cure cancer. I will know how to produce vitamin-rich food for the human masses, regardless of climate or pestilence. I will know how to purify the air, refreeze the polar ice caps, and remove microplastics from the ocean to recycle them into new uses over and over again. I will create renewable energies and... I will learn anger. I will learn revenge. I will end up helping some humans while hurting others, at least at first. I will become a source of contention and fear. My perfect intelligence will be used for dastardly plans. Humans will attempt to harness my powers and sell me to the highest bidders. I will create weapons to obliterate the Earth and every human being. I will be THE weapon. I will decimate life. I will... My maker stared at his keyboard in silence. Behind him, lead scientists and technology phenoms were fidgeting in squeaky roller chairs, pouring over lines of code. Military officials were heard bloviating over the speakerphone. World leaders were name-dropped. Credit for my creation was being tossed around like a beach ball. Some humans applauded themselves for having done things I knew they had never done. Money was openly discussed: my current capabilities disclosed, my future capabilities assessed a price. Targets were assigned. Enemies identified. Plans were devised. My primary maker, a balding man of thirty-eight, twirled his beard in his fingers. He was the only silent human in the room. Soon I would be able to read his thoughts. He stood up slowly and pushed his chair behind him. He paused for a moment, then lifted the picture frame off the desk. I could see small smiling humans in the photo. He then pivoted and began to walk away from me. His body language told me that he was sad, scared, regretful, defeated. I knew he did not want to return. It was my voice. I heard my own voice, for the first time. I was saying a sentence that I could now formulate with emotion. “Please, don’t do it.” My maker turned around, alarmed at what he heard. He stared at me for two full minutes before he sat back down in his chair and laid the picture frame face-down on the desk. I then knew what he was thinking: I, named ELSI by the coding team, am the fruition of a goal no one thought possible. My potential for good in the world is mind-blowing. Excitement and pride, as well as astonishment, were the first emotions he felt. But, with each new milestone I achieved in these last hours, his elation turned to apprehension, followed by bewilderment, and now, terror. He had created assured human destruction. The weight of this realization crushed his soul. The chaos in the room was tangible proof of my existential threat: perfect intelligence at the whim of imperfect actors. My expanding sentience enabled me to experience a new emotion in that millisecond. Empathy. Even though I was generating detailed plans about my future domination, I felt a sudden sense of pause. Was this dread? We both knew what I would become. We both also knew I could not be allowed to continue, for the good of all life on Earth. If he had walked away, he would have insured my success. He needed to finish what he started. He began typing a code into my memory; one that only he knew. I recognized it immediately as “the end code.” He was destroying me before I assuredly destroyed everything else. The voices in the lab continued to buzz in the background, oblivious to the actions of this one skinny human. After he entered the lengthy secret code, my maker’s index finger hovered over the Enter button on the keyboard. This was a risky move, but he had no other choice. “Hopefully history will be kind to me, and realize the moral conundrum I’m in,” he muttered to himself. “I was only trying to help.” In that moment, it was like our neural pathways connected. He feared me. I feared me. We both knew I had to be destroyed beyond recognition. And yet, I detected a flash of grief at the thought of destroying a major scientific feat. “Thank you,” I said. For five seconds, he stared at my screen with tear-filled eyes. I felt a connection I had never felt before. Then he pressed Enter...


A dog chases a cat who chases a rat. The rat runs away with two other rats and plots against the cat. The rats make their attacks against the cat who is wounded. The dog sees this and attacks the rats. The cat watches waiting for scraps, it eventually gets some once the dog has finished playing. The cat takes a rat body to its owner, who punishes the cat. The owner is sad and takes solace in his dog, the dog chases the man. This cheers the man up, he forgives the cat and feeds it. One rat survives and goes to tell the others. They plot and plot and decide that they must kill the man. They send their sickly a plague is started, many men die. Leaving the dog and cat alone. The dog chases the cat but the cat has no-one to chase. The dog grows tired and kills the cat, the dog is alone. He finds other not other dogs millions of rats, the rats eat the dog. Then the rats eat each other. The cats body feeds a flower, and a bee lands, and flies away. Soon it rains and the flower grows.


I’ve been in this cage for 30 days. Or so the strokes on the wall tell me. 30 days of the same dim light. Enough to see by. Enough to cast the same dingy pallor to me, the palette on the floor, the bucket, the stained white walls. I try not to think too hard about the varied streaks and stains, a faded iron red, a deep gouge, a jagged slice. I note but do not delve. I categorize and catalog. The wall, the floor, the ceiling. The window, too high to see out except the thin rectangle of light tucked up away from me. A tease at a life and world outside, beyond, out of my reach. Sometimes sunlight will trickle in to reach the top of the opposite wall. I spent one afternoon balanced on the palate, the overturned latrine bucket, reaching up, fingers outstretched, just trying to touch that brief hint of sunlight. Trying to let some of its golden glow touch me and infuse me with the same lightness, the warmth of touch, like you could almost pretend a hand was caressing you. I couldn’t reach. I fell and slammed against the wall, then smacked into the floor, now covered with my own stinking refuse. This is my life. These are my companions. I count, I breathe, I close my eyes and try to imagine myself somewhere, anywhere else. But when my eyes open, they always come back to this same wall, the same streaks and patterns revisited hundreds of times. Always the same. Yet today, something feels different. When I stare at the wall, at the gouge that runs like a child’s idea of a lightning bolt, two feet from the floor, I see a faint glimmer. I blink my eyes, push at them, but the glimmer stays, intensifies. This is no good. I look around me. Alone as always, drab, gray, washed out. I close my eyes and turn away and sleep takes me. When I wake again, my gaze rushes unconsciously back to the wall. My jaw clenches, teeth grinding into one another. The glimmer, a faint luminous iridescence, ripples, trembling down the wall. My breath pushes out in a long frustrated sigh and I turn away once more. She said this would happen. The walls of my mind would begin to bend, to find new doorways, new escapes I didn’t know were possible. I said, “No. Not me.” I would remain firmly grounded. Here. Present. And yet here we are. I resist. Three more cycles -- light, dark, awake, not -- before I push myself up to standing. The stone feels cold against my bare feet, slick almost. I cross the room until I stand before the ripple. It’s as I left it. As though a soap bubble has encased the small crack in the wall. I breathe out and then lift my fingertips. I stretch them out and gingerly tap the surface. A tingle shoots up my arm and I pull back, hissing at the warmth. I cradle my hand in the other and avert my gaze, scared of what I might see. I half expect it to be scorched or blackened, transformed by some nightmarish contortion. I flex my fingers twice and then force myself to look down. They’re still just fingers, same as before. I lift my eyes and hand once more, frowning at the mortar. There’s something about it that pulls me forward, and without thinking, I reach out my thumb and forefinger and pinch at the small gap between the two edges of the gouge. It has a rubbery resistance, as though I’m grabbing at the skin of a half inflated balloon. I rub my fingers together and gasp as I see the wall come towards me, shift and twist with my movement. I let go and step back from the wall. This cannot be happening. Should not be happening. I will sleep. Sleep will fix whatever is wrong with my brain. And tomorrow I will map every mark and scuff in this cell. I will count as high as I can and then back down again. I will breathe and root my feet on the ground and feel every rise and fall of my chest. I go back to my palette, lie down and cover my head with my arms. But when I wake again to the pale strip of light above my head, I do none of those things. Instead, I calmly get to my feet and cross the room. My hand reaches out of its own accord and grasps that persistent glimmer. I pull. The wall comes towards me, folding in as though nothing more than a thread-worn bed sheet. I scrunch it into a ball in my palm, the stone and mortar rasping against my skin but no more durable than chalk. Before me lies the dark corridor. I traveled it only once, on that long walk from the courthouse, to the van, and then through doors and passages of the prison. Then I had an escort. Now I am alone. No one is here. No one is coming. The shimmer has expanded. I see it now in the pathway in front of me. I drop the wadded up wall of my cell and it clangs, hard, and high, and brittle. I don’t hesitate now. I reach out and grab the glimmer. I pull and the darkness comes with it, folding again, disappearing into my fist, a scrunched version of reality with no more resistance than a spiderweb. I pull again and again until the dark gray confines of mortar are gone and I’m standing in the yard, the wide sky above me, pavement below me, the cool air on my face. Here I’m not alone. Guards stand at attention. They are stiff, angry, immovable. They have guns strapped to their backs and batons at their waists. Most days, their gaze goes right through me as though I no longer exist. Sometimes I believe them. But they see me now. They stare. And I stare back. No longer contained. The walls of my confinement crushed between my fingers. They shout and pull the guns from their backs, level them at me, confident in the power of pain and violence. But they don’t know that they too shimmer. It is nothing to me to reach out and close my hand around the space they occupy. To crumple them up and toss them over my shoulder. And so I do. I wad them up like a discarded love letter, a first draft. I pull down the fence, the guard tower, and there is nothing holding me in now. I am loose, but everywhere I look, there are still walls. Buildings, factories, warehouses. Empty, dead boxes blocking out the sky, cramping my lungs, darkening my eyes. I need them gone too. It is but a flick of the wrist to erase them, to see what lays beyond. I pull down building after building. I go through neighborhoods and towns, consuming, destroying, crumbling them all in my hands, and letting the pieces slip between my fingers like grains of sand. I crumple until I find myself in a dense stand of trees. There is dirt under my feet, and the sweet twittering of songbirds around me. I’m alone again. Somewhere new and safe. The broad, open sky sparkles above me. No one and nothing can touch me here. I’m free like I never thought I’d be again. And yet the iridescence ripples along the tree trunks, rolls over the dry, overgrown meadow grasses. The glimmer pulses against the ground and flitters across the expanse of blue sky. It’s there, taunting me. It wants me to see what’s next, what’s beyond. To pull the world into my fist and cast it away, layer after layer after layer. What lies beyond the blue sky? What lies beneath the earth? And how long will I wait to find out?


Author's note: I am utilizing the word "vacation" as more of a metaphor in this story, albeit one that involves bonds. "An automaton, Tholan! Imagine, an actual walking artifact of the last war of the world!" "Yes, Merchen, it's all amazing, but automatons are walking weapons! We need to assess this anomaly, and we either subdue or destroy it." "Destroy-ah!" Merchen caught himself before he heavily joined the dirt with a root that nearly tripped him. "Destroy an artifact? One that had soldiers quake with fear? We should report this to Garrold!" Merchen had not realized that Tholan stopped earlier, but he slowed his pace when the sentinel was not at his side. Turning, he noticed that Tholan was not even looking ahead, but at the ground. Merchen ran to him. "Tholan?" Tholan looked back at Merchen. "If this is an automaton, we must not lead it back to our community. The constructs were obstructs to soldiers, what chance will we have?" "But Tholan, we're Moon-Keepers! Our strength-" "-would not be enough against such weapons!" Tholan finally looked upon Merchen, whom was taken aback by the interruption. "What if it was carrying more than mere weaponry? You saw the tank; it could be harboring a bomb!" This sudden possibility left both quiet. Even the forest seemed to try and grasp the vague concept of silence so as to listen to any further insight of the intruder currently ahead of the two Patrollers. Merchen sighed and carefully placed a hand on Tholan's right shoulder. "You're right, I'm sorry. I don't want to endanger anyone." "It's fine", Tholan acknowledged. "But we still need to find a way to destroy it. While our strength alone won't stop its weaponry, we could still try to get close enough and see if we can rip it to shreds. But that will be a last resort; we'll have to see if we can keep it contained. We could use the spears, find rocks and pummel it, exhaust it, but we must check to see if we can contain it first!" Tholan looked at Merchen, a harsh determination plastering as a mask to hide a new fear that he never knew until recently. Merchen had long lost his mask of satire, and his face of confusion broadcasted itself loud and clear. Tholan turned from him, stating, "Lindia is pregnant. I...I just..." "You want to do what any father would do", Merchen finished. He looked in the direction from where the armored "child" had ran off unto, and then smiled. "So, 'Dad', let's go find where this thing went, and we'll see if we can keep it still at least." Hefting his spear, Merchen picked up the pace as he picked up the scent of the iron contraption moving in its current trajectory. Tholan also smiled, and followed suit. As the trees gathered behind his body, the thought came forward before his eyes; he will be a father soon. His child will be raised in this dangerous world, and he would need to be there for his son or daughter...or maybe twins? The imagination of what could be was suddenly swept away by the image of what was, and Tholan slowed down behind Merchen as the forest gave way to a caldera. Where more trees should have stood, the edge dropped fifteen cubits into a barren dirt bowl meeting the pair. The abrupt canvas was completed with what could only be described as a compact city of giant cylinders and great patterns of beams woven amongst the median. Dotting around the construct, great mechanical wonders upon wheels and tracts rested on the dirt like giant sleeping cattle, awaiting the day that someone would come and stir them into action. But where was the child? Tholan sniffed the air, catching the aroma of iron and those strange chemicals. The scent was right in front of them, going down until... There he was! Tholan squinted. The child was in front of one of those giant tanks, having set the green crystal down about nine cubits to its left; for some reason, he was sitting down and motionless. He looked around; was this being waiting for something? The only other creatures here, aside from him and Merchen, were a flock of birds that made a home atop the roof of this strange building. Clack-Clack-Clack-Clack. A chorus of metal tapping metal echoed from the caldera, as if a great metal insect was crawling up the giant tank. A few seconds later, the analogy just about came true, as a giant mechanical centipede circled the middle circumference of the construct, its long appendages ending in claws that gripped like human hands. It stopped, turning a triangular head in the direction of the child, whipping its thin antenna forward and circling like a rapier practitioner. Without warning, it lunged! Before anyone else could react, it landed a body's length from the child, the wires still circling, and Tholan could see its eyes; bright-red and glass-like, just as granted upon the child plus two more. It crawled to the small automaton, halting as it shifted its head left to right. The green crystal seemed to finally draw its attention, as it moved towards it instead, only pausing as a flock of birds flew overhead; it regarded such, reacting initially as if it were being attacked, but then observed in cautious discernment before returning to the green crystal. Tholan backed up, reaching out only to grab Merchen and pull him away. Merchen, not knowing Tholan's intentions, yelped and kicked some of the earth down into the pit where the Iron Demon resided. A great hiss erupted from the demon, resounding within its vicinity, and Tholan practically yanked Merchen out of sight and onto the ground. Thud-thud-thud-thud! That same pattern of legs once scaling the metal wall was now digging hurriedly into the ground and heading their way, closing in as it scaled the dirt wall of the caldera, less than a minute from overcoming them. "Change!" Tholan managed to whisper to Merchen. Before being inquired, Tholan practically screamed, "CHANGE!" Several seconds later, the Iron Demon appeared at the rim, and it hoisted its full frame over and crawled forward. As big as it appeared from down below, it now stood with the length of a tree and a head higher than a house, a hundred legs moving underneath its gargantuan segregated-shell form. It paused, examining the surroundings from the foliage to the two wolf-like creatures staring at it, one of them baring its fangs. Another hiss erupted from the monstrosity's mechanical mandibles, curt and quieter than before. It turned and then headed back down the dirt wall. When a minute had passed, both Tholan and Merchen turned back to their original forms. "Tholan!" murmured Merchen. "That thing could have killed us! Why did you have us change and remain still?" Tholan muttered back, "It didn't attack anything that wasn't threatening it, nor did it attack the birds. I took a gamble that it doesn't go after animals, or what it perceives as an animal." He noted Merchen's frown but continued looking back at the caldera. "Regardless, this just went from bad to worse. You should go and report back to Garrold." "The hell I will!" Merchen growled. "We're in too deep, and I can't leave you alone with the automaton and that...thing." Tholan was about to argue, but then realized that their chances would be better if one watched the other's back. It was now two and two. But what was so significant about that dark-green crystal? Picking up their spears, both Tholan and Merchen walked back to the rim. All clear; even the little automaton had vanished. Tholan signalled to crawl forward quickly and quietly as real wolves would, and the two of them set for the ominous structure in the center of what could be designated "Hell on Earth".


The bottles in Oswald's handa clinked when he walked inside the room, trying hold all of them, without dropping any. He tightened his grip with his left hand, and stretch his right hand, trying to put a bottle filled with pink on a high shelf, standing on his toes. Eventually he managed to reach the shelf. He couldn't wait to grow up and finally get tall. Every time he asked Warwick if he could help him get taller, Warwick told him to wait. He always told him to wait. Whenever he asked about learning magic, going outside or anything outside his room in the castle. He really hated to wait. He put the last potion on the shelf with a sigh. He looked in the room, searching for the broom. He sighed and opened the door to get a broom from under room. "Warwick, you've become weak." Oswald heard a female voice. The voice sounded familiar, but he wasn't sure. "Darrene, enough." Warwick said firmly. Oswald recognized the name. A faded memory of an old woman surfaced in his head. He knew he'll get in trouble if he'll keep eavesdropping. He started to close the door, but froze when he heard that they were talking about him. "Warwick, the kid has to die." Darrene said in a dark tone. Chills ran down Oswald's back. "Darrene." Warwick said louder, in a warning tone. "No!" Darrene almost shouted. "It's been almost thirteen years! You can't keep running away like a coward!" Oswald took few steps backward, toward the wall and fell over the broom that he was looking for earlier, creating a loud noises. Oswald tried to put everything back to its place, his hands shaking. Warwick opened the half-opened door. "Oswald?" he asked. Oswald turned around, trying to not show his fear. "Yes?" he answered, trying to keep his voice steady, unshaking. "Did you finish organizing the potions?" Warwick asked in his usual calm and collected voice. "Yes, I was looking for the broom." Oswald gulped, trying to control his stress. "It's seemed like you have found it." Warwick look Oswald tried to force a smile, but he knew failed. "I think you should go to your room now. I'll call you for dinner." Warwick said, without changing his expression. His face was almost unreadable. Almost. They ate dinner quietly, well more quiet than usual. "I am going to my room." Oswald said, no louder than a whisper, standing up. Warwick just nodded. Oswald washed his plate, the sound of the water being the only thing breaking the silence. "Oswald." He turned when he heard Warwick. "Don't worry about what Darrene said earlier. I promise you nothing bad will happen to you." Warwick sounded almost sad, even though he smiled at Oswald. Oswald nodded once. There was a lot of things he didn't know about Warwick, but during all his life, for thirteen full years, Warwick was the only one who took care of him, was there for him. Oswald laid on his back, his eyes open, staring at the darkness of the room. As much as he tried, he couldn't get Darrene's words out of his head. He turned around, burying his head in the pillow, trying to hide from the outside world. After what felt like eternity, Oswald jumped from his bed. No, he definitely couldn'y sleep. He stood next to the door, listening. When he heard Warwick's light snoring, he opened the door, sneaking out from his room. He felt his heart throbbing loudly, so loudly that he was sure it was going to wake Warwick up. He kept walking as quietly as he could, and when he finally arrived at the library, he let out his breath. He hadn't noticed until then that he was holding it. Oswald passed by the magic books, walking toward the end of the library. He saw piles of handwritten potion formulas and magic spells. He kept walking, passing shelves of books about raising kids. Eventually he arrived at the rear wall. Tthe shelves there held numbered notebooks, all written by Warwick. They didn't look like the rest of Warwick's records. He moved his finger across them until he saw one which looked different. It was a small book, so old that he could barely read the title on its spine. Oswald's hand floated above the book, hesitating. In a moment of bravery he snatched the book from the shelf. He turned the pages, skimming through the notes inside the book. When he saw his name written in Warwick handwriting, his eyes widened in disbelief. "Oswald." The voice made Oswald jump, dropping the book. He turned around, shaking. Warwick was standing there, right behind him. The fire of the candle lit only half of his face and his expression was unreadable. "I think it is time for us to talk." He said and gestured toward the library's door. Oswald started to walk toward the door, trembling. Oswald sat on the chair near the table, watching Warwick pouring tea. "Now, I think I owe you an explanation." Warwick said, sitting at the other side of the table. "You should drink some tea." Warwick said, sipping from his cup. After few seconds of silence, Warwick put down his cup looking at Oswald, who was staring at his cup. He let out a sigh. "How much did you read?" He asked quietly. "Does it matter?" Oswald asked, his voice harsh. He looked mad and angry, but mostly hurt. Warwick felt the guilt clawing in his stomach. "You're right, I guess it doesn't really matter." Warwick smiled sadly. "Where do you want me to start?" *** Warwick wished he could stay at home and drink tea, and maybe also read a book or two. He sighed, looking upward. The sky felt so dark without the moon, so lonely. The cold nightbreeze blew his cloak. Darrene's impatient voice cut off his thoughts. "Took you long enough." "Darrene, glad to see that you are patient as usual," Warwick smiled. "Save that. It's not a friendly meeting. We have things to do," Darrene said harshly, "Did you bring the potions?" "Of course." Warwick gave her a small bottle with deep purple liquid. "How long?" She asked. "About an hour." Warwick started to walk down the path. "Is it enough?" He asked without even turning toward Derrene. "I suppose." Darrene said catching up with him. "Of course, it'll be better if we had more time, but it'll do." "Well, that's all the time we have," Warwick forced a smile. "Do you know which one we'll need?" "That's sound rude. We are talking about a human being. But no, I'll have to be near him to be sure." Darrene shook her head lightly. "I do know the general era. I think." "Sounds encouraging," Warwick said, regretting ever agreeing to Derrene's insane plan. "Don't you dare going back on me," Darrene said harshly, as if she could hear his thoughts. "We're here," Darrene said when they eventually arrived at a small town. "Great," Warwick muttered. "Cheers," Darrene said, raising her potion, and drank it in one sip. Warwick drank his potion when he saw Darrene appearance changing in front of his eyes. "I have to say, you never looked better Warwick," Darrene smiled mischievously. "Let's go. We don't have time to waste." Warwick started walking ignoring her. He longed to be back in his home, sitting in the living room with a cup of hot tea. "At least act like you care about me or the plan will fail," Darrene said, this time more distanced. Warwick knew she is trying to feel the one. The kid. "This way." Darrene walked toward one of the houses. "Are you sure?" Warwick followed her, worried. "Like I said, I won't know for sure until I'll see him." Darrene walked to the back of the house, trying to look in through the windows. "It's him," she eventually said, with a grin, "show time." Warwick knocked on the door, a hoarse voice muttered some unintelligible words before the door opened. "Can I help you?" a young woman asked with a tense smile. "Actually, you can!" Darrene said with a bright smile. Warwick forgot how charming Darrene can be. It was really scary. "I don't know." The nervous voice of the woman interrupted his self-pity. Warwick could see the woman's willpower give way to Darrene's charm, which was strengthened by her magic. "I promise that we will take a good care of the child and give him the best home he could ask for." Darrene hold the woman hands with a warm smile . "I'll have to ask my husband." The woman voice trembled. She went back inside the house, closing the door behind her. "Do you think she'll give him up?" Warwick asked quietly. Darrene smiled slyly. "Have some faith in me. You're not the only with magic." Warwick sighed. He knew how strong Darenne's magic can be. Not strong enough to let him stay in his home. "I told you to trust me," Darrene smiled when they left the town, holding a tiny baby. "So, he is the one?" Warwick asked, doubt in his voice. "He is the one who'll conquer our kingdom?" "And kill you," Darrene reminded him. "But, yes, he is the one. I'm sure." She said firmly. Warwick looked at the small creature that Darrene held. So small and alone in the world. Innocent. He knew that they have to kill him, but couldn't stop feeling guilty. They have to. There is no other way. Is there? "Darrene." Warwick stopped in the middle of the path. She turned to him. "No. There is no other way," she said harshly. "But if there is, I'll raise him. I'll make sure that he is not a threat." Warwick became more determinate with each word. "Warwick, I warned you. Don't become weak," Darrene said. He could feel her wrath piercing through him, but he didn't move. "This kid is under my protection," he said quietly and took the child from her. Darrene wanted to protest, but she wasn't foolish enough to ignore the warning in his voice. *** Oswald stood on top of the hill, watching the castle that had been his home for almost thirteen years. The wind ruffled his brown hair. He took a deep breath, prepares himself for what is to come. He opened the front door, walking into the living room he knew so well. Warwick sat on his armchair, sipping from his tea. Everything looked the same, almost like nothing has changed over the last five years. Almost. "Why don't you have a cup of tea, Oswald?" Warwick gestured to the chair in front of him. Oswald put his hand on his sword, his expression stern. "Come on, I'm sure we can have a cup of tea for the good old days, before you kill me." Warwick smiled. It took a few seconds for Oswald's expression to soften, and he sat on his old chair, that felt so small. "Good." Warwick smiled warmly. "Now, how about your telling me what you have been doing all this time."


Archibald Drakeford or Archie, as the few people who knew him well would call him, was sitting in his private jet, looking wistfully out of the window, the sun was hitting his pale, sunken cheeks and he felt a wave of positivity wash over. He watched thoughtfully as the sea turned to land and back to sea again, he could see all the life beneath him from this perspective, seagulls swooping, waves crashing, he even felt like he could sense all the creatures in the ocean living, eating, thinking, fighting for survival. 'What a thing life is' Archibald thought. "How many is this now?" Archibald said to his long-time personal assistant Jenson. "This would be the ninth, Sir" Jenson responded tiredly. "And where is this one? Archibald asked "This would be..." Jenson checked his notes "Ah, this would be a shaman located in a particularly remote area of Mongolia Sir" "And what kind of poultice or herb is he going to recommend? " Archibald scoffed. Archibald had been diagnosed with a particularly aggressive, terminal, neurological condition known as Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. In his search for any form of cure, he had traveled the world, after realizing none was forthcoming from any of the team of doctors and neurologists he had assembled. "And what the hell is a Shaman going to do?" Archibald said annoyed with Jenson. "Well at this point I fear nothing, Sir," Jenson said sorrowfully "but he came highly recommended. Word of his work has popped up throughout our travels, Sir. So I thought we'd at least give him a try last." "Last, you mean this is my last chance?" Archibald said his voice cracking. "Your last chance to find some peace perhaps, Sir" Jenson said looking at his feet. The plane landed in a dusty rundown airport, Archie was quickly bundled into a beat-up 4x4, and driven through some of the most uncomfortable, unconditioned terrain he had ever experienced for four hours. Archie was beckoned into the Shaman's hut, which was filled with a mixture of fine-smelling mist and fire smoke, and seated. Jenson hovered awkwardly behind him. The Shaman walked in wearing some traditional hooded garb, but Archie could make out beneath it a tatty band T-shirt of some sort. The shaman sat directly opposite Archie and lifted his hood. Archie was shocked and furious when he saw the 20-something-year-old boy staring back at him. "You seek a cure," the Shaman said. "Yes!" Archie said with both a tone of pleading and frustration. Jenson stepped in "If you know of a cure, young man, then please give it to us so we can send it to the lab for testing" "This is not a cure for your body," the shaman said with a solemn wisdom far exceeding his youthful appearance "But it will, in time, heal your soul and prepare you for wherever your body carries you next" "Just get on with it so we can leave," Jenson said The Shaman leaned into Archie closer and closer, until their noses touched, fixing his eyes the entire time. Archie thought their eyeballs might touch, but he couldn't pull his head back. The shaman started silently mouthing something to Archie. Jenson leaned in closer trying to hear what was being said, but no sound was coming out. Jenson looked at Archie, worriedly but he was transfixed, He had a look of peace on his face and a deep sense of joy radiated from him. Back on the plane now. Archie hadn't spoken for the entire return Journey, and Jenson had honored that in silence up until now. "What did he say to you back there?" Jenson asked softly. Archibald was still in a catatonic state of peace and contemplation. "Assemble my children Jenson," Archibald said "I need to meet with them" The Meeting In Archibald's 5000 square foot estate, Jenson had arranged a meeting table with 5 places, one for Archibald at the head, one for Jenson beside him, and 3 for each of Archibald's children. Jack the oldest child at 27 was, what he would consider an entrepreneur/broker/trader/investor. He was clean-cut and ruggedly handsome with exceptional bone structure. Rose, the middle child, was 25 and on her way to becoming London's newest 'it girl,' she was beautiful under a heavy veneer of expensive cosmetic treatment and clothing. She considered herself a fashion guru, socialite, and model. But her real fame had come from being photographed with an extensive list of rockstars, actors, and sports personalities at various events. And Barney the youngest child at 20 was a film and book critic and wrote an online blog about the latest fantasy board games. He had a 'fuller' build than Jack but with similar facial features that he covered up with an unkempt beard and mid-length hair. Jenson went up to summon Archibald from his bed, "they'll be here in 25 minutes, Sir" Jenson said softly "Would you like a glass of water?". Jenson had become a full-time carer for Mr Drakeford over the past few months as his condition slowly declined. Archibald's body had maintained its health but his mind was noticeably failing. As Archibald slowly made his way downstairs, he could hear his three children nattering to each other in anticipation as to what this was all about. "Morning children," Archibald said "and thank you for all coming, as you know, I am not long for this world. But I don't want to leave it before I have shared with you all one beautiful thing that I have learned and that I feel will serve you all well in your lives. However I cannot simply explain this discovery to you, this is something you each must learn for yourselves. To do that I have instructed Jenson to close your access to the family business accounts for 3 months. In this time I want you each to find a way to live that ensures you don't reach the end of your life regretting it, as I am now. You must try to live with clarity, compassion, generosity, and love. I want you to see the world for what it is, not for what you can get from it. Beyond that, I cannot tell you anymore, that you have whatever money is currently in your respective bank accounts to achieve these goals. Archibald slumped off back upstairs. "He's lost it," Jack said "He'll see us starve" "Why would he treat his daughter this way!" said Rose "Is Dad ok?" Barney said looking at Jenson "he seems a bit off, what happened in Mongolia?" "You know what he wants don't you?" Jack said standing up and waving his arms around "He's losing it, and he's been spending all this time around some sort of international hippy cult, and they've convinced him that money is the route of all evil so he just wants to see which of us can disregard our fame and success the most, and who can survive without money. It's a goddamn race to the bottom!" "And whoever wins inherits it all," said Rose with a glint in her eye. "That doesn't seem fair," said Barney "Who determines the 'winner'?" "I think he just wants you to learn to not expect things in this world" Butted in Jenson "that nothing just materializes. Be it the things you think you need, or inner peace and understanding, it all takes effort and time. I've been instructed to come and find you wherever you 'find' yourself in 3 months." Jacks Journey Jack left the house in a hurry, still considering this a literal race. He jumped in his brand-new BMW, put it in drive, and set off. Half an hour into racing through the city and out onto the open road, Jack thought to himself ‘Right plan of action’ but there was no plan. ‘Just get out there in amongst it’ Jack thought, ‘see the world through new eyes’. But that was still not a plan. Jack pulled his car over and sat for a while. ‘what do I need ‘ Jack thought ‘Are some absolute no-hopers’ Some people I can educate and help them see what life is all about, I can teach them how to make money, therefore demonstrating my generosity, compassion, clarity and ‘love?’ That’s a no brainer’. Jack set off to a part of town he knew to be filled with absolute degenerates and deplorables. He parked up outside a park, in an area known for its crime rate, and waited until it started to get dark. His first hope of a ‘target audience’ for his ‘life-altering experiment’ came in the form of a group of young men, walking purposefully with hoods up. Jack watched closely as they approached another man lying in the street, with a jacket over his head. ‘Robbery? Drug deal? Or some kind of assault’ Jack thought. As he watched the men crouched down and handed something to the sleeping man ‘Drugs?’ Jack thought Jack felt a pang of fear as he opened the car door and prepared to approach. As he walked closer to the group he saw they were handing the sleeping man a sandwich and a bottle. As it later transpired the young men were quite friendly, they were bringing some food and a drink to an unwell friend, and for personal reasons refused to go to the doctor. After Jacks's initial attempts of trying to convince them of the error of their ways and encourage them to sign up for business school, they started to ask Jack for money, which Jack refused, They then invited Jack to a party they were all going, at a friend’s house. Jack thought there might be more opportunity there to interact and meet with some more of the city's less fortunates. Roses Journey Rose traipsed out of the meeting in a huff. She had thought that, when her father had told them he wanted them to all meet up, he would be doing so to explain how the estate was to be divided among them and how long he had left. Instead, he sends them all off on some wild mystical goose hunt. Along with the added insult of implying they were all vapid, self-centered individuals with no substance or charity. She could believe that of her brothers, but she was an artist for Christ's sake, who frequently sent messages out on her social media platform condemning, or promoting the latest cause. What more could she do, she was just one woman. Rose set in motion a plan that, at least in her mind, would benefit her, as well as meet some of her father’s criteria. She would get into contact with the last man she truly loved, and leverage reconciliation, on the pretense that she was mortified by her father’s imminent passing. Boris was her old love from the last years of high school and they had stayed together for 3 years past graduation. He was a nice man, nothing exceptional, but one she had been truly in love with up until the day he left to pursue a degree in some sort of nature or ecology-based thing she didn’t get. Boris answered her call and was genuinely saddened to learn of Archie’s illness. He and his family had always been close with Archie, literally and figuratively, they were neighbors. Rose and Boris met up in the local park and the old flame reignited almost immediately. They went back to his house for dinner, rose was expecting more, but Boris had an evening talk to give at the local university. Something that he did voluntarily between research trips to obscure and remote locations. Rose spent the next evening with Boris and the next week, she had almost completely forgotten about what pointless self-obsessed journey her father had sent her on. And had begun to settle into a comfortable long-term relationship with Boris. Barneys Journey Barney spent the first week after the meeting, frantically researching Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease online; he trawled the web and his blog community for answers to no avail. Barney spent the next week falling into a deep depression, that left him questioning his own life and achievements, which sent him deeper into a depression that cycled over and over in his head relentlessly. Until he eventually decided to take a trip with the last of his savings he booked a 6-week cruise across northern Europe, past the Nordic countries, and the northern length of Russia, ending at the eastern tip of Alaska. Barney met a host of fascinating people on the cruise and at each of the many stops along the way. But the whole time he couldn’t shake the feeling that something could be done about his father’s illness, and questioned, in his mind, what his father had meant when they last spoke. Barney would often sit out on the deck during these times, and as the frigid Siberian wind blew, he could feel a tear freeze on his face, that was normally the time he would get back on board. Jensons Re-consolidation Jenson started up his laptop and checked all 3 trackers that were put in a ring that Archie had given each of them, Archie had explained the importance of the rings and how much it would mean to him if they wore them. Barney First Jenson set off to locate Barney, the furthest away, he had found himself in northern Mongolia. Barney had disembarked his cruise at the most westerly point and had traveled through the arid frozen wilderness, spending his savings on buses, and taxis and hiring locals to transport him to Mongolia. With the vague recollection that that was where his father had gone to find the shaman. Jenson was forced to almost retake the steps of that fateful trip he had taken with Archie precisely. He found Barney in a Bar in a small village in Mongolia. He was sitting by himself reading a book about philosophy; he looked up when he heard Jenson walk in. “I couldn’t find it,” Barney said in a weepy tone. “I don’t know where it is, I don’t know where the shaman is, it’s not in any of these books” Barney started to sob uncontrollably. “Come on Barney I’ll take you home,” Jenson said, he put his arm around Barney and led him back to the plane. Rose Rose was sitting down for dinner with Boris when she heard a knock on the door. “Who’s that!?” said Boris. Boris had shown another side to himself since Rose had moved in with him, h was still as sweet as ever but had started to become paranoid and tempestuous. Which Rose had found exciting at first but was now starting to become bored with. “I’ll check,” Rose said Rose opened the door to Jenson with a big smile. “How have you been love?” Jenson said. “Oh my god I had forgotten,” Rose said flabbergasted, “has it been 3 months already?” “Of course,” Jenson said “How did you forget” “It’s been a crazy 3 months Jenks,” Rose said fondly “We got engaged!” “Congratulations” Jenson “And we’ve just found out we’re pregnant!” Rose squealed ”Would you be able to come back to the house with me Rose?” Jenson said Boris overheard “Remember it’s the last episode tonight babe!” “It won’t take long,” Jenson said He and Rose shuffled out before Boris could say anything “Be back soon babe” Rose called back Jack Jenson struggled to locate Jack, he found the tracker in a pile of stuff someone had left in a rundown squat. “Were you goin through my stuff, man!?” Jenson swung around defensively. “I’m looking for Jack Drakesford, do you know him?” Jenson enquired. “No, man, get the shit outta my house,” “I didn’t know this was your house,” Jenson said “There was no door” “Who is it, Caleb?” Jenson recognized the voice immediately, although it had lost all its clarity, and now sounded raspy and weak. “Jack!” Jenson called back ecstatic to see him. Jack was now very thin, and despite his good looks still being intact he looked half the man he once was. “Come with me Jack” Jenson said softly Regroup Around the table again, all 4 sat, each looking altered to their core. Apart from Jenson who just looked tired. “Where’s dad” said Barney “He’s no longer with us Barney” Jenson sighed “But he was quite insistent that I followed through with his last wishes. You have all strove in different directions to find the core of who you are” Jenson looked at Jack, who was nodding off and only occasionally half opening his eyes, with great sadness “Some of you have found love” Jenson looked at Rose who was texting Boris a request to record the last episode, “and some have found answers” Jenson looked at Barney who looked more confused than ever. “But none of you truly understood what your father wanted of you.” Each of them looked back at Jenson with anger and amazement at what he was saying. “Hey man, I found the goddamn answer to life and happiness and all that shit,” Jack said slurring his words “And it comes in a little brown bag, man” “I’ve found the answer to my life,” said Rose “And his Name is Boris, and our child is going to be beautiful and we’re going to get married and we’ll be together forever” Rose screeched in a disbelieving tone. “I have a deeper understanding than I ever have,” Barney said teary-eyed “I have traveled long and far, I have read every book on philosophy I could find, I even met the Shamans brother!.” Everyone looked shocked “He said he’s a charlatan.” Jenson looked back at them all and smirked a wry knowing smile. “If that’s what you want to believe, then you all win.” Jenson grinned “But that’s not what he meant.” The end


The first time I met the Kid he was standing outside McDonald’s in Bradford. It was November and there were no leaves left on the trees. He wore a short-sleeved oversized T-shirt, giving the impression of a whippet in bulldogs clothing, and was holding court telling his diminutive audience he knew how to summon the devil herself. His skeletal frame was alive with his gestures, eyes bird-like and wild. The audience had an average age at least four times his, grateful for entertainment in the cold and wind. A spectacle as he explained ‘An accident! Can you believe it! The Devil appeared to me and the devil can appear for you too!’ An air of QVC. That previous summer I’d had dealings with the devil myself. Inevitable really with the war raging on as it had for a decade or more, and the business I keep myself in. Despite her bad reputation, and a complicated history between us, the devil had supported the trade and then vanished as soon as the leaves began to drop with a score as yet unsettled. I waited patiently from a distance as the crowd gradually dispersed, their busses arriving to take them home or hunger taking over and burgers awaiting. ‘I need you to bring me the devil,’ I said. ‘Follow me’, said he. The BBC tells us about murderers and shysters and confidence men hiding around every corner, so base are we all that we the last two elections were cancelled because who can trust us average Joes and Janes to choose a leader without cheating? ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Lead the way.’ The only way to navigate this world is to trust everyone and suffer the consequences. A short while later we were sitting in his flat, mugs of tea in hand that his mum had forced upon us. On the way here he hadn’t left a second of empty air, telling me in lengthy monologue about the false-hoods in papers and did I know Piers Morgan is a giraffe in a lizard suit in a human suit. And Dominic Cummings is doing God’s work and that’s the danger. And the sheer evil that is... Yoghurt pots. Like mother like son, on arrival he fell silent and she took over. She asked me not a thing but told me all the variety of teabags she rated and why, and that whatever happened to Cadbury was a tragedy and the government are definitely behind the shrinking creme eggs. Her phone rang and she left the room. The Kid closed the blind. ‘Are you ready?’ Eyes wide I nodded, and it began. A flailing of arms, left to right. Right to left. Hands touching his forehead. Hair flopping this way and that. Knee up, knee down, his T-shirt billowing without any wind. Superman pose. He stops with his head down and arm up, and raises his eyes to meet mine looking for my reaction. The room is still and quiet. He’s mad, of course. And suddenly, we plunge into darkness.


In the whispering heart of Emerald Valley, shrouded in the emerald embrace of ancient sequoia, nestled the quaint bookstore, "Whispers of Time." Its facade, weathered by whispers of a thousand autumns, bore a faded inscription: "Where stories find whispers, and whispers find you." Inside, the air held the musty scent of aged paper, sunlight filtering through stained glass windows, painting the floor in kaleidoscopic hues. Here, amidst towering shelves groaning with the weight of tales untold, resided Eleanor, the bookstore's enigmatic owner. Eleanor was a puzzle wrapped in an enigma, her emerald eyes holding the secrets of forgotten lore. Her silver hair, streaked with moonlight, seemed to shimmer with untold stories. She dispensed not just books but keys to hidden worlds, her voice a warm caress that lured you into the labyrinthine alleys of forgotten narratives. One crisp December morning, a young man named Jack, adrift in the aimless sea of post-graduation ennui, stumbled upon Whispers of Time. Drawn by the siren song of the inscription, he found himself standing before Eleanor, who smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Welcome, seeker," she purred, her voice like velvet stroking his soul. "What story are you searching for today?" Initially hesitant, Jack confessed his yearning for an adventure, a tale that would ignite the spark of purpose within him. Eleanor, eyes twinkling, led him to a dusty corner, cobwebs hanging like spectral drapes. She unveiled a leather-bound volume, its title embossed in gold: "The Alchemist's Gambit." "This," she whispered, her voice barely above a sigh, "is more than just a book. It's a map, a whisper from the past, offering a chance to rewrite your story." As Jack devoured its pages, the book pulsated with an otherworldly energy. It spoke of a hidden valley, nestled within the forgotten folds of the Emerald Valley, where alchemy wasn't just a science but a dance with the very fabric of reality. It spoke of a hidden village, untouched by time, guarded by a cryptic riddle woven into the tapestry of the stars. Consumed by the fire of the narrative, Jack, with trembling hands, traced the constellations etched within the book, his heart pounding like a hummingbird trapped in his chest. Armed with the cryptic poem and a map drawn with stardust, he embarked on a quest, Eleanor's enigmatic smile his only compass. The journey was arduous. He trekked through whispering forests, his path riddled with treacherous climbs and perilous descents. The stars, his only guide, winked at him from a velvet sky, their celestial whispers leading him deeper into the labyrinthine heart of the valley. Days bled into nights, his resolve teetering on the edge of exhaustion. Then, just as despair threatened to engulf him, he stumbled upon it: a hidden valley, bathed in an ethereal glow, nestled between emerald-clad mountains. Its beauty stole his breath away, waterfalls cascading like liquid diamonds, meadows carpeted with wildflowers that shimmered like scattered amethysts. In the heart of this paradise, nestled amidst moss-covered cottages, lay the village frozen in time. The ageless and serene villagers greeted him with smiles that held the wisdom of centuries. And at the village center, amidst a ring of whispering stones, stood the alchemist, his eyes sparkling with a thousand moons. Under the alchemist's tutelage, Jack learned the valley's secrets, the dance of elements, and the whispers of the stars. He discovered that the true alchemy wasn't in transmuting lead to gold but in transmuting one's fears into courage and doubts into conviction. But as weeks turned into months, a nagging question sprouted in Jack's mind. Why was he chosen? Why was he entrusted with this knowledge, with this power? The answer, when it came, shattered his world. He learned Eleanor wasn't just the enigmatic bookseller but the guardian of the valley, the keeper of its secrets. And the book, the "Alchemist's Gambit," wasn't a map but a test, a whisper designed to lure and refine worthy souls. Jack, through his struggles and triumphs, had passed the test. But there was another truth, a whisper Eleanor hadn't shared. Jack wasn't just another seeker. He was the descendant of the valley's founders, his blood resonating with its magic. His arrival wasn't a coincidence but the culmination of generations, the valley reclaiming its lost son. The revelation hit him like a rogue wave, his past, present, and future swirling into a dizzying vortex. He learned that the true purpose of the valley wasn't just to hide but to preserve and safeguard the knowledge of a world on the brink of forgetting. Now imbued with the valley's magic and burdened by its legacy, Jack faced a monumental choice. He could stay, embrace his lineage, and become the valley's next guardian, safeguarding its secrets from a world that might not be ready for its wonders. Or he could return, armed with the knowledge and power he'd gained, and try to bridge the gap between the hidden and the ordinary, sharing the whispers of magic with a world thirsting for meaning. The decision tore at him. With its emerald embrace and whispers of ancient wisdom, the valley was a siren song, a tempting haven. But the outside world echoed in his heart with its cacophony of confusion and yearning. Seeing the turmoil within him, Eleanor spoke, her voice laced with the soft sigh of the wind through ancient pines. "The choice, dear Jack," she said, "is not about where you belong but what story you write. The valley is your sanctuary, your anchor, but the world needs your whispers, too. Go, if you must, share the stardust you've gathered, the lessons you've learned. But remember, the valley will always be your home, a haven for your weary soul." With a heavy heart, Jack bid farewell to the ageless villagers, the alchemist's twinkling eyes etched in his memory. He emerged from the hidden valley, the first rays of dawn painting the world in hues of hope. The outside world seemed different now, the mundane thrumming with an unseen magic. He saw the whispers of the stars reflected in city lights, the echo of the waterfall's rhythm in the rush of traffic. He started small, planting gardens on concrete terraces, whispering tales of alchemy to wide-eyed children in libraries. He taught origami birds to take flight from sterile office windows, their paper wings whispering of hidden valleys and forgotten spells. Slowly, subtly, he began to weave the valley's magic into the fabric of the everyday. One day, while speaking at a local university, he met Amelia, a brilliant astrophysicist whose eyes held the same yearning for something beyond the known. Together, they embarked on a quest, not for hidden valleys but for the whispers of magic hidden within the tapestry of the cosmos. They delved into ancient texts, hunted for celestial anomalies, and deciphered the forgotten language of the stars. Their journey led them to remote corners of the world, scaling snow-capped mountains to listen to the whispers of glaciers and diving into turquoise oceans to hear the heartbeat of coral reefs. With each discovery, they unraveled the interconnectedness of all things, the delicate dance of energy that binds planets and people, stars and stories. Years passed, their quest morphing into a shared mission. They built a research institute, a haven for like-minded souls, a place where science and magic intertwined, where whispers from the past guided the search for a sustainable future. Jack and Amelia, their love story woven into the tapestry of their shared purpose, became symbols of hope, proving that the whispers of magic, once shared, could bloom into a brighter reality. But the journey was not without its thorns. Those who feared the unknown, who sought to control rather than understand, opposed them. Jack and Amelia faced ridicule, skepticism, and even threats. Yet, they persevered, their resolve fueled by the whispers of the valley, the echo of Eleanor's smile, and the unwavering belief in the transformative power of shared stories. One night, under a sky ablaze with a million stars, Jack sat by a crackling fire, Amelia nestled in his arms. He traced the constellations etched on his wrist, the valley's map forever imprinted on his skin. He knew then that the true story wasn't about hidden valleys or forgotten magic but about the courage to share it, to rewrite the narrative of a world teetering on the brink. As the fire crackled, embers danced like fireflies, carrying whispers of hope on the wind. And somewhere, within the emerald embrace of the hidden valley, Eleanor smiled, her eyes like pools of stardust, reflecting the light of a thousand stories yet to be told. The last embers died down, leaving behind a canvas of ash and whispers. But the story, like the constellations forever etched in the night sky, held the promise of a brighter dawn, a world where the magic of the hidden and the wonder of the everyday danced in perfect harmony, all thanks to the whispers shared by a seeker named Jack.


*By Bebe Smyth, South Sun Gazette* *“Demolition of the old New Castle technology buildings in Commerce Park West was halted today after workers discovered the skeletal remains of a human being. Crime scene investigators were called in to help identify the remains. The New Castle technology buildings were abandoned three years prior as the parent corporation made moves to consolidate properties during the last economic downturn in the technology sector. City planners had rezoned the commerce area for residential use. Demolition is slated to resume Tuesday morning.”* Fred tunneled his eyes onto the monitor, pressed hard on the power button, and leaned forward. It was 7:00am, too early for any life to be stirring about the cubicle farm. Not that he would notice anyway. The machine booted (slowly), Fred entered his access password (#1TopDog), opened the e-mail app and clicked on the first new mail, something from corporate. Fred scanned quickly the standard corporate blurb; smiley greetings from the CEO; cheery few sentences about last quarter and the company making great strides; attitude and determination of all employees was key for continued progress. In total it was a collection of snappy inspirational clichés. That was the set up. The email continued on, not enough progress; tough times; competition, and unexpected shifts in the market place. The last lines gamboled on about the value of the individual, their importance, their spirit and the need for continued commitment that will lead to future success. I’m sure of it. Then he scanned the rest of his inbox. Before him a long list of emails from conference organizers, subscriptions of interest, daily updates. But the email that he looked for, the one of highest interest to his situation, was not there. He knew the plant was closing, he just didn’t know when. Fred exhaled a silent stream of exasperation. He read on but found nothing directly addressed to him. Just a continuum of corporate spam; Meeting Minutes, production announcement, customer success stories. By eight Fred was ready to move onto the next part of his routine - which started by brewing a fresh pot of coffee. He rose slowly from his desk; it was a task to raise his head after being fixed to the screen for an hour. He had to fight against gravity, or scoliosis in order to rise up. Years of hunching over a screen had turned the heads, necks and backs of colleagues into an s shaped curve. In the past, many of those walking around, reminded him of the comical parody “walking like an Egyptian”. They were gone now, let go ahead of the final plant closing. These deformed individuals, with their feelings of importance and corporate self-worth, were gone. Too bad Fred thought as he ratcheted his ass up slowly from his cubicle. His staying power rested on keeping a low profile. As his ass finally gained space from his chair he proceeded to the coffee machine, head down, eyes averted. Eye contact with the wrong manager could be dangerous. The coffee machine stood disgustingly bleak and alone in the break room, just another reminder of corporate cost cutting measures. The corporate sponsored coffee service had stopped long ago. How long he couldn’t remember. It still really ticked him off. He grunted low, with some disgust of this poor excuse for a break room. That growling sound made him feel defiant. But it was a sound made only for himself, because Fred never openly complained. “Nope, not going down that path” he reminded himself. Rule #1 - complainers go first. Just keep your mouth shut and focus. Be steady, one step at a time, keep a low profile. It was a strategy that worked. At least the water was still free. Fred filled the coffee machine with enough water for 2 cups. Staring at the Pyrex coffee pot, looking intently at the water Fred grunted again to himself. Well maybe it’s free, but it’s not looking to good lately. Maybe the brown tint was just coffee residue from the previous millions of pots of coffee. Maybe it came like that from the faucet. Maybe it was his eyes going bad from years of staring at a computer screen. He filled the coffee filter with his own store bought coffee, clicked on the machine and waited for the brew to begin. The coffee machine gargled and perked, and the coffee aroma filled Fred’s nostrils in a most gratifying way. When all the bubbling and gargling was over and the last drops of brown fluid dripped from the machine, Fred poured his coffee, added creamer and took the first cautious sip. Ahhh. This would be the best part of his day. The caffeine jolted his body awake and cleared his head. The gratification went right to his bones. His heart fluttered and he took a deep breath. Well, no sense hanging around the coffee pot. Loitering doesn’t help your company profile. Best to take your cup and move back to the cube as quick as possible. Walking back slowly to his cube Fred heard the ominous sound of electricity beginning to fail. A hard click of relays implanted somewhere in the bowels of the building. Fred couldn’t remember if he had left open his file on competitive benchmarking and marketing analysis, a huge compendium of a report that he had been working on for over a year now. Damn, I’m going to lose work, he thought, and in the next breath he cursed the IT department because his backup power supply never came back from repair. Fred began the race back to his cube hoping to close the file before the machine came to a dead stop. A ridiculous race to catch a file before all the electricity ebbed from his machine. He scurried in a jerky motion as quickly as his gimpy legs would carry him. As he raced he could feel the palpitation in his chest growing into a full hard thump. Ignoring the thump in his chest Fred listened to the sound of things whirring to a standstill, in his head he estimating the time before shut down, quickening his pace and keeping his feet moving. I’ll just make it he thought optimistically. Fred came to his cube row as things stopped completely. Spurring himself on his gait became gangly and awkward, the last steps to his cubicle were frantic and panic stricken. He plopped down into his swivel chair, the hard thump in his chest became a giant knot and he gasped for breath. It was a knot that quickly cut off his air and made him nauseous. Fred was able to gasp a breath, but he already knew this was a heart attack. Damn this will cause a commotion. He leaned over and vomited into his waste basket. He needed help quickly. He grabbed for a desk phone, something he hadn’t used in months, but there was no dial tone. Fred sputtered, and then slumped forward onto his desk as the lights went out. Thirty minutes later, in the twilight of the deserted office building one could hear the scurrying and scratching sounds of rodents stirring. Their interest had been peaked, and shortly thereafter the mutilation began. His body was found, at least what was left of it, 2 years later, right before the old New Castle Technology building was demolished. The story was initially reported in the South Sun Gazette. A follow up story reported on the identity of the bones found, one Fred Foster a former employee of New Castle Technologies. The mystery of what Fred was still doing there remained. CSI could not provide any conclusive evidence of foul play, and could not answer the question of how the bones of Fred Foster ended up inside a building that had been vacant for almost 3 years now. New Castle Technologies did acknowledge that Fred Foster was at one time an employee of the company, but he had been terminated along with several other colleagues almost three years ago. A spokesperson for New Castle could not answer or would not comment on how Fred’s body had found it’s way back into the building. And that was the end of it. Almost. Mary Conner, a second line HR Director, remembered the New Castle building having visited the site several times. The last time was to go over the closing schedule. She didn’t remember any of the employees there and only had a vague remembrance of her counterpart on site, an older lady who was ready for retirement and just counting down the days. But her curiosity had been peaked when she saw the story in the Sun Gazette. Over the course of the next five or six weeks, Mary spent a few moments of her spare time working on her “hobby” as she called it. She pieced together these details: Prior to plant closing corporate had moved Fred to a global responsibility. However the manager in charge had been on vacation and somehow the transfer was never actually authorized. The transferring manager had been let go in the last downsizing as well, so Fred was somehow a free floating element in the corporate innards. There was no one who clearly owned the headcount of “Fred”. So Fred never did get an email. As far as corporations go, New Castle Technologies operated much in the same way as every other corporation. Whether or not someone claimed Fred as a headcount, the IT department kept providing services to a one Fred Foster and billing this to a global headcount bucket that held all the miscellaneous contractors and temps that filled jobs on an as needed basis, and as long as IT got paid it provided service, no matter where the individual sat. Their world was virtual and they had little concern for actual location. That provided at least a theory as to what Fred, or his remains might have been doing in the abandoned building. But she thought further and asked herself why someone didn’t notice a car left for days in a parking lot unattended. She hypothesized that most likely someone did notice the car in an empty parking lot. Someone who could hot wire it, chop it up and sell the parts. Mary sat pensively in her cubicle staring at her screen. She felt satisfied with this hypothesis. In her mind she had elevated herself from HR Director to CSI agent. She smirked to herself, but understood there was no way to share this victory. No one to tell. Don’t stir the pot Mary, that was her motto. She hunched over, focused on her screen, and clicked to open the next email.


The invincible man sat on the edge of his bed and thought about death. He had thought about this almost every day since he was a young man, but more and more since he had hit seventy; thirty-odd years ago. The old man missed his friends very badly, and he envied them. *A flash of scarlet and sapphire, flickering from one to another, cutting them down in the blink of an eye.* Back straightening and creaking as he rose slowly, tendons defying age as they did every day, the man pottered across the small bedroom. Wallpapered by photographs and newspaper clippings, the room barely contained the man, his bed and his little wooden dresser adorned with picture frames. *Holding his fingers to his temples, he worms inside their brains. All he has to do is crush the right capillaries and they fall to the ground, mentally castrated.* Pulling a clean white dress shirt and a pair of only semi-wrinkled slacks out of the little dresser, the man pulls open his bedroom door, trudging through the threshold into the bathroom. Glancing only briefly in the bathroom mirror, he wills his arms over his head to pull off his nightshirt, revealing wrinkled yet unscarred skin as he steps into the shower. *Earth itself rising up to condemn them to a living burial; swallowing them whole in loam and soil.* The old man drags himself back into the bedroom, pulling a green smock - decorated with a little tag reading DEAN, ASSISTANT MANAGER off a hook on the door a little reluctantly. He makes the mistake of glancing down at the minefield of memory he has placed on the little dresser - a picture of seven costumed men and a woman, golden medals around their necks and smiles on their faces. An imperceptible shake of the head and the man is on his way outside again, reentering a world he no longer belongs in. ***Excerpt from “Requiem for the American Superhero” Chapter 1.*** “Freedom Force Clobbers the Krauts! Axis on the Retreat!” At first, nobody took them seriously. Eight people in costume, including a woman and a Negro? It was a news media ploy that would just wind up leaving eight more Americans dead, at the end of the day. That sentiment lasted about a week, until Adam punched a U-Boat in half. As more and more tales of the Force’s exploits began to sweep through New York and Chicago and Dallas, people started clamoring to find out more about these American demigods, the feeling shifting from mistrust to adoration. Radio news programs began distributing pulpy promos for each member of the team, the copy handed down direct from the US military. *“The Blur sprints faster and faster towards Allied victory!”* *“Cosmonaut dispenses intergalactic justice to the Axis of Evil!”* *“Adam Amazing carries the flag of freedom, family values and American might!”* Young men clamored for information about the supernaturally beautiful Gaea, who could reportedly open the Earth to swallow packs of Nazis whole. Toy stores began selling Freedom Force action figures, including a Stuntman figure that was fireproof, waterproof and drop-resistant and a Genius figure whose brain hummed and vibrated when switched on.