Once, and never again, Death did not come. Everywhere was blackness. Faces blotted through the shadows like inky letters bleeding from one page to another, staining layers of the King’s miasmic manifesto who sat upon his throne surrounded by the darkness as if afloat a pond reflecting stars betwixt a forest shrouded in night, entranced with fear by the hellish play twinkling in the sky above that plagued his sleepless mind with paranoia. Every rasping breath bulged his milk-glass eyes wide in terror of what lies beyond the veil of light. He dared not to move, fearful that the star-stippled surface would shatter like glass, casting him into the unknown darkness below. The stillness whispered, It is coming, It is coming, It is coming. ¥ The Prince laid across his bed drenched in dappled sunlight, lazing the day by wont of One Hundred delicate fingers feeding his every pleasure in wait of wake for him to rule a million fingers more that would mould his tomorrow. On this day, like any other, where deliciousness has lost its meaning in monotony, this day would offer medicine and pride would name it poison, spreading its sickness to every soul until wellness has become a festering idol. The Prince ventured from his palace and so crossed the threshold from paradise to not, his stare hardening to stone in the lowly place, casting indifference to the filthy mouths espousing pathetic pleas for little things. What a pity, he thought, to waste wishes on practically nothing. Suddenly, the Prince’s wrist was seized by a beggar, whose bright stare smoldered the prince’s stony gaze unto great obsidian mirrors, evoking within their reflections a pestilent demon there to drag the Prince to the fiery pits. The beggar spoke, You do not have tomorrow, for you are already dead. Even this moment is beyond your grasp. So, what will you do now, when you have nothing left? The royal guard pulled the beggar away and the Prince shouted in his trail, Hang him! Hang him! Hang him! ¥ Strung by foot and hanged before the court, above royal flagstone and below the sunken eyes of the King’s throne, the beggar stared into the void of his damnation. Yet his smile never faded and instead the grave visage was crowned, shaking in horrific wait of their dark angelic guest who haunts the peripheries of his waking nightmares. No words were said at the beggar’s trial, but the King’s tremored hand signaled, On with it And the hand of the executioner dragged his ceremonial blade across the beggar’s throat. The Prince at his father’s right could not stifle his mirth at the sight of what he created. The beggar’s life flooded over his face, raining upon the earth, and death flashed before his eyes. At the King’s left stood a great sorceress. She watched the hanged man fade into that great, mortal slumber and in that moment saw the one who travels in between falling grains of sand, the one who gives meaning to the space between where things once were, the reaper of souls sown by the other one, and its name is Death. The beggar’s smile only stretched further, his hands struggling in knots tied behind his back as he yearned to take Death’s sweet kiss in full embrace, like a lover returned from war. And then- he was gone, all but his rapturous grin. The Sorceress flinched and all the wind left her lungs as Death turned and looked into her, only to disappear within the next instant. She looked down to the seated king, whose eyes remained peeled in trepidation. Only then did she notice the bubbles floating around his head. Lowering to her king’s ear, she whispered, My lord, I can help you. ¥ The next day, the Prince laid amongst his usual pleasures, sorely in need of celebrating his retribution. With the last bite of his mid-day feast, his two most loyal guards dragged him across the palace to a hidden cell well beneath the court. He was allowed to scream for help along the way. The torch-lit cell cast monstrous features that writhed across the faces of the King, the Sorceress... ...and the executioner. Father? Asked the Prince. Silver chains were shackled into place around the Prince’s ankles and then everything was upside-down. Why? Asked the Prince, and the King stared with a terrible intensity into the Prince’s panicking eyes. The Sorceress said something nearly inaudible over the Prince’s exasperating breath. No! Squealed the Prince, as the executioner traced the Prince’s neck from ear to ear. His scream collapsed and gurgled until the short breath evaporated into a numbing warmth that spread across his throat. He watched the shadows flicker like unholy masks over the faces familiar to him since birth. His gaze followed the blood streaming from his head, dripping to the floor atop some newly painted glyphs and symbols that had begun to pulse brighter with every weakening pulse of his heart. He became aware of the Sorceress still speaking some babbling language that fell on his cold ears. Her thumb wiped blood from his eyes, and he watched her anoint the King’s vision with his death. The Prince felt the last beat of his heart and the tears that striped the red stains upon his face, but most of all, he felt fear as deeply dark as the forever night of which he hanged in wait. Below the Prince glowed a pool of black light, glittering along the cavernous walls like smoky reflections through rose tinted dew. Those anointed by blood given and blood taken froze upon the sudden appearance of the hooded one who stood before them. It observed the Prince with deep reverie and the Prince stared back into Death’s loving regard, unable to scream. The Sorceress drew a sharp breath and declared the King’s petition, Death! We offer you the most valuable life in the land, The Prince’s years for the King, To live and to rule, His royalty commands it. The dripping from the Prince’s throat ceased to pitter against the stone floor and out rang a steady trickle through the silence as the King shuddered in incontinence by primal terror, for there stood the star of his shadowy obsession. But, the King of all specters would not face the King of the living, and Death did not take the Prince away. Bubbles filled the cell from beyond Death’s hood, bursting as quickly as they appeared, and with them, Death was gone. Once again, the Prince had begun to breathe raggedly through his mouth and sputtering throat. ¥ Death did not stop the King and the Sorceress. Every day, the tortures descended deeper into hellish visions lived by a prince who Death refused; and every day, the Prince cursed the King through bloodshot eyes charred with hate and doused with sadness, meeting the faded gaze bared wide in desperate horror and madness. His fingers, gnarled to the bone from clawing at his ankles to relieve the silver manacles grasp, would trace the scar that smiled across his throat as a nightly parting gesture, releasing his father from his cell as the bubbles would once again appear like hundreds of orbs of divinatory damnation. Perhaps, Hell can only exist without the promise of Death’s kiss. After countless nights of anguish, the ghost of the beggar appeared to the hanged prince. ¥ The King sat in grief, watching his hands crumble to dust with the world he shaped sinking through his grasp, growing heavier and heavier, all around him nothingness. He thought of the Prince, a pulp of a man whose cause was lost the moment life persisted. There was nothing left to do but free his son; and so, the King decided to free the Prince3⁄4 after one year of fasting, lest the Prince seek revenge, his strength would be given back by the father. What to do about Death? Surely, it would not refuse a kingdom. What happened next would start with those whose life is most pure, the ones with the most potential. And if they are not given to the King, the sea will wash away any trace of stubborn bloodline stains, for the mighty will not be refused. ¥ A specter, given form by the Prince’s last wish, like the birth of some Djinn cursed to exist by curse for curses sake, haunted the hanged man who breathed his fate and wasted away in silver chains, linked like devil’s tongues, locking the gate to paradisal gardens and licking one’s feet with blood drawing laps in every step to the place beyond salvation’s rainbow. The Specter spoke, What will you do now? Knowing tomorrow is dead, as is yesterday, and indeed so are you now? What will you do, knowing life is also there, that the kingdom is laid within you? The Prince held the image of the ghost as it faded into surrounding darkness, his evaporation punctuated with a smile. ¥ Chariots arrived at the King’s gate. Adorned in jewels atop silk cushions were served babbling babes, their milky breath cooing and stirring the pretty bubbles that always seemed to float throughout the palace. The executioner’s blade would never dull by so tender the flesh. Still, he sharpens while his body shakes. ¥ A family with nothing held fast to one another as they walked into the thunderous twilight sea, its great maw foaming, without ever a scream. ¥ In the shadows beyond the bars of his cell, the Prince could feel the form of something watching him. Father He said, slipping into unconsciousness... He was a boy. The halls of the palace seemed larger than ever, as if he knew there were rooms he had never been before but must go to now. Yes, that’s right, he needed to recite vows of servitude to an awaiting ceremony crowded with all the royal family and with father’s allies so that one day he may receive the crown without tumult. But he could not recall a single verse, nor whenever was the last he practiced. Without this speech, he could never become king. Wait, someone was following him. The Prince ran down hall after hall, this mysterious man, no, men , in quick pursuit. There was a secret passage within a storage closet that opened to rooms behind rooms. The Prince desperately crawled through the hidden entrances, only known to him for as long as he could remember. But he made too much noise, no matter how quietly he tried to move, and once again they were right at his feet as he crawled through chute-like tunnels that snaked their way from floor to floor, up and up, from platform to platform, men barely more than an arm’s length away, crawling as fast as possible, arms and legs burning with exhaustion. Finally, he reached the top of some spire with nowhere else to run and nothing else to do but fight. As the men piled out of the miniature service tunnel onto the small spire balcony, the prince pummeled them with heavy fists that died on impact, landing seemingly without any effect. The men towered over him, surrounding the Prince with statuesque expressions of horrible apathy. He cowered before them and put on a mask of peace, bargaining to placate the awful strangers. Forgive me, all is fine. Said the prince, backing away from the convocation of dangerous men. It seemed to be working, and the men only stood, appeased by his submissiveness. He spied a broken section of the balconies guard rail and positioned himself opposite to it, allowing one of the men to stand between himself and the impossibly high drop. The prince pushed him with all his might, yet the man was like a wall and all that fell was the Prince’s mask. He stood inflamed with dread upon his bare self, shame and fear fuming from his burning soul exposed to the audience who saw his core. He ran for the passageway, pulling himself from their grips, and crawled like a rabid fox between cavernous rocks, clawing deeper and deeper, exasperated breath, into a hopeless pit of pain and insanity, to be devoured in the grips of beasts or entombed within forgotten walls. ... The Prince awoke breathless and searched for the scream that burned within. Silver cuffs around his ankles prickled with the numbing reminder of Hell lost. A voice was at his ear. When was your last meal? Asked the ghost. ¥ No matter how much blood the King spilled day after day, he withered more and more to the persistent spell of time. All he was left with in his bargaining with Death were iridescent bubbles, unobtainable spheres of existence that reflected his failure and reminded him of the mass grave of expended youth, a choking sea, and the ever-present last breath of the ensuing black angel’s departing gift. He sat atop his throne, trembling over a silent kingdom of ghosts, his mind a boiling pot of cries burrowing through his skull that strangled his throat and heart. The King did not realize the Sorceress had entered the court until she was right before him, and in her hands was a basket with a loose hanging cover with something quietly mumbling beneath. The Sorceress drew the blanket aside, revealing the newly born prince of a neighboring kingdom. ¥ Four seasons had come to pass. What remained behind nothingness was madness and a king whose reign washed away the innocence that could have stayed. All that is young has gone, drowned in a flood as red as the anger that flowed through the man who lost what he had taken. The world did not crumble, but the hands that held it so tightly have become a ruined wonder atop a cathedra. Armies from every neighboring kingdom surrounded the decrepit King’s palace, pounding upon his door for revenge of a generation lost, like the heart of wrath in the heat of battle. The King’s guards carried him to the Prince’s cell amid the blazing pandemonium to deliver him into freedom on the anniversary of imprisonment. Laid atop the carved sigil, the Prince looked as if he were some preserved ancient corpse, skin and bones, but with rasping breath cursed never to cease. In the year of emaciation, the Prince’s skeletal feet had slipped through the silver cuffs. He was heaped in a pile like a severed marionette beneath the chains that had become home. Pain was a transient thing3⁄4 the sole of his existence, for in its venomous hiss was the song of bliss, a fire crackling to birth and to raze. The King looked over the Prince and fell to his knees. Why are you killing me? The King cried to the Prince. He continued. We are a dynasty of blood and dust. I leave it to you, for I am afraid I must be going now. With his last bit of strength, the Prince stroked his father’s cheek, then his arm collapsed to the stone floor. Tears ran down the King’s gaunt cheekbones as he was carried from the cell. The gate was left open. All that was left for the Prince to do was stare at the portal to his impossible freedom and listen to the fall of his kingdom. The King’s guards placed him atop his throne as the palace doors splintered with every huff and puff of the peoples’ fury. His bones quaked in the deafening cacophony of the fallens’ trumpet blares, crying revolution without salvation. The Sorceress stood before the door, chanting incantations of protection, her words mute against their coming perdition. Bubbles floated from the dark corona of the King’s crown, his eyes were fog suffocated torches bulging red and white. His mouth hung open like a puddle quivering in a storm. Every nerve was exploding with terror for the demons were here for him and they carried torches anointed with the fires of Hell. And then, the door was felled in a final release of carnal rage, flattening the Sorceress as if she were a grape. Hordes of villagers and soldiers rushed the throne. ¥ Unable to move, the Prince could not pull his eyes from the open doorway. He listened as the people stormed the palace, their shouting and crashing knotted together. It sounded like the world was being born. There was a scream that drowned out all other noise and then the finale of applause and cheers. In the delirium of revolution, the Prince watched as bubbles floated in from the hall. What will you do now? The Prince heard. He took his last breath, completely and utterly in love with the beauty of the dancing light flashing so delicately before him in those bubbles, and all that was left of him was a smile. In Death’s kiss so too is there God’s breath of life. Air filled the once-prince’s lungs and strength surged through his body. The sudden wind shocked him into a gasping awareness of newly born eyes and his flesh electrified in every brush he experienced for the first time again. He re-learned how to stand and took his first step across the threshold of his prison, emerging from a cave into ruins. The halls stretched on seemingly forever and he loved every step before stopping at the throne room’s entrance, seeing the remaining carnage of an idolized kingdom. He saw the royal crown laid mangled near the charred remains of the throne and the headless man who occupied its seat. The once-prince left the palace for the last time and chose an old road he had never traveled, picking figs along the way, and smiling as the juice ran so sweetly from his lips. The End


The unbearable thing about living is not so much being but being oneself . God put billions of us into the world and gave us all, as a joke, our own life and morals. The universe never planned on me, or you, only some specimens based on the original model. Like a car, each made of the same essential central engineering. The only difference being the license plate. For a human, the license plate is their face, the accidental and unrepeatable accumulation and assortment of features which reflects neither character nor soul. My face is a particularly ratty one, with big yellowish teeth. My eyes are quick and clever, like a rat's, and my ears are slightly pointed at the top. The few hairs left on my scalp are grey, again, like that of a rat, and when I am not in costume, my clothes are usually of a similar color. Everyday for the past fifty-something years I’ve analyzed my visage through my small tabletop mirror, referring, with some slight aesthetic modifications, that very rodent face back onto a canvas. Throughout my years as a professional artist I have painted some twelve-thousand works. Despite the monotony, I can’t say I love it any less than the first time I picked up a brush. There is a constancy to it that is extremely comforting to a person of routine and habit such as myself. I wake up early every morning, at precisely five-thirty, and make myself a strong cup of coffee. No sugar, no milk. As soon as the sun is up I go on my usual walk through the woods behind the house. I have done this for sixty years and at the age of eighty-eight, I can say it has done me some good. There's nothing like regularity for maintaining one's peace of mind. Whenever I am forced to exclude or exchange something out of my routine, such as with bad weather, it causes a certain upheaval within my body, like a new bird in a cage of canaries. At eleven o’clock Caroline, my one and only friend -- or better said, former friend -- comes by to talk and make lunch. She is a very short woman, at least twenty years my junior, with an ashen face and a frosty, determined look which I used to appreciate. The lips are always pressed together and her large chest sticks out like a plump, ruffled bird. A week before she ruined our relationship with that self-obsessed character of hers, and sent me rushed to the hospital, she was making soup. I watched her put the pot on the stove and stir it with my long metal spoon until it came to the boil. As it simmered on the fire we spoke, per usual, about my work. I confess, for however long it lasted, she was excellent company. The bird-like creature was just as lonely as me. Just as desperate for human contact. And, had we met not four but twenty years ago, perhaps we could have been more than simply friends. But I diverge. As I said, Caroline was my only friend, and for a man such as myself, brimming with bright ideas and equally interesting theories, I was quick to tell her everything, despite my otherwise secretive nature. Secrecy was, after all, pivotal to my line of work. On that particular morning, a day before she handed me her so-called “present” and promptly destroyed our friendship, I was telling her about my most recent painting. “I have positioned myself on a deck chair in front of a big, sloping hill in front of my house in Chianti. The grass is freshly mown, a nice parakeet green. On my right,” I say, closing my eyes, envisioning the piece, “on my right stand two rose bushes in full bloom. The scarlet begonias are out too, and so are the hybrid lupins and the irises. Somewhere off in the distance stands a mysterious figure. The gardener. Or, no, I think I’ll call him the Messenger of Death. An artist, Caroline, must always be contemplating their death.” “Lovely,” Caroline said admiringly, her small bird like eyes opening and closing quickly, like wings in flight, “you’ve been very fond of your house in Chianti lately, haven’t you?” As I said earlier, Caroline was excellent company. She instigated where I wanted to be questioned, expelled the things I did not want to address. And, most importantly, she was ready to believe anything. Of course, I do not have a house in Chianti. My entire body of work is a fraud and a lie. To those who knew the truth anyway. Which was nobody. That is the small price to pay for a lonely existence. You can mold and remold yourself however you please, and create your own immortality accordingly. For the past fifty years a secret plan had been brewing in my mind. After all, I live in Austria, the country of Freud. Like him, I wanted to create my own, distinctive causa-sui project. A personal stepping-stone towards inevitable success after my death. Like Van Gogh, Egon Schiele, Paul Gauguin, Amedeo Modigliani, Jean-Honore Fragonard. And in the process, give my life meaning beyond my life, and transcend my human limitations. To be mortal is the most basic of human experiences, and yet, if one is really truthful to themselves, we cannot accept it, grapple with it, and behave accordingly. Man simply does not know how to be mortal . Can we be blamed? Every day our bodies show marks of our forthcoming demise. My obsession with immortality began when I was thirty, when I figured live wasn’t worth the living anymore. Instead of killing myself (despite everything my Wille zum Leben was incredibly strong), I decided to simply stop existing, and start preparing for my reputation when I was no longer around to defend it. Immortality, to me, meant being loved by strangers while I could not even love myself. It meant living in the admiration of women, children, men, yet to be born. Since then I have lived an isolated existence, alone in my small house here, in the outskirts of Vienna, and changed my name to Günther Von Neumann. I sign all my paintings with the initials GVN, and the false letters I write to myself all start with that name also. Günther the bachelor, Günther the artist, Günther the generous socialite, Günther the flâneur, the philosopher, the Austrian Gatsby. Caroline, the antisocial house cat, was the only person I shared my posthumous desires with. After all, we spoke everyday. As the broth sat on the stove, we made our way to the veranda, where I worked during the spring and summer months. The room was warm and clean, the curtain wide open, four easels each baring a canvas stood in every corner. Two were practically finished, two had strange red brush strokes painted on them, like Chinese characters. The art of painting is simply putting some strokes on a blank canvas. It’s like having a drink before a date. It breaks the ice. Leaning up against the walls, some vertical, some horizontal, stacked on top of one another, were my canvases. At least three-hundred in that small room alone. Upstairs in the attic are another three-hundred, in my storage room, which is full to the brim, another four-hundred. Günther is as generous in daily life as he is with painting. Gestural, quick, unsparing, slobs of paint cover the otherwise flat surfaces, none of which take me longer than a day or two to make. From my long veranda windows, one can see the garden. It is a fine garden, with a small pond and two rose bushes. The wind is strong during the spring, making the leaves hiss and crackle as if on fire. Though I rarely sit outside, I have two deck chairs, and a small white table for reading. “This is the Chianti piece I was telling you about,” I told her, pointing at one of the four easels. “It’s very beautiful. It fits perfectly with yesterday’s pool scene.” “That’s what I thought as well. I wrote this postcard to go with it,” I told her, handing her an envelope, with a stamp and everything, “from Günther to Rosalia. Never sent. I suspect people will wonder why he never did. Could it be a change of heart? A sudden bout of uncharacteristic anxiety? Did he hear a rumor? Was she getting married to someone else? Is there a new person in his life? Really, the options are endless.” “It’s incredibly romantic.” “It is, isn’t it? Tomorrow I plan on taking Günther and several of his male friends to a party in Florence. That night he will return home entirely drunk, and create a very fun, quick little canvas of his evening.” “Incredible.” In a small journal Caroline jotted down everything I said. Her thin fingers darting from one side of the page to the other, like a mouse trapped in a small room. Though at first I had been hesitant, the written word was a dangerous thing if used against you, I also knew she was just as lonely as me, even more so. At least I had my cat. After speaking for some twenty, thirty minutes, she got up and went to the kitchen while I put the finishing touches on the Chianti scene. I could hear her cutting the vegetables and putting them into the broth. Some onions, a few potatoes, a handful of carrots. I was incredibly grateful for her presence, and found myself missing her dearly whenever she left. After lunch we said our goodbyes. I slept for some two, three hours, legs neatly placed on my ottoman, both arms crossed on my chest, snoring. Then at four I made myself a strong cup of whisky to get myself ready for Günther’s party scene. After three hours of concentrated work, I signed the piece, ate the leftover soup, and went to bed, satisfied. The next morning I awoke at exactly five-thirty, made myself a strong cup of coffee, no sugar, no milk, as always. As soon as the sun came up I went on my usual walk through the woods behind the house, and waited for Caroline to arrive with her groceries. She was in an especially chipper mood, she chirped about this and that, and practically flew from one spot in the kitchen to the other. For the first time in four years she hardly let me speak. I admit, it was she who had, again, reminded me of my birthday. I liked Günther’s birthdate more, which was in the colder, more romantic autumn months. Far better than June. But Caroline preferred keeping to my own, and throughout our friendship she always came with a cake and made my favorite dish: Käsespätzle, which was simultaneously the clogger of my arteries and the reason my heart beat. The strong odor of cheese and onions hung in the air and made me salivate. “I have a present here with me. I can hardly wait to give it to you,” she said. “What is it? A canvas?” The package was small and rectangular, wrapped in some newspaper, and had Caroline not given it such importance I would have overlooked it entirely. “Of course not, you have enough of those. No, this is something I created for you .” From then onwards I forgot about the small box completely. For one, I had the Käsespätzle on my mind, and two, she simply wasn’t the creative type. That was me. In my mind, anything she made had the same appeal as a cat with a dead bird in its mouth. Lunch was excellent. For a short moment. She had mellowed down, how I liked her, and I was pleased to finally get some stage time to talk. I told her a long, and if I dare say, riveting story about Günther’s evening, and subsequent morning, which I read to her from his diary, like a snooping wife. The night before he had met a woman with a round, tanned face, tight and glimmering with subtle inward strength that was beautiful beyond words, and at which he stared all evening. I spoke for a long time. All the while Caroline seemed to coil into herself, as if jealously safeguarding a secret. In hindsight, I should have known her light grey eyes moved too quickly about the room, without her usual diligence and attendance, never settling on one thing for more than a moment. If I had been more observant, I would have noticed those small, faint upturned lines of anticipation placed neatly on both sides of her mouth. “Oh, I simply cannot wait any longer,” she said, as soon as I was done reading, “please open the present.” “Right now?” I said, annoyed. What could possibly be more important than Günther’s love life? “Please.” “Well, alright then.” I weighed the gift in my hands, then shook it. It was light, but not too light, flexible, but not too flexible. It was almost definitely a book. Perhaps she thought I could find some inspiration in it for my next work. I opened it slowly, trying not to break the wrapper, though it was only newspaper. The cover bore one of my own paintings. A long dining table, laid out for a feast. Tall candles stood at equidistance from one another, becoming periodically smaller and less detailed as they disappeared into the distance. A great magnitude of shining silverware, three wine glasses per person, white table clothe and silk serviettes. The title of the book was Günther Von Neumann: The Story of a Fabricated Existence. Under stood her name in shining white letters: Caroline Bauer. I reread the title several times over before the magnitude of the situation settled on me. A fabricated existence? Now everyone would know. That weasely, inhuman, rat of a woman. She had stolen my immortality from me. She had taken it with both hand, threaded it, then day by day unraveled it, and spun it into a web of her own. There I stood, at the age of eighty-nine, my death bed calling my name, stripped from the very thing keeping me alive for all those years. I was incredibly upset, I felt my breathe escape my nostrils in angry whiffs of air. At the same time, I couldn’t help but laugh. A strange cackling noise which scared even me. For as long as I could remember, I had tried to outrun my existential fears by painting a life which was not my own. In reality, all my work would have meant nothing more than a dinosaur’s distant cry anyway. Tears no one would remember. Perhaps I should have focused on living instead of dying while I was still alive. “I wanted to wait until your birthday to give it to you. It’s been in circulation for the past five months. It’s a best-seller! You’ll never have to worry about being forgotten again! I am writing the sequel as we speak.”


Since my trip to the center of the island, I found new questions creeping into my discussions with the traders by the shoreline. An old inquisitiveness was reemerging. I could feel a tweak of jealousy that they were going out again to see new places and I’d ask them the same things that had gnawed at me back on Kadear. *What’s the geography like? What’s the system of government? What’s the culture? What do they eat? What are they like?* I was sitting on the Deer Drum boat. The pole beans were now a metre high, small buds growing from the stems, soon to be harvested. Novak had borrowed Lachlann’s guitar while he was off exploring the island and was showing me the new tunes he could play. He hadn’t mastered it yet. Often the top string would be missed on the down strum, or his fingers gripped that fraction of a second too long, delaying the note. But he could play. The tunes were enough for others to recognize and hum along to the melody. I listened to Novak play, being an attentive audience. He was just finishing a rendition of an old nursery rhyme when Mirai walked up beside us. She looked out to sea with a smile on her face. “Oh, I’d recognize that boat anywhere." I pulled myself up and looked over the edge of the boat to see Alessia sailing towards us. Xander stopped attending to his plants and ran up to join as the boat pulled up alongside. “Well, if it isn’t the greatest merchant in the Archipelago returning to grace us with her presence.” Alessia scoffed. “Just throw us a rope.” We tied the boats up and lowered a ladder so Alessia could join us on the deck. “I thought I’d meet you later at the apartment,” I said as she clambered aboard. “I figured you’d be here. Anyway, I only really came to say I’m heading off again.” “Already?” Mirai pouted. “‘Fraid so,” Alessia smiled. “Arrived here this morning and met a guy immediately. Asked if I could go take some goods to Sneppath Head. Practically threw money at me to do it.” “You got to leave immediately?” I asked. “I figured I could stay here for an hour or two. Cargo’s already on the boat. Gonna be a good week’s sail to Sneppath Head.” We sat down on the quarterdeck and discussed the latest island she had been to. Soon though the conversation turned though to Talin Barier. “You still going back to that town at the center?” Alessia asked. “Yeah.” I replied, grimacing slightly. “Soured this place a bit for you hasn’t it?” Her tone was somehow both sympathetic and smug. “This whole island is meant to be about choice. But, they have none. Or at least... whatever they choose, the options end up terrible. They can never earn enough to escape.” Alessia leaned back in her chair. “Freedom to choose your own poison.” I nodded as a silence briefly took hold. Xander broke it. “Alessia, any news of Sannaz?” Alessia shook her head. “He’s vanished. I don’t know. Maybe he’s dead; drowned or angered the wrong person or something. Whatever he’s up to, he’s not making any noise.” Xander looked down at his feet. “I still just want to know why I guess. Not that it’ll make the pain better, or go away, but at least it’ll make sense.” “We’ll get answers.” Alessia leaned forwards and patted Xander’s knee. “I promise you.” \ Two weeks passed. I left the apartment around mid-morning, aware that Alessia was due back today. I looked forward to seeing her again. Her recent stops had been only fleeting visits before she disappeared again. As I closed the door behind me. I saw Eda heading to her office at the far side of the courtyard. I remembered Maia and how she longed to get a job that would give a better future for her son. It wasn’t an escape, but working for Eda would improve their lives. I decided that perhaps, I could try and make a small difference. Put some positive into the lives of two people living in that cruel slum. I walked around the upper walkway that overlooked the courtyard to Eda’s office. I knocked on the thick wooden door, the sound immediately muffled to a dull thud. “Come in.” I walked inside to find Eda standing behind a desk. It was a large wooden construction of deep mahogany that took up near two thirds of the room. The gap between the edge of the desk and the wall was so small that Eda would have to shuffle sideways just to get to the other side. Across the desk were strewn towers of papers, and while at first glance it seemed chaotic, they seemed to have been organized into specific piles. It was an organization system clinging onto structure, always on the verge of toppling over. Eda grinned upon seeing me. “Ferdinand. What can I do for you today?” I took a small, uncertain step forward. “I was hoping to speak to you about a job.” Eda laughed. “If you need to work for me you wouldn’t be living here.” I smiled and forced a small chuckle. “No. I know I’m only a tenant, but I know of someone who wanted to work here. And I wanted to say that I knew them, or have gotten to know them. They’re a very good person, kind, hard-working...” Eda looked up from the notes on her desk. “And who is this islander?” “Maia,” I took another step forward. A sudden moment of stupidity hit me. “I’m afraid I actually don’t know her last name.” “Certain she’s worth employing, but don’t know her last name. Quite the reference.” Eda folded her arms. “Sorry. I know it’s strange I just-” “-Relax,” Eda grinned. She flicked through a set of papers on her desk as she spoke. “Your lady came in last week. Contract signed. She’s employed. ‘Fraid she won’t have much time for you anymore though.” She lifted up a piece of paper and passed it across the desk. I read the first few lines, glancing at the name, position. Then I read a field that was titled “length of employment”. *Permanent. Life. No resignation.* I stared at the line, trying to ignore it and let it go, but it scratched away at my brain until it burrowed out. “This bit, ‘no resignation’, what does that mean?” “Well, it means she can’t leave. I paid her a lump sum up front, and now she works for me, for life.” “Doing what?” I squinted at Eda. “Whatever I tell her to,” Eda shrugged. “For the rest of her life, she now does whatever I tell her she can do.” “That...” I cut myself off. There was an emotion rippling away under my skin that I was trying to understand, trying to control. It grew, rising up, until I could recognize it clearly. Rage. “That sounds like slavery.” “Don’t be daft,” Eda chuckled as she waved her arm. “Slaves don’t choose. She chose this.” “So that her kid would make it to adulthood she sold her life.” My tone was flat, my eyes static. Eda’s face look confused, as if I were speaking another language. “And that’s her right to choose to make that decision.” “She had a choice between death and slavery-” “-No.” Eda cut me off with a snapped tone. “She could choose whatever she wanted. Get whatever job she wants. If she had the money she could buy her own courtyard and become a landlady like me. She came to me asking for a job, any job, I gave her one, and she *chose* to accept it.” “And now she’s locked in for life. To become your servant.” Both of our voices were slowly rising in volume. “Her choice.” “And if she later regrets that choice.” I leaned my head forward with the tilt of an angry bull. “We all have to live with the choices we made in the past. I do.” Eda pumped her chest with an odd pride. “Not like this,” I shouted. “She chose this. She signed. It’s done.” Eda smacked her hand against the desk, as the papers rustled slightly from the force. She shifted her gaze back to the papers on the desk and spoke to me out of the side of her mouth. “And now get out of my office before I kick you out of your apartment.” I could feel my cheeks burning red, my teeth gritting so tightly it felt like my mouth would be welded closed. I turned and left the building, walking down the courtyard steps as quickly as I could, desperate to get away from the apartment, away from Eda, away from whatever I might want to say next. I turned a couple of corners and marched down towards the harbor. My feet darted passed slower pedestrians as I walked down to the coast. My elbow occasionally brushed against them, the anger transferring briefly as they hollered after me to be more careful. Maia was trapped. Eda had used Maia’s desperation, her needs, to create a slave. The contract that was signed had never come from a negotiation. It was a hostage taking. The crisp morning sun brushed against my fiery cheeks, sweat leaked from the pores. My face felt suffocated, drowning in its own heat, my mind racing as I tried to understand how Eda could make such a decision. It felt that the rage wouldn’t quell, that it would just boil over until I screamed it out. I wanted to get to the ocean, stand on the shoreline, and shout my anger at the sea. I wanted the entire Archipelago to hear how angry I was. But as I reached the shore, I looked out, saw a boat, and all the emotions disappeared, replaced with something new: fear. The boat was a trading vessel, perhaps a tiny bit longer than Alessia’s. However it was ruined. It limped towards the shore with half a sail intact. The bottom half of the red sheet was completely torn away and there was a gash in the top corner of what remained. The front half of the hull was charred black and I could see a large section where the wood had been ripped apart, allowing larger waves to roll over the side and onto the deck. There was one man aboard. He held the wheel in his left hand. His right arm dropped by his side, the lower half of his sleeve painted red. He leaned against the wheel, using it to prop up his tired body. I walked around the beach, heading towards where the boat was destined to land. Others, seeing the same site, had begun to form a small crowd as the boat rolled onto the sand, coming to a complete stop. Two women immediately rushed to the man’s aid, placing their hands under his arms, and carrying him back down onto the beach. “What happened?” Someone in the crowd asked. “Attack. The harbour.” The man muttered between pained breaths. “There were explosions. Gunfire. I’m lucky I lived.” The man sat down on the sand as one of the women ripped off his shirt to inspect the wound on his arm. The skin had been ripped away and all that remained was a mess of sinew, muscle and bone. “Where did you come from?” A man from the crowd asked. The man braced his body, his face contorting, as the woman pulled the shift fabric down past the wound. He paused, regaining his composure before he replied. “Sneppath Head.” \ Next chapter published December 19th.


Wrote this short story, wanting some critique and thoughts.  Kyle is a mouse. Small, easy to miss, insignificant. All mice look alike, it’s only when they’re in a spot they’re not supposed to be, is when there’s an uproar. Swatted, stomped, shot, screamed at, very unpleasant events occur when mice aren’t where they’re supposed to be. Kyle had just got done with his chores, taking what little nuts and berries he could find, placing them in a small pile where they kept the food. He sighed knowing it will be empty before the sun sets. He glanced out the hole, seeing the wide, vast, empty landscape. Often he wondered if the haven his father raved about was just beyond the forest. That’s when he noticed his three friends huddled in discussion. “What’re you guys talking about?” Kyle inquired. “We got a plan to get more cheese!” squealed Piggy, the fattest yet smallest of the bunch. His tail was the shortest of them all, and in a rather unfortunate screwdriver accident, it was twirled like a spring. “But it requires us working with the rats,” Arnold, the smartest of the group, explained. “Why would the rats need our help?” Kyle asked, confused now. “They want the ‘good stuff’ in the cabinets,” answered Charlie. A clear displeased expression populated her face. No one was happy to work with the rats, you can never trust them. Always an angle with them. “Yeah, the stuff that’s also in the most dangerous area, the humans or the guard animals would spot us a mile away,” Arnold explained, “which is why they want us to draw them all away from the kitchen, long enough for them to grab what they need.” “They said it would only take a minute or two at most,” interjected a desperate Piggy, “Plus it will be at night, when they’re asleep! Plus they had some stuff to keep the cat out of the picture!” “It’s too dangerous Piggy,” Charlie concluded, “It could cost us our lives, and for what? Cheese? We have plenty of food here.” “No we don’t, we barely have enough for the burrow!”“That’s cause you eat for three mice,” Arnold snided.“We should have more than what we get! Why are they so adamant about not sharing it? They have plenty! It comes so easy to them!” Piggy’s face got red with frustration and disappointment. “It’s not worth our lives Piggy,” Charlie explained trying to coax the young one. “...Are we even living?” Pondered Kyle.The three looked at him. Charlie’s expression perplexed, Piggy glad someone sided with him, and Arnold concerned where he was going with this. “We get nothing but scraps from the pigs. Everyday we’re out there busting our humps just to have one meal, maybe. Meanwhile, they have enough food for us to move out of the burrow! If we had all that food, and cheese, we could make a pilgrimage to the Haven!” “Not this again Kyle,” sighed Arnold, “The Haven is nothing but nonsense the elders raved on for you to sleep peacefully.” “All of them were crazy? Your dad spoke of it too! How everyone has a hole of their own, eating like kings for every meal. Not having to worry about snakes, owls, cats, or humans. We all have it great!” “If it exists why did they run from it?” Charlie asked simply, crossing her arms. “They never got to it because they had children here,” Kyle explained, “Children that sometimes get eaten by our own for survival.” Piggy squealed in fear, remembering such tragedies, hiding behind Charlie. “Winter is soon you guys, if we don’t get food, the burrow is going to look like a blood bath,” Kyle concluded, “I say we risk it. For us and the burrow.” Charlie and Arnold looked at each other, hoping one of them would have a good argument against it. But it never came. “...alright, we’ll do it,” Arnold concluded, defeated by Kyle’s logic.The four got ready and rendezvous outside the farmer’s house as the sun set. In the distance, three large shadows approached them. The first of the rats, Iggy, stood out amongst them. His crooked mouth, eyes working independently of each other, and the shortest of the three. Next was Ziggy, tallest of the three, paying more attention to her nails than where she was walking. She looks at their leader, Scar. No one knows if he was born with that name or if he gave it to himself, either way one large scar ran down his left eye. Some say it was from a cat, others a snake, but whenever asked if it hurt, he always said that they should have seen the other one. “Alright, let’s talk business,” he began. His eye wandered to Iggy first, “You put the cat nip out?” “Yeh yeh yeh yeh,” Iggy furiously nodded, a wide green pleased with himself, “Right by its food, just like you said boss, just like you said!” “God stop repeating yourself,” Ziggy complained, annoyed at the ravings of the lunatic. “Sorry,” Iggy frowned, shutting his mouth. “Alright, so you mice need to split up and get to different parts of the house, and cause the biggest racket you can. Two minutes is all the mischief needs to get the food out. Think you can handle that?” Scar asked the four. “As long as you keep your end of the bargain, you can count on us,” Kyle concluded, determined to come out of this on top with his friends. “Let’s get to it,” Scar said simply. And with that, the parted ways and made their infiltration into the house. The house was of simple structure. One big kitchen, with one door leading outside to the back, and an arch that led into the living room. In the living room were the restroom and a set of stairs leading to the bedrooms. Inside the living room was an old television, standing on a sturdy short table, hanging so low only a mouse or cats toys could get lost under. A tall pole lamp stood next to the couch, barely balanced on its own. Kyle reached his spot first. Up near the ceiling rested a long series of shelves, housing decorative plates that the wife treasured as much as her marriage. Kyle knew this would be perfect. Charlie was next. Up on the counter laid some kitchenware. Most notable, a large cutting knife most likely used for separating meat. The smaller ones would make quite the ruckus, but the knife she knew to save for later. Piggy and Arnold both had the brilliant idea to climb up the lamp. A few swings would surely bring it crashing down. Piggy however was unsure of these actions. He looked to his elder and spoke, “Do you think the Haven exists?” Arnold had to stop and think for a moment, “Honestly Piggy, I don’t know. They say that if you do right, and work hard enough you can get there. But I have yet to meet someone who had truly come from such a place.”Piggy was silent the rest of the climb up, knowing that was the best answer Arnold could give him. As the clock struck 10, Heath, the guard dog, started his patrol of the house. While it was a small house, it was his, so he made sure to protect it. If he failed, he could never face the master again. He peeks out the little cat door where Mittens usually enters, only to see the cat on quite the trip. “Just what are you doing?” Heath interrogated. “I see all the stars, they are so wonderful Heath,” giggled the fat cat, “I hope the masters let us touch them soon.” “Quite being silly and get in here! You’ll get hurt tripping out there! Plenty of opportunists come at night.” “Oh fine, oh fine,” yawned Mittens as he slowly squeezed his way into the house, passing out as soon as he got his tail inside. Heath shook his head and continued his patrol. Kyle saw him enter the kitchen, sniffing for trouble. This dog may be sharp, but his nose was worthless in his old age. Kyle grinned and went to the furthest end of the plates, and whoosh. It fell in a flash, and made such a loud crash. Heath jumped and let out a loud bark. “Who goes there?!” Bellowed the old dog. Kyle snickered and began the tirade of pushing the plates down, one by one a crash could be heard. The old dog tucked his tail back, backing up and barking until his hind legs were all but pressed into the counter. Charlie saw this opportunity and pushed the knife down. SHHK!Heath cried out in agony, as the knife had slid into his leg. Blood spewed out all over the floor, he howled and squealed for help. “MASTER! MASTER HELP ME!” The old dog begged. A booming downstairs could be heard, the two farmers saw in horror the scene before them. Charlie quickly tried to hide, but the wife was too fast and grasps her by the tail. “Damn mice!” the wife screamed, “In my house!? How dare they!” She carried the squealing mouse toward the sink. Kyle screamed at them, trying to get them to let go. The wife was too disgusted to think. A switch was flipped and she dropped charlie into the garbage disposal. A loud shredding occurs, blood and gust splattering around. The wife puts the lid over it to contain the scene so it not get all over the sink. Kyle’s eyes were filled with distraught at the cruelty of the humans. Just being here and causing a racket warranted that kind of response from them. Was it because they were mice, or because the humans were just that cruel to those they think less of? The husband was more pissed at the dog getting stabbed. He yanked the knife out, but the damage was done. The leg was limp and useless. He sighs as Heath only whimpered in shame. He looks at the cat, pissed that it slept on the job. He grabs him and shakes him sober, screaming, “God dammit what do I keep you for?!” Mittens awoke now, his pupils the size of dinner plates. He looks and sees the mess left on the floor, knowing what creature could have done this. Mice. The husband drops the fat fuzzball and orders, “Find the mice and kill them!” Mittens obeys, for he knows disobedience gets you the gun. Just as he made way to the kitchen is when the two mice rocked the lamp down into the floor, shattering the glass. Mittens jumps hissing as the two scatter. Piggy runs for the couch, just barely putting his head in, dreaming of the food they will enjoy, the long winter sleep, only for Mittens to stab through his back with his claws. Piggy’s mouth leaked and sputtered blood as the cat lifted him up slowly, letting his body drag through the claws opening the wounds wider. His entrails began to slowly fall out like pink warm noodles. Mitten slurped them up, drinking him from the inside out until Piggy was but a severed head on the floor. Arnold had made it under the TV cabinet, screaming in horror at the young ones fate. He hears a snicker only to see Iggy cackling under, witnessing the entire ordeal. “You rotten rat!” Shouted Arnold, “You could’ve helped! Piggy didn’t have to die! You worthless bastard!” Iggy frowned and loomed over the now miniscule mouse. “You favor yourself to be smart,” Iggy responded, his demeanor much more sinister than before. “Yet all your smarts couldn’t save your friends from the game of life. Nor will it save you from your fate.” Iggy showed his sharp teeth, prompting Arnold to run for the kitchen. If him and Kyle could escape they could at least try and repopulate the burrow for more help. But the husband was not going to have it. A loud and quick STOMP. All of Arnold organs were shot out of any hold available. His eyes shot like billiard balls into the wall, his organs out of his sphincter, and his once proud brain nothing more than a stain on the rug. Kyle was in ruin, he screamed in fury at the fate of his friends. He shouted at the humans to take him too, for he couldn’t stand life without them. It was his decision to bring them here, and their deaths were on his hands. However, Ziggy had other plans. She grabs the distraught mouse and drags him outside. He fights and squirms but she was much stronger than him. Scar simply watched the mischief get the food out as the family cleaned up the mess that was left. By morning, the mess was done, but the damage was irreparable. Kyle was exhausted. Scar has some of the rats bring him their fair share. Enough for him and the burrow to survive winter, but he didn’t want it. He looked as Ziggy had met with Mittens outside the barn. A gunshot goes off, and a dejected mittens scowls at Ziggy. “Wasn’t my fault the mouse stabbed him. You should’ve thought ahead,” teased Ziggy. “You win this round, but next time I will be the one on top,” Mittens mused. “Yes well the rats this day get to live the high life for the next few months. Who knows, maybe the mice will go somewhere else, but I doubt it will be any better. All I know is that it will be an enjoyable show.” Kyle realized what had really happened. All this food was simply a consolation prize. He glares at Scar, knowing the cheese meant nothing. “I will tell them all about this, I will make sure they learn the truth about you!” He declared. Scar smirked and looked the mouse straight in the eye and only responded with one, cold sentence: “Not like it will change anything.” With that, Kyle was left alone, all the food to eat, and no friends to share it with. He sits down, and the first snowflake of winter begins to fall.


(1,805 words - ie only 6 minutes!) The Tipping Point “But, Dad, you said that the virus was only mild when it started?” “Yes, yes, indeed I did, son. And I was wrong. When the experts got together and sorted through the information, it became clear that, without specialist help, it would almost always result in certain death.” “But you had the Gravida Virus, and you survived it,” said the boy with pride in his voice. “I did survive - yes,” added the man, “but it was only through the specialist help that I came through... thank god I am a party member, and they treated me so well. non-party members fare very badly.” He shook his head and stared sadly at the floor. “Even so,” he said looking up, “the virus did damage my heart valves and the future is not good.” Robert had never seen his father look so sad, nor indeed drink beer like this. “Is it serious?” he asked concerned. “Yes, I’m afraid it is” was the reply, “I could even die in the near future” he added, putting the most optimistic and brave face on the “truth”. The “experts” had told him of the realistic and grim prognosis. “Have you told mum?” he asked with tears in his eyes. “No, I cannot bother your mum with things like this and, actually, I wouldn’t know how to tell her.” After a silence: \-“Will the virus kill me and mum if we get it?” “No, not at all,” said the father shaking his head and smiling: “Because all our family are party members, we will get the best treatment and you and mum will be just fine.” “... otherwise, we would die?” “Yes - for certain. I spoke to my friend Leon, sorry, I should now call him Commander Leon, who is the top doctor in the city, and his instructions are that every one with the virus must go to the “Healing Unit” to have a chance of saving their lives.” “What if they are not party members and they refuse?” asked the boy. “Well,” said the father looking serious, “we must then insist that they go into the unit - if required, with the help of the police!” He paused, aware that there were problems in what he was about to say, “I saw my friend, Martin today who has the virus and he refused to be admitted... he is an old friend, and though I could be in trouble, I could not bring myself to call in the police... I will go and see him again tomorrow, but he will certainly be dead.” “Oh,” said Robert as he had fond memories of Martin, a close family friend, “You often told me he was a genius.” “Yes, yes,” said Anthony slightly testily, “but that was last year, and that has all changed... he has not updated his views and does not follow the party guidelines. He would be in real trouble now if he had not received the gold ribband for saving the life of Brother-Commander Edward.” “Wow!” said the boy as this was a famous household name. After a pause, Anthony continued, “And even though that diagnosis has been overturned by the committee, his special dispension continues. “Does truth ever change then, Dad?” Robert asked thoughtfully. Anthony remained quiet for a while. “It’s called the narrative,” he finally said, “Sometimes, facts must be altered to fit the needs of the people - that is the wise web which the party weaves to explain everything to our citizens.” The two sat in silence, hoping there would be other times together. \*\*\* This was no time for tears; Martin had disobeyed the guidelines and must pay the price. Anthony drove sombrely with the death certificate book ready on the passenger seat. He pulled up at the little country cottage; Martin had never received the money and acclaim he deserved as he had never been a successful “committee-man”. He let himself in through the front door to find a man, who looked just like the late Martin, sitting in an old rocking chair reading a book. “Martin?” asked Anthony in astonishment, “is that really you? I can’t believe it!” Martin smiled. “But how? I brought your death certificate with me!” he added with a note of delight in his voice. Martin closed the book and put it to one side. “There are more things in heaven and earth than have entered your committee rooms” he chuckled. “I would share them with you, but the truth might get you into trouble... Hospitals can sometimes be machines of death themselves.” Martin seemed really quite fit and, although severely disabled with arthritis was able to make some tea as the two friends spoke of wonderful times gone by; as always, Anthony was struck by the incisive, questioning mind of Martin and his company was compelling as always. But Anthony had a busy work schedule and was soon making his leave. “Before you leave,” said Martin, writing on a piece of paper, “here is a number which you must memorize and then destroy.” He looked almost menacingly at his friend. “Promise me that!” Anthony promised faithfully. “And the password is ‘The Tipping Point.’” “OK,” said Anthony, “OK, I can remember that.” \*\*\* “Commander Leon, Sir, you sent for me.” “Yes, Tony, and this is a very unpleasant business.” The (very) senior doctor looked grave: “It has come to my attention that you have been treating Martin Slavic.” He held his hand up to forbid interruption. “And we suspect that you have broken our protocols and guidelines.” He shook his head and sighed in total disbelief. Anthony opened his mouth to speak, but was gestured into silence. “There is concern that you may have been contaminated!” continued Commander Leon “But I have already had the virus,” said Anthony innocently, “I am immune!” “You misunderstand me,” continued Leon, observing in detail every movement on the face of Anthony through the magnifying “protective” shield. “This man has been a dangerous subversive, who threatens the security of our state; if he had not saved the life of brother-commander Edward, we would have dealt with his problem comprehensively...” He paused. “Did he ever show you copies of his “Alternative” and, by the way, I know the answer to that.” “Well, yes,” mumbled Anthony, “but that was long, long ago.” The “Alternative” was a very subversive pamphlet which Anthony had scarcely read, as it was full of dangerous heresies. “We also have reason to believe that he may have contact with,” Leon paused and his voice dropped to a whisper, “...The Outreaches.” Anthony’s jaw dropped; no-one even mentioned that place of horrors where only sub-humans dwelt. “We think you may be in danger,” continued the commander, “and we will be committing you to hospital on section 94 to get you sorted out!” He looked angry and, obviously, the conversation brooked no appeal. “You have a psychiatric history and we are convinced that the Gravida Virus has impacted your mind; if you refuse to comply, then this would denote a more severe psychiatric case which would mandate expelling you from the party with all that entails.” Leon looked rather menacingly into the eyes of Anthony. Anthony did not have a psychiatric history, but was he really sure..?. Had his mind been damaged by the Gravida virus...? There was no choice but to comply. \*\*\* The hospital admission procedure was very straightforward, though it struck Anthony as rather odd that this erstwhile Medical Unit had been filled with psychiatry patients. The staff looked very young and inexperienced. “Is it Commander Anthony?” asked the junior in charge. “No,” smiled Anthony, “I am not a commander, only a doctor.” “Only!” exclaimed the junior and ex-student of his. “You taught me so much... it is a privilege to treat you, Sir, but I must give you your injection to help you settle in.” “Of course,” acquiesced Anthony. “But you look rather nervous; would you like me to give myself the injection?” “Please, please do that, Sir. I would hate to be reported for giving a clumsy injection to someone as senior as you!” Anthony smiled. “OK, look away” he replied as he plunged the injection into the mattress. “I feel better already,” he said. \*\*\* The next morning, the junior from the day before came with some students. How are you feeling today?” he asked. “So much better,” lied Anthony, “I just feel totally committed to helping all our citizens and the party. They began to talk informally, and Anthony soon lapsed into his teaching manner. The group was a mixed bunch with nursing and medical students on ward experience. Soon they began to talk about cardiology, about how to take a history and examine the heart. It was so nice to speak with these enthusiastic students. Eventually, Anthony confided that he, himself, had heart valve problems from the Gravida virus. He went on to explain about Echocardiography and how bouncing sound waves off the heart could give a clear picture of the heart and valves. “We have an ECHO machine here on the ward,” said one of the students excitedly. “Do you know how to work it?” Anthony did, having spent a year on a cardiology unit. Soon he had a full picture of his own heart to show the students. “So, as you can see, I have severe heart disease and have no more than a few months to live.” The students were in tears as they left the room; losing this great teacher would be a severe loss. But Anthony had covered up the truth. The ECHO had clearly shown that his heart and valves were normal... why had the experts lied to him? His mind raced as he continued to act like a medicated patient. \*\*\* The ward was totally silent; it was dead of night, and Anthony’s mind was in turmoil. Finally, he knew with total certainty what was to be done. He put on his outdoor clothes which were surprisingly easy to find. He had always been a good climber and now - reassured that his heart was strong - made his escape through a small window. He stepped outside, and breathed the fresh air of freedom. “Better a few days of freedom than a life of mental imprisonment,” he mused, for he had always believed that there could be no life outside the party-state. The very idea of the “hell-on-earth” of The Outreaches had always made him shudder, but now he wondered what he truly knew about them. He reached into his pocket, and there he found his cell-pager.


BEEP BEEP.... BEEP BEEP.... I lay in bed waiting for them to turn off the alarm... BEEP BEEP... I sigh as I remember and rub my eyes. I hit the alarm clock and rolled out of bed, falling to the floor. As I lay there, I stared at the ceiling before I got up. I got ready for my day, putting on my mask and leaving my room. As I sit at the breakfast table, look at everyone else, and glance at their mask, I wonder what is under them. I quickly forget and finish my meal and go on with my day. My day goes on as I try to ignore them. I realize it's not going to be easy, but nothing like this ever is. The day quickly ends, and I go to bed. BEEP BEEP... BEEP BEEP... I hit the alarm clock off and stare at the ceiling contemplating. I put my mask on and go to breakfast. Sitting at the table, I notice one of the masked individuals missing. I then ignored the thought though I didn't even know who was under the missing mask. After breakfast, I continued with my day. I was continually thinking about why the masked individual was missing and where they had gone. BEEP BEEP... BEEP BEEP... I hit the alarm clock off and got out of bed. After putting my mask on, I looked in the mirror for the first time in a while. I noticed a crack showing through. Weird, I thought it shouldn't be like that. That morning at the table, I looked at everyone else's masks and looked for cracks. They all showed slight cracking. I noticed though someone else was missing. Weird, I thought two people were now missing. I think about it more and realize three masked individuals were missing. I woke up without the sound of my alarm. I wait a moment as nothing happens, and I roll over and look at it. Is it off? BEEP BEEP... I jumped out of bed as the sound startled me. After I put my mask on, I check it in the mirror. More cracks? At the table, I notice a fourth masked individual is missing. I realize now there's only me and one other. I try to start a conversation with them. All I received was a stare as they got up, leaving me alone. Rude, I thought a simple "What?" would've been fine. Later on in the day, I suddenly had the thought. "Have any of us talked to each other before?" BEEP... BEEP... I woke up to the sound of my alarm. But something felt different today. I quickly got ready and put my mask on, forgetting to check it for cracks. I was more focused on if the last individual would be missing. They were missing. I now sat at the table alone. "Would I be next?"... "Where did the others go?"... As quickly as the thoughts came in, they then left my mind. I was left to go on with my day. BEEP BEEP... as I woke up this morning, I wasn't controlling my body; I was watching as someone else did? I noticed a girl next to us. They turned off the alarm and rolled over, and kissed us. "Good morning, handsome. I hope you slept well" A tired smile came over his face. As he did this, I felt my face. I then noticed my mask was gone. I then faded away as quickly as I came. "I was back, and the dark war in my head was over. The war many thought I would lose. It had taken my emotions and locked them away behind a slowly cracking mask. I never gave up and fought bravely. All those dark days I went through and times I thought about giving up. Hopefully, she will be the one, and I will never return.


I might as well start off telling you, I lost my eye in an unfortunate fork accident. When I was a kid, I use to flip my fork off the table by putting it on the edge of the table, and SLAMMING my palm on the end of it. If I had a quarter for everytime my Mother told me to stop, my first fake eye could have been glass! She never lets me forget that incident either. It's kinda her "go to" when I don't listen, even at my age. I'm older now, how much smarter remains to be seen. Coming in from the bar one night I stumbled up the porch steps, and stood for a moment. I opened the door, and collapsed in a chair. I was half drunk this night, sweating in that chair with the window open, letting in every drop of humidity there was. Not enough sense to close the windows, and turn on the air. I sat there dripping , sinking into my own sweat in the old chair. My fake eye started to itch. I began to rub my eye but it didn't help, it just made it itch more! So here I sit drunk, with an itchy eye. What should I do? Oh I Know! So, I popped it out, and laid it on the table. Now, I know I should have taken it off, and put it in saline. That's where it belonged. But you know how it is when you've been drinking. Believe me, I wish I had. About that time, a crow had landed on the window sill, and was eyeing me. He just sat there looking. Staring. I thought about closing the window. Drunk, that thought floated away. A second of clarity, I see the Crow again! "What are you looking at, I yell, as I reach down and toss a shoe at the damn thing. He keeps eyeing me. Turning his head from side to side, kinda sizing me up. He doesn't move. He just stares. Straight into my soul, searching for a bit to pull off. His eyes look like black holes boring into mine. The hair on my neck stands up, as I click the tab off another beer. I lazily drink that beer down, not taking my my eye of that Crow. He never took his eye off me. But he kept grinning. Like he knew a secret! The beer was warm, and I was tired. I stared at the crow some more til sleep over came my half drunken ass. I fell asleep in the chair with that bird eyeing me. It was the last thing I remember seeing. But I dreamed of that Crow. He was still in the window. Still laughing. Still grinning. I tossed, and turned. It was a very restless sleep. Grampa! Time to get up! Oh Lord... I'm still in that chair. My vision is half gone. Oh man. I look around for my eye. All I see are beer cans. Oh shit. I have to shake each can just to make sure. I don't think I would have put it there, but hey! I had to look. Nope! Just a tab in each can. I look down on the floor, I get on my hands and knees. Nope. Now I'm getting a bit anxious! I see the open window! And I remember the Crow! OMG!! I'm sure the damn bird has my glass eye. He's no longer there! Where is he!? I run to the window, and I see him. He's mocking me! He has a beady eye turned on me, and he's grinning an evil bird grin! Oh shit. What am I going to tell my wife?! I look at that Crow. I curse that crow. I thought unkind things about that Crow. I cursed him some more. Then I cursed him again. Then I turned my back on the hungry thief. I cursed him once more. So with no other option, I dug around in the drawer, and found the first plastic prosthetic eye I had made, and popped it in. I stood at the mirror, it was glaringly obvious! That DAMN bird I mutter as I walk away. I went down to breakfast. No one noticed! That kinda irritated me. Do you people even see me? Am I that old, that you just look through me now?! All right! So far so good. I was still angry at that damn Crow. Sneaky bird!! I was thinking of ways to repay my feathered friend all thru breakfast, as I crunched that bacon, I was thinking of that bird! Still a little angry at them for not noticing, I thought about them as I crunched my toast quiet loud! Later that afternoon my grandson wanted to play, and I agreed. He brought a box and opened it. There, amongst several marbles was my eye!! My beautiful glass eye! Hey! "That's mine" I said. Grampa you said we could trade! Wait. What? Yes! I asked you last night If we could make a trade, and you said yes!! I put two green cat eyes on your dresser!! OMG! The bird was mocking me because he saw me drunk, trading off my eye for two marbles!! And he laughed! That damn bird laughed. I had to get my eye back. My grandson was rolling it in his fingers. It was a beauty! A luscious shade of dark green. He didn't take his eyes off it. It was a fair trade! He wanted to keep it. It was the only one like it he had ever seen. It was his! Fair, and square! He gave his best two marbles for it! What did I have to trade a five year old? Just how much will it cost? He looked at me with deep blue eyes, searching my face for signs it was okay, that he could keep it. But I needed it. So I made the deal. It cost me a trip to Disney! But I got my eye. That bird? He still comes to the window to mock me. I feel he's justified.


“Like I said,” Samantha says, “there’s a monster in the woods and it’s lonely!” She points in the direction of the forest bordering our property, a long stretch of evergreens that extends for what seems like forever. “Oh, honey,” I say, crouch before her and take her coat collar in my hands. “There’s nothing out there but squirrels and chipmunks, rabbits, and a few turkeys. There’s no monsters out there.” “Mom!” she scowls, her brow furrowing. “I seen him! He’s round and furry and has four arms and no legs! And eyes! Four of them in the shape of a diamond!” This hasn’t been the first time she has brought up the Monster. It seemed like each day this thing had made an appearance at the edge of the woods while she’s playing. At first, I was worried maybe a bear had migrated to this stretch of Pennsylvania, but after setting up a trail cam around where this Monster appeared, nothing showed up. Then, I thought about wolves or coyotes; but again, nothing showed on the footage after several days. Eventually, I chalked it up to an imaginary friend, she was young, after all. But, each day she grew more and more convinced this Monster was out there, and that he was lonely and wanted someone to speak to, someone to be his friend. “Mom!” she shouts, pulling me from my thoughts. “Can I just go with him once? I’ll be extra careful.” I straighten, shake my head. “No, you cannot. You’re not allowed to go into those woods without me ever.” I glare down at her, as she puckers her lips. “And don’t give me that look. Those woods are big and I won’t have you getting lost out there.” “But--” “No ‘buts.’ Now, go get changed and get ready for bed.” She stomps from the kitchen, down the hallway, and into her bedroom. I hear the sink turn on. I sigh and move back to the window. The shadows between the trees grow as the sky darkens. The faint moonlight hardly illuminates anything. Absentmindedly, I look into the woods, searching for the Monster that doesn’t exist. Nothing stands in between the boles, nothing lurks in the shadows, nothing big and furry looms. “Honey?” I call, hearing the sink still going. “You almost done?” After a few silent moments, I go to her bedroom and peek in. The bathroom light seeps between the cracked door, and none of her clothes are lying on the ground with the others. I enter, call again: “Samantha?” and receive no response. I cross the room and push open the door. Water is almost streaming over the basin’s rim, and the window above the toilet is open. “Samantha!” I scream, turn and sprint out of the room, down the hallway, out the door. I know where she’s going. I cross the backyard to the woods, where I catch a glimpse of her within. She’s holding hands with something-- someone tall and round. “Samantha!” I scream again. I plunge into the dark woods, weave past trees and leap over underbrush and fallen branches. She’s somehow farther, so much farther, and the thing she’s with is somehow larger, bigger, more like a bear than a person. Tears sting my eyes. My lungs are on fire. My heart is slamming against my chest. “Samantha!” I holler, throat raw and stinging. She looks over her shoulder as she walks deeper into the forest, and our eyes meet and she smiles, waves, then faces ahead. She and it pass by a bole and vanish. I make it to where they were only moments ago. I collapse to my knees, and search the leaves, claw holes into the dirt, cry and scream into the darkness, pleading to the heavens to return my daughter, but no one and nothing hears. And now, I wait... I wait in the backyard every day, from sunrise to sunset, for her to appear on the edge of the forest. I pray she will let me take her hand like her friend did her, and escort me to wherever she disappeared to, so we can be together again. Like her Monster, I’m lonely, too. If you enjoyed the story and want to read more of my work, visit my and consider subscribing.


“Welcome to your service of remembrance! I’m Kazuo, and it will be my pleasure to guide you through the process as you consider the various options extended to you by NeuroNon. Your presence here confirms the clarity of your life priorities. We believe that life is made of moments, not minutes, and capturing and retaining those moments that you want to savor is what we’re here for. With over a decade of public service and another fifteen in the private sector, we are the world’s first and oldest in the field. You’ve obviously discerned that some of the moments we live through are of no more value than yesterday’s kitchen garbage, and NeuroNon is here to proverbially take out the trash. As Montaigne put it, nothing fixes a thing so firmly in the memory as the wish to forget it. I see, um, it’s not my intention to make you uncomfortable. You will not have to discuss the subject matter at issue with me. Only two people will be privy to your private interview, and confidentiality is critical to our company’s existence. Your reviewers will explore the precise details of what you want to leave behind, not to be invasive, but merely to make sure the specific contents are isolated without the interruption of your essential cognitive networks. They will be most gracious and very discreet. I think you’ll be deeply satisfied with.... You’re curious about the tank? Aplysia californica. Sea slugs found on the West Coast. They’re not the most photogenic, are they? But they’ve become immortalized in the NeuroNon narrative. That was the first species in which we successfully transplanted memory from one organism to another. mRNA transferral. A snail that had never been exposed to electric shock recoiled as though she had been after receiving the mRNA of a snail that had. It remembered someone else’s memory. Yes, it’s amusing, isn’t it? Amazing? I agree! Next, we replicated the process by manipulating sensory nerve cells in a petri dish...but perhaps this is more technical than interests you. Yes? The technique. Of course. Come, let’s walk. I’ll give you a tour. Through this door and down the hall. Memories can never actually be erased. There’s no camera flash on a stick that we wave in front of your face and make them disappear in an instant. It’s a bit more, if I can be casual, like hiding a candle in the sunlight. The candle is still there, you just don’t notice it. And if you intend to ignore it, it’s quite easy to do so. So we take a triggering image of bad memories and surround it in...a sort of...mental white noise. When a client encounters the triggering image, or sound, or any other sensory stimuli, the hippocampus, in which we implant modified neurons, recalls a vague scene or ambiance - a landscape, for instance, or the sound of waves in the distance. Anytime the client’s memory strays close to the cleansed memory, the more pleasant scene surrounds and overwhelms it. The experience, after decades of refinement in our labs, is very peaceful. I’m glad for how quickly you understand. You’ve obviously come from a pedigree education, am I right? Of course. It shows. If I may speak personally, as a former client myself, it’s exquisite to be able to dwell only in the isolated recollections for which we have labored and excelled through our lives, free from unwanted and undeserved mental debris. It’s an internal utopia. Glass of wine while we walk? Madison, could you provide for our guest? You’re correct. But the confidential nature of our work is not because we have anything to hide. Rather, we mean to protect those who have sought to leave the past behind. You can imagine that certain elements would meddle indiscriminately - social activists opposed to our vision. But at this stage, given your downpayment and paperwork we’ve already put you through, you’re free to ask anything you like. I’m an open book. Yes, our story is a fascinating one. I hope perhaps, in time, the files can be opened so that the worldwide public can marvel at how we arrived here. Perhaps some history is in order. The first real success was a horrible case - horrible before we cleansed her. She was a victim of kidnapping, locked in a basement, and brutalized for three years, if you can imagine. She was reduced to a panicked recluse, beyond the reach of psychiatry, likely to remain institutionalized and further regressing. When we completed our work with her, she was transformed. It was all gone, a blank slate. She was on her feet again. She was our evolutionary Lucy, the one who put us upright. That’s a fair question, and I’ll be honest with you. There were glitches. We’ve completely eliminated them, but there were a few originally. The clinical trials were long and slow, of necessity. In Phase One, there was a bank manager who had witnessed a murder during a robbery, a teller blown to bits with a shotgun, and in the process of righting his mind, we lost the bank safe’s combination. Relatively harmless, but a warning marker for us. Then one a bit worse, a woman who weighed over 800 lbs. She was, for obvious health reasons, dangerously close to terminal. In the process of eliminating some of her memories tied to dietary norms and impulses, we insufficiently distinguished that which was to be preserved from the rest of her cognitive networks, and afterwards, she had forgotten how to eat a banana. Random, yes? She could never relearn it. She would just sit and puzzle over the things. Harmless, I guess, but a mistake. And a few other things with her, but she is alive today because of NeuroNon. I do want to suggest, if I can pause for a moment, that you consider the optional promotional levels. They have less to do with the final product and more to do with aesthetics. Premium service is well worth the investment. While the Basic service will deliver the same ultimate result, it’s a bit like privileged airline classes - either one will get you there, but one is a bit more luxurious. But as you’ve already realized that the value of the result is worth the investment of a lifetime, the difference is inconsequential. No, there are no glitches today. Good question. The last one was...um...hmm. I can’t seem to place it. I’ll have someone look that up for us in a bit. Huh. Funny, I can’t.... Well, we’ll look it up in due time. Through these doors, you’re in luck. Someone is going through the process as we speak and has consented to onlookers through a glass wall. You can see...ah, they’re right in the middle of the surgery. You’re not offended are you? You see that the hole in the side of the skull is relatively small, only about the size of a quarter. Laparoscopic insertion from there. We no longer remove the skullcap like in the early days. And the external NeuroNon disc on the surface can be veiled completely through a graft of skin and hair, or, as we’re finding is increasingly popular, left in plain sight for, well, I guess one would say, bragging rights. Just look. The wetware, you see through the hole. Not really vulgar is it - not much different than the snails. Yet so versatile. It’s a universe in there. Back to my history-telling, though. There was one case that forced our hand in terms of availability, though. If Lucy showed the scientific and medical communities that it was an invaluable, ethical contribution to human betterment, this was the dark parallel: the customer who sues for millions after spilling her own coffee in her own lap. Of course you’ve heard the public version of this story. A woman sued us for the right to access the technology so that she could forget her ex-husband. It is a bit funny, I guess. But sad. We probably could have warded her off if the Catholic Church hadn’t embraced her, calling it “God’s view of annulment,” as you’ve heard. So for short relationships and midnight Las Vegas chapel weddings, you know, where there is no vast network of connections which would be lost, so the story itself can be isolated from the rest of the client’s history, it can be done. The public doesn’t realize how much this has driven the expansion of our work. Husbands who can’t endure their midnight angst who end up buying their wives what they call a “second virginity” as an anniversary gift, erasing one of her old flings whom they - the husband, I mean - can’t get over. Thomas Edison was miffed when the phonograph was used for entertainment, for music, because he wanted it to record only important speeches and historical events. I guess we can’t complain when the medical miracle that cures trauma is primarily funded by jealousy and insecurity. That to say, our reasons for acceptance of new clients are much broader than they were at first. And of course, that led to a flurry of lawsuits. Every student who had been triggered by a bad grade and was now too anxious for job interviews, non-medaling Olympians wallowing in depression, ex-prisoners as well as ex-officers, deprogrammed cult members and reformed sinners - everyone who had gone down a wrong path who now wanted a clean slate. Ex-junkies and even just cold-turkey-quitting ex-smokers. Anyone who could pull together a reason and a bank account was ready to insist that this was a medical necessity. Civil rights groups got involved, and a potentially methodical future rapidly became a less than well-prepared present. Of course, the cultural milieu was ripe for it. Statues were being torn down and the names of schools were being changed. Textbooks were being rewritten to give a smaller role to religion and a larger one to race. There was even a movement at one point, now dissolved, seeking to fund the service as a kind of racial reparations, to eradicate racist trauma retrospectively. We didn’t see forgetfulness as negligence, we saw it as our absolution. It was our baptism - washing off the old so that we could be free for new life. No one with a good memory has a clean conscience. You hear that I’m not telling you that you have to see it this way. It’s simply the way many have come to see it. A...nuance, I’d say, not a problem...is that when the desires of the masses correspond to the desires of the elite, no one notices the disparity of motives. Our largest current influx is employers willing to fund the service for employees who wanted it in lieu of legal liability. It was written into their contracts. Instead of arbitration, the offense is erased by mutual consent, and thus settled out of court. When microtraumas are catalogued and litigated, it’s simply the most cost-effective way. Imagine, one day, being able to pluck individual memories from the mind like we pluck a hair from the head - a single, isolated memory that we would be better without. Sorry, I see from the glint in your eye I’ve stepped back on my soapbox. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m very passionate about this. It’s my life’s work. It saved me as well, after all. I don’t mean to be controversial of course. This is just history. If you’ll walk with me into the next room, I’ll show you where you would undergo the procedure. Here it is. The room will be redesigned to your specifications for your comfort. You’ll want to bring keepsakes and pictures tied to healthy memories on which you will concentrate when you awaken. But I can show you the equipment, nonetheless. This is the chair. Where was I? The lawsuits. Yes. Like a swarm of wasps. That then required some flexibility to prevent it all from shutting down. That’s when the billionaires turned from space exploration to memory. Facebook produced “Nevermind” and Alibaba, “Wangji.” And of course, that quickly led to government regulation. Of course, the federal government had been using the process for a decade before the public was even aware of its existence. In addition to trauma resolution, it served a remarkable role in counterterrorism. The most notable success was a captured operative whose memories of his training they distorted. He awakened to find himself in a penthouse with full maid service, surrounded by apparent CIA staff who told him that he was one of them. They needed everything he had picked up on a tour of duty, and they told him - see the irony here - that the enemy had wiped parts of his memory. What could he recall nonetheless? Quite a good deal, it turned out. Enough. And that’s actually how we got bin Laden. It’s true. The details will never be released in our lifetimes, and I cannot substantiate it for you as anything more than hearsay, but that’s what happened. As I say, I hope for a day when the files are opened and the world can see the revolutionary value this service has provided. There was no inhibition to its use behind the scenes after that. This was to be the way of the future, the way of a new world order. We have no idea how many people the military put through it, or how many variations of its use they’ve explored. Yes, we’re a private company. You ask that because...? Yes, it began as a military operation, but.... Sorry, I’m not sure. I see what you’re asking, yes. Somewhere along the lines our privacy was ensured, though, so governmental regulation didn’t result in government control. I’m...a bit fuzzy on that one. Funny.... Anyway, it’s completely private now. The government wasn’t seeking to limit it; I guess that explains it. To make the service widely available required widespread manipulation of mRNA, achieving preparation in subjects prior to the necessity of the procedure. Someone who is brought in after a car accident who has already received mRNA transference by injection is easily treated before they even regain consciousness, presuming the necessary waivers have been processed. While the patient recuperates, NeuroNon simply isolates specific neurons and creates our mental white noise around the timeframe of the accident. The patient awakens undisturbed, good as new. Of course we can’t ethically prevent them from insisting upon it. If someone doesn’t wish to awaken traumatized, who are we to insist that they must? That’s how the mRNA injections came to be so widely distributed. Californians voted for it and Texans mandated it. It enjoyed more support than any legislation since we eliminated Daylight Savings Time. Nearly the entire public is ready to walk in at any moment and be cleansed. I’ve gone on too long now. I’m sure you have questions. Yes? Correct, we are a private company, free from federal interference. Yes, they support our work. Financially as well, yes. No, your records are kept private. How? Well...I’m sorry, ask me again? Sorry, perhaps I can review our records on that matter in my office. Rest assured, it’s secure. So, during the procedure, you would sit in this chair. Because neurological stimulation can provoke kinetic responses, we do strap you to the chair. Wouldn’t want fingers flying around when there’s direct access to the wetware, would we? The wall in front of you is completely digital, and through it we would run either self-produced video images or stock footage of your choosing, something pleasant and tied to a context of the most happy moments of your life. You can bring tactile and olfactory tokens with you - plush toys, a loved one’s shirt. One gentleman simply brought a slice of pecan pie of his grandmother’s recipe. Whatever you want. Would you like to sit down in the chair to see how it feels? There you go. It’s comfortable, isn’t it? Just a preface to the comfort you will have once the baggage of a lifetime is buried in warm, mental sunlight. The process is basically guaranteed. If anything were to go wrong, we could simply repeat the process and hide even your memory of being here. We could do it again and again, and you would never remember it. Funny, isn’t it? So, are you ready to begin?"