I met a peculiar man today. A man, a tall man, broad shoulders, thick hair, a man much like the rest. A crooked smile here, a calloused hand there, just like any other man. But this man seemed particularly peculiar in my mind. Maybe it was because he decided to talk to me. I was sitting on my bench, as I always do when I can get around to it. Pigeons pecked around my feet as breadcrumbs fell from my fingertips. It was routine, hell, it was practically ritual, that I come down here, drop bread crumbs for the birds, and stare off into the dark green and brown made up by the cool grass and the tall trees. I have done it for quite some time now. Some days it's harder to make it down to my bench than others. But it's really all that I have, my bench, the birds, the trees, the moments there in time. And it was on this day, just like any other day when I am at my bench, that this man walked past. He walked past so swiftly, head down, direct, like most that walk past me. But after he had made it a few steps past me and my bench, he stopped, and spun on his heel, like someone was using him as a top, a child perhaps. He was tall, at least six feet, with a dark grey hat that made him seem even taller. He matched it with a grey suit, and carried a newspaper under his arm. He smiled at me, in a way so vulnerable that this man no longer seemed so large. I smiled back, wondering why the man had stopped so suddenly. He finally opened his mouth, with his hat in his hands; "Excuse me, Ma'am, but would you happen to have the time?" It took me a moment to react before I found the words to answer him, as he stood smiling sheepishly, like a boy who had forgotten his school assignment. "Oh yes," I answered, "let me check my watch." I reached into my bag and pulled out of all the clutter a pocket watch, the one I always carry. I opened it, and saw what I easily knew was an incorrect time. I held it up to my ear, and heard not a sound from inside the watch, nothing echoing between its many gears. "Oh lord, this thing never works, I'm afraid it's not kept the time sir, I'm sorry." "Oh it's alright Ma'am, thank you for looking," he said with a smile. "I must say, it is a fine looking pocket watch Ma'am, reminds me of one that belongs to my father." "Well I'm sure his probably kept time, unlike this junk I've been carrying around," I say as I chuckle to myself. The man chuckles a bit too. "May I ask then why you keep it on your person, Ma'am? Seems like a broken watch serves no good to anyone, especially not to a nice lady such as yourself." I look at the man and smile. "It's my husband’s actually, and I don't think he'd take kindly to me getting rid of his favorite watch!" Both me and the man laughed aloud, and I motion for him to sit on the bench with me, and he obliges. He put his hand forth, and shakes my outstretched hand. "I'm Howard," he says with a grin; "I'm Alice," I replied. "Well I am pleased to meet you Alice." I handed him a chunk of bread, and we silently fed the curious pigeons their meals, us both content to just sit and enjoy the company of each other and the birds for a bit. I looked over at this strange man who had decided to sit with me, an old lady who feeds the birds. Not a very glamorous way to spend the afternoon for a man such as this at his age. "Were you going anywhere important just now?" I inquired. I seemed to rouse him from deep thought. "Hmm? Oh no, not very. Just some errands to run is all, but I can't seem to get the wherewithal to concentrate on them," he replied and his head turned back down towards the birds, a certain light gone from the once innocent looking man. "Is there something on your mind young man?" I pressed. He exhales deeply, his eyes focused on his feet. "If I’m being honest, I'm gonna be called off for the war soon," he answered. "I just got the notice this morning. Making sure to pick up milk on my way home for the wife seems a little more insignificant with that perspective." He leaned back against the bench, brought a hand to his perspiring head. He sees me looking at him through his hand, and tries to compose himself; "Not that I'm scared or nothing!" he stated with a bravado that only rung half-true. "Just a bit nervous is all." "That's nothing to be ashamed of young man. War is a place filled with frightful things. Why, my husband was not much different from you when he was called to fight. He was nervous as all heck, but he knew it was the right thing to do, so he fought." I look down at my cool, calloused hands in the morning light. "He seems like a good man," the young man replies with a small smile. A smile breaks across my face, one I cannot hold back as I think about days long forgotten, and I even let out a laugh remembering back on our time together. "He was a good man," I replied. The smile starts to fade as I look up towards the sky, and then back down at my hands. "Oh god, how I loved that man,” I said in a soft whisper. Howard put a comforting hand on my shoulder, and it was warm and I felt safe like I haven't felt in so very long. "If you don't mind me asking," the man asked quietly, "is your husband passed? Did he die in the war?" I can't bear to look up at the moment, only staring down at the bench and the newspaper the man had put down from under his arm. "No, he came back from the war. But," I had trouble getting the words out, "my husband did not come back the same. He was plagued by nightmares, terrors of the horrible things he had seen while fighting. It drove him to drink, it drove him mad, and it drove him to forget about..." I start to stammer as my fingers run over a dark scar hidden under my sleeve. "He forgot about how we used to be. The combination of it all proved too much for both him and me. My husband is now passed away, to answer your question." And the true answer, I screamed in my head, is yes! Yes, yes, my husband died in that awful war, for the man who came back was not my husband, only an empty shell of a man for which there was only room for sadness and sorrow. My husband went to war, and never returned. The man next to me, Howard, sat silent for a bit. I could tell that he didn't know how to respond, but whether it was because he didn't know how to react to such a story, or if he feared that a similar fate would befall him and his situation, I did not know. After what seemed like over a minute, the man spoke up. "I'm sorry to hear what happened to your husband, ma'am." "Thank you, it means quite a lot," I said, as I looked up at Howard and saw what seemed to be a familiar kindness in his eyes, something I haven't been privileged to in years. I grab a hold of the hand he was resting on the bench. I fight back tears as I arrange the words I want to say. "You have no need to worry though Howard. You will make it through that war, I know it. You will make it home to see your family." "I appreciate you saying that, Alice" he replied, his voice softer than before. He checked his wrist for the watch that wasn't there, and we both laughed, breaking some of the tension. Howard stood up, and donned the grey hat he had taken off. "Well, I better get going; I still have to pick up that milk before heading home." He stood there awkwardly, as we didn't know what to say. "Thanks for the talk Alice; it means a lot, even to a guy like me." He cracked that crooked smile of his. I smiled back at him, "Your welcome, Howard, I'm glad I could help." He smiled again, nodded, and turned to walk away. He walked maybe a total of seven steps until I called out "Howard!" He spun around again, in top-like fashion. "What is it, Alice?" I had trouble getting the words out. "Please, come home this time." He looked down for a moment, and then looked back up, his eyes showing a pain that hadn't been there, even moments before. "I will, Alice. I will." And off he walked, into forever, as a dropped newspaper with a long past, but never forgotten date blew past my bench, and became nothingness.


For fifty years the road stood unchanged. The road upon which an old man appeared. It was a cold day, gray as the man himself, who stood fixed upon the near ancient gravel glowering at the brownish cottage with white trim standing upon his right hand. His eyes turned away but his step failed to advance. He simply stood immobile, as if lost in thought, his weathered face and narrowed eyes reflective of a man struggling with a memory, a pattern of thought that would not form. The old man stood thus for several long minutes. Repeatedly he seemed verged upon continuing, only to pause and glance rearward the way he had come, as if fearing perhaps someone or something stalked his steps until, at last, hesitation abandoned, he turned fully to the house and approached. He moved uncommonly quiet, his worn loafers barely scuffing dust, his outdated seaman’s coat and worn trousers emphasizing the contractions of his presence. Though not visible, the weakness of his step and hunched shoulders betrayed frail limbs and tired bones. From beneath a faded ski cap, a few strands of unruly white hair showed upon a brow creased with wear. His face and hands exhibited the color of old mud, the mark of a man used to many days spent toiling under the sun. In his right hand dangled a length of chain to which he clung with exaggerated earnest. He now stood facing the front door. It was a simple cottage of no remarkable qualities. A few low bushes, tended flowers, white painted shutters. Yet the man gazed upon it as if before a church. His eyes distant and dreamy. Was it a memory he recalled or was his mind so lost he knew neither the where nor the why of moment. And then the door opened. It opened to a young man of full black hair, solid of mind and bone. A man and third the age of his unexpected caller. In contrast to the benign equanimity of the elder man, the eyes of this younger soul fairly burned in emotion. His clean, clear eyes scanned the path before him but he saw nothing. Something in the old man yearned the young man would see him. A distant hope he could define nor dissect. Why was it the young man did not espy him when he stood so plainly before his door? But he did not see him and if he did, he did not recognize him and so the young man turned away and reentered his home. There came a touch of grief to the old man’s heart. A pain whose full thrust had come long ago but still ached his gut, haunted his sleep. He longed so to enter that house himself, a longing always in his thoughts, in his dreams. But all his dreams were distant as yesterday’s dawn. The old man turned away. He scuffled along the path to the road, his bloodshot eyes revealing a tired, tired soul. But then, at once, he seemed to have acquired a purpose. He walked with a steady if hindered stride. The road became wider and paved. Ahead rose a farmhouse that had not been there a scant few breaths afore. When he reached the point where the road curled inward, the old man followed it, fondling his chain, beginning to mumble to himself. He came boldly to the house and knocked upon the door. The minutes dragged along. A rooster crowed. A few birds came and lit upon the eaves above the door. The door did not answer. A gust of wind blew down from the north. It licked his face and placed tears in his eyes. He raised a hand as if he would knock again, then withdrew it and himself from the farm. He knew no one would come forth. They never did. Not yesterday, today, or tomorrow. He simply could not knock loud enough that any could hear. Again, the old man returned to the road only now it was path meandering through a forest lain with leaf mold and twigs. A forest of tangled depths, of trees that crowded and cramped. The sun only a mottled intruder playing among the bent and sagging boughs. The old man slogged on, grim and determined, hearing the wind, feeling cold in the breeze chilled air. The journey felt endless but he knew better. All journeys end. So it was he reached the end of the forest and saw before him a sprawling village. A scene lifted from a Dicken’s tale. Homes and shops and busy streets, children playing and birds singing. But it was a village as old as he, older still, the village he recognized of his father so many, many years passed before him. It drew him as few things ever had. There again he saw that particular house and the young man. He saw too the farmhouse only now there stood framed in the doorway. She was very young, and beautiful, but with eyes holding a sadness far beyond her suggested years. The old man wanted to talk with her, oh, how he wanted to talk to her. He raced forward swift as his ancient legs could carry him but with every foot gained the road grew longer, the faces and places retreating. Bu going where? Where was there for it all to go? Soon the old man lost all breath and was no longer equal to the chase. The village raced away, swam as in a haze leaving him feeling dizzy and weak. At last, he turned away. His eyes closed. When he found the fortitude to open them again, there stretched before him a new trail that wound upward upon a sloping mountain to a broad, beckoning ledge near the summit. “A place to lie,” he spoke aloud. “Yes. I have slept there many times. Every night within my memory and God only knows how far backward or even forward that memory spans. Only that each and every night I must return there if I am to sleep. If I am to dream again.” And so he climbed the spiraling hillock. As he went, he found himself growing incredibly tired. Fatigue such as no man should ever know. And sounds came to him. Unnatural, uncomfortable. First there were screams, as if tortured souls flew upon the wind wrapped in the devil’s embrace. Then bodies materialized, sweating and swearing, climbing with him. They did not see him, they simply surrounded him, pacing him under a black sky and booming thunder born without rain. There was fire too. The heat ravaged his eyes, causing pain and an inability to see the rocky trail ahead. Still he went on, now moving on instinct, realizing it was like this every night. Every journey to his place on the ledge an ordeal beyond comprehension. His legs ached, his chest heaved, he nearly fell to his face but staggered on. And never did he lose hold of the chain now wrapped tight about his fist. Only a few more feet. Only a few more painful steps. Then he was there. The ledge where he could rest, the precipice to which he so desperately yearned. But he was not alone. No, before the old man stood that young man again. What was he doing here? And beside him stood that young woman of the farm, calm and beautiful. Yes, it was she who would not answer his knock. And now the old man saw that she had the eyes of the young man, eyes filled with tears and it gave him pain to see it. And behind the woman and the boy miraculously crowded the entire town of his father. To the man, woman, child and dog they were there and they too cried and called to him. Into this bizarre image walked the old man and he was invisible. He expected it for he knew this was not new occurrence. It was an oft repeated nightmare. Resolved, he found his spot and lay town. And though all about him peppered him with question after question, he did not answer. He had so much to tell them, so much about the fifty years passed. So much pain, anguish and suffering that it tore at his soul and robbed him of his peace. None would ever know his trauma, his travails, his constant journey to and from the place of his sleep. Once more, the old man stepped across the threshold of infinity. Once more his body curled in sleep while his spirit fought on for his life, rebelling against the unkind, unforgiving fate he shared which all those who had raced up the hill shared with him. A thousand men, a thousand dog tags never returned. Such is the eternity of the old man. Fifty years passed missing in action.


We are called the children of the Dark for today is a dark day, darker than most. I look down at Grandpa Grav’s sleeping peaceful face. At any moment I expect him to rise from his coffin and ask for his wheelchair. Grandpa Gravesone or Grav as I called him, had been Wheelchair bound since the second great war when a piece of shrapnel snapped his spine. Grandpa died peacefully in the middle of the night. My twin brother Griff grabs my hand for support and comfort. I can see the sadness of my heart reflected in my brother’s eyes. Grandpa was always there for us, Showering us with love and affection. Praising us when we did good and encouraging us to try again when we failed. Grandpa was always the loving one, while Grandma Rose was cold and cruel the exact opposite of grandpa. Everything we did seemed to irritate her, or should I say everything I did. Griff seemed to be her favorite, He never got into any trouble even though he caused a lot of mischief. She was quick to reprimand me or punish me for any slight or assumed slight she saw. And today was no exception. “Aeron!” she whispered to me, “People are watching. Stop blubbering, you are not a girl. You need to be strong!” I saw the sharp anger in her eyes as she dug her nails into my hand. I guess that mom and great-auntie Vera seeing the rage in Grandma’s eyes or the pained look in mine decided to come over to save me from her wrath. “Ari,” as my Auntie Vera lovingly called me “Do me a favor. Can you please find Jake for me and ask him to come here for a second, please!” “Sure, Auntie, we will go find him and bring him over right away.” “We?” my aunt says as she looks curiously at my mom as Griff and I leave. Auntie Vera turned to speak to Grandma Rose” He is 10 years old now and he should know the truth. Plus, it’s hard for all of us to keep your secret especially on days like this.” “Shhh....” Grandma says looking in my direction, “He’ll hear you! I don’t think He’s ready yet.” Aunt Vera looking angrily at Grandma “You mean, YOU’RE not ready.” After a few minutes of searching for Jake in the dark, crowded funeral parlor, I turn to Griff. "There are too many of Grandpa’s friends and family around who keep stopping us. This place is too big, we will never find Jake this way. Let’s split up and look for Jake. I will go left, and you go right. It’ll be easier and faster.” Griff nodded as he headed right to the lounge and I walked left towards the offices. Not seeing Jake, I head towards the restrooms. The dark wooden shadowy doors offering a few minutes of escape from the stifling sadness of the place. As soon as I walked in, I see Jake’s lanky reflection of the bathroom mirror sadly washing his hands. “Hey, Jake! Your mom asked me to come get you. She needs to talk to you about something.” A little irritated he asks, “Did she tell you what it was about?” “No. She just asked us to go find you,” I respond. “Us,” he responds, “I only see you.” "Oh yeah, Griff is still looking for you as well." Just as we leave the bathroom, Griff spots us and walks behind us. Mom, Aunt Vera, and Grandma were sitting together talking. Mom seemed grim, and Aunt Vera and Grandma seemed angry. I wonder what happened while I was gone. I know that it has nothing to do with grandpa. “Hey, Mom what’s going on? Why did you send Ari to hunt me down?” asked Jake. “Son, you know that after the burial we are staying at Rosie’s for a few days. So, I just wanted you to spend some time with Ari and not to go far.” said Aunt Vera. “Ok Mom.” said Jake. The funeral and burial were quick and somber. Everyone was ready to leave the cemetery except Grandma Rose. She placed a bouquet of white roses on the grave next to grandpa’s. Whose was it? Tears came down her face as she said a prayer over the mysterious grave. As I was about to walk over to grandma mom grabbed my hand, “Let’s go Ari,” she said “Let your grandma pray alone.” A deep feeling of sadness set upon us all as we left the cemetery, Mom and Auntie Vera tried to counsel Grandma Rosie as Jake, and I just sat in the back of the car in silence. Tears running down our faces, Griff just sat there looking out the car window crying as he twirled a lone white rose in his hands. When we got out of the car, I went to Grandma and gave her a loving hug. Grandma recoiled from my touch as Griff gave her the white rose. Grandma broke down crying. “How dare you take the rose from the grave,” she yelled at me. “Go!” pushing me away. “Leave me alone!” “Grandma, I didn’t take it, Griff did. He gave it to you to cheer you up. I did not steal it from the grave, I mean it.” “Don’t lie to me!”, she yelled raising her hand to hit me. “Rosie, Stop!” Auntie Vera screamed. “He didn’t take it, we stopped him from going to you at the cemetery. You must have left one fall in the car.” Mom then said, ”Ari, you and Jake are going to sleep in the basement in Dad’s old office. There should be some blankets and sleeping bags in the storage room downstairs. Aunt Vera will be sleeping in your room.” “Mom, What about Griff? Where is he staying?” I asked. Everyone looked at me. “Ari, just go downstairs!” Mom yelled. When grandpa was alive, part of the basement had been converted into an office and the rest was storage. Ari, finding a couple of sleeping bags in among the boxes started to set up a small sleeping area in grandpa Grav’s office. While Griff and Jake rummaged around some boxes for blankets and games. “Ari, who is Griff?” Jake asks, pulling out some blankets from a box. “What do you mean Jake? He is standing next to you. He is my twin brother?” "Ummm, Ari, there is no one here, just you and me...I thought your brother had died in a shooting accident when you were young.” "What do you mean? No, he is right there. Look, he has a book in his hands. Griff, bring that book over here." Jake sees the book floating over to Ari. “Hey, this is Grandma’s old diary” says Ari. Jake lets out a little chuckle “That is a good trick. I almost believed that the book was levitating by itself. Where are the trick wires, huh?” Ari angrily “I am not lying! Griff is standing right next to you. Stop being silly. Better yet ask him for something and watch him bring it to over to you." “Ok, bring me that flashlight over there.” No sooner had Jake asked for it, the flashlight begins to fly over to Jake’s hand. Jake feels around it and finds no strings attached to it. “Ok, how did you do it? I saw it fly in the air and come to me but I do not see anyone.” “I am not joking with you.” says Ari, “Griff gave it to you." “Ari, stop trying to scare me. Your twin died a long time ago. Next thing you are going to tell me is that grandpa’s ghost is here.” Ari grabs the journal, and angrily sits down in the corner leaning against the back wall. Rummaging through the diary he decides to read the last couple of pages. "Maybe if I read her diary, I can figure out why grandma Rosie hates me so. Plus, it might also calm me down. Hmm these entries are dated 5 years ago." Nov 13 Ari and Griff are in the basement playing Cops and Robbers again. Grav is downstairs in his office. I hope that the kids don’t disturb him as he is working.... Nov 24 I....I can’t believe Griff is dead.... Ari killed him. He killed him. It was accidental, I know. He found Grav’s gun in one of the boxes and was playing cops and robbers with Griff when he pulled the trigger and shot him. The bullet went through his head and through the wooden door in Grav’s office, hitting Grav in the back. Doctors say that he will never walk again. The bullet severed his spinal column. Nov 25 I can’t believe that he is dead. Why God? Why? Why did Griff have to die.... Nov 26 My eldest daughter Trisha has volunteered to take Ari for a couple of days till I can come to grips with this. That is the last entry in the diary. “I can’t believe this" he says looking in shock at Griff laying down next to Jake’s sleeping form. As a couple of letters fall out of the book, Ari opens them and begins to read them. Dec 18th Dear Mom, I still think that this is a bad idea. Ari is your son. You sent him to St Joseph’s psychiatric clinic for a couple of days cause he is in a catatonic state. He still has not responded to any treatment so far. You and the rest of the family pass me off as his mother because you can’t deal with the tragic event. I think you should also go see a shrink to help you deal with this issue. Dec 20th Dear Mom, Ari has come out of his catatonic state. He doesn’t remember anything regarding the accident. He has assumed and believes that I am his mother. The therapist and I have convinced him that he had fallen out of a tree and hit his head. He has been in the hospital all this time healing from the fall. The therapist believes that Ari should not be told until he is old enough to deal with the consequences of his action. Dec 24 Dear Mom, even though it doesn’t make sense to me as to why you want to do this, I will go ahead with your decision for me to adopt Ari, and as discussed I will give up my apartment and move in with you on January 2 to help you take care of Dad. We will tell Ari that I am your daughter and that he is my son - your grandson - instead of me being his sister. I have spoken to the other family members and they have agreed to keep the lie going as long as you want. Please fill out the attached adoption forms. Ari begins to cry as he looks on at the sleeping forms of both Griff and Jake. “This can’t be true...this can’t be true.” In the semi-darkness he notices a dark metallic padlocked door in the back of the basement that he had not seen before. Making sure that he does not wake up Griff and Jake, he quietly grabs a set of old keys that are hanging on a hook in the basement he walks over to the door. Trying each key in succession, he tries to open the door. "Maybe I can find some more info regarding the accident in that room. It has to be locked for a reason." When he opens the door he find himself staring into his own eyes. He finds a record of his birth certificate, Griff's, and his other brother Nathanial who died when he was younger. He comes to realize that he was not a twin, but a triplet. Ari looks at Nathan’s darkened image and hugs his brother. Grandma had left him locked in the room with a slit in the bottom to feed him by just like she had done to him when he was younger. She made it seem as if Nathan had never existed. Waking up Griff, Ari and Nathan go upstairs to pay grandma a visit. She has to answer for what she has done. Jake wakes up as he sees the shadowy image of Ari walking upstairs with two old knives floating behind him.


The doctor was staring at the meatball sitting in front of him. His flesh was loose, the belly was perfectly round and squishy, but it definitely had a little elasticity to give an extra level of pleasure to the person who would tap on it. The doctor didn't touch him, but his long experience told him all that. He knew his patient was an overweight guy who didn't even seem to care about it. He came here for acute knee pain. Who would say to him that his obesity is the root of his problems? But the fluffy man was not at all ashamed of his bad habits of eating a whole ocean at a time. " Do you know it's not at all good to be that fat?" "Hey, it's not my fault. I have become like that, because of this world." " Eh! Stop lying. Look, I'm a doctor and I know you eat too much and don't exercise. So..." "You don't believe me!" "Try to understand, you have to reduce your BMI if you want to live healthily" " I didn't think I'll share this information with anyone. But, guess I don't have any choice now. Do you want to know Why I'm fat? Well, let me tell you a story first." "Don't waste my time." " I'll only tell the necessary parts. This is a story of three people. Not very long ago the world wasn't like this---------- "Not very long ago people used to live a happy normal life. But suddenly everything changed. Science fiction writers have predicted and described many kinds of apocalypse in their fiction. Starting from omnipotent A.I. taking over the world to the self-destruction of the sun. Nuclear holocaust and zombies had been used as morning walk! But these nonsense bunch of fictional stories are useless and nothing compared to the problem what people are facing now. This kind of apocalypse was never ever imagined. As a result of this destructive apocalypse, people are now unable to use lifts. They can't walk properly, eat properly, sit properly. This ultimate phenomenon destroyed our lifestyle. And the main problem we're facing is....." "Cut it out, Steve. We all know what this is. In fact, look at me!" Steve looked at the poor potato lying on the couch, scratching his head. No, wait! It wasn't a potato! It was his friend Paul! His body is completely round. His head was completely sunk inside his tremendous belly. Hands and legs were kinda like big sized cucumbers and his fingers were comparable with big round and juicy grapes. He had been transformed into a huge potato. "Umm, sorry about that Paul.", he said softly. It all started almost a year ago. The government of 'Ekta' ordered and forced all the farmers to cultivate a special genotype of potato. It should have been an over-productive type, in fact, it was. But, after people started to eat those potatoes, soon they also started to turn into potato-like species themselves! A group of young scientists started working in order to find out a way to cope with it. "Steve, what should we do know? All of our co-workers have been turned into potatoes. Even me! Soon I even won't be able to ta....." "Oh no, Paul!" "We're doomed, now it's only you and me.", Stated Nick, pro gamer, the fattest person in that room. Of course, his belly was nothing big in front of Paul's. But once Paul used to be the thinnest member of their group. TAN. TAN. TAN. TAN.! They were startled by the sudden sound. It was their Auto Surveillance System's Alarm. That meant it had found something. They rushed to the control room. "Marvelous! We finally found one of the parliament members" "Let's go and talk. It's highly likely the government was involved in this crisis" They at once rushed to the detected spot. Even Paul was going rolling his body. But they didn't get what they expected. The parliament member was also turned out to be a potato himself! "So, the government wasn't involved?" "How can we know that Steve?" They searched the empty house only to waste time. "Hey Nick, look what I found!", He had a file in his hand. "It reads: the government received the formula of hybrid potato from a legendary creature called 'the Jamba'. " "What do you mean by 'the Jamba'!? So, wasn't it scientific warfare?" "I don't know, but, if we want to stop it, we have to touch all the bases." "So, where can we find that so called Jamba?" "No data. But I'm sure we can find more information in the library." They headed to the library. In the meantime, Paul totally lost his sanity and started to try to slam Nick and Steve. It is also needed to be mentioned that, the strange syndrome not only turned people in potatoes but also affected the thinking process. The person who's effected used to get an instinct of killing people by slamming them. "Whoa, Paul!" "Hey, Nick, let's hide in that house, with that fat body, there's no way he will be able to enter." They entered an abandoned house breaking the front door with a heavy kick. But they were wrong. Paul was fat but also quite elastic. He managed to enter and kept following them. "He is coming, Steve! He is coming! " Steve had eyes. He also saw that creature coming. ''Head to the stairs!" They ran upstairs at a furious speed. This time it was successful. Paul could not climb the stairs because of his excessive weight. "That was close.", sighed Nick. "We're safe, but we need to get out of here." Steve started to look around the house. "I think, there is a private library here." "That's good luck, but it's highly unlikely that we'll find out anything about the Jamba here." "Found it!" "Impossible!", Nick didn't believe what he just heard. "It's possible that the house owner was a fan of legends." "You mean apex legends?" "It's not a funny idiot! The world is at stake and you're talking about games!" "My bad." Reading the book they found, they found out the place where the Jamba used to live. "Steve, listen to me, we need to run faster than super Mario and even sonic if we want to reach the mount Takara today." "Stop talking about games. Lemme think a bit." During the first few months of the apocalypse, all the vehicles had been destroyed. So that was out of the question. But remaining out of the base wasn't at all safe. They already knew higher places were least likely to be attacked. "I have an idea, Steve." "If it's about games then no thanks." "Trust me, you'll like it." Soon the pair were heading towards mount Takara. How? Well, they were running on Paul's round body causing him to roll. They were running backward in order to progress forward. The idea was perfect. They soon reached mount, Takara. The mountain had a big dark cave. Nothing could be seen inside. "Jamba! We're here to talk with you. We have a little business to settle." A bright light started to come out of the cave. They could see a humongous shadow on the farthest wall of the cave. It was almost 20 meters long. It looked like a fat dragon with relatively small wings. The shadow looked creepy. They were trembling with fear. And, when the monster came out, they were shocked to discover, the great Jamba, was, actually, a chicken! It was indeed a regular-sized chicken, but the shadow was tremendous because of the angle from which they were watching it. "Greetings my friends. What do you want from me?" "You turned all the people into potatoes. We request you to make everything normal again, or.." "We'll fry and eat you!" "Shut up Nick! .... I'm begging, do forgive my fellow friend for his rudeness." "Nah don't worry, I'm not at all angry. Actually, the government of Ekta asked me to solve the malnutrition problem. And that's why I decided to solve the problem once and for all by making them overweight" "I see. But, our government didn't mean anything like this. I beg you please make everything normal again." "That's not possible." "If you don't do what we say, we're sure having a grilled chicken with soya sauce today..." Steve shoots a killing look at Nick's eyes making him quiet once again. "Isn't there any way?" " I'm afraid there's a way but you can't do that." "Just tell us." "If I have to undo the formula, I'll need to do the chicken dance. But I can't do that unless someone defeats me in the Competition." "What kind of competition?" "You'll gonna have to defeat me in eating competition." Both friends burst into laughter. Steve sure was a master class scientist. But he also was well known for his massive eating habits. And as the competitor was just a 1 feet tall chicken, it wasn't even a competition! "You don't need to be worried. Let's do this." "Okay, don't say I didn't warn ya!" Soon two 1000 litter boxes filled with noodles were visible before them. "I don't think we'll need that much." "Oh!, I don't think so!", The small chicken started to evolve and turned into a big fat elephant with a relatively small nose! "H-hey!, That's cheating!" "I warned you before!" Nick was afraid and didn't know what to do. But he saw a grin on Steve's face. "Noodles are my favorite! I always wanted to eat as much as I want. But never could because of a shortage of money. I finally got my chance!", He said to himself, "if I don't win I'll still be able to enjoy the noodles!" "Hey! Why are you laughing!?" "Don't worry, Nick. I've got this!" Soon the competition began. Both the contestants were eating like they hadn't eaten for years. 2 bowls, 3 bowls...21 bowls, 22 bowls....67 bowls...none of them showed any sign of withdrawal. 346 bowl, Steve was getting fatter and fluffier with every bowl he devoured. 543 bowl, Steve started to get difficulties. But he continued nevertheless.657 bowl, the elephant was already 6 bowls ahead. But the competition was far from over. "You can do it, Steve, the fate of humanity depends on you!" 768 bowl, the elephant also having trouble now; though he is already 21 bowls ahead. Steve had become a giant football by then. With every bowl, it was getting harder and harder. "Do it, Steve!" The competition turned insane. Both of them were running out of energy. They were having trouble continuing. Steve had eliminated the difference between them. Both of them were eating 974 number bowl. But suddenly the elephant burst, scattering millions of ultra-fat chickens everywhere. That watermelon like chickens had ridiculously small wings and almost no neck. Looking like fluffy watermelons. "I can't believe I'm lost!", Stated Jamba. "Oh well, I'll keep my promise." The Jamba or Jambas started to do the chicken dance in order to reverse everything. ---------------------- Jamba kept his promise. Thus once again, everything became normal. He also altered the memory of the people so that no one remembers the facts.." "And what's the connection of it with your obesity?" "I'm Steve." " Stop joking. You think I'm going to buy this ridiculous story?" " I'm serious!" " What do you think, I'm a clown?! This story has to be a lie. It has so many plot holes. it's impossible for a person to eat that much. And people turning into potatoes; what it has to do with vehicles?! You don't even know how to lie properly." " I'm not lying. It's true. Believe me!" "Yeah, I'm sorry. I was wrong. Obesity isn't the biggest problem you have. Don't worry. I'm recommending you a good psychologist. " "Okay. You won't trust me. I think I don't have any choice left. Here you go. Eat it.", He picked up a boiled potato from a tiffin box he was carrying. The doctor received it and started to devour it without hesitation. "Don't think I believe you. I'm just hungry that is why I accepted the treat. In fact, your ridiculous story made me hungry!." As soon as he swallowed the potato. He turned into a huge fluffy potato himself! Moral: Never eat potatoes from strangers! ***. ***. ***


The last time I danced was in February. Not this year’s February, but last year’s. It’s too many months with no contact. Now I’m walking into a hotel for one of my favorite pre-pandemic pastimes. I’m greeted by a bright welcoming face behind the check in desk. I can see her smile and she can see mine. There’s still a wall of plexiglass between us from when it was needed for protection, but seeing another human this close without masks hiding half of our faces feels incredibly intimate. I accept my room keys and head to the elevator. My finger hovers over the button, pausing in mental preparation to notice I’m about to touch a public surface and I need to have sanitizer ready to scour my skins as soon as I get to my hotel room. I let out a full exhale and remind myself that while I’ll likely still sanitize frequently, it’s no longer a mandatory survival habit. The room is small, and I think about how there will soon be five of us here. Two in each bed and one on the floor; breathing the same recycled air for all of the hours we aren’t in the ballroom downstairs. Dancers have done this for years; cramming too many people into each room to save money since the festival tickets, private lessons, and travel costs are expensive. But this time is different. Most of us haven’t shared a room with someone outside of our household for a long time, and we’ll need to readjust to this closeness, trying to get back to how things used to be. How things were in the dance world before being in a close embrace with a stranger could be deadly. Before we feared our own friends and family members getting near us. My roommates won’t be here for another hour or two, but I can’t wait for them. I’m too excited to get downstairs and catch the first workshop. Brazilian Zouk: Back to the Basics starts at 8pm and my stomach flutters with a mix of anticipation and doubt. Before the pandemic I had been dancing and training in Zouk for five years. I wouldn’t have been as interested in a Basics workshop back then, but after this long of not being able to enjoy this partner dance, I’m worried I’ll forget everything I knew before. The countless hours and dollars spent on technique training, practice, and teams. Can muscle memory last this long? As I get closer to the ballroom I see the display tables lining the hallway. Vibrant festival banners, flyers and tee shirts, leggings and body suits, and glittering shoes are a sight for sore eyes. Then I see my friend that I met years ago at another festival. “Ah - hi!” we both squeal and run toward each other. There’s a brief pause before we close in on less than six feet of separation, but then we break through it and lunge at each other in excitement. “Oh it’s been so long!” She says as we rock in a joyful embrace. “Yes, I’m nervous I won’t be able to do this anymore; that I’ve forgotten everything,” I say, stepping back with a furrowed brow and pouting mouth. “Same! I was so sad I didn’t know if we’d ever have these festivals again. It’s been torture to be without the dance fam for this long.” “I know, it’s been so awful and also devastating who we’ve lost,” I look down, thinking of the two instructors and a few other Zouk community members who didn’t make it through the pandemic. My friend brings me into a comforting hug, and I notice how it feels so foreign after the time apart from others, but it’s also a welcome home, this closeness. “They’re here in spirit with us,” she wipes a tear from her eye. She had taken lessons with one of the instructors who passed and the memory of the wisdom and energy that person brought to the scene is heartbreaking in this moment of recognizing their absence. “Are you catching this basics workshop?” I nod toward the ballroom, just as we hear warmup music starting and a mic check from the instructor. “Yes, let’s do this,” she links her arm in mine and we head to the end of the hall. We find a set of empty chairs along the wall and settle in to change our shoes, pulling our Taygras out of their bags. She’s wearing a magenta leopard print bodysuit and I’m wearing galaxy-patterned leggings with a tee shirt from a 2018 festival. We jump onto the dance floor and join the crowd in the warm up movements. I see a few other friends, including one of my roommates on the other side of the dance floor. We wave excitedly then refocus on the instructor leading us through slow head movement to warm up our necks and prevent injury. After the workshop a group of us heads to a restaurant down the block for a late dinner. For most of us, this is the first time we’ve eaten indoors with friends in a long time, and it’s almost magical. Our voices fill the otherwise-empty restaurant with exclamations about how good it feels to dance again, but also how nervous we are for the social. What if we’ve forgotten how to lead or follow, all the technique we had practiced for years? What if we get hurt? Is it really safe to get as close as Zouk dancing requires? That last question hangs in the air in a moment of stillness. The medical experts throughout the country (and world) have declared that it is safe, the virus has been contained and we can feel free to live lives that involve normal contact, as long as someone isn’t showing symptoms of illness. But after nearly two years of fear of being near other people, it’s a hard concept to fully accept. We clear the table and head back to the hotel. My roommate and I grab extra keys for the others staying in our room and head up to our floor. We each grab a side of one of the beds and lie back for a moment, taking in the reality of where we are and how long we’ve missed this. “Well,” I turn to her, “do you know what you’re wearing tonight?” “No, I definitely need your help with that!” She jumps up and unzips her suitcase. “I brought six different outfits for the socials since I just couldn’t decide. Also, what if styles have changed or something since the last festival I went to and we’re supposed to wear something different now?” Her shoulders tense toward her ears in worry. “I’m pretty sure the Zouk scene didn’t become extra fancy or different while we were all isolating. That would be pretty unfair. I think we should go for what makes us feel good right now, so we can focus more on the dance than what we’re wearing.” “True,” she starts pulling outfits out and holding them up in the mirror. “How do you like this one?” She has a purple and white zebra-striped romper held up to her. “Love it! What shoes would you wear with that one?” “Maybe these?” She pulls out a pair of nude three-inch heel ballroom shoes covered in rhinestones. “Hot, but don’t forget this is Zouk and you’re rusty... would those be dangerous?” “Ugh, you’re so right. I should find something shorter for this first night so I don’t fall on my ass doing turns or rotisserie.” “Ha, yep, I think I’ll be going more casual tonight and sticking with flats to avoid just that.” By 11pm the rest of the roommates have arrived and we’ve been catching up, getting ready, and sharing our mix of excitement and nervousness about the social. We talk about the workshops happening the following day and how it’s been so long since we’ve been on dancers’ schedules. We’re not sure we can make it to the end of the social at 4am, and then especially to the 11am combre workshop after that. “I feel like I’ve learned to sleep a lot more during the pandemic, so if y’all find me snoozing on the side of the dance floor please pick me up and bring me back here,” one roommate asked with a wink. “Yes, me too! I feel like making it to 2am is ambitious enough for me for this first night. I’m guessing we’ll also be super sore tomorrow too. Watch those necks, ladies!” The roommates nod in agreement and one touches her neck just thinking about circular head movement and how rusty we all are with it. At midnight we make our way down to the ballroom and are met with the distant familiarity of dance social humidity. The mix of sweat and joy in the room creates a thick air being sliced through with the beats and lights from the DJ booth. We take it all in and start looking for partners. “Oh I love this song, let’s go!” One of the ladies from our room is a lead, so she pulls another roommate onto the floor. I scan the room and then find a friend from our apprentice team years ago. We briefly catch up on how we’ve been holding up and then rush to the middle of the dance floor to start out the night’s dances. The right side of my face touches the left side of his as our torsos and hips connect. Our arms and hands find their positions and we start with a shared inhale in the embrace. Our heartbeats find each other, then connect with the song. Our collective weight shifts one way, then the other, then into the basic step. The music guides us as our movements grow and we create shapes in time with the beat and lyrics. This is what has been missing. The distance between me and other people for so long made me unsure I could get back to Zouk, but I’m here, with the other dancers and we’re reconnecting. We’re finding our way back to each other and I never want to lose this again.


The howling of the frosty wind grew louder and muffled the dark rays from the moon above. A wet fog seeped through the cracks of an old, rigid window pane and washed over a fairly aged bedside cabinet. The frail curtains delicately flowed and rippled across the room, casting a misty shadow across the rickety floorboards. A peaceful log occupied the bed, laying lifeless as it succumbed to the cold breeze which smothered it. The plum kissed skin and the flowing locks were the only elements that could distinguish the object. All seems peaceful, but the fiends of the night are hungry and searching for vulnerability in their prey. A foreign, vivid shadow filled the room with a toxic darkness, suffocating the last drops of life that the room once had. The window chain hovered subtly off the lock and creaked open the ancient window, allowing the unnatural climate of the outside world to flow freely into the solitude room. Following the musty fog was a meagre figure, clad in rotting green, hungry for a glowing youth. The being, glowing in a murky darkness, stood tall as an oak tree by the bedside of the innocent child, watching over like a dark angel before elevating the child into the airborne room. The pair flew astray into the darkened night sky, leaving the isolated bedsit to fend for itself against the demons of the night. An object, unfamiliar to any of human existence passed the moon and scraped the moonlight gracefully, yet so eerily, casting shadows across the silent town below. The girl, under a spell of deep unconsciousness had travelled into a universe of the unknown. The vicious substance coarsed through the teens veins and grappled the consciousness of her freshly developed brain, only to start letting her slip through into a much darker place, back to reality. The girl called out to the figure, who sat on a stool opposite, eagerly waiting for company from an uncomfortable victim it had grasped from the goodness of the world. “Where am I?” Called out the girl as she eased back into a world she was unfamiliar with. The cloak shuffled and obscured the face of the dark soul it covered, before replying; “Neverland, my dear”. Grasping onto the rag of a blanket, the girl attempted to scan the room for any sense of where she was. After worrying glancing from wall to wall, the cloaked mound moulded into a standing position. Following a deep, crackle of a cough, the figure spoke; “I know all about you Wendy. I’ve been watching you for weeks, waiting for the right opportunity. When the stars aligned and all the pieces of my plan came together I... Well, that doesn’t matter now, I have you”. Shivering with fear, Wendy attempted her grand escape only to be restricted by the tight, straw like ropes which held her close to the rusty old bed frame. The slightest turn of her wrists would scrape her skin like she was bounded by barbed wire. Shaking like a rabid dog, she tried with all her force to pull away from her deathbed but only resulting in deep uncomfort and only distancing further from an energetic soul with every attempt of release. The figure nonchalantly hovered over to the bedside as if the twisted scenario it had started was just a minor inconvenience. Growing taller as the black cloak leaned over the bed, a collection of bones wrapped in paper thin, wrinkly skin, tugged on the hood and lowered the barrier, revealing the scrawny being it harboured. The creature, which was barely noticeable as a human, beared a long mouldy-grey ruff of a beard which hung down on top of the dark cloak the man bore. The arm of the coat twitched as a gaunt hand slithered out and reached over to the flowing river of hair covering the girls blushed face. Carefully moving the hair to reveal Wendy’s terrified emotion, the man spoke; “I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself, how rude of me. I’m Peter”. Following his softly whispered words, the mortal grinned and scowled over Wendy, creating further shivering terror in the youth’s teary eyes. Crawling from the hair, the scrawny, scaly hand wandered down to the glossy buttons of her nightgown. Fiddling, the long-tainted nails of the hand unweaved the buttons and slowly unlocked the only fabrics acting as safety from the body of the teen. With an attempt to retrieve her snatched freedom, Wendy screamed at a volume unbearable to the human ear, the scream was met with a scattering of beetles and rodents escaping the siren of fear. Kicking and violently wriggling, she tried for a final time to escape the hands of her soon to be killer before he stole her innocent youth. But the attempt was unsuccessful. “Oh my dear, you’re not playing nicely. We can’t have that can we? Maybe this will calm you”. The man reached into a draw and scrambled across the wooden base before pulling out a yellowy handkerchief covered in spots of orange infection and held it over the sweet strawberry lips of the girl before allowing her sleep; “Goodnight Wendy my sweet girl”. Wendy’s eyes started to flutter softly before gradually falling closed. She dropped into a hole of darkness and her consciousness fell with her, leaving her body limp and vulnerable to anything by it.


I lifted my head over the parapet just long enough for it to not be shot off: from the hill I was on, on a beautiful sunny morning, I could see a plain of destruction: of combat, of metal wreckages, and craters, and corpses of young men all twisted up in barbed wire and strewn unnaturally, broken, over tank traps and artillery pieces with blown barrels and smashed wheels. I sat back down and couldn’t bring myself to care today; I had been seeing it over and over, and thinking about the consequences of the war, and couldn’t bring myself to think it was that important that we win. In my trench there was a column of ants running along a horizontal beam and I tried to watch them instead of thinking. I knew an old trick: I spat on my finger and made a line of saliva across the trail of the ant tracks. It stopped the ants when they got there: they walked back and forth along the spit barrier and tried to figure out what was going on, most of them turning around and going back the way they came. I watched one ant heading back, and I realised that every time he came across an ant coming the other way they stopped in front of each other for a moment. I wondered how much information they could exchange with the waving of their antennae: “some asshole’s spit all over our trail.”  I heard a shell whistle overhead, glad to hear it pass by without stopping. I couldn’t see the ants carrying anything in either direction: either they had very small bits of food with them or they were doing something else. I wondered what. I wondered if they ever stopped and watched the trail go by and wondered why it was that they did what they did. I knew that they apparently didn’t care about anything but the nest, and that they did their jobs blindly, but was that the limit of their minds? Was there one little corner of the brain, some tiny fragment that hinted at holding something else, even just in one single ant of the colony, a freak occurrence of a tiny thought that wanted to be something more? I wondered how big the piece of me that I felt was so big was, my consciousness or whatever it was, considering I was currently sitting in this trench on this hill, and considering that if someone came up the hill wearing the wrong coloured clothes I would, being honest with myself, shoot him without hesitation. Sure, I did seem to wonder about things pretty frequently-more than ants seem to-but it didn’t seem to be doing me any good, nor had it really ever. I thought back on a painting I had seen, of a sunrise over a harbour and the clamour of construction, a beautiful city being built on a beautiful morning while children raced toy boats in the water. What would that painter, whatever his name was, have done if he was in my position? Could he find any beauty in this scene?  The ants kept marching along the beam, surely noticing the way their ground shook when shells exploded nearby. They must have felt it but maybe they had no use for that information: there was certainly nothing they could do about it; and they had things to build, like the labourers in that painting. Did the ants feel as optimistic as that sunrise, as the kids by the cool harbour waters and the busy labourers sweating, while they were doing their part for the anthill? The ants all passed by a weed that had found itself a foothold in the trench wall; it was nice to have something green to look at, but I also knew that it was an edible weed. I plucked it, doing my best not to disturb the ant column as I did so, and chewed it. It didn’t taste like much, but I didn’t really regret plucking it. I took another peek over the parapet, chewing on the fibrous stem of the weed, and everything seemed the same: nothing dramatic was happening, no big attacks were being mounted; it was just a war of attrition built up of tiny blocks of personal tragedy; as those shells that whistled overhead smashed into a trench where someone else was sitting and maybe watching ants. I was glad to not be receiving any orders, or any enemy shells, and I kept on watching the ants.


First, it was Existentialism. He heard her voice ring out, shrill and self-assured, before he’d even taken a proper look at her. “Man first of all exists, encounters himself, surges up in the world, and defines himself afterwards. These were the words of John Paul Sartre in his 1946 essay on Existentialism and Humanism , which first laid out the philosophical framework of existentialism. As you will see, it still holds radical potential for us today...” The way she held herself, regal-like, with an air of pomposity as she reeled off French phrases and philosophical mantras like she’d coined them herself - her whole demeanour in fact - set his teeth grinding. It didn’t help that languages were one of the few subjects Marcus didn’t excel at. When he stood up to deliver for the opposition, his confidence had wavered and he could hear how unconvincing his appeals to biological essentialism sounded. Besides, the audience always loved a speaker who told them that they were more free than they thought they were, so he’d been on the back foot from the start. That had lost them a spot in the regional finals and the trophy had eventually gone to some prep school from Wiltshire. The next time, it was Life on Other Planets. He hadn’t seen her for six months, but as soon as everyone stepped on the stage to shake hands with the other teams, he felt the adrenaline rush through him. She wore a garnet school tie, a little tighter than you would get away with in his school. Marcus, by contrast, had self-consciously slipped his loosely knotted tie down to reveal an undone top button, hoping it projected a cool and calm image. He rolled his sleeves up as determinedly as if he was stepping into armour. It was the first bout of the county championships. “For centuries, man has believed that he was alone in the universe. But he looked to the stars and never stopped wondering. We are now in an age where we can say beyond reasonable doubt that there is a life beyond planet Earth. Recent studies of Mars by NASA probes have shown the presence of Formaldehyde and Ammonia in the atmosphere...” He delivered his speech clearly and pragmatically, condensing down large-scale statistics into easily digestible nuggets of information. There was a palpable air of excitement from the audience, and he knew that they’d be going home later today and repeating facts from his speech to their friends and family. By the time he had finished, they were like putty in his hands. As he stepped off stage, he caught her glowering up at him. She looked worried, he thought to himself, gleefully, and rightfully so. He’d already won over the audience, and it would take a lot to swing them back the other way. She stiffly shuffled to podium and began to speak in a low but firm voice. “My honourable opponent has told you today that it is beyond all reasonable doubt that there is life on other planets. He has said that man has always thought of himself alone in the universe. Both of these statements are demonstrably false.” “Man has always been terrified, above all, by the possibility that we are alone in a vast chasm of darkness. And to fill that void, he has created life where none is to be found, commonly in the form of deities or angels. And that age-old need for connection, ladies and gentleman, is the exact same driving force that lies behind modern claims of alien life, which are founded on flimsy evidence and dressed up in the language of pseudo-science...” It was a robust rebuttal, one that turned the spotlight on the audience themselves and forced them to examine their own desire to believe in Marcus’s arguments. A few of them shuffled uncomfortably in their seats. Marcus was impressed. Nonetheless, he sensed that this high-concept, rather cynical argument had largely failed to connect. The second proposition and opposition teammates gave adequate speeches of their own, before the debate turned to questions from the floor. Nearly all of the questions were directed to Marcus from people eager to know more about the possibility of past life on Mars. It was wrapped up with short summary speeches from himself and Ria. Any relief was immediately stifled by a surge of anxiety about what was to come next. In the county championships, teams were not only required to debate the main topic, but also to complete a second round in which they debated on an impromptu subject. They would be handed a bundle of information and given a mere 15 minutes to prepare. It was Marcus’s biggest fear that he would get flustered in the extra round and loose his cool, though normally he excelled under pressure. His teammate Ryan and himself quickly set to work leafing through the papers. “I heard that the Caulfield Grammar always knows the subjects in advance...” Ryan hissed in an accusatory tone. “What do you mean?” “Well, I hea-a-a-a-rd that their deputy head’s good buddies with the debating chair and so he catches wind of what subjects are going to be sprung on us. That’s why they’re always so prepared.” Marcus looked at his conspiratorial friend with a wry smile. “And where did you hear that story from?” “My brother Mike went to Caulfield for Sixth Form - only for a year before he dropped out and started that plumbing course. Mum and Dad were gutted they’d spent out only for Mike to throw it all away. Jokes on them, he’s already making more than they do. But that’s why I’m stuck at the Grange: they don’t want to risk the investment of a better school on me now.” He folded his arms, sulkily. “Right.” Said Marcus, acutely aware of how the clock was ticking on their preparation time. “So about this debate-” “And she’s a proper teacher’s pet that one. I heard from Mike that she’s set a record in her school for GCSE’s: 11 A*s, 1 A. The Grange won’t even let me take more than 10, bet I could set a record if I’d been given half a chance.” Suddenly his interest had been piqued. “You know her?” “You mean Ria? Yeah my brother is friends with her brother, she’s a total suck up. Apparently she has a poster of the periodic table on her bedroom wall!” Marcus nodded shiftily. He certainly didn’t have a poster like that displayed on his wall - but he did have a quiz app he used to test his memory of the periodic elements... “Do you think... you could introduce us? You know, afterwards.” Marcus asked. “I want to get a handle on the competition for future bouts.” He added quickly. “Pfft. Sure. Oh shit we’ve only got 8 minutes left. We better get on. Debate, on the opposition: Lying is always morally wrong. Apparently we’re meant to know about this guy Kant? ” The impromptu bout went as Ryan had predicted: the Caulfield school demolished them. In the end though, Marcus didn’t need an introduction to be brokered as Ria came up to him after the debates had finished and the teams were packing up. “So that was a decent argument you put forward there,” she said, haughtily. “About life on other planets, that is.” He laughed in a way that smoothed over his nerves. “Is that your way of saying well done?” “If it was that well done, you would have won,” she replied, a slight twinkle in her eyes. “But it was decent competition, I’ll give you that. You almost had me worried there. I don’t say that lightly you know.” “Thank you for your sincere congratulations” he said, playfully. There was an awkward silence for a moment, and he began filling up his backpack. Even as he leant over to slowly zip the bag up, he could feel her proximity to him and an electric tension fizzled in the air. “So, you’re Ria right? My friend knows your brother.” He volunteered. “Indeed, Ria is me. And you’re Marcus, I presume.” He felt a little thrill that she had sought out his name. “And how do you know that? I doubt you got the information from my brother, he’s been living in Australia for the past decade,” he joked. “It’s sewn on your backpack,” she retorted. His heart sunk. Thanks Mum . The disappointment must have flickered across his face because she reached out and placed her hand gently on his arm. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I like a man who’s organised.” She flashed him a flirtatious smile. “Let’s see if you can organise a victory next time?” And with that challenge, she flounced off to re-join her teammate. The third time, it was Freedom of Speech in Universities. Ryan took the lead and almost managed to swing the audience into believing that there was simply too much free speech in the world - before he started spouting off about universities being cradles of communism. The impromptu debate wasn’t much better, as the Caulfield school seemed to know a lot more on the topic of environmentalism and the imminent dangers of climate change. By this point, a month had passed and Marcus had worked up the courage to approach Ria after the debates and ask if she wanted to hang out. He hadn’t quite worked up the bottle to ask if she wanted to go out but it was a first step at least, he figured. He took a sharp breath in, rolled up his sleeves again, and walked over to where she was sat. She looked up at him, toying with an escapee curl of hair between her finger and thumb. “Not such a hotshot this time were we?” “No, I admit, I’ve been a bit distracted.” He said. “Ryan did a good job though.” “Your teammate? He was mediocre at best. Rather seems to think he’s smarter than he is.” Marcus was a bit put out by her comment, though secretly he felt the same. “Is that what you think of me?” “To begin with, maybe. I guess time will tell.” She broke into a warm smile. “Well... we could hang out some time, and put that supposition to the test?” He didn’t dare move a single facial muscle in case in case it went rogue and betrayed him. His stomach was clenched tightly. Ria replied, “That wouldn’t be such a bad notion,” and took out a small notebook, wrote down her number and pulled the page out. “Give me a ring?” They went on a date the very next evening. It was a jolt, seeing her out of school uniform; she wore a velvet red top with long puffy sleeves, and a pair of sleek black jeans. He asked her what she was planning to do at university. “Oh I’ll be on the University Challenge team, and likely run the Model UN.” She said, matter-of-factly. “I meant more, what do you plan on studying...” He said, in awe of her self-assurance. “Oh.” She laughed. “Well I intend on studying Politics and International Relations at Warwick. If I get the grades of course. And you?” “English at Sheffield. I’ve got a few mates up there already actually.” In his mind, he was already trying to calculate the distance between Sheffield and Warwick. “That sounds lovely.” She replied, looking intently at him, and her fingers inched a little closer to his so that they were a hairbreadth’s apart. They spoke some more about school and future plans, before he casually dropped in the rumour he’d heard from Ryan. “Is it true?” He asked. She scanned him for a moment, as if checking she could trust him. “Look, I’m more keen than anyone to win, I mean, going on to win the regionals would really help me get into the Parliamentary debate league and then the Model UN, but I feel really uncomfortable with it. Mr Scott keeps dropping all these heavy handed hints, and it’s hard not to act on them...” She looked ashamed. “It’s terrible, I know.” “No I get it.” Marcus said, shifting his hand onto hers. He could feel that her pulse was racing as fast as his. “I don’t know if it will fix anything,” she said, “but I can tell you what the next one’s going to be. It’s on the topic of AI - you know, artificial intelligence. Robots and all that.” At the end of the evening, he went to kiss her on the cheek goodbye at the same time as she went in for a hug, and he accidentally grazed across the corner of her lips. She held on to him longer than a normal hug, before whispering in his ear, “I’ll see you soon, opponent.” He had told Ryan about the impromptu subject at school the next day. “Where in the high hell did you hear that?” Ryan asked, incredulously. “From Ria actually.” “Oh no mate, she doesn’t fancy you does she? I mean fair play her telling us and all, but still. ” Marcus withered under Ryan’s mockery. “Nah, no way. And even she did, I’d never go for that. I have standards you know, mate.” He glanced around guiltily, even though he knew Ria was miles away. The two began preparing in earnest for the final debate, and by the time it arrived Marcus had devoured seven Isaac Asimov novels. When they got to the county finals, the hall was packed with people Marcus didn’t recognise though somewhere in the crowd his mum and dad were in attendance, excited to finally be invited to one of his debates. The Chair was a small beady, bearded man, who Marcus knew to be quite the stickler for rules, and he had to hush the crowd several times before the debates could begin. This time, the main topic was Social Media as a Force for Good. The debate opened with Marcus in first proposition, presenting a sweeping vision of an increasingly connected world and its benefit to human progress. Ria, in first opposition, argued fiercely that platforms like Facebook and Twitter had caused a breakdown in communication and enabled users to act in bad faith. Ryan to his credit gave a fantastic account of the role of social media in the Arab Spring and Ria’s teammate gave some damning statistics about the impact on young children. Marcus was exhausted by the time the questions from the floor and summaries were over. Finally, the bearded man gave a cough to indicate he was ready to announce the impromptu round. He read off a sheet: “Can Men and Women Ever be Equal?” What? Panicked, Marcus glanced over at Ria expecting to be met with a similarly aghast look. She wore a blank expression, gaze fixed firmly forwards towards the stage. Ryan muttered swear words under his breath as he and Marcus fumbled through the information sheets to try and piece together their proposition speeches. “For a nerd, she’s fecking useless,” he told Marcus, annoyed at the wasted hours spent pouring over sci-fi mags and robotics journals. Marcus closed his eyes, and tried to remember all the things his mum had taught him growing up, those preachy lectures about gender equality, and discrimination in the workplace and consent. He spotted his mum in the audience and she gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up. The bearded man signalled that it was time. Marcus stepped up and began: “Men and women are equal, but they have never had the opportunity to be treated as such. Of course, there’s been a lot of progress since the time of the suffragettes but even today the male perspective is seen as the default. And to treat men as the default is to deny women’s equal share in humanity; to deny that they are rounded individuals with their own wants, needs, and desires. When I was growing up my mum used to tell me...” He sat back down, exalted and a little proud of himself. It had been clumsy but it had been passionate and he even felt spurred to be a greater champion of women. Yes, he was going to be a better man, a better ally. He was going to outright tell Ryan and all his mates that he fancied a girl - no, a woman! - because she was smart, and she was confident, and because he valued her as a person in herself. As he sat back down, he glanced over at Ria again to see if she was impressed. Her expression brightened, and she cast a small grin his way. With one quick movement she loosened her tie and then made her way to the podium. “Men and women can never be equal for the same reason that the film When Harry Met Sally suggested that men and women can never be friends. The sex always gets in the way.” “I don’t deny the benefits of recent developments in women’s rights. But we would be deluding ourselves to think that any differences between men and women were merely artificial .” With this, she turned and momentarily locked her eyes squarely on his. Any trace of warmth had disappeared. “As a recent article in The Economist discussed, the sexual dimorphism of humans creates a fundamental power imbalance that cannot be simply legislated or debated away...” Beside him, Ryan started furiously shuffling through the information sheets, trying to find a reference to the article. Marcus simply stared, agape. “... and that, ladies and gentlemen, is why the science clearly shows that men and women can never be equal.” Ria’s speech was met with rapturous applause. The other two teammates delivered their speeches in a blur. At last, Marcus stepped up to podium to deliver his summary, and the whole world seemed to distort in front of him, looming large. His knees felt weak. He opened his mouth, “I uh -” “I -” But flustered, he couldn’t find the words to speak.


I want to preface that, this is my first post and I am not sure how reddit really works but I just want to be able to get my work out there. It's nothing fancy just a single parent who enjoys writing. Thank you for taking the time to read my work. Thomas had been single and not looking for about 2 years. His divorce was messy due to the simple fact that his ex-wife had been sleeping with his boss. As sad as it may seem, it was a blessing. He and Jessica had been married and together for 15 years. High school sweethearts, fell in love in Algebra shockingly. The last two years were really rough, Jessica lost her parents in a freak accident back in the summer of 1988. They were headed home from a little get together with their closest friends when a drunk driver hit them head on. Since then she was never the same considering she was the only child and that was her only family left here in America. They came from a small village in China called Heshun Town. Enough of the back story on this witch, but since Jessica was sleeping with his boss, he actually received a pay raise and a new higher position. Mr. Flint had felt bad that he took his wife from underneath but knew he also deserved the raise. Thomas is an honest hardworking man who would have done anything for his ex but this was the time that he moved on and worked toward his own goals and found his true self since he lost his identity because of her. He could get back to his video games and he had this fascination with trains. He would ride them any chance he got. He really loves the first high speed train that was built in 1964 in Japan. It’s known as the bullet train. They have been known to reach speeds of 350 km/h. Thomas was thrilled about the idea of riding it one day. Since Thomas’s boss had been sucking up to him for a year now, Mr. Flint gave Thomas a 2 week paid vacation trip to Japan as a Christmas present. “ You are such a great asset to this company Thomas, I don’t know where we would be without our best journalist here at Flint Stone Magazine.” Said Mr, Flint to Thomas. They thanked each other and went about their day. Thomas was excited. He was about to go from station to station riding all the bullet trains he could within the two weeks allotted for him and everyone knew he needed this vacation. He landed in Kagoshima, Japan, 24 hours later. Thomas had his itinerary already to go, but unbeknown to him it was all going to change. Thomas got to his hotel and passed out for a good 10 hours. Those 24 hour flights are hard on the body as you get older. He needed the rest. He woke up about 9 am feeling refreshed and ready to start his vacation. Thomas handed the stewardess his ticket as he boreded and went to find his seat. He was like a child in a candy store. Taking all the pictures, walking around where he could before the train took off. He touched everything he could until he came to an empty seat that had this old pigskin journal. He looked around to see if anyone was going to sit there but the train was pretty empty considering the time and day it was. It was Sunday 10:30 am. The stewardess made an announcement that they were getting ready to take off and that it wasn’t going to be a long ride. Thomas went to his seat and opened the journal. Unfortunately he couldn’t read it because it was in Japanese. But he has a translation book that would hopefully help him. The train started to move and so Thomas sat back and enjoyed the ride. He was so excited since he was living his best life, even if he had lost the love of his life to his balding suck up of a boss. That wasn’t going to stop him. Thomas finally got back to his room after the train ride and he had been smiling ear to ear once he walked into the room. He had plans to go to the nearest restaurant to grab some grub since he hadn’t eaten since the plan, but he wanted to figure out what the journal said. So he ordered in and got to work. He ordered a plethora of sushi from the hotel because how could you not? Thomas got the first page translated and what he first noticed was the date. It said December 2023. He had to go over it multiple times because he didn’t believe what he read. He even went down to the front desk to ask them if it was correct and they looked up at him and said yes. He started reading knowing that the translation was right, the first sentence had said Earth is about to end. There was a weird sensation flowing through his body because at this point he didn’t think it was a real journal because it dates to the future not the present time. Was it a story book or was it a time travelers journal writing down their experiences? Thomas needed to figure it out. He waited for his sushi to arrive before he started reading. He tipped the bellboy, for bringing his food. Thomas started reading at 1 p.m. and the first sentence that he read was “ If you found this, it might be too late.” Thomas was never this scared to read something in his entire life, including his own divorce papers. But thankfully, Jessica left him everything because she moved in with Mr. Flint and since he owned the magazine, he was a billionaire. She didn’t need anything except some family photos and her ugly ankle biter of a dog, which Thomas hated anyway. But back to the journal, some things weren’t translating correctly so he had to make it out himself and one of the things that was concerning was it had mentioned a spy. Thomas got excited then, he thought, Does this belong to a spy? Are they still alive? Where are they now? What is going on? The second page starts off with “ Be prepared for war!” “ What does that even mean?” he said in a calm voice. He kept going, mentioning that Russia was about to send nukes to Ukraine while China was about to go to war with America. He wondered how bad it was going to get. One line had said “ China and North Korea were sending Nuclear weapons, and troops over to Russia.” How did this person know? They definitely must be a spy at this point, Thomas thought. As Thomas kept translating, it was written that aliens were actually all behind this. He chuckled loudly, “There’s no such thing as aliens! That is barbaric!” he said sternly. Thomas was starting to think this journal was just a fiction novel someone made up because they were high on PCP. He put the journal down and decided that he had enough for the day and he’d continue tomorrow at some point. He just wasn’t believing it. Thomas decided to go back to the train station to ride another train, he needed to get his mind off of everything. He brought his camera so he could take all the pictures. But first, he wanted a nap. Thomas laid his head on the softest pillow he’d ever lay his head on and passed out. There was a loud buzzing noise that woke Thomas right up. His eyes needed to adjust because the lights seemed to be on and way brighter than he thought. When Thomas’s eyes finally opened all the way, he realized he was NOT in his hotel room. He was in an all white room, bright lights and 2 large one way mirrors facing each other. There was no smell nor a door that he could see. Thomas started panicking until the door opened...he looked up and froze with his eyes as wide as they’ve ever been. There, at the door, was a standing reptilian dressed in a fancy red suit. It said, “ We’ve been waiting for your return Thomas.


The night still rang fresh in his mind. Three years and the smell of burning rubber still came to him. He could see it too playing out for him. He took another swig from the vodka bottle to his left. He twiddled the small ring around on his finger. He could still smell her lavender perfume. The keyring jingled in his hands as he fumbled through it looking for the one that fit the door of his car. Genavieve had looked so beautiful in her sparkling dress. Her makeup was a little smudged and it made him think of what she would look like after she'd been fucked. He had seen it many times before but tonight was special. The way they danced, the way she teased him, rubbing her hands in places she knew she shouldn't. He finally thrust the right key into the car door, swinging it open, and getting into the driver's seat. He debated it for a while, start the car and drive. He had remembered at this moment all he had learned. The videos in drivers Ed of the bloody faces and broken limbs, the words "this could be you" stuck bitterly onto his tongue. He continued despite it and shoved the key into the ignition. He sat up now and checked his surroundings, looked at the empty bottle of vodka in his hands. He wanted to blame it. Pin some sort of responsibility onto the bottle for what had happened. Voices in his head screamed otherwise. The voice of her mother when she told him it was his fault. The sight of her leaning into the casket (the same one he was too guilty to look into) tears streaming down her face. As her mother stared into the casket of her daughter. He stood from his spot on the couch and headed for the kitchen. He needed to see it. He had to go back. He grabbed the keys off the key hook. The car's engine roared to life as the key turned, the sound of it made him jump. Before he left the spot he looked at Genavieve, her soft features still visible even in the low light of the car. Everything hit him at once their wedding night, their first time, even the first time he had laid eyes upon her in chemistry. He loved her. The car's headlights turned on and he rolled out of his parking spot, he was headed to that place again. He needed to see it again. The Oregon roads were slick with ice and the roads seemed dead. If it weren't for the lit houses he would've thought the whole town up and left. the bottle of vodka still swam through his veins causing his head to dizzy and his vision to blur. he needed to go back, to prove to the cops, her mother, and most importantly himself that he wasn't wrong that it wasn't his fault. The car glided down the summer roads, Genevieve rolled down her window and waved her ginger hair in the wind, letting the cool air run past her. He started at her in bliss, this was the woman he was in love with, this was the woman he loved, this was the woman- He pulled the car to the side of the road, he knew this spot. He opened the car door and took a deep breathe the smell of pine filled his lungs, the cold air nipped at his face, causing his nipples to stand erect under his sweater. He stood there and waited, he closed his eyes. Slowly it began to come back to him. The smell of burning tires, the feeling of the warm summer air as it rushed in through the broken windshield. He could hear it too. He remembered it all. He and Genavieve had left her cousin's wedding in northern Oregon, they both left drunk and he drove as he had touched less but still, it was a lot. He had said this all before once in front of the first responders, then to a judge, then to her family. As they were driving they hit something. He opened his eyes and slowly let his vision focus, the car was busted and the smell of burning metal and charred tires was what he first noticed. Then he saw it, through the shattered windshield sat a tall dark figure its mouth wrapped around the midsection of vision, it raked out her organs with its large yellowed teeth. It was eating her. He tried to move but his legs were broken. He couldn't scream, all he could do was watch as it devoured her. It ate what it could then left. He began to cry, he thought about how he could've saved her. He sat there and watched it swallow her guts. He could've at least screamed. Tried to scare it away. He fell to his knees and began to cry harder. "I know you're out there you son of a bitch!" He screamed into the forest. The forest answered with a cold shoulder. He lay there in the road a slobbering mess. Slowly he picked himself off the ground and got back into his car. From the glove compartment, he pulled a 9mm pistol the same one he had bought with her years ago. He Placed it into his mouth the cold metal almost comforted him. It reminded him of the lollipops he would get on the corner as a kid. The windshield splattered with crimson. His car sat slowly being covered in snow. Later the patrolmen would find his car under the snow the windshield broken and his body found placed in a tree all his organs removed. The town searched for weeks for a killer, the policeman on duty said he found the body after following bloody deer tracks which led into the forest and ended under the tree where he found the body. Finally, it was ruled a suicide and left to gather dust...


"Your name?" “Margarete." “Last name as well ma’am." "Excuse me. Margarete Bjornson." “Mhm, Occupation?" “Birther." “Valiant occupation ma’am. Just valiant." “Yes, it was." “Date of birth." “01/12/2195." “Ok good. Then we will proceed." “Aren’t you going to ask for my consent?" “Oh Margarete, of course you know you gave us your consent when you signed your pledge. Everyone did. Myself included." Margarete's eyes went dim. Her mind delving through her memory to the moment, proud parents to either side, she signed her *Pledge to Community* form that was apart of her work assignment ceremony. “How certain I was the future was so far away. Don’t believe that deception for a second. You hear me?” Her eyes now focused on the second nurse with the IV in her hand. Without a reply and eyes darting down, the associate nurse slid the IV into Margarete’s left forearm. The lead nurse, recognizing doubt being introduced into the room quickly intercepted the moment. “Ok, are you ready Margarete?" Margarete nodded without lifting her head up again. The lead nurse shot a glance to his associate who in turn flipped a large red dial on the machine connected to Margarete’s IV. Two vials, one green, one blue flowed into the singular tube leading to her arm. “Thank you for your service, Margarete." “*Here to serve. For benefit of all.*" “*And this community forever.*” At once, her body became rigid, as if suddenly filled to capacity with air and just as quickly went limp, silent, still. “Hmm.” “That’s a new reaction.” “We may have to report that to the Board.” The lead nurse checked for a pulse on Margarete’s wrist. “Didn’t change the result, however. Another successful release Sam.” “Another mouth we don’t need to support you mean.” “You know that is not what this is about." “Tell that to the Principle." “You are going to get yourself released with statements like that.” “Pft, well let’s see. Would that qualify as a pro-social action?" Sam, now thinking back to her own *Pledge to Community* that she signed. “Enough, that is enough. Did you take your emotion suppressor today?" “As always." “Maybe you need to up your dose." “Maybe." “You know emotion leads to confusion, confusion to delusion, delusion to chaos, and what comes after chaos?” “Destruction. I know. I know. Just a weird day I guess.” “Mhmm. Best not have many more of those.” “What was her occupation again?” “Birther." “Valiant occupation." “Mhm." The two nurses opened the hatch that led to nowhere and pushed the bed where the now released laid. The front of the bed, clearing the hatch, gave way. The released slid and was gone. “Another successful release." Sam, muttered under her breath, “God help us.” “What was that?” “Another successful release, I agree. I agree.” “Mhm.” Hunter, opening the door to the room adjacent theirs, announced loudly. “NEXT.” The Principle, pausing the video and turning to the board announced somewhat hurriedly, “This is exactly why we need to introduce a sedative before release. Look how this birther introduced subversive thoughts into the mind of our Dear Sam. Chaos. CHAOS is what these ideas lead to. Get an action plan on my desk by the end of the week on how we will limit exposure to conversation between our nurses and the soon-to-be-released. End of life, it’s a makes people revert back to our... primitive ways.” “Yes ma’am. We will begin immed--“ “And release Sam. We do not need this doubt to spread. And find out for the love of community where she heard the word, God.” "Also, before I forget, let's all give Hunter a round of applause for bringing this to the attention of the board and myself." "*Here to serve. For benefit of all.*" Hunter recited proudly. "*And this community forever.*" All together they responded.


“Cordelia...”A ragged voice called out. Around me was a dark alley. Dim lights bounced off of brick walls and rain puddles. A cat rushed by me out of the alley and away from the voice. “Hello?” I called out. Glancing behind me, I don’t see any part of the street. There was nothing but darkness and black. A swirling void of black smoke, sirens, and yells. My feet splashed against the puddles as I walked down the alley. The smell of rotting trash and piss and gasoline filled my nostrils. Something was burning close by, plastics and paper, and maybe food burning. I looked up at the sky. The full moon was hidden behind dark smoke. Music softly came from the very end of the alley. Frank Sinatra flowed through the air and danced around me. “Delia...” The voice transformed into a sing-song, sweet voice. Sobbing weaved with the song as well. I got closer to the corner of the alley. Instead of smelling burning trash and feces, I smelled something worse. There was something rotting, something worse than trash. Flies buzzed around me, growing louder than the music around. I stopped at the corner for a moment. A glow from a fire was up on the wall, flickering delightfully. There was a single shadow in the middle of the wall. The shadow was lanky and unmoving, except dancing with the fire. I pivoted around the corner. A trashcan was set ablaze, the flame going about three feet into the air. A figure stood in front of the trashcan. A tall figure with long dark hair and a white suit. Despite the dirty alley and the fire in front of them, the suit of the figure looked spotless. Behind the trashcan was a pile of lumps on the alleyway ground. The rotting smell was overpowering. As the flame flickered, I could see hands and legs and bodies behind the trashcan and the figure. “Cordelia.” The figure said calmly. They turned around and all I could see where burning red eyes, matching the flames. I gasped awake, my head hitting the window I was previously resting on. Lights from the subway tunnel flashed by me. My eyes focused on my reflection; dark eye circles, messed up brunette hair, eye liner smeared around my eyes and mascara on my cheeks. “Cordelia.” A voice said from next to me. “Shit!” I jumped and looked over. There was Blair next to me, wearing a tight dress, jacket and holding a clutch. Her hair was curled and slightly disheveled as well. She laughed softly at my reaction. “Damn girl, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Blair laughed at me and patted my knee, exposed from the holes in my jeans. “How’re you doing?” My head pounded softly, and my throat was dry. I remembered what it was we were doing before sitting in this subway car. Blair’s friends from her work really knew how to party. I was so close to beating her boss at a drinking contest. That probably wasn’t the best idea. “Feel like shit.” Blair laughed outright, “We’re almost home. The next stop is ours.” I nodded and sat up on the stiff subway seat under me. I looked the subway car over. It was empty except for a man sitting in the far corner. His eyes were closed, and his head was against the window behind him. Around him were bags full of different nick knacks and clothing. The subway car rumbled, and the lights flickered. My eyes went to the window at the door that separate the subway cars and there was a figure in the window. It was dark and tall. The lights flickered again, and the figure was gone as the train slowed to a stop. Blair stood and held out a hand to help me up. Together, we walked out of the subway car onto the platform. It was deserted except for us, the lights were dim and flickered softly. “Okay so do we want to go get food?” Blair said to me, stopping on the platform and pulling out her phone. “I’m thinking Chinese. We have that place three blocks from here.” My stomach turned slightly at the thought of food. Rotting trash suddenly filled my nostrils, “Eh, I'll probably just go to sleep when we-” There was a ding for the doors of the subway car to closed. I looked over to the window that the sleeping guy was at. Standing in front of him was the dark figure. I could see a pristine white suit and glowing red eyes. There was a dark void, without any features. The red orbs stared at me as a hand lifted to quickly grab the top of the man’s hand and a knife ripped across the man’s neck. The subway train started to take off as thick blood sprayed across the car and the window. “What the fuck!?” I yelled and ran after the car, trying to catch the window again. The train disappeared into the tunnel and I turned quickly to Blair. She stared at me in confusion, holding her phone in her hands. “Are you okay-” “That guy!” I exclaimed. “He was just killed. Did you not just see that?” Blair’s eyes glanced at the tunnel, “No?” I snatched her phone from her hand and started to dial the police. “Are you serious?” “Dead serious, dude.” I said to her and lifted the phone to my ear. After one ring, a woman answered. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” “Hi! Yes, Uhm, I just witnessed a murder on the G train.” I said, my hand shook slightly, making me hold the phone with both hands. “There was a man on the train asleep and we got off, but I turned around and there was this person in a white suit and he killed the guy.” “Okay, ma’am, I will send something to that next station to check the subway. Are you hurt?” “No. We’re okay.” I said. “I didn’t see what the man looked like, I couldn’t see his face. Just the suit. His face was really dark and maybe he was wearing a mask. I saw red eyes. I don’t know.” Blair stared at me, watching as I spoke to the woman on the phone. She looked at me in complete disbelief. But I knew what I saw. *** Blair and I were walking away from Dynasty, a box of to-go lo mien for each of us. Blair already had hers open and dug in with chopsticks. I kept mine in my hands, my eyes fixated on the box. There was no murder. No one on that car accept to the asleep man, who was startled by a posse of police busting open into that subway car. No blood. No man in a white suit. They questioned me. Asked me about what I saw and if I was sure. Blair told them we’d spent the night out drinking. Maybe that was it. Maybe it was my weird dream on the subway. But it felt so real. I saw it in front of me, but they didn’t see anything on the cameras either. I was given a stern lecture about calling with an actual emergency and not something I saw in a drug induced stupor. Drugs was the only way they could make any sense of it, even with me admitted the only drug I took was alcohol that evening. They didn’t care. They didn’t believe me. We came upon the stoop to our apartment building. Blair stood before them, turning to me. “So, are we going to talk about this?” She asked me. “I’ve already said everything I need to.” I shook my head. “I thought I saw it... I thought he was there.” Blair sighed, “You’ve been having these dreams for a while. It’s getting worse.” “I know what I saw.” I said firmly. She nodded to me, “I know-” “No, you don’t.” I told her, “I saw that man get his throat slit in the middle of the damn subway. Some person with glowing fucking eyes did it. I saw that plain as daylight.” Blair nodded slowly, “You need to see a doctor.” My hand threw my untouched to-go box in a trashcan. “I need to think about this.” With that, I started to walk down the sidewalk. Blair called after me, but I just kept walking. She gave up eventually, knowing I would be back at some point. I would be back. I just needed to walk and think. For months, I’ve had nightmares. They were similar to the one I had on the subway; rotting corpses in an alley, a fire, and some person standing over them. But they all stayed in my head. They never manifested themselves in front of me like that. After walking for five minutes, I sat myself down on a bench. It squeaked under me and felt cold to the touch, but it was just what I needed. I gripped the seat of the bench and breathed deeply. I focused on the cold metal under me. The distant sirens in the background, echoing through the city. That’s where I was: the city. I was here. I was safe. Well, as safe as a person can be in New York City. I closed my eyes. My heart slowed down a bit. I knew I wasn’t dreaming. But I started to hear Frank Sinatra play from the alley behind me.