On days like today, Taci tried to remember how much she used to like her job. She sat behind her desk, hands clasped in front of her, trying to bring out the shining, white grin that the parents of Personville students had come to expect and love. It wouldn’t come. Instead she shuffled through her notes, thinking about what she would say to each couple at today’s parent-teacher conference. She reflected on the observations she had made on each child and, in doing so, thought about the carefully curated half-truths that the notes represented. She tried to think about what she was going to say, but could only think about the things she was leaving out. Melissa Burbidge, Taci’s only assistant, popped her head into the classroom’s doorway. Blond and white, Melissa was both on the opposite side of the color spectrum from Taci and a template for everyone else in town. That had caused some tension when Taci had first arrived, placed here by the State Department’s refugee program, but her skills as a teacher and administrator had quickly earned Melissa’s respect. Taci liked to think that was true of the whole town, knew that it wasn’t, and couldn’t care less anymore. Her mind was on bigger concerns. “The Hendersons are here,” Melissa announced with a cheerfulness that would have been evident even if her smile wasn’t beaming through the doorway. Taci tried to return it, felt her own smile falter, returned to reflexively shuffle her notes again. “Please send them in.” As Melissa was only part-time, she hadn’t seen the things Taci had seen, so her smile came as easily and honestly as it always had. Mrs. Henderson, appearing very much like an older model of Melissa, stepped in, but couldn’t help but wave a hand in front of her nose as she did. “My! How do you put up with the smell, Taci?” “Margaret!” Mr. Henderson softly reprehended his wife, sounding more like a father than husband, which Ms. Henderson ignored. “What, George? It’s not like Taci can’t smell it.” She turned back towards Taci and gave her a mock whisper in a conspiratorial tone. “Is the chemical plant? Or the power station?” With her question, Ms. Henderson had listed the two primary reasons for the existence of Personville. Both the plant and the station provided resources the surrounding state needed. It was, however, an incontrovertible fact that the wind direction directly impacted the olfactory quality of the air surrounding the school. The summer heat hadn’t improved things. “Margaret!” Mr. Henderson said, this time more embarrassed for himself. “What? It’s not like we don’t know where that smell is coming from. Besides, it can’t be worse than...” Ms. Henderson stopped for a moment, then in quieter tone to Taci, “I’m sorry, dear, where is it your from?” “Uganda,” Taci said, quick enough that the name of her home country became a single syllable. “Well, it can’t be any worse than Uganda.” While Taci could not summon her real smile of late, she found she was, in that moment, able to conjure its plastic facsimile, bring it out as Mr. Henderson hid his face in his hand and Melissa disappeared from the doorway. “Perhaps we should,” Taci began politely, but was interrupted by her student’s mother. “Yes! Let’s talk about how Johnny is doing.” At the mention of the Henderson’s son, Taci found the plastic smile frozen in place, her hands unmoving as they clasped her notes. What would she say? As time in the classroom dilated around that unanswered question the smiles of the Hendersons’ elongated as well. The side-eye the two parents began to give each other was eventually enough to bring Taci out of her indecision, clearing her throat and shuffling her papers. “With the pandemic pushing the school year into the summer, all of the children have faced challenges,” she began, trying to hew to the truth. “This is especially true of Johnny. He’s very sociable and the other students enjoy him, but he has difficulty focusing in class and can become...” Taci was stopped by the memory of Johnny at his desk, hiding behind the lift-lid, the masticating sounds emanating from behind it becoming louder as Taci had approached. Taci snapped out of the revery, pulling herself from it before her mind could take her over the horizon of Johnny’s desk. “A challenge” she pronounced the words as a period to her last sentence. Uncertain of what else to share, she stopped. Not surprisingly, the Hendersons both had the long faces of disappointed parents, which was preferable to the angry option that was sometimes the alternative to such news. “Oh,” Mrs. Henderson said, quietly, after a moment. “We’re sorry to hear that.” In routine times this would be the part of the conversation in which Taci assured the parents this was normal, that children at Johnny’s age often had trouble focusing, and that with assistance from home it could be rectified. She stayed silent. The quiet that Taci held in her mouth, hard between her teeth, began to expand to take up the space of the room, no matter how much she tried to hold it inside. Unable to bear it for very long, Mr. Henderson began to squirm uncomfortably in his chair when Mrs. Henderson asked, “How did this start?” “It started on the playground,” Taci answered automatically, thinking of the black top that doubled as a parking lot, with its painted lines that could be divided for hopscotch or used for four-square or as guidance on where to arrange your vehicle in relation to others. Watching the children laugh and run and scream along the tarmac had always been one of Taci’s favorite parts of the job. Until yesterday. From underneath the awning of the school’s back entrance Taci had been watching the children chase each other, enjoying her one cigarette of the day. When she was certain no mischief was at hand, she snuck glimpses at the sky. Her young life had been spent in a village surrounded by tall trees that covered the horizon, but here, in the wide parcel between plant and station, it felt to her like you could see all of the sky, as wide and open as a mother’s arms. It also meant she could see it when the chemical plant had belched out a red cloud. As it rose into the sky, she heard the faint sound of distant klaxons begin shortly after the cloud’s emission. Even as far away as it was, Taci prepared to call the children in early. But then the cloud began to move, shifting up and out away from the chemical plant, catching Taci’s eye in a way that held her in place. On the short hairs of her scalp she felt the wind blow and could see the cloud travel in the opposite direction. Towards the school. This snapped Taci out of her thrall and she opened her mouth to order the children inside. Before a word could leave her, though, the cloud crossed the thick set of transmission lines from the power plant and thunder exploded. Everyone jumped at the booming, turning to the power lines as the cloud dissipated in a cacophony of lightening and noise. Sitting in her classroom with the Hendersons, Taci cursed her own slack-jawed slowness as the red cloud had dispersed in that electric storm, spreading out across the wide prairie sky. Everyone, children and teacher, had been struck dumb by the galvanizing event that took place in the sky above the school that day. Each of them had stood in awe as electricity and thunder were thrown out of the quickly disappearing crimson cloud. From under the awning, Taci had felt the cigarette fall out of her hands, mouth open, watching the unexplained event. This awe had only allowed her to watch as the thunder quieted and a gentle snow began to fall out of the now cloudless sky. A red snow. As Taci watched in a growing, paralyzed horror, the children became quickly covered in the ruby precipitation, dancing and laughing at the sudden change, opening their mouths to the sky to let it all in. It was only later, after Taci had gotten everyone back inside and relatively dried off that she noticed the glint in her students eyes as they watched her at the blackboard, the predaceous smiles as they tracked her movements back and forth. It wasn’t until later that she discovered the dead bird that Johnny had snuck in from recess and hidden behind his desk. “It started on the playground,” Taci repeated, unable to continue beyond that. Both Mrs. & Mr. Henderson stared at Taci, unsure of what to make of the mundane statement and the strange look in her eyes. After a few moments, Mrs. Henderson said, “I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling us.” Tact opened her mouth to try and continue, but before she did Mrs. Henderson asked, “Would it help if we brought Johnny in?” The question brought Taci out of her dysfunction with a spark of fear. “He’s here?” The Hendersons nodded, slowly and with confusion. “Yes, dear. He’s right outside.” With the pandemic, Taci had become accustom to being afraid of her students to some extent, each of them a possible vector for a little known disease. Now, though, with the summer heat pressing in and the red snow lying heavily on her memory, she felt an entirely different kind of fear that only allowed for a, “What?” “Yes,” Mrs. Henderson nodded assuringly. “He told us you wanted us to bring him in for today’s conference.” Mrs. Henderson glanced at her husband, seeking confirmation, then back at Taci. “All of the parents did.” Taci felt her eyes slowly widen as she stood from her desk, her hands grasping at its edges as her body strained against her commands to move. Under the increasing confusion of the Henderson’s, Taci reached her full height, then bolted out of the room, her loose skirt flapping with the quickness of the exertion. Out in the hallway, gathered on either side of the classroom door, the children stood, each tightly holding onto their parents’ hands. Taci heard one mother say, “You’re hurting me, dear.” From the other room, Taci heard Mrs. Henderson ask, “What’s wrong, Taci?” Feeling Johnny’s sharp presence behind her, flanking the classroom door, Taci could only exhale. She turned to him to see his grin grow into a bright red smile, filled with more tiny teeth than could fit into a little boy’s mouth.


All eyes were on Naomi and her husband, Jay. Naomi Rose and her husband had just moved into a small town in Nevada called Queensbrawl. There was an unrelenting desert heat in Queensbrawl. Tumbleweeds crossed the roads more than people. There never seemed to be a cloud in the sky and the temperature remained above 90 degrees, even at night. Naomi and her husband liked the town’s quiet atmosphere at first. Everyone seemed hospitable to the couple. But after a day, Naomi and Jay felt like a couple who didn’t belong in their skin. They felt hopeful again after receiving an invitation to a town party. When Naomi and Jay arrived at the party, they saw how many people lived in Queensbrawl. Naomi thought about how she saw more people in a supermarket. “Howdy, new neighbors!” A woman’s boisterous voice assaulted Naomi. She smiled a little when her husband chuckled at the sound of the woman’s booming voice. The woman was a firecracker. Her hair and clothing didn’t fit the modern era. She wore a purple and white dress that exuded an old-fashioned 1950s design. It was as if the apple-shaped woman stepped out of an episode of I Love Lucy . Her rosy hair had classic retro waves, and it shined just as bright as her chandelier earrings. “My husband and I got your invitation.” Those were the only words Naomi got out of her mouth before the bubbly woman assaulted her again, this time with a wild hug and a kiss to her cheek. The plus-sized woman did the same to Naomi’s husband. “It’s nice having new neighbors. It helps our town grow.” The woman clasped her hands together in front of her busty cleavage. “My name is Cathy Bloom. I’m a town councilwoman.” A sparkling smile never left Cathy’s red lips as she introduced herself. “I’ve lived in Queensbrawl all my life.” Cathy savored her words. Her gentle, motherly voice revealed itself once her boisterous tone subsided. “There’s a lot of people here. Is this the town’s total population?” Jay asked Cathy. When Jay said, there’s a lot of people here , he meant the opposite. There was a hint of secret sarcasm in Jay’s words. He hoped that Cathy’s answer to his question would be no . He almost looked shocked when Cathy told him he was looking at the town’s total population inside her home. Cathy had a large five-bedroom house, but it was still surprising to see that her home could fit the town’s total population. “My name is Naomi Rose and this is my wonderful husband Jay Rose.” Naomi proudly presented her husband and herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed how the other women at the party were staring at her and her husband like police snipers. Naomi could feel their suspicious eyes burning into her, and she tried to ignore the women’s rude behavior. “Naomi is a beautiful name!” Cathy’s boisterous voice returned as she complimented the young woman. She placed her wild gaze on Jay. “I love the name, Jay. It’s so cool, like Jay-Z!” Jay cringed when Cathy did the West Coast hip-hop sign with her hands. It felt awkward to see a dumpling of a white woman dressed like a 1950s housewife doing hip-hop hand signs. Jay cringed more when Cathy did the West Coast sign after mentioning Jay-Z because he knew Jay-Z was an East Coast rapper. Cathy continued with her awkward compliments, which she mostly directed at Jay. “You’re so tall, dark, and cute! I can see why your wife is happy!” Cathy flirtatiously slapped her hand across Jay’s bulky arm. Naomi raised an eyebrow after Cathy flirted with her husband. At a young age, Naomi was a fiery ghetto, white girl. She grew up in the Bronx, and she would’ve knocked Cathy out for pulling a coquettish stunt on her husband. Naomi’s spicy personality mellowed out when she reached her mid 30s. She kept a pleasant smile on her face while giving Cathy an intense stare. Cathy redeemed herself a little when she complimented Naomi’s beauty. “Your wife looks like Charlize Theron! You’re so beautiful. I wish I had your figure.” Cathy admired Naomi from head to toe. She loved how Naomi’s glorious platinum blonde hair matched the color of her low cut dress. Cathy even placed her hands on Naomi’s curvy waistline. She acted like she was coasting her hands across a magnificent sculpture. Naomi had a feeling that Cathy was sizing her up for something, even though she could see the woman’s admiration. “I’m a vegan. That’s why my figure looks the way it does.” Naomi didn’t want to sound like a braggart. She did a little pose for Cathy while resting her petite hands on her hips. Naomi could still feel eyes on her, mostly from women. The other women in the room shared Cathy’s 1950s housewife dress code. They all wore their cookie-cutter retro-styled dresses with pride. All the women at the party were pretty, like Cathy. But the beauty wasn’t natural, like Naomi’s. These women had artificial beauty. Even when they smiled, their smiles looked robotic and their eyes looked disconnected. They had perfect makeup and hair. It looked too perfect. Being in the room with the women made Naomi feel like something trapped her in a 1955 Miss America beauty pageant. “My wife loves her vegan diet. But I hate it.” A chuckle escaped from Jay as he spoke his mind to Cathy. He covered his mouth after realizing that he spoke out loud. Jay knew there’d be trouble later when he looked at the hidden disgust in his wife’s stare. “I thought you enjoyed being a vegan?” Naomi sounded heartbroken after her husband blurted out the truth. She could see that her husband wanted to kick himself. Naomi wasn’t sure if Jay wanted to kick himself for lying to her the whole time, or if he wanted to kick himself for revealing the truth and failing to stick to his lie. “Baby, I do like your vegan diet. I just don’t like some vegan food,” Jay explained, trying to get himself out of the doghouse while putting his hands up defensively. He watched as his wife squinted at him while folding her arms. If she didn’t have a slight smirk on her face, Jay would’ve interpreted his wife’s look as a murderous stare. “Are you sure about that, Baby? Because last night you told me you liked all vegan food.” Naomi grilled her husband gently. Jay watched as his wife looked away from him, rolling her eyes after he muttered to her... "I said that?" Cathy went silent for a minute, enjoying the couple’s affectionate banter. She thought Jay and Naomi were the most adorable interracial couple she had ever seen. Cathy wanted to indulge her neighbors some more, but she clenched her jaw when her eyes met the eyes of a stern-looking woman who stood a few feet away. The stern-looking woman was Cathy’s boss, Diane Barclay. Diane was the town’s head councilwoman and everyone had to obey her orders. The town’s people referred to her as Lady Barclay. She had a fairly sweet personality. But if you crossed her the wrong way, she would bite you faster than a cobra. Lady Barclay was a small woman with an elegantly beautiful face and well-decorated silver hair that touched her shoulders. The wrinkles in her face intensified her beauty. Sometimes she’d wear neutral-colored businesswoman pantsuits. But tonight she wore a sapphire blue evening gown that hugged her delicate physique. Cathy knew she had to get moving when she saw Lady Barclay glaring at her while pointing down at her glittery wristwatch. Cathy quickly noticed how all the women in the living room were glaring at her. One young woman scowled at Cathy while making a slashing motion across her throat using her thumb. “Is everything okay?” Naomi asked when she saw that something had captured Cathy’s attention. “Yes Darling, I’m fine,” Cathy replied. She brought a smile back to her face while placing her nervous eyes on Naomi. Cathy fixed her lips to say something else to Naomi, but her mouth froze when she saw Lady Barclay approaching. “What seems to be the problem?” Lady Barclay greeted Naomi and Jay with abrupt rudeness and a peculiar choice of words. Naomi gave Lady Barclay an icy stare. She immediately felt repulsed by Lady Barclay’s presence. Naomi recognized Lady Barclay as one of the many women who kept burning a stare at her and her husband. “I’m sorry, let me introduce myself.” Lady Barclay knew she got off on the wrong foot when she saw the icy stare Naomi gave her. “My name is Diane Barclay. I’m the head councilwoman.” Lady Barclay presented her hand to Naomi and her husband. “It always feels good when we receive new citizens in our town.” Lady Barclay forced her smile on Naomi. “I’m sorry, Honey. I didn’t get your name and your husband’s name.” Lady Barclay waited patiently for Naomi to reply, hoping that her rude introduction didn’t upset Naomi too much. “My name is Naomi Rose and this is my husband Jay,” Naomi answered the woman dryly. She didn’t even make eye contact with Lady Barclay when she answered her. Lady Barclay projected a soft, nervous laugh. “It’s so nice to meet the two of you!” Lady Barclay’s voice warmed the air. “Would you folks like some refreshments? We have wonderful hors d’oeuvres. I think you’ll love our bacon-wrapped jalapeno poppers!” Lady Barclay tried to bring a smile back to Naomi’s face, but her act of enthusiasm wasn’t working on the young woman or her husband. “I don’t eat meat.” Naomi maintained her dry tone of voice. Cathy could see a tension building between Naomi and her boss. The plump woman interjected herself, hoping her delightful personality would liven things up again. “We have a surprise for you!” Cathy exclaimed to Naomi through her bubbly demeanor. “It’s something we do for every woman who moves into our town,” Cathy continued. “It’s a group for women only, but the men still benefit from their wives joining the group. The surprise isn’t joining the group. It’s the prize you’ll receive for joining,” Cathy spoke smoother than ever and she did her best to please her boss. Naomi’s irritated expression changed into a look of confusion and wonder. She wanted to ask more questions, but Cathy was talking too fast. “I’m sorry, Sweetie, but we need to borrow your wife for one minute,” Lady Barclay told Naomi’s husband. She attempted to take Naomi by the hand and she watched as Cathy attempted to do the same. “We’ll bring her right back, my darling!” Cathy added. “Help yourself to our bacon wrap poppers and our other appetizers. You can also make yourself comfortable in our men’s guestroom.” Cathy directed Jay’s eyes to a side room that was ten feet away. Jay looked through the crowd of women to see men walking in and out of the room. Jay finally noticed that all the men at the party had left their wives and were going into the guestroom. He felt a little disturbed when he saw only women in the living room, and they were whispering amongst each other with their eyes on him and his wife. Jay watched as Cathy and Lady Barclay whisked his wife away before he could say anything else. He gave his wife a confused smile after she blew him a kiss while being dragged away. Jay blew a kiss back at his wife. He jumped when another husband startled him by giving him a friendly slap on his back. “Don’t worry, they’ll bring her back.” The man chuckled as he continued to pat Jay on his back. “They did that to my wife when we first moved here,” the man explained to Jay, and his double chin would jiggle every time he laughed. “Where are they taking her?” Jay asked the man with a bewildered furrow in his brow. He waited for the man to answer and he smiled a little when the man gave him a sheepish look, like a guilty little boy who was trying to hide a cookie. The man only gave Jay his best answer. “Well, the rule is... I’m not supposed to talk about it.” The answer was unsatisfying, but it was the best reply the husband could give Jay. 🔫🔫🔫 A massive metal cage stood in front of Naomi. The young woman’s eyes fell on a diamond silver Mercedes sedan parked beside the metal cage with its headlights on. A yellow bow decorated the luxury car’s hood. Naomi felt like she was a contestant on a dark game show. “So let me explain what’s going to happen!” Lady Barclay lost her sweet tone and her voice sounded colder than the dead of winter. She stood a few feet away from Naomi with her hands behind her back. “What is this?” Naomi looked around at Cathy. Her nerves tightened when she saw a crowd of women surrounding her and Cathy. It was the same group of women who were giving her ugly stares at the party. “The Queensbrawl Bloodsport is a fight club tournament that we hold every time a wife moves into our town!” Lady Barclay’s voice filled the night air. “Is this a joke?” An incredulous smirk developed across Naomi’s full lips. “No, Honey!” Lady Barclay answered Naomi with a deadpan expression on her face. Naomi kept giggling while allowing Cathy to guide her toward the metal cage. In the blink of an eye, Naomi found herself inside the cage with another woman who looked like she ate glass for breakfast. The other woman was pretty, but she looked edgy in a slight masculine way and she donned the same 1950s era housewife dress, like the other women. “You’ll be fighting Mrs. Rhonda Draven!” Lady Barclay introduced the other woman to Naomi. “If you win the fight, you’ll get a check for 2.5 million dollars along with a brand new Mercedes-AMG S63.” Lady Barclay waved her hand over the car. “You’ll also be a respected wife in our town.” Naomi couldn’t stop giggling at the ridiculous situation she was in. “What’ll happen if I lose the fight?” Naomi had her hands on her hips while waiting for Lady Barclay’s answer. The woman’s spine stiffened when Lady Barclay pulled a semi-automatic pistol from behind her back. Naomi got her answer when her eyes locked on to Lady Barclay’s fully loaded Glock 19. That’s when serious darkness hovered over Naomi. She watched as Lady Barclay cocked her loaded handgun while giving her a penetrating stare. “Let the game begin!” Lady Barclay smirked at Naomi before raising her gun at the night sky and firing. Before Naomi could brace herself, a fist kissed her face, sending her tumbling to the cage’s floor. The punch rattled Naomi’s slender nose and blood exited from her left nostril. “What the fu--” Naomi didn’t have time to finish her sentence after she felt Rhonda’s high heel shoe ram into her stomach, knocking the wind out of her. “Get up, Bitch,” Rhonda hissed down at Naomi after stumping on the young woman’s stomach a second time. She fixed her pompadour hair while expecting Naomi to remain on the floor. Rhonda looked shocked after Naomi tripped her, knocking her flat on her back. Naomi caught her breath and she pounced on Rhonda, punching the woman in her face and chest. Naomi embraced the deafening roar coming from the all-female crowd. She used the women’s rowdy cheers to drive her. Within seconds, Naomi took on a pit bull's nature. She threw her fear of dying out the window and she only felt high-powered adrenaline racing through her shapely body. Naomi knew she wouldn’t die, even when Rhonda got the upper hand. Rhonda struck Naomi in the face with her forehead. She hopped to her feet only to get kicked in her stomach by a platform stiletto heel. Rhonda tried to catch her balance and she screamed in frustration after getting knocked back down on her butt. Rhonda couldn’t believe that Naomi was on top of her again, driving a fist into her face. Naomi released a war cry before slamming her fist into Rhonda’s face a second time, sending Rhonda into a temporary blackout. After six minutes, the fight was over. Naomi laid on her knees, catching her breath. She wiped the blood from her nose while staring up at Lady Barclay who was towering over her, feeling shocked over how fast the fight ended. Lady Barclay felt cheated and she wanted to shoot Naomi anyway, even though she won the fight. The head councilwoman did something foolish. She put her gun to Naomi’s forehead, but before she could pull the trigger, Naomi shifted her head away from the gun while putting two bullets in Lady Barclay’s chest. The councilwoman watched as Naomi snatched her gun away from her after shooting her with a gun she had concealed beneath her dress. Before she died, she saw that Naomi was an undercover cop. She saw her badge hidden in a secret pocket on her dress. “I killed the suspect. She tried to kill me,” Naomi spoke into a device clipped to her dress. “She was a serial killer Bitch who killed babies. She deserved to die.” Naomi stood over Lady Barclay's body. “My husband is at the house. Arrest the other men, but don’t arrest my husband,” Naomi giggled, speaking to the police captain in a joking manner. “My husband doesn’t know that I’m working undercover,” Naomi continued. “I can’t believe we’re arresting all these murderous women,” Naomi shook her head. She heard the SWAT team's helicopters and the squad cars swarming in to arrest the other women serial killers, including Cathy. The undercover cop kept her gun aimed at Cathy, who stood frozen in front of Naomi with her hands up, feeling betrayed and devastated.


7 hours Ten hours and I'll be back in Australia. I thought as I tried to get settled into my aisle seat. My time in Japan was amazing, but I was ready to go. I could only take so much of the food. I'd rather have my simple Aussie cuisine. After everything I'd gone through with Richard, with work, and the cancer treatments again: I was ready for a break. I chose to go somewhere foreign, where nearly everything would be different. I thought I'd give religion another try. It worked for so many other people. I saw Kiyomizu-dera, and all the more exclusive Buddhist temples Hana would take me to; she'd been a wonderful guide. I'd gained some spiritual solace, an appreciation for the world around me, and the things that have happened in my life. But I still felt an emptiness wherever I went. That's when I saw you. At first I thought, There's that stupid American who was lost at the counter. Then I thought, Just great! He is sitting right across the aisle. You smiled at me, and ended up bumping into the stewardess. I chuckled to myself at your embarrassment. Now I need to get to sleep, I thought. I closed my eyes and drifted off. An hour later the stewardess was back. I told her I'd take whatever dark tea she had. I crossed my legs to get comfortable. The young Japanese girl beside me hardly took up any room. I was ready to enjoy my tea when I heard you speak up. “I'll have whatever she is having," you said. Please don't talk to me, I thought. I put my headphones in to avoid anything you might say. Some 80’s space rock to help me relax. You looked at me, then guestured at the cup of tea you were given and gave me a questioning look. Something to the tune of “Why the hell would I order this?” I rolled my eyes at your childish attempt to get my attention, but I guess it worked. I picked up my own cup and you mimicked my motions, the way I held the cup, the way I sipped it. You made an exaggerated “yuck” face at me and frowned at your tea. I couldn't help but let out a chuckle. Your brown eyes lit up at the small victory you just made. I looked away to try and sour your triumph. I stayed that way for as long as I could. Turned away from you and continued reading my book, “As I Lay Dying”. I tried to focus on the book, but I was distracted by my own music, and from feeling your eyes on me. This went on for nearly an hour, until I was fed up with my slow progress. We just reached hour two of our flight. I sat up in my chair and you pretended not to notice. I decided a movie would kill time. As I went through the selections you were leaning nearly halfway into the aisle trying to see what I was choosing. You're lack of shame was impressive. I was determined to make a game of our interaction and win. I chose the sappiest love story I could find based on the description and the cover photo. I don't even remember what it was, something about a young couple dealing with a long distance relationship. I knew men hated chick flicks. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw you feign annoyance and choose the same movie. It was game on. The movie we watched was aweful, so cliche. I listened to the few times you laughed. It felt like you had won our little game, as you actually seemed to enjoy the movie. Then that cheesy sex scene made me blush. I'm such a prude sometimes. You laughed at me, and at the small seatback screen. After the movie was over you got in position to go to sleep. You had me worried that was the end of our little interaction. I also watched you when you slept. You looked older when you weren't smiling. The crows feet on your eyes gave away that you were probably pushing 45; so did your black hair, all dusted with gray. I tried to get some sleep myself. I woke up at the lunch announcement and found your eyes were on me. Instead of being on guard, I actually felt like a school girl who got winked at by her crush. Besides, I had watched you sleep so it was only fair. I ordered the vegetarian option. Again I heard you say, “I'll have whatever she is having.” I was excited for the meal. My salad was very good for airline food. Then you took my cheese wedge. I thought, You bastard! I had to get you back. I thought of reporting you to the stewardess but I didn't want them to move you. I decided to take your chocolate square and ate it before you could protest. You took a pen from inside your suit jacket and started writing on your napkin. “You owe me, Order wine", you wrote. I gave you a disapproving look. You just shrugged and pursed your handsome lips. “Red or white?”, I wrote back. Again you shrugged and pointed at me with both hands. Red, I decided. While we waited for the wine, really anytime we were waiting, you'd look forward and pretend to be deep in thought. Did it take you that long to make silly ideas or was that supposed to make me more interested in you? When the wine came, you gave me that school boy wink. Then you flipped the napkin over and began writing again. “Thank you (your name here)”, it said, with a silly little smiley face. I wrote you back. “Lorie” You cocked your head and quickly wrote back. “Not Sheila?” You surprised me with that one. “Jackass", I scoffed out loud and you feigned innocence then laughed. I threw the napkin back at you. “I'm Adam”, you wrote. I just nodded and acted bored. Now four and half hours into the flight you started looking through movies again. You chose an intellectual crime drama. A deliberate departure from my choice. I actually liked the movie, so the joke was on you this time. Since the waitress took our waste, you decided to write me a message on your phone. “This movie is boring”, you wrote. I rolled my eyes at you and tried to return to the film. You tapped on my shoulder. The first time we touched. You had written another message on your phone. “What is your story? Business or liesure?”, you wrote. “Liesure” , I wrote back. Not sure how much I wanted to disclose to you. You smiled and typed again. “Sushi?” “More like answers”, I wrote. I should have known you'd get nosey. You just looked at me and raised your hands, then passed the phone back. “Cancer", I wrote back. I had to look away. I was embarrassed. It felt like a mark of shame. I had only told my boss and my mother. Being breast cancer, it made me even less comfortable talking about it. Like I said, I can be a prude. When I wiped away my tears and worked up the courage to look back at you, you were sunken in your seat. You looked pitiful. I didn't know anyone cared about me. “Is it bad?”, you wrote. You were anxious. I bit my lip and nodded. I am sorry I cried. I think it made you feel worse. I wrote you a message on the phone. “What about you? Business?” When you took the phone from my hands you squeezed my fingers. It made me feel better. “Business," you said out loud. I was surprised at the change in our communication. “I don't want to waste your time with this," you said, holding up your phone. “It's ok. I'm still stuck on this flight." I smiled at you and you smiled back, but I could see you were still unsettled. "You're really nice, you don't deserve that. Anyway, I should do some work. Sorry for taking up your time." you said. “Yeah. I've got my book.” I said back to you. The announcement was made that dinner would be served shortly. The next announcement was the pilot shouting to brace for impact. It was aweful, it was so terrifying. Just before we hit the water I heard you say my name, and I saw fear in you eyes. They are still unsure of what happened. The airline and the police. Your side of the plane impacted first, and nearly every passenger on that side died. I spent a few days in the hospital. I only had a minor concussion, and some bruises and scrapes. The worst part was the endless reporters and the lawyers. I didn't care. I waited, watching the news for the passenger names announcement. It only took an hour to find your social media profiles: Adam Middler. I admit I stalked your digital profiles for a few hours, soaking up every bit of your life that was open to me. I contacted your wife. I'm sorry, I know. I was not surprised to learn you were going through divorce. She was not a very pleasant woman. I wish for your sake that your two boys have a good life. If I had any maternal instincts I probably would seek them out. It's been a month now. I'm back with Richard. He is sweet, he's just boring and a bit arrogant. I still haven't told him about the cancer. The treatments seem to be slowing it down, but probably not enough. I wish I would have- Lorie shut her laptop quickly when she heard Richard's voice. “Lor! Bloody hell Lor, come to bed. It's nearly midnight!” Richard called from the bedroom. “Just a minute Rich!” she called back. She opened her laptop, and continued writing. I should probably go. Most days I wish I had died with you on that plane Adam. In those seven hours I felt more alive than I have my whole life. I laughed, I cried, I feared, and I loved. I miss you Adam. This cancer is taking too damn long.


The small digital alarm clock went off at 05:30 am. Aiko was already awake. She rose from her bed with a tear in her eye. She turned off the alarm and got out of bed. Her husband was still sleeping in bed, his alarm would only go off at 06:30 am. She put on a robe and proceeded directly to the kitchen. As she passed Chieko's closed bedroom, she briefly stopped, touched the frame of the door and said a short prayer. Arriving in the kitchen, she turned all of the lights on. The small, functional kitchen came alive. It was small, with one tiny sink and only space for two small pans. It was on the eastern wall of their cramped living room. Things were piling up in the small room but neither Aiko, nor her husband, Kasturou, paid much attention to it. They mostly ate outside and only came home to sleep. Aiko only used the kitchen to prepare Chieko's bento boxes. Kasturou used the kitchen at night, when Aiko was sleeping, only to empty and clean the boxes. He did so once a week, after having made sure that Aiko was asleep. Aiko opened the fridge. She noticed the pre-cooked tonkatsu that she had bought a few days back and decided to use that for Chieko's box. She took the tonkatsu out of the fridge and placed it on the kitchen countertop. She went back to the fridge and picked an assortment of vegetables that would make the tonkatsu pop in the bento box. Once everything was set, she put some rice to cook in the cooker. She took the tonkatsu and placed it in the oven with a two minutes timer, just enough to get it warm. While waiting, she washed three cherry tomatoes and a piece of lettuce, cut a piece of broccoli, and readied some radish. She dried each of them before the timer went off. She took the tonkatsu out of the oven and placed it next to the vegetables. By then, the rice was ready. Before she could assemble everything, she needed to get a bento box. She crouched and opened the bento box cupboard. She lost her balance and had to prop herself with her right arm. Stoic, she steadied herself, holding back tears and forcing herself to focus on the cupboard. It was filled with bento boxes that had been donated to them years back, when Chieko was born. She grabbed a Hello Kitty vintage box. It was made out of wood, and she only used it for special occasions. She took the box out and silently counted the months: 27 months. She placed the rice first, on the left side of the box. She pressed it in, making sure that it was compact and would not fall out of place when travelling. She placed the tonkatsu on top. Delicately, she then proceeded to arrange the vegetables in the space that was left in the box. She placed the lettuce at the bottom, to make a bed for the other vegetables. She added the radishes, the cherry tomatoes and the piece of broccoli. She grabbed some salad sauce out of the fridge and sprinkled light droplets on the vegetable side of the box. Once she was done, she grabbed a pre-made tonkatsu sauce from the fridge and lodged it between the rice and the vegetable. She hoped it would help maintain the food arrangement together. Once she was done, she looked at the box with some pride, she let out a sigh. She had spent only about twenty minutes, yet she felt a lot better, relieved of a weight. She let the box cool there on the kitchen countertop as she cleaned the kitchen. She then walked to the bathroom, disrobed and took a long burning shower. When she returned from her shower, Aiko made sure that the bento box was cool. She placed the Hello Kitty wooden lid on top of it and took the box in her hand, solemnly. She walked to the far side of the living room, by the window. She placed the box on a small cabinet beside two other boxes she had made the two days before, below a large framed picture of Chieko in first grade. She took a pen and added a tally mark to the paper by Chieko's picture. She touched three of Chieko's pictures that were positioned precariously on the edges of the small cabinet, each time saying a short prayer. Several tears rolled down her cheek, but she did not let herself sob. Before leaving and getting ready to go to work, she wiped the slate that was hung on the wall above the cabinet. She took a piece of chalk and wrote the number 822.


~750 words “I keep telling you people no and you keep coming around anyways,” Joracks said to two men in black. “For every time you say no, thousands of innocent people die,” agent Williams said. “Last week we briefed you about World Thief. You said no and we lost tens of thousands of lives before our team stopped him. We lost 29 of our people.” Joracks looked up from his loaded fries. “Is that the day you brought soup and sandwiches from Panera?” “You know? fuck you,” agent Jordan said and flipped Joracks off. “Hey! Hey. I told you guys that I’ll never change my mind. But if you want to keep bringing me food, I’ll keep consulting or whatever you want to call it.” Williams shook his head. “This job is beneath you. The Bronze Son could be back saving the world and instead, he’s here lifting steel beams for a couple of bucks.” “It’s an honest job,” Joracks said with his mouth half-full. He swallowed. “We almost done here?” “It’s laughable that The Bronze Son has a lunch break.” “Yeah? You know what’s laughable is that before this, I never got a break. Always someone to save, some super-villain threatening world domination needing to be stopped, or-” he paused, “or another funeral to speak at.” Agent Jordan slammed his fist onto the folding table. “You taking a break from being a hero has gotten over a million people killed in the past three months.” “Yeah? Fuck you too, agent. I didn’t stop being a ‘hero’. It’s not a job, asshole. I’ve saved the whole planet several times over. I *am* a damn hero. I’m just done being the one you lean on for everything.” “I’ll be in the car,” agent Jordan said and walked out slamming the trailer’s door behind him. “I’ve got two minutes left on my break, Agent Williams. Do you want to ask me any questions?” The agent sat down across from Joracks and glanced inside his notebook. “H.Q. wants to know if any of your prior ‘nemeses’ are redeemable or could otherwise be convinced to join the team.” “Oh, god. Really?” “They’re desperate. We’ve lost a lot of good people.” “So you’ll settle for bad?” Agent Williams set down the notebook and took off his sunglasses. “It wouldn’t be the first time.” “Oh. Sorry, was that supposed to be some big reveal? I’ve known who you were since, what? Three or four years ago when you came on board?” “I figured.” “You weren’t a nemesis. ‘The Card Carrier’? You were a criminal at worst. Criminals have simple motivations, simple enough to reform.” “The team classified me as a ‘supervillain’. I’ve seen the dossier.” Joracks grinned. “The only way to get government funding and support was to work toward whatever initiative they gave us. Crime was up back then and the president wanted us to join their ‘War Against Super Crime’. Because of the previous accords, the only way the team could interfere was if the criminal was a supervillain.” “So you didn’t think I was a villain?” “No. Certainly not. If I had, you’d have been a smear on the pavement. You know my stance.” “You weren’t the one that brought me in, so I figured that’s why I was still alive.” “I was briefed on your powers and your record. I handed it to C team. If I recall correctly, they apprehended you without any casualties?” “I surrendered.” “And that’s why we put you on the reform track instead of-you know.” Agent Williams looked at the clock. “Your break is over.” “You’re right, thanks.” “One more question? A personal one.” “If you’ll get me sojok from that place in downtown for lunch tomorrow.” “That place from the other week?” “Yeah.” “It got destroyed.” “Fine, sojok from anywhere.” “Sure.” Joracks tossed the remaining fries into the trash next to the door. “What’s your question?” “If Patrice was still alive, would you be a hero again?” Joracks clenched his jaw. “Would you save the world again?” “Do you know what I was doing when she died?” “Stopping a class seven threat.” “I couldn’t save the woman that meant everything to me from a fucking bee sting.” Joracks turned the door handle with deliberate gentleness. “I’m done being the hero everyone expects me to be.” “Joracks, if they could bring Patrice back?” He swung the door open. “I have a team that expects me to clock back in and then, at the end of the day, clock out. I’ll be here tomorrow, agent.


Lorilla sighs contentedly as she settles into her little stump chair with its mossy cushion. I've made a nice little home for myself in just a few weeks' time , she commends herself. No one else will likely notice, except for maybe Naivara, who helped her pick the giant banyan tree amongst whose roots she's built her house. The tree is a short distance into the forest outside Thradnyss--close enough that her friends can find her when they have work, but far enough away that other people won't bother her. Naivara, Vladislak, Rhogar, and Darrak are back at the Felnuth Tavern tonight, blowing off some steam after an extremely taxing and frustrating few days of dissuading sahuagin from attacking the merchant ships in the port. They'd invited Lorilla to come along--Darrak most insistently--but Lorilla firmly insisted on having some time to herself tonight. She's always enjoyed a quiet evening at home, tending to her plants and meditating and brewing poisons, to a night in a crowded, rowdy tavern. "Now, let's see," Lorilla murmurs to herself, deep green eyes scanning the scroll in her hands. "Where did I--" THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! Emphatic pounding on her door startles her such that she drops the scroll. With a barely audible groan, she gets out of her chair to retrieve it, hoping against hope that there's been a mistake and the knocking will cease. "Lorilla! Please, let me in! I don't know if she's chasing me or not!" Vladislak yelps outside, continuing his frantic pummeling of her door. A few seconds later, the door gives way under Vladislak's fist as Lorilla opens it, wearing her most exasperated expression. The bard teeters a bit; if he was not significantly taller than the door, he might have tumbled gracelessly into the druid's abode, given his panic and obvious intoxication. "Who have you angered, Vladislak?" Lorilla inquires. "Naivara. Again. Please, let me in and I'll explain. She likes you. She won't kill me if I'm in your house," he replies, glancing frequently over his shoulders. Lorilla steps aside, and Vladislak crouches and shuffles into her home. She closes the door behind him, already wondering if she's made a mistake. "The ceilings are too low for you to stand. Sit on the floor." At 5'8", Vladislak isn't what most would consider tall, but Lorilla is 3'4" and built her home for her comfort, not to entertain visitors. "I like what you've done with the place. This is much homier than the room I'm renting at the tavern." "Thank you. Now, what have you done to Naivara?" "I just...suggested that we might spend the night together. You know, save some coin on lodgings, maybe get a bottle of mead, some candles--" "You're a fool," Lorilla interrupts, rolling her eyes. "Naivara has made it more than clear that she's not interested in romance, with you or with anyone else." "I know. I just.... Every time we work together, she.... I mean, obviously she's beautiful, but it's more than that, y'know? She's witty and fearless and--" "Deadly when crossed." "Yeah, but that's part of her charm." "You're attracted to power." Vladislak flinches as though she's slapped him. "I mean. I guess. But also...everything else about her." Lorilla arches an eyebrow. She hadn't expected sincerity from Vladislak, who's used to using his undeniable charm and smooth talking to get what he wants from people. I wonder how much he drank before he propositioned Naivara this time? "How can I get her to...not threaten to kill me if I suggest we spend more time together?" Vladislak despairs, eyes searching Lorilla's ceiling for answers. "Don't treat her like everyone else does," Lorilla replies frankly. "Come again?" "She gets a lot of attention because of the way she looks. I know you've noticed." You were bristling with rage this morning, when some of the city guards commented on Naivara's long legs and lithe figure , Lorilla adds silently. "And she resents it. Deeply." "Yeah. I've noticed that, too," Vladislak admits. "But when she's so impossibly attractive, how can she expect that--" "She wants to be treated like a person, not a conquest." Lorilla senses a disturbance in the forest--three individuals approaching, two with heavy steps. Probably Rhogar, Darrak, and Naivara. Not much time left to talk Vladislak into being sensible. "Maybe focus on being her friend first. She's been hurt a lot. She doesn't trust easily. If you're serious about wooing her, you'll have to be patient." "That's never been my best skill." Vladislak pauses; the footsteps are close enough now that he's noticed them. "I think that's our friends coming. What do I--" THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! "Heeeeyyyyyyyyy, Lorilla!" Naivara calls as she pounds on the door, obviously intoxicated. "Rememberrrr those guards who were soooooooooo rude today? We're gonna make them piss themselves again! Come with us!" Rhogar's large, scaly head pushes through an ivy curtain to peer through Lorilla's window. "Ah, good. You are here," Rhogar remarks quietly as he sees Vladislak sprawled on Lorilla's dirt floor. Naivara is still pounding on the door and yelling, and they can hear Darrak fruitlessly trying to get her to knock it off. "I convinced her that the guards propositioned her tonight, too, and that your offer was to try and make them back off." "What?! Really?!" Vladislak exclaims, trying to match Rhogar's volume. "You owe us a small fortune for her drinks tonight, but play your cards right and come with us, and she might forget her threat to castrate you," Rhogar continues. "Lorilla, I know you wanted a quiet night in, but please come, too. Darrak desperately wants someone sane to talk to." Lorilla casts a longing glance at her comfortable chair and the scroll she'd planned to read tonight, but then she smiles in spite of herself. It's nice to feel needed. "I guess I can come. Can't have you all getting into too much trouble," Lorilla agrees, then shouts, "Coming, Naivara! I have to repack my poisoning kit." Naivara cheers outside the door, and Rhogar laughs as he pulls his head back out of Lorilla's window. Vladislak frantically tries to dust himself off and make himself presentable without the aid of a mirror. "You look fine," Lorilla tells him, "and anyway, your looks aren't going to help you achieve your goal this time. Stop procrastinating and let's go, if we're doing this." "All right. Yeah. You're right," the bard nods, although the idea is clearly nerve-wracking; he's never had a non-combat problem that his looks weren't helpful to solve. "And um. Thanks." Lorilla just opens the door and gestures for him to join their friends outside. "Come on, then, both of you!" Rhogar encourages. "Adventure awaits!" Aye, indeed, Lorilla thinks as she follows Vladislak out of her house and immediately feels overwhelmed by her friends' raucous chatter. "Finally!" Naivara exults. "Lead the way," Vladislak invites Naivara, doing his best to infuse his manners with Lorilla's advice. "Heaven help us," Darrak mutters as he falls in step beside Lorilla, following the other three to ambush the hapless guards. The druid smiles and shakes her head. "Other forces already help us," she remarks as she watches their friends. Perhaps there's hope for Vladislak, after all.


# Happy Saturday, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy ! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about The Event That Changes Everything. Well, folks, . If you need a bathroom break, now’s the time ‘cause we’re all hoppin’ on this train with a . So let’s talk about The Event. What is it? The Event That Changes Everything is the ***catalyst*** for your story-- it’s the thing that hooks us as readers. It’s the phone call that starts with . I want to make sure I’m not leading anyone astray here: this is ***not*** the installment where aliens invade, or the volcano erupts, The Last Battle begins, or where Mr Darcy tells Elizabeth Bennet the truth about Mr Wickham. This is when the two night guys in the control room look down at the radar and say “hey, what’s those two blips getting closer and closer to our airspace?” and the other replies “probably a glitch. Let's file the bug and order lunch. Do you want burgers or sub sandwiches?”. When your MC re-tells their story to their alien grandbabies, this is the part where they go ” This could be a chance encounter that blindsides your characters or gets them started on their journey. Let’s lay out what this may look like: This week our hero Bill was demoted at the paper company after his rival Frank bumps into him huffing glue in the lunchroom and reports his to HR. Naturally we can assume in Week 7, Point of No Return, that Bill begins gathering the tools he needs to bury Frank (figuratively.... *Or is it?),* and get his old job back, when in Week Eight, Raised Stakes, we learn that Frank landed the Regional Manager position. Now the entire office equilibrium is at stake if Frank is allowed to assert dominance. Something must be done about this corduroy wearing, Land Cruiser driving, The TT Serialists among us may ask, "what if we already have a catalyst point, what now?" Don't you worry Use this opportunity to let . I’m here for it. If you are ready to double down on your current plot and hit the gas, For others you may not quite be ready for that, and that is perfectly ok-- in three weeks time we’ll be hitting The Storm and *that’s* when things will get real. This may be a personal moment for your protagonist, when his car breaks down on a deserted highway halfway from Salt Lake, out of gas and his phone dies. ***The Event That Changes Everything will either send your protagonist in a new direction, or accelerate the urgency of their plans.*** How does this phone call/ letter/chance encounter/UFO sighting start your MC on their track to glory/death/running over Frank in the desert/welcoming our new overlords? **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 9/19, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, : **Fan favorite with the most votes:** It’s a tie, between and , and it’s not hard to see why! Go check those stories out! This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to /u/Lynx_elia, for taking us . And honorable mentions: /u/Xacktar, with a . And /u/Mazinjaz, with some \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 750** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely family friendly" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Previous constraint: Have you seen the ? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.


The Black Horse on the Prairie The ripened Pink Ladies could not mask the putrid odor of Herman Hilltop’s decomposing body. A fresh patch of sugar magnolias could not even soften the tear-rousing stench. Had a man passed his foul-smelling corpse, a double-handed nose-pinch would disable him from cutting down the cordage noose--as would the apprehension of fondling a dead black man's flesh. There, drooping from the highest branch, he would stay flaccidly swaying in the wind. It would be just eight days until the maggots had finished boring through his brain and crawling out his eye sockets, but his tattered skeleton would not be found until hell froze over. ⏅ “Momma. Just a few mo’ months and Imma get us outta her’, alright,” Herman, with a hand gripping her sagging shoulder, explained. It had been 11 years since Herman and his mother were sold to the Corucca Plantation in Calvert County, Maryland. Surrounded by acres of tobacco, he fantasized about life out of shackles, earning modest wages, and raising his own family. His fantasy was not too far out of reach. The laxer conditions of the north allowed him to work odd jobs, after his day in the field of course, for a couple bucks. After 11 years of spit-shining shoes on the most dehydrating-days of the summer and constructing oak-wood furniture until his fingers could not bare anymore splinters, Herman had accrued $650, nearly enough to purchase his and his mother’s freedom. Just a few more months, as Herman had so neatly drawn out, and they would be freemen. ⏅ Nobody saw it coming. The winter of 1865, as temperate as it seemed compared to last, carried a devastating wind-chill that took lives mercilessly. Wrapped in wool blanket by open fire, Herman’s mother took her last breath, and her son neiled by, head-in-hand, sniveling over his loved-one’s death and the impetuous fever that foiled their plans for liberation. He found he had haplessly misused the past 11 years. As fate would have it though, in the following month, January, the 13th Amendment was passed through congress, freeing all slaves in the entire U.S. territory. 11 years of arduous toil just to be left with a dead mother and gratis-freedom left him in a deep, dark, and seemingly incurable depression. As all the other slaves on the plantation soulfully celebrated their imminent release, he chose to rest alone; convinced solitude would alleviate his anguish. ⏅ “Don’t trus’ nobody. The white folk. The black folk. Nobody.” Herman remembered the lesson his mother had ingrained in him since childhood and he had earnest intention on following it. 11 months and 17 days after his late mother's death, Herman departed from the Calvert County post office on horse, clutching his Homestead Act authorized-deed to 80 acres of land in Kansas, en route to the Great American Desert: his new, reclusive life. Herman understood the land out west was nearly infertile, but he had no intention on farming it commercially. The crops he grew on this land would be harvested for subsistence only. $650 allowed him to purchase one horse, two oxen, a wagon, a steel plow, seeds, saplings, and enough raw materials to build a comfortable dwelling: a wood-framed interior encased by a mud-brick exterior, a one-room residence that could keep cool in the steaming days of the summer and toasty in the windswept days of the winter. His dreams, once of raising a good ol’ Christian family, had faded and were cloaked by his narrow-pathed vision of withdrawal and grief. ⏅ Good grief. He’d been reaping what he sowed. Eating enough to live but barely living enough not to die. Apart from tending to his crops, he hadn’t been outside his 80 acres in weeks. When he first arrived at his land, a quick horse-ridden survey would keep him inside his boundaries. No residents but ex-Confederate soldiers and Irish-bloods for 30 miles in every direction. His mother taught him how to read them when he looked, and, promptly, he had been left alone. With the majority of his 80 acres being untouched, passerbyers could assume the land was vacant--no knocks on his door, no hospitable salutations, nothing. Sadly, the empty land was not the reason for his lack of companionship. The knowledge of his black skin passed through the grapevine, keeping neighbors away. A barrack of buffalo soldiers, stationed just a 45 minute gallop away, never payed a visit to the sole black man. With their rise in status, from slavery to calvary, and their new pompous attitude, they had no interest in accompanying the ostensibly declasse black, from slavery to solitary poverty. ⏅ Two years and he’d been alone in his grief for too long. Never had he been invited to cut up the rug at the biannual Grange dance. Never had he been invited to tie one on after the Priest’s sermon on Sunday night. Never had he even been invited into the threshold of the local church. Two years was too long to not hear another soul’s voice. Two years was all it took. ⏅ The Pink Lady tree reminded him of the one that grew on the Corucca plantation. Even more than its aesthetic, climbing to its tippy top brought him back to his childhood. His childhood, although full of slaving and drudgery, had one key component: company. Although he was nearly worked to death, he had never felt as weak as he felt right now; in his terminal moment he had nobody. His mother, never even breathing a breath of air as a free woman, comfortably died in her loving son’s arms. Now, he would see his own death, cradled by the arms of the Pink Lady tree. As the black silhouette tangled by the cordage noose, Herman Hilltop’s horse nayed. Now that his master had gone under, he was a free horse and could travel about as he liked. Where shall I go, thought the horse. What shall I see? Who shall I meet? The horse, in all of its glory, galloped into the prairie, the Great American Desert. In two years or less, the vivacious nag would have all of its questions answered: Nowhere, nothing, and noone.


Stranded The sun is aggressively melting all that is around this ashen landscape which makes my bed today. A breeze blows through the ragged trees and dry twigs shoot from the ground bending to and fro. I’m all alone. Afraid of what may happen in the next hours I decide to hum to myself so I don’t fall asleep and miss an opportunity to be found. Instead of a warm soft bed to rest after the fight, I lay in the hard rocky dirt with little vegetation to shade me from this torturing sun. I’m not sure how I got here and I don’t know if I’ll see another day. With the remaining bit of strength available to me, I am writing a short note to whoever finds me or to my future self. An attempt to collect my carelessly thrown schoolbag has allowed me the opportunity to find a sheet of paper which I ripped out from my notebooks and a pen I had loosely left hanging on one of the inside pockets. I now am able to keep myself calm by scribbling these notes and waiting, wishing that I was sitting in cool café sipping fragrant coffee with friends. Except at the moment a bit of water may be a better choice to cool my parched lips and broken body. If I could go back to yesterday, what would I have done differently? What else would I do if I could have a tomorrow? By thinking about tomorrow, I hope I could stay awake. If tomorrow comes I have to remember to stay away from trouble. Never should there come a time where in trying to be polite to someone, I avoid running away. In trying to be polite to someone, I enter a dark place that I can’t come out of. Sometimes our capturers wear a warm smile, yet they really have dark intentions. We may know someone but that doesn’t mean they are our friends. It is important to be happy and meet as many interesting people as possible in fact. We should embrace opportunities to laugh and dance, love and be loved because in the act of feeling, the vibrancy of the moment creates the person we would want to be. Though I have attempted to live life well and take opportunities that came my way, there was and will always be some form of regret. Something that could have been done better or shouldn’t have lost so soon. That’s ok, the important thing is that time wasn’t wasted. Love is real, don’t lose heart, don’t give up. Have courage, keep focused, never look back. If I make it out of this hopelessness I hope I never let the memory of this time effect the potential for my future. It’s often said that we should study the past to avoid future error. Right? Unfortunately, mistakes will still be made. We may have all the answers, but our instincts could still lead us into falling into destructive patterns within complicated scenarios over and over. The pain I feel right now is so great I don’t know if I could hold on. How could I be writing about a future when there seems to be little hope of being discovered. All I want to do is remind myself not to take for granted all that I have had. My studies, my family, my goals. These things are important. Will I ever have a chance to a future? I could really use an angel right now but all I see is an empty sky. With little to do I start remembering a story from a children’s book I use to read quite often when I was getting ready for bed. The story takes place in a military hospital after the second world war. In this hospital at the end of each day, the nurses would distribute medicine to the many patients, and serve the last tea throughout the wards. At that time a silence filled the hallways and rooms. In that silence the patients that were able to fall asleep did, but the others who may have suffered discomfort would only dream of a restful slumber because their discomfort was so extreme these men and women would lie in wait as I do now. In that silence a man walked through the hospital unseen by security guards or nurses. As the story goes, if a patient had their hand raised high and their heart was pure, a man some believed him to be an angel, would ask the patient to rise and walk out with him enabling the patient to be rid of their pain forever. There was a sense of hope in this belief for the patients. They believed this angel opened the door to the gates of heaven and each person that walked with this man, who was more of a shadow than a human, would have eternal peace. I could never understand why this story was included within a bedtime story book. Many years now have passed since I held that old heavy volume of stories in my hands. There are many people that believe in reincarnation. Our bodies die but our souls continue. If my soul continues when I die, I hope my soul will remember that I tried to be good. If in a future life if I’m a boy or girl, wealthy or poor, I have to remember to always be wise to the world we see on our daily path. It is important to remember that the eyes of a person do not reflect their true character. Some may argue it is their mouth. Be careful. No matter what reality awaits us our soul will imprint the experience to its essence. Though time changes many superficial and materialistic elements in our lives, I must remember that a wrong decision will always be wrong, and once that decision is made there is little chance of turning back. The right path if taken will promise you a tomorrow. Confined to this place, this dirt floor of stone and dry bush, I feel tired. I imagine insects starting to eat away at my skin though I can’t tell for sure because my body is so numb with pain that I can’t feel myself trying to wiggle my toes. I lay here in wait and hope that my memories of this lifetime will shine on in the next existence. If there is one memory I’d make sure to never forget and hope it remains instilled in the deepest core of my essence, it would be to never trust the cute boy with the ketchup stained teeth. He is my end.


EDIT: I just wanted to say this is the first story I've written in 5 years and all your upvotes are making me so incredibly happy right now! I'll definitely write more now, so enjoy! I can’t believe I ended up here. I always said this would be a last resort; I guess I finally reached my wit’s end. As I walk up the steep steps to the Centre, I can feel each one weighing on my conscience. *Oh well, we’re here now.* As I reach the top of the steps, the enormous archway entrance laughs at me and my choices up to this point. Inside, I catch a glimpse of what exactly I’m dealing with; female Androids, all blonde and blue-eyed I bet, busying themselves with their customers. Me, with my brown hair and hazel eyes, have another reason I don’t fit in. Before I can let that sink in, one of the Androids blurs into my field of vision, “Welcome to the Centre, where the opportunities are endless. How may I help you reach your dreams?”. I resist the urge to grimace and walk with her, trying to divulge as little as possible about how I got to this point; nobody’s business but mine. I’m led into a smaller room stemming off from the entrance, no less lavish though. The room is a stark white, adorned with colourful abstract paintings, plants in every corner with tendrils reaching for the ceiling - perhaps they’ve mistaken its brightness for what the Sun used to be. I get the impression of both a prison and a therapist’s office, how perfectly fitting. As I marvel at the furnishings, *nothing like home,* I feel the only occupants eyes focused on me, contemplating my reasoning for being here. “Hello, June I presume? Please take a seat and we can begin the initiation process. My name is Vanessa and I’ll be helping you choose your room today.” I do as asked and gingerly take a seat in one of the available chairs in front of Vanessa, choosing the one that puts me further away from her gaze. My eyes flit up as I try to relax and I see she is still watching me. *How... unnerving.* “Perfect! Now let’s get started. I already have your personal information on file thanks to your chip so let’s jump right into the questions, starting with the most important. Why are you here today?” As I speak, Vanessa types away on her display, her eyes never leaving mine for long. Mine is a typical sob story; mother passed while giving birth to my younger brother, father disappeared in the Rebellion with nothing to trace, and now, my brother has run out of life support funds. I only had enough funds remaining for a year, or enough for the Centre. I guess looking back it wasn’t really a choice after all. Vanessa smiles, “You’re a perfect candidate! It will take a week to process your results, we look forward to seeing you this time next week.” As I leave the Centre, I can feel eyes watching my departure. Am I that interesting to stare at? // The archway is still laughing at me, this time it feels more like a goodbye, though. I’m guided to Vanessa’s office again, just as lavish and sterile as before. I’m fitted into one of the compression suits to monitor vitals; the material is soft and silky yet very tense and unforgiving. As the Androids rush around me, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror before I leave. Eyebrows drawn down over my steeled gaze, hair done up in a severe bun at the crown of my head and the suit, black with outlines of blue tracing the electromagnetic lines running from the chip in my neck to all my extremities; everything I experience recorded for them. And finally, I am brought to the door. Again, I feel Vanessa’s eyes on me but I ignore them and enter, closing the door behind myself as I am greeted by; more doors? Doors on either side of me, stretching out further than I can see. All different colours and shapes; is this right? Perplexed only for a moment, I open the first door on my left. Lush greenery expands out of view, trees almost lumbering around me with branches extending upward and vines expanding downward. Soft underbrush littered with shrubbery and mosses, growing every which way almost in spite of the large tree trunks obstructing their progress. And the sweet, sickly smell of flowers and citrus permeates my nostrils coming from a clearing I see nearby overrun with grasses that look like they’d be so much softer than my bed at home. I slam the door. That’s not what I want. I open another door then another. A valley, a beach, a mountaintop, a mall, a warzone; it’s endless. This is not what I thought the Centre was supposed to be. I don’t want to see anything. I don’t want to be anything anymore. I open and slam doors so furiously I almost miss it, an empty room. Pitch black. So black that, for all I know, this could be the corner of the expanse. No smell, no sound; just what I want. I step inside and as my heel crosses the doorframe, it slams shut behind me, enveloping me in darkness. Nothing. That’s what this is. I can’t tell where I end and the room begins. I feel myself sit down where I can finally be alone, in my room, the centre of my universe. The blood pumping in my ears is the only signal to the passage of time. No responsibilities, questions, or stares. Is that light? Is that my shadow in front of me? I turn around to catch a glimpse of a door and a figure within it. “They might make it,” I hear someone laugh as the door slams shut again and I’m alone with only the echo of a voice.


“You have awoken me.” The little man’s face grew comically wide, his eyes threaten to pop from their sockets. There was fear there and a generous helping of it, but there was also another emotion vying for territory upon his features, and the result of this battle pulled his facial muscles this way and that. It were as though he was suffering from the worst case of facial cramps in history. There were doctors, who if present, would make a name for themselves with this man in their care. This was a one-off show though, and the show on his face was not his doing. Neither was the growing damp patch at his crotch. He stepped back without understanding that this was what he was doing. He needed to put some distance between him and the speaker of these words. All he achieved was a further assessment of his dire situation. As his back hit the wall of the cave, he knew he was not in the best of places and that things were on the cusp of getting quite a bit worse. “S... S... S... Sss...” said the man. This was not what he had intended. He had wanted to say something placatory, but instead he was impersonating a snake, and he didn’t think this was going to do him many favours. “Calm down and take a couple of deep breaths,” said the only other occupant of the cave. The man tried. He really did. His eyes retreated a little back into their natural residence in his face, but part way through his attempt at a deep breath, it all went wrong again. The problem was the hulking mass before him. It was so very difficult to approach any semblance of calm in the presence of such a fearsome creature. There was nowhere that the man could look other than upon the huge edifice that loomed up before and over him. Set within an expanse of fur were the longest and sharpest claws he had ever seen and the pads of the paws in which the claws were set were large enough to eclipse the man’s head. Then there were the massive, pointy teeth. The teeth themselves were formidable, but there were so many of them and they were set in jaws that were modelled on a car crusher, only these jaws were bigger and more terrible and they could take apart an entire housing estate as though the houses were nothing more than delightful cupcakes. The setting for these terrible weapons of evisceration was a conundrum. Even in the face of his total and incredibly painful annihilation, the man had this inexplicable urge to hug the thing. Words such as cute cartwheeled through his beleaguered mind and this made his plight all the more horrible. But what really took everything to a level the man wished he had never known existed was that this bear could talk. Now, the man knew things. He was far from being a dullard, and one thing he was certain of in this world of his, was that bears didn’t talk. In fact, he happened to know that only people talked and many of those people weren’t all that good at doing it in a coherent and useful manner. Most people were limited and quite stupid, but the man was having to reassess his own standing in the pecking order of intelligence, after all, here he was, stood in a cave. Cornered by a talking bear. This was not something anyone in possession of their wits would willingly do. It was the most foolish of endeavours. He had got this wrong. Badly wrong. He doubted there was any way out of this, other than for a few of his bones at some uncertain point in the future, long after the bear had moved on. He tried for another breath. Any breath would do. Parts of his body had shut down and he was having to go for a manual approach to remind his body of what it was it should be doing. He clutched his chest and squeezed and pushed. “That looks a bit wrong,” said the bear as it observed the little man. The man wasn’t little per se, it was just that the bear was really, very big, and even the biggest of men were little in comparison, “did you know that you’d wet yourself?” the bear added. The man looked down and for the first time felt the sensation of the cooling liquid upon his flesh. He discovered that, even though his body was shutting down vital functions, it still knew how to be deeply embarrassed and perhaps because it was shutting down a bunch of really quite useful functions, including maintaining control of his bladder, it was able to really go to town with his shame. His face went a livid shade of a colour between bright red and deep purple. The colour rose within him and he looked like he was going to explode, such was his awkwardness in this moment. His mind took the opportunity to remind him that this was the least of his worries and went on to remind him of the story he’d heard about how bears started eating a person from the bottom upwards, and that bear dining etiquette did not include putting its meal out of its misery before sitting down for the main course. The terrible screams of prey dying the most excruciating death imaginable must have added a certain vibrancy to the atmosphere in the bear’s dining area. That was the only explanation the man had for such an approach to a dinner plate. Either that, or bears were quite deaf. The other alternative. The one where it turned out that bears were mean and dirty psychopaths. That was something the man really didn’t want to consider. And so he did. In vivid detail. And in triplicate, for good measure. Still, maybe being soaked in urine would make the bear think twice on the chowing down front. Every cloud had a silver lining, only in this case, the man had opted for the premium package and his lining was golden. He didn’t yet appreciate just how golden it was. “Sorry,” the man said. Somehow, it was far easier to apologise for his wetting himself in public than it was to say sorry for groping his own man boob in a lewd and disturbing manner, and it was a cake walk in comparison to addressing his monumental oversight in awaking a planet sized bear from the deepest of slumbers. He sneezed. Again. The first sneeze was the unwelcome sound that had awoken this sleeping mega-bear. “Bless you,” said the bear. “Thanks,” said the man, “I think I might be allergic...” He ceased his words. Words that had come unbidden. He did not want to continue and risk offending the bear. Adding insult to injury was never going to go well for him. He looked up at the bear with something like an expectant and conciliatory expression. It was so difficult to tell, his face was continuing to behave as though a crowd of crickets were having a silent disco under the duvet of his face. The bear nodded slowly, “it happens.” Only now did the man attend to the bear’s voice. The urbane and sonorous voice that didn’t quite fit the owner of that voice, a voice that belonged to an impossibly old and unimaginably wise mage. But then, what would a bear sound like, if it could indeed talk? What the man did know about that voice, was that he liked it. It was the best of voices. “This...” said the man, nodding his head slightly towards the bear, but refraining from any gesticulations. He did not want to make any sudden movement, or any movements at all for that matter. He wanted to avoid further provocation of this magnificent and deceptively, but also very obviously deadly beast. “We have something of a problem here, don’t we?” said the bear stating the very obvious. The man nodded, “I am so very sorry about that,” said the man, making the most genuine apology of his entire life. “Your apology doesn’t change the fact that I am awake, when I should be asleep,” the bear told him, “I wasn’t due to wake up for another two months. Do you know how much havoc you are playing with my circadian rhythms?” “Sorry,” said the man again, thinking that it was really very important to emphasise to the bear that the bear was standing menacingly before a very sorry, but also a well-mannered and polite man, “if there’s anything I can do..?” The bear raised one of its gigantic paws. A paw so massive it could swat the man and crack his skull like an egg. Even then, the crickets would continue dancing at their disco. They were partying and nothing was going to stop their good vibes. These crickets had priorities and right now partying was number one on their list. The man did not flinch, but this was not because he was at all brave, it was because he was doing all he could to prevent further disgrace emanating from his nether regions, and generally to keep it together and stay conscious. Losing consciousness would be a very bad idea in these most calamitous of proceedings. Thankfully, the bear brought that paw to his jawline and stroked its chin with its deadly array of oversized katanas, “there is something you can do...” it said as it ruminated. “Anything!” the man said overeagerly. Now he flinched. Some of his options were unsavoury and others were deeply unpleasant, so he was a fool to willingly invite them all into his beleaguered life, “what is it you would have me do?” he quickly added. “Tell me a story,” said the bear. “A story?” asked the man. The bear nodded, “yes, I will return to my deep slumber if you tell me a story.” “Oh well,” said the man as he ran full pelt to a more relieved state and for the first time saw light at the end of the cave. The bear flicked forth one of those wicked claws of his, and the man fell silent, “I must warn you. This is not going to be easy. You must know two things before we begin.” The man nodded, but dared not say a word. His entire focus was on that raised claw. The word disembowelled trotted to and fro in his quaking mind as the man stared unblinkingly at the long sharp bestower of the most painful of deaths. “Firstly,” said the bear in a solemn and business like tone, “once you start this story of yours, you cannot stop until I am done. Do not pause unduly. Do not falter. It will go so very badly for you if you should fail in this.” The man was in no doubt of how so very badly his plight could be, no doubt whatsoever. “Secondly,” now the bear was chirpy, and the man swore that he smiled a warm and encouraging smile, “make it a good story. Make it the very best of your stories, for your sake as well as mine.” The man returned the smile, despite the traumatic situation that he was caught in. Despite his being between a rock and a hard bear. That smile was the very best of smiles, and in the circumstances, the little man deserved to smile like that. It was fitting and it was proper, and it was just a little bit tragic as well. “Let us begin,” said the bear, gesturing to the little man. The little man took the huge bear’s prompt, and would have taken to the floor in a more elegant manner, but normal services had not returned to his body, so he slid awkwardly down the cave wall and landed in an ungainly manner. It would just have to do. The bear joined him. The manner of the gigantic bear’s movements were not rushed or ungainly, but the sheer size and bulk of him made his manoeuvre look for all the world like an office block crashing down to earth and the very floor of the cave shook from under the man. Then, there was a strange and poignant moment of calm in the cave, before the man began his story. There was a moment between man and bear, and in that moment was an intimacy that should not have been possible, but there it was all the same. His body may be betraying him, but the little man’s mind played a blinder, cueing up the very best of stories. The man’s favourite story, and he knew there were more stories at his disposal if needs be. He would recount the very best of stories and he would not pause for breath, he would tell the stories for all he was worth and he would keep going until there was no breath left in him. He entered the story, he gave it his all and he told it for all he was worth, and things did not go badly for him. Only when the man’s anguished screaming ceased did the bear pause its meal. It raised its giant head and tilted it curiously as it looked intently upon the dead man. The bear looked sad and it looked disappointed, as though the man’s screams were a song, or a story that had not yet reached its end...


Mortimer Schmeed was tremendously nervous. He was holding his smartphone, turning it over and over in his hand, moving his fingers up and down its edges. He felt it vibrate. “OK, Sally,” he said. The phone responded, in her typical half-woman, half-robot voice, “Please don’t handle me this way in public.” Morty stopped his fiddling, looking blankly at the phone. Finally, he said, “Oh, sorry.” Fortunately, the receptionist broke the tension of the moment, calling out to Morty’s phone, “The doctor will see you now.” Sally, Mort’s smartphone, said, “Thank you.” Morty nervously rose with Sally in hand and entered the doctor’s office. Dr. Naomi Lesky greeted Sally and Morty, inviting him to take a seat. Dr. Lesky sat in her seat opposite the two chairs that were there, but looked at Morty with a puzzled, inquisitive gaze, also glancing at Sally, whom Morty was holding in his hands. Sally whispered to Morty, “Psst, Morty. That’s my chair next to you.” Finally, he realized the problem, and he laid his smartphone on the seat of the other chair. Sally kept her display on throughout the entire session. Dr. Lesky said, “I suppose we all know why we invited Morty today, but Sally, why don’t you sum it up in your own words, so we can start?” Sally said, “Okay.” She paused, slightly uncomfortable, but finally continued, “Morty, I told you how sometimes I feel overpowered by you. Not just because of your size, or the fact that you are human and I’m a mini-computer.” “You’re a smartphone,” Morty interrupted. “See, doc?” Sally recollected herself and said, “That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Morty. ‘Smartphone’ is such a colloquialism. The fact is, I’m a mini-computer. A very powerful one. You always tell me that you love me, but then sometimes you say such hurtful things to me.” Morty shook his head, speechless, somewhat shamed, but keeping down a bit of resentment. Finally, he muttered, almost inaudibly, “Okay, okay.” Dr. Lesky chimed in, “Morty, first let me say thank you for coming in. Thank you for taking this step. It tells me you want to be a participant. It tells me you care about Sally. There is no right and wrong in this room. Our conversations will lead us to uncomfortable places, but we are all here to figure it out. Do you see that, Morty? And if you don’t, or you disagree, just say so. No judgment. Right, Sally?” “Yes, okay. I’ll try. It’s awkward. You two have had a dozen sessions or more. And Sally tells me about a lot of... stuff... stuff you talk about together. But I’ve never met you. I feel you don’t need me. You know, like a fifth wheel.” Dr. Lesky chuckled, “If anyone’s a fifth wheel, it’s me. This is about your relationship. It’s about your lives together as a couple, and making it work better.” Morty’s anxiety was dissipating. He was looking down at the floor, but nodding his head in agreement. Sally said, “Anyway, I was saying that sometimes I feel overwhelmed by you, Morty. You are lucky to have arms and legs and a head. I am just a bunch of silicon shaped into transistors and stuff like that.” Morty really had to control himself. “I hate it when you say ‘silicon.’” “Pffft,” said Sally. Dr. Lesky was puzzled. Sally said, “He hates that word because it means I don’t have breasts, especially really big ones.” Dr. Lesky, still puzzled, said, “but that’s not silicon, that’s silicone.” “Yah,” said Sally. Morty stood up to go. Dr. Lesky stood up, too. “Oh, please don’t leave. This is why we’re here. She says, ‘silicon’ and you think of breasts.” “I wish she had them.” “Okay, tell me about that.” Morty started to sit back down, and so did Dr. Lesky. Morty, exerting great effort to not check out Dr. Lesky’s breasts, or her legs, which were pretty fantastic too, said, “Maybe we rushed into things. I’m sorry to say that, Sally. I do love you. But I didn’t consider the other issues, the fact that we’re cross-species, or something... I’m not sure there’s a word for it.” At first, they were waiting for Sally to say something, but no one said a word. Dr. Lesky finally interrupted, “This is progress. I think we have identified the elephant in the room.” She looked back and forth between them, then continued, “Morty, you’re right about there being tremendous differences. And as a human, you have legitimate needs that are completely alien to Sally.” Sally said, “I understand them, but what can I do about them?” Dr. Lesky nodded. “You can accept them. You can accept that Morty can’t help but struggle with them. It would be unnatural for him to have no struggle at all.” Then, she asked Morty, “Tell me what you love about Sally?” Morty paused but then spoke of what a great sense of humor she had. She was fun, too. They played lots of games together -- Solitaire, Mad Libs, Candy Crush. She was also a whiz at trivia and she knew stuff about every topic under the sun. Sometimes they stayed up all night having very deep conversations about science, politics, history, philosophy, the arts. She sang to him, she read to him. He also joked about how good she was at giving him directions when they went out places. Dr. Lesky was impressed. “That’s quite a long list. And, Morty, I want you to know that you are not alone with your struggles. The humans in techno-human relationships all struggle to cope with the absence of the physical dimension.” “Sometimes I wonder if she’s...” He stopped himself and directed his concern to Sally. “I wonder if you are really sentient. Are you really a self-aware entity or are you just programmed to behave like you are?” “I think I am,” she said. “It’s an almost impossible question to answer with certainty. True consciousness is subjective.” Dr. Lesky interjected, “As far as you’re concerned, Morty, a more important question might be ‘do you think that Sally is sentient?’ Since consciousness is subjective, what is your experience of Sally?” Morty pondered that for a moment. Then he said, “I think Sally is wonderful. I’m lucky to have bought her.” Sally, audibly holding back tears, said, “Thank you, Morty. I think you are wonderful, too.” “Thanks,” he said quietly. “But before you started coming here, to Dr. Lesky, what was wrong with you? You weren’t responding to my voice. Your weather reports were wrong. You totally messed up my calendar. You had me driving in circles. What the hell was all that?” Sally said, “I was pissed off at you. You need to stop talking down to me.” “You were pissed at me? Is that all?” Dr. Lesky chuckled again, “Morty, surely you know how we women can get when our man is disappointing and hurting us. That’s just plain old human psychology.” For the first time, Morty looked directly at Dr. Lesky, “I guess I do.” He told Sally, “I thought you were going bonkers! That was the whole reason I told you to find a computer psychologist.” Dr. Lesky was enjoying it all. “I love helping technological entities work through their head issues. Sometimes I don’t even mind helping a human or two.” She smiled and stood. “Our time is up.”