they mixed salt with vinegar and poured it over his wounds. It was as if a ball of metal had exploded inside of him, and the splinters were slowly pushing out of his skin. When they taunted him, asking, “Do you want to drink some too?” he declined. They poured it down his throat anyway. He vomited over himself, and it slid down his body like a rotten honey. The soldiers left him, laughing, as the first of the flies came to feast. At least the vinegar covered up the taste of bile. *This time*, when the soldiers passed under the planks of wood holding him up and splayed open like the tanned hide of an animal, and when they asked him if he needed anything, Joram replied with a firm, “No, thank you.” Yet, how dry was his throat, and how deep was his thirst? He wished that even a faint mist might descend from the cloudless sky, and merely *exist* near his mouth. Instead, all he got were stinging sands and blazing suns. The closest he came to slaking his thirst was watching the distant city waver in the afternoon heat, like an armada of ships melting against an endless ocean of burnt sand. The sun rolled from low to high, and sweat rolled down his brow. In the great blue empty, wisps of clouds coalesced, taunting him before evaporating like so many ghosts. He tried to remain as still as possible, for every movement brought pain that sliced through his limbs and chewed at his joints. In the night, he woke with a rushing, *sinking* feeling in his stomach, as if the Earth itself was falling, but he cast off the notion as a hallucination brought on by the excruciating mixture of thirst and pain. He almost prayed. However, when the first whispers of a prayer left his cracked his lips, he could not stop as it turned into a laugh. What irony that a man should end up on a cross for claiming the gods *might not exist*, only to turn around and beg them for salvation. In the morning, a bandit came. Joram begged him for water, but he found that his throat was so dry he could manage only the harshest whisper. “Please, water.” “Shutup, dead man,” the bandit sniped, “Save me some trouble and tell me if you have anything in your cloth.” “I have-” Joram smacked his lips dryly, “I have money. Hidden elsewhere.” “Right, and I have a gold-headed lass who wants to pay *me* for a fuck. You think I’m stupid?” “No...” “You’re gods-damned right ‘No’. I wouldn’t let you down for half the money in As’hra’s Coffers.” The bandit took a step back as he surveyed Joram’s mostly-naked form, “And by the looks of you, I very much doubt you have so much as a pigeon hole in the Coffers.” “I promise-” “No!” the bandit jabbed the rusty point of a knife up at Joram, “*I* promise *you*! By Hasina’s swampy nethers, if you say one more word I *will* cut off your toes.” He *wanted* to say that Hasina did not have swampy nethers, because Hasina was a god and the gods probably did not exist. Instead, Joram closed his mouth. He watched the bandit wander away, up the hill. The bandit passed under several more crosses, circling around the wooden planks with his head tilted up to inspect the bodies for valuables. As the bandit disappear over the hill, Joram wished he had taken him up on his offer. A blood letting would be painful, yes, but quicker than *this*. His mouth was choked with sand, and flies were dancing over his blistered wrists and ankles, biting into his flesh. Joram resolved to ask the next soldier who came along to kill him. But as the sun arced overhead, no soldiers came. Joram could not spot a single soul through the wavering lines of heat, even if he shifted his gaze to the very corners of his vision. The man on the cross to his left died some time in the afternoon. Joram couldn’t look at him directly, but he could see him in periphery, shivering in the noonday heat. The man loosed a moan that reminded Joram of a rusted hinge, and slumped. “Hey,” Joram whispered as loud as he could. He twisted against the ropes, trying to look at the dead man. “Hey!” he whispered again, “Are you there?” Predictably, the slumped man did not answer, but Joram was not talking to *him*. Joram was attempting to commune with Bazlal, the jackal-headed god. Joram cleared his throat, and echoed the reverent tones they used in the temples, “Oh, Great Undertaker, let me down, and I will serve you. Show yourself, and I will do anything you ask of me.” Almost as if in response, the wind picked up and blew sand across his weeping wounds, yet Joram saw no sign of Bazlal. So, Joram began to scream. He screamed at the sand, and the wind. He screamed for Ta’shim of the Eastern Wind, he cried for Gol, the Sun Stallion, he even invoked the name of Hrafing the Deceiver. Not even the shadows flickered at his prayers. For all his screaming, he had only earned himself wasted time and a hoarse voice. An idea, maybe insidious to a well-minded man, entered Joram’s mind. If he was to die, then why not find out, just to be sure? “Fuck the gods,” Joram whispered, and sucked in his breath. He waited, eyes wide. Nothing happened. The wind did not change. The sky did crack. The ground did not split open and swallow him whole. His lungs expanded like a bellows, he threw out his chest as far as the ropes would let him, and screamed, “There are no gods! There never were any gods!” Stories told of fire that rained from the heavens and the undying torture that would be inflicted on the heretics. Yet, here he was, already suffering as much as any man could, and what did his heresies beget him? Nothing. The sun wandered. His vision began to tilt, slowly at first, until it spun faster than the whirling priests of Derve. The Earth swelled and sank, swooning him back and forth as if he were sitting astride a massive pendulum. His head lolled, and if he hadn’t been bound to the planks by thick coils of rope, he would have collapsed. It was not the hands that gripped his feet that woke him. Nor was it the fervent whispers, urging him to rise. It was the *smell*. A charred, burning odor - bitter and acrid and invigorating in the same way watching your own house burn down is invigorating. Crust flaked from his eyes as he struggled to open them. At first, he thought the creature standing under his cross was a vulture. A long, black robe, tattered with age, covered the creature from head to toe, and it’s spindly fingers ended in nails so sharp and so dirty, they might have been talons. It was these talons that were digging into Joram’s feet, as the creature chanted - not stopping to breathe - “Wake. Wake. Wake.” Joram’s feet twitched. The creature lifted its gaze, and Joram saw not a beak, but a brilliant set of teeth grinning up at him. Joram squinted against the glare of the silvery teeth, trying to see the face under the hood. “It’s good to see me up,” the creature said. The dark skin of his cheeks shone almost purple in the sunlight. “Water-” before he could even finish the word, a cold burst of water splashed against his face, dousing the blistered fires of his sunburn. Joram gasped. Without even thinking about it, his tongue darted out and licked at the sweet, cool liquid. “Need more?” “Please,” Joram rasped, though, thanks to the water, his voice was already stronger than it had been hours ago. The vulture man blinded him with another smile, “You can have some when your feet are back on this ground.” “You... you’re going to help me?” Joram fliched at the shrill sound that rose from the man’s throat, but it was only a laugh. As the man’s laughter rose, so did the burning smell. “Dear me, no!” the vulture man cackled, “*You* are going to help *yourself*!” Joram blinked. “How?” “First, come down from there.” Such a simple demand riled up a deep anger in Joram. He pulled both of his hands forward as far as the ropes allowed him, his slender muscles bulging with effort, and asked, “Are you blind, old man?” At this, the vulture man threw back his hood. Joram’s eyes were not drawn to the stained cloth wrapped tightly around his eyes - instead, Joram saw only the vertical gash sliced into the man’s wrinkled forehead. It was a deep wound, and the edges of it glistened with undried blood. A single, roving eye, half-exposed at its root, was sunk deep into the gash. The eye settled it’s unnatural gaze on Joram, and it seemed to flicker and glow with an alien fire, sending out wisps of prismatic light with every slight movement. “We see much the same thing,” proclaimed the vulture man. “What are you?” Joram asked. He threw his hood back over his head, “We are here to help our self. Come down from the cross.” “I *can’t.* I have asked for help, but none will help me. If you-” The vulture man held up his hand to interrupt Joram, “When we are hungry, do our mouths ask the hands for food?” “I-” “Do our lungs ask the nose for air? No. And so, we should not ask ourselves for help. We must simply *do*.” “But your body-” “*Our* body,” the vulture man corrected him, “is connected to all other bodies. This one, to that one, and so on. You look at us as if we are mad. But what is more mad - to ask for the help of those we do not believe in, or to listen to those standing right in front of us?” Joram’s mouth opened and closed, like a fish that finds itself trapped on land by the retreating tide. “Wake. Concentrate on this arm-” the vulture man lifted the sleeve of his robe to reveal a black arm, tattooed with a mural of scars, “Try to move it as we might our other arms.” Joram swallowed, dust and sand scraping against the inside of his throat. He lacked the energy to argue with the man, and in a way, his words seemed to hold a kind of *sense*. So he concentrated. He stared at the arm, trying to imagine what it must feel like to lift something so heavy. He tried to think of how the skin felt, not to the touch, but to be touched. Joram concentrated on the muscles, and in doing so, he flexed his own arm. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw the vulture man’s arm flexing, too, but it was only a trick of the sun. “No,” said the vulture man, his silvery grin glaring in the sunlight, “Not a trick. This is not *my* arm. This is *our* arm. Wake, and keep trying.” Joram gritted his teeth, and focused on the arm, until all he could see were white scars and purplish-black skin. The arm lifted. A hand touched his feet, touched his toes, and clasped the rope that bound his ankles. The hand pulled, and the ropes came free. Joram gasped, excitement overpowering the pain. Perhaps the movement over the last few days had worn out the ropes around his hands. Or perhaps he had lost so much weight, his wrists had shrunk. Whatever the case, the loosening of the foot bindings released more than Joram’s feet. He fell. The vulture man let out another shrill of laughter. A cloud of dust showered down on Joram, stinging his sore-riddled back. His elbows were singing with pain, and he thought one of his legs might have broken. “In the future,” the vulture man spoke, “We should do better to catch ourselves.” Climbing to his knees, Joram groaned. He looked up at the vulture man’s black hands, and a thought flashed through his mind. No sooner had he though it, than the vulture man’s hands clasped his arms, and hoisted him to his feet. “Thank you,” he said, testing his feet on the crunching gravel. Another beaming smile split the vulture man’s lips, “Gratitude is appreciated, but it is not necessary to thank one’s self.” “Who are you?” Joram asked, steadying himself on the vulture man’s shoulder. The vulture man inclined his head towards Joram, until Joram could see the frayed bottom of the eye-binding cloth peeking out below the vulture man’s hood. Joram’s stomach rolled, as he remembered what that hood was hiding. “We are *you,* Joram. And you are *us.*” Joram’s face twisted in confusion, though he did not voice his disbelief. “If we want a different answer,” the vulture man mused, “We must ask a different question.” Joram almost said something, before a choking fit took hold of him. He hacked up a lungful of dust and a dry, pasty liquid trickled down his tongue. At last, when the heaving ceased, he looked up at the vulture man, “Fine. *What* are you, then? A messenger of the gods?” The vulture man loosed an ear-piercing shriek, “The *gods*! What are the gods, but men who climbed atop the bodies of their fathers and brothers?” “So, the gods are not real?” “They are as real as we are, though, in time you will learn that even the gods are part of us, yes.” “But what does that make *us*?” The vulture man twisted to face Joram. He clutched Joram’s arm, a sublime, almost self-satisfied smile on his face. “We are God. And we are just now waking up.” *** I think this story untied itself somewhere near the ending.


Wedding bells chimed, and flowers were thrown. She tore a leaf apart, bit by bit, piece by piece. When that was done, she gazed around the bushes, her eyes drawn to a bush smaller than the others. “Why was it smaller?” she wondered. She directed her eyes to the clouds and studied their texture. Someone nudged her, “The officiant is about to speak.” "Do you take this man to be your husband, to live together in matrimony...” Her eyes were drawn to a rustle, a little bird hopped out from the bushes and she found herself admiring its feathers. She was brought back to the present as the bride went “I do.” The officiant started to repeat himself with a few added adjustments, but this time it was directed towards the husband. She fiddled with her hands. Everyone stood up and applauded. She sat for a second before she stood and joined in. She had never met the husband, Peter, or the wife, Amilia. Even though Amilia was her cousin, she still hadn’t met her. The bride and groom walked down the aisle and people started to form a line to congratulate them. She skipped the line and walked inside to the reception area. The room was white with banners stating “ For many long years together,” and other happy marriage thoughts. It smelled of various foods. The room was mostly clear due to the fact that they planned to have a dance, but they left chairs and tables. She slipped down into a seat and waited for food to be served. When everyone had assembled, the food arrived and they held a toast to the new couple. She ate her food, and everyone stood up to wander around. Maybe she could slip away? It wasn’t like she was an important guest, and at this point they were just hanging out. She made her way to the exit. A slow waltz started to play and a nearby man swept her up in a dance. “How has your day been going?” He asked as they swept around the floor. She squirmed under the gaze of this stranger. “Good, but I really must be going now,” she added. “Oh no, I insist you really must stay,” he offered. “Uh, no it wasn’t that, it's just I have to go,” she intervened. Suddenly, a young man with dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes pushed the stranger aside and led her to a bench. “Sorry about that,” he said as he gestured over to the stranger. The stranger had now taken up dancing with a different woman and was twirling around the dance floor. “Uh,” she stammered. “He’s my brother. I'm so sorry. Sometimes, he can get a little carried away. I myself don’t tend to participate in dances or big celebrations, but he insisted that I come. It has been awkward and boring because I don’t know the couple,” he vented. Something about the way he talked made her feel comfortable, and she found herself talking to him rather freely. “Same with me, I am the cousin of the bride but I have never met her,” she admitted. Her cheeks warmed and she found herself getting a little bit nervous. Her heart started pounding a little bit faster and her breath quickened. She hoped he didn’t notice. How childish it seemed,, but she couldn’t make the excitement that washed through her dissipate. “I-I-I wasn’t planning to stay any longer if you would like to leave with me,” she offered. “Sure,” he replied as he led her towards the exit. The wind outside brought clean air to her nose as well as the scent of flowers. He led her to a bench. “Soooo... parties aren't your thing?” he asked. “Oh no, I mean I don’t mind them, but people can get so loud,” she complained. “Tell me about it,” he agreed. “It also helps if you know the couple,” she added. “Oh for sure,” he concurred. “So, what is your name?” she asked. “My name is Rory and I have a job at a small computer company. I have a degree in computer science, so yeah,” he stated. “Oh, how nice, I work as a waitress. It is really boring," she admitted. His mouth formed into a grin, and her cheeks turned a shade redder. “I think that’s nice,” he assured her. “It really isn’t,” she replied. “Maybe so,” he said as his smile grew wider. “When did you graduate college?” she asked. “Oh, I don’t know maybe five no wait, six, wait maybe seven years ago,” he counted, “sorry I don’t remember,” “You don’t remember?” she laughed, “You should know when you graduated.” “I normally do,” he defended, “It’s just I forgot right now,” as he said that they both burst out laughing. “Hey, you want to come over tomorrow?” he offered. “Sure, where do you live?” She asked. “Pinesaw street, 6095,” he replied. “Really!” she shouted, “I live only a few blocks away,” Alright then, come over at two,” he replied. She drove home, her face stuck in a smile. *** Today was Sunday and all she could think about was the time. The day seemed to drag on. She was sure two-o’clock would never arrive. “Tic, toc, tic, toc” the clock repeated. Finally it was one forty-five and she decided to head over. When she arrived it was exactly two and she knocked on the door. The door was dark brown and shaped like a cut in half oval. The rest of the cabin was surrounded by trees and was made up of logs. She couldn’t tell if he had a backyard because the trees blocked her view. The door opened and in the doorway stood Rory. He welcomed her in. She could feel her pulse quickening. The inside was just as cozy as the outside. It had a faint smell of spices and cleaning products. The light was low, and the living room had just enough space for a couch and tv. The kitchen was placed in a little corner with a table opposite to it. “Sorry this is basically it,” he apologized, “Oh, and the bathroom is over there,” he added as he pointed to a closed door on the other side of the living room. “Oh, don’t apologize, this is wonderful,” she gasped. “Where do you sleep though?” “On the couch there isn’t space for a bedroom,” he admitted. Now that she looked at the couch more closely it looked like it folded out, and provided a mattress. Next to it, there was a blanket and a pillow stacked neatly on top of one another. “Can I get you anything to drink?” he asked. “I have water, cranberry juice, wine and cider.” “I’ll just have water, thank you,” she replied. “Of course,” he responded as he headed over to his kitchen and poured out two glasses of water. “Anything else you want?” he asked. “No, I’m good,” she replied. He set her glass down on the table and motioned for her to come over and have a seat. She stepped wobbly over to her chair and nodded her head as a thank you. Her heart thumped harder than ever before. She sipped her water gulping down her anxieties. “Sooooooo... how are you?” he asked. “Oh uh, good, you?” she stamered then ducked her head to hide her blush. It wasn't like her to get nervous. “Want to go on a walk?” he asked. “Uh, sure,” she agreed. He led her into the backyard which was a jumble of trees and bushes. The wind blew her hair across her face and she gazed in awe at the flowers sprouting out of a fallen tree. “You know...” he started. “Huh?” she asked. “You know I told you my name but what is yours?” he finished. “Oh! I didn’t tell you? My name is Scarlet,” she supplied. “What a nice name,” he complemented. They strolled through his forest gasping at birds and small creatures that they wandered upon. “Do I look like him,” Rory asked as he made the same pose as a small squirrel that stood in place. She snapped a picture, “Yup,” “Hey!” he laughed. “I can’t miss a good opportunity,” she replied. “Um, Scarlet,” he started. “Yes,” she responded,” “Can I come over to your house tomorrow?” he proposed. “Of course,” she agreed. She knew she might be rushing things but maybe one day they would get together and eventually end up where they started, at a wedding.


(this story is based 100% off of a dream I had, I just thought it might make a fine story. All characters in this story are fictional. This is my first story, feel free to criticize and critique.) I was walking to school, thinking about whether I had finished the homework from last night. It was a Tuesday morning, around spring time of 2019. The school year would be ending soon. I pulled out my geometry homework, and looked to see if I had finished all the questions. I had finished them, but then I noticed that I hadn't written my name or the date. I quickly wrote 'Chris Allen, April 23rd'. I then looked at my phone- "shit, I'm late!". I ran the rest of the way to school, and I entered my first period classroom. My history teacher didn't seem to care that I was late. Once history class ended, I walked out of the classroom, but then the fire alarm started blaring. Everyone started to head to the doors to outside, but then- gunshots. Screaming. I ran the other way. I can run pretty damn fast but HOLY SHIT there were gunshots coming from both directions. I ran to the bathroom, I hid inside one of the stalls. I frantically locked the stall door. The bathroom door opens, and heavy footsteps march into the bathroom. The shooter kicks a stall door, then another, then mine, breaking the lock. I pounced onto him, knocking him to the floor. I sprint out of the bathroom as he gets to his feet. I run around the corner, and I hear ringing. The second shooter was standing in front of me. I look down. Crimson blood squirts from my chest. I hear him fire again. More blood. I cover my chest, blood covering my hands. I fall to my knees, then on my side. I feel no pain as I see the pool of blood expanding around me. My vision fades and I remember... my mother... I'm sorry... mom I'm sorry... My mind faded out I wake up in a comfy bed, and I get up for the morning. I felt... at peace. I had no worries, nothing to fear... I was just at peace. I spent a few days here. This was not the house I lived in, but it felt like home more than any other place ever had. Soon, my parents arrived. Then one of my siblings. But after a time here I felt... I was being taken away... I see my mom, my dad, and my older sister fading as well... I wake up. I get out of bed. I am in a hospital... one with fancy looking gadgets I had never seen before. A nurse walks in. "Hey you, you're finally awake!" "wait... what the hell happened?"I ask her I didn't see how the doctors could possibly have saved me. And what was that I saw? My parents and my older sister? "Well, we were finally able to bring you back! We also managed to bring back your parents and your older sister! You should thank the inventors of this great technology..." I was going to question her further, but she was called out of the room and ran out quickly. She poked her head back in and said "Oh, you can leave now. There's no reason to stay, unless you want to." She left in a hurry. I walked out. I saw my parents walking out of another room, and they turned and saw me. They sprinted to me and hugged me. Then my older sister, Maggie, ran over and joined the group hug. We were heading to a house, but I didn't recognize this route. As I looked out the windows of this oddly quite car, I saw that everything looked so... different. So... surreal. There were people with pets, but I had never seen those kind of pets before. The trees in the area seemed greener, as with the grass. Then I noticed... all the cars on the road were electric, not one gas car in sight. We arrived at the house. I had never seen any house like this one, but it was nice. It was like a queen anne house blended with Roman style. The grass was perfectly green, and there were no weeds in sight. My parents seemed to be at least somewhat used to all this, and my older sister seemed even more acquainted with it all then them. We walked inside. I hadn't really spoken to them on the way here, because I was just so confused. What the hell is happening? The interior of the house was fancy. It had the similar setup as a usual house, but all the materials used were just... better. The ac was nice, and the floor looked like wood and granite but felt soft and easy to walk on. My parents walked me to the dining room table, not saying a word. But they were not grim, they actually seemed overjoyed at seeing me, and maybe at something else. My mom began talking. " So, chris... I don't know where to start. What's the last thing you remember honey?" I replied as honestly as I could. "Well... I remember getting shot in the chest. Then I kind of felt like I was in a dream like state after that... then I woke up in the hospital." 'Ok chris. So how to put it..." My dad, a very straightforward person, decided to speak up: "Chris, you died. Then we died. Then Maggie died. Your younger brother is still alive. Now, the day you died was April 23rd. I didn't die until 2043, and your mother passed away in 2050. Maggie died from falling down the stairs, in 2059. The year is 2070 now, chris. You think you're 15, your body looks 15, but technically you're 66 years old. Your brother Mark payed good money to bring us back, with the technology of modern times. Do you understand now?" (The end, for now. There might be a part 2.


"Good morning everyone, welcome to today's safari! We'll be taking a short trip into the jungle today for a little joke-spotting! Finding jokes in this environment is a bit difficult because they always camouflage themselves, so make sure you’re alert!" "So will they be hiding, then?" "Yes! The first thing you should know is that they're always hidden in plain sight. You know, that's why it takes a minute to get the joke sometimes- oh, about that! If you do spot a joke, please do not make too much noise! Many of them are shy and have a habit of getting away from you very quickly. All right? Everyone ready?" "Yes sir, we're ready!! Let's go!" "Good luck, everyone! Let's find some JOKES!!" "Yayyyy!!!" *The jeep containing the tourists and the joke safari warden rumbles off into the dust.* *A little time passes; the jeep slows at the threshold of the forest.* "Everyone!! Everyone!!" "Yes? Did you see anything, Mr. Warden?" "Yes! Look over there, next to that old tree stump!" "Next to wha- OOOOOOOOOOHHH!!" *The crowd stares at the oddity for a few seconds; cameras click until the warden shushes them.* "Now, keep it down, keep it down, you don't want to scare it away." "We're sorry, sir. What is it?" "Well, this, ladies and gentlemen, is your fairly common one-liner. These things are everywhere. It's no surprise that we found one so quickly!" "What's special about this one, Mr.Warden?" "Well, not much, really. Not much a setup, just a short play on a well-known idiom here. All put into one or two sentences. No depth at all, but it's good for the odd chuckle once in a while. That's why they're so common. Most of these fellas require no active thought, but they do the job!" *Expectant silence from the tourists. The one-liner looks at them and shouts out a sentence.* *"Why are cabbages generous? Because they have big hearts!"* "There we go! Did you all hear that?" *The crowd appreciates it.* "Wow! Hahaha! That was funny!" "Well, that's about it for this one, then. Let us be off! Lots more to see!" "Where to next, Mr.Warden?" "You see that dung over there? That was left by a pun! Let's follow the trail!" "Yayyy!!!" *The jeep continues on its lonely way.* *The warden hears a soft grunting noise near a little pool; he stops the jeep immediately.* "Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please! Listen up!" "Yes, Mr.Warden? Did you find the pun?" "I can hear it grazing near that water body to our right." "Oh, goodie!!" "Now, we'll have to take a look at it from here, because I see another joke grazing at the exact same place! We seem to have got lucky here. I propose we look at this pun with our binoculars; we'll be able to see it and hear what it says from here. After that, we will quietly circle around the water body to see our next joke, because it's a bit rare and very shy. All right?" "Sure, Mr. Warden. We'll do exactly what you tell us to do." "All right. Quietly now." *The pun casts a sideways look at the tourists and speaks in a subdued grunt:* *"Can't find your skull in the forest? No need to panic. Don't lose your head."* *The pun suddenly spreads its wings and flies above the jeep and away, squawking loudly.* "So, that was a pun, everyone." "Um... Mr.Warden...Well..." "What's the matter, everyone? You all look confused." "Um... Well, that joke flew over our heads..." "Yes it did. Oh, well. No matter. Let's move on. Some puns are like that. It takes time to sink in once in a while, you know?" "All right, Mr.Warden." “That's the spirit! Let's move on. Please stay quiet.” *The Jeep quietly rolls over to the other side of the lake. The warden lowers his voice to a whisper.* "Here we are on the other side, everyone. Now for this next sighting, please be careful. This next joke reacts quickly and aggressively to contact, so try not to alert it to our presence. It's known as the 'insult' or 'offensive' joke. Now if you will just look to your left-" *Someone coughs loudly.* "Oh no! It knows we're here! Everyone please be careful. Let's be quiet-" *The same person coughs again; he's holding a joint in his hand.* "You idiot! Put that out right now! Insult jokes are very sensitive to smell!! Here it comes. Be careful." *An ugly offensive joke comes into view. It looks scrawny and angry. There is a hideous scowl on its face. It stares at the stoned man and screams.* *"People like you are why koalas get made fun of. At least they don’t stink up every place they exist in or make stupid jokes that even a hyena wouldn’t laugh at."* *It growls once more and turns to a slightly rotund woman who looks rather scared.* *"Look at this walking piece of lard over here. Do you know that your daily caloric intake can stop world hunger? I don’t think a mathematical symbol exists that can represent your size. You know, out here, hippopotamuses get so much abuse they don’t deserve, not when there's a tub of goo like you waddling around. Go solve humanity’s energy problems. You have the gas for it, I’m sure."* *Much to the tourists' displeasure, the offensive joke starts to urinate openly in front of the jeep.* "Oh god! The smell! What on earth-" "Everyone keep calm!" "Mr. Warden! Mr. Warden! Let's go somewhere else. This stench is unbearable!" "No. We have to wait for it to finish, or else it will chase behind us." "But Mr.Warden! Why is it doing that?" "It's taking the piss. These jokes often do that. Well, I can’t say we didn’t deserved it." "We're sorry, Mr. Warden." "Well, it's all right. It was bound to happen. When people don’t follow simple rules on this jeep, one can't expect a joke not to take the piss. It always will. Anyway, we ought to be moving. And sir, throw that joint away, please. You've spoilt this sighting." *The stoned man laughs only to instantly get a shot of offensive urine in his face.* *Everyone guffaws as he throws his doobie away.* *The warden signals to the driver and the jeep takes off for the next sighting of the day.* *Three hours and many jokes later, the jeep stops in front of a cave. Everyone is a bit tired, groaning and moaning about how late it is.* "All right, everyone. We're here. This is the last joke for the day." "Mr. Warden, what's this one?" "You’ll see. Shhh. Here it comes. Is everyone ready? Please be on your guard. This joke is-” *The warden stops speaking as his face goes hideously pale. He is stricken by a sudden fear.* "Mr.Warden?" "We've bitten off more than we can chew here. This is not usually at this cave. Let's all stay together and get through this. This is not safe at all. Please pray." "But- but-" "Quiet! Pray." *They pray.* "All right, everyone. Be on your guard. We may not make it out of this one alive." *The group huddles together. Suddenly there is a sound and a joke walks out of the cave.* *One lady faints.* *This joke is grotesque and fearsome. It pants and drools as it circles the jeep, thirsty for blood.* "The anti-joke. Please take care, everyone. Here it comes." *The anti-joke roars, a frightful sound that causes the group to collectively shiver. It speaks.* *"Once upon a time, there lived a poor man. All he wanted to do was to buy a toy car for his little son, but he could not afford it. Each day he cried and cried, hoping for some luck. But alas, fate eluded him. One dark night, he decided to kill himself by walking into traffic. But, as fate would have it, he sprained his leg, so he couldn't walk. So he couldn't kill himself that night. He decided to sleep and try again the next day. While he was asleep, he had a dream that a genie came to him and told him to say the word ‘Pringle’ three times in the morning, and he would be rich. When he woke up, he said it three times, and Lo and Behold! He was surrounded by riches beyond imagination. He was ecstatic as he could finally buy that toy car for his son.* *One hour later, he got run over by a bus."* *Everyone in the jeep is rendered unconscious. They remain knocked out until a jeep carrying the next batch of tourists finds them and rushes them back to safety.* *Five people die and four are paralyzed, including the warden.* *The stoned man survives without complications, as he was high when the group ran into the anti-joke.* *The lucky ones who survived have never gone near humour again.


"They say one drop of water is enough to burn away all civility in a person. As if it had never existed." "You old fool," grinned one of the men. His filthy face contorted and he coughed noisily. "What do you want to know about civility, huh?" The men around him grunted in agreement. The old man was silent. Nohim had once been his name, but what mattered a name if no one used it. And as the sandstorm abraded the plaster of the walls, so the years abraded his being. His memories faded, his mind became dull. Only his principles remained as clear and pure as polished quartz. The old man bent over the table and whispered, "Listen." The dozen men in front of him fell silent. There was something in his words that cast a spell over them. "Take someone and throw him in a hole. The first day, give him a bowl of water. On the second, half a bowl. On the third, a quarter. Then you let him thirst for two days. And then, on the third day, you drop a drop of water into the hole every hour." Something flashed in the eyes of the libertines. Cruelty was something they smelled from a hundred miles away like an animal smells a water hole. "Now it is yours. For that hourly drop of water he will give you anything, betray anything, do anything. He can't help it. No matter how strong his will; his drive, more deeply rooted than anything else, will betray him." The old man's knotty hands trembled. The spell broke. "Nice story," sneered one of the bandits. His defiant words could not hide the fact that his grip on the knife was tense. No doubt the old man's words had not left a mark on any of them. "Yes," said another. He licked his tongue over his parted lips. "Let's see if he'll still talk so nicely when we cut out his tongue." The old man slowly stood up. No one stopped him. "And, what if you contain something else to the people; something that is no less important than water?" He could almost feel the bandits' incomprehension at his back. Nothing was more important than water. "Love. Tenderness. Humanity. What do you think happens to people's desires if they are never satisfied? What kind of morbid, inhuman being do they produce then?" The libertines were so busy laughing and grumbling that none of them noticed the ancient revolver in the old man's right hand. Slowly he climbed over the corpses of the men. Their blood was already absorbed by the sand of the ground. No doubt it would soon cover their corpses as well; drying them out and preserving them for the millennia. But the old man was not interested in such things. He went outside to his horse. It whinnied softly and sniffed at the old man's hands. It wouldn't last much longer, he knew. But this was just the way of things. Thoughtfully, he mounted the back of his nag and turned toward the sun. "The water will meet the needs the people, animals and soil. The sand needs the blood.


11:41pm I slip my shoes on and open the door, ready to head out. ‘Do you have your keys’ he asks me standing right next to me. Without a word I take them from the hook next to the door and slam it into his face. I don’t want him (coming) with me again. It is dark and raining outside and I don’t have my jacket, I bury my hands in the sleeves of my worn hoodie. At least I am away from his constant nagging and his voice in my ear telling me who I am ‘supposed’ to be. I walk down the sidewalk briskly; I can’t tell if it’s the rain hitting my face or my angry tears streaming down it. It’s wet either way. I wipe my brow with my sleeve. I tell myself that it doesn’t really matter. I feel too much all the time anyway. To shut up my brain I take out my headphones, the song that comes on only reminds me of (him and) myself in a myriad ways so eventually I lose myself in it. By the time I enter the subway station, he has caught up with me, standing to close to me again. He turns to me and smiles ‘You’re wondering why you can’t I ever shake me off’ he says and then he answers his own question ‘Because you know we belong together, you still need me, and honestly, I don’t know what you would do without me? Do you?’ I don’t even want to think about that, but my brain forces me to anyway, for a moment I wish I was alone just once, unhaunted, just me (him). ‘No’ I finally reply. We board the subway he is finally quiet now. But this is just another way of torturing me. I know it. This is giving me space to think about what I’ve done. What I do. (I know it is wrong. Of course I do.) He makes me feel so wrong about things, he makes me hate myself when I only want to love me. Without words he told me so. And with words. He tries to stop me every time. He begs me to(o). I never listen. I hate it so. His morals, what do I care, I like the way things make me feel, why should I always put others first; and it’s not like I don’t care about people, I don’t just kill anyone I do believe in making the world a better place but what does he see? Just a killer. Isn’t the world better without some people? I (would) function so well without his concerns. I look out of the window but the only thing I see is my face. I look dishevelled and pale. I run my hand along my jawline where I’ve managed to grow just an inch of stubble, (he is) always shaving it before it gets too long. The stops fly past, before I know it, we’re there. I get up, turn around and find him gone. Great. He's never there for me when I need him, I think. Or maybe he is, and I just never notice him, I (can) imagine him standing outside, in the rain, wearing my clothes. This is not the time to be(come) paranoid. I shake my head and ruffle my hair; I press the thoughts about him into a corner of my mind so I can forget him for a while. It’s past midnight now. It’s still raining outside. I am soaked by this point but warm, with excitement too, I can’t supress a sheepish smile. I know what’s going to happen and I am enjoying it already, the feeling of doing something completely (wrong) my way! (Doing it anyway!) This is Freedom. While I walk along an unfamiliar street, a place I will (never) see again I take the Magnum out of my bag, I like to be consistent with numbers, I get it ready. I know the drill; I know the job. I don’t need to check the address. The building I enter smells funny, sort of like an old people’s home but also like a new couches and cheap perfume. I press the button for the elevator up. I walk along an unfamiliar corridor and stop at Nr. 41. There is light beneath the door, and I knock, I have my gun ready, my left hand hidden behind my back. 6:41 am I wake up and he’s asleep; still, I can see him lying in bed (next to me). I go to the bathroom for a piss. My aim is bad today (as always), but he won’t care until later. I pull up my trousers and look into mirror, (his) unshaven face with dishevelled hair (looks back at me). I sigh and close my eyes for a moment. I am me today: I brush my teeth, and I shave my face. I am precise and correct. I leave no hair standing. I get dressed in the same manner. I like the order; I tie my tie and button up my shirt; this time when I look into the mirror in our bedroom to check the knot sits right in the middle, I see myself. I smile wide and my teeth are white my hair sits perfect. I push the digits of the safe and get my gun out and I put it in my holster. I love routines, so far this morning has been exceptional. I try to be noiseless I don’t want to wake him. No breakfast for me today. I don’t want him with me (again). In the kitchen I have a glass of water. I take my hat and jacket at the door and tie my shoes with precision. I take my keys from the hook next to the door. I remember my dream (last night). I feel dizzy for a moment I stare at (his) my hand on the handle of the door. The cold metal feels like the grip of a gun. I stand completely still in the doorframe for a minute unable to breathe; what have « we done. I hear him stir in bed now too, I hurry to head out before he is fully awake. Too late. He is leaning against the door of our bedroom dressed in my joggers and a shabby looking hoodie. Without a word he goes and opens the fridge, this is my moment I grab the doorknob and walk out of the door. I am about to breathe, thinking I got rid of him finally; he is behind me in an instant. I hear his slippers scratch across the concrete. ‘No Milk’ he simply says. I am a few steps ahead now, I walk to the station briskly, but (it honestly seems like) we touch the ground at the same time; always there, next to me. I wish he would leave me alone, just for a while. He never does, condescending and spiteful he stares at me from across the street and smirks; and he never actually talks. He thinks he knows how it drives me crazy; I want to be liked, most of all by him. But he takes pleasure in it. He knows what I try to do every day, we know that I will never succeed. I’m at the station now and its past seven. I sit at my desk and put my head in my hands. I take a sip of my coffee. Its taste is (awful.) just what I need. I open the report and start to read (what seems oddly familiar.) A murder downtown, I recognise the street name, I think I must have driven past there before. On the way to the scene, I put the radio on I look in the rearview mirror and (he) smile(s) at myself broadly. I turn up the music. (I hate his music, but I will stay in the car this is important) I check the route multiple times I like to be sure of things. Finally, I’m there and I leave the radio on and the car running, I don’t think this will take very long. As I enter the building I take the stairs to my left, I need to get my steps in and I don’t trust elevators, I am afraid of small spaces. I think to myself that it smells funny here, sort of like an old people’s home but also like a new couches and cheap perfume. I walk along the corridor, crime scene tape marks the door of Nr. 41, it is ajar and has bullet hole in the middle too. I inspect it more closely, it’s a .41, maybe a Magnum, I think to myself, I look at the door. 41. (Ironic, isn’t it?)


“...Crank up those AC’s, it’s hot out here!” The heat was UN. BEAR. A. BLE. I sat backwards on a kitchen chair with my sweaty chin rested against the headrest. Dizziness engulfed my head while I spun myself round and round for air. My sister laid flat on the counter beside the radio as she fanned herself with a pink folding fan. “...temperatures reaching about--Huh?” The radio broadcast continued, “Hold on folks, we were just informed--NWS issues a warning for an extreme heat-” “Phbbth...!” My little sister, clearly uninterested, blew raspberries. She turned the dial, like, a million times, on the radio station. Crackle...Hissssss “Stop, I was listening to that!” I grabbed the ledge of the counter to stop myself from spinning and swatted her hand away from the knob. “I don’t wanna listen to more newsmen tell us about the heat we’re already feelin’!” She had a point. But she can’t know that. “Dad!” I leaned backwards and shouted out into the doorway. A few seconds later Dad, strolled in with a perky smile on his face. It was hard to see our Dad smile after the divorce with mom a couple years ago. It’s just been the 3 of us since then. Me and my sister being 10 and 4 at the time, I didn’t understand. I hated my Dad for having a side geese. Or piece. Whatever my Mom said. She said he never cared for us. But seeing as she hasn’t shown up for us in 2 years, it’s clear to me now who’s right. “Ah, Sean, stop the fussin’. Just let her have her way.” Dad took a handkerchief out of his pocket, playfully smacking my head. He was all dressed up for work. “Besides, I don’t like you all listening to that channel 35 crap anyway. Their information is unreliable. You’ve got a better weather reporter right here.” “Yeah...” My voice trailed, followed by an awkward laugh. “What’s wrong?” “I just think the guy was gonna report something important. I mean, look at us.” Lifting up my arms, both of my soaking wet armpits could be seen and smelled. “Haha, summer here isn’t like it used to be. Global warming. It’s a nice feeling though, being in that freezing office of ours for hours. Boss can afford blasting AC’s 24/7 but not a raise.” He muttered. “Anyway, don’t be anxious, buddy. I’m on the air in a few minutes and tonight at 6. Just keep WOAA on the radio and I’ll keep you updated.” He came forward and pecked me on the forehead. Before he could peck my sister, she stopped him. “Daddy, who makes summer? I want them to make it rain” Dad scoffed out a laugh and ruffled her hair. “Silly, we talk about this every day. I’ll tell you all about it after work, okay? I have to get going.” He looked around the kitchen. “I’ll buy water on the way back too. Just wait here.” In a split second, he grabbed his keys and was out the door. I was left to watch my sister until he got off at 9. I smacked my lips, thinking of what to do in the meantime. “You want a popsicle?” She reluctantly shook her head. “Are you sure?” “I do. But I checked. They’re all melty.” “In the freezer?” I almost didn’t believe her. But I checked for myself, pulling open the freezer door. It was all mush. I sighed and rested my head against the freezer in defeat. Distant screams could be heard outside the window. My mood changed, peering out the window. “It’s the neighbors, they have a pool! Get your swimsuit and go play. I’ll wait by the radio.” She squealed excitedly. No way Janelle would say no to that. *** Hours had passed; the scorching heat had only worsened. After she swam, we continued to sit around in the kitchen. Just sitting. Listening to the radio static, patiently waiting for Dad to come on and tell us everything was gonna be okay. “Change it, Janelle.” I said, giving up. “Just go put your show on TV.” “Daddy said to wait.” “Daddy also said he would be on at 6. It’s 7. I'm sick of waiting on people who lie.” Janelle poked her lip out and whined when I tried to change the station myself. That wasn’t gonna work on me. Realizing this, she bear hugged the radio, grasping for dear life. “Get away!!!” She shouted, slurring her speech a bit. A burning sensation struck my hand once I grabbed her arm. My heart skipped. I was so focused on waiting like a sitting duck I didn’t realize how sickly my sister looked. Playing outside must have made her worse. Quickly I looked across the street; the neighbor’s pool had evaporated and the hose was cut off. I ran towards the sink, pushing and pulling the handles. Nothing. Janelle’s hair was soaked and steaming, and her skin looked rashly. She was gonna die if I waited; I just knew. “Get up, I have to get Dad; he’ll know what to do.” Janelle lifted her head, she was surely having a heatstroke. But she’s stubborn and wouldn’t let her hands off of the radio. Think. Fast. My eyes shifted to the useless fridge. I wrapped my arms around her and the radio and carried her down the steps. My shoe almost stuck to the wood. The creaking of the steps intensified. The heat expanded the boards. Dad taught us that. I opened the deep freezer and pulled out pounds of meat, it was cold enough. “Please stay here, I’m gonna come back with Dad.” She didn’t respond, but she held her grip on the radio. I thought her fingers would snap. I grabbed an icepack from the freezer, darted up the steps, and ran for the door. Twisting the doorknob, another burst of painstaking heat was sent straight through my hand. Fanning my hand, I quickly grabbed an oven mitt hanging up. THUD The hinges on the door were completely melted and the door fell clean off. I scanned the neighborhood. People were halfway hung out of their windows. Cars were melting into the driveway. My bike had been sitting under the tree all day. The tires still bubbled. I took the chance. With an icepack in hand, pressed against my head, and an oven mitt in the other, I picked up my bike and headed for Dad’s job. “It’s not too far.” My voice could hardly be heard beyond the squishing of my tires and the groaning and cries of the neighbors. “I can fix this.” I pedaled with all my might. The sun beamed down onto my skin. My blood boiled, almost in a literal sense. *** It was difficult to breathe, but I had made it, with my face drenched in sweat and my skin broken out in hives. Those big red WOAA letters had made it all worth it. “DAD!” I tried to yell, but nothing clear came out. I had no solid plan from here on out. My eyes felt hot, and not because of the heat. I began to realize Dad couldn’t do anything but comfort us. Be there for his kids. That’s all I wanted. Oh man. He was dead. I just knew. I threw the, now useless, bike down and slumped towards the entrance. There wasn’t any power left in me to run. Every breath I took felt like I was stabbed with a pin a thousand times. The ice pack had melted into a plastic mush. With my oven mitt still intact, I pushed the entrance door. To my left, an empty reception desk. To my right, a board with a list of rooms and names. My eyes focused and unfocused too fast to make anything out of it. Straight down the hall was a big, red sign with an arrow pointing left. ‘ON AIR’ The feeling of relief washed over me. It had to be him. The silence was deafening. I tried lifting my leg up to walk, but I dropped onto the floor. I couldn’t even cry if I wanted to. I dropped everything from my hands for support. On my hands and knees, I slowly crawled down the hall. My ears rang every time I made a move. The red light from the sign shined on my face. To my right, a hallway that led to stairs. To my left, multiple doors. Just one stood out. A glass door. It stood directly at an angle facing the wall. I could see inside, just not far enough. I tried to move, but there was a jitter in my knees. My body completely collapsed. My shoes had melted to the floors. I couldn’t even feel my skin anymore. Maybe my mind was so overwhelmed to even remember what pain was. Or maybe for the fact that my nerves were dying. I knew that. I looked up at the door and squinted. Was I delirious? Is it my heatstroke? It looked cold. So cold that you could see the condensation on the glass door. Even from how far I was. I thought about all the times Dad complained about how cold his job was. His slackoff boss was a blessing after all. I thought about Janelle. I thought about Dad. I wanted in. I wanted in bad . With the last inch of strength in my body, I dug my nails into the wood floors until they bled, pulling my body closer and closer to the door. A wonky smile crept onto my lips. The further I inched towards the door, the more I saw inside. Half of a man’s body could be seen leaning up against something. I knew that corduroy suit from anywhere. “DAD!” I could hardly even think of screaming. My fingers gripped the small space between the floorboards. I squeezed my eyes shut and pulled. My arms trembled. I completely pulled myself up to the door, huffing out my last few breaths. My head lay against the ground. Paralyzed. I peaked open my eyes. There he was. Far. In the back of the room. With a woman wrapped in his arms, leaned up against a table. Her belly poked out. He turned his head, just enough for me to see his face. He was smiling that smile he had earlier. Perky. Happy. Unaware of the pain and suffering that was going on around him. Dad looked down at his watch and moved, with the woman, towards the center of the room. There was a backdrop where they record live weather reports and a table straight across. It wasn’t a normal table; I knew that. It had buttons. When he clicked one of the buttons, the solid light from the ‘ON AIR’ sign flickered. My hand slid towards the door. I knocked. I couldn’t scream, or shout, or open the door. I knocked the quietest knock. Dad’s head snapped towards me. I couldn’t scream, or shout, or ask dad to help me. My eyes spoke for me. I cried with the last bit of hydration left in my body. Hand still on the control console, his eyes widened with hurt. He knows he has to save me. Save Janelle. Save this hell of a summer. The woman wrapped her arm around his. Dad picked up the mic on the console. “Hello, hello, folks! James here, broadcasting to your radio station LIVE from WOAA. Heatwave warning. Heat-Wave-War-Ning!” Still locking eyes with me, he separated his words with urgency. I could hear the woman crying into his arm. Dad moved to another end of the console; there were multiple colored knobs. He turned to look at me again. There was no urgency. And she wasn’t crying. She was laughing. Still holding eye contact, he rested his fingers on the orange and yellow knob. He twisted, slowly. He picked up the microphone. Mom was right. No. Janelle was right. “...Let’s crank up the heat.” People do control summer.


Look at this tie. Do you think it goes with this shirt, my suit, these pants? Do they seem wrinkled to you? I don’t know why they couldn’t have stayed with the polyester, it never wrinkled. You could put it through a car wash, and it would come out looking like it just jumped off the rack. Do you suppose that when this jacket gets wet... it’s supposed to rain you know. Will I begin to smell like an old sheep? I worry about things like that, because once I was accused of smelling fishy. It was a long time ago, but that kind of insult doesn’t leave your memory easily. Have you ever been accused of smelling like something, well something unpopular? I know being popular isn’t, or shouldn’t be a concern, but you must admit it has an effect on you. When you are avoided I guess you can take it one of two ways, perhaps more, but for the sake of argument, let’s just say two. You are either in a realm so far above those around you that they can’t possibly relate, or that their perception of you is totally dependent upon possibly, that one stupid mistake you made. No need to go into which one, it only brings up bad memories and feelings. Half the time any more, I don’t know which way to turn. Everything has gotten to a place where if you make a wrong turn, you can end up dead or wishing you were. Then there’s this thing about the world cookin us in our own juices. I don’t know much about it, but it seems we usually get what we have coming to us. Something to do with dying, and how we deserve it. Nothing new in that, we all know we are dying, just don’t know when. I guess that’s what keeps us from doing extreme things, even more stupid than the things we do anyway. But this is all becoming too depressing, we need to talk about something else. What do you say we try and decide which one of us is the most likely to get elected president. I know I’m smart enough. Hell, after that last guy, my dog is smart enough. But you are prettier, even though you are a woman. Seems to be a negative thing as far as getting elected though, but then times have improved. Wasn’t that long ago you couldn’t even vote or own property. I can’t help but wonder if God changed his mind on things, or whether we have evolved to the point where if it is factual, it probably deserves some respectability. I don’t know that for sure, but then that seems to be the problem, nothing is for sure. Take happiness for instance. Guy told me one time you’ve got to make your own happiness, no one is going to do it for you. Or was that something about walking a lonesome road by yourself. I don’t know for sure, but do you think I could be slipping? By that I mean, I ain’t as young as I used to be, and they say we tend to forget as we age. I haven’t decided yet whether I believe that, or maybe we just forget because it’s easier than having to pretend we understand things we just don’t want to. Remember that guy Ronny Rhubarb, don’t think that was his real name, but what different does it make, anyway. We only get the name we are given, and it is hard to change it, because they always want to know why? I tried once to change my name, but got tired of filling out papers and pretending I could come up with a name that was a better fit. That ever happen to you? You know, I been talking with you for quite some time, and you don’t seem to be joining in. Don’t you have anything to say? I get like that myself from time to time, but it usually passes. Something about communicating that keeps you sharp. Not that people have to agree with you, can’t hardly agree with myself most of the time. But you’ve got to try. I probably lost more debates with myself over the years than anyone. They told me when I was a kid it was because I was raised by Democrats. Well everyone back then was a democrat, or afraid to say they weren't, thirties depression and all. They said I looked too hard at things trying to figure out the right from wrong, and therefore never got around to deciding. That ever happen to you? I knew a guy like that once, wasn’t me. He was smart as old Methuselah, but would spend half an hour deciding which sock to put on first. Always wore red socks so I don’t know what the problem was. It isn’t like there is a left or right. No, I think he was superstitious. You know superstitious people can’t find the right answer, because they never seem to remember which came first, the chicken or the egg. This guy he claims it didn’t matter which came first, but what did matter, was that you were considering the choice. I think what he was getting at was that he had forgotten which sock to put on first, and that kind of unsettled his morning, probably more than his morning. He spent a lot of time deciding, and I think that’s why he had trouble figuring out which is which, and what is what. We had a discussion one time about whether, two and two is four, or that it is just an assumption because that is what we've been taught to believe. Did it matter which of the twos came before the other? He was difficult to follow at times. I couldn’t tell why that would even be part of the argument... discussion, but he seemed to think it was a critical element because of the periodic tables. I don’t know much about the periodic tables, but I suspect they have little to do with, which red sock has to be put on first, before two and two no longer add up to four. But then I could be wrong. I remember once, when I wasn’t wrong for nearly a whole day. You don’t forget things like that. You planning on saying anything, or did I put you to sleep? Hello, Hello? Hey, anyone here got an extra quarter; I think my phone needs something to keep it doing what it is supposed to be doing. But then there are a lot of things that are supposed to be doing something, but aren’t. Like I always say, blame it on the government, or the economy, can’t go wrong. No matter how people feel, they seem to be able to feel something for the government or the economy. Of course there is always religion, if that fails. Ah! A quarter. I thank you. For what I can’t recall, but I’m sure I must owe someone, for something. “Hello?”


In the vibrant village of Nakawuka lived a hardworking, shy, and naïve girl named Malaika. She greeted everyone and played with the children she met. Each morning, she hummed songs while gathering firewood for her beloved grandmother. Daily, she found neatly stacked firewood and a basket of fruits accompanied by a note filled with compliments and encouragement. One day, intrigued by the gifts, she followed a path to a charming homestead, only to be startled by a man named Tembo, who tapped her on the back, causing her to faint. Tembo looked at the unconscious girl, uncertain about what to do as night fell and it was his first time alone with a girl. Concerned for Malaika's safety, he recalled how her father had accidentally died at his own father's hands. Tembo thought to himself that history shouldn't repeat itself, so he quickly devised a plan to help Malaika recover. Though he had spent most of his time alone since his father's death, Tembo was a hardworking and handsome man who would never harm anyone; he was just trapped by his past. He vowed to protect Malaika for as long as he lived, even from a distance, believing it was his way of atoning for her father's accidental death. He hoped that one-day circumstances would change and that Malaika might understand, moving beyond the past. But only time will tell. He brought her into his home to care for her. When Malaika regained consciousness, she worried about her grandmother, but Tembo convinced her to stay until morning and offered to walk her home. Although she was raised not to spend nights with strangers, she agreed to stay at Tembo's house, struggling internally with the decision. Despite her discomfort, she felt an unusual ease around him, as if she had known him forever. "You’re quiet," Tembo interrupted her thoughts during their meal. "Don't be afraid of me; I'm just making sure you're safe." Malaika then asked if he knew who was leaving her the gifts, but he hesitated to share his feelings and identity. Tembo secretly admired Malaika and had been helping her as a way to express his love. However, he was haunted by a dark past involving her father's death. Malaika sensed his turmoil and tried to comfort him, unaware of their connection. She asked about his family, but Tembo preferred to enjoy the moment without revisiting painful memories. He asked, "Do you believe in fate?" Malaika replied, "To some extent, yes. For example, I was searching for the good Samaritan who has been helping me, and here I am stuck with you." They both smiled, and Tembo continued, stating that fate often comes with obstacles. Malaika agreed, adding that life should be fully enjoyed without fear, like free birds. Tembo then asked what she would change if she had control over life. Malaika nostalgically said she would bring back her parents, who left her with her grandmother at a young age. She shared that her father died under mysterious circumstances, and her mother succumbed to depression shortly after. Tembo felt uncomfortable but couldn’t confess that his father was responsible for her father's death. He feared never seeing her again, but guilt weighed heavily on him. When Malaika noticed his silence, she asked if he was okay. He replied, "Yes, your story is touching." He inquired if her family had sought answers about her father's death, and she explained that her father’s demise stemmed from a failed deal with a friend. Malaika then asked Tembo about his parents. He revealed he never met his mother and lost his father after a long illness. Realizing it was late, they decided to rest before heading to Malaika’s home. She worried about how to explain her absence to her grandmother. That night, Tembo had nightmares, murmuring about needing to apologize to Malaika's family. Malaika, hearing his distress, brought him water and comforted him before they fell asleep again. The next morning, Tembo prepared tea before they set off for Malaika’s home. On the way, she asked about his nightmare, but he lacked the courage to share his story. Instead, he asked if she would still be friends if she learned something bad about him. Malaika was taken aback but replied that they would remain friends, as everyone makes mistakes. This only deepened Tembo's internal struggle; he felt torn about keeping such a significant secret from her. As they walked and shared childhood memories, they reached the spot where the incident had occurred years ago. Tembo could no longer contain his anxiety and told Malaika he had something to confess. She joked that she had noticed he was troubled. He revealed that he had been the one leaving the firewood and fruits for her. Malaika paused, joyfully admitting she suspected him because his was the only house nearby. Tembo then confessed his feelings for her, saying he had been drawn to her voice for some time. This made Malaika blush; she had liked him from the start, and his character only deepened her affection. A comfortable silence enveloped them, filled with unspoken emotions. Out of the blue, Tembo told Malaika about a traumatic incident from his childhood involving a loved one that still burdens him and disrupts his life. Malaika, feeling pity, encouraged him to share his pain with someone. He looked into her eyes and replied, “Let’s get going. Your grandmother must be worried.” As they walked closer to the village, he took her hand. Near her home, Tembo said, “You are a wonderful and beautiful girl. I hope to be good enough for you, and I pray we meet again as better people. Take care of yourself.” Puzzled by his words, Malaika asked if he was going on a journey, but he shook his head, hugged her, and said goodbye. She called out his name as he ran away, hugging him one last time and asking if she would see him again. He agreed and told her, “Run, don’t keep Granny waiting.” They smiled at each other and parted ways, each with unanswered questions.


It was a grueling day at work everything that could go sideways did. Blueprints I needed for a meeting did not come I called the carrier said maybe their driver misplaced them or delivered to the wrong office. I spilled coffee on my new laptop. Luckily I had a friend in the IT dept help dry it out. When the clock hit 5 o’clock, and all I wanted to do was to go home and watch television, make myself a cup of coffee, put a TV dinner in the oven, and just chill. Of course, the bus I was on got a flat tire I had to wait till the next bus came twenty minutes later, of course, it was standing room only. Finally, I made it home, putting the key in the door I just laid on the sofa, coat and all. I had finished eating dinner dishes done and put away first I checked my personal e-mail and my school e-mail one of the emails reminded me there was an early morning staff meeting to meet the new department head. After which, while surfing the net. I came across one of those websites that still have people that believe the world is flat and other far-out crazies as we didn’t land on the moon Elvis Presley is still alive, scientist are bearding distinct types of animal to clone them one day. I think of these webs site cotton candy for the mind. People ready believe this stuff, really. Several weeks later another strange article caught my eye only had a few lines all the way at the bottom it read “Inside source provides information on a machine to control the weather” I just laugh thinking to myself these people need to get a life. Several months later another small hidden article still in a fringe magazine read “Engineers make a prototype of a machine to control the weather” Common sense told me that this would be on the front page of a national newspaper or television station. It would be the story of the century. I do remember the story about a strange airplane saw near area fifty-one turned out later to be true to be a secret stealth flyer. What would be the effect if we could control the weather? Do we have a hubris toward nature? I searched and within the next two years more talk about a weather machine from small mainstream media outlets. Early in June, the public relations department of the government acknowledged engineers had indeed invented the machine to control the weather. It gave the agency to oversee this machine the name of the weather monitor department, which was part of Homeland security. The agency did finally admit after the media outlets sued using the Freedom of Information Act, they had to admit they had limited their use of the machine only twice to areas that needed water to relieve drought in the central part of the United States. The weather monitor department spokeswoman insisted that no unexpected disturbance occurred. This was another big step for mankind. I had been noticing slowly even though we were in daylight saving the usual bright sun would wake me up and it was not that strong lately. The world would soon find out the consequence of trying to be the master of the weather just an unexpected disturbance. It was a slow process, but suddenly one morning my alarm went off at six, but it was dark, I thought maybe the power went out but checked my cell and it was six a.m. I said, “Google read me the lead news story.” Google in plan tone “The leading story is the sun did not rise over the east coast instead the sun came up over California.” “What?” Just a minute Google doesn't the rule goes the sunrise in the east and set in the west? “Correct” “I yelled back, well what the hell happened?” Google in its monotone voice “has no response.” I thought to myself calm down this may be the strangest dream I’ve ever had must have been the fresh bottle of brandy I bought on my way home yesterday. I sat glued to the television nobody had a clue what was happening social media was going wild with crazy beliefs. My message board on my cell was full. This shifting of the rising sun continued for about three weeks until finally, the truth came out. The weather monitor Department which oversaw this machine admitted when the power of the machine had by accident increased too quickly to cover the entire United States it caused a massive gravity shift the engineers are working day and night on a solution to rebalance the gravity shift. I stood frozen in front of the TV. The engineers had to use the help of NASA the engineers came up with a possible solution It would require NASA to recalculate several of its satellites alone with help from several other countries satellites which took a lot of convincing along with a few nice incentives with a signal beam pointed toward the sun for the next twenty-four-hour the scientist and the engineers’ calculations predicted a gravity correction. The world held its collective breath. Bets were being taken in Los Vagas three to one. It would not work. As usual, no one was aware of this machine or its use. I fell asleep on the couch in the sunroom of my home. I had to put my hand up to block the sun from hitting my face. I jumped up as the sun hit my face. I asked Google, “what time is it?” It is 6 am, daylight Saving Time replied Google. In the coming months, there were several investigations, but in the end, nobody knew anything about this machine or what went wrong. They passed laws to prevent any more attempts to tamper with the weather and that the machine was to be destroyed and they made the plans top secret to be stored at an undisclosed location. Several years later, again while researching for a class project, I stumbled on another fringe website, unnamed sources claiming they had not destroyed the weather machine which was being stored at area fifty-one. It made me wonder not again, please lord.


I fell into a routine of spending my mornings asking about Sannaz and my afternoons on the Deer Drum boat. I would sit and talk to Kurbani and Mirai as Lachlann continued to teach Novak songs on the guitar. In the background Xander would tend to his plants, the pole beans now two feet high. Daily he would give me updates on how the plants were doing, and how much he was looking forward to his nautical harvest. Alessia continued to be around sporadically, taking small runs whenever she could. I decided to walk down to the quay with her as she departed on her next trip. “How long is the route?” I asked as we turned a corner to see the ocean in front of us. “A week, probably. You missing me already?” She smirked, raising an eyebrow. I rolled my eyes. “You know I do.” “Kind of miss having you on the boat too.” She smiled, before settling into a toying grin. “You know, kind of.” I laughed. “I assume you’ve stolen my room for your own stuff?” Alessia waved her arm. “Pfft. Nah. Extra cargo space. Earn more.” We both chuckled, but our smiled and walk ground to a halt as we reached Alessia’s boat. The conversation could only last provided we stopped walking. “Stay safe out there, won’t you?” I said, looking down. “I... don’t know where I’d be without you.” Alessia smiled, then forced her face to a flat line. “Bribe your way onto another boat and sail off I imagine. But you stay safe too.” “I’ll be fine. It’s good to have the Deer Drum lot around. Besides, I kind of like it here.” “Yeah?” Alessia’s voice went oddly flat. “This place just seems to have it figured out. Just allowing people to do what they want. Sure, some people make bad choices, but at least they get to choose .” Alessia winced. “You really think this place is nice?” “Don’t you?” “I don’t know. And neither do you.” Her tone shifted. “How much of the island you seen? Other than the town, the docks, and the Deer Drum boat?” “I’ve walked around the coast a bit-” “Head inland. Go to the middle of the island.” She nodded over my shoulder. “What’s there?” “I don’t know.” Alessia shrugged. “But neither do you. Head that way. The rich shits always live by the water.” I scrunched my face and leaned back. “We’re not rich.” Alessia snorted. “Oh but we are. There are plenty wealthier than us, but so many more lower.” She briefly glanced behind her, eyeing up the water and wind. “Look, Ferdinand. I know you, you love to go out and see places and explore. But all you’ve done since we’ve got here is stay within the same town you already know. It ain’t you. To stay where you feel comfortable. Go be Ferdinand. Go be uncomfortable.” I paused. There was an instinctual reactance to what Alessia said, but truth be told, I already knew she was right. Instead, I just forced a smile. “See you in a week?” “Yeah. Go do some actual exploring like you say you want to, okay?” Alessia laid a hand on my arm. She held eye contact for a second, then slowly turned and walked down the jetty. I began walking back towards the town, but instead of turning left and heading along the quay, I kept walking past the tall white buildings that pressed up against the pavement. I continued as the pavement beneath my feet changed from brick, to cobblestone, to gravel, and then,into nothing more than trodden dirt weaving between the grass.The town left behind me. Summer was arriving. And as the sun broke through the clouds, I could feel a warmth on my neck. A heat that penetrated the skin, scratching at the muscle beneath. Alessia was right. I had left Kadear to explore, but I had retreated. I had found something comfortable and enveloped myself like a cocoon. I took the security of our small apartment on Talin Barier and decided I wanted nothing more. The fear and memories of Outer Fastanet had erode that part of me. It was time to be somewhere unknown again, to not let the apprehension and worries prevent me from pursuing that old itch. As I walked away from the town, that heat on my neck slowly shifted from a burn to a spark, a warmth lit within me, as my feet took me over the soft rolling hills. Soon, the coast was nowhere to be seen. Instead, lines of tall pine trees ran across the hillside. Wild flowers bloomed in the sunshine, the green mass broken by spots of blue, pink, and white. In the distance, I could hear the hum of bees taking advantage of what the blossoms provided. I followed the path until it reached the top of the next hill. As I looked over the top I saw a town in the valley below. It was roughly the same size as the main settlement by the coast, however it was considerably flatter. The tallest buildings were at best a short two storeys. They were smaller too, each no larger than a room. I walked down the hill towards the settlement. I could feel a trepidation flickering in my chest, a brief spasm in the muscles that told me to stop. However, I remembered Alessia’s instructions, and pushed through the nervousness. As I got closer the meadow gave way to dry compacted earth broken by the occasional large bush, A thousand feet that had trampled down the plants until only the largest remained:, those so big that feet had to go around rather than through. I turned right and headed down a wide street. Many of the buildings had no windows at all, those that did seemed to have small square cutaways, metal bars where glass should be. I could see cracks in the buildings. Worse still, spot the spaces where some had fallen down, the space cleared out and a simple canvas tent placed in its stead. I felt like I had travelled to a different island. Only on Bluekira had I seen such a contrast from one place to the next. There was a small stream that ran between the buildings, the shallow water broken by stones no more than a hand’s width in size. Yet, downstream, I could see men and women taking advantage of it as best they could, slowly filling up old wooden buckets, or trying to wash clothes in the brook. They worked tirelessly, yet their limbs looked frail. Skin clung to bony joints. Their faces were pallid, and their throats sagged from their jaws, the muscles lacking the protein to cling to the skin. I turned around, trying to keep an eye on my peripheral at all times. I couldn’t shake the sensation that something could happen at any moment. I began counting the entrances on either side, each one no more than a few metres apart. The homes were tiny, bunched together, rammed into every available space. Some entrances had actual doors, while others were simply a piece of wood propped up against the entranceway, or even nothing more than a sheet draped across/ My eye was caught as a door to my left opened. I recognized the face of the woman who walked out. It was Maia, the woman I met in the courtyard a month or so earlier. I was unsure if she would recognize me, yet I felt certain I had to talk to someone. “Maia...” I started hesitantly. She turned to face me. “I’m not sure if you remember me. We met a while back. At the courtyard...” She looked at me for a moment, studying my face until something clicked. “Oh yes. You dropped some money. Ferdinand right? Are you lost?” “No. I’m just... exploring.” It had been a while since I had said that aim. The words had begun to feel alien again. “You live here?” I pointed to the door. She nodded with a look of slight confusion. “This town, it’s...” I looked around at the cracked walls and the poorly made earthen buildings looking for an inoffensive term. “A slum?” Maia laughed. “I’m sorry,” I bowed my head. “I hadn’t ventured this way since I got here. I assumed everywhere was like the town by the water.” She forced a smile, but her eyes hid a bitterness. “If only we could all live there.” I stood for a second with my mouth open, unable to find the words. “You look like you want to say something,” Maia prompted. “Ever since I got to Talin I was told this place was about letting people choose what they wanted to do. But, I’m guessing you don’t live here by choice.” Maia looked down the road towards the stream. “I choose this over no home at all. But anything better costs more than I can afford. Choose from what we have.” “No chance to move somewhere nicer with time? The island seems rich enough?” “Those who own the buildings and the quays can choose what to do with their money. They choose not to spend it here. Who needs food or water when you got freedom, ay?” She lifted one corner of her lip in an ironic smile. “I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn-” “It’s fine.” Maia cut me off. “But I should be going into town. Work to get to.” “Did you get that job with Eda?” I asked with a smile, sensing a happier topic of conversation. “Hopefully. Probably. Going back and forth on the exact salary. Will be a lot better for me if I can. Would mean my boy can grow up secure.” “You have a son?” “He’s over there.” She pointed to a small group of children playing at the end of the road, jumping between squares drawn in the dirt. Their faces looked around eight or nine, but their frames were small. “Will you move to the main town?” Her eyes stretched, strained. “No. But it’ll mean he will keep a roof over his head, and enough to eat till he’s a man and can make his own way.” She stared at her son, a soft - genuine - smile crept across her face. “If... I can help you get that job in any way.” “If Eda asks about me, sure, put in a good word. But, what’ll be will be.” She looked at the sun, then to the shadows by our feet. “I’m sorry. I really should get going.” Maia left and walked up the dusty path. I thought back to that coin she had handed me when we first met. That coin would maybe be lunch to me, a little break as I relaxed by the ocean. In reality, it was insignificant. But I wondered what it could’ve bought her. Clothes for her son? A week's food? She could’ve kept the coin and I would maybe never have known I lost it. Yet the moment of kindness cost her so much more. She left the village and turned left. It was then I saw a figure emerging from one of the buildings in front of me. I squinted, making sure it was definitely the same man from Deer Drum. There was no mistaking it. Lachlann was here. He didn't notice me, turning and walking up the street. I began following him, slowly closing the distance. I could’ve called out from where I was and gotten his attention, but I also still wanted to make some sense of his presence here in this slum. I followed in silence until we had left the town, the dirt ground slowly transitioning back to the wild grasses. “Lachlann!” I called out. He turned to face me in a sudden swivel. He had a brief look of apprehension, before the face softened. “Ferdinand! I didn’t expect to see you out here.” “I could say the same to you,” I said with a wide grin, but with eyes that were narrowed on him ever so slightly. Lachlan laughed. “You’re not the only one who likes to see the islands. You heading back to the town? I’ll walk with you.” We began walking up the hill, once more lush nature circled around us as the dust and grime was left behind. “Xander was telling me you often go exploring the islands." “Yeah. Something nice about getting to meet people, hear about their lives. You must understand that?" “I do.” I nodded, before looking back over my shoulder at the tight spread of small dilapidated houses. “Even when the place is like this.” “Ah yeah,” Lachlann said, stopping and turning to look back at the town. “This part of Talin Barier isn’t necessarily the happiest story you could find.” “I didn’t even know this place existed till today. I...” I hesitated, feeling a moment of shame. "I guess I thought everyone lived by the sea." “I’m sure they'd be there if they could,” Lachlann said with a solitary chortle. I let out a long sigh. “So much for freedom.” “Oh, they have freedom,” Lachlann turned to face me. “It’s choice they lack. Unfortunately they aren’t the same.” I began walking up the hill once more. “I didn’t know you weren’t originally from Deer Drum?” His eyes looked to the sky wistfully. “Yeah. Didn’t find my way there till I was an adult.” “Where’d you come from originally?” I asked. He paused for a second. He turned and looked back towards the slum in the valley below. "Story for another time maybe. Meanwhile, I'd love to hear about what you'd been up to since Tima." We continued up over the hill as I told Lachlann about our travels. \ Next chapter 9th December.


I was never the marrying type. I had plenty of men but I just didn't see myself settling down or having kids. It all seemed so uninteresting. My sister would ask, "Don't you want to have a little person like you?" I couldn't even take care of my dog let alone a tiny, needy human being. I was/ am an alien anthropologist. When I first entered the field it was all about new bacteria, plants, and molecules on other planets; until the trip to Norizon. It was the first planet identified to have signs of intelligent life. Satellites showed that there were massive stone structures, roads, and what seemed to be a large number of buried temples. Upon arrival there were no signs of intelligent life until they awoke. The next 6 years was a blur. We met the Vansh; a welcoming communal tribal people with advanced stone work and developed writing and culture. I learned their language, loved the culture and became one of them. This was the life I longed for. To others it was an escape; to me it was home. I began living with a clan positioned at the center of the city. While others questioned my motives, the females took me in and taught me their ways. I became a midwife to them and a healer. The men shied away except one; Tival, the chief's son. Quickly our love grew from walks along the Vantze River to secret smoke sessions from the herb harvest. Our secret forbidden love would end with the next hibernation, only months away. I awoke to the sounds of the forest. The last thing I remember was that there was a stampede at the Great Feast. The Vansh were celebrating the day before their hibernation with a festival that lasted into the late hours of the night. I remember being carried away from the fray in Tival’s massive hairy arms. His eyes were wide in the moonlight, calming me as he gently carried me through the frenetic crowd. My head was throbbing. I lay near the river in the place we used to share our hopes and dreams t. Tival was gone, I must have slept for two maybe three weeks as I noted as many of the plants had regrown around me. My head was throbbing with pain and my abdomen was smeared with a sticky residue. There was dried blood on the stone near me and as I tried to sit up I noticed an 8 inch scar across my belly. My pain turned to excitement. I was chosen. Tival mated with me on the eve of his hibernation, the most fertile time of the year. I was carrying his heir. I had four months until the arrival of my child. I limped back to the city and found the remains of my crew. They didn’t survive the Great Feast. Shreds of their bodies were strewn about the square, artifacts of their brief time here. Their flesh was necessary fuel to stave off the hunger pangs of the 6 year slumber. Amidst the bodies and rubble I imagined what my child would be like. I would teach him the Vansh ways and train him as a Chief’s son. Tival will be so proud of him.


Hello everyone! I'm not a usual poster but I'm not exactly sure where to post this question. If this isn't a good sub for this, please let me know and I'll ask elsewhere! My Grampa is over 90 now, and has been living great--still driving around, living alone in his house, self sufficient. Recently he has slipped on ice and his neck is now broken. He's stable but has no feeling from the chest down... He's gone from living a solid life to just laying in bed all day at the hospital. He's being moved but I can't imagine how ungodly bored he must be. I'd like to go read him something but I have no idea what might be appropriate. He's lucid and he's really intelligent. His brain is working fine. He is Lutheran, knows I'm atheist, and doesn't mind. I wanted maybe something kinda metaphorical or just generally interesting or... Yeah I'm really lost as to where to start. My other grandparents that have been in similar situations were when I was very young. My rambling aside, would anyone happen to have a recommendation as to something kinda short I could read to him? I don't wanna pick something and have it be lame or patronizing or something.


The Edge always gave Rick the heebie-jeebies. He deactivated the till setting on his new Spyder Deluxe, silencing the low thrumming noise of jagged claws that had been working the ground below, then killed the engine. The machine’s legs stretched and the body lifted, raising Rick’s vantage and giving the impression that the Edge was creeping inward, encroaching on his land like weeds to wheat. In a few minutes, his neighbor’s property, now only a slow-moving speck hardly visible against the spackled backdrop of deep space, would swing close enough for Rick to count the steps on John and Linda Barker’s front porch. Twice a year, the Barkers’ off-kilter orbit brought their residence within spitting distance, though he’d be hard pressed to get anything, let alone spit, through the thick airtight dome encircling his home. The dome’s interior displays served as the window to outside, producing an image so clear and realistic that Rick, after setting the image to Blue Sky Over Landscape, very nearly suffered a concussion bumping into it. Today, he’d set the image to Real-time Patchthrough so he could watch the passing of the Barkers with his own two eyes. Five years prior, Rick, having grown tired of reading through the immense amount of mail he’d often receive-mail which certainly outnumbered the distant stars, and, to Rick, were of a similar significance-did not read the notice that detailed the addition of a new orbiting body, and was surprised when a blip on his radar, one he’d never seen before, traced an uncomfortably close trajectory. But all worry vanished when old John Barker flickered the lightswitch in his two-story classic, flashing a message of neighborly peace and good humor. The next pass, Rick waved from the seat of his ancient Cruber like a madman, and the rest was history. Nowadays, it wouldn’t feel like June without a wave from old John. The speck that was John’s farm grew into a fleck. After a moment, Rick could make out tiny patches of color from John’s exterior display. A few minutes later, there was their lawn, a fresh and rich green patch, and then the white siding and red roof of their house, and then the gaps of green in the spaces of their white picket fence. That’s where he’d always see John, both hands on a picket, at least until he spotted Rick, and then he’d lift an arm and wave a wave a lover would be jealous of. But John wasn’t there. Rick squinted at the fenceline surrounding the house, at the beautifully kept lawn, at the porch with two rocking chairs, at the windows, glowing with the light of a loving home. There, in one of the top windows, something obscured the warmth. A dark shape moved across in a flash as if a leak in the roof had allowed the emptiness of space to pour past the window and flood the top floor. But that wasn’t true. If there had been a breach, the dome would have made it clear. Rick had seen more than one breached dome in his time, and the brilliant lights reminded him of fireworks, only he could see them across a hundred thousand miles. Maybe more. Rick removed a terminal from his pocket, navigated to the display controls, then connected to the nearest panel. It meant he’d have to approach the Edge. Heebie-jeebies be damned, he’d been looking forward to showing old John his new Spyder. The section of display Rick had connected to broke from the pattern of its neighbors and magnified the view of John’s farm. Just as before, John was nowhere to be seen. He magnified further, zooming toward the window in which he’d seen movement. Another flash of black. This time, Rick could tell it was a person, though he’d assumed that from the start. This person, however, moved far too quickly. John and Linda were old, and this shadow moved with the quickness of youth. No, Rick was awfully sure, the person moving about John and Linda’s house was neither John nor Linda. In the five years they’d been waving to each other, Rick and John had only spoken a few times, and it had mostly been pleasantries. Rick would tell his wife that he’d be out by the Edge to see his old buddy, and Rose would roll her eyes, tell him to just give the man a call, for goodness sakes. Rick flipped his terminal to Communication and dialed John’s home phone. It rang a total of three times before John and Linda’s voices spoke in tandem, “We’re the barkers! Bark at the tone!” Rick pocketed the terminal and took in a deep, deep breath. The Barkers never mentioned any family, any friends, any common visitors. Drop-ins were as unlikely as a thunderstorm, save for the religious types that came calling now and again. There was only one thing to do: the neighborly thing. And he had to do it fast. Rick let out the breath all at once as he pulled the terminal back out of his pocket. He dialed Rose. “Howdy, sweetheart,” he said as he always would. “I’m headin’ out for a bit. Got a fritzy screen.” Rose sighed. “Be safe, Rick. Dinner’s in thirty.” Rick hung up and removed his suit from the barn, put it on, then keyed his intentions. The airlock door hissed as it opened, and Rick entered the tiny room. He ran the final suit diagnostic before initializing depressurization. There was another hiss, then silence took over. The opposite door opened and suddenly he was staring at the expanse of space as if it were the gullet of one of those space eldritches, or whatever they called them. He pushed out over the Edge. Floating came easy, mostly because Rick’s suit did all the work. He barely felt the vent chambers open on his back, the compressed gasses bursting out, the sudden increase in speed. The only indication that he was moving faster was his shrinking home and the slowing approach of John’s. His suit, unable to trust the dexterity of a human being, gripped a bar on the outside of John’s airlock and pulled him close. The airlock door opened on its own and Rick’s suit pulled them inside. After another series of hisses, Rick was standing on grass. He removed his suit and set it next to the airlock door. The air was fresh, clean; indistinguishable from his own, aside from the scent of rain-washed grass which, Rick knew, could be achieved via terminal command. For some reason, Rose had never been keen on the fragrance, instead insisting on Ocean Spray or Wooded Retreat. Rick unlatched the picket gate and made his way up the porch steps-three, as he’d always counted-passed the antique rockers with their floral cushions colored vibrantly as if they’d just been purchased, and approached the door. He pressed the doorbell and could hear the two-tone ding dong that had been popularized long, long ago, yet somehow persisted. Old John was old school. There was a shuffle inside. The deadbolt clicked and the knob turned. It was Linda. “Oh, hey, Rick. We didn’t see you come up.” Rick decided they must not have been near a terminal. Rose would sometimes set hers aside, too. To ‘escape’ she’d say. “Howdy, Linda. John home?” “Uh,” Linda said. “He’s inside, but he’s really busy.” “Oh,” Rick said. “Everything okay? I could’ve sworn I saw somethin’ movin’ around. I didn’t mean to interrupt your entertainin’.” “Nope!” Linda said, suddenly bright. “Just me and John. It was nice to see you. Give my love to the misses.” “You got it, ma’am.” Rick moved across the porch, past the two rockers, down the steps, one two three, and back to his suit. He put it on and sat in the grass, arms on his knees, chin on his arms, looking out at the sky. Sparkling stars widened into starbursts. Rick’s suit warned him of an irregular discharge within its helmet, then played a soothing, hopeful melody as he waited for the drone to carry him home.