It was Autumn I believe, 1971, a long time ago. Almost five decades ago as I write this story. I had just graduated high school in Northern California, so that dreadful part of my life was now behind me. Don’t get me wrong, high school was OK, it was just not the high point of my life filled with great times and lifelong friends. I could not wait to get out into the world. I had a fantastic job at a title company, part time during school and full time in the summers for almost 3 years at that time. I got it because my brother-in-law was an escrow officer/vice-president there. When I graduated, I was making $1.38 an hour. I also drove a powder blue 1967 Mustang Fastback and had a dreamy boyfriend that, while studying to become a policeman at the local junior college, was working for his dad making a whopping $4.50 per hour. All I needed was a pair of glass slippers. It just did not get any better than that. But back to me. I was a brand-new adult and looking fine. Miniskirts and 3-inch block heels were all the rage, and I took advantage of being young and fit. On this particular day I was wearing one of those dresses that was made kind of like an apron with long ties. You put a big loop around your head then wrapped the ties around you a couple of times and finally tying yourself up in a big bow in the back. I think you wore a turtleneck underneath, that part is a bit unclear. But it was the fashion at the time, and you had the Cleopatra thing going on. Looking back on this moment, I was in a perfect storm of self-confidence and a little too much vanity bordering on bigheadedness. But I was only eighteen! I guess I thought I would do a little window shopping that fateful day and decided to go to Rosenberg’s. This was a very nice local department store built in 1937 and was where everyone shopped for quality merchandise. It was also the place where most high school seniors had their graduation pictures taken. The one with the V-drape for the girls. Ah, what memories! Two floors of clothing for the entire family and a mezzanine in between for customer service and gift wrapping. Yes...gift wrapping, another memory of days gone by. It was open Monday through Saturday until 6:00 p.m., Thursday nights until 9:00 p.m. for those who worked, and closed on Sundays. In other words, normal store hours at that time. Not like the 24-hour-a-day seven days a week retail we have now! One more thing about Rosenberg’s that I will always remember is the elevator. Even at that time it was a bit of a dinosaur, other stores having new DIY pushbutton elevators installed or even cooler escalators. The Emporium had just opened a few years earlier in a new mall and it had escalators. But Rosenberg’s had this antique contraption. The elevator continuously carried a dapper young lad dressed in a short red jacket with shiny gold buttons, shoulder epaulets, and a red pillbox hat sitting perfectly square atop his head. He stood ramrod straight just inside the elevator doors at the control panel to smile and greet you. He would politely ask you what floor you desired and then waited the predetermined 10 seconds for anyone else that needed a lift. “Going up.” he would call out, then close the door with a huge lever, locked something, pressed a button and up you went at his masterly control. I kind of took it for granted then, but when I think back, what a treat for me to be able to have that experience. Unfortunately, the older I get, the more of these I have. Telephone operators, party lines, and rotary dial phones to name just a few! Anyway, the elevator and the impeccably dressed operator were both real treasures. Back to shopping. I was on the third floor, looking at clothes. I remember thinking to myself how happy I was and a lot of that came from how good I thought I looked. And I did look good. And if I really want to tell the truth in this story, I wanted everyone else to see how good I looked as well. And now as I think back, there is a slight possibility that my ego, and my head, were getting a tad too big in that moment. Now God has an amazing way of teaching us lessons in life. He has taught me many. Some I am sorry to say He has to teach me over and over again. And it was that day, God decided to take me down a couple of pegs and teach me a lesson. In fact, I can tell you the exact bible verse that He sent my way. Proverbs 16:18. If you are unfamiliar with this verse, you can Google it now or read on and it will all become painfully clear. Back to Rosenberg’s. I was finished looking at all the beautiful clothes and decided it was time to get home for dinner. I headed for the elevator but thought “No, I’m going to take the stairs.” I had visions of Scarlett O’Hara waking down the staircase of Plantation Tara to meet her beloved Rhett Butler. I gripped the handrail and gracefully started down the steps to the Mezzanine. What polish, what style, what poise I embodied as I took a few short steps to the second staircase that led down to the first floor. Now forgive me while I digress a bit to give you a better feel for the layout of this department store. This staircase down to the first floor was immediately next to the elevator, where everyone patiently waited for the dashing operator to open the doors with the gigantic lever. So, there I was, in all my splendor at the top of the staircase looking down to the first floor and the 5 or 6 people waiting for a ride up. Again, I reached out to clutch the handrail and extended my right foot down to the next step. And just as I was about to descend, those dang 3-inch block heels caught the abrasive strip on the stair. And here we are back at Proverbs 16:18 - Pride goeth before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall. Did you know that when you take a huge tumble down a full flight of stairs, time really does go in slow motion in your brain? It is God’s honest truth. From the moment my heel caught on that stair, my world switched to slow motion. I felt myself go head over 3-inch heels into a very unattractive somersault. A-l-l v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y. I tried desperately to reach out for the handrail, but I could not get to it. I then completed yet another somersault and was finally at the bottom of the staircase. I landed on my back, my head higher than my feet. My arms were outstretched at my sides, my mini-Cleopatra dress up around my neck and my legs...well, let’s not go there. Let me just say it was a very unladylike position in which to be laying on the floor in a crowded upscale department story in the late afternoon in your small hometown. Now it is very hard to describe time right at this moment. It was like it had gone from slow motion to now standing still. As I was laying there, I could plainly see the faces of all the people waiting for the elevator. I still dream about them to this day. Faces of shock and dismay. They truly could not believe what they had just witnessed. They were all frozen in time...as was I. Then time miraculously restarted, and a store employee came rushing over to me to see if I was injured and the elevator waiters all began to whisper. “Are you alright? Don’t move. Someone please call a doctor.” “I’m fine” I responded. “Really, I am fine.” And I tried to get up. The store employee tried everything to get me to stay there and get checked by a medical professional. I must have looked at her like she was some sort of lunatic. I thought “Really...you want me to stay here in front of all these people after the show I just put on?” NO... I had absolutely no desire to stay there, sprawled on the floor of Rosenberg’s, right next to the elevator and really close to the jewelry counter, where a 50% off diamond earrings sale was going on. Not one more minute...not one more second. Now let me just say that I took a very nasty fall off of a motorcycle when I was 48 years old and I can say with maximum surety that 48-year-old bodies DO NOT bounce on hard surfaces nearly as good as an 18-year-old body does. Even after two somersaults, I really was totally unhurt...well, my body was unhurt. Amazingly enough I got up, adjusted my clothing, dusted myself off, promised everyone I was fine and got the heck out of that store. But you can assure yourself that what was mortally wounded that day was my ego. If you know me now or knew me back in the day, I pray you never saw me as a person with a huge ego. I have never thought I was better than anyone else, strutting myself around like my poop did not have an odor. I have had the displeasure of running into people like that in my life and I can tell you I am not very fond of them. As I said earlier, it was just some happy thoughts going through my head at a time when all things had come together for me. And I was feeling...as my mother would say “A bit cocky”. And after this horrible day, I have always tried to keep feelings like that at bay. I really do not need God to teach me that lesson again. And if I do need a lesson in humility, I pray I do not have to fall down a staircase, because 70 years old bodies do not bounce at all...so I am told! I lowered my head, found my purse, and left Rosenberg’s vowing under my breath to throw away these shoes and this dress the moment I got home and took them off. I got into my powder blue Mustang and drove home. I do not remember crying at all. I was probably laughing hysterically. I do not remember telling my parents about it, but I must have. I do, however, remember telling my dreamy boyfriend about it and we had a good laugh together. Oh, by the way, I married him in June of 1972, and we are still laughing to this day. I don’t think I went back into Rosenberg’s for a long, long time.


Dozens of green soldiers were the few friends I had since I was born. Their armies welcomed me every time I climbed onto my roof. “Hey guys, I’m back.” A breeze flew over them, their waves fluttered. Though it’s not the same, at least they’re technically alive. They’re better than my family. Shouts, screams, the loud bangs that became a disturbing tune was constantly on repeat. Only my army gave me peace. The sun enhanced their armor in bold shades of green. Some layers of their armor were flat, others were spiky like needles. Some began to evolve into yellow and orange. Winter was always the worst time every year. I had to choose between either the hurricane inside my house, or the pinching air. Sometimes a blizzard. But the blizzard was worth it. Its howls drowned out the other storm’s screams. Though I barely saw them in the white air, I spotted glimpses of them. We were all bare, suffering the cold together. And we always survived. “I passed my science test today! I really thought I wasn’t going to pass. Physics is too complicated, and boring.” Their armor clasped against each other. Birds joined the conversation with their adorable chirps. I played with my shoelaces. “Yeah. I can’t wait to get out. I’m going across the country though for college. It sucks I won’t see you guys specifically, but at least more will await me there. The campus is breathtaking! You know I can never leave you guys for a city. Skyscrapers are cold and keep to themselves.” Silence. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back. A semester is only 5 months. There’s fall break, so I’ll return in October. Plus, I get to see your new armor again! I don’t know which I like more, the green or the warm colors.” The wind blew, but armor echoed. “Guys, it’s okay.” I looked up. Brown ground invaded the land. No solider there to fight. I spun in every direction. A sea of dead earth closed in. I jumped off my roof and ran as far as I could. Were they too sad? Did they think they weren’t good enough? I sought out any surviving soldiers. Any traces they still fought. That they still cared. I observed the battlefield. It stretched out into infinity. Only imprints of their bodies were left. Not one piece of wood, root, or leaf existed. I stared back at the entire invading army. The only survivors were houses and cars. Some neighbors walked out and also gazed in shock. I kneeled and clutched the dirt. It was soft, like all their blood poured out from the fight. I dug. Maybe I could find one root. Just one. Please be alive. Don’t leave me. My hope drained the deeper I got. Even the enemy conquered underneath. I laid on the ground and joined their invisible corpses. Tears fell and landed in the dirt. Maybe that’ll bring them back, like it does in Disney movies. I waited. A heavy feeling consumed me as the enemy beat me into the ground. Another enemy snuck in and burned every inch of my body, shooting flaming arrows as it ran across the sky. You suffered with me. Let me die with you. “Paige!” A familiar voice entered the finished battle. I lifted my head. Dad searched among the dead. I’d rather die. “Paige! Where are you?” He’d easily find me. I had no choice. I reluctantly left my comrades and walked toward him so slowly, it seemed I wasn’t even moving. He jogged to me and grabbed my wrist. “Why are you out here? You don’t know what’s happening.” No, I don’t, but you don’t know how to care for me like they did. Another attack smacked me across the face, I almost fell back to the ground. “Don’t you leave the house again without telling me.” He clutched my arm again and pulled me back to the house. He threw me in the house and went to talk with the neighbors. My mom was out there too, her arms crossed and body stiff, a flabbergasted anger coated her face red. I went to the door, but it was locked. I kicked it. I should’ve run away and lived in the woods when I had the chance. I entered my room and looked back out the window. Nothing but brown and blue sat outside. Why are they gone? Did I say something bad? I opened my dresser and pulled out the gifts from my soldiers. The rough tops and smooth bodies of the acorns released the heavy grip. My lungs finally took in a full breath. I laid on my bed and placed them next to my pillow; their rich scent filled the emptiness with a natural comfort. I closed my eyes and tried to run away into sleep, anything to leave the scarred land. A tug pulled me out of my dreamless sleep. Plant them. I sat up to a darkened room. I took my phone’s flashlight and peeked out the window with a tiny trace of hope. The enemy camped in a permanent victory. Stars ruled the sky like a silvery ocean. Plant them. The thought repeated. I put the light on the acorns and squeezed them. Are my soldiers speaking from the dead? “Where are you guys?” I spoke quietly. Something moved from within. We’re gone, but you can raise a new army. “Are there none of you left in the whole world?” I glanced back outside. Yes. I almost broke the acorns. “Why?” It just happened. I cradled all the acorns in my hands. “This is all I have left of you. I don’t want to be alone.” Be brave. Have patience. You have to let us go. It’s the only way to bring us back. I get off my bed and pack my things. “I’m not leaving you. If you survived every battle before, I’ll survive, too.” I filled my suitcase with some clothes, stuffed every beverage and food in a garbage bag, and grabbed the first aid kit and my parents camping tent. I checked out the living room window. My parents were farther from the house. I took the biggest frying pan and smashed it against the kitchen window. It made a circular crack. I hit it again and it broke through. I kicked the remaining glass, hastily through my stuff out, and carefully crawled outside. Before my parents had the chance to return, I hoisted everything and ran far into enemy territory. I clutched everything to my body. No matter how many times the bag of food banged my legs, I didn’t stop. I sprinted as long as I could. Far enough to where my parents couldn’t see me at the horizon. By the time my lungs burned with desperation, I dropped all my stuff. I gazed at the sky. The stars gave a magical welcome, a slight hope in treacherous darkness. Falling to my knees next to my tent, my hands dug deep earth until they cramp up. I take one of the acorns, squeeze it against my chest, and kiss it. “Please return soon.” I hide it in its new home and reluctantly lose sight of it covering it back up. I move to other spots close by and create new homes for my future soldiers. I can barely see their roofs in the dark light. Setting up my tent, my heart rips into multiple pieces. How long will it be? How long can I wait? Crawling in my tent and settling for bed, the enemy keeps circling around me; the air grows thinner the closer they come in. But something breaks their army. Rainfall. Every drop cuts off their voices. The grip loosens and runs away. The fresh scent of rain brings back my breath. It avenges my soldiers and destroys every enemy, sending them further into their own graves. I whimper in my sleeping bag, believing the battle is won. We will return soon, our queen.


Power. It is the only way to change the world, and Runar wanted it. He wanted it all - to be emperor, to control the most powerful cities in the galaxy, to have the power to conquer other planets. It had been on Runar’s New Year’s resolutions since 2722. The only problem was that Runar was not a prince. He was not even close. Runar was an assassin. The closest he had been to royalty was when he was slitting their throats or snapping their necks. But that was all going to change. In the middle of the Guilty Forest, lies the god of Time. Legends say that he controls all timelines of every living being in the galaxy and that he has the power to stop or start anyone’s timeline and can change someone’s timeline. Of course, all of this comes with a price. Runar entered the opening at the base of the giant tree. A white stag lay sleeping in the middle of the clearing. The stag’s dark blue eyes fluttered open and took in the large man that had disturbed his sleep. “Runar Veldispo, what an interesting surprise. Speak your purpose for coming here.” The white stag approached him. “I’m here to change my timeline.” Runar places the offering he brought at the stag’s hooves. The white stag chuckles. “Another human wants to change their timeline - how unoriginal. Although unoriginal, I do love tampering with timelines especially human ones. So what should I change?” The stag’s dark blue eyes gleam with malice and excitement. “Let me be born as Emperor Okeanos’ son, so that I may become the next emperor to reign over Inama.” Runar presents an hourglass made from melted rubies to the stag as payment. “Please, for something like this an hourglass is not going to cut it. See you want me to change your timeline from your birth. This is not some small minuscule change, but one that will change your whole life. It’s a soul switch in essence - switching Prince Manacan’s soul with yours. As for payment, I will claim one person that you hold dear. In every life or timeline, one person of yours will be mine and in exchange, you will become Prince Manacan of Inama. Do we have a deal?” “Yes,” Runar says without hesitation. The white stag blinks and Runar falls. Runar can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed as he falls into the dark abyss. He hears the god of Time’s voice echo throughout the abyss. “I forgot to mention to be reborn as Prince Manacan of Inama, you must die first. Can’t start a new life if you haven’t finished this one first.” “Wha-” Runar opens his mouth to scream at the god when he feels his heart stop and then he feels nothing. Runar’s eyes open blinding light hitting them. He cries as his mother softly cradles him in his arms. “Hello, my little prince. Welcome to the world.” His mother’s voice is gentle. The new prince’s mother is Empress Novia and his father is Emperor Okeanos. He is Prince Manacan of Inama. And somewhere out there Runar Veldispo is being born to a poor woman and being sold into slavery where he will be bought by Abellio Onchello, trained to be an assassin, and will write down his New Year’s Resolution of 2722 to be to gain power. Runar Veldispo will search for the god of Time and ask to once again be born as Prince Manacan of Inama as the god of Time claims another person in his life. Runar Veldispo’s timeline will never change and neither will his resolution. Before a soul enters a new life, it is a clean slate. It has no name, no identity. It is simply a template for what the universe shapes it to be. Any soul that enters the world as Runar Veldispo will always be Runar Veldispo. He will constantly seek out the god of Time and the god of Time will continue to claim everyone in his life until he has claimed every last person of Runar Veldispo’s life. And that is how the god of Time has never starved. Through the centuries, many humans have asked for a change and in return, he has claimed a soul. Sooner or later, everyone in that Runar Veldispo’s timeline will be claimed by the god of Time, and the god of Time will feast on all of their souls including Runar Veldispo’s. And the rest of the world will never know that Runar Veldispo has stopped existing in all timelines. It would have been better for Runar Veldispo to never write that New Year’s Resolution, but then again, how do you fight a god who has the power to shift time around so that you do write it?


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Theme: ** - **Bonus Constraint:** Includes an unrequited love. *Check out on writing unrequited love.* Valentine’s Day is tomorrow, so this week’s challenge is to use the theme of *‘love & heartbreak’* as inspiration for your story. You can use **one or both** in your story, it’s entirely up to you! Feel free to **interpret the theme as you like**, as long as you **follow all post and subreddit rules.** The bonus constraint is not required, but I encourage you to give it a try! **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting.   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. You can complete the following things for points. - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points, unless otherwise stated (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 5 detailed crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.*   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/BrochaTheBard - **Second:** - Submitted by u/NotMuchChop - **Third:** - Submitted by u/FyeNite - **Honorable Mention:** - Submitted by u/cactus4hire - **Crit Star:** u/FyeNite *Crit Stars receive 1 Crit Credit to use on r/WPCritique. In order to receive your credits, you must either link your reddit account on our Discord, or have made at least one post on r/WPCritique.* *** ###Subreddit News - Check out the ! - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


“Thanks, Rose,” the words shiver down my tongue, like they never expected to come out. My sister smiles at me. “Don’t thank me. It was nothing.” You don’t know what you mean to me. You’ve taken care of me since you were old enough to walk, and you’re still taking care of me now. “I’m going to miss my car,” I tell her. “And you...” She laughs as I run out the door, waving. “Bye, queen !” I don’t look back. I need this break. It will not start and end with me not being able to leave her. “Jennifer, is that correct?” I nod, barely able to cover up the excitement of having a - supposedly - beautiful view from my hotel room window. I try my best not to snatch the keycard and fly to my room. “Thanks,” I whisper, “Rose.” The room is as pretty as I had imagined. It’s sunset, and the sky outside looks like a painting, impossible colors bleeding into the clouds and covering the ocean below. The blue is Rose, her relaxing presence and kind attitude. The purple is me, because even though I’m calming like she is, I’m more complex, I have a spark. The red is my best friend since middle school, Ellie, who will easily flame and is just as cold as she is hot . The orange is my ex, Kyle, who is like Ellie - hot on the outside, cold on the inside, but unlike Ellie this was all the time. I didn’t figure that out until it was too late. The yellow is everyone I know. Soft and sweet but emotional and complex. I study the room. It has a big glass door that leads to a balcony, on which is a wooden chess set. There’s a bed in the middle, with a small bedside table on one side and a desk on the other. On the opposite side of the balcony is another door, the entrance one. There’s a closet next to the desk and a bathroom door next to that. I open the closet. There’s a pole on which are coat hangers, and in the very back is another door. I reach out hesitantly. I pull my hand back. It’s probably a storage closet, I reassure myself, reaching out again. The knob turns with a whine, and the door creaks as I open it. “What the hell!” Crap , I think. There’s another person right there? Rose didn’t tell me this! “Can’t a guy play chess in peace?” Says the person. I peek around the door. His room is pretty much symmetrical to mine, with the exception of clothes covering practically everything. He’s playing chess with himself, and he seems to be winning. “ What the hell yourself,” I reply, not exactly knowing what I’m doing. “What is with this hotel and chess?” He tells me chess is awesome and challenges me to a game. I accept. While he’s making his move, I take my time to look at him. He’s handsome, with dark brown hair, brown eyes, and freckles. He looks like he could be biracial. I change my mind, he’s not handsome, he’s hot. Over the next few days I develop a crush on him - his name is James - and became the first person to beat him at chess. I beat him eight times, which isn’t very much to his record of thirty-two. I don’t care; he’s everything. He’s perfect. We eat together a couple of times, and he introduces me to his friends. One of them adores him, calls him a “chess god”. At first I think it’s cute, but then I remember that James is hardly even an expert. He’s advanced, sure, but not as good as the grandmasters. They are experts. I try not to love this boy but every time I try I end up being pulled deeper into this void. Sometimes I wish James had never come into my life. Sometimes I wish that people would recognize me, too, and not just him, for being good at chess. Sometimes I think that he didn’t remember I’m the first person to beat him when another friend beat him. Sometimes I wish I weren’t so selfish. Even though James is the one who introduced me to the thing I love most, he is also the one person I love, and hate. He is the King, and I am the Queen. He is everything to everyone, he is the heart of the game for us - for me and his friends - and I am powerful but not as powerful as he is. I am the Queen in the fairytale, the one whom no one knows the name of, the one who did just as much as the King, and yet the King is remembered. The King is cherished and as precious as one’s life. I need them to notice me. Tonight I have dinner with him and the others. I can’t say I’m excited to tell him how I feel. “Jennifer, you okay?” I look up from my food to see his eyes peering, concerned, down at me. We are alone, it’s nearly night, and I know this is my chance. I open my mouth to say no. He presses a finger to my lips before I can say anything, before I can even make a sound. Then he leans foreword, his hand moving to the back of my neck. My heart beats faster, his fingers warm but cooling with the air. He’s an inch away from me. I can’t move. How can I tell him to stop, that he is looking at someone who doesn’t deserve him? “Do you mind..?” The unfinished question lingers in the air. His hand is trembling now. I have to remember that he is only human, too, I think. It’s not fair to judge him like this. “I’m sorry.” I push him away gently. “I thought...” “I like you like that ,” I inform him, scared to see his reaction, “but I’m not the one for you. I dislike your friends, for one.” “She’s hot and she’s cold,” he mutters, surprised. “I’m sorry, but that’s the nicest way I could say it,” I protest. “They only have eyes for you.” I’m such a hypocrite. When he walks away from me, not saying another word, I know I have lost an amazing opportunity. The last thing I see of him are tears being held back. I don’t watch him leave. I wouldn’t be able to bear it.


In a gloomy town of Monmouthshire, there lived a woman, Lynn Jones. She was a bartender in a grimy haunt of a tavern -- Old Peg Leg . Lynn would toll the clock, Wednesday to Friday, at a humdrum pace, serving the thirsty brutes of Pontypool. The place wafted in pipe smoke, the ceiling hung low, burnt with ash. It resembled a coal pit in a hole in the earth. Drunkards guffawed at stupid stories and swivelled on rickety stools, demanding more ale for their flagons. In a rhythm, Lynn would yell at the lunkheads to “shut the hell up” while she poured more booze, a stink eye muddying her middle-aged beauty. One patron would hunker at the bar in Galligaskins and a peruke. A vacant look clung to his eyes while he made a thimbleful with his fingers, a form of drunken sign language. Lynn would oblige, pouring the old thespian a shot of whiskey. Sometimes the theatrical shoe would be asleep at a table, drooling and huffing dust. Ah! The joys of bartending at the Old Peg Leg. One night in October, rain wept against the salted windows of the Old Peg. A fog had swept the coal streets and the shops across the way. For Lynn, the melodious wetness was a pleasant change, soothing a pestilent bone rattling in her head. The last couple of nights had been nothing but jaunty boors yelling obscenities. At closing hour, Lynn busied herself placing the stools over the countertop. All of the grunts had left. Only two patrons remained huddled in a corner, both women. They were small in stature, appearing as children, playacting. Lynn couldn’t tell who they were in the shroud of mist. It was a rare sighting in a place like the Old Peg, accustomed to the codger. The women wore ruby red handkerchiefs knotted in their blonde hair. The fabric bowered their complexions in shadow. They seemed to be involved in a trade of sorts, bartering items or gifts. One woman held a jar of glowworms, its wriggling contents lighting up the table like a lantern. The other proffered a quarter basket filled with toadstools. “Sorry, ladies. We’re closed," Lynn said, shrivelled after a long night. Then both little women stood up and started dancing merrily, their crimson dresses sweeping the haggard floor, the end of the world near. “Ladies? I said we’re closed. Please, I’m tired.” Both ignored the hapless bartender, their dancing clogs hammering the wood and making a racket. “Are you deaf? I said we’re closed! No good, shrews.” In a bleeding second, they stared at Lynn with a statue gaze, eyeing her gravely at the bar. An impenetrable stillness and a mysterious silence crept between them. Lynn felt uncomfortable in the estuary of flowing tension. “Well? What do you say? The night is still young...” In a flurry, both women disappeared in a wisp of smoke, evanescent in the fog. -- On High Street, Lynn’s Victorian home sat on a lumbering hill, the seismic rhythm of the earth cradling the place. It was a Gothic Revival-styled domicile tinted with moss-beaten cobblestones. It had cupolas at both corners of the second story adorned with weaving scrolls of charred wood. She lived there with her husband, Hendrick, and their two lovely twin boys, Harry and Rhys Jones. Both toddlers, four years a piece and fair-haired like cherubs. Hendrick was a prominent civil lawyer in South Wales. He was, for the most part, busy up to the knot of his tie, sailing through the tumbling seas of drafts, contracts, and litigation. Paperwork and take-out coffee cups littered his office upstairs. “Why don’t you quit the Old Peg Leg? We don’t need the extra money.” Hendrick would pester Lynn to stay at home with the twins, but she insisted that she needed the space. “What about Lowri? She needs a job too. She’s great with the boys, and they love her to bits,” Lynn would reply. These types of squabbles were minimal and often of a petty nature. And so, their connubial affairs were without strife for six years, a happy couple. To pass the time, Harry and Rhys would gambol in the garden. They would scour the grass for worms and beetles with the innate curiosity of children. Hendrick collected pigeons in an aviary. The twins would coo at the birds. Other times, they would pretend to be pirates, fighting one another with dried branches deemed to be deadly hangers. Harry would let his brother Rhys kill him with a wooden blade under the withering lime trees. Rhys would cry out in victory as the good guy, and Harry would fall into a pile of dead leaves as the ludicrous villain. And Lynn would watch them with a cup of steaming coffee, an impregnable smile on her motherly lips. Such days are precious to a woman’s heart. At night, snug in their coverlets on the bunk beds, Hendrick would read the boys' superstitious tales of old Wales. Their favourite story concerned ‘ the forest of the yew ’ where a magical tree grew in the middle of a winding grove. “... a magical circle under the tree enchanted Iago, who stepped inside. It was called the dancing place of the goblin...” At the finish of the story, Hendrick would tread on the tips of his toes, having squelched his son’s wakefulness. -- It was a Tuesday morning. Hendrick was away on business in North Wales, meeting with another law firm. The house was silent like a sepulchre except for the creaking and groaning of water pipes and aging wood. Lynn stood anchored to a door in the hallway, her soles gathering dust littered on hexagonal tiles. She wore an aquamarine floral dress that swooned to her ankle bones. On her breast, she cradled a basket woven from threads with a loaf of Bara Brith bread infused with black tea and golden raisins. She had baked it on a whim, wearing a tattered apron with tinctures of yeast and flour. A delicious gift for a beautiful neighbour -- Lowri, the nanny. From the alley, a wind besotted with the fragrance of bread, crooned through the drapes of the twins' chamber. Lynn watched them sleep, their bodies webbed in dark sheets of wool, the fabric moving ever-so-gently like buoys on the ocean’s bosom. I won’t be gone for long. They should be fine alone for 10 minutes or so. Right? I’ll close the door just in case. They won’t be able to reach the doorknob, those little urchins. And I did turn the oven off. Yes? Yes. Everything is fine. Be back soon, babes. Lynn locked the front door and ambled down the stone steps through weeping bilberry shrubs arching on both sides. Her slippers crunched on dried brown leaves, which satisfied her--a simple pleasure to stomp on crispy things . The cold autumn air was refreshing to her lungs. Lowri’s house could be seen on the other side of the street, down the hill. It lay crooked on a pile of dirt, the shingles rooted on loosely, but it had a heartbeat. Far below, winding down the crest of the slope, the quaint town of Pontypool huddled in close quarters, the shops and apartment buildings conjoined and mixed in with the occasional sycamore tree. A filament of mist stretched along the roofs like a ghostly crown. In the corner of Lynn's eye, a strange figure in a knot. A small woman climbed a patch of land, then moved into the middle of the street. She wore a ragged petticoat, an antique. The scarlet underskirt was long, loose fibers dragging on the pavement. On her shoulder hung a burlap sack. A lump protruded at the bottom, which had Lynn guessing in all directions. A game ensued. Possibly a book. Possibly fruits from the market. Maybe a bunch of dirty clothes. Maybe an alley cat. No, the bag isn’t moving. Possibly a dead alley cat. No. That can’t be right. Lynn looked at her closely, a curiosity coaxing her. She had dirty blonde hair falling frowsy to her middle back. Her head was cast to the ground, unwilling to look at the inhabitants of Pontypool or the greyish sky. That’s about all she could see. Oh, and the clogs. Those clogs. Then the lady in red peeled down the street towards the town shops. Lynn’s thoughts shifted as she approached the threshold of Lowri’s driveway. When Lynn returned, she walked through the hallway with hexagons, and to the right, the door was ajar. Her breathing accelerated, knowing that she had closed it. She rushed to the frame. Inside, her boys slept in their bunk beds. Nothing had changed. Their loud snoring trembled the room. -- Over time, a trail of disturbing subtleties and inexplicable certainties spread all over the Jones house and bore a crux. A growing mass, infernal and terrible, sought to infiltrate the corpus of all living things. A nebulous formation of quarks and dust turned corporeal into an evolving dark intelligence. The twins, Harry and Rhys, at the helm of the matter, the unruly hosts. -- It started small, like all things, naturally. One night, Lynn washed the toddlers in the tub. She scrubbed their backs with a wet sponge. To her horror, patches of bushy hair grew like mold on a rotten peach. “What’s wrong, Mommy?” Rhys would ask, his eyes dilated beetle-black. At the doctor’s office, both boys were on the examination table, shirts off. The fuzz patches had grown out of control. “We’ll run some tests. But no, I can’t say that I’ve seen this before.” The doctor’s reassurance made Lynn feel worse somehow. Under the lights, in that bright hospital-white room, their complexions looked gaunt and lifeless. At dinner time, Harry and Rhys would finish their plates with the appetite of malnourished wolves, never gaining a pound of muscle or fat. Their search for food was around the clock; heads in the freezer, in the fridge, whining about being starved to death, gullets like threshers. At night, Lynn would catch them on her way to the bathroom. They walked through the hallways, hobbling, ghoulish. The distressing noises -- grunts of a deranged nature -- that came out of them sometimes were unimpeachable. It was the night of October 21st when a seed of doubt unfurled beneath the soil and blossomed into a full-grown poisonous plant. Lynn had trouble sleeping, tossing and turning over needles and acorns, a nightmare reeling. She woke up with a gasp, the vivid moving picture of a fire burning a bush projected onto the wallpaper of the bedroom. It was 1 o'clock in the morning. Lynn looked pale, and probably felt as she looked. Her wet, frizzy hair cowled at the tips, a couple of strands glued to pulsating veins on her forehead. Hendrick slept beside her panting breast, deaf to the troubles of his wife. She heard commotion in the backyard, pigeons cooing wildly from the aviary. In the yard, she stood by a sliding door. Her fists were clenched tightly, nails stabbing her palms. The aviary’s gate hunched on its hinges, opening to the cage. Harry and Rhys sat Indian-style, blood and guts on their cheeks, feasting on dead pigeons. “Those aren’t my sons...” Lynn whispered to the four winds, tears falling on the grass. “...HENDRICK!” -- ...under the shelter of branches, splotches of yellow and brown, almost all have fallen. Why is this happening ? Am I a negligent mother? Am I hot-tempered? God, I have such a foul mouth sometimes. I'm sorry for all the mistakes I've made and for the faults in my beliefs. Where do I go from here? I can’t change the past, but I try to be good. I don’t know how to fix this. Please forgive me. I miss my boys... -- The next day, Lynn was due for a shift at the Old Peg Leg . For most of the night, she stood behind the bar, stone-faced. Her jaw clenched in the middle of grinding teeth. Her fingers tapped the gnarled counter, unending. Her black eyes fixated on one of the tables by the salty window. That table . Those red devils dancing like clowns . It brought bad memories to the roaring shores of Lynn. It represented a marriage falling to pieces. Hendrick and Lynn arguing over an impossible panacea. It represented a nightmare, both of her sons lost, foregone to an unknown gulf of wickedness. Some of the patrons looked at her in fright. They whispered of possession and prayed under their beards, penitent to the Welsh pantheon of gods and spirits. Near closing hour, a drunk old codger mopped the floor with his wet boots. He sat heavy-assed on a stool. Lynn was still transfixed. That table . Those little red fairies . He then lit a soot pipe with a wooden match. Lynn watched him, a red flame in her eyes. “...we’re closed. Get out.” She spat. "But miss Jones, I haven't finished me ale..." “I SAID GET OUT!" Lynn pulled out a baton from underneath the bar. The old boot fled like a drunken mouse. That table . She stared in a trance, advancing toward it. -- Lynn stormed up a dark street, a brooding tempest. On her shoulder, she carried a stack of broken wood. That table. “ I’ll burn them ! Do you hear me, red devil woman! I’ll BURN THEM!” -- Hahaha! The twins were laughing. Both of them were in the aviary, the gate closed. Prisoners in the yard. The skeletons of pigeons lay by Lynn’s feet, bloody feathers scattered. “LYNN! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” Hendrick opened the sliding door. I'm bluffing, Hendrick . Lynn held a cheap plastic lighter. With her other hand, she lit one of the sticks drenched in kerosene. It glowed red in the grey. “I’m going to burn these two. What does it look like I’m doing?” “HAVE YOU GONE ABSOLUTELY MAD, WOMAN?” “I’m open to suggestions, Hendrick. Have you seen our ‘sons’ lately?” Hendrick glanced at the boys, or rather uhh... well the boys, yes. His twins, Harry and Rhys. At the sight of their horrid faces, he cried. Their skin was blotched with a green roughness mixed with red and white pigmentation. “I’M READY WHEN YOU ARE, LADY!” Lynn screamed at the sky. “WHO ARE YOU EVEN TALKING TO?...” -- Behind the fence, two piggish eyes gleamed over the pickets. Dirty blonde hair lit up like a bushfire under the waning moon. Then her body crawled over, a red petticoat snagged on a picket, but she managed to get loose. She carried a swollen burlap sack heaved over her shoulder. She fell with grace, her clogs pounding the dirt. Lynn and Hendrick eyed the apparition -- the lady in red -- in a daze. She hobbled forward and, as she did, her features became clear in the electric lights of the yard, a crystal pool of a face. Her thin nose was lopsided and her lips were plump as a rose. She was pretty for an old woman, or whatever she was. Her expression was peculiar. A melancholy countenance seared her black eyes. A rugged exhaustion showed, as if she were tired of her own wickedness. Maybe. A silence permeated the yard, punctured only by the harsh, mouth-breathing of the twins. Their knuckles greenish-red as they gripped the bars. The lady dropped the overbearing bag in front of the married couple. The woven jute was moving. Knowing what had to be done, Lynn proceeded to open the aviary gate. Both boys stepped out, maligned, eager to commit evil deeds. Then two heads poked out of the sack, blond hair wet and disheveled, seeping from the horrors of a hellish womb. The boys rushed over to Lynn; the family embraced in a circle. Are you hurt? Did she hurt you? I’ll never let anything bad happen to you again. I promise. Please forgive me. Lynn pleaded, her boys crying. As Lynn comforted Harry and Rhys, the deluge in red and her two goblin sons disappeared over the fence.


I have been assigned to; Earth. This news has still not completely sunk in. Earth. The most chaotic and frustrating of our observation planets. I was so sure I was going to receive one of my top three choices. Earth, by the way, was not on my list. It is never on anyone’s list, aside from the most divergent and eccentric of our number, and those, purely by our superior nature, are few and far between. It was one of their kind that found Earth in the first place, I mean really! Who thought sticking their nose into quadrant Tempo Gala 0.4 was a good idea? So new, so volatile, so underdeveloped. I have spent my training dedicated to the songs of the Haphstations, the light shows of the Nexlar, the stealthy games of Velith, all eons of journeys old, all established, all fascinating in their patterns, and steady rhythms in harmony with the universe, with order. Hundreds of journeys spent in the temples of our worlds, studying, seeking the patterns, seeking the comfort of repetition and harmony. “Steady and well-paced.” That is what I am known for, that is the epitome of our order. We watch, we catalog, we seek order and stability. Sure we vie with each other from time to time, especially those of us hoping to join the highest ranks of our temples and become an “Observation Curator”, overseeing worlds, highlighting the best of those simple beings striving to see the patterns. The most powerful Curators oversee the most magnificent planets, heralded for their careful deductions of the patterns within those civilizations. Seeing what will be, carefully aiding those who seek uniformity and harmony, to further raise their knowledge of the gift of clarity and knowing, for all on their world. It is our greatest honor. One that I will ascend to. Maybe that is why I have been relegated to Earth. Pah! I can barely even write the word without feeling anger! An emotion thought purged in my lower journeys. A chaotic emotion, out of step with the patterns and harmonies, an unbound emotion. I will not succumb to it. My fellow junior watchers, they are the reason I am here. All because I reported a divergent chaotic unbound learner, in our midst. Allarik, hmph. They did not deserve to move forward and become a Junior Watcher, not yet. Perhaps because of my faithful intervention, Allarik will one day ascend into the Watcher ranks, having learned to better control that chaos that appears to follow them everywhere they go. No, I was recognized for my actions in dealing with that one. The rest of my peers commended my actions as a necessary step. Too many Observers of Knowledge at the Temples ignored Allarik’s behavior. “Simply immature, not enough journeys, but a keen mind for observing the harmonies.” That was their defense. Ha! And yet, here I am, Earth. This chaotic, unbound, unbridled, violent, overpopulated planet. Of all the trillions of worlds we have chosen to observe, there are few so stuffed full of species, so much; variety, so little space. Why this speck was ever added to our chosen is beyond me. It must have something to do with the one who found it. *Reminder;* check the melodies for who found Earth and which Curators thought it wise to add it to our chosen. Though, when I’ll get back to even check for that information is beyond me. I am to “remain at my post until called back. Observe; reflect; seek the harmonies; seek the knowledge.” Here! The harmonies are not present on such a volatile speck. Well, complaining never did anyone any good. It is a waste of harmony. I am here, and here I am. All first postings last many journeys and I knew that when I chose this path. I will make the best of this; situation. It is still the same cycle, or day, they call it here, day, quaint. So this shall continue Log #1. I have visited the Observation Park, the Lower Curators have provided me with my first observation specimen. I have yet to review; the bracket sits before me, the pale gold fire of the dominant species on this planet, humans. Violent, small, things. My assigned Lower Curator thought my arrival here was amusing, in fact, my interaction with all the Notations on the Observation Deck was concerning. A certain level of disorder, individuality, flair even, was detectable. Most concerning. *Reminder;* send observations from Lower Deck arrival back to Observation Temple with report #1, when complete. Such deviance cannot be permitted. These Lower Curators are our mentors, our guides during our first steps into Observation, they cannot be allowed to wander from The Harmonies. Order above all things must be maintained. Perhaps, that is why I am here. To bring order, my Temple Teachers were most impressed with my steady intellect and adherence to the Passages of One Song. Yes, that must be it. Why else would I be wasted on such a noisy speck of a planet? Already the cacophony of noise gives me a constant headache. So many creatures. I do not know how they bare it. Well then, my specimen: Immediate notes: Name: 84 Journeys: 38 Mated No outputs Notable oddities; has what is called a dog. Seems to be the couple's main focus instead of creating any outputs of their own. Lives in a particularly northern part of this speck. Great. No major dwellings for miles. So, I have been shunted into chaos, to watch a specimen of a brutal stunted race, and I am not even near a large populated area. Wonderful. I must perform my meditations, this whole situation has caused me to lose my harmony, I am feeling very perplexed.


Salty. Metallic. Buttery smooth with a hint of sweetness. It coated my lips, glazed my tongue and ran down my neck. Velvety crimson in hue, deep and glossy with a certain warmth to it. It crusted to a rusty brown around the corners of my mouth. Streaks cracked like evaporated rivers, tracing down to the bottom of my abdomen. Blood. It was all I could taste. It felt strange, to embrace and savor something intended to course within my veins. Like a switch that was flipped, revealing the dark underbelly of my vitality and fragility. It was a startling sensation, a primal signal that battled my need to convert to a clean-cut world of folded linen and ironed silk. An undomesticated urge to claw at grilled steak and rip up hand-knitted wool. A fierce yearning to dart into the wilderness, exhilarated by the thrill of the chase. I sat at my desk, clicking keys and reading numbers. I sipped black coffee and took a bite out of a sandwich, yet blood was still what I could taste. Despite my efforts to ignore the disturbing metallic tang, I hungered for more. My tastebuds craved it, and though society diserns it as horrific, that liquid of saline iron bolstered my inner depths of my primal appetite. The sight, or even the very idea of our vital fluid outside our bodies used to make my stomach churn. The image of blood under the moonlight, a foreboding stain of gore and torment, now acted as a beacon embracing life’s portentous unpredictability. My heartbeat raced as my eyes darted back and forth to the numbers on my screen, concentrating on anything but the primitive hunger that began to rise from my insides. Ones and zeros merged like blotted ink while letters blended like water-downed shadows. They forged a cryptic mosaic on the screen, dancing and chanting like figures painted within a dimly lit cave. The noise of spears and hollering crowded my ears as my vision darkened. The fading light of my workspace grew into the pulsating vibrancy of the color red. That was all I could see- red. And then I cracked. I had to get out, I had to leave. I bolted towards the door, knocking over books and papers as my nails scratched onto the walls to maintain balance. I kicked the door open, sniffing the air to locate my target and my task. Yet I did not know what I was doing, or where I was going. All I knew was that the jungle awaited me. Cars honked and people screamed as I continued to sprint to my destination. I couldn’t differentiate traffic light colors as everything around me was washed in a dark vermillion hue. The rhythmic thumps of blood pumping echoed my eardrums, the heart gulping surges like a starving beast. An intricate machine of vibrating mechanisms, grinding and performing a continuous flow of saliva that dribbled out my mouth. It mixed into the previously crusted red on my stomach, causing it to fade as I carried on with my journey across the city. My panting quickened as my pace accelerated. However, I came to a sudden halt. There, in front of me, were my parents. My mother, with a mortified expression on her face, commanded me to stop. My father, who had a more disappointed look, nodded in agreement. They asked me where I was going. I could not answer, as I truly did not know. My mother began to cry- her tears reeked with shame and disgust. Her body shook and hunched, causing my vision to brighten to its original hue. In the distance, the birds and trees whispered my name as the wind attempted to usher me towards them. The thumps of my heart continued to pound, seemingly on the inside of my skull. I had a difficult decision- to drown my thoughts with nature's drumbeat, or ration my actions with nurtured intelligence. The chants of the jungle harmonized with the drumming of my body, and the taste of blood filled my mouth once again. It was a flavor not everyone could stomach, but yet for me, it was a catalyst that drove me forward into the depths of the unknown. It reminded me that I was alive, and I was still in the game- the hunt. I pounced forward, startling my parents as they leaped to avoid impact. Every noise within the city was interlinked to my mind- each movement tracked and traced with detailed awareness. What was I hunting for, you may ask? The answer to such a perilous question would be that I was hunting for anything and everything. I was sick with trepidation, confined to a molding office chair. A wild beast domesticated to obey. A house cat, one fed with stories of the frightening outdoors. The jungle calls for me. I traveled miles, darting between traffic and human beings. The great migration of a single individual. The relentless sun baked my skin, burnt my eyes and tore my feet. Vultures circled above menacingly, waiting for my internal system to backfire and shut down. But the thumps, the rhythmic dance- they persisted. Each pump of crimson was a testament to my enduring will, one that could not be shattered solely by peckish birds. Days, months, or possibly even years had passed. However, a silhouette of a towering tree emerged on the horizon. A sign, a shift, a shadow. I galloped towards the beacon of possibility, and once I had finally reached it, I took in a gasp. I inhaled the tangy tartness of ripening fruits, the thick moisture of rich vegetation, and the sweet nectar of flowering canopies. My surroundings pulsed with a primitive liveliness, each leaf whispering secrets shared in the depths of woven foliage and resting pavilions. They exchanged stories of war and peace, ones that emerged from an instinctive loop of dietary cascades. Ceaseless feasting, sprouting, and prattling. Everything and anything happened. Now it was all within my reach. I wandered deeper into the unknown, stroking barks of brick and stems of steels. Branches of brass and roots of rock paved my path as the concrete jungle welcomed my presence. I sacrificed my safety for the freedom of the wild. Predators lurked in anticipation, but my accomplishing joy brought along an unshakable ignorance. I knew that I would survive, as long as my blood still flowed through my body and coated my lips. The metallic flavor of success, a purifying taste of victory. Buttery smooth with a hint of sweetness.


Today was the day I looked so forward to. After weeks and weeks of hot, dry weather and smoky, acrid air due to the wildfires around me, fall had finally arrived. That meant picking apples, one of my favorite pastimes, and making apple cider out of them. This wasn’t any kind of apple cider. See, I make two kinds: one for the kids and one for the adults that contains slightly more alcohol content than a typical bottle of wine. On this particular day, the previous day’s rain cleared the sky. In its place were scattered gray clouds that dotted the deep blue sky, with some sunshine mixed in. A cold north wind reminded us that winter was around the corner. I called my girlfriend Kim to see if she was up to picking apples. She said yes. I picked her up and we drove an hour to Jensen’s Apple Farm as they were hosting apple picking. We bundled up for the occasion: Kim was dressed in blue jeans, boots, hooded coat, scarf, and gloves; I was dressed in blue jeans, boots, a red long sleeve polo shirt, light coat, a beanie to cover my bald head, and gloves. We left town and drove for a half hour north on the interstate. We exit the interstate and make a right turn on some road that even the most expert linguist would have a hard time pronouncing; all I remember is that it started with Z. I asked Kim, “How do you pronounce the name of this road we’re on?” Kim looked at me like I was from another planet. “How would I know? You’re the English teacher!” She was good at putting me in my place if I pushed her too far. Thinking about it, I did push her buttons too much, causing her brain to go “TILT”, like one would see when playing a pinball machine and pushing it past its limits. Anyhow, the road kept going. At first it was a gentle climb, and not too winding. We went from valley to foothills within 10 miles of exiting. Then we endured another 20 minutes of steep, winding road, sometimes with a 9% upgrade. The old truck took it beautifully, like a champ. Finally, we make the left turn onto Burroughs Road. The farm was within sight; it was a half mile away down a fairly flat gravel road and set in a small valley. The farm itself was about a quarter mile off Burroughs. The farm is at roughly 3,500 feet above sea level, and the apples they grow are some of the sweetest apples I have ever tasted. We arrive, baskets in tow. (They have a two-basket limit policy.) We checked in with a tall, gracious and sweet elderly lady, who introduced herself as Eleanor Jensen, the matriarch of the Jensen family. I introduced us as Jon and Kim. She weighed our buckets and noted the weight of each bucket. She then weighed a cart that she assigned to us. She gave us a ticket to return to her once we were finished picking. Kim and I ventured into the orchard. The sights of the golden leaves, combined with the red and green apples and the dark brown soil made for a lovely fall postcard. Add in the clouds and sunshine and the surrounding greenery of the hills and it was perfect. The cold wind whipping in from the north made our faces as red as the apples grown in the orchard. With that cold wind, an occasional waft of smoke from the Jensen's fireplace could be noticed. We looked around, searching for the best apples. I studied each tree intently. I picked one that was about the size of a softball and motioned for Kim to come over. She had already picked a few apples; none were as big as mine. Mine was an outlier, as the apples she picked were closer to the average size of these kinds of apples, called Burroughs apples. We decided to go together from that point, as it was her first time picking apples and I was more experienced. She would ask me what I thought and I would give thumbs-up or thumbs-down. She picked the thumbs-up apples. We went through several rows of apple trees before both of our buckets were full. By then, I noticed Kim was starting to shiver due to the cold wind knifing through her clothes. We sauntered back to the table, dragging our cart carrying two apple-laden buckets to where Eleanor was sitting. She smiled and made small talk with us as she weighed each bucket. For a woman who barely weighed over a buck and was in her early seventies, she was very physically strong. She lifted the heavy buckets onto the scale with ease. We ended up picking slightly more than 40 pounds of apples, and ended up paying a little more than 25 dollars in total. Before we left, she offered us free apple cider, to which we gladly accepted. We conversed with Eleanor as we partook of her excellent apple cider. “Eleanor, this apple cider is excellent!” I said. “It’s very smooth, clean, and has a hint of cinnamon.” Kim interjected, “Yes, this is excellent, Eleanor. It’s perfect on a day like today! I love these kinds of days: cold, somewhat cloudy, and enjoying a hot drink!” As we continued to converse, a tall, husky man emerged from the back. He introduced himself as Eleanor’s son Mark. “Mom, I’m going to help Juan set up the kids’ area now. They should be starting to arrive pretty soon.” Kim asked, “A kids area?” Eleanor replied, “Every year at the first weekend of apple season, we invite the kids of the community and surrounding communities for a tour of the farm and a play area for them, apple-themed, of course! For the older kids (12-16 years old), we break them up into teams of two for an apple picking contest. The contest should start in an hour or so. We would love to have you stay and watch.” Kim and I ended up staying and observing the kids having fun in their play area. We also watched the apple picking contest, which was won by two 14-year-old boys, Abraham and Martin, who were invited by their friend John. The overriding lesson that I learned from the apple orchard is: apples are like people in a small sense. In order to pick good apples, you have to know their characteristics: is it mature; is the fruit good to taste, is it good when under the fire of cooking, and so forth. People are similar. When selecting friends, you find and keep the good ones and toss the rotten ones, much like apples. Kim and I talked about that principle on the way back from the apple orchard, and she agreed. And for the life of me, I STILL cannot pronounce that road that we exited off the interstate to get there! All I know is that it starts with the letter Z!!


The Instructor went about setting up the classroom, knowing that, without fail, the morning bell would ring long before she was truly ready to begin the day. It didn’t seem to matter when she arrived at work each morning, there was always too little time and too much to do. She distributed the day’s lessons discs among the student groupings, one for each of her pupils. Humming a tune, she cheerily went about her work. The task completed, she went back to her notes, adamant that she had probably forgotten something. This worried her, knowing that even the smallest detail out of place would ruin the well-laid plans. Triple checking the preparations for the day against her list, she straightened her hair, put on her coat, and made her way to the schoolyard. The students had just begun to arrive for the day, and were playing in the grassy field adjacent. She stood and watched, thinking to herself how the gender roles were already becoming apparent. The boys kicking a ball among themselves as the girls stood, clustered, looking on. Old habits died hard, she mused, even in 2013. For seventh graders, hormones had begun their playful dance. The Instructor knew that, given other circumstances, she’d soon be having ‘that talk’ with her students. As she stood watching in the cold, the school’s bell rang out in cacophony. Another day had begun, though the Instructor alone knew that this one would be different. The students filed in, taking their desks. Some were loading up homework assignments to be handed in, while others rushed frantically to complete them before the operating system discovered the work was not done. The Instructor stood, as she always did, at the front of the class; a cup of tea in one hand, a pen in the other. Though the archaic item has little to do in a classroom so filed with the technology of modernity, old habits died hard. The Instructor had always played with a pen while teaching, and always would regardless of how old fashioned the students may say it looked. The call came over the announcement system and the class came to order, rising for the O Canada and the school’s morning messages. The Instructor mouthed along the words while her students sang. She had never felt the same pride at singing the national anthem as others had, even as a child she had thought it silly. Maybe, she mused, that was why they had recruited her so many years ago. A phone buzzed in the Instructor’s pocket, and she spared it a glance while the students took their seats and listened to the voice in the wall welcome students. A simple message; a single word: “Go”. As the morning messages droned on she walked among her students, ensuring that everyone had a lesson disc. She fingered the phone in her pocket, feeling its smooth glass. Feeling where the message had appeared. Feeling the future change. The Instructor smiled. Calling the class to order, she instructed the Operating System to collect homework for the day. There was a groan as the students still frantically attempting to write answers were cut off from their work and demerit points issued. The students plugged themselves into their desks, their neural ports interfacing with the long cords running from the center of their groupings; One cord for each student, one neural port for each cord. The students snatched up the lesson discs and inserted them into the hungry mouth of the desk, each humming as it greedily accepted the students’ offering. As each student closed their eyes and began to load the program, the Instructor typed a single word into her own desk: “Go”. One by one the programs shot their payload into the student’s brains. One by one a billion billion synapses fired and burnt out. One by one the students slumped over at their desks, dead in an instant. Their central nervous system fried by the viruses on their lesson discs. The Instructor stood watching, taking a sip of her tea, her fingers twilling the pen. Sitting at her desk she snapped the phone into the computer interface and dialed. A face appeared on the screen in front of her. “Report?” the figure asked, no hint of emotion in his voice. “The future is dead” the Instructor replied. “Glory be to the cause”. “Glory be” the figure agreed. “Connect to the neural net for final instructions”. The figure cut out and the screen grew dark. The Instructor reached forward and removed the long cord from its cradle on the desk. Inserting it into her neural port she entered a string of commands that comprised the access codes to the Organizations’ private secureweb. She closed her eyes waiting for the instructions to download. She smiled, knowing her part was done and her mission had been a success; a mission she had spent years preparing for. The smile never left the Instructor’s lips as she slumped over at her desk, her fate no different from that of her students. In a room far away the figure looked up from his work station and nodded to the Leader. “Mission GJS-930A complete. Glory be to the cause”. “Glory be” the Leader nodded.


By the time we got Robin back, exhaustion had replaced agony and she was wearily dragging her feet as we set foot on the boat. She slept soundly in Alessia’s bunk, while Alessia slept on the floor next to her. I felt obliged to stay and keep watch, and so I sat with my back against the wall and slept in brief naps. Dawn broke, and I stepped out from the cabin to grab some breakfast. As I did, I could see the same people I had seen on the rock when we arrived walking down the beach towards us. Undoubtedly, they had come for Robin. “Alessia,” I called out, not turning my gaze away. “We’ve got company.” Alessia came out of the cabin just as the group, two men and one woman, started walking down the jetty towards us. I could see the clenched fists of the man at the head of the group, his eyes staring straight into mine. “We have her,” I said. “She’s safe. She fell and broke her arm. We took her in.” The tension in the man’s shoulders reduced, but his fists remained ready. “She’s not a prisoner. She just needed aid.” As I finished, Robin emerged from the cabin behind me. Immediately, the man’s facial expression changed from a furrowed brow to a wide-brimmed smile. “Marshall,” Robin cried out, charging past both Alessia and I. “Hey there, kid.” Marshall smiled. He looked down to her arm. “You okay?” “It hurts like shit. But they said it will heal.” She gently rubbed the limb. Alessia interrupted, “And with all due respect, sending teenagers to stalk strangers could’ve gone a lot worse - especially if we hadn’t come to her aid. So for saving one of your crew, can you maybe tell us what’s going on?” Mashall nodded. “We should talk. But not here. I don’t think Rachel and her lot would appreciate seeing us talking.” He looked over his shoulder, scanning the beach. “We have a spot. Robin, can you show them the way?” Robin nodded, grinning with pride. “Good,” Marshall smiled. “Give us thirty minutes headstart. We’ll catch you there in a couple of hours.” Half an hour later we began the walk to the unknown location. We were on the path no more than two minutes before Robin detoured off between the trees. The brush was thick; the foliage so clumped together that it was like walking through sludge. Looking back, it was clear we were already hidden from the path. Alessia was ahead of me; her hand poised by the spot on her belt where she kept her knife, ready for an ambush. However, something about the genuine affection between Marshall and Robin gave me hope that there was nothing nefarious waiting for us. The route descended to the coast until the path emerged at the cliffs on the island’s western coast. We followed the small undulations of the hills northwards as Robin calmly led the way along the maze-like paths. With my concentration no longer taken up minding my footing in the dense forest, I took the chance to ask Robin about her relation to Marshall. “He just leads our group.” “Not a brother, or a cousin or something?” “No.” Robin shook her head. “And what about your family?” “They’re in one of the towns.” “Do they not get worried about you being off all the time?” “I don’t think they’ve worried about me for some time,” Robin sighed. “Oh,” I replied, suddenly aware of my verbal misstep. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Robin took another turn, and we headed back into a darker, thicker part of the forest. “Don’t be,” she said. “They don’t want anything to do with me, and I don’t really want anything to do with them.” Robin spoke confidently, but the words still carried an underlying sting. “Why’s that, if you don’t mind me asking?” I asked as slowly as I could, trying to detect if I was pushing the girl too far. However, she showed no signs of being affected. “They kicked me out after one too many times of them crying over the past. They used to try and talk like the people in the shows in the museum, and dress like them. I told them it was stupid. That the way they dressed was stupid, that my name was stupid, the way they talk about the good old days as if they were there was stupid. And I said that one too many times.” “They kicked you out for that?” “Yeah. Not many worse offences round here than living in the present.” Robin shrugged. “So then I took up with Marshall and the others, living outside of everything. They’ve taken good care of me.” “Good,” I replied. “But I’m sorry, life without family can be tough.” “Do you not talk to your parents?” Robin asked. “They died a couple of years back,” I said. “But we were never very close. Not ever bad... but I was always distracted by other things, too busy working to worry about them.” “What about you Alessia?” Robin called to the back of our group. Alessia didn’t look up, her eyes remained interested purely on the ground in front of her feet. “Didn’t know my dad till I was thirteen. He was at sea my whole life. He only came back when word reached my mum was ill. Then when she took a turn for the worse I took off with him. Never saw her again.” Her voice wasn’t cold, but it seemed more interested in empathising with Robin than it did with her own emotions. I felt an odd guilt to only be learning about Alessia’s past here and now. I knew very little of her life before we met, but I was grateful to have the chance to understand her a little better. “You’ve been sailing the whole time since you were fourteen?” “How do you think I got so good at it?” She briefly looked up and flashed a quick smile. “But hang on in there, Robin. I know things seem tough. But you're brave, and you seem to have people who care about you.” “Yeah, I do.” Robin said. The conversation ended as we emerged at the top of a quick gulley: a chasm between two hills worn away by a small stream. The water cascaded in a flurry down the rocks, forming a gentle flowing pool at the bottom met by the lapping tides swimming upstream. There, next to the water and built against the gulley wall, was a large house. The home was clearly built from recycled pieces of wood, cloth and metal found elsewhere on the island, but despite its odd appearance, it appeared a well-built home. As we descended down a steep path, Marshall walked out from the front door. “Welcome to our home,” he announced with his arms outstretched. Robin bounded the last fifteen metres down the path and ran up to Marshall, embracing him in a hug. “Good to have you back, kid,” he smiled. Marshall led us inside and indicated to what passed for the furniture of their front room: an old couch with no cushions, a couple of rusting folding chairs, and a few crates repurposed as seating. One small oddity I couldn’t help but notice was the way that the chairs all seemed to face broadly in one direction. No two spots sat opposite each other, instead all had a clear unobstructed view of the wall on one side of the room. “Where do we begin?” Marshall said as we all took a seat. “Let’s start with introductions,” Alessia said. “I’m Alessia, this is Ferdinand.” “I’m Marshall,” her opposite replied. “That’s Leonard, and Monica. And of course you know Robin.” He leant back in his metal chair. The old hinges creaked as he did. “So, what do you want to know?” “Why have you been following us?” I asked. “We thought you were connected to the crates coming to the islands, some extra security or something. Which leads to *my* question. Why *are* you here?” “Just exploring,” Alessia replied. “And you meeting up with Rachel?” “She approached us,” I said. However, something Marshall had said caught my attention. “You said crates. There’s multiple?” Monica answered. “They arrive every few days. Have been for the past few months. Always with the same careful procession of people, and every one taken straight up to the museum.” “So you want to know what they’re about?” “Exactly,” Marshall added. “I take it you can’t just ask?” Alessia asked. Marshall laughed. “The top lot have their secrets. Secrets they don’t want to share. And they certainly aren’t going to share with us. Rachel and her cohort, they don’t like us much.” He paused. “I mean, we don’t like them much either, but they *really* hate us.” “Why?” “Because we ask questions.” Marshall tilted his head. “We’ve been trying to figure out where the crates go,” Robin said. “But we haven’t been able to work anything out yet.” “Actually,” Marshall replied. “We may have had a bit of a breakthrough last night while you were busy getting your arm busted up.” Robin turned to Marshall. “Really?” Marshall grinned displaying a set of white teeth that seemed to reflect the light of the room back out. He repositioned himself in his chair, leaning forward to tell his story. “We were waiting for you two to come out of the museum. Rachel told us to clear out after you went in, so we did exactly what she asked - walked one minute away, turned around and came right back again. Monica went round the other side of the building, and I stayed put on the western side. I was far enough away that I couldn’t really see anything, but I just waited in silence, hoping to hear you coming out of the museum. I was there maybe twenty or thirty minutes, when suddenly I got this smell. Like... smoke.” “Smoke?” Alessia asked. “Yeah. It was soft, but there was no mistaking it. I tried to follow my nose; get a little closer. Eventually, I realized it’s coming from within the grounds of the museum. The perimeter walls were too high, but I found a log by the edge of the forest and brought it back. From there I was able to reach up and grab hold of the wall’s edge.” Marshall mimed the actions as he spoke, weaving his account and drawing us into his tale. “I hoisted myself up, lifting myself just enough to get a brief view over the wall and into the grounds on the other side. Peering down, I saw this man next to a pit. This big hole, maybe five or six meters across. I couldn’t see everything perfectly. It was getting dark and he was still a good forty metres away. But I could still see enough. One-by-one, the man was taking items out of the crate, inspecting them, and then throwing it into a fire in the pit.” “He was burning it?” I exclaimed. “Yeah. I don’t know what he was burning, or why. But there was no mistaking it. They bring those crates there to burn the contents.” “What do they need to burn?” I asked. “Who knows,” Marshall pursed his lips. “But I’d love to find out.


The coffee was weak. He added another half spoon of sugar. Now it was sweet and weak. He decided against it and set it back down on the table next to him. Meanwhile the plans had been strewn about the table in the middle of the room and the two other men in the room were leaning on them, frantically pointing and hollering. It wasn’t easy to ignore, but it was possible. He took a deep breath, until he felt the slight strain in his lungs. This deep breath induced a yawn, as he ran his fingers through his hair. He placed his hands in his suit pants pockets, leaned against the window frame that spanned from floor to ceiling, and gazed out the window. They were on the second floor, overlooking the parking lot to the north, and the small, single room water treatment plant to the west. Anywhere else you look from this room is coniferous forest, while the heavy equipment and mounds of gangue were to the south, which is not visible from this side of the facility. There was plenty of light coming through the large windows, illuminating the table and chalkboards - although it was slightly overcast. Outside, a pair of deuce-and-a-half cargo trucks with black canvas tents covering the backs turned into the site from the main access road. Often the staff in North Wing spent their breaktime in the parking lot. In the centre of the asphalt there was a green patch about five meters wide by eight meters long which was riddled with dandelions. A timber frame gazebo housing two picnic tables with empty ash trays occupied this green space. When the trucks came into sight in the small parking lot the five workers at the tables rose, one at a time, and began returning to the front door of the facility, away from the trucks. If it hadn’t been a Saturday, the picnic tables would have been filled and bustling. He turned away from the windows before the trucks had stopped. The sound of boots was drowned out by the argument, but the gunshots were not. He had made it to the other side of the room by then, having just enough time to pour the coffee down the sink in the kitchenette. With the other two now frozen silent, the three of them could hear the boots bounding up the stairs and then the screams from the mezzanine. The two men made an effort for the only door, but it was blocked by silhouettes before they could reach it. From the kitchenette, he could see the lobby through the glass door. Near the empty receptionist desk lie the security guard in a puddle of blood, his moustache dripping, his vest pulverized, and his sidearm in its holster. The door was forced open and the two men immediately had their faces pressed against the table and their hands tied by plastic straps by the first four to enter the room. Before he could open the dishwasher, he too was thrown to the ground. The mug cracked when it hit the concrete.


Hey guys, I wrote a short story that I was hoping to get any feedback/criticism on. This is my first time writing a short story and also my first time posting to Reddit, and I appreciate any feedback. As they did every Sunday, Nora brought her daughter Jill to a new place for their mommy-daughter day. Jill skipped along side her mother as they made their way towards a towering glass building. Nora knew that Jill looked forward to Sundays because she was mostly absent during the week. It's a sacrifice, but I'm doing important work. She would tell herself that while trying to justify that what she was doing was the right thing. After all, it wasn't like Jill's father was around to support them. And these weekends together would make up for the lost time during the week. The automatic glass doors swooshed open as Jill leapt through. "C'mon mommy!! Huurrrryy!" Jill was energetic, curious, and intelligent like her parents. She was only four but was already reading like a second grader. "Oooo" Jill coo'd as she stared at a sphere hovering above a small pool of water. "Where are we today mommy?" "This is a One World Science Exhibition honey." It was after the last World War that the leaders of the world realized our eventual fate. Whether it was because they had finally smartened up or because nearly a tenth of the world's population had died, they finally decided to cooperate. Military funding worldwide was redirected towards science and technology. Together, the smartest minds in the world would come together and invent ways for us to flourish as a species. This was the start of the One World movement. A movement uniting the world towards one goal; longer healthier lives for all people, regardless of race or religion. One World Science and Technology Exhibition's opened up all around the world to showcase the remarkable breakthroughs that were being made and to foster a sense of unity. "There are places like this all over the world honey. It's like a celebration of what we as humans are capable of imagining." Jill's eyes darted from one exhibit to the next, eagerly bouncing in anticipation. "Stay with me, Jilly." Nora took her hand and led her to each exhibit, explaining the basic idea behind the invention and how it would benefit humanity. In the distance something caught Jill's eye. Her mother could tell that she wasn't listening to her anymore. Jill was silent. She stared intently down a dimly lit hallway. At the end of the hallway was a girl, barely Jill's age. She stood staring back for a moment and then walked around the corner. "I see you've noticed the main exhibit. Let's go take a look." Nora led Jill towards the hallway and around the corner. Against the wall was a cylindrical glass tank filled with water. And floating in the water was the a little girl. The same little girl that Jill had just seen in the hallway. "What.. who is she?" "This is Summer. She is the whole reason the One World Exhibits exist" Before Nora could continue explaining, Jill whispered, "She's lonely." "What was that honey?" "She's lonely and she doesn't understand what's going on." "Well I imagine she would be quite lonely Jilly" Nora knew Jill's imagination could run wild. "No mommy, she's telling me..." "Jill, Summer can't talk. She's been in here for over hundred years and no one has heard her talk." "But mommy..." "Listen Jilly..." Nora led her right in front of the glass tank. She took her hand and placed it on the glass. "Summer isn't alive. Do you know what that means?" "Yes mommy" "She died a long time ago and her body was preserved using technology." Jill was silent. Staring past Nora and straight into the blueish glow of the tanks water. But something was wrong. Nora turned around. Her eyes went wide as they stared straight at Summer's lifeless face. She was such a beautiful young girl. Much too young to have had her life taken from her. Her features were soft and her skin a light blueish gray. "Mommy..." Nora stood entranced by Summers face. "Mommy... she's not dead" Her eyes opened. And Nora screamed.


Here I am, smack dab in the middle of an ocean I can’t even name, and you've got me tied up tighter than a tiger shark. I know you're thinking I’m some lousy kid from the Rocks, but give me a chance! I can explain why it ain't my fault there's dead bodies all over your deck. After a week straight of the shiver-sweats, I was finally starting to feel myself yesterday afternoon, so I came up here, right to this spot. I like feeling the salt-spray on my face and watching how the blue waters sparkle. Back home, our water is grey and stank like rot. You’d have to boil it for hours before drinking, and bathing in it makes you dirtier than before you washed. “I’m only stretching my legs after the fever broke,” I told this guy with huge muscles as he moved crates across the deck. “I took off in the middle of the day without telling a soul, and my family definitely thinks I’m dead. Foolish and dead. If they didn’t blindly follow the clan, they’d know I was lucky and alive.” I laughed. He grunted. I couldn’t help but think how nice it was to finally have someone else to talk to. Do you know how miserable it is being stuck in a cramped little cabin for days, your teeth click-clackin' off each other hard enough to make your jaw hurt? And it’s not like I had a lot of people to talk to back home in the first place. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is for a boy like me to get a word in where I’m from, not being all grown up and stuff. Talk at the wrong time and someone will just smack the back of your head. And that's if you're lucky. Sorry, where was I? Oh yeah, Muscles. “They couldn’t have guessed I’d be so lucky,” I told him, “because my lack of learning lessons, no matter how much they beat the tar out of me, ain’t nothing compared to my never-ending itch to explore. These gifts dropped me right into Ora’s lap. “You couldn’t know her,” I continued, “but Ora is this tiny, wrinkly old thing who’s been sweating away in a little garden, tucked back behind the old oaks miles from my family’s land. The look on her face when she found me in one of her game traps! Instead of gobbling me up like the stories papa would tell about the dangerous cannibals living beyond our safe zones, she made me herbal tea served alongside some strange little biscuits." You know, she did stare at my eyes too. Kinda like you’re doing right now. I mean, everyone does it, but everyone else says stuff like, "What's wrong with you?" and, "Are you cursed, Kamat? " Ora just peered at them for a few seconds and never asked me about the different colors. So after I said that, Muscles started struggling with a soggy crate, and I ran over to shove my hands under the bags that were starting to slip out. “She never actually talks, though, not a single word,” I said to him, “but she speaks with her hands. I can understand her pretty easy because before I was born, all the girls in my clan started going deaf as babies, and they began using a similar set of signs to teach them, and us boys had to learn it too, of course. I’m pretty quick at it, even for how young I am, though I can’t always understand what she tries to tell me. When she introduced herself that first day, the motions she made meant nothing to me. She kept flicking her little finger up and sideways. Looked like gibberish. She couldn’t spell so I guessed names until she threw her hands into the air. I’m usually a pretty good guesser. “‘Well you look like a Nita, or Aretta, or a, or a...Ora, hey that’s kinda nice,’ I told her, not even serious, but the way her eyes bugged out while reading my lips made me laugh until tears rolled down my cheeks. The name stuck. “Anyway,” I went on, “in between retelling some wild stories, she taught me how to make the tea and made me promise to come back every month since she liked having the company. Then she'd send me home with a sack full of dried herbs and a pouch of sweet crystals. She warned me there wasn’t enough to share, so I’d have to keep the whole thing a secret. Super easy since I’m real good with secrets! She was so nice, I’d sneak away to see her pretty often. We’d work in her garden together, taking breaks so she could share more stories or ask me about everyone in my family, but she always made sure to send me back before the moon rose.” We set the crate down with a thud, and as I stepped back, the man leaned against the railing, wiping his brow with a yellow rag as the ship rolled on a large swell. Looking down, he only seemed to notice me then. Tucking the rag into a pocket, he reached up, wiggled his fingers in both ears, and shrugged at me. Behind me, laughter boomed, and I turned to see a mean-mugging, skinny man with an even skinnier red beard. His cheeks were gross and peeling. I’m pretty sure he’s the guy I was always seeing drinking and being rowdy with the rest of your crew. I bet you can see where this is going, but I’ll keep laying it all out for you. “Dev deaf, son. Got 'is eardrums blowed out by a cannon blast asa boy, but you kept on chat’rn his ear off, mebbe ten swells o' more. Wasn’t gonna find nothin’ bettah tuh do but watch ‘n see if he’d step right on ya and squish ya skinny ass,’ he said at me through a chewed reed and several big, thick teeth. “Look at ya, still ‘n one piece an’ helpful tuh boot.” Even though he smiled real wide, I couldn’t tell if he was teasing me or looking for trouble, so I stayed quiet. I should probably tell you that I was pretty embarrassed about the whole thing too. He frowned at me, coming real close to my face and whispered, “So much tuh say till someone starts talkin’ back, huh?” I started to back away when the bell clanged from the other side of the ship. I shrugged at him before running off to get a bowl of chow while it was still hot. I’m sure you know how slimy it gets with all those limp onions and clumps of fat once it starts to cool. I could hear Red laughing again, but I didn’t care. My stomach was louder. Thinking about it now, I wish I would’ve just stayed in my cabin to avoid this whole stinkin’ mess. You know how I said I had those fevers? I wasn’t sick or nothing. I was shaking off the last bits of being poisoned. Like I was telling Muscles, er, Dev, even though he didn’t actually hear a word I said, Ora gave me those herbs, and the last time I saw her, she was worried looking and fessed up to the truth. She used to be Kwento, part of my clan, but she ran away when she found out the elders were poisoning all the children with some drink made from scorpion venom. Turns out, what they called medicine was actually making everyone sick, but they told us it would make us stronger and tougher to survive hard living on the Rocks. I guess they did it to keep us from leaving, to control us. It seems to hurt girls the most, since the poison makes nearly all of them deaf. Ora tried to convince her brothers to come with her, promising she’d find a way to keep everyone alive, but they were too scared and turned their backs on her. No one knew how smart she was, how she knew all about the plants that grew in the Rocklands, especially herbs like the ones in the bag you’re holding, Captain. You’re supposed to make tea with them. They don't fix the deafness, but it cleans the blood or something so you won't get sick anymore. After telling me all this, she gave me enough herbs to wean myself from the venom and signed to me, "Kamat, it’s time to leave. Get on a ship and leave the Rocks for good." She hugged me so tight, tears spilling from her eyes. Standing there so close to her face, it was only then I noticed, behind the cloudiness from her being so old, her eyes kinda looked an awful lot like mine. I really miss her, you know, I think she’s the only person in the world who ever cared about me. Maybe I can go back some day when I’m bigger and knock someone out if they try to poison me again. I could see if she might leave with me. Anyway, about this whole mix-up, I went to sleep last night and woke up to some strange sounds, but I couldn’t see anything since it was so dark. I tried to lay real still and listen for the noise again, but I must have fallen back asleep. I’m still really tired from the fevers, you know? When I got up this morning, all my bags were tossed around and hanging open like someone rifled through them. Red must have thought the bag of herbs was filled with tobacco and stole them from me. How was I to know he’d roll a bunch of smokes with it and pass them around to half the crew. I swear to Gamab, I didn’t even know it’d kill you if you smoked it. And that is why, even though there are a bunch of dead bodies all over your ship, you don't really have to toss me off the plank.


Every morning starts by cursing the alarm. He had chosen a soft ringtone, and learned to hate it dearly. The early hours consisted of automatized rituals, perfect routine his mind represented with static pictures. Dogs out, breakfast in, shower on, and off to work. For transportation, he had a bike. The old rusty would complain when braking. It took him twelve minutes to get to the station. Nine avenues west, eighteen streets south. Go under the bridge, and there it was the train. Departing without him. He was late, once again. He would have to wait ten minutes for the next one, once again. He would then travel thirty minutes to the building. Once again. “Good morning” he would say, and proceed to hide behind his desk. The office was as blue today as it was yesterday. A pile of paper on the table. A computer asking for information. “Produce Acceptance Report” flickering green on the screen. Breathing and silence. Boredom and work. The end of the day would eventually come. After punching and going out, he would think “another day gone”. He would then mirror his morning routine; maybe today he would make it before six. His dogs would greet him with enthusiasm, it never failed to give him a smile. Dogs out, dinner in, and to bed at last. But not before marking with an X the day on his calendar. Since each day he counts as if waiting for something, as if the future holds whatever he is searching. Lying awake, he argues with God. Is this the end, is this his destiny? Could it be that his dreams are produced by caprice? If this is his life, why does he beg for death? Why is his mind sanely insane? A figure materializes in his mind, interrupting the discussion. Imposing giant, frightening and wise. It knows the truth, not only his, but every truth of life. He looks at the figure, and the figure looks back. “What meaning has my life?” he manages to ask. But when the immense presence prepares to talk, only a soft ringtone would come out of its mouth. A soft ringtone that he learned to hate. Every morning starts by cursing the alarm. * Edit: thanks to MC\_Preacher. * Edit: decided to write it in spanish and then translate it, since spanish is my first language.