NORTHBOUND By Jer Long/mrmarch1@live.com “Hey!” I bellowed. The exasperated man on the step behind shoved me aside as he shot off the escalator, jolting me. My nose inches from the polished granite floor of 30 th Street Station, someone grabbed my arm and set me right on my feet. “Are you okay?” The tall god with scintillating silver eyes adjusted my disheveled coat. “You sat across from me.” “Come,” he said and guided me away from the crowd of petulant pedestrians. From nearly every track, a steady flow of frustrated travelers filed into the taxi queues of the station. “Seems ours wasn’t the only snowbound train on the tracks.” “Rushing to stand still, after hours on Amtrack, seems a futile act in the wee hours of the morning.” His smile was wide and his shoulders broad and I, a hair shorter than the epaulets on his tweed jacket, felt small and insignificant standing before such handsomeness. “Where are you headed?” Sincerity emanated from him as naturally as heat from a flame. “Old City,” I said, noting the snow drifts grazing the tops of the taxis on the opposite side of the glass entrance. “Suppose I’ll hoof it from here. Doesn’t seem that far on the map.” The stranger leaned against the base of the towering war memorial, Angel of the Resurrection, that I surmised to be at least thirty feet high. Gesturing to the magnificent, terrifying bronzed angel lifting a dead soldier from the flames of war, he announced proudly. “My namesake.” “Michael?” “I suppose Mother was praying for an angel.” “I’m Danial.” I offered my hand and he pumped it in his enormous paw. “You’re an angel too.” “I am?” “God is my judge.” “What?” “That’s what Danial means.” Heavy on my shoulder, I sat my bag on the floor. “I knew we were in for the long haul when they harnessed the snowplow to the engine in Baltimore.” “To think that I raced to station, fearing you’d leave without me.” He patted the pedestal reverently. “Never fails to move me. Passed by it a million times since I was a boy. Still.” Sensitive. I’d misjudged him, written him off as an entitled playboy. “You grew up here?” “Philly born and bred. I could walk this city blindfolded.” He tapped on the statue’s base. “As a matter of fact, my dad’s name is here.” I stepped closer to read the plaque. “In the memory of the men and women of the Pennsylvania Railroad who laid down their lives for our country 1941-1945.” “He was killed in Iwo Jima.” “I’m sorry.” “Fifty years ago, this year.” He ran his hand through his silver-white mane of waves. “He hadn’t the foggiest idea I was on my way.” “Two strangers passing in the night.” “That’s how I’ve imagined it!” He slung my bag over his shoulder as if we were traveling companions. “Ready to face the music?” Usually independent, I surprised myself and promptly accepted his generosity. “Can you point the way to Old City?” Tucking my scarf into the throat of my coat, he arched his brow. “It may be only inches on a map, but in this blizzard, you’ll be Frosty, the snowman, by the time you cross Independence Park.” Our height and build varying greatly in the reflection in the glass door, we appeared to be two separate species. He tugged on my sleeve. “Hold on.” Gesturing for me to follow, he scurried to a bank of telephones in the adjoining hall. “I’ll try the Latham Hotel. I know the manager. It’s a few blocks from here.” Why help me? Bored? Lonely? Attracted? Dream on Danial. Not in this lifetime. “Answering machine. Accepting no quests. Kitchen closed.” He shook his head. “Sorry.” “You tried.” Lopsided, his grin was charmingly bashful. “I’m your best last chance.” “Best but never last.” “If you don’t mind sleeping under a My Little Pony comforter, my daughter’s room is free for the night. She’s visiting her granny in Boston.” A married man . There it was, hanging like a bruised banana from Carmen Miranda’s Tootie-Fruity-Hat. I should’ve known better. No way he was gay. A queen that good looking would be one stuck-up-bitch. “Are you sure?” “A raging Nor-Easterner barreling down on a city buried under three feet of snow with another foot expected by tomorrow,” he scoffed. “I can’t send you to purgatory alone.” His stride was great, and I scampered behind to keep up. A titanic gust of wind barreled down the colonnade as we bounded through the automatic doors, flattening me against the stone wall. Securing his cap’s strap under his chin, and with fatherly assurance, he clasped my mittened hand and stomped a path through the waist-high snow to Walnut Street Bridge. Skating over the slick surface of the frozen Schuylkill River, a dragon blast of cold slapped my chapped cheeks. Tugging on the flapping hems of our garments, a monster gale, his laugh shrill, snatched the stocking cap off my head. “Oh!” My ginger curls snapped at the remorseless beast. Although swathed in layers of cashmere and houndstooth, I felt nude as the cold feasted on my flesh. Diminishing visibility made it impossible to see but a few feet ahead. So, I surrendered, body and soul, to my native guide, trusting him to deliver me the spoils of salvation. Swept along the wilderness of white, trapped in a whirling dervish of swirling snow, howling, haunting, and spitting shards of glistening ice in my face, we trudged block after block against the spirited tide until the blizzard flung us into Rittenhouse Square Park. Continuing its campaign, the winter warlock, growling, spun down Walnut Street, stripping doors and streetlamps of their holiday grandeur. Standing side by side in the conciliatory calm, Michael and I gazed above us, mesmerized by the winnings of winter’s wonder. Reaching several stories to the starless, cerulean heaven, the interlocking branches of the trees, their tip-tops coifed in ivory accumulation, held a bounty of beauty in their bare, black arms. Gigantic, geometric shapes, wrapped in radiant jewel-toned lights, were scattered about the park like a child’s discarded toys. Sapphire, topaz, ruby, and emerald, their glow reflected in the iced palace we’d stumbled upon. “Enchanted,” I whispered reverently. Michael dropped my hand and walked away. The chill penetrated my glove and I shivered. A yard from me, he seemed miles from my touch. My touch . The kindness of a stranger must never be misconstrued. Never . Plain people such as I, often confused reality and fantasy. No filling in the blanks Danial DuBarry. Unimpeded by the cold, he sat on the snow pillowed bench. “Being snowbound was a favorite of mine as a boy. My speck of earth silent, swaddled in purity. My virgin land breathing a sigh of relief from the tribes of tourists trampling its history daily.” He gestured to the abandoned expanse before him. “Mine.” I wanted to ask his daughters age and if his wife had been his college sweetheart, but questions seemed totally inappropriate. So, I joined him on the bench and wallowed in the majesty of Philadelphia. “Look!” I jumped to my feet. There, planted in the center of the block, my future home stood before us, its lobby door missing its doorman. “My building. I move next week. Too bad I don’t have the keys. I could crash there.” Standing, Michael mussed my hair. “Home. Let’s get you home.” Flittering feathers of snow drifted from the sky as we tramped down the snow-blanketed Locust Street. A flicker of light caught my eye and we paused to peer into the window of the Curtis Institute of music. Its amber ambiance beckoned more than a second glance at the shimmering instruments waiting for their master’s touch. Past the Warwick Hotel we trudged, stopping to admire St. Mark’s Church, shrouded in a thick white cape, its train trailed over the iron fence, becoming one with the street. The tops of bowed evergreens, their hairy branches iced to the stone wall of the church, formed a crystal-capped tunnel through which we passed. Michael unlocked the door of an imposing brownstone, rising four stories from the frozen earth. His keys jangling, he ushered me over the threshold. “In brighter days, the entire house was ours.” Transfixed on the domed center hall’s muraled ceiling, festive with frolicking cherubs, I climbed the staircase behind him. “I retain a modest condo on the top floor.” I gasped when we entered his circus of classical antiquities. We removed our boots, and he hung our coats on carved gargoyle hooks in the vestibule. “Relax. Make yourself at home.” Striking a match, he lit the crumpled wads of paper stuffed between the symmetrically stacked logs in the fireplace. The stone surround featured Elgin-styled friezes and was topped with a rough-cut slab of marble that showcased a collection of unframed oil paintings. “A glass of white?” He asked. “Please.” In his form-hugging jeans and cream fisherman’s sweater, he padded across the beaten oak floor in his nubby socks, his pale mop of hair in sharp contrast to his tawny tan. Long limbed and trim waisted, at fifty, he was far fitter than the thirty-two-year-old me. Sinking into the luxurious down of the tufted Chesterfield sofa, I gloried in the glow of the smoldering blue flame gorging on the maple kindling. A treasure trove of eighteenth and nineteenth century chairs, upholstered in sumptuous cobalt, jade, and crimson silks surrounded the room, whose walls displayed a gallery of art. On the side table, a photo of him and a lovely girl in a gilded frame was the single clue to his personal life. “So, what brings you to Philly?” Michael asked after his second glass of wine. “I’ve been invited to join an interior design firm. An offer I couldn’t refuse.” “Sounds promising.” “I was happily settled in D.C., working with a lovely designer, my friend, Constance, but she retired and well,” I moaned. “She arranged this job for me.” “Someone to watch over me,” he sang sweetly, but not very well. Smoke snaked into the fireplace flue and my heartbeat quickened. “It’s been me and no one else my entire life. Dream though I might, pray though I did, Mr. Right never galloped into Camelot on his stellar white stallion.” He stretched his long arms across the back of the sofa and uncrossed his legs, resting his knee against mine. “Do you travel for your job?” I glanced at his taunt jawline and admired the graceful slop of his nose. A sprig of grey hair ventured beyond his rolled sweater collar and the light from the flickering flame licked his muscular neck. “I’m a pharmaceutical rep. From Richmond to Boston, I ride the rails. Everyone needs drugs.” “Your wife doesn’t mind?” A blink of light from above caught my attention and I looked up into the bronzed Empire chandelier hanging from the center of an enormous skylight, its crystals tingling like ice cubes in a Manhattan. Though dusted with snow, the clear center of the glass panes, brightened by moonlight, presented an ideal view of the falling snow, soothing and silver and pure. “She divorced me eons ago. I get Alina one weekend a month and for two weeks in the summer.” By the time we’d polished off the second bottle, he’d draped his arm around my shoulder. I watched the ash smoldering in the hearth and froze when he took my chin in his hand. tenderly, he brushed his lips against mine. I buzzed from head to toe. He gazed up as if waiting for a sign from God. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve never...” Pulling him close, I kissed him. A testament to tribal instinct, his romantic artistry bloomed bolder with exploration. * The sun cutting through the semi-parted blinds teased me awake. I kissed my snoring prince on the forehead and stumbled out of bed. Coffee. Coffee . Belting his too long terry robe around my waist, I tip-toed over the chilled kitchen tiles. Careful not to make a sound, I searched high and low for any form of caffeine. Nothing. Wrapped in my woolens, I bounded out the front door. “Wow!” The sharp rays of sunlight, reflecting off the white blinded me momentarily. I rubbed my weary eyes and plodded through the slushy street, searching for a coffee shop or café. Closed. Closed . Even the quaint Violin shop was bolted, its shades pulled low. I waved at the doorman at my building, but he didn’t return my gesture. Too busy I suppose. There know I passed a Wawa near here . The symphony of drips, trickles, and pings of water rushing through pipes and gutters cheered me, reminding me that spring was near. An elderly man opened his creaking door, snatched his newspaper, grunted, and slammed it shut. Across the street, a young woman clicked her kitchen light on. Touching her fingers on the counter, she arched her back and stretched her lithe limbs in opposite directions. The sound of a window sliding echoed down the street. A young boy leaned out of a third-floor window and gleefully batted an enormous icicle with a plastic shovel until it broke off, tumbling to its death. “Oh!” I’d bumped into a pop-up newsstand. A round, bundled bull of a man was riffling through a stack of magazines. “Good morning,” I trilled, but he didn’t return my greeting. Isn’t this the city of brotherly love ? Bam! He slammed a stack of papers onto the counter and snipped the plastic straps binding them together. The bundle of newspapers metamorphosized from its chrysalis, blossoming into a neat pile of the hometown rag, The Philadelphia Inquirer. Its front-page headline slapped me hard, and I shook in my boots. 30 Perish in Amtrack Disaster! A graph, headshots of the deceased, covered three-fourths of the page. There, smack-dab in the center, smiling big and bright in black and white, were pictures of Michael and me. I stumbled back into the pop-up, rocking the booth. The counter bobbed cock-eyed, and the flock of newspapers took flight, fluttering across the snowscape. “What the hell!” The hefty newsstand man barked as he scurried to retrieve them. Dizzy, I grabbed hold of the church’s iron fence to steady myself. High-pitched, the unnerving sound of metal scraping metal startled me, and I pressed my palms over my ears. Harpooning my knee, intense agony buckled me. “Help! Help!” I cried out as flames engulfed me. Scooping up handfuls of snow, I smashed it into my sizzling face. An elderly woman seemed to make eye contact but hustled away when I approached. Humming an unfamiliar tune, a young man in a hurry bumped me and I tumbled into to a holly tree. Penetrating my bones, the mezzo-soprano-screech of brakes punctured my eardrums as I scurried through the tunnel of thawing evergreens, sparks spraying me from either side. A colossal force barreled over me, smashing me into the ice. I pushed up and the torn flap of skin on my arm wavered. My lungs scorched, squeaks and chirps were all I could muster as I crawled out of the shaft. The lower extremities of my broken body refused to obey. So, using my charred hands as feet, I dragged myself over the pristine purity, praying I’d reach Michael’s stoop before I collapsed. Michael! Michael! I reached for the glimmering brass knob as darkness swallowed me whole. * “Michael,” I whispered, my voice raspy. “How long was I asleep?” “I stopped counting the minutes.” My head in his lap, I glanced at the promising flames waltzing over the charred bark. “I had the most God-awful nightmare.” I sat up and he rubbed my back. “It wasn’t a dream, Danial.” “I don’t understand.” “The paper boy delivered The Inquirer after you left.” He closed his eyes. “I remembered every terrifying moment of the crash.” His cheeks were wet. “I’d do it all again for you.” My mind reeled with revelation. This is it? Quivering like a bowl of Jell-O, my insides shuddered. “Should we check in somewhere?” He grinned. “Except for my daughter, I don’t care. You’ve unshackled me. I had no idea it could be like this.” I gazed at him, unable to grasp or accept what I’d hoped he’d meant. “I love you, Danial DuBarry.” “I’ve waited my entire life to hear those words.” I took his hand and pressed it to my chest. “Feel that?” A steady stream of tears flowed from my weary eyes. “I love you.” Snuggling together, we gazed through the crystal-clear skylight at the coral striated clouds sailing across the periwinkle heaven. Free. I too was free. Loved. I was loved. “I’m not afraid,” I said and smiled. Michael kissed my forehead, my chin, my lips. “Mother used to quote from the Bible when she was low.” He traced my face with his finger. “The sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night.” I tugged gently on his earlobe, and he rested his head against mine.


What my mother had told me that day remained an unshakeable pillar of my life long after she was gone. “You can never, never tell anyone”, she emphasized in a gentle voice. We were leaving the park at sunset, and her face was bright and loving that day, a memory of us I would go back to now and then. “And you can’t use it again. Promise me. I’m sorry things have to be this way”, she had added. We never spoke about it again and I went on having a normal, relatively blissful childhood and adolescence. Sometimes during tests at school, it occurred to me that I could just stop time, browse books, cheat off of my colleagues to make the perfect paper for myself, and then get back to reality and into academic success. I thought about stealing and then pausing time just enough to cover all my tracks. I made elaborate plans about all the ways I could be richer, smarter, and more successful if only I’d use my ability from time to time. But I promised I wouldn’t. When I met Nikki, I knew immediately she was someone I wanted to be with. She was beautiful, insightful, and warm. At that moment, I was obsessed with the American show The Office, and we met in the corniest way, at a sitcom pub trivia. It was really sweet, and we started a relationship three months after that night. I had a wonderful spring, high on the sweet optimism that comes with feeling in love. Things went fantastic for more than a year, and all this happened by just being a regular guy; time flowed just as fast for me as it did for other people. I felt so lucky. I introduced Nikki to my dad and my aunt, whom I was close to. They both loved her, stressing how happy they were for me, adding that my mother would have been so proud of me. I was in my early 20s when she lost the fight to cancer, but I had made peace with her sickness and held a lot of love for her. The one thing that remained unresolved was that she was the only person who knew my secret - the whole story of what had happened to me. I had a vague memory of a wonderful, long afternoon at the park. I must have run for ages through and around the leafy grove sheltering the playground. The climbing walls, the lookout towers, the sand pit - they were all props for my imagination. My mother was reading her book on a bench, a big sunhat covering her head. A moment of serene, uncomplicated childhood happiness. I don’t remember what happened next; every time I try to think about it, my mind freezes. I remember starting to feel sweaty. Tired. Frightened; terrified later. My mother was just reading her book and I’d sob, later wail next to her. Eternities would pass and she would not turn the page. The next thing I remember is her holding me with teary, worried eyes, reassuring me, squeezing me in her arms. And then asking me to promise I’d never do that again. When Nikki suggested moving in together, just one thing was holding me back - my occasional enjoyment of gambling. I had a good job, so of course I was playing money I could to spare. After a more substantial win, I’d force myself to take a break and invest in something else for a little while. I wouldn’t linger in a casino after taking a bigger loss but rather call it “not my day” and move on. I’d schedule my indulgences, which made me feel in control of my guilty pleasure. Predictably - in hindsight - the satisfaction eventually stopped being enough. One thing that changed is that I met Jimmy and Rufus, two truly-odd guys who introduced me to their underground poker network. The nights playing there were unique, full of surprises, the mix of people lured there really bizarre. Some players looked like real gentlemen, most likely rich conservatives who could not take the shame of their family finding out about their little hobby. They played alright but had moments when their fingers just couldn’t resist betting a huge amount after having folded a few hands. I took one of these guys’ fancy watches at some point. Some folks looked utterly broke, a hunger to win in their eyes. I found out the hard way they were the most dangerous players. I tried not to speak much during games, even though people would get drunk and in each other’s faces. Jimmy and Rufus would try to haze me, and tell people how they rescued me from the slot machines. Later in the night, they’d cuss at each other loudly, and I would try to cash in the distraction of the table and bluff boldly. One of those nights, I found myself experiencing the panic of a very tense moment. At first, I was happy, ecstatic - I was finally going to propose to Nikki. And since I had a couple of hours to kill, I reckoned a quick game of poker couldn’t hurt - it might as well be my last one. But with happiness often comes foolishness, and in a moment of impulsivity, I found myself raising the bet by tossing the engagement ring into the pot. The two gentlemen in expensive suits changed their countenance - they had taken notice of how lavish and expensive the ring was. Rufus and Jimmy also realised it and soon enough everybody was deep into their cards, eyeing up the sparkling piece of jewellery I had planned to give to Nikki that evening. I was about to lose the hand. I had perhaps thought that playing the ring would be like getting a sign from the universe that our marriage was meant to be. Or that the fear of near-losing the engagement, symbolically and literally, would only make me want it more. Instead, I was sweating heavily under my shirt, waiting for the dealer to put down the last card, imagining my savings of two years end up in Jimmy’s clammy hands. He’d most likely pawn the ring and lose the money within a month. I got wasted afterward and hours passed in a haze. I went outside of the basement to puke in the alley. It was still dark, but I had a vague feeling, like a taste in my mouth, that the sun was about to rise. I took my phone to check the time in disbelief. Twelve missed calls from Nikki; of course, we had dinner plans. I had picked a romantic, intimate restaurant to pop the question at. I imagined her waiting for me all alone in a beautiful dress, trying to keep herself from staring at the entrance door or at her phone. Being annoyed at first, ordering herself a cocktail. Getting worried after an hour, even more so after two. She had sent me many messages, some of them paragraphs long. I was too intoxicated to make out much of the blurry screen. I felt sad, sorry. So, in another stupid, impulsive moment, I decided to follow Jimmy and get back the ring. I didn’t have a plan while walking behind him. He was moving slowly, in a drunken stumble. After a few minutes, he turned around in a narrow alley close to the canal. Startled, he muttered something and stepped towards me. Without any warning, a pain stronger than anything I had ever felt before nearly knocked me to the ground. I closed my eyes, surrendering. When I opened them, Jimmy was just standing there, one drip of saliva in the corner of his mouth as he was just about to press his lips back together. A definitive, all-encompassing silence struck my ears. Even the darkness felt thicker. I stepped forward to make sure I wasn’t under the spell too. No, I had cast the spell. And I had broken my mother’s promise. I opened Jimmy’s jacket and found the ring in his inner pocket, along with a couple of hundreds folded negligently. I hesitated to take them. It felt strange, unnatural to touch this human being in this state. His body was all vulnerable, petrified in front of my eyes. I left the bills; my fingers didn’t want to linger. I stuffed the ring deep into my pocket and put myself in a natural position, a few steps away from him. Now I could just give Jimmy some drunk excuse and leave quickly. He’d think the ring fell out of his pocket, and I could rush home and make things up to Nikki. I rehearsed what I was going to say, and sought out the quickest way out of that alley. My heart was pounding, and I was ready to unfreeze time. But nothing happened. I stood still and waited, imagining all my thoughts focused on putting time back into motion. But nothing happened. I began thinking of my mom, asking her to help me. To forgive me for breaking my word. To turn things back to normal. But nothing happened. I started walking home, away from the canal and into the main streets. If Jimmy ever confronted me about the ring, I’d mock him about getting so wasted and I’d walk away. Yeah, it was an airtight plan - it’s not like he could go around and tell people that one moment I was in the alley with him and the next I vanished from in front of his eyes. I’d go to sleep, get back to reality in the morning, and sort everything out. On the main road, the entire world was holding its breath. I fought hard to keep my cool. I was like an alien walking through a museum documenting 21st-century London. All cars were stuck in place, people minding their own lives completely frozen as if sitting for a painting. In the blink of an eye, they could all spring back to life, filling the vacuum with engines roaring, radio, and late-night chatter in front of the pub. I’d always thought I’d find such a moment of silence, of shelter from the undeniable passing of time, comforting, healing. I’d longed secretly for it my entire life. But walking down the streets, the only heartbeat in a world stopped cold, an immense burden was weighing on my chest. Like in a dream, I started remembering what my mother had explained to me. “It’s a great gift, a wonder. It can make the difference between misery and bliss, between life and death. It can make you feel like the world is in the palm of your hand. It’s what makes it so tempting”, she sighed. She then looked down, light leaving her face for a moment. “Once you freeze time, you can’t just unfreeze it. Time simply picks a moment to carry on. Could be days, weeks - and nothing changes, Tony. You just wander, the world in a light sleep. Years, decades could pass.” She teared up, holding my hand. “There was no way to tell.” I felt a knot in my throat. I turned more vigilant with my surroundings, making sure time wouldn’t just move and have a car run me over. I began running, panting, thinking if I could just make it home, somewhere safe, somewhere I could collect my thoughts, everything would be normal again. In front of my house, a man was blocking the entrance, with one of his feet already outside, his body pushing against the door. I had to squeeze between him and the wall, fighting hard not to touch his inanimate body. I looked at his face from up close and gazed into his brown hollow eyes under stuffy dark eyebrows. A cold shiver crawled up my back. Upstairs, I jumped into a steaming shower. I tried to wash myself off the spell, off the memory of the night. Back in my room, I put the dormant clock next to my pillow, ensuring it would be the first thing I saw when I woke up. I laid down and imagined the light of sunrise warming my cheeks, the hand of the clock happily ticking away again. But I couldn’t rest. The exhaustion started to wear off, but my body never drifted away into sleep. I stared at the light green ceiling, my mind consuming itself. I went through all my memories, dreams, fears, remote corners of my mind. I felt I could suddenly remember everything, like I could just rewind through the motions of my life. I waited more, and more, my eyes glued upward in a moment that stretched infinitely, but the clock remained still at 5.35 am. Eventually, I got out of bed and decided I mustn’t despair. The situation was out of my control, and it would be sane to make the best of it, with caution. I crafted a letter for Nikki apologizing, explaining everything. Everything except my secret. I cleaned my apartment. Read books from cover to cover. Put all my affairs in order. There was no way to tell how much time had passed, so I found myself often counting one Mississippi, two Mississippi , ..., to create an inner sense of time. For what I can only guess was five weeks, I kept on doing safe things that would make my life after unpausing so much better. Learning, working, creating. I missed the sun. I never slept, ate or drank, but my body didn’t seem to care. I was always careful not to put myself in a position to get arrested or into trouble if everybody suddenly woke up. One night, in a dark corner of a bus station, I saw a man trying to harass a woman. I grabbed his body by the handle of his backpack and shoved his face on the ground. I walked away, revolted. It occurred to me that freezing time was the biggest gamble I could make. And just like with gambling, I felt compelled to risk more. I started stealing things, my heart pounding, expecting time to resume in an epic moment of karma. I was ready to get out of there; planned beforehand so the crimes could not be traced back to me. I broke into houses in the posh part of the city, and spent time in their swimming pools and jacuzzi, laid on their comfortable mattresses. I kept myself away from people. One night, I broke into the National Aquarium and jumped in the penguin water tank. I couldn’t tell if I was breathing or not. I swam around, staring at those wonderful creatures I’d always found so cute. For a moment, I felt happy. But despite my best efforts to remain contained and grounded, the more time my mind passed in that void, my thoughts became riskier, my inner world lonelier. Walking through familiar places, all I saw was a cruel photograph of a life I used to have. Even Nikki was starting to feel like a stranger. I broke into her home; she was frozen on her sofa, watching a show with the lights off; her phone, and a bottle of wine on the coffee table. I cuddled next to her. I couldn’t dare touch her, violate her trust. I just stood there, sometimes talking to myself, sometimes crying, sometimes ruminating over lies I could tell her about how I ended up inside her flat. One time, I put on a T-shirt of hers, its smell of her shampoo making me sob, and tried to hug myself. Having Nikki’s ghostly company helped for a while. I’d go outside, try to get back into my hobbies or work, and then come back to her place, and sit next to her like we were watching a movie together. Were things going to be the same ever again? Things will, but you won’t, a thought in my mother’s voice responded. I felt angry at her for not having warned me better. Maybe she had hoped I would forget all about it, that it would be safer for me that way. Or maybe no matter what, it was inevitable for me to fall onto this path. I wondered if she had frozen time herself when she’d heard her diagnostic, make sure she could say she lived before it was time to go. My mind became more fragile. I’d go on top of buildings and scream my lungs out in the void, no sound ever returning to my ears. I couldn’t let go of the feeble hope that time would move on once again. If I did, I worried something in me would shatter uncontrollably, and I would do unspeakable things. Or kill myself, if it was even possible to die. I felt decades had passed, my life in solitude accounting now more than my life as just another human being on Earth. I had waited more to start living than I’d actually lived. After a while, I broke down completely and isolated myself in Nikki’s tiny bathroom. I crouched down with the lights turned off and rested my head against the tub. My memories had long become too painful to go through. I started voiding my mind. Waiting. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. The sink faucet was leaking, the dripping sound of water piercing my eardrum like a Chinese water torture. Five Mississippi, six Mississippi, ... with each count my forehead lightly bumping into the cold marble - the smallest movement to remind the universe I was still there. Nine Mississippi, ten Mississippi... * “Tony, what are you doing here?!” ... two hundred thousand and twenty-seven Mississippi... “What happened to you?! Your head is bleeding.” A pair of warm hands grabbed me gently. Their perfume swept through me, like an electric impulse, a reverberation of a long-forgotten memory. “Tony, come up with me, let’s get you to a hospital. Poor thing, you must have been lying here for hours.”


Marnie opens the blinds and the sunshine is so dazzling that she has to shield her eyes. There hasn’t been much sun for months and as she looks outside she sees the ravages of winter in the garden. The lavender looks like it might not bounce back this year and there are no signs of the tulips yet. She wonders how many of them will make it as the squirrels were extra tenacious last fall. Still, there might be a few hardy ones that survived and Marnie says a little silent prayer for their welfare. It was Claire that had the natural flare for gardening; everything she touched seemed to flourish. Marnie learned to love digging around in their patch of earth but she never had the gift for it. Even as the gardening books that she had inherited from Claire stood on their shelves gathering dust, Marnie knew that Claire had never read them cover-to-cover. They were mostly there for inspiration especially in the winter months when the garden was just a thick blanket of white as far as the eye could see. But it was exactly what the eye couldn’t see that Claire had found so exhilarating. With the winter months stretching before them, the yard covered in snow and the garden a hard frozen place, she knew that this was where the crocuses slept in the deep, waiting for the first breath of spring. But now Marnie didn’t have that same exhilaration about the coming of spring. Without Claire the warmer months stretched before her like an endless fog of duty and obligation. The garden beds had to be cleared of leaves and debris and then maybe she might start to feel some kind of stirring but she wasn’t sure that she was feeling up to it. Even though she had finally hired someone to clear the snow from the driveway, a task she had usually tackled on her own, the winter had taken its toll on her. At first it was just little things, like forgetting why she had entered a room and then forgetting appointments even though they were tidily entered on her calendar. Now, she had to carry around a notebook that had all of the tasks for the day written down in sequence so that she wouldn’t get muddled, but even then she still had to make sure that she knew where the book was and then of course she had to actually look at it. She hates to complain, there is never any use in it, but she is starting to feel overwhelmed much of the time. It was the loneliness really that did it. When Claire had been there she would have reminded her of things: Have you turned the oven off? Did you put the wet clothes into the dryer? Have you taken your pills? But without Claire even these small tasks seemed to overwhelm her. Who cared if the wet clothes made it into the dryer today or tomorrow? As long as she didn’t burn the house down the oven could stay on all day and in the winter she welcomed its warmth. She didn’t really think her pills were doing much, but she tried to keep up with taking them anyway. It was almost as if she heard Claire’s voice. “Come on love, you’ve got to give them a chance don’t you? The doctor knows best, doesn’t he?” But the doctor didn’t know best in the end. At least not for Claire. Flowering shrubs had always been the centerpiece of the garden; Claire had made them her specialty. “Once they’re planted they will yield years and years of beautiful fragrance and colour. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.” And it was true that Marnie had a burst of joy every year when the lilacs bloomed and the whole house filled with their fragrance. And then came the mock orange and the flowering almond and there was one fragrant delight after another until their blooms faded and the more hardy summer plants burst into flame. But it was those shrubs that Claire loved the most. “They give both beauty and fragrance so they work twice as hard as the other plants in the garden.” Marnie can’t recall which of the shrubs flowered first and in fact she could barely remember which perennials they had in the beds but she knew that there were lots of them. “Perennials are something that gives us a little hope each year,” Claire had said. “Because even though they fade every year, they almost always come back for more.” Marnie is sorely missing Claire’s optimism but these days she is missing her in so many ways she can barely stand it. Some days she feels as if she is only half a person without Claire and when she thinks about that it actually makes her chuckle. “I’m not even half a person now with my faculties fading. Would that make me one quarter of a person I wonder?” Marnie reminisces about when they lived out in the countryside and the magnificent vegetable garden they had then. The garden had grown in long neat rows and in the fall Claire would set about preserving everything for the winter. The carrots would be yanked out of the earth, cleaned and laid into their cold sandy beds in the basement, hidden from the cat that sometimes mistook the basket for kitty litter. The potatoes would be uprooted from their little mounds, sorted and stored; tomatoes, sauced and canned; raspberries, frozen in yogurt containers and clear glass jars; peas and beans in layers in the freezer and the giant zucchini vine composting silently beside the Japanese maple tree that they had planted in the spring. There was such a sense of satisfaction then, as if the hard work of the summer was rewarded and there was comfort in the knowledge that they’d be well stocked with food for the winter months. “The garden is how I make it through the winter,” Claire had said. “A good vegetable soup will go a long way towards taking the chill out of old weary bones.” But now Marnie feels only her old weary bones and her brain that is even wearier than the rest of her body. She had thought about getting another cat for company. After Biscuit died they had been so heartbroken that they had never replaced him. Marnie remembers the damage a cat might do to Claire’s garden and now that she knows her days are also numbered it isn’t fair to take that on. Loneliness is the trophy of old age Marnie thinks. Few seek it out but too many are awarded it. She looks to the garden and almost catches a glimpse of Claire on her knees among the rosebushes. She is spreading a thick layer of dark rich manure with a trowel and she is alight with the joy of it. “There’s nothing that brings on the blooms like good old horseshit. It’s the nectar of the gods.” Although the bushes hadn’t even begun to bud, Marnie can almost see the full bright blooms of pink and then fast forwards to the fall when all the blooms are faded and gone and only the rosehips remain. She sees that nothing is meant to last forever. Not the blooms in the garden, not the blooms of youth and certainly not life itself. For a moment she is no longer lonely. She is only in silent awe as the rich fullness of it all permeates everything and a gentle spring rain begins to fall soaking deep into the roots of the apple tree coaxing it gently to blossom once again.


I live in the Swiss alps, its a beautiful place to live, each and every night I get to look down my mountain and see these orange lights keeping the snow illuminated. The stars only seem to shine on the best of nights, and even then the sight of a clear star filled sky, was rare. Someones always having a party, wether its the old people down the street kicking everyone out at 10, or the new married couple who enjoy margaritas and adult sleepovers. Im for whatever events happen in the neighborhood but nothing really gravitated me like the new girls party, we all have a group chat for parties and functions so we can plan accordingly, and one day our community leader Krista adds a new number.. She says to the group chat *this is my friend Laila, she just moved into the carters new place and she will be joining us at Jordans house for games* I read the text then tossed the phone to my side not thinking much of it, and then I thought for a moment, im the only person in the neighborhood named Jordan, I never have functions at my house, she didn't specify a date either. My phone began dinging over and over as everyone greeted Laila and welcomed her, and then there was a knock at my door. I put my phone In my pocket and walked over to see Krista, her husband, and a small framed woman in a red coat with platinum blonde hair and a nose stud standing behind them. Krista handed me a bottle of wine and walked through my door, her husband right behind her patted my shoulder and headed for my kitchen presumably to find the beer I would buy in case he came over as I don't drink. I turned around for a moment to asses the situation as Krista began shuffling my papers and moving my various books and such to my upstairs loft, and then I noticed Laila had not walked in yet, I turned back towards her. *may I come in?* I smiled at her and stepped out of the way, gesturing for her to enter my home *of course you may, make yourself at home and thank you for asking.* I thought it was peculiar she asked but quite refreshing, I ran to the kitchen to open the wine and fiddled through my silverware drawer as Kristas husband Craig began talking about the IPA I had bought *this is a real solid choice Jordan, you must really be getting good at the beer knowledge, are you going to have one tonight?* I looked up from my project at hand as I finally found the cork screw *probably not Craig but Isla and her husband will be here later im sure and I know you love drinking with them.* I turned the screw into the cork at the top and began pulling it out, it came out with a satisfying POP! and I began pouring the wine into two glasses I had set on the counter. Craig stopped me before I could get to the second glass *Laila doesn't drink* I nodded and stowed the second glass, I grabbed the wine to bring it out to Krista but Craig stopped me before I could *you know I think you'll really like Laila, she seems your type.* I stopped trying to walk forward and hung back a moment, peering Around the corner to see Laila sitting still close to the front door having a conversation with Krista as she cleaned. *what do you mean Craig, how is she my type?* he laughed and smacked my back *she's weird buddy* I was taken aback for a moment until I began flipping through my memories with my neighborhood friends. Over the years id lived here they had seen me creating makeshift model rockets and shooting them down the mountain, putting chairs on skis and seeing if id survive the plummet, sledding with a table, building igloos to write inside of, covering my house in white paint for a winter to see if they'd have trouble finding me. Craig was right, I was weird *how weird is she Craig?* He laughed at me and then gripped my shoulder as he began telling me the tale of Laila In the red coat. *Laila comes from America just like you, she's fluent in over 7 languages, we helped her move boxes today and she had at least 6 large 2x2x2 cardboard boxes filled with books, some of which im sure are as old as your own judging by the glass cases she keeps them in. We came to get her on our way here and she was dancing with a chemistry skeleton like for a high school, she was pretty good too.* His accent annunciated the Two O's in too and Made me snicker as he finished the sentence, she sounded like a lovely girl but how do you start a conversation with someone like that? I nudged Craig *how do you start a conversation with someone like that?* he shrugs *how do I start a conversation with you?* I scratched my head *Craig you don't really start conversations with me you just grab a beer, mention a fact and then go from there.* He laughed at what I said then went digging in my fridge, he handed me 2 cans of Cola *same principal just with less hops.* I shook my head at him as I walked out of the kitchen with the wine and the cokes, I handed Krista the glass as I passed her and she thanked me before returning to browsing my board game collection in the closet. I walked over to Laila and handed her the cola *Craig tells me you don't drink and im right there with you, is that alright or would you like some water?* she smiled at me and took the cola *this is wonderful, I love the soda you guys have over here* as she spoke I couldn't help but stare at her shiny nose stud, as she spoke and caught my glance she covered it and began to take it out *sorry I wasn't sure if this looked good or not.* I gently outstretched my hand to indicate different *no no, its quite lovely, it accentuates your nose well.* she moved her hand back to her side and took a sip from her soda as she smiled. I laughed to myself and carried on the conversation, More and more people came and my house filled with guests, Krista ended up having us play charades and put me and Laila on a team. We went for many rounds, talking amongst ourselves or with the group and as the night got older and more and more people departed, it came down to just me, Craig, Krista and Laila. The score was 23 to 24 giving you a pretty good idea of how long it lasted. I had started a fire in my chimney earlier on in the night so the logs were crackling as the snow gently fell down our quiet mountain. Craig was in the middle of hopping on one leg and swinging his arm as if it held a long sword while I sat with Laila, she had since moved from one side of the couch to the other and was right next to me. As Craig finished up his turn we all laughed and Laila once again moved closer, their turn had ended without them scoring a point declaring me and Laila the winners. We all laughed as Craig told us a joke about Blackbeard and how they we were being elitist against his pirate ways, I was looking at Lailas eyes while we all laughed and noticed a peculiar spot on her left iris, a small white dot surrounded by emerald green. She turned to me as I was looking at her and laughed as we turned back towards the two, Craig stood up and looked at his watch *well Jordan I guess well have to leave you be for the night, but thank you for having us, Krista are you ready to go?* Krista nodded through a smile and stood up *oh Jordan ive had a lot tonight and so has Craig here so we called a car, its a bit of a straight shot though, would you mind bringing Laila back?* it was an odd request especially since the party was held at my house but it only took a few moments for it to dawn on me as Craig nodded his head with a smile. Laila began to protest *I don't want to be a burden you had us over and fed us I can just walk its no big deal.* I smiled at her *it would be my pleasure to bring you home, the drive over that way is beautiful anyway.* We all departed my house as Craig and Krista gave us hugs and kissed Laila on the cheek, I locked my door and followed Laila down the steps towards my car as Craig and Krista got into their Taxi laughing like maniacs. I turned the car on with my remote and walked to the other side to get her door she smiled at me as she stepped into the car *what a gentleman.* I had to bite my lips to hide my smirk as I went around the other side and opened my door, a gust of wind came down the mountain and hit me hard forcing my eyes shut, when I opened them I noticed that the sky was crystal clear showing me millions of beautiful stars amongst the pitch black sky. I stepped into the drivers seat and pulled out of the driveway, Laila turned towards me as we got out of the gravel and onto the pavement *thank you, im sorry Krista dumped me with you* I laughed for a moment *don't apologize for a second, im quite happy to get an extra moment or two with you.* she looked off but I saw in the reflection she was smiling *im pretty happy to get an extra moment too.* I pulled up to her house and got out, rushing around the side so I could open the door for her, almost missing the handle with my leather gloved hands and nearly falling on my face, as I got the door open and recovered from my stumble she stepped out and I closed the door behind her. *thank you for driving me home, I had a really nice night* I smiled and nodded *I did as well, thank you for coming.* she stood there for a moment as if she wanted me to hold her hand or hug her, I put my hand up and walked back to my drivers said *goodnight.* She smiled weakly and mumbled *goodnight.* I thought for a moment why id done what I just did and decided to try to reverse it, I stepped back around my car and before she could turn around I wrapped my arms around her, *thank you for coming tonight, would you like to get dinner with me tomorrow.* she wrapped her arms around my torso and pressed her cheek against my chest *yes please, can you pick me up at 7?* I nodded, grazing her head with my chin *absolutely.* I let go of her and she unwrapped her arms, turning to walk up towards her door *your eyes are beautiful* I said, getting the last word in for the night, she smiled and spoke softly *thank you* before walking into her house, I turned towards my car to enter but I felt compelled to turn back around before I did. her lights went on and she walked into the living room, I could see her silhouette begin To do a little dance, I smiled and stepped into my car to drive home. I rounded the corner towards my house and parked the car, turning it off and stepping out, before I went inside I stared up at the sky, it had gotten cloudy and dim, with only a few stars showing. I wasn't surprised the sky wasn't clear anymore, I knew that only on the best of nights, was the sky fully clear, and that those nights...were rare.


Something funny about time is how much people exaggerate it. We share pictures on social media of how we're having the best time with our friends at a bar, only to post two hours later about how we never want to see that group again for the rest of time. How much time you spent with a partner, only to throw it away in favor of a new beauty or beau that catches your eye in the moment. You sit and wonder and watch was time passes you by, and you watch your face grow old and your friends and family move on, that you never truly understand what it means to be out of time. Staring down the bullet that's a few seconds away from my face, time stops. They said that your life would flash before your eyes moments before you died. They weren't wrong. I saw my dad lifting me above his head when I was a child and telling me I was going to go big places. I remember my mother calling us inside for dinner while my father laughed and kissed her on the cheek as we walked inside. I saw my first kiss at prom, Stanley Micals, and his too-grabby hands trying to get under my dress. I remember shoving the heel of my shoe into his foot and walking away before he could get any luckier. I remember my first promotion at the firm. Signing on as an intern was great, sure, but you had to deal with all the big-shot men who wanted nothing more than to look at the pretty little intern who brought them donuts and coffee with a smile. It wasn't like I was allowed to work on the big cases, anyway. Pointing out how that one guy, someone who was another big shot whose hands would linger just a little too long on my back when I would grab files for another employee, was committing fraud by splitting a cute little "finder's fee" into his own bank statements was a coincidence. I remember turning him in to the CEO that night. Being watched carefully by dark eyes as I explained what all had happened, what I had seen and heard in my time as an intern. Bursting into tears from the stress of trying to earn my place in a world where I would be turned away just for being born. I remembered how he stood and handed me his handkerchief to wipe away the tears. How soft the silk felt on my snotty face and how profusely I apologized when I realized I had gotten dollar store mascara all over it. I remember how hard he had laughed. Ben was always so handsome when he laughed. I don't, however, remember when he went from Boss to Ben. When him offering me a job as his personal secretary turned to him offering me dinner at his place. When organizing his appointments turned into organizing dinner dates and movie nights. When watching him have meetings with the employees and taking notes turned into watching him get ready in the mirror and helping him tie his tie before pulling him in for a kiss. Ben was dangerous from the start, and every girl's fantasy- rich, handsome, and romantic. Ben wasn't without fault though. Ben resented the power. Resented having to be in charge all the time, I guess. When we got married, I think I knew that he would never look at me that way again. When I married him, I quit the job to stay home all day and do wifely chores. I cleaned the house, and managed groceries and finances, all so he could come home to a nice bath and a wife willing to do anything for him. Evenings were quiet, and I began to resent it too. Money is nice, and it can buy happiness, but only so much. After all, it's better to cry in a Bently than on a bicycle. I remember finding out about her. Taking care of the laundry and finding receipts for hotels in his pockets. Checking the bank accounts and seeing how many purchases he made at luxury stores and five-star hotels that he claimed were for business trips. Logging into his email was the final touch. I knew his phone password, but he had left his computer open once before running into the office. I saw everything. I wasn't dying yet, but I felt time stop at that moment. Pictures, recordings, and videos of them together. Talking about how stupid I was, how much he wished he could be done with me, and how much he loved her. How ugly my face had gotten to him since we had been married, and how much her beautiful blonde hair was so much nice to see than my boring browl curls. How the wrinkles on my face reminded him of the beautiful young girl he had waiting for him at work. Hearing the office door slam behind me and the cocking of a gun turned me to my senses. Here he was, my cheating S.O.B. husband, holding the m9 I had given him for his birthday, aimed directly at my head. Staring at the bullet, I realized... I'd lived a fine life. Rich, beautiful, successful. But sometimes, a fine life isn't a happy one, and my time had run out long before I could do anything about it. It simply wasn't fair. How I wished I could go back and fix it all. How I'd use the information I know about cases now to earn my way to the top. How I'd step on every man who dared to get in my way. How I'd make Ben fall in love with me all over again, only to never give him the gun and start going to the shooting range myself. How I would smile at the blood running under my heels, blended in with the iconic red soles. It's not fair. It isn't fair, it's not fair, it's not- Bang.


The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents. \ I tied the boat up to a small jetti, somewhat relieved Alessia couldn’t see the knot I hastily threw together, and pulled myself up onto the platform. Already I could feel a degree of exhaustion. The short row to the shore had already eaten away at the atrophied muscles in my arms. Still, the impatience in my brain had won out. It needed exercise more than my body needed rest. While I built up some reserves of energy, I took in my surroundings. I hoped to find an islander on a break, idly waiting by the sea, and who might want to talk about Vexids. But while the port didn’t seem busy, anyone I could see was engaged in a task. Porters carried textiles - mostly wool and cotton - off to waiting traders, sellers and buyers negotiated with the waiting boats down by the dock, but no one was stopped. Usually, beyond trade, ports were a place where you’d find those relaxing, finding peace in the coming and going of the waves. But here, there were none. “Can I help you?” I turned to see a woman in her mid-thirties bounding towards me with almost excessive enthusiasm. “Yes. I’m just visiting. I came on the large ship.” I tilted my head towards the Deer Drum boat, floating off the coast like an island of its own “Ah excellent. Another from Deer Drum. Welcome. Can I introduce you to our island? Maybe give you a tour?” She grinned wide, as though pulling her own cheeks back with hooks. The woman’s overt enthusiasm felt abrasive against my own lethargy. An ache ran across my back. “I would love to understand more.” The words felt stiff, my vocal chords still stretching into shape. “We may have to move slowly though, I’ve been recovering from an injury.” “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” the woman replied with the same tone and smile. “Well, if you want to learn more about the island, you’re in luck. My name is Endesha. My passion is sharing the island’s history with others, and I’m on my passion rotation right now. ” “Passion rotation?” “Yes. Are you familiar with our island at all?” She said, clasping her hands together by her stomach. “Honestly, nothing. I know a couple of the islanders have been here. One girl in particular, fifteen years old.” I held up my hand out about Mirai’s height. “I hear she’s visited a lot and likes the place. But no idea beyond that.” Endesha looked up, searching her memory. “Ah, yes. Mirai. Brilliant young woman. I’ve met her a few times. Fits right in here, a mind like that.” She said, pointing a finger. “Well, maybe we can walk to the town square, it’s only a short walk, and I’ll tell you a bit more about our history on our way.” I nodded in agreement, and Endesha held up an arm to guide the way. She led me up through the town past beige stone structures till we arrived at a long, thin building. Inside I could hear the thrum of machines, the thudding so loud it threatened to topple the aged and cracked walls. Endesha pointed to an engraving; old eroded numbers that read 7-7-10. “This is one of the oldest buildings in the work part of town. And it celebrates our most important rule.” Endesha looked at it with reverence. “When The Archipelago formed, those here felt that too many had died living wasteful lives, never doing what made them truly happy. And so beaame the law.” She began counting each point on her fingers. “Seven hours of work, our sacrifice to keeping the island running and ensuring we have food to eat. Seven hours to rest, eat and sleep.” She leaned in, her mouth grinning with delight. “And ten hours to chase our passions, and become the best people we can be.” “You only work for seven hours? The other seventeen are all yours?” “To be the best we can be.” She corrected me with a wagged finger. “The whole town is separated into three sectors. Here, near the harbour, is our industry, to the North we have the homes where people live and sleep, and to the east, is the true treasure of the island. The drive sector.” She turned and jolted with purpose, drawn eastwards by the sector’s mere mention. My legs strained to keep up, joints unsteady and unsure. “I’ve spent a fair amount of time pouring over the documents from the island’s founding and how they describe the old world. There are old descriptions of people watching moving pictures, or making men and women move with hand-held controllers just for fun. They use the term \*to kill time\*. Can you believe that? To kill time.” I thought of the many times on Alessia’s boat, on a relatively still day, when I would simply sit on the edge, watching peaceful waves roll by. “I... I think we might still do that?” “Not here.” Endesha said, her arms outstretched, allowing a broad chest to bellow the words out. “Tell me, Ferdinand. When are you happiest?” “What?” I said, my feet almost tripping on the words. “When do you feel happy?” I tried to go through a list. The drunken walk back to our property on Talin Barier with Alessia. Singing songs with the Deer Drum crew. When Alessia gave me my room on the boat. So many came back to Alessia. Too many. “I’m not sure,” I said, still dodging the truth even to a stranger. “People maybe?” “Even in the old world people spoke of having a calling. Something they wanted to do - not for glory or riches, but for the love of the task. Pursuing that is where happiness lies. Sure, you can be fine sitting about on a warm sunny day...” She waved an arm dismissively. “But real contentment lies in what drives us, what fascinates us. Don’t you agree?” A small smile flickered across my lips as I remembered my own calling. While the chase of the Citadel on Kadear had been intoxicating, travelling the Archipelago had been more than a want. Happiness that lifted your chest as well as your lips. “I’m beginning to.” Her already huge smile gained an extra lift at my agreement. “Then is it not the duty of this - or any island, to help you achieve those dreams? To push you to do what you are capable of.” She prodded my chest with a hard finger. “That is what those ten hours are for. To chase what drives you. To become what you are capable of. Not for the island, but for yourself.” The conversation paused as the road widened out into a large town square. In the middle was a wooden stage made of varnished pine. It was low enough that you could step up to it with a good leap, but wide enough to hold a good thirty or forty people if required. “We have a bit of a ritual that comes with those passions,” Endesha chuckled, staring at the platform. “I took a while to understand it, I had to go through pages and pages of correspondence among the island’s first council members. However, what they realised is that one of the most important parts of chasing your passions is to acknowledge them. To state your dreams aloud and not cower from them.” It made sense. So many times I had stared at that map in my home in Kadear. But other than brief conversations with Thomas my wishes of travelling were hidden. Only external events brought that desire out of the darkness. Endesha walked towards the stage. I could almost see the years of the residents who had taken to the stand in her eyes. “Between the ages of fifteen and sixteen, all residents come here to declare their passion in front of the island. I came here,” she pointed to each individual invisible attendee. “I told them I wanted to learn about the history of Vexids Receives and share it with visitors. And in attending, they told me that they would help me, push me in pursuit of that passion.” She turned to me, her smile reverential. “In a few weeks, the next group will take to that stage. And you can be certain I will be witness to their proclamations.” I thought about what I would’ve said on such a stage. How much easier would my travels have been if I had had to declare that drive to my fellow islanders, and they in turn were duty bound to help me pursue it? Endesha meanwhile was telling me about the history of the stage. The details of when it was first built and the repairs done to it over the years, and how it intertwined with the rest of the planned town. But the dates and minutia weren’t the reason for the smile on my face. It was the growing understanding of this place, and the freedom to give yourself not just to your island, or your own greed and vices, but to what called you. It seemed to shake off some of the lethargy in my bones, and when Endesha asked if I wanted to continue on to the see the passion sector, I obliged. We made our way east, as Endesha regaled me with the founders’ foresight in the layout. A series of workshops each in their own courtyard, their entrances facing inward. Each one had large wooden shutters at the back and front the entire width of the building save for a small doorway at the end. The lack of warmth in Winter was a price worth paying for the community the openness created. We turned and entered into one of the courtyards as I was met with the output of people’s hobbies: the sound of sandpaper grated across wood, the tune of an accordion pushing notes through its pipes. I could smell the aroma of old books, in between the wafts of fresh paint. The sights and sounds were a melody somehow borne of cacophony. No thread connected each space. Each room was home to a different activity. All the island did was give space for them to grow. And yet, the end result seemed harmonious. I watched a woman placing red hot metal into a great furnace, while next door another folded dough, flour pluming into the air each time the bread hit the table. Creaking metal snatched my attention. Atop one of the rooms to the left was a small windmill. Rusted iron blades oscillated with each rotation, but still it turned in the light breeze. From its base, a slew of cables ran down the roof disappearing through a hole near the edge. Looking into the shadowy room I could see two figures. A middle aged man, with curly balding hair, and a teenage girl. “Mirai!” I called out. Mirai looked up, two wires in one hand, and a tool in the other. “Ferdinand! You made it off the ship.” “Eir finally let me go.” Mirai put the wires down on a bench and pointed to the man behind her. “This is Charles. Charles, this is Ferdinand. He helped us move from Deer Drum.” The man took off a pair of thick, leather gloves and reached out to shake my hand. His face was blotched, and there were a few wrinkles across his brow. But his cheeks were taut and youthful. “Good to meet you. Welcome to my electrical shop.” “Charles does electrical engineering as his passion,” Mirai said, jumping in to add more information. “He’s built so many things. Small engines, toys... every workshop in this courtyard has electric lights now thanks to Charles.” She pointed to the bulb hanging from dangled wiring above. “I’m no genius. But I’ve got pretty good over the years.” Charles said, thumbs tucked into the straps of his overalls. Mirai continued. “He’s currently trying to get a windmill working. He could power the whole island off wind power alone.” “It used to be a common form of electrical power in the old world,” Endesha added, stepping between us. “I believe there may be the odd island in the Archipelago where it exists, but it would be a serious boon to have it here.” Charles grinned but bowed his head. “Charles has been letting me help out for the past few days. Soldering cables, testing currents, that kind of thing,” Mirai beamed. “She’s been a great help. Hard to try and fix the turbine on the roof and measure the currents down here at the same time,” Charles added with a chuckle. “It’s amazing. I’ve been sitting on that boat for months just watching the oceans roll by,” Mirai stretched out the words so they were as boring as a flat, windless sea. “I designed that one fish net, but other than that I haven’t got to do anything. But, Ferdinand, I love this stuff.” “I’m glad it’s going so well,” I smiled. Suddenly she snapped her fingers. “Here, let me show you something.” She turned, leaping between tables, before returning with a series of wires that connected a lightbulb to a small metal box with a wooden handle. “I made this. Turn the handle.” I looked at her hesitantly. “Go on.” It was only the width of my palm, but still, the small pole was hard to turn. Mirai laughed. “Harder. You’ll have to go faster.” My muscles were still wasted and weak from the Anmanion islands, and even this small chore was causing my arm to ache. However, for Mirai’s sake, I put in more effort, pushing past the resistance, until the wheel span faster and I saw a small flicker of light from the bulb. The spark invigorated me, and I cranked harder until a soft yellow glow from the bulb rose and dimmed with each shift of my arm. We all watched the light for a few seconds, until the stiffness in my wrist returned and I had to stop. “Mirai, that’s amazing.” I smiled, shaking off the aches. “I mean, it’s nothing compared to what Charles has done.” Mirai looked to the side, turning her cheeks. “But it’s a start.” “It’s an excellent start,” I nodded. The enthusiasm came back. “I just love this stuff so much. I wish I could do it forever.” “You could,” Endesha interrupted. All heads turned to her. “Anyone can join Vexids Receives over the age of fifteen. It was one of the rules created by the island’s founders. All you have to do is declare your passion during the ceremony.” I felt my teeth grit, watching this stranger so ignorant of Mirai and her world. Mirai’s face lit up. “When’s the next ceremony!?” “About three weeks’ time.” Endesha replied, ignoring my grimace. Mirai’s eyes glossed over, filled with an idyllic vision. “I can keep doing this? I can stay?” \ The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents.


See part 1 **3** “Clarence! Long time no talk! How are things?” “As good as they can be,” Clarence replied, sliding into a chair in the space elevator’s Earth-based control room and settling himself in front of the monitor that displayed Devon’s beaming face as he floated in the elevator’s zero-G environment. Nothing could dampen Devon’s enthusiasm, not even being stranded tens of thousands of miles above the planet’s surface with his space elevator’s inaugural voyage on the brink of turning into a veritable shit show with the entire world watching. It almost served as a kind of fuel, propelling Devon to new levels of intolerability. “How’s the view?” Clarence asked as he busied himself checking various readouts and displays, anything to avoid looking at Devon’s face. “See for yourself.” Clarence looked up as Devon directed his phone’s camera toward the crawler window at the planet below and then panned across the passengers inside, all of them enjoying the absence of gravity, doing somersaults and bouncing off the walls, playing like little kids. “Everybody say hello!” Devon said. The passengers all stopped to wave and smile at the camera, which eventually came to rest on her. “Hello, Clarence,” Darla said, giving him a small wave, her other hand clutching a plastic squeeze pouch labeled “Martini.” She paused to take a sip. “I take it you got my message.” Clarence lowered his eyes once again. “Indeed, I did.” “We can’t go into details here--for obvious reasons,” Devon said, turning the camera back on himself and lowering his voice as he pushed away from the others. Clarence nodded, still not looking up. “Of course.” “But Clarence . . .” Clarence knew Devon was waiting for him to make eye contact. He resisted for as long as possible. When he finally looked up, Devon’s grin was gone. “This is no joke.” Clarence stared at him for a moment and then nodded. “I understand.” In a flash, Devon’s smile returned. “Excellent! We’ll wait to hear from you, and then our voyage can continue.” He turned back to the other passengers. “What do you say, folks, who’s ready for another drink?” His question was met by a chorus of cheers. Then the screen went blank. Clarence stared at the monitor for a few moments until he heard the control room’s sliding glass doors whoosh open behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Terry Eng, Devon’s right-hand man. As serious as Devon was exuberant. “Clarence, good to see you.” Terry had a way of making it sound like it was anything but good to see him. “You too, Terry.” Terry clapped his hands and rubbed them briskly together. “So, any ideas?” Clarence sat back and looked at the various displays. “Not really. Everything appears to be in the green.” “Exactly,” Terry replied as he rolled a desk chair over toward Clarence and then sat down. The control room was normally manned by a three-person crew, but Terry had dismissed them all once Clarence arrived. “Everything was in the green when it stalled too. Which makes me wonder . . .” “Makes you wonder what?” Clarence asked, swiveling toward him. Terry looked around and then rolled his chair a bit closer, lowering his voice. “If we’ve been hacked.” Clarence raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Hacked? Now what kind of ungrateful psycho would do that to an asshole like Devon?” Terry grimaced as he held back a response. Normally, he didn’t tolerate anyone talking trash about his boss or even insinuating that Devon was anything other than the stellar specimen of humanity that the fawning media made him out to be. But these were special circumstances. Clarence smiled as he watched Terry struggle. “Has anyone claimed responsibility?” Terry shook his head. “Not yet. But that doesn’t mean anything.” Clarence turned back to the control panel. “Maybe we should try one more reboot. If that doesn’t work, I don’t think you have a choice. You’re going to have to send up the rescue crawler and tow them down. Thanks to the atomic battery, they’ll have enough oxygen for twenty years, but food is another matter. And there’s only so much recycled piss a person can drink.” “Clarence, I don’t think you understand what’s at stake here.” “What do you mean?” Terry glanced around again to ensure no one was listening--an instinct rather than a necessity, seeing it was clear they were the only people in the room. “Some of the deals Devon made to secure the land-based anchor points are . . .” “Shady?” “Tenuous. As you’re well aware, the places where these anchor points are located, they aren’t necessarily the most stable of countries.” Clarence nodded for Terry to continue. “And?” “If this voyage fails, well, some of those deals could be in jeopardy. The same goes for the lease agreements on the mobile platforms. Which means competitors could--” “Never mind the competition, Terry. If this voyage fails, some lives could be in jeopardy. Very important lives. Including Devon’s.” “I realize that.” Terry nodded at the control panel. “Can we just . . .” “Rebooting now,” Clarence said, turning his chair back to face the monitor.


Black Rose By Charlotte S “Max! Time for dinner!” called Max’s mother from downstairs. “Coming!” called Max from her position on her bed, her feet on the wall and her head hanging off the edge, books piled around her. She flopped off her bed to the side, a cascade of books following shortly after, scattering across the unattractive cow print rug that her mother had insisted on buying. Max gave a couple of them a halfhearted shove towards her bed, before picking herself up and heading towards the door. When she got downstairs, the table was already set and in the center was a huge bowl, half full of spaghetti and pesto. The other half of the spaghetti was on her brother’s plate, and he was eagerly grating heaps of parmesan cheese on top of it. “Save some for the rest of us, Carson” Max’s mother laughed, as she sat down next to him at the table. Max giggled at him as she slid into her chair, and Carson retaliated by sticking his tongue out at her, before grabbing his fork and taking a monstrous bite of his spaghetti. “So,” said Max’s mother, swallowing her mouthful of spaghetti, “I was thinking maybe you two could go to the park tomorrow morning? I have a job interview at ten, and I need you out of the way.” “But Mom-” Max started to protest, but her mother cut her off. “I’ll give you money to get ice cream afterwards.” Max hesitated. “Fine.” She said reluctantly. “Yes!” Carson shrieked, jumping up from his seat and knocking his spaghetti plate over the edge of the table, causing it to crash to the floor and scatter spaghetti and ceramic chunks everywhere. “I’ll get it” Max’s mother sighed, wiping her mouth with a napkin and getting up from her seat, careful not to step on the broken plate. Carson surveyed the mess he created from up on his chair, where he’d jumped when the plate fell, and meekly asked if he could be excused. Their mother nodded, and he cautiously stepped down from the chair, sidestepping the heap of pasta on his way to his room, where he resumed building the lego spaceship he had been working on for weeks. The next morning was clear and sunny, with only a few soft clouds in the sky, and Max was wearing only her t-shirt and cargo shorts as she and her brother walked to the park. Carson was wearing only shorts, he had refused to put his shirt on when they left the house. Their mother had let him go topless, as long as he put his shirt on if they went inside any buildings. Max carried her mini backpack with Carson’s shirt, the ice cream money, and several books, and Carson carried two of his action figures, the Hulk and Batman. As they turned the corner to the park, Max instinctively veered towards the sidewalk, to avoid the man that usually sat on the steps of the corner store and whistled at passing women, but he wasn’t there, so she turned and went the more direct way. Once they arrived at the park, Carson immediately ran off towards the play structures, heading straight towards James, a friend from second grade that had played at their house several times over the summer. Max settled down by a big oak tree - her favorite spot - and took out one of her books. She opened it to the bookmarked page, and was immediately enthralled, the real world drifting away around her. It felt like only a couple of minutes when she heard a high pitched scream coming from the bushes across the playground. Max jumped up, tossing her book to the side, and ran towards the bushes from which the scream had been emitted. When she got there she found Carson and James, standing in a small clearing in the bushes, both of them crying and Carson violently shaking. In front of them was the bloodied body of the man from the corner. He looked exactly as Max remembered, grey-brown wisps of hair under a black beanie, grey stubble peppering his bony chin, and the same maroon zip up sweatshirt he had been wearing two days before. His body was laid out on its back, his arms crossed over his chest, and resting between his yellowing teeth was a single black rose. Max gasped, took a step back, and quickly looked around to see if anyone else had seen. The playground was bustling with children and parents, all laughing and playing, but it all seemed miles away now. Max looked back at Carson and James, still crying quietly, and gently pulled them away from the clearing back towards the playground. “He’s only playing”, she said, her voice shakier than she had planned. She steadied her voice and tried to calm her nerves a bit. “He’s getting ready for Halloween.” “But Halloween isn’t for two months,” Carson protested. “Maybe he just wants to practice so he can be really convincing.” “But-” “Come on, let's play over here.” Max led the boys over towards the monkey bars, trying not to sound worried. She left them there, and once they had reluctantly begun playing, she crept back to the bushes. Once she got to the clearing, she bent down to look at the body. Without touching it, she looked closely at the black rose placed in the man’s mouth. It’s stem was a medium green, the same color as the leaves of the bushes Max was in, and it’s petals were a deep black, like the night sky without any stars. Unlike the rest of the man, the rose didn’t have a single drop of blood on it, it’s stem and petals remained so pristine that it could have been fake. Max noticed out of the corner of her eye a small movement to her right, and she looked over but didn’t see anything at first. On closer inspection, however, she found a small section of lined paper that might have been ripped out of a notepad, and on it something was written in blue ink. She scooted around it to see, and read “Ten oclock am. First of many. Ther’e there is no stopping it. The Black Rose will never be stopped.” Ten oclock am. First of many. Ther’e there is no stopping it. The Black Rose will never be stopped. Max gasped, jumped up, and started running towards the playground as fast as she could. She grabbed Carson by the arm and dragged him with her to the big oak tree where she had left her backpack and books. She grabbed the backpack, stuffed the book that she had left on the ground inside of it, and slung it on her shoulder as she hurried out of the park. “Where are we going?” asked Carson, sounding panicked. “Back home,” replied Max, a bit out of breath. “We can’t go home, mom has an interview,” said Carson, sounding out of breath too. “Then we’ll go to Angela’s house.” Angela was Max’s best friend, and had been since kindergarten, and they did everything together. They were in a school play together in grade five, and again in grade six. They practically lived at one another’s house. Max could alway count on Angela if she needed help, or for a good time. Just as they arrived, out of breath, on Angela’s doorstep, Angela’s mother opened the door and stepped out onto the small porch, nearly bumping into Max and Carson. “My goodness, are you alright?” she asked as she stepped back into the doorway. “Yes, Mrs. Michaels,” gasped Max, “but I need to talk to Angela. Is she here?” “Yes, of course, come right in” Answered Mrs. Michaels, moving aside so Max and her brother could step in. Max ran into the house, leaving Carson with Angela’s mother, and raced up the stairs to find Angela. She skidded to a stop in front of Angela’s bedroom door, and stuck her head in to see if she was there. Angela was sitting on her bed, earbuds stuck in her ears, and a pile of yarn, beads, and other craft supplies scattered around her bed. Max hurried in, shut the door, and yanked Angela’s earbuds out of her ears. “Hey!” complained Angela. “What are you doing? Did my mom let you in?” “Yeah, and I really need to talk to you,” Max replied. “What is it? Are you okay?” asked Angela, sounding a bit concerned. Max leaned in close to Angela, so close she could almost hear her heartbeat, and whispered, “I found a dead body in the park.” “What?” exclaimed Angela, her voice considerably louder than Max’s. “Shhhh!” Max whispered. “I don’t know what to do. There was a note next to it that said something about a Black Rose. Please, you need to help me.” “Okay, I will! Calm down. Let's go to the park.” Max and Angela got up from the bed, and Max went to fetch Carson while Angela grabbed a backpack and stuffed some supplies into it. They met downstairs, and asked Angela’s mother if she could watch Carson for a little while. She agreed, and they hurried out the door and down the street towards the park. As they were walking, Max explained in detail what had happened, and Angela listened intently without interrupting once. As they neared the park, Max began to hear sirens, and when they hurried around the last corner she and Angela abruptly stopped walking. The whole stretch of road in front of the park was flanked with police cars, and there were police officers everywhere. Some were talking to terrified looking parents and children, some were stringing up crime scene tape all around the park, and others were bent down near the bushes where the body was laying. Max could make out snippets of what they were saying, but she didn’t understand most of the words. She heard “ Homicide,” “rigor,” and several other words she couldn’t fully make out. A tall, skinny police officer noticed Max and Angela standing on the corner staring, and came over to speak to them. “Hello girls, I’m sorry but the park is closed.” Angela started to turn away, but Max pulled her back to face the officer. “I found the dead body.” “Did you,” the officer’s face went ashen as he spoke. “Then I suppose you’d better come with me. Where are your parents?” “My mom’s at home doing a job interview. My brother’s at Angela’s house.” Max motioned to Angela as she said her name, then asked, “Are we in trouble?” “No, of course not,” the officer assured them, before turning to call one of the other police officers over. “My name is officer Daniels, by the way.” A chubby, squat officer with a belt that looked to be a bit too small for his waist came over. Officer Daniels explained the situation to him, and then turned back to Max and Angela, who had been intently watching the officers squatting near the body. “This is officer Mike. He’s going to bring you down to the station, and we’ll call your parents to come down, okay?” “Okay,” Max and Angela both agreed. Officer Mike led them to a police car, and Max and Angela got in the backseats, with officer Mike in the driver’s seat. When they got to the station, officer Mike led the girls to a room in the back, where Max’s mother was already waiting. She jumped up when she saw them, and rushed over to hug Max tightly, then Angela, a worried expression on her face. “Are you girls alright?” she asked frantically, as she looked them over for injuries. “They aren’t hurt, but we are going to need to conduct some interviews with both of them, once Angela’s mother arrives,” Said a police officer in the corner of the room, who Max and Angela had only just noticed. The next few days were a blur of interviews, police officers, and trips to the police station. Max missed the first day of seventh grade because she had to talk to an old, grizzled detective, and Angela - who had been allowed to leave after only a few interviews - had told Max about their classroom, classmates, and teacher, Miss Megan. Eventually, there was a trial for a man named Leonard Stakes, who they had found in a parking lot covered in blood, holding a knife that matched the stab wounds found on the back of the dead body. Max and her mother had to be at the trial, but she wasn’t made to testify, as the police already had enough evidence. Leonard Stakes was convicted of the first degree murder of Joshua Catall, and sentenced to life in prison, with the possibility of parole. Thirteen years later, Max, still good friends with Angela, had a baby boy and named him Daniel, after the officer who they had met at the park the day of the murder. Two years after Daniel was born, Max became a forensic psychologist, working with children who were witnesses to crimes, just like herself. Max dedicated the rest of her life to helping child witnesses, and taking care of Daniel and his little sister, Alice.


December 10th, 2022 Imagine that you’re Barack Obama and you’ve just won your first presidential election. It’s election night, the results are in, and you’re buzzing. How long do you keep feeling that way? All night for sure. And I bet you wake up the next morning walking with a hell of a swagger. But within 72 hours he put the milk into the cabinet and cereal into the fridge, started washing his hair with body soap instead of shampoo, or realized he was out of toilet paper only after using the bathroom, and instantly felt like a doofus. Because for me I spent about four hours being the swash-buckling, space-pirate, hero then became the guy at a dorm-room party where he doesn’t know anyone else and smiles along to inside jokes and shorthand he doesn’t get. As a side note, I don’t know what a swash is, nor what buckling is - assuming it isn’t a reference to buckles? It’s kind of embarrassing to even admit that after 24 days of being totally alone I kind of miss the solitude. Big hero to socially awkward engineer in four hours. Breaking more records every day up here. It does make me wonder about the future of humanity though. Orion is spacious compared to the Apollo capsule, yet it still has as much privacy as that dorm-room party would. It could well take centuries before we get up to Star Trek level population densities on spaceships. So does that mean the only people going out and inhabiting strange new worlds are all going to be extroverts out of necessity? Could Mars end up being THE night club destination of the future and Earth just filled with people who wear headphones and type on their laptop whenever they go to Starbucks? In movies they always show really spacious ships going to Mars, but no one bothers thinking about the mass involved in so much structure for so few people. The reality is that every cubic inch of space has a cost in terms of structural mass which in turn means more mass in the structural elements that support it, which means bigger, heavier engines, and more fuel for all of that stuff, and then the extra fuel to lift that extra fuel. With spaceships: mass breeds mass. When we do go to Mars, every square inch of that spaceship is going to be necessary, and Alex Whelm getting some alone time isn’t NASA’s idea of necessary. Anyways, I’m not some masochist who just likes to tell people about his insecurities, flaws, and embarrassing personality quirks for fun. I’m only telling you about this because it is necessary context. You’ve got to understand that when Mark gets on the radio and tells me that Jess would like to talk with me, there are four sets of eyes that pivot around to look at me. Sarah gathers everyone together and pushes them to the bunks and just out of sight - but absolutely not out of earshot. I take the call with a live studio audience of god only knows how many. “Hey Alex. How are you doing?” It’s been months, but hearing her voice is like there’s a well trod path of neurons in my brain that lights up and it really could have been yesterday that we broke up. Or were dating. I tell her about my toes. She doesn’t know what to say back to that, so I make a joke about never liking thong sandals anyways. My brain chooses that moment to present me with a very vivid imagined image of her rolling her eyes in response. “Did you ever watch Love is Blind? It’s on Netflix,” she asked. “I’m aware it exists... But I haven’t seen it.” Why do I talk like that? I’m honestly trying to be helpful. What I meant to communicate was, ‘I’ve seen the icon and know the idea, but haven’t watched it.’ Instead, I went for brevity and technical accuracy and the words just come out like a challenge, or like I’m too good to watch something like that. How often do you think Barack Obama says something he feels like an idiot for a quarter second after he finishes saying it? That’s what they should ask Michelle about in interviews. “What’s something Barack did that he’s still embarrassed about?” “The producers gave me a call. They’d like to sit down with us when you get back, pitch an idea to us.” “I don’t think that’s really for me,” I say. There’s a long silence on the other end, a few minutes of even more awkward conversation, and Jess gets off the radio. This is probably worth saying because, given what you know about me and relationships, it might not be obvious, but I did understand she was asking me to give things another chance. At least, I think that’s what she was asking. She was right? You know what: doesn’t matter. In my head she asked me to get back together, and I said no. Why? Because Jess was right to break up with me. I’ve lived my whole life thinking that when you get dumped it’s because you did something wrong, or should have done something differently, or you’re just not good enough for the other person. But that isn’t it. People break up because they don’t like the other person. I’m a Hawaiian pizza, and not everyone likes Hawaiian pizza. I’m not going to pick off my chunks of pineapple and hope she doesn’t notice the little juicy divots left on me. I need someone who loves Hawaiian pizza. Yeah sure, there are easy-to-love lucky folks out there who are pepperoni pizzas, but I’m done regretting the fact that I’m not one of them. People like Hawaiian pizza too! “Whatcha writing?” Sarah asks. I jumped, and fumbled the pad that I’m writing this out on. If you think jumping on Earth is embarrassing, try doing it in zero-g. You just kind of... spasm in space. Despite my repeated objections, she reads the whole thing before giving the pad back. She doesn’t say anything, but she’s got this look on her face like she’s thinking about saying something and is close to laughing at her own joke. People suck. And are the best. Maybe Orion crashes tomorrow and I’ll never have to feel embarrassed again. \*\*\* I’m Nathan H. Green, a science-fiction writer with a degree in aerospace engineering, and I’m going to be doing daily semi-fictional stories tracking the Artemis I mission. You can follow along through my reddit (u/authornathanhgreen). *Artemis I Has A Stowaway* is a work of semi-fiction. All incidents, events, dialogue and sentiments (which are not part of the mission’s official history), are entirely fictional. Where real historical figures appear, the situations, incidents, sentiments, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events, personality, disposition, or attitudes of the real person, nor to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. Save the above, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. © 2022 Nathan H.