My mother’s hands have always smelled the same from as early as I can remember. I didn’t realize that the odor wasn’t a natural product of her skin until I tried my first cigarette, after which I scrubbed my hands raw in realization. I don’t condemn smoking for the health risks; I’m disgusted by it because it is something that can make me more like my mother. I stay away from therapists and cheap coffee for the same reason. It was the summer after senior year and my curfew was set strictly at midnight, so naturally I came home around one a.m. every morning. I snuck in the back entrance of the complex so mom wouldn’t notice me from her perch on our porch balcony. There are six rooms total in our two bedroom, second-floor apartment, but mom never seemed to inhabit any of them. She was always to be found in the solitary, nicotine-stained plastic lawn chair on the back porch, double diamond black between her index and middle fingers. She had switched to the two-dollar drug store brand when she could no longer afford to buy Marlboros and still put gas in her car. She had given up on putting food on the table a while back- sustaining herself only on a diet of 7-11 coffee, cigarettes, and a cocktail of anti-depressants and mood stabilizers. She stayed on the porch all day regardless of the weather; during the winter months she would just wrap a filthy old quilt around her. She had the vantage point of the second story stoop, yet could not seem to see beyond the lit tip of her favorite vice. She never noticed when I broke curfew. I drove around each night that summer in my 2005, midnight-blue Jeep Liberty. That car made me feel invincible. I got lost on purpose every chance I could just for the rush of finding my way back home. My journey was never fully complete until I found myself at a starry-skied beach. While during the day I would much prefer a quiet lake over crowded shores littered with perfectly tanned and sculpted bodies, at night the beach was my paradise. On a night beach, you can hear the rush of the waves in perfect serene, silent bliss. Along the coast, away from the worries of the city, the stars can finally win their battle against the streetlights. I visited at least ten different beach shores that summer during my nightly Jeep cruises, all without aid of smart phone, GPS, or map. I felt like a primitive explorer, finding my way using only intuition and street signs. The self-satisfaction I got from exploring was its own kind of high. I had just come out of a long-term relationship, and for the first time in my life I was truly free to be alone. I did not yet realize how precious a commodity this independence was, and like a child given a fragile glass trinket at too young an age to appreciate its beauty, I broke it. I gave my new-found freedom to the very next boy to come along. David and I had started dating back in the eighth grade. Throughout the years, as other young romances blossomed and faded around us, we were the couple everyone could count on to stay together. We won the yearbook’s “cutest couple” superlative in a near landslide. What I didn’t know at the time was that I had no frame of reference for what a healthy relationship should look like. I ignored all of his flaws, thinking, “Who else will ever love me?” The façade ended in April of our senior year when he suggested that we stay together through the summer, then go our separate ways in September so he could “play the field” in college. In my first real act of self-respect, I told him to end it there and then because “I would not be involved in a relationship stamped with an expiration date.” I relinquished this self-respect when I begged for him to take me back two days later, and again at a party the next week when I had my drunken friends harass him with midnight prank phone calls. I don’t regret what we had. Dave and I practically grew up together, and the entire relationship was a valuable and much-needed learning experience. But, I do regret how early I put myself into a very adult situation. By the age of 14 I thought I had found the man I would marry and have babies with, and was not shy in the least about telling him this. In actuality, we were both still children. This fact took me longer than I’d like to admit to learn, but Dave had known all along. “Did you really think I was serious about marrying you?” he said. “I don’t even think I know what love is.” While I was exploring on those summer nights in my midnight-blue Jeep Liberty, I tried not to replay every “I love you” in my head, each antidotal evidence of his cruelty. When you date someone for as long as we did, you make an innumerable amount of memories together. After the break-up, every song I heard, street I drove down, person or place I saw - everything and anything - was a painful reminder of Dave. When Jason started chatting with me through Facebook one day, out of the blue, I saw him as a welcomed distraction. “Hey,” he said. “We have a lot of friends in common. You just graduated this year, right?” We exchanged cell phone numbers and started texting. I interviewed him carefully, asking all of the most important questions I could think to ask a person. Mostly, they reflected my newfound “single-for-the-first-time-ever” independence, which could more appropriately be labeled as recklessness. “Do you like the sand between your toes?” and “Would you want to live in Paris just for the romance of it?” At the time, those were the important questions. Shortly after we began talking, he invited me to his birthday dinner. “A lot of our mutual friends will be there and it would mean a lot to me if you would go,” he said. “I’ll smoke you up, too.” Shockingly enough, I had first tried smoking weed just a few weeks before. Dave had always threatened to break-up with me if I talked about wanting to try it. Jason picked me up in a rusty blue Toyota Corolla, the back littered with annoying political bumper stickers; from, “If you’re not a libertarian, you’re not paying attention,” to “Honk if I’m paying your mortgage.” I tried to wipe off my disapproving look before I got into the passenger seat. We made awkward small talk on the ride to the restaurant. When we got to the parking lot, he packed and lit a small, glass, hand-painted bowl. “We’re going to smoke right here in broad daylight?” I asked. “Yeah, I don’t give a fuck about pigs,” he responded casually. Something about his demeanor told me that if a police officer ever questioned him, he’d probably shit his pants. I lit the bowl and took a hit, imagining I was a dragon while exhaling. I didn’t let myself cough to seem more impressive. When I looked over my shoulder, I saw that he was staring at me intently with squinty black eyes. “What?” I said. “Nothing. I just think it’s sexy when a girl can smoke,” he replied. “Oh.” I didn’t feel sexy. I felt hazy, lost, and uncomfortable about being alone in a car with a practical stranger. While I was deep in thought about how the old me would never do something like this, I felt a hand brushing my hair out of my face and behind my ear. As I looked up, a wet pair of lips came into contact with mine, immediately followed by a tongue down my throat. I was too taken aback to stop it. The next thing I knew, we were in the restaurant, and Jason was telling his friends that he and I were dating. We were dating? Who forgot to tell me? I couldn’t find the words to stop it. It was like I was a mute bystander, or perhaps an audience member watching some cliché teenage coming-of-age flick. The character on the screen was a separate entity from me, and I had no say in her life. I made myself snap out of this delusion a few days later. I told Jason we needed to talk, and he came to pick me up in all his bumper-stickered glory. “Jase, I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I’m ready for another relationship just yet,” I said. “Just give me a chance, Em. I know I can make you so happy. We can take it really slow.” It has always been difficult for me to say no to people. I tried, nonetheless, to protest again. “Jason, I really can’t -” He didn’t let me finish. “I am so depressed, Emily. I hate my life and everything about it. I’m not worth jack shit, and none of my so-called ‘friends’ give a fuck about me. I was thinking about killing myself on the day I messaged you on Facebook. I didn’t have anyone to talk to. But you responded. You saved me. Please. Don’t leave me.” His words were a wave that crashed over me, pulling me in and obligating me to stay. He refused my offers to help him find a professional to talk to. My mom knows plenty of therapists, I’d say, but it was a losing battle. I knew I would be guilt-ridden if I left and he followed through with his threat. He was the riptide and I was the lifeboat; as I fought to keep him afloat, he drowned me. I grew to hate him. I hated his deeply misinformed political activism, equipped only with tacky bumper stickers and social media rants. I hated his manners, or lack thereof. He was rude to wait staff at restaurants, who conveniently could not speak-up for themselves without putting their jobs in jeopardy. I hated how he made racist comments about passerby on the street only while locked safely inside his Corolla. I hated his completely see-through “tough guy” attitude. I hated how much he bragged about his job at Chuck-E-Cheese and his grades in community college. Worst of all, I hated how he smelled. I hated how sweat pooled above his upper lip. I hated how he looked at me. I hated how he shoved his tongue down my throat, and I hated how he tasted. I hated that he liked me. I hated how I was stuck with him solely because I did not want to be responsible for him taking his own life. We never went on formal dates. He always picked me up late at night, drove to some vacant parking lot somewhere, packed a bowl, and attacked my lips with his. The cycle was monotonous and exhausting. He made me hate being alive. One night, he asked what I wanted to do. Excited to finally have a choice in the matter, I picked the one thing I loved more than anything. We set off to the beach on a long overdue midnight Jeep cruise. To my dissatisfaction, he insisted upon using an iPhone GPS app. We took highways instead of back roads and arrived much sooner than necessary. “Let’s sit and stargaze,” I said. “Please, Jase? Please just this once?” “Why don’t we put the seats down and lay in the back of the truck?” he responded. “Because I don’t have a sunroof so we won’t be able to see the sky. And I can’t get sand between my toes in here.” The beach parking lot was deserted. “Come on Em. I don’t want to get sandy. Let’s just stay in here.” Shortly after, the back seats were folded down and we were lying beside each other. He kept telling me how I was the only thing that made him happy. I wished my Jeep was a boat that could take me far, far away. Before I knew it, his tongue was back in my mouth. But this time, he was climbing on top of me. He was pulling his clothes off and trying to do the same to mine. “Jason, what are you doing?” “Shhh, just enjoy it. I want to make you feel good.” “But I don’t - ” “Em, relax. Just let the high kick in and you’ll be fine.” Again, I saw it happen like an audience member. Only this time, it was a very different genre of movie. I saw the clothes come off. I saw a condom being retrieved from a wallet. I saw my legs parted, and the distant stare in my starry brown eyes. I saw his satisfaction. I saw myself wishing that Jason had killed himself instead. When it was over I, alone, stepped out of my midnight blue serenity and walked until I felt the sand, soft and cool beneath my toes. It was far past one a.m. I looked to the moon and imagined my mother looking at it from her nicotine-stained, plastic, porch balcony lawn chair.


“Murvey, Alexandra. Identification number 4987012,” she called out, identifying herself over transponder. Alex sat back in her seat impatiently and stared out cockpit window across the endless void of stars and galaxies in the far-off distance while she floated in orbit along with the other vessels awaiting clearance. Customs was always awful no matter what planet you were checking into, but Earth was by far the worst. Never mind the sheer volume of thousands of ships arriving per day, easily three times as many as the next busiest world, Earth was also the political and economic capital of the Confederation of Interstellar Worlds, meaning customs inspections were extra thorough in their inspections to prevent unsavory known and unknown items from reaching the planet’s surface. “Greetings!” an overly chipper voice broke the silence. Alex glanced up at the view screen just above the window to see a clean-cut, handsome model of a man in his late twenties smile at her. “My name is Greg and I will be the virtual customs agent assisting you today!” he stated, still chipper. “Please upload your vessel’s manifest and we will process momentarily!” Alex groaned a bit as she opened up her keypad to upload the manifest to the database. It had been too long of a journey and it was too early in the morning to have to deal with this right now. These virtual agents didn’t help improve the process much despite what the lawmakers who pushed it through thirty years ago would say. Sure, it cut down on smuggling and whatnot because who can bribe a computer? But at the same time, it put thousands out of work and the virtual agents were prone to malfunction. Yet, the lawmakers and the lobbyists remain insistent as they refuse due to either denial, greed, or a combination of both. Regardless, she sent the file as requested. “Thank you, Alexandra!” the Greg the Bot replied. “Please wait!” Alex feigned a smile back at it. The fact it was a bot was bad enough, but the company behind the bots, VallenCorp, decided it would help solitary freighter pilots by seeing a friendly face and a happy voice greet them from their long journey, thus making them happy and friendly. She had yet to meet a single pilot who was happy and friendly after interacting with these things. In fact, a year ago, VallenCorp gave them an upgrade to make the voice, appearance, and even the name unique to each pilot based on their preferences, though they never shied away from the clean-cut professional demeanor. Alex found this rather jarring her first run out with the upgraded virtual agents when she looked up at the screen to see the face and voice of her long-dead father welcoming her to Earth with a smile. VallenCorp toned it down after numerous complaints from the Union so now the virtual agents are subtler in their personalized appearance, meaning hers appeared to be a blend of her father along with her last three boyfriends because apparently that was what the algorithm decided to be a pleasant face to her. A flash of light somewhere in the distance caught her eye for a brief moment, drawing attention from her thoughts. She’d been in this business long enough to know the cause: customs failure. In this regard, Earth differed from nearly every other world with how overly serious they take their customs, and it really boiled down to a series of interstellar pandemics having ravaged the world over the past few decades. In total, over a billion have died over the last fifty years and Earth’s government wasn’t taking any chances. They’ve since imposed extremely strict customs inspections on all vessels, personnel, and cargo coming to the planet. Any ship found with an undocumented alien life form onboard risked having their ship, cargo, and crew destroyed in space to avoid it making contact with anyone on the surface. Alex figured it was strict and harsh, but necessary, forcing pilots and shippers to ensure everything was up to snuff while preventing the spread of interstellar pandemics. Another flash, this time to the right and much closer. Alex watched as the debris from a bulk freighter twice her size bounced harmlessly off her hull and cockpit. Careless crews, more than likely. She’d seen enough of it before to know more often than not the crew was to blame anytime their vessel was targeted for disposal. She had little remorse for them since careless crews often resulted in tighter regulations and longer orbital periods waiting to deliver cargo, making it harder for the rest of them that do take the job seriously. “Attention Alexandra,” Greg the Bot chimed in over the intercom. “You have been approved for customs inspection. Please proceed to checkpoint 1-2-5-DELTA at the coordinates we are sending you!” Her dashboard flashed three sets of numbers which she fed into the navigation computer. The ship’s engines roared to life as she broke from orbit and headed closer towards the planet. No need for manual control of the craft. The navigation computer was tied into the planetary Orbital Control Grid, which would guide the ship exactly where it needed to be while avoiding other spacecraft zooming around her. It was rare she would engage in manual controls. Why bother when programs were more efficient and reliable? A few minutes later, she found herself arriving at the checkpoint matching the coordinates. Earth was now in full view of her cockpit window, looking down at what appeared to be Oceana, though it was difficult to see past the polluted gray cloud cover. “Please upload manifest and customs identification!” Greg the Bot instructed. Alex pulled up the requested documents and uploaded as requested. Outside, two drones had positioned themselves on both sides of her ship, holding it in place with two green luminous tractor beams. While she couldn’t see it, she knew by now the OCG had gained access to the ship’s computer, shuffling through every file, every code, every bit of information she had to offer. Within seconds, all ship functionality was firmly in control of the OCG and she was little more than a hitchhiker aboard her own ship. These procedures always lasted a while and involved little input from her, so she took this opportunity to get out of her seat and stretch her arching limbs. With a yawn, she walked out of the cockpit back towards her living quarters, right towards the coffee maker. “Coffee, black,” she grumbled to the computer, prompting the coffee maker to spew a stream of steaming hot liquid into her well-traveled mug. She glanced around the living quarters, waiting for the coffee to fill up. Nothing in particular drew her attention. Surrounding her bed, dining area, and two dresser drawers, little knick-knacks and souvenirs from other worlds were crammed into what little additional space there was available. Nothing much new to look at. Everything was basically the same as it was for the last thirteen days. Slightly unkept, but the same nonetheless. Alex snapped out of her fatigued daze as the coffee maker sputtered its last drop, the fresh aroma of synthetically brewed coffee now filling the cabin. Alarms blared as she reached for the coffee, drawing her attention away from the much-desired hot beverage and back over to the cockpit. “The hell,” she muttered to herself, glancing at the flashing red messages now appearing on every monitor. “Computer, silence alarm.” “Alarm silenced.” “Analyze,” she barked, annoyed. “Analyzing.” Alex sat back annoyed, waiting for the computer to do its analysis. Probably nothing. Slight hiccup in the connection between the ship and the OCG, throwing everything into panic mode. Or, at least, that’s what she thought until Greg appeared on her screen. “Hello, Alexandra,” he greeted. “We have noticed a slight anomaly in your vessel and are unable to complete customs procedures until this is resolved. Foreign biological entity detected. Please run a BioScan.” Probably just some random stray bacteria hitching itself on one of the containers in the cargo hold. “Computer, run a BioScan,” she repeated. “BioScan commencing.” Alex sat back and waited for the results of the BioScan. Wasn’t the first time this happened to her, though it didn’t happen often. Pandemics, especially, prompted cargo companies to increase their sanitizing procedures to avoid shutdowns and destroyed cargo. Perhaps is wasn’t as thorough as she thought. “BioScan complete. No unregistered organisms,” the computer stated. Odd, she thought as she sat up in her chair to pour over the results. The computer was right; the only living organism on this ship was her. “Greg,” she called out over the radio, hating having to use a same for a bot, “uploading results of BioScan now.” She tapped the “enter” button and watched as it was uploaded to the OCG. Hopefully that would be enough. She wasn’t keen on getting into a fight with the Customs Bots today. “Alexandra,” Greg the Bot replied. “BioScan results insufficient. One unidentified biological organism detected on your vessel. Please resolve.” She couldn’t believe it. There was no way any unregistered organism could be on her ship. “BioScan result not insufficient,” Alex replied back to the Customs Bot. “Confirming, there are no unregistered biological organisms on this vessel.” “BioScan results insufficient,” Greg the Bot repeated prompting her to groan with frustration. “Initiating Disinfection Pulse, power level ten percent in three... two... one...” Before she can protest, a bright light flashed inside the cockpit and suddenly every inch of her skin stung like alcohol over an open wound. The pain was intense but fleeting as her emotions quickly transitioned from pain to anger over this sudden overreaction. “What the hell?!” she shouted at the Bot. They were supposed to give her a warning to put on a radiation suit before initiating the Disinfection Pulse, no matter the power intensity. Even at low power levels, it was enough to cause exposed skin to burn, eyes to be blinded, and the potential for far more deadly things to happen later on in life. “Please run a BioScan,” Greg the Bot repeated. “Bot! That was a violation of Interstellar Customs Code 7823 Section A and I am noting it in my logs!” Silence. She waited for the Bot to reply but he remained on the screen staring motionless, cool, and unsympathetic. It had to be a malfunction of some kind. Hopefully the techs were working on it. They couldn’t just- “Disinfection Pulse power level twenty percent activated in three... two... one...” Greg the Bot announced. Alex dove for her living quarters to grab the radiation suit folded in her second drawer but was too late to avoid the Pulse. The flash filled the room and the burning returned, this time more intense. She winced and collapsed to the floor, tears streaming down her cheek as the burning sensation seeped deep into her skin. Not even the skin under her clothes were spared the pain this time around. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. “Please run a BioScan,” Greg the Bot repeated. Alex tore through her dresser, searching for the radiation suit before another Disinfection Pulse was initiated. “Disinfection Pulse power level thirty percent activating in three... two... one...” Alex’s hands traced the outline of the radiation suit but was too late. The flash of light sent her to the floor in an even more intense stinging pain. This one hurt even more, writhing as the burning sensation penetrated deeper into her skin and organs. “Please run a BioScan,” the Bot repeated. This time, Alex wasn’t fucking around. Any higher an intensity without protection would surely result in third degree burns or worse. Already, her skin was red and pink like she had a particularly bad day at the beach. Blisters had started to develop over the thinner parts of her skin, stinging like hell, though she counted herself lucky she still had nerves to feel the pain to begin with. “Disinfection Pulse power level forty percent activating in three...” This time, she was ready. She pulled out the radiation suit. “Two...” She unzipped it open. “One...” And slipped into the radiation suit, zipping up a split second before the Pulse activated. This time, she was spared the intense heat and pain from the Pulse. The suit was designed to protect against a reactor leak from the engine’s core, much stronger than radiation emitted from the Disinfection Pulse at its highest setting. They can run all the Pulses they want, she won’t be affected. Now, safely in her protective suit, she collapsed in her seat in the cockpit with a heavy sigh of relief. “Please run a BioScan,” the Bot repeated. “Shut the fuck up,” she muttered. “Please run a BioScan,” the Bot repeated. Alex sighed. “Computer, contact Devon Allas.” “Connecting.” Devon was one of the senior overseers working on the OCG over Earth and a good friend of hers. Clearly this was some kind of malfunction that would need a manual override. If anyone can fix this, he can. “Connection terminated,” the Computer stated. “What?” Alex shook her head. “Redial.” “Communications off-line.” “Run a diagnostic!” she barked at the Computer. Not much usually rattled her, but the idea of being isolated in space without any contact with a human being, completely at the mercy of computers and machines made her very uncomfortable. “Hello, Alexandra!” the Greg the Bot greeted, coming back on the screen. “We noticed you attempted to make an outgoing call to an unauthorized party. It is against guidelines of the Interstellar Customs Codes to make contact with unauthorized parties during the customs process. If you wish to contact an authorized party, I will be happy to assist.” ‘Unauthorized party’ she thought to herself. Devon oversees these damned bots. She should be able to contact him. “Fine,” she muttered before addressing the Bot directly. “Contact Senior Overseer Devon Allas of the OCG.” Greg’s picture froze for a second, processing this request. “Devon Allas is an unauthorized party. It is against guidelines of the Interstellar Customs Codes to make contact with unauthorized parties during the customs process. If you wish to contact an authorized party, I will be happy to assist,” Greg the Bot repeated. This wasn’t making any sense to her. Maybe Devon doesn’t work there anymore. It has been a few months since they’ve seen each other. Perhaps his boss could help. “Greg, please contact Jai Modi, Director of Operations,” Alex asked. “Jai Modi is an unauthorized party. It is against guidelines of the Interstellar Customs Codes to make contact with unauthorized parties during the customs process. If you wish to contact an authorized party, I will be happy to assist,” Greg the Bot repeated. “Goddamnit, I just want to talk to a human being!” she screamed at the Bot. “Are there any human authorized parties I can speak to?!” Greg the Bot took a moment to process her request. Alex’s hands started shaking from nerves, frustration, or some kind of combination of the two. She was completely at the mercy of this Bot, whom she had to comply with every request it made based on its own data, faulty or not. There was no negotiating with it. No way to contact its supervisor. Just her and the Bot. “Please run a BioScan,” the Bot repeated. Alex slammed her fist on the console, spilling her irradiated coffee. She had no choice but to comply. Either her or the Bot had faulty information. She needed to know which was true. “Computer, run a BioScan,” she ordered. “BioScan commencing.” Alex knew it was a waste of time. Now she was wondering how she could get out of this. She could go back and forth all she wants, but eventually the Bot will determine her vessel a threat and target it for disposal and it’s game over for her when that happens. It is possible for her to stall, but that will only delay the inevitable. She knew there was no way any unregistered organisms were on this vessel. “Please run a BioScan,” the Bot repeated. “BioScan complete. One unregistered organism onboard.” Alex jumped in her seat and looked at the report. It wasn’t possible. But, sure enough, as she read the report, there was in fact something else on the ship with her. And it was big. 1.5 meters in height. Approximate weight 52kg. Human, by the description. A stowaway. “Computer,” she called out. “Locate unregistered organism.” “Scanning,” the Computer replied. “Organism found. Location: Cargo Hold.” “Lock down access to the Cargo Hold and open a channel,” Alex ordered as the video feed on the console indicated the doors to the Cargo Hold locked down. “Attention unauthorized passenger. You are unlawfully stowing aboard a registered cargo vessel. Identify yourself or we will take drastic action.” “Please run a BioScan,” the Bot repeated. “Shut up!” she yelled at the Bot as she waited from a response from the stowaway. Alex waited for the stowaway to respond, staring at the video monitors for the Cargo Hold for the stowaway to identify itself. But there was no movement inside. Everything was still as the moment the cargo was loaded and sealed up. Even the audio monitors weren’t picking anything up. “Organism found,” the Computer repeated. “Location: Living Quarters.” Alex was beside herself. The Cargo Hold was completely shut. How could it have gotten to the living quarters?! She switched the feed to the cameras in the Living Quarters. There was nothing. “Please run a BioScan,” the Bot repeated. “Where the hell are they?” she wondered aloud as she stared at the monitor, looking at the room exactly the same as she left it. There wasn’t a soul in sight. “Organism found,” the Computer repeated. “Location: Galley.” Shit, she thought to herself as she quickly sealed shut the door the cockpit. The galley was only ten steps from the cockpit and she wasn’t taking a chance on whoever it was coming into the cockpit. “Greg, please call Customs Authorities!” she screamed at the Bot. Greg the Bot paused for a moment, processing the request. “Customs Authorities are an unauthorized party. It is against guidelines of the Interstellar Customs Codes to make contact with unauthorized parties during the customs process. If you wish to contact an authorized party, I will be happy to assist.” “You fucker!” she screamed back at it. “Computer, initiate Disinfectant Pulse, level fifty percent.” “Acknowledged.” “Please run a BioScan,” the Bot repeated. “Disinfectant Pulse level fifty percent activating.” Alex shielded her eyes as the flash of light and radiation permeated throughout the ship. Like the other blasts, this only lasted a second, but the radiation level would be enough to cripple anyone without protection. She waited a moment and watched the video feeds for anything. No movement, no sound. Nothing. “Please run a BioScan,” the Bot repeated. “Computer,” she breathed, trying to collect herself. “Run a BioScan.” “Scanning,” the Computer replied. “Organism found. Location: access hallway.” “Computer! Initiate Disinfectant Pulse, level one-hundred percent!” she called out frantically, hoping this would be the end of it. “Disinfectant Pulse level one-hundred percent activating.” With a flash of light and heat, the Pulse once again flooded the inside of the ship. Alex was well insulated from the effects of the radiation, but the level was still intense enough for her to feel the heat penetrate through the protective layers. There was no way any biological creature can survive this. With the Pulse complete, Alex jumped out of her chair and turned to the sealed entrance of the cockpit. She peered through the small porthole on the two-and-a-half-centimeter thick steel door, waiting for something to move past. Her hands shook and her heart raced as she looked through the tiny window, fully expecting to see something, anything, waiting for her out there. But there was nothing. “Please run a BioScan,” the Bot repeated. “This is your final request.” “Computer,” she breathed. “Run diagnostics on BioScan and initiate new scan.” “Initiating.” Alex sighed and leaned back against hull, ready for this nightmare to be over. Hopefully, a successful BioScan will be the end of it and she can complete this job and move on with her life. “BioScan Complete,” the Computer announced. “Organism found. Location: cargo hold.” “Hello, Alexandra,” Greg the Bot said. “You have sixty seconds to submit compliant BioScan results or your vessel will be targeted for disposal. Thank you!” Alex screamed with frustrated anger and ran off for the cargo hold. The BioScans were useless. Something was being picked up but was invisible to the cameras, but maybe not the naked eye. If it were a person, maybe they were wearing a radiation suit like hers. That would be why they could survive the Pulse blasts. There was only one way to be sure. She had to go down to the cargo hold and see for herself. She reached the entrance to the cargo hold and immediately threw the switch to open up the doors. Inside was still as a grave yard. Not one thing out of place. Still, she searched everywhere, covered every centimeter. But there was nothing to be found. “BioScan Complete,” the Computer announced. “Organism found. Location: living quarters.” Alex was out of the cargo hold and in the living quarters in a matter of seconds. She switched open the doors and ran inside, only to find it completely as she left it. She checked under the bed, in the shower, even in the tiny cupboards where no human can fit. There was no one there. “Hello, Alexandra,” Greg the Bot said. “You have thirty seconds to submit compliant BioScan results or your vessel will be targeted for disposal. Thank you!” “BioScan Complete,” the Computer announced. “Organism found. Location: cockpit.” Alex sprung to the cockpit in less than five seconds and stopped cold in her tracks when she finally saw it. There, in the cockpit, at the console, a distorted figure vaguely resembling a human sat in her seat. Her eyes grew wide and her breaths short as she stared in shock at what sat in her seat. The life form, whatever it was, sat in the chair, hands clasped together like it was silently praying. Whatever this life form was, it did not react to her, even as Alex slowly entered the cockpit. Getting closer, she was able to see the being entering commands and pushing buttons on the console, though no commands were entered or buttons pressed. It was like a hologram or an apparition or something not tethered to the laws of this universe. Then, as she was close enough to touch it, the being sprung from the seat and turned to face her. Alex stumbled back and tripped over her own feet as she recognized the face of the being. It was her. She was in agony, screaming, crying, pleading, but she was completely silent. There was no mistaking. This was her. A mirror image of everything up to and including the radiation suit she was currently wearing. And she was in distress. The being then froze. A look of realization came over her. She then turned her gaze, locking eyes with Alex. Alex froze. She didn’t know if this being could see her but it knew she was there. Suddenly, the being flinched with a brief look of shock on her face, before vanishing completely into thin air. Alex stood frozen in shock, unable to process what she just saw. She was completely at a loss for words. Never had she seen something like that before nor has anyone she known. “Hello, Alexandra,” Greg the Bot said. “You have ten seconds to submit compliant BioScan results or your vessel will be targeted for disposal. Thank you!” “Computer, run a BioScan,” she said. “Quickly!” “Scanning.” Alex sat back in her chair, a little apprehensive, but quickly focusing on the task at hand. “BioScan complete. No unregistered organisms,” the computer confirmed. “Great! Submit report to customs.” “Sending.” Alex held her breath as she anxiously waited for the report to be received, hoping they matched. Soon, she found her hands clasped together in front of her, held close to her face as she leaned forward in her seat. Sweat started dripping down her forehead. There was no room for error. If this did not work, she would face a fate similar to those cargo ships she saw destroyed earlier that day. “Hello, Alexandra,” Greg the Bot said. “We are sorry but your BioScan results cannot be accepted at this time, and your vessel has been regrettably targeted for disposal. We truly apologize for this inconvenience. Thank you!” “Self-destruct sequence activated,” the Computer announced. “T-minus thirty seconds to detonation.” “No, no, no, no!” Alex shouted, entering commands and pushing buttons on the console in an attempt to shut off the auto-destruct. It was no use. Customs had overridden all commands and controls. “Goddamnit!” Alex shouted. “There’s no one here! Just me! It’s just me! I’m the only one!” “Self-destruct T-minus fifteen seconds.” Alex pushed back her chair, shouting. Pleading at the computer. Pleading at Greg the Bot. Pleading to anyone to shut off the auto destruct. “Self-destruct T-minus ten seconds. Nine...” It was then a wave of realization washed over her. Alex now knew exactly what that being was. “Eight...” Alex looked straight ahead, where she stood only one minute earlier. “Seven...” She squinted her eyes and could vaguely see the outline of someone staring back at her. “Six...” The outline started to form into a human shape. “Five...” It was undeniable now. “Four...” She knew that being well. “Three...” The outline fully formed into a radiation suit. Her future self, staring back at her past self. “Two...” It was her. It was always her.


The Wind in the Willow There is a tree, a willow tree in the middle of a field near a small pond. The branches hang low, the slightest breeze will caress them, urge them to dance. When she was a child, the tree was Leena’s refuge. She could hide under the veil of branches. Here she’d read fairy tales, dream of ever after and wish for magic and her very own prince. But like everyone else, when she grew older, she had to come out from under her tree and leave her dreams and wishes behind. At the edge of the field, near the street, is an old-fashioned diner. Formica, chrome and vinyl. Orange and turquoise, generously decorated with duct tape. The diner has been here for as long as Leena can remember. After all she was born there, in booth five. The story is that her mother had brought Mrs. Fishbach her patty melt, sat down across from her, apologized and gave birth. Supposedly she then got up and went back to the kitchen. There was always someone to change her diaper, give a bottle, rock the infant seat. Always someone to admire her crayon art, teach her colors and numbers, read her fairy tales and help with her homework, till they said she was too smart for them. As soon as she could walk, Leena would carefully carry a plate to a customer, maybe sneaking a fry on the way. As soon as she was tall enough to reach she’d fill tumbles with water and ice. As soon as she was old enough she learned to flip burgers, run the cash register, do inventory and order supplies. Calculate the payroll. In the spring of her senior year her mother shoved the tax forms at Leena and two days after Leena graduated from high school, her mother packed a bag, handed over her keys and left. “She’s all yours, kid.” That was forty-seven years ago. ~~~~ Behind the diner in the single wide, Leena is remembering. Though she’s looking out the window, she doesn’t see the shadows dancing, or the lone stray dog chasing the leaves the breeze is blowing around. She should be planning next week’s menu. She glances toward the kitchen where her mother used to sit, pretending it was just iced tea in her glass. Leena can still hear her mother’s voice. “Men can’t be trusted. Take my word for it. They only want one thing and once they got it, you’re worthless. Should have listened to my mother. Don’t let a man touch you without a ring and a priest to back it up. Wish I could do it over.” “ So, you didn’t want me? ” “ Och, you’re all right. But yeah, I could-a done without you. ” Leena closes her eyes. “Yeah, mom. Your live would-a been so much better without me.” She mumbles. About twenty years ago, Leena heard from a lawyer in Las Vegas that her mother had died. She hadn’t bothered mourning her mother’s death. After all, she’d had more than twenty-five years to say goodbye to the idea of a mother. The lesson she had been taught was that she was easy to walk away from. Not worth staying around for. She doesn’t watch the willow, or how the sun and wind play with the long strands of leaves. She doesn’t notice the family return from church. She isn’t looking at the shadows creep across the street. Is not aware of another dog join the stray, the two wandering off together in search of adventure and food. She is letting her thoughts drift back in time. She shakes her head at the memory. ~~~~ “What can I get-cha, sugar?” Leena is leaning against the divider between booths three and four. While she waits for his answer, she shamelessly takes inventory of the man in booth five. Not outdoorsy rugged, but solidly built, nonetheless. An open, boyish face, a small gap between his front teeth. Unruly straw-blond hair. “Do you have a menu?” he asks, smiling. She points back over her shoulder to the chalk board behind the register. “ Tomato soup, almost any sandwich, pork chop, mashed potatoes with apple sauce, --- pie.” “May I have a club and a coke, please? ” Leena has looked her new customer over and approves. She gives him a smile and a wink. “You bet, hon.” And walks to the passthrough window and shouts. “One club.” Not that there is anyone there, but she likes pretending. Ice in a glass, soda from the fountain. “You want your bread toasted?” He nods as he drains half the glass. “I’ll go tell him.” She pushes through the swinging door, fits the bread in the toaster and assembles what she needs for the sandwich. “You new in town or just passin’ through?” She’s semi-casually cleaning an already clean tabletop nearby. “I’m the new history teacher.” He nods. “At the high school?” She tips her chin west toward the next town. He nods around a bite of his sandwich. “I was told that houses were cheaper this way.” ”You bet. Who’d live here, right?” That was Gary. They had a lovely summer. He had been sweet, considerate and, in the end married. His wife had joined him just before school started at the end of August. ~~~~ Now why was she thinking about him? Because he had been her last? She had been forty-five that summer and he had been her last. She sighs. Not her first, by any stretch. What had been the kid’s name. The first one. The one who’d touched her under her skirt. Allan, maybe? And then there had been John, they’d fondle each other, behind the movie house, rarely saying a word and then they’d each go their own way. She had found a good man. A nice man, Bill was his name. Earnest, hard-working. She hadn’t felt worthy of him, though. He was fresh, clean, she was used, dirty. He had stayed with her for five years. Why couldn’t he see that she was trash? Not worth hanging on to. Not worth spending time with. Somehow, he thought she was something. What had he seen? Finally, he had thrown up his hands. “ You keep pushing me away. You’re so convinced I will leave. Okay, I’ll give you room, for now. One day. I hope that one day you see what I see. When you do, I’ll be back.” He had walked out. Like everyone else. Oh, he was still in town. Every now and then, they’d run into each other at Walmart or Costco, He’d always ask how she was. Always had a spark of hope in his eyes. Tried to bank it, but ... And she always choked up when she walked away, feeling wistful and empty. Still wondering what he saw. But her bed had been cold after Bill left. So, she put up with Thom, who had cheated on her with his ex. Then Patrick, who just wanted her money so he could gamble. He had moved on when she didn’t give him any. Jason who had to “take a meeting out of town” and never came back. Rob, who had called her a cold bitch. Mark said she was selfish. Graham who had three-timed both his wife and her with his secretary. They all had proven that she wasn’t worth the effort. ~~~~ Since her mother left, Leena had managed the diner. First with a cook and a few part-time waitresses. But by and by she had to let them go. There just hadn’t been enough business. With the new college in the next town had come fancy coffee shops and pizza parlors. Yet, she had kept the diner open. Because there was more of a need now that the mill had closed. The university didn’t hire the people who had been laid off from the mill. Staring out the window at her wishing tree, she thinks of all those people carefully eating one slice of toast and cup after cup of tea, adding hot water to the same worn-out tea bag while making sure their child had a sandwich. Couples sharing one dinner plate. They had worried her; she had wondered what she could do. But she was nothing, wasn’t she? She was just one person. She had nothing. What could she possibly do? Patrick, Tom, Jason and all the others had told her she was cold, cheap, frugal, tight. Well, it had worked for her . She had saved her tips; hadn’t bought anything she didn’t really need. No, she had no flashy jewelry or a fancy car. And hadn’t bought a new winter coat in at least seven or eight years. But she had paid off the diner, the trailer, the worn-out truck and the field with the tree. She knew she had plenty of space behind the diner. She still had the few dollars her mother had left her, and her social security. She dreamed and planned, had looked at her bank books, tax statements, receipts. Researched the costs and benefits of her plans. Could she? Sure, why not? On her own? Yes, she could, but help would come, wouldn’t it? ~~~~ Now she has a greenhouse behind the trailer and a chicken coop. Every day, before sunrise she gathers what she needs. And each day at six am she unlocks the front door to the diner. “Hey, Sam, come on in. Help yourself to coffee while I make pancakes, will you?” Others troop through the door. It is always a steady stream. She sells breakfast and lunch at cost, one choice. Take it or leave it. It will take about an hour to run out of batter. But people wait till the oatmeal is made and later another crowd will fill the place and eat the soup or whatever she’s serving that day. One man starts to walk away without paying. Leena calls to him before he reaches the door. He looks back, she smiles and crooks her finger. “Hey sugar. How ya doin’?” “Good.” He sounds hesitant. “Your breakfast, was it okay, hon?” “I know, I’m sorry, Leena. But I need bus fare to the job place.” He mumbles, holding five quarters in his hand. “Sugar. If ya cain’t pay, you cain’t. But could you please carry your dishes to the kitchen? If I have to hire someone to do the cleaning, I’d have to raise the price of breakfast...” She cocks her head and shrugs, making sure he understands. “Yes, ma’am.” The man turns around and gathers his dishes. In the kitchen he loads the dishwasher and turns it on before he leaves. “Y’all come back naw.” She waves at a young couple with two school-aged boys. Somehow, it is working. After the breakfast rush there is always someone who’ll stay to clear and wipe the tables. Most days someone is willing to chop vegetables for a while. Sam eats free whenever he tends to the greenhouse or cleans the chicken coop. It is working. With her social security, the greens from her backyard and what she charges for a plate, the extras people sometimes leave her. Together they are making it work. No, she still hasn’t bought a new winter coat. And that’s okay. Slowly, she leaves the trailer and walks through the tall grass, parts the pliable branches and settles against the trunk of her dream tree. With a smile, she looks up in the tree. Up there, way up in those branches, are the leftovers of her dreams. Somewhere up there are the wishes she had to leave behind. She used to have such great dreams of escaping town, doing something big, being a good person. She used to believe in magic. And she used to have wishes of being worthy of her prince. Well, she didn’t get out of town, and she knows she hasn’t been a good person. She hasn’t done anything big. She shakes her head and smiles ruefully thinking of her childhood fancies. No, she can’t reach those dreams, but maybe she can make new ones... Did she hear something? Nah, she's just imagining it. Probably just the wind singing through the branches. Nobody comes on Sundays. Everybody knows the diner is closed. Though, people get hungry on Sunday too, don’t they? What if she offers a bowl of soup after church? It wouldn’t be that much work to make extra on Saturday and just heat it up, would it? She wipes away the hair that the wind has blown across her face. Lifts her head and parts some of the branches when she hears someone approach through the tall grass. Sees a familiar silhouette. “Bill?” Her voice catches somewhere halfway between her throat and her lungs. “Hey,” he says as he stops in front of her. “Just wanted to come and tell you that I think what you’re doing here is big, worthwhile. And that I’m still here. Still waiting for you.” He smiles, shyly. “You do? You are?” She blushes and pats the grass next to her.


Once upon a time, there existed a land where the woods stood tall and whispering, rivers wound like silver serpents through verdant meadows, and the earth itself seemed to sing with life. In this mystic realm, there lived a powerful king. The king’s name was King Soul. He reigned over a vast kingdom known as Wolffrin. Soul commanded an army of over ten hundred warriors and lorded over more than a hundred thousand civilians. King Soul was a jaded man. Even in the tender years of his boyhood, he was distrustful and suspicious of everyone around him. “You are a prince.” His father told him when he was just a lad, sitting on the man’s knee as King Benjamin spoke to him. “You will have a whole kingdom that must bow before you. They will cower in your presence, some will hold you in esteem, and perhaps a few will even bear you genuine affection. But heed my words, my cherished son; in this treacherous world, every soul has its price, every loyalty its breaking point. Trust none but yourself, for betrayal lurks within the hearts of every man, woman, and child." Soul took his father’s words to heart. He trusted no living soul, no matter how hard they tried to prove their trustworthiness to him. He did not consider even his own shadow to be completely trustworthy. When he was six, Soul became convinced his nursemaid was plotting to sneak poison into his meals. He told his father he saw in her eyes that she was power-hungry and that she would most certainly betray him. King Benjamin had her thrown in prison. When Soul was eleven, he had the stable boy executed after the cinch on his horse’s saddle went loose, and he took a spill. Soul was certain that the stable hand had made an attempt on his life. When he was thirteen, he saw his own mother speaking to a pauper in the marketplace. He caught a snippet of their conversation in which the Queen said, “I will help you, certainly.” Soul rushed to his father. He exposed the Queen for a plot to commit treason against the kingdom. After all, what else would she have to help a man of lowly status with? The Queen strung up a story to her husband about how she’d been attempting to assist the humble man with his finances, as he was homeless and desperate. Soul saw right through her lies. He knew she had betrayal in her heart. Everyone did if given the chance. The queen was banished. The King threatened to take her life if she ever returned to Salverto. One after the other, Soul found ways to incriminate servants and royals alike. The cooks, the knights, the wards of the castle, and even the King’s hound, who he swore up and down looked at him with malice in his eyes. On his eighteenth birthday, Soul went on a bear hunt through the forest with a handful of knights and servants, his father lying ill back at the castle. Surely, he was poisoned or spelled by a witch even! Soul thought, clicking his heels against his horse’s sweaty flank. Spartan whinnied and picked up his pace. His hoofs thundered over the forest floor. Soul kept his keen eyes scanning the forest, and his crossbow at the ready. Poor Father, he should have had the food he was to ingest tested more carefully. Alas, he would not be ill now had he taken better precautions! A bright sun hovered over the treetops. Light trickled down past the leaves and branches, and dots of gold danced over the forest floor. Soul’s keen hunter's gaze caught a brief disturbance. A streak of brown fur flashed at the edge of his vision, stirring his blood with the thrill of the hunt. With a practiced motion, he tugged on Spartan's reins, bringing the mighty steed to a skidding halt. “Halt!” His voice boomed through the trees, a clear command that had his men pulling their horses to a stop with a symphony of nickers and hooves churning the soft, muddy earth beneath them. They all turned, following Soul's gaze into the thick underbrush. There, concealed by the foliage, was the smallest grizzly cub Soul had ever laid eyes on. Its tiny form crouched low, ears perked in fright, those big, black eyes shimmering with the sheer terror of being discovered. "Oi, Prince Soul!" piped up one of his knights. "Maybe we oughta leave this one alone. It's but a wee thing, after all." Soul's reply was dismissive. "My trophies know no size. If it's a bear, it's fair game for my collection." He knocked an arrow. “Oh... Sire, don’t-.” “Silence! Or would you prefer to acquaint yourself with the inside of our dungeon?” Soul commanded. The knight ceased his protests. The bear cub let out a bleat. It backed further into the brush as Soul trained his weapon on it. The cub flattened it’s ears. It’s nose twitched and it’s body was shaking. "Farewell, you scruffy little beast," he sneered, loosing the arrow with a twang. The air was split by a heart-wrenching scream, sending birds into a frenzy, their cries echoing Soul's cold triumph. Soul dismounted his horse. He sauntered over to the body. He picked it up by the scruff and inspected the pelt. The fur was soft, lighter in color than he'd expected--clearly, the pelt of a cub barely a few months old. It’ll make a fine trophy or a soft rug. Soul thought. He spun to face his men, grinning. “Now, you unsavory lot, was that worth all the fuss?” The knight who’d been warning him against shooting the cub blinked. His eyes stretched wide in alarm. “My Lord-.” “Ah, quiet. I’ve heard enough of your sniveling.” Soul waved him off. “No, Sire. Really, you must-.” Soul’s eyes narrowed. I must do nothing! I am the prince, not this disrespectful suit of armor. He thought, enraged. “Now, listen here!” He began. “I take orders from none of you. If I want to kill a bear, no matter how young, I’ll kill that bear! Everything in this kingdom belongs to me. Understood?” The horses begin to stamp their hooves, their eyes going white rimmed with fear. The knights looked at something past Soul and they all cried out in one collective howl of urgency. “ Sire , behind you!” Soul felt something hot brush over the back of his neck. A reek like that of rotten fish filled his nostrils. Soul spun around. He came face-to-face with the enraged eyes of a grizzly bear. A bear bigger than any he'd ever seen before. Soul stepped back, clutching his crossbow to his chest. “You lazy ingrates. You fools!” He howled. “Do something, you useless slugs!” His knights hesitantly urged their horses closer. The bear stood up on its hind legs. It flattened its ears and growled. Soul picked up his crossbow and fired a clumsy shot. An arrow implied the bear’s broad shoulder. It gave an earth-shaking roar. The force of the scream was enough to send Soul stumbling back. He fell on his back and glanced up in time to see the bear tear the arrow clean from its shoulder and break it in half in its powerful jaws. “By the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!” Cried one of the knights. “This bear possesses the strength of a dragon. I’m not staying here to be torn apart!” “C-Coward!” Soul cried, gazing in horror over his shoulder as, one by one, his knights whirled their steeds around and fled. “All of you! Cowards and deserters! I’ll have your heads for this!” He whipped his head back to the beast. “And you! Do you not know who I am? Back away, you foul sack of fleas, lest you bring down the armies of Wolffrin on yourself!” The bear snarled. It didn’t seem to care about what armies he commanded. With a hiss, thebear grabbed his arm in its fangs, piercing his skin, then it flung him into a tree. Blood poured down Soul’s tunic, and his head rang from being bashed into the trunk. The fuzzy shape of the bear advanced on him. Soul closed his eyes, tears pouring down his cheeks. Truly, this must have been planned. He decided. Those cowards must have led me here on purpose so that this monstrous creature could do away with me. They want my power and my position, and they will stop at nothing to get it. “Away! Away! Do not harm him.” The voice was as soothing as birdsong in the morning. Soul peeked open his eyes. A boy, no older than him, had come to stand between him and the bear. The boy had long black hair braided down his back. He wore animal skins, and there was a tattoo on one exposed shoulder. A mark of a doe deer. A Speaker. Soul sat up in amazement. Why! I’ve only ever heard of them in stories. A people who dwell in the forest from birth to death, speaking to the animals and hearing prophecies from the rains and from the mountains beyond. “I know.” The boy soothed, as the bear gave a quiet whimper, its hackles lying flat and its eyes dropping to the ground. “But he is the prince. You cannot kill him. If you did, his people would do most terrible things to you, my friend.” The bear gave a furious stamp of its foot. The Speaker touched its forehead gently with his palm. “Rest easy, great hunter.” He whispered, his fingers creasing its scalp. “Rest. Return to the woods. Know that your cub hunts in peace in the Golden Forest now.” The bear leaned into his touch. Then she turned and lumbered back into the forest. Soul panted. He gingerly let his fingertips graze over his torn clothing, painting them scarlet with blood. “Are you gravely injured...Sire?” Soul glanced up. The Speaker was eyeing him thoughtfully. His eyes were hard, but not unkind. “Not gravely. I tell you, when I return to the castle, I shall have all those cowards hung! Truly!” Soul used the trunk of the tree to pull himself to his feet. The Speaker didn’t move. The boy watched him impassively. “You saved my life, stepping between me and that creature and daring to reason with the demon.” Soul hummed, more to himself than to the other boy. “She wasn’t...” The Speaker sighed. “She was simply hurting, Prince. She lost her baby.” “Yes, yes.” Soul waved him off. “The fact remains that you have done me a great service.” “It was my pleasure, Sire. Now, I should return home-.” “No. You must be rewarded.” Soul smiled. His father’s warnings rippled in his head, the residual swirls of stones long ago cast. For once, he ignored them. This heroic young man had saved his life! He risked his own wellbeing for Soul's sake; no one had ever come close to doing such a thing before. Not even the prince’s beloved father. “Rewarded?” The Speaker’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. Sire, you don’t have to-.” “You shall come and live in the castle as one of the royal household. I shall give you command of a battalion, and you will be my most trusted soldier. My confident. I shall give you what I have never given one before--as it is because of you that I stand here now--my trust.” *** In the years that followed Soul’s eighteenth birthday, changes occurred in the kingdom of Wolffrin. His father passed away a week or so after his birthday, and Soul became king. Soul, true to his word, placed the Speaker, named Kinshawn, in charge of many armies. Kinshawn became his most trusted ally, the only one besides his father to whom he ever gave his utmost trust. He confided in Kinshawn about everything. They became more than allies. They became true friends, who would do anything for one another. The only tension within their friendship was that Kinshawn knew of Soul’s paranoia, and it troubled him deeply. “You can’t ascribe to folks qualities of evil and malicious intent that aren’t there!” He’d protest. “You can’t punish people for crimes that you’ve made up in your own head... Sire .” “I simply prevent catastrophe.” Soul would brush him off. “I act on their sinful thoughts before they can.” “Oh, Soul-.” “Enough. I’ll hear no more about this.” After his father’s death, Soul grew more suspicious and distrustful than before. Again and again, he had innocent people killed and punished on the grounds of betrayal. It got to the point where his entire kingdom not only feared him but hated him for his cruel assumptions. Every day, someone was hung. The gallows remained set up in the city square. The prisons overflowed with starving prisoners, most of whom had done nothing to deserve confinement. Over a thousand men and women had been banished under false accusations during Soul’s reign. The people were furious and desperate. They began to plot how to get rid of their horrible king. *** “It’s betrayal, I tell you! An outright coup!” Soul was on edge, pacing back and forth like a caged animal in the expansive, eerily silent throne room. Kinshawn stood across from him, the only one besides himself in the room. “Sire, you don’t know that for certain.” “I do!” Soul shot back, his voice tinged with a mix of fury and desperation. “One of my knights told me himself! While mingling in the marketplace, he overheard a nefarious plot whispered among a shady gathering. They boasted about planting an assassin among us--someone aiming to cut my life short.” “Soul, perhaps he misheard.” “No, Kinshawn. I know. I know the people are out to get me. They’ve slipped a traitor into my home. We must find out who it is! Perhaps one of the knights...” “Sire, don’t .” “Or, or!” Soul snapped his fingers. “Perhaps the new kennel master! I swear to you, my brother, he looked at me strangely when I passed him on my way to the stables just the other day!” “Soul, please stop.” “Or perhaps,” Soul carried on. “It was the apothecary's boy-.” “He’s a little child!” “He had a shifty way to him!” Soul grunted. “I say, wouldn’t that be an idea too? To have a child barely out of the womb bring about my end.” The king's laughter, laced with bitterness, filled the room, morphing into something dark and foreboding. “What a cunning way to strip me of power and smear my legacy with such a humiliating defeat. Oh! You can’t trust anyone, my friend. Only you-.” “STOP!” Soul felt a sharp sting at the nape of his neck, a sensation both startling and oddly warm. A trickle of something wet slid down his skin, sending a shiver straight down his spine. Instinctively, his hand flew to his neck, his fingers brushing against the cold, smooth handle of a dagger protruding from it. “K-Kin... K-Kinshawn?” Soul whimpered, a mix of confusion and disbelief in his voice as he dropped to his knees. With effort, he turned himself around to face the direction the blow had come from. His friend was standing there, tears pouring down his face. Kinshawn stumbled forward, collapsing to his knees, and reached out, cradling Soul’s face in his hands tenderly. “I’m sorry.” He whispered, his lip trembling. “I’m so sorry. I had no other choice. You were destroying your own kingdom--the very kingdom I’ve come to love.” Soul felt a lump in his throat, stifling his breath. Panic and disbelief gripped him. “Y- You?” He rasped. “You are the assassin the people spoke of? You betrayed... me?” Kinshawn gently wiped away a tear rolling down Soul’s cheek, a gesture filled with heartbreaking tenderness. “No, my brother.” He sniffed, shaking his head. “You betrayed yourself. By believing nothing but the worst of all those around you, you made them believe that’s all that they could be. You expected nothing but traitors and murders, so that’s what your people gave you.” “B-B-But I l-loved... y- you... y-you were my b-brother.” Soul managed between sobs, the words barely escaping his lips. Kinshawn’s crying took on a new depth--a raw, soul-crushing sound that Soul had never heard from any man before. It was like something in him was dying with his king. “And you mine.” He murmured. “The day I saved you from the bear--though that day it was not you who I desired to save but the she-bear--you became my kin. Soul, I’m a Speaker. We’re raised to believe in the best of the world, not the worst. To show kindness and mercy to all. To give a man every chance you can before you condemn him. And don’t you see? I have given you every chance. I tried all that I knew, but something long ago hardened your heart, and I couldn’t change it.” “I-I h-hate y-you!” Soul managed to spit out, his vision going black. Kinshawn, unfazed, continued to stroke his face gently, just like he did with the bear on that fateful day years ago. “I’m sorry you do. Because regardless of everything, I will always love you, my brother.” And with that, King Soul’s reign came to a heartbreaking close. The Kingdom of Wolffrin, which had once cowered under the shadow of a ruler consumed by paranoia, was now in the hands of a man whose heart was as vast as the kingdom he vowed to protect. A protector of man and beast alike. A man who valued trust and friendship, even when those fragile things could lead to betrayal. King Kinshawn, born a Speaker, proved a warrior through noble deeds, and crowned a king through a twist of fate and betrayal. The End


Francoch Ratta, a 27-year-old New Yorker of Irish-Italian descent, woke up one morning to find he had a peculiar sensation. It was as if someone, or something, was watching him. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it was a feeling that wouldn't go away, no matter how hard he tried to shake it off. He went about his day as usual, working at the pub that served beer and pizza, exercising, drinking, and even dating girls. But the feeling persisted, and it was starting to affect his daily life. Especially his secret love of rodents. A.K.A. Mouses and rats. Francoch's love for rodents had always been a secret passion of his, something he indulged in during his lonely nights working at the pub. He would often sneak out back and leave scraps of pizza for the rats, enjoying the way they scurried up to him, their little noses twitching in excitement. But as his paranoia began to take hold, Francoch's love turned to fear. He couldn't shake the feeling that the rats were watching him, judging him. He started having nightmares about hordes of rats swarming over the city, devouring everything in their path. He began to see rats everywhere, lurking in the shadows and scurrying along the streets. Francoch's fear became so all-consuming that he couldn't even stand to be in the same room as a rodent. He stopped leaving scraps of pizza out for the rats, and instead started trapping them and releasing them far away from the city. He even went so far as to install a rat trap in his apartment, convinced that they were trying to invade his home. But despite all his efforts, Francoch couldn't shake the feeling that the rats were closing in, and he was the only one who could stop them. Francoch's paranoia began to manifest in some truly peculiar ways. For example, he started insisting that his coworkers wear mouse ears while they worked, claiming that it would throw off any potential rodent spies. He also began sneaking around the pub at night, armed with a broom and a can of Raid, convinced that the rats were plotting against him. But perhaps the strangest behavior of all was Francoch's sudden obsession with cheese. He would hoard chunks of cheddar and gouda in his locker, convinced that they were the key to winning over the rodent overlords. He even went so far as to start experimenting with different types of pizzas, convinced that he could create the perfect cheese-based offering to appease the rats. Of course, his coworkers and friends thought he had lost his mind, and they started to distance themselves from him. But Francoch was convinced that he was the only one who could save humanity from the rodent uprising. Little did he know, the true twist of his story was yet to come... As the days went by, Francoch's paranoia grew, and people started to avoid him. He didn't know what to do. Francoch never considered therapy as an option for his increasing paranoia and fear. For one, he didn't want to admit to anyone, not even a therapist, that he had a secret love for rodents. He was afraid of being judged or labeled as weird or crazy. He believed that he could handle his fear and paranoia on his own and didn't want to expose himself to strangers. Additionally, Francoch didn't believe that therapy would be effective for him. He thought that therapy was just for people with serious mental illnesses and that his fear of rodents was just a quirk that he could eventually overcome. He also believed that therapy would be a waste of time and money, and he didn't want to spend his hard-earned cash on something that he felt wouldn't help him. Francoch had just finished up his shift at the pub and was headed home, still feeling that eerie sense of being watched. As he walked down the dark alley behind the pub, he heard a scurrying sound and quickly turned around, only to be met with the cold, hard surface of an iron pan to the head. He blacked out, falling to the ground with a thud. As Francoch lay unconscious, he heard one of his assailants saying "Well, that's one way to make a pizza delivery". That night, before he could leave for the institution, Francoch was knocked unconscious. As Francoch slowly came, he found himself in a strange underground chamber, surrounded by glowing lights and strange machinery. His head was pounding and his vision was blurry, but he could make out the silhouette of a small mouse standing in front of him. "What the... where am I?" Francoch mumbled, trying to sit up. "You're in our underground laboratory, my friend," a mouse said in a surprisingly deep and serious voice. "We've been keeping an eye on you, and we knew that your increasing paranoia was putting you in danger. So, we decided to intervene." Francoch's eyes widened in shock. "What. The. Fu...?" "Calm down my boy. No need to go crazy for you are not crazy. Yes, what you are seeing before you is none other than a member of the Mus musculus species, a mouse. Yours truly, Dr. Mauso Mousinsky, at your service. My apologies for the rough treatment but we had to act fast. We couldn't let you continue down that dangerous path with your paranoia." The mouse said solemnly. When he woke up, he was greeted by a cute little mouse doctor and a big bodyguard rat at the side of the doctor. They were still the size of normal rodents. The reason for all this madness was something right out of an absurdist comedy. There was a colony of super-intelligent rats and mice living underground in New York, and they loved Francoch because he always gave them pizza. "What the...where am I?" "You're in our underground colony, Francoch. We've been keeping an eye on you and we're glad you're finally awake." "You mean...you're not just regular rats? You're... super-intelligent rats?" "Bingo. And let me tell you, you're one lucky human. We're the only reason you're alive right now." "What do you mean? Something happened?" "Well, let's just say things went a little...nuclear. But don't worry, we've got everything under control down here. You're safe with us." After he recovered and spoke with the rodents, something wonderful happened. Francoch paranoia disappeared for he was right about being watched. Francoch became friends with the rodents that he loved so much. After some time had passed underground, he asked if he could go back to the surface. The rats looked at each other as if they wanted to tell him something uncomfortable. Dr. Mauso Mousinsky, the mouse doctor, told him, "Uhm, Francoch, we're sorry to say this, but there's nothing up there anymore. Sorry for not telling you earlier." Francoch was shocked, "WHAT?! WHAT HAPPENED?!" Dr. Mauso Mousinsky continued, "Well, you see when we knocked you out and brought you here, we did it to save you... Humans have been going crazy with war lately. Specifically the USA and Russia. The president of the USA told in a public press conference that he banged the Russian leader's mom and that he enjoyed that ass. The Russian leader didn't take it well. Our last recording of the Russian leader heard him saying "Rush B Cyka Blyat" and a nuke was dropped on New York. The only reason that you are alive is because of our extremely advanced technology and security defense. Sorry dude." Francoch said, "Oh rats!" as he realized that the only friends he had left were the super-intelligent rats and mice living underground. He may have loved rodents, but this was not the kind of rat society he had in mind. In the end, Francoch said the following: "Well, at least I can make pizza."


Murdock decided today would be his last day on Earth. He would set out at dawn on foot and head west, away from the decomposing remains of the city on the coast, and by the time the sun sets he will end it all. He had grown tired of living. He had done several centuries of it. Some time ago, Murdock had set himself to becoming a god. Powerful beyond all measure. He had succeeded. He was immortal. He was Invincible. He had no need of food or drink beyond pleasure. Even breathing in the air was a force of habit. How he had accomplished it all was rather unimportant at the moment -- it was so long ago he barely remembered anyway -- what was important was the why. Had it all been worth it? As he pondered the events of his life, he climbed over the wreckage of downtown, over charred vehicles and collapsed buildings covered in the powder of skeletons that had turned to dust long ago. All because of him. He kept heading west. The suburbs were in even worse condition. It had been years since he had bothered to come out this far. Away from the steel and soot surrounding the fortress he had made for himself at the center of the city. He had expected to find the rows of destroyed houses covered in overgrowth of grass and bushes, but no. The devastation here was as complete as it had been in the city. In all the cities and towns and villages across the world. The extinction of the human race had started off quickly and in a white-hot fury. Several billion died in those first few days of Murdock’s personal war against the world. None could stop him. None of Earth’s mightiest heroes. None of the world’s biggest armies. Those who survived the initial chaos saw no choice but to serve Murdock without question or to hide. Those who hid he found quickly. Those who remained worshiped him. It had all been so satisfying. At first. Slowly, his reluctant followers began to die off. Disease, starvation, and infertility were soon common. Murdock had not been a benevolent or practical ruler, and the needs of a dying civilization came second to providing him with wealth and pleasure. After some time, he was all alone, and for a long time after he had convinced himself he was perfectly fine with it. Immortality and a whole planet to himself to do as he pleased. He had everything he needed. Now, as he pressed on, he was forced to remember how wrong he had been. He walked along the cracked and crumbling highway with memories flooding his tormented mind. Memories of the first few times he had roamed the planet, content to just marvel at the destruction he had caused. What a fool. He believed he could do this forever, but he had grown bored with it after only a few centuries. What an incredibly naïve and short-sighted god he had become. Now he still had billions upon billions of years to go. Until the death of the Sun, which he would presumably survive. Until the eventual heat death of the universe, which he might also survive. And then what? Floating in the endless void of a cold, dead universe with only his memories to keep him company? He could bear it no longer. No. He would end it. He would head west, slowly racing the sun. And when it dipped below the horizon in front of him, he would snap his own neck. When he reached the outskirts of the city, he began to use his power of flight. Taking a leisurely pace over the highway, Murdock still quickly found himself out above the expanse of greenery between cities. Not long ago he had begun to believe that, despite his regrets, maybe he had done the planet a favor by getting rid of the plague that was the human race. That maybe now at least the wildlife once so abundant on Earth could once again begin to flourish. But it was not meant to be. The planet was now riddled with radioactive fallout, both from the weapons humanity used against him and from the nuclear reactors that went critical in their absence. Now all that was left was vegetation and the few insects resilient enough to survive. It was one of the things about his existence that Murdock hated the most. The constant buzzing of insects now free to reproduce unchecked, with even Murdock powerless to kill them all. And so now Murdock, the self-made king of the planet of bugs and plants, found himself in a vast field in the middle of nowhere, watching the last rays of sunlight disappear over the horizon, and he was ready to do it. He was ready to end his life. His only solace was that if there was a Hell, at least it would be more stimulating than what he would have ahead of him if he stuck around. And if there was no afterlife at all, then all the better. He slowly placed one hand across his chin and the other behind his head. With a quick, sudden motion, he whipped his head to one side and snapped his own spine. The sound it made was louder than anything he had heard in decades other than his own frustrated screams of boredom into the sky. But something terrible happened. Murdock did not die. He simply slumped down, face up, and was paralyzed. He was catatonic with disappointment. Not only did breaking his own neck not work, he could not even move to try another method of self-execution. His worst fears will now play out slowly over eons. He will lay here, covered in bugs that will constantly try to eat him, but never succeed, looking up at the sky as the sun eventually turns red and engulfs the Earth.


"It’s rather a lonely feeling, you know?” “What is?” “Being alone.” “Well of course that’s lonely. That’s sort of the definition of alone.” “But why does it have to be?” “Are you being serious?” “Absolutely.” “That’s just the way it is. I don’t make the rules.” “What rules are you talking about?” “The rules of language.” “Wait? Why are we talking about rules? Who cares about those rules. I’m getting off track. I’m supposed to be writing something.” “We’re getting off track.” “You’re not even real. I am just lonely and board and talking to myself.” “You’re not talking to yourself. You’re talking to me who is you. There’s a difference. And before you ask, the difference is that I’m a different you from an alternate dimension. Because we’re the same person, we can communicate telepathically. It just seems like you’re talking to yourself.” “If that’s the case, then we must both be doing the same thing. I’m writing everything we’re saying down. What are you doing?” “Shooting aliens with a blaster, hiding behind cover, and talking to you.” “Sounds like you have a far more exciting life then me.” “That’s debatable. Between the two of us, I’d rather be writing everything we’re saying down instead of maybe dying to day.” “Do you think our lives are connected?” “What?” Like, when you die, I die, every one of us in every dimension dies at the same time.” “Why would it be like that?” “Because we are one in the same. If what I’m talking to is not a voice in my head, but actually another me, then that would mean every voice my head is just a different me from a different dimension communicating with me. Actually, now that I say it that way, we probably have different lives. Sometimes, certain voices do just vanish.” “Why did you even bother think about that?” “Well, I was hoping to help you in your situation. If we are all connected, none of us can die until all of us will die, then you had nothing to fear today. You weren’t going to die because I’m certainly not dying today.” “That’s a nice thought but we keep getting off from the point.” “Right? What is the point?” “I don’t know! You’re the one that started talking to me. I’m assuming you had something to help me out of this situation.” “All I said was that I felt alone, I needed to write, and I started talking to the voice inside my head which turned out to be another me from a different dimension. Which, I’m still certain that is what this. I’m just really board and alone and trying to feel less lonely by talking to myself.” “God, I wish I was you right now.” “Why?” “Because you have the time to waste doing nothing. I just killed about a dozen insectoid cyborg zombie demons, lost my best friend, and I’m certain I’m going to die.” “See, right there, that sounds more like a figment of my imagination then an alternate version of myself. ‘Insectoid cyborg zombie demons’ is me just trying to make the most absurd sounding enemies to kill. Plus, shouldn’t you be more sad that your best friend died?” “You haven’t lived in this chaos filled dimension. Best friends die every day. If I was sad for everyone of them then I would never stop crying. But I don’t have to cry. I have to survive.” “I don’t want to have your life -” “Nor should you.” “- but I’m still jealous of you.” “The feeling’s mutual. Go on.” “I feel like I have no purpose. You, at the very least, need to survive. Surviving isn’t an issue for me. Which, sorry for rubbing that in your face. But without the same challenge as you, I don’t know what to do.” “DO something.” “Damn it! I knew you were going to say that before I finished writing down what I said. That’s something I say to people that are acting just like I’m acting now. I can’t believe a me, that might be just me, but possible is another me from another dimension, told me to do the thing that I get mad at others for not doing.” “So, what is it you aren’t doing?” “Signing up for some dating apps.” “Seriously? That’s your big struggle?” “Hey, the apps looked like crap. Plus, I’m wearing my pajamas and I’m certain that the app is going to require taking a picture of myself.” “Then change.” “I have another excuse. The big one. I’m still friends with my ex and I’m moving in less than two months. So, out of respect for him, I’m waiting until I move to sign-up for any apps.” “That’s more reasonable. But, he’s your ex. Your life shouldn’t be dictated by him anymore. Why not go on dates?” “I’d rather not poke the beehive. But also, because of the fact that I’m moving, whoever I meet here couldn’t become anything more than a fling. I don’t want that, nor do I want to do that to somebody. Once I move, I can meet plenty of people. I can try for a serious relationship then.” “That’s another reasonable answer. I wouldn’t expect less from a different version of myself. So, what about poking the beehive?” “Not getting into that with you. I’m still certain that you’re a figment I made up.” “Sorry, wasn’t listening.” “Sorry, I wasn’t listening either. I found a post on reddit that I related a lot to. I had to respond. Responded three times in fact. Not sure if I should have done that but I needed to. What have you been up to while I was doing that." “. . .” “Sorry again. Went back to the post. I started exchanging messages. This is far more important that whatever’s going on with you. So, what’s been going on with you?” “You missed the entire ambush. I was freaking out, screaming, ‘Die you bug basters!’ And trying to get your attention. You asshole, you really rather be on a post than here in your head? You missed the epic one liner, which I refuse to say again, and I killed the alien queen. Also, what’s reddit?” “A place where people talk about things.” “You’re complaining about being alone when you have a place to talk to people? What a little bitch.” “One second. A new comment came up. I have to check it.” “Asshole.” “Back again. Where did we leave off?” “I blew up the planet. Now I’m back at space station Vex. You real missed all the amazing things.” “No, I didn’t. Your world might be full of action, but my world is full of emotion. I’m talking to this guy and we’re having the most . . . well . . . I wouldn’t say amazing conversation seeing as we're both feeling lonely. But we’re having a good conversation. Something meaningful. You’re right. I have it better off. I like talking to people. Better than almost dying every day. We’ll talk again sometime. I’ve got to post this story. How Meta.


The man straightened his collar as he looked into the mirror, dreading having the "talk" with his son, Simon. No not that talk, a different talk. Simon got into a fight at school today. The principal said Simon didn't start it. That wasn't what concerned him, what did was the condition of the young man his son beat. He closed his eyes and tried to come up with the right words. His thoughts quickly turned to prayers, because he had no idea what to say. After awhile he opened his eyes, he need not make his son wait any longer. He had sent Simon up to his room right after they got home from the meeting with the principal. "It's time to bite the bullet." He encouraged himself as he left the bathroom. He walked to Simon's room where he found the door open, waiting for him. His son was sitting at his computer desk, he let out a sigh to let him know he was there then walked over and sat on the bed. His son tuned to face him. "Dad, I swear I didn't mean to hurt him that bad. He just kept on and on. He slapped me and I know you always say turn the other cheek, but I couldn't. I had no choice something inside of me just took over. I FELT LIKE A MONSTER! I promise all I wanted was for him to leave me alone." As his son spoke tears filled his eyes, he could tell he thought he had hurt his father. Simon's shirt was ripped and his knuckles was bloody. "I understand more then you know." He said with a smile. "You do?" Simon said shocked. "Yes, I guess you could say temper runs in the family." "I have never seen you even get cranky before." Simon protested. "Ah, but I am old. I have had many more years then you have to learn to control it." "How can I be sure it won't happen again?" Simon asked as tears ran down his face. "You should be kind to everyone, even the undeserving. It is not our place to judge. Turn the other cheek, know that if you don't bad things are to come, just like today. As you get older, the bad things worsen. There are even things you can watch for and avoid like I do." "Like what daddy?" "Confrontation, arguments or anything that may make you angry. If you have a thought or have a hard time calming down, go to somewhere you can be alone. Then yell and do whatever you need to get it out. I like a dark place personally." "Like your study, is that why you had it sound proofed?" Simon asked. His father not answering rose to his feet. Simon stood up and hugged his father. "So I'm not in trouble?" "Of course not. How bad did he hurt you?" He asked. "My lip was bleeding, I think it stopped though. I'm okay." Simon answered. "Go change your shirt and wash your hands, we are going for ice cream. That feels good on a busted lip." His father said with a smile leaving the room. He could see Simon was happy, but he was not. He closed the door to his study and walked into the bathroom. "Pick on my son." He said as he began to lose his temper. "Slap my son." His heart raced and his hands stiffened and snapped. "Bust his lip." His face tightened. "Made him feel like a monster?" He asked himself. He slammed his once human hands into the wall, he slammed his foot into the toilet. Water ran all over his feet as though a fresh cooling effect. He rested his clawed hands on the sink and in snapped and cracked under the pressure. His gaze turned to the mirror. Fangs, slit eyes that even to this day remind him of a cat and bone piercing his skin making horns. "A monster." He whispers to himself. A voice from deep within him speaks, "one day, you will have to tell him. He is my son too." "Dad? Are you ready?" Simon's voice called out from the study. "Oh yeah, just gotta change my shoes, I'll meet you in the car." He listened until he heard the door close to his study. His gaze returned to the mirror now a man who is growing old looks at him instead of the beast that lives inside. "I know that." He tells it, he knows it can hear him. It's always listening. "Today isn't that day." He combed down his whitening hair and changed into dry shoes and met Simon outside. "Dang dad, what took so long?" "We have to stop by Lowe's, I need to place an order." He answered. "Toilet in your study is messing up again?!" Simon asked. "I guess I'm not the plumber I thought I was." He answered with a smile. "Geez dad, I would have gave up by now. You have the patience of a saint.


Her soft brown eyes searched mine as I looked down and saw the newborn writhing in her cot. She wasn’t kept with the other babies, she was isolated. Hidden away from prying eyes and wandering hands. Nothing but the rhythmic beeping of the hospital monitors to lull her to sleep. She didn’t cry when she saw me, she remembered me. Though I knew who she was I couldn’t place her sweet innocence. As if I was staring into a mirror, not recognising the reflection. Nothing can be compared to the softness of a baby’s skin, yet there was no comfort in the poison of hers. I was born a murderer. My mother died during my delivery along with my father and every doctor who held me in that theatre. When I was older, I was told my mother had a rare disease. They thought that I was leeching her blood in the womb, a severe foetal anaemia of some sort. She necrosed slowly from the inside out as I grew inside her, a bad seed. The condition was diagnosed well before my birth, so they never expected her to survive the delivery. It was the doctors and my father dying, that confused them. They concluded that this new rare sickness did not solely affect expectant mothers but was rather a contagious one spread by direct contact with one of the infected. No further research was conducted as this would have involved analysing me, an exposure no one was willing to take, too high of a risk. I was, for all intents and purposes, the only known survivor of this disease; supposedly due to my youth and adaptable immune system. In their defence, they were along the right tracks, it was the skin to skin contact that nailed those coffins. What they didn’t realise was the sickness was me. I was sent to isolation. No one thought to name me. I was just a hospital number until a nurse began referring to me as Ceadis. Murder in Latin. They should have killed me right there, for the greater good. Sacrifice one life to save the many. But killing a newborn, no one would have deemed that ethical. Powers are thought to be a gift for chosen ones. To better their lives and those around them. But when I was younger it didn’t seem to be a blessing. In all honesty, it didn’t seem like a curse either. All I knew about life was death and I hadn’t learnt to associate it with sadness. That was the beauty of isolation. From the outside it may have seemed heartless and cruel, keeping a child locked away, no contact, but it was quite the opposite. It kept the tragedy of my birth unbeknown to me alongside the societal connections of death being bad. Being kept from the world meant I didn’t make associations between my actions and emotions like happiness and sadness. I just existed and hence surprisingly had a happy childhood; ignorance is bliss after all. I had assumed all children lived this way, to be frank, I didn’t even know of other children’s existence. When I was 16, no longer legally a child, I was freed from my isolation. It was then I understood what happened in that operating theatre many moons ago. I said goodbye to the nurse who mothered me, the lady who never let me experience loneliness. As I did, I felt sadness for the first time. Not from being torn apart, but instead from seeing her eyes dull and limbs limp from an innate hug. The only mother I’d ever known dying from an act of love. I felt afraid, fearful of who I was and what I could do. If this was the price I would have to pay for my freedom, then I wanted to be sent back to the chains of imprisonment. But that was no longer possible. So, I ran. Ran from the hospital I once called home, ran from the scene of my crimes, ran from the only thing I knew. No one stopped me. No one wanted to touch death. After my first memorable murder, the grief led me to research more about powers. Literature said there was no known cause of powers, but affirmed they were overwhelmingly good. Experimental studies into the origin of power showed they came to people in times of need or to people in positions to help others, like a doctor given powers of healing. In hindsight, I guess I was what you’d call an anomaly. My research pushed me to considering using my lethal skin for good, but I struggled to understand where death fell in the balance of good and evil. Lacking certainty as to when the use of my power was justified meant many deceased in collateral damage throughout my years as a vigilante. I was foolish to think a teenage girl could hold the scales of justice steady, and soon grasped that I was a danger to society rather than an asset. I took to wandering the earth alone, taking precautions. If I couldn’t be a part of society, I instead would be an observer. A passenger on a train looking through the glass at the world around me. Watching but never touching. I tried to live an ordinary life, one where my power didn’t control me, but I learnt that I would never have complete control of it. Even on the side lines, a hand accidentally grazing mine soon went stiff and child running into the road would still lie cold if I tried to save them. Everything was black and white in this new world outside the hospital, if I wasn’t good, I was evil. It wasn’t long before I learnt my final lesson in the new world. I could never truly exist as an outsider until I was on the other side of the glass looking in. Once I learnt that, everything became clear. My only redemption was ironically, my greatest flaw. So now I stand here watching the baby girl with no name sleep peacefully in her cot. Unknowing of the damage she’d done and the lives she took. You must be wondering how I got here, well, I had help from a friend. Now you must be wondering where along my journey I made friends, truth be told, I didn’t have many. I’d met her whilst researching powers, she was unique. A girl gifted with the power of time travel. She embodied the true reason behind powers, her powers helped her to stop atrocities and help the world learn from its mistakes. I approached her once I made my plan, and she agreed to help me right the wrong I brought into this world. So here I stand. Focusing my attention back to the child, I watched her as I slowly I slipped my fingers out of the gloves that had become my second skin. She opened her eyes and smiled. She remembered me. Young Ceadis with an old soul, knowing that this was how it should end, this was her escaped fate from many suns over. The greater good. In knowing this, with my bare hands I picked her up, my power finally tipping the scales to good.