It was some giant, cosmic joke. It had to be. Somewhere, up in the stratosphere, whatever deities were still watching over us mere mortals were cackling . It was, ironically enough, hilariously unfunny. And, on top that, it was stupid, on my part, to let it go on as long as I had in the first place. It wasn’t like I hadn’t known what I was getting into. I read the brief; front to back, back to front, and in German (for good measure). I could recite it from memory. Captain Rhiannon Ellis, the pride of the Greendale Police Department, was known for her habit of closing cases while seemingly doing nothing but goof off and flirt with everything that drew breath. It was why I’d been hired in the first place. I needed to figure out exactly how much she knew; throw off her investigation; and not get seduced in the meantime. I’d done two of those things. Which is a D+ at best. “Did you actually write a report this time,” Ellis asked, her voice dry as kindling and cutting through the almost peaceful silence that had followed me barging my way into her office with nary a how-to-do, “or am I going to have to fake one. Again.” “Better practice forging my signature,” I said, tossing her my wickedest of grins, the one that promised a myriad of things to come, and flopped down onto the unfairly comfortable sofa Ellis kept by the window. It was perfect for napping -- or pretending to nap, as the case may be, “And don’t forget my distinctive flair for the dramatic.” Gods, this was stupid. I should get out while I have the chance. My employers were already up my ass; my turnover was usually rocket fast. It’s what I was known for . My whole reputation rode on the ability to get in, get the information I needed, and get the heck back out again. It was there, in heavily encrypted plain English, all over the dark web. I hadn’t had to advertise my own services in years, the proof was in the pudding. And, honestly, I’d had enough information a month ago, but I was still hanging around like an idiot. It was easy to play it off as long as I kept the information coming. No one really had the time to delve too deep into my continuing ruse. Though at this point, I wasn’t entirely sure who I was pulling one over on. “I let you get away with too much,” Ellis lamented, overdramatic and with a smile on her face. Gods, she was gorgeous. “If that were true you wouldn’t push my feet out from under your ass while we watch T.V.” “And you wouldn’t get any enjoyment out of it if you didn’t have to try, you absolute cretin .” Because that was the thing, wasn’t it? Ellis had snarked, and snapped, and shrugged me off; I had given back as good as I’d gotten. Ellis had sent me on bullshit beat after bullshit beat; I had delivered every time, petty criminals practically gift-wrapped. Ellis challenged my decisions; I screamed in her face (arguably not my best decision). The point was, for some reason, I kept trying. Ellis started calling me Thorn; I called her Stevie until she cut it the heck out. Ellis said, “ Call me Rhiannon, when we’re not at work ”; I had just laughed because I’d never see Ellis outside of work, right? Right? Ellis -- Rhiannon smiled at me across the table in some dimly lit bar after a case that had gone surprisingly smoothly; against every alarm bell shrieking its fool head off in the back of my brain, I smiled back and held out my package of sour Skittles . A peace offering. Rhiannon had kissed me, in an even dimmer corner of that same bar, her hands tangled in my hair; I kissed her back, the whole world dissolving into whiskey and the tang of citric acid and pure, unadulterated stupidity . I went home with her. It was only supposed to be the one kiss, the one night, the one time. But I’d woken up, so early that it could still be called late, with hazy moonlight streaming in through the open curtains, and rolled over. The darkness threw the parts of Rhiannon’s face that I’d thought I knew into shadow and brought out all of the things I’d never thought to look for. The exact angle of the slant of her eyes; how long her lashes were; the scar across her left cheekbone. She slept with her mouth slightly open and her dark hair spilled across the white pillow like spilt ink. She slept with a knife carefully under her pillow and her arm thrown carelessly across the most immediate threat in her life. I could have killed her. That night or any of the nights after. It wasn’t, technically, in my job description. I was supposed to neutralize the threat that Rhiannon and her team posed to the arms dealers who had hired me. No one said anything about killing her. It wouldn’t be frowned upon , per say, but it wasn’t a part of my contract. I would still get paid if Rhiannon lived. I would still be able to pay for Everly’s treatment if Rhiannon lived. When Rhiannon lived. “What are you thinking about?” Ellis-- in the office she was Ellis. In every report I’d ever drafted, for the Greendale Police Department or for my employers, she was Ellis. In every moment of my joke of a life not spent curled in the corner of Rhiannon’s sofa with a book in my lap and my feet tucked firmly underneath the other woman’s thighs she was Ellis -- asked, setting her pen down on the desk with a quiet click. If there was ever a time to lie my ass off --“What you look like underneath that uniform,” while not exactly true, it also wasn’t entirely a lie. There was something about being in the same room as Ellis, something electric. Something that felt like breaking a rule and knowing you were going to get away with it. Outside of the office, when she was simply Rhiannon, when she favored t-shirts so old and loved that they were practically see through and worn jeans with holes in the knees and frayed hems, she softened. Her smile came easier, her eyes were less calculated, and the soft flutter of her hair around her face blurred her usually jagged edges. Ellis, with her razor wit and sharp gaze, tight braid, and starched uniform, was something else entirely. She was dangerous; ex-military, an expert marksman, she could slit your throat before you realized she was even in the room. And honestly? That kind of did it for me. “Why do I put up with you?” Ellis laughed, leaning forward across her desk and planting her chin into her folded arms, “Your name literally means trouble.” The alias I’d chosen for this job did, anyways. Briar Queens. Rhiannon called me the Queen of Thorns, sometimes. She called me a lot of things, actually. Things I should have hated. Honey. Baby. Sweet Pea. Usually in the bedroom. Sometimes in the kitchen, with the lights dimmed, as I stirred exactly the right amount of sugar into her tea. Sometimes in the living room, when I mindlessly unspooled her wool for her as she knit and I read, Santa Clarita Diet on in the background. “Well,” I started, swallowing around the soccer ball that had formed in my trachea when Ellis had laughed --every laugh in the office was hard won and far between-- and trying valiantly not to think about what that meant, “I’m beautiful, brilliant, charismatic, and very, very good in bed.” I added in a terrible, overdone wink just to earn another of her quiet, smoky laughs. “You are all of those things,” Ellis agreed, her smile soft, too soft for the office and too much for me to deal with before nine in the morning. It wasn’t the kind of smile you threw around; not the kind you let just anybody see. It certainly wasn’t the kind of smile that you offered your coworker with benefits. “What?” I asked, “No ‘but’ in that sentence, Captain?” I expected sarcasm; something witty and maybe a little sexy. I didn’t expect her smile to just brighten, “No ‘but’.” I had to go . I needed to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Dangling twenty five feet above a pit of venomous snakes in the middle of a hurricane would be preferable. “Coffee?” I squeaked, because it was the easiest excuse in the book; find me a cop without a near crippling caffeine addiction and I’ll out-do that guy from the movie with the annoying yellow things and steal you the damn moon. Ellis’ eyes lit up, “Yes, please ,” she reached for the drawer in her desk that I knew housed her wallet, phone, and keys, but I waved her off. “I got it,” I said, “no worries.” I should really look away; she’d settled her desk in front of the large window, so she could feel the sun on her back throughout the day (because the woman was honestly just an overgrown housecat at the best of times) and the hazy morning light hung around her like a glow and it was doing concerning things to my blood pressure. Ellis relaxed back into her chair; her eyes were blue. It was easy to forget since they were so dark, but the second the light hit them just right it was like watching a raven’s wings unfurl, “Thank you, Briar.” Oh. First names. In the office. My hand stilled in midair as I reached for the door handle. “I said no worries,” I told her over my shoulder, because looking back would be a mistake , “Rhi.” The door clicked shut behind me and I pressed my back against it, for lack of anything else solid and sturdy including, apparently, my spine . “Damn, Queens,” Sergeant Walsh, a tall, kind looking man with glasses and approximately seven thousand pictures of his toddler ready to accost an innocent bystander at any given moment, whistled, “What’s got you so hot and bothered this early?” My skin was naturally, blessedly, a little on the darker side thanks to my useless father, but I don’t think all of the melanin in the world could have hidden my blush entirely. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I said, silently praying for an isolated lapse in the structural integrity of the building that would crumble the floor below my feet and send me to the floor below and therefore away from this conversation, “I’m just going on a coffee run.” “Oh, a coffee run,” Walsh’s grin only widened, “is that what we’re calling it nowadays?” “That is what we’ve always called it when someone leaves the office to acquire coffee .” I hissed -- God is fake. God is absolutely fake; God is a figment of humanity's constant need to feel like there is something bigger than them at work, because if God was real either Walsh or I would have dropped dead of a spontaneous coronary at that very moment. “You don’t have Cap’s card, though,” Walsh pointed out; the absolute bastard. He was loving this! “Which means it’s not a coffee run for the whole team. Which means it’s just the two of you. And since you don’t have her card that means that you’re buying the both of you coffee. Probably from that stupidly expensive hipster place down the street that you both love. Which means you’re also going to buy two pastries, which you’re then going to eat together in her office.” Could I kill Walsh and make it look like an accident? No. I scratch out that idea as soon as I think it; the jerk had the audacity to be Rhiannon’s best friend. She’d miss him if I killed him. She'd be sad . “Which means ,” but then again... “it’s a date.” I stared at him in stunned, horrified silence for several long moments. I knew exactly what my face looked like; Everly had snapped a picture once and it now hung, framed, in the living room of our shoebox apartment and acted as a reaction image when someone said something particularly stupid on the internet, “You’ve lost your mind,” I said, faintly. “I have not!” Walsh crowed, clapping his hands and beaming down at me, “You and Cap have a breakfast date. You’re buying breakfast to eat with Cap. This is Girlfriend Breakfast.” “You shut your whore mouth right now, Anthony Walsh,” I warned, pointing one finger at him -- my other hand was still clutching at the door jam to keep myself upright, “it is not a date. It is...” what, exactly, was it? Two friends having breakfast? That could work, except usually ‘two friends’ didn’t mean ‘two people who had sex three to four times a week and spent the night together even more than that’. Friends With Benefits: Now Including Americanos And Gluten Free Muffins! “It is what?” Walsh asked; eyes glinting behind his glasses the way they did when he knew he was winning. “It’s nothing ,” I spat, pushing away from the door and stalking passed him, “bloody detectives!” He danced in front of me, walking backwards and weaving through the bullpen with an ease I refused to envy, “ Don’t you have work to be doing? Go detect something. There’s nothing to detect in my relationship with Rhiannon.” Shit. “ Rhiannon !” Walsh lit up like a Christmas tree and stopped walking, forcing me to either do the same or crash my nose into his sternum, “You come in early,” he held up one finger, “you buy her breakfast,” two fingers, “and now you call her by her first name!” For the love of -- “Yes! Okay, yes. I am sleeping with her. Is that what you want to hear?” I threw my hands in the air like an exasperated mother of four, “I am sleeping with the captain. I have been sleeping with the captain since the drug bust back in freaking August.” “I knew that already,” Walsh looked at me like I was stupid (I’m not stupid), “what I want to know, is what your intentions are towards my best friend?” Thank the freakin’ fake gods I’d shown up early and no one else had managed to stumble their way into the office yet because the pitch my voice took when I shrieked “Intentions? ” back at him would have busted some ear drums. As it was, it lured Ellis out of her office. “Briar, is everything alright?” She asked before she’d even surveyed the scene, “Oh. Tony.” She looked between the pair of us before sighing; too sharp for her own good, that one, “Intentions. Tony, I told you to leave it alone.” I told you . She’d told Walsh about me. She’d told Walsh about us . There was an us . “What?” Walsh’s eyes got all big and innocent, like he wasn’t in the process of actively terrorizing the villagers (the villagers being me, myself, and I.) “I just want to know--” “My intentions,” I repeated dryly. “Exactly!” Ellis looked like she was on the brink of a migraine -- on one hand, awesome , this beat my record by a whole fifteen minutes, on the other I added that fancy migraine medication that was literally just Tylenol and caffeine to my mental shopping list because I knew, for a fact, that she’d taken the last of her supply on Friday. “Incredible,” she sighed, “why I put up with either of you I’ll never know.” She grabbed Walsh by the upper arm, her grip leaving no room for interpretation or struggle -- he was going to go where she wanted him and he was going to do so with minimal whining -- and dragged him to her side, opening up the way to the elevator for me. “On your way, Briar. I’ll handle the peanut gallery,” her hand was gentle between my shoulder blades as she lightly pushed me forward. “Thanks,” I said, darting into the elevator and slamming my hand against the close button until the office was hidden from view by the thick, shiny metal doors and Walsh could no longer somehow manage to get away and teleport back into my personal space. That was a nightmare, to put it lightly. My intentions . He didn’t want to know my intentions. I didn’t want to know my intentions. Hell, I doubt I could tell him if I wanted to. Nothing had gone as I intended. I was a spy , okay? They could throw out words like ‘covert’ and ‘espionage’ and what have you all the livelong day but that didn’t change the fact of what I was. I was the damn spider, cocooned in my web of lies, spinning them one after the other. Everyone else was just a fly; they didn’t matter . Nobody mattered, except for Everly. Which is why I’d intended to do my job, collect the paycheck, and forget the whole thing had ever happened, like I did every time. I didn’t intend to kiss Rhiannon. I didn’t intend to sleep with her, and once I did I never intended for it to become a thing . I never intended to stay the night. I never intended to google how to make gluten free pancakes at six AM on a Sunday. I never intended to fall in love with her. Oh . The elevator doors slid open. Oh no.


Chris strode down the street, market stalls from the festival closing. It was just after dawn, and in a small village like this, hardly anyone was still awake - annual festival or not. Chris didn’t live here, didn’t live anywhere near here, really. He was just passing through, hopping onto traveling carriages when he could, walking when he couldn’t. He had a set destination in mind, and it was across the country. Over there, with clear skies, sandy beaches, and open waters, Chris would finally find peace. He’d lived a worthwhile life, racking up as many enemies as he did lovers, but it was time he laid down and enjoyed the serenity being someplace new offered. The village he was at right now was on his way to that far-away beach. He’d only arrived a few hours ago, taking his time to sightsee and shop. The festival seemed to be, from the few people he spoke to, a once-a-year celebration of life. No one was to go hunting or fighting for the week-long festival. It was a week of good-natured fun, dancing, and talking to those who stayed alive. Chris was grateful for the festivities, for it meant no one would cause him trouble, being a newcomer and passerby and all that. However, it also meant he had to watch his manners, because Chris loved to argue, and he loved even more to fight. He’d dueled quite a few men in his prime, but his life was quickly setting, and he didn’t want to spend whatever time he had left worried he’d be shot. Chris continued walking down the main street, nodding his head to those packing up their stalls, making his way back to where he was lodging. Finding a place to sleep was always his top priority in a new place. It was a lot easier cleaning up blood with a tub. A lot safer passing out on a bed. The establishment he’d chosen this time was a newer looking tavern. The bar was on the bottom, rooming on the floor above. It seemed to be the only place to grab a drink, and it wouldn’t open until sunrise tomorrow to give a day of rest after the festival. Chris remembered overhearing something similar being done for all the other shops on the street. Which was just fine for him, as the more he drank the angrier he got, and it wouldn’t be good to start his easy-going lifestyle with even more blood on his hands. Chris kicked a rock out of his way, ambling toward the bar’s doors. It was a wooden building painted bright red, blending in with the other colorful buildings littering the street. For one night’s sleep it wasn’t a bad price, and it came with as much food from the bar as Chris could shove in his mouth. Being on the larger side, that meant a whole lot. Chris shouldered open the half-cut doors, raised his hat to the owner cleaning tables, and walked to the side door, up the stairs, down the hallway to his room. He didn’t bother locking it with the key the owner gave him - he didn’t bring any valuables. Chris was planning on buying materials to set up a home once he was closer to the coast, so for now all he had were the clothes he wore, two guns, a handful of bullets, and his life’s money. Not much he’d ever owned beyond that in his life anyway. Chris let the door swing itself shut and ventured into his room for the night. He planned on sleeping till noon, then hitching a ride to the next town. Chris shucked off his jacket and holster belt, kicked off his boots, and slid beneath the threadbare blanket onto the rickety bed. He was quite used to sleeping on the ground, especially if he couldn’t hitch a ride between towns, so this was a nice respite. As Chris laid down, he crossed his legs and rested his head on his arms, reminiscing over his life. He’d spent close to every second of his 48 years causing some kind of trouble. From stealing when he was a young man to picking fights everywhere he went as he got older. He’d killed a few people and ruined a few more lives, but he didn’t regret any of what he’d done. For him, it was in the past, and he wasn’t concerned with his past, only worried about his future. He remembered a time, when he couldn’t have been more than 20, when traveling still felt exciting and he was learning just how good a shot he was, when he first killed a man. It was in a tavern just like this, a village just like this. He couldn’t say it was an accident, couldn’t say he hadn’t meant it. Couldn’t even say he wouldn’t have done it again if given the chance. Because he did. In almost every town he visited thereafter. Chris couldn’t remember the fine details of that experience, but he could still picture the man he killed. Stomping up to Chris sitting at a cards table, Chris’ arm wrapped around his girl, ripping that arm away. Chris remembered his eyes, boiling with rage and one too many drinks. The man was unsteady standing, but he had a hundred pounds and a few inches on Chris. Chris new instantly he was in for it, hands reaching for his guns before he’d even thought to ask questions. He didn’t care if he’d stolen the other man’s girl, didn’t care that he could’ve taken a few punches and both would’ve lived. The village was small enough for no one to want to fight anybody, and this man was large enough to not need a gun to intimidate, so Chris unloading a bullet into the man was unexpected. Sudden. He was a real good shot. Especially with that short distance. The man towering over him, ferociousness etched into his scowl and narrowed eyes, toppled like water breaking through a dam. No one knew how to react, no one except Chris, who knew it was time to leave and find a new town. And so, he did. He left without a word of remorse to the man’s woman weeping over his body, to the little boy crouched beside her, to the people clamoring for his life. Chris didn’t think much of that man. The next few times he killed, he would remember those eyes, burning with hostility, impatience, pride. Chris figured his eyes looked much the same. With that memory passing through, Chris relaxed in his bed, and fell asleep. When he next woke, he felt refreshed. It was nice going to sleep on a bed under a roof. He opened his eyes and sought out the sun peaking through the wooden slabs. It was probably nearing, if not passed, noon. Chris stretched his arms above him - well, tried to. He couldn’t move them all that much. Making a confused sound, Chris turned his head to see what was going on, and saw, then felt, rope pulling each wrist to a bedpost. He yanked on the rope, trying to crack the bed frame, but even though it was rickety, it held. Chris wasn’t so worried. He’d been tied up before. He rolled his eyes at himself for not locking the room door before he went to sleep, but he was certain he’d live through this. He’d lived through worse. Chris tested his legs, and sure enough there was rope tying them to a bed post, as well. He couldn’t move much on his back as he was, but Chris looked around the room, searching for who tied him up. It was probably someone looking for money, or trouble, or both. Instead, Chris found himself looking at a ghost. The ghost of the first man he’d killed, the man he’d thought of last night. Chris shook his bindings and snarled at the ghost, “What the fuck d’ya want?” The ghost just stared. Chris laughed and stared back, trying to remember more of whom he killed and why he was standing before him. Those eyes. They were still filled with hostility, but now it veered toward vengeance. The man still had a deep-set scowl, but his face was more angular. When Chris shot him, the man had gray streaked in his hair and a pot belly showing years of heavy drinking. The man standing before him seemed younger than Chris, barely any wrinkle lines and none of the belly. Chris thought back to that night and remembered the grieving woman. And the little boy crouched next to her. Chris’ eyes widened and his laugh became louder, “Out for revenge little man?” Chris flicked his eyes away and licked his lips, “A bit late wouldn’t you say? Couldn’t find me?” Now, the man moved. He stepped forward till he was leaning over Chris, and spoke, “I was ten. My father wasn’t a good man, but he cared for my mother and his house.” The words came out stiffly and unrehearsed. Chris, even though it was nearly three decades ago, tried to remember the village from that day. The color of the tavern and the layout of the street he stayed on. He realized it was the same one he was in right now, and not much had changed. Looking at the man in front of him, not much had changed at all. Chris’ laugh petered out, and he bared his teeth, “A mighty miracle is what this looks like. Probably didn’t even try to avenge your old man. Just pure luck I came back on by, huh?” Chris had tensed when he’d thought it was a ghost, hallucinations where never a good sign at his age, but for the son of a man he’d killed? One who’d seemingly didn’t try to find him, with a lukewarm grudge decades old? Chris had handled angrier men. Men with more spite. He shifted in the bed, getting comfortable, for he knew a long conversation of threats and maybe some punches and cuts were in order, a deeper wound if the man had it in him. From what Chris knew in these few moments, tying him with rope, waiting till he was awake, not bothering to search for him, Chris didn’t think of fearing even a punch. The man, still leaning over him, eyes blazing, said, “I ain’t upset you killed him. He would’a died soon anyways. Just the man he was. But my mother cared for him, and this village cared for him, and they were peaceful folk. Didn’t hurt nobody. And now my momma’s dead,” his eyes flickered before they narrowed again, “And I’m not gonna live here anymore, so I don’t gotta be like them.” The man continued, “I ain’t a good man. I ain’t a good son. But he was my father, and I want my momma to have peace for his death.” He lowered his hands to his belt, and Chris noticed the holster, Chris’ holster, wrapped around his waist. Chris’ eyes burned with rage at being shot with his own gun. He thrashed in the ropes and opened his mouth to yell, but before even a whisper could escape, the man had fired. Blood trickled down Chris’ forehead into his open eyes. He was a good shot. Especially with this short distance.


A red and white news helicopter rattled and hummed as it hovered over the scene. Color footage of the live feed lit up the newsroom while POLICE STANDOFF WITH ROBBERY SUSPECT scrolled across a million local TV screens all at once. On the ground a tense scene was unfolding. “Drop the weapon, NOW!” the officer shouted. Shirtless and bleeding, Louis Coleman paced back and forth. He ignored the orders of the police and began to pray out loud, “Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy...” Louis thought about his life; it once held promise. He once was a sweet boy who sat on his mother’s lap, brushed his teeth and fed the dog. He would wave the flag on July 4th and believed in the lie that anyone could be president. “Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done...” But now his bare white feet stuck to the black Florida asphalt while overgrown vines of unkempt hair hung from his head. A revolver dangled like a deadly toy in his hand. Dropping out of high school left him working as a roofer in the Florida sun. The hard work had taken its toll, and over time ‘a few beers to chill out’ turned into a hit of heroin to sleep and a hit of meth to wake up. Then it took a hit of meth to stay awake and more to make it through the day. Ten years later he had no teeth and the progress of his life was measured by the entries on his rap sheet. And today his very first armed robbery had gone entirely sideways. Police cars with blinding blue flashers had him surrounded. Six cops stood with guns drawn, using their car doors to steady their weapons. Each cop overheated and impatient with their Glock Model 19 trained at his center-mass. Each one thinking *it’s him or me.* Each one ready and willing to deliver a deadly fusillade of nine-millimeter rounds if he took a shot at any one of them. Police radios crackled and the sirens in the distance got closer as more police units sped to the scene. The robbery was going to be so simple: walk in, point the gun and take the money. But the clerk pulled a gun. Louis panicked and shot the man then ran out of the store empty handed. Now he was surrounded. “...on earth as it is in heaven...” he continued. “Give it up, Louis! It’s not worth it!" the cop shouted, but Louis didn't seem to hear. "LOUIS, DROP THE GUN NOW! THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING!” “...give us this day our daily bread...” Louis said quietly. Louis didn’t drop the gun. Instead he cocked the revolver, slowly turned towards the police and raised the barrel. “And forgive us our trespass....” he muttered, but his prayer was cut short by a volley of fireworks, but not the good kind. Dozens of brass shells clattered onto the pavement. Louis crumpled to the ground. If he did have a soul it moved on swiftly to someplace else; maybe someplace better, or maybe someplace much worse.


CW: strong language, violence In the year 2912, the month of Ulani, or shall I say, "14/10/2912," in the world of Tyrenkia. My name is Myles Price, age eighteen and 5'7.5 foot tall, and I am a black teenager who just graduated from high school. Yeah me. Now that is what's up. It's another day at my workplace; I hate it. In most places I work from before, the bosses that I meet are nothing but assholes. It seems hopeless to get a cool, chilling boss to get along with from trading one boss to another. It's always a yes boss, okay boss, and I'm going now, boss. I am a cash register in some gas station in the middle of nowhere. It's placed in the desert that nobody ever comes to pay for a visit. It reminds me of my horrible, embarrassing uncle where they never visit him because he got house arrested by his own family before they dumped him. His sons dumped him; his daughters dumped him; his wife as well. What's funny is that his house is his prison. His family tried to throw him away; however, things got into deep yogurt. Throwing him away into the streets to be homeless, he causes trouble that brings people with pitchforks. He gets problems everywhere he goes; it's best to lock him in a house without anyone with him. His own family pays the bills, making sure the creature stays at that home--alone! I now know why this gas station is similar to the taste of my horrible uncle. It's a prison in a place of nowhere--no one to see you. I entered the gas station as I work there, clocking in at five, and my boss is giving me an attitude right now--cunt! I don't like how he crosses his arms at me, furrowed his eyebrows, angry at my face, and his lips grow to detest me. I wish I am not here right now. Okay. I will tell you how it went from last night. All I have done is listen and blast my earphones to the max while reading my comic books online. I didn't know a six-year-old boy will steal food in the store and takes off with his mommy. How the heck shall I know? Shit! I know I didn't pay attention, but it's just one pack of candy the kid stole. "Myles! You damn lazy fool!" said the boss, who has a bald with androgenetic alopecia. He's fat, short, and stout with a beer belly as well and an unattractive look. "I see in the camera, you reading and blasting those earplugs, ignoring what our customers stole!" "I'm so sorry, boss; it won't happen again." Like hell, I don't care. I am only here for the money before joining the military. I bet this fat cunt cheat on his wife. His face looks like an ass already with an intimidating look. When he has a regular mug, it seems like a gruff jerk already. You can't even tell when he's angry because his angry face and his normal face are the same. It's why I call him "Mr. Asshole." "This is your last straw! I hope you better save it for the last, kid!" Yeesh! Okay fatso; Okay dumb-dumb. Then I start to skit my shoes on the ground, throwing a fit since it's so hot today. My boss usually works in the morning. Four people only work here, which includes me and the others. I take the night shift before someone takes the midnight shift. My boss leaves the place and drives off home with his fancy sports car. Show-off! How the heck are you making money from this kind of gas station in the desert out in the middle of nowhere? Anyway, whatever. I don't care. At least that fat-tard is not here at this moment. I guess I will sit at that counter, bore myself to death, and wait for the other dudes to come over for their shift. Shit. I wish I can bring my electronic Handgame Vee to play online, kicking people's butts on Super All-Star Champion. It's the best video game ever in the world! It's a game based on multi-crossover characters from different console games on one platform. At least it can make time fly by so fast. 6:30 p.m. The sun is down, and the heat is dying very fast in the desert. It's going to be cold--very cold. At least I got my coat in my car. All I did from an hour ago is to doodle around on a stupid paper, drawing how stupid my boss is, having thoughts of clowning him like some stand-up comedy. It's fine. At least I find something entertaining to do. After drawing about my stupid boss, I push those papers aside and enter to la-la land, daydreaming of myself as a soldier. My father is a war hero before he died. It's just my mom and me, living together. My mother doesn't want me to be a soldier because she doesn't want me to end up dying like my dad. I always tell her that I will be just fine and do things better than what dad does. Her answer is still a no. C'mon, mom! 8 p.m. and no customer at all--NOT ONE! I told you so! Narrator, shoot me! PLEASE! Another two hours of nothing. I wish I can bring my A-phone, look at porn on the internet, get a ten-inch boner, start humping at the glass wall, and maybe shoot some seeds in my pants and at least--forgot, keep it rated PG-13. Whatever I said, folks, you didn't read it. Let's start over and reverse that. You never hear what I just said. I just blurted my la-la land, and I do apologize. 8:15 p.m., trying to stay awake since this boredom is killing me. No earphones or else I get fired; no comic books or else I get fired. Okay boss; okay fatso; okay retard. Instead, I rather go to school and let the professor yick-yack at me than staring at an empty store with no one here. Please, narrator, can you at least change my storyline to fun-fun land? I will do anything for you to change this subject for me. If you can't, just let me die. 8:30 p.m., I start to walk around, trying to stay awake. Suddenly, there's a car that approaches the front parking lot. It parks right there, next to the curb, in the front door of the shop. The car is black. Okay, I know this is not one of the guys for the midnight shift since the bearded dude comes at 10 p.m. while the other guy comes at 14 a.m. This car's windshield is so dark, and I can't even see the driver. I hope the dark windshield doesn't mean anything dirty by looking at me from that view to my side. If it's a fucking pedophile, oh fuck me! The driver's door opens, and there comes out a very tall man, and he's black. Cool! I'm going to nickname him, "Mr. Cool Dude." On the passenger seat, there's a tall white man. He's quite handsome with his blonde hair, I'd say. I will nickname him, "Mr. Custani." They are dress in black, looking cool like gangsters in a businessman outfit. I return to the cash register in steadfast since I have been waiting for one customer for a very long time. Yes, my insanity of boredom is over. I feel useful again! Thank you, Mr. Narrator. At least for the moment, I can enjoy my work with them. The doorbell rings when they enter the gas station store. I look at them, and they are pretty tall, equal in size. They are muscularly slim fit, more build than I. The tall black man approaches me, standing very tall, overwhelming with his height and intimidating looks. Gulp! "Myles? Is that your name tag?" said the tall black man, looking down at me while I look up at him. "Yes." I nodded. "And?" "Last name?" when he tilts his head to the right. "Price. My name is Myles Price. Why?" The tall black man raises his gun at my face and shoots a bullet. I closed my eyes in a flinch, raising my hands to block it. When I did, I take a peek and see the bullet is floating, spinning slowly. What's funny is that everything starts to go slow. Mr. Custani shoots his gun at me as well from a few feet away. However, everything is going significantly and excruciatingly slow. What the hell is going on? I touch the bullet, and it moved away from me. I raised my eyebrows in astonishment; it's as if time just went slow. "Whoa!" I went around the counter and went to the right side of Mr. Cool Dude. Man, this dude is enormous. I suddenly grabbed a bat, which belongs to my boss, and start bashing at the two dudes who are about to kill me. I struck them so hard a couple of times; it's as if I'm time traveling to beat them to a pulp. One bash, two bashes, three bashes. Clang; clung; thung. Then I swing my bat right in the nut for the both of them. WHAM! I have done it. What's shocking is that when I hit them, everything is in slow motion. Holy moly, when I bash the bat in their nuts, I didn't think their schlong to be that huge, popping out in slow motion from their pants. It's bigger than mine! I'm jealous! I forgot. Keep it PG-13 for the audience. I'm going to turn away. "Holy shit. Am I going crazy? Am I time traveling?" I stand away to the right and see the view--going to blur the schlong out since that didn't happen. At that moment, I closed my eyes and reopen them again; the time-traveling stops. Everything is set back to motion again. Pew. Pew. Pew! Bam! Bam! BAM! "Ow! Motherfucker!" when the two of them shout out loud. They dropped their gun before I snatch it away. Now that is what you call feeling good to beat up a bad guy. It serves them right. "You're... you're one dead fucker, kid!" said Mr. Custani, getting extremely pissed at me. "My...MY NUTS! FUCK!" when Mr. Cool Dude starts to hold his nuts, really tight in immense agony, moaning hard. "Go ahead, kid. The cop serves us, you stupid kid." Mr. Cool Dude, curling his legs in agony, I think I crushed his nuts too hard. I think I went too far, cracking his eggshell to mush. As for Mr. Custani, oh shit. I think he's starting to gargling out saliva out from his mouth. Oh fuck. I went a bit too far. How will these men ever sleep with a girl again? What's the point of having a big dick when you just lost your seeds? FUCK! I forgot again. Keep it rated PG-13. Sorry guys, for the third time. "Why are you trying to kill me?" "You don't... don't...fuck!" when Mr. Cool Dude is still on the ground, holding his nuts, squirming loudly in agony. "You don't need to know," as he clenches his teeth while talking. "What do you gain for killing a kid like me?" "You're a time traveler. I know...fuck..." Yeah, that's right! Keep moaning, you cunt! Did he say that I'm a time traveler? That will explain why everything went so slow. COOL! I'm a superhero! YAHOO! Ding-Ding! Someone enters the room as they come into the store. A nine-year-old boy and a tall man wearing a strange mask approach the two tall men, looking down at them. This boy dresses like those rich kids while his guy dresses like a butler; I wonder why he wears a black mask. Is he ugly underneath that mask like some burnt dude with a face? "Hello, Myles," said the boy. "Hi," I replied strangely since I am in an awkward situation with these two people, moaning in pain. "I do apologize for what just happened here, but these two assholes pulled a gun at me." This kid gives me a smirk before raising his eyebrows with some confidence that I don't even know why he's doing that. "Can I help you?" when I quirk my brow at the kid with his fancy staff and his fancy butler. "Myles Price. Is that you?" "Yes? Are you one of those assholes?" "No. I am the one who chased them to find you. Those two gentlemen will be eliminated since they aren't even Tyrenkians." Huh? What do you mean Tyrenkian, kid? Okay. I will act like you're pretending in some pretend-land or whatever you're doing. I'm just going along with it. "Hey, buddy," when I smiled, acting to be his level and age. "I know that we are trying to play ghost and robbers, but hey, I caught the robbers. We can play ghost and robbers later and--" "I know you're a time traveler, and you've just time-traveled to kick their asses." How the fuck? Okay! In the beginning, I am dying of boredom, and now, I just jumped into trippy land and weird fucking people. "Uuhhh..." as I hesitated. Okay. Think of a defense plan. I still have the bat in my hand and-- "Don't use your bat on me, Myles. I can read your mind, telepathically and precognition as well. Now you listen to me--" I'm going to cut his words out since I'm going to interrupt and talk to the narrator. Narrator, why put me in a weirdo situation? "MYLES! Damn it! Listen to me!" the weird-psychic boy shouted at me. "Uh, yes?" "The one who sent me to save you and come and get you is you from the future." Huuuh? Whaaaaa? Am I sleeping and dreaming, or is this for real? I just give a quirking face at this kid. I eye at him; I eye at his butler; I eye back the kid again; I eye at the two of them. The hell is going on. "You're confused, Myles. Let me tell you that you're not a Tyrenkian as well as me. You have superpowers like me. Also, what you're thinking is exactly how I am back then when I first tried out my superpowers." "Okay. One question," I replied. "Just who the fuck are you, and what do you want?" "My name is Clyde Calawis, and my butler's name is Yoban Stray." The butler waved hi at me. I waved hi back at him--awkwardly. Clyde Calawis? Your last name sounds like you're from Eglas. Fancy! "We are here to save you and recruit you. I just arrested your boss for crime drugs he does overnight and--" hold that thought. I just want to interrupt and break the fourth wall. Oh! So that is how he got his fancy sports car. You see, children. Making drugs is bad, okay? Don't do drugs. "Sorry to interrupt, Cyanide--" "It's Clyde!" when he rebuttals and corrects me. "Clyde. Okay." I take a breath and smile at him with excitement, hoping my assumption to be correct. "Am I a superhero?" I screamed. "You can say that since you do read a lot of superhero comic books." No shit! If this is true, then that means the future me must be badass! Superhero career, Mr. fatso boss is arrested--YES! Maybe even the ladies will be with--um, um--rated PG-13. You see, audience. I kept it clean! "WAHOO! Does that mean--" "Yes. The future-you tells me to come and get you. The future-you said something about the prophecy and about you being chosen after my place. The future-you also recruited me in the year 16th century, telling me to get recruit you." Whaaaa? You're that old? Wait! How the hell are you a nine-year-old? How the hell are you nine for-- "Yes, I can hear your thoughts. I don't grow or age that fast," said Clyde. "So, 'me-future' tells you to get me because 'me-future' recruits' me-past' to get you to tell me?" I'd asked. "Correct. I know it's hard to understand time since time has been in flux before. I'd say eight times before. This is the ninth." "Cool! If I am recruited, when do I start?" "You start tomorrow, and I will pay you very handsomely. You will meet the others with you since you recruited them also." "Cool! Does this mean I can quit this place?" "Myles. I just said--" "OH! Yeah. I forgot. You arrested him." Clyde, the Eglatian boy, looks at the two guys on the floor. He opens his hands at them while standing. Suddenly, it glows bright white that I have to cover my eyes. The two gentlemen that are on the floor transformed to their true form. Their beauty becomes ugly, hideous, and terrifying. They both look like a demon as they turned. Holy smokes! It's like reading off from a comic book to a supernatural story. Those imposters burned up, leaving no ashes, no corpses, and nothing behind. I guess beating them to a pulp is a good thing. I guess. The room dims down when Clyde stops using his strange powers to kill his enemies. He clenches his hand, shakes it, and holds it tight. When I see his expression, it looks like it hurt a little. How come my superpowers didn't hurt me? "You okay?" I'd asked. "I'm fine. I think it's time for us to go before those bad guys and fake cops find us. Shall we?" as Clyde suggested. I nodded yes, left this horrible gas station that I work at, and kiss goodbye to my boredom. I am now a superhero and a superhero for life! Thank Jesus and Mr. Narrator!


‘More sugar?’ my uncle asked. A heaped spoon hovered threateningly. ‘No, no, no, thanks amo .’’ my hand preemptively splayed over the top of my full-to-the-brim glass tumbler, steaming my palm. A thick layer of sugar sand had settled at the bottom, resting expectantly under the crystal amber sea of gunpowder mint tea. Shay. Chay. Cha. Thee. Tea. My father’s brother considered bartering with me, for just a moment, but there were other guests in peril of empty glasses. So he issued a disappointed ‘ Akh, habibi ’, with the slightest shake of his head, then moved along the chain of men and boys. We all sat either on cheap white plastic garden chairs or up-ended crates, decked with small cushions. Twenty men and boys assembled on my uncle’s roof, under the blanket of stars that coated the desert sky. Members of our direct family as well as more distant members from the wider tribe. Our clothes reflected 150 years of history and conflict. My father’s cousin, a Mufti, graced us with his presence. He wore an amamah - a kind of red fez, suffocated by a pure white turban. An Ottoman holdover. His body was shrouded in long, grey (or were they blue?) robes. My favourite uncle wore an old suit, a tan holdover from the mid-1980s with a deep scarlet paisley-patterned tie. He sported a thick black Saddam Hussein moustache, as was still the fashion for men of his age. My grandfather wore a white Egyptian cotton jalabiya , a black chequered keffiyeh held together with a black igal rope band, and a grey suit jacket as old as my father. He wore sandals without socks displaying his strong, manicured feet that put mine to shame. I sat in my own small black jalabiya , a gift from one of the assembled family members, and an unnecessary pair of blue Levi’s denim jeans. I carefully manoeuvred the full tumbler to the makeshift table in front of me, before a steaming became a burning, and turned my attention back to my Gameboy. Though the sound was off, my mind invented music to drown out the myriad conversations happening around the ring of chairs. Smatters of chatter on gossip, politics, religion and food. One group would lean in close across their chairs to whisper about this or that. Peals of laughter rang out as memories of childhood indiscretions were dug out of communal memory. One moustachioed cousin yelled across the circle to get the attention of another. The menthol smell of cigarettes, strong oud perfumes, fresh sweat and our sweet tea mingled in the lukewarm air of a Jordanian summer evening. A familiar smell of comfort. ‘Khalid, baba ...’ my father called me by my name, reversing the relationship terms, as Arabs are wont to do. My mind registered his voice but Super Mario had my attention. ‘Khalid’, a note sterner and with a light touch on my arm. I gave a barely-audible sigh, turning to him while fluidly switching off my gameboy. The batteries were running low anyway. ‘Yes, baba ?’. Go down and ask your auntie Nida for the sweets. ‘Ok baba ’. I stood and put my Gameboy on the chair, as though reserving it. I eyed my tea quickly wondering whether I could chance a sip but it was still steaming hot so I hopped around the chair and went to the stairs. Pounding down the stairs, my sandals slapped on the crumbling stonework like a fish escaping a net but landing on the boat. My auntie wasn’t in the kitchen but I paused to breathe the aromas of a hundred spices while I was there. I moved to the reception room and knocked lightly on the thick wooden door. Dozens of female voices thrummed in the room, an internal echo of what was happening above. There was music also and the buzzing of fans. They could not hear me. I opened the door ‘ Amti Nidat , I...’. Two of the seated women had immediately reached for headscarves before realising it was me. A barely-there shift of mood from indignation to delight. I was the darling nephew, grandson or young cousin. I wasn’t a man. ‘Come here Khalid!’ my auntie Hala offered, beckoning with her hand. ‘Sorry amti , I’m looking for amti Nidat , I need to ask her for the sweets’. My eyes roved the room, trying to pick her out from the myriad faces. ‘Ok ok, she’s not in the room but Saida will help you. Saida. YA SAIDA.’ Without getting up she yelled for her daughter’s attention and received it. Saida paused laughing with another teenage cousin, ‘Yes mama ?’. ‘Go help Khalid with the sweets, yalla , quickly!’. ‘Ok mama.’ She quickly threw her white hijab around her head and expertly clasped it while rising and walking towards me. All in one expert motion. ‘ Yalla habibi , come with me.’ She took my hand and led me back to the kitchen. ‘ Ya Khalid, which sweets?’ she asked in the corridor. ‘You know, just the sweets.’ I responded, realising I didn’t know. We entered the kitchen and she rapidly pulled trays from various crevices and cupboards. ‘ Ya’ani, we have ghraybeh , baglaweh , warbat , knafeh , gadayef... ’. Baglaweh. Baqlawah. Baklava. ‘Something of everything, please habibti .’ She smiled in return and took out a pan to begin heating some of the sweets. She was thin and tall for her age, equipped with long eyelashes, a disarming smile and a fiery temperament that could meander from honey-sweet to warlike-danger. When I was bored she would often play writing games or board games with me while talking over the latest Arabic music, films or books. I think she felt my eyes on her head. She looked over her shoulder and flashed me a smile. I’d heard my father and hers joke - at least I hoped it was a joke - that we should be married one day. We were only separated by a few years but she was still older than me. Surely she would find a husband well before I was ready? The hints of a sizzle came from the pan as the knafeh cheese began to melt and the syrup boiled away. ‘Ok, we’re ready. Habibi, fetch me the plates’. I went to the cupboard with assorted plates. Not the fine plates used for more formal meals but the colourful, chipped ones, used for minor family occasions and I gathered together some of the larger plates. ‘ Bizzubt , exactly habibi those ones.’ She gently touched my shoulder in affirmation. I pulled the plates up and put them next to the frn ghaz . Gas cooker. Frn. Firin. Fournos. Forno. Oven. As she began loading, I reached for one of the triangles of warbat . Thick, sweet cream eager to leave folds of filo pastry and coated in pistachio dust and syrup. A nightmare of diabetes. And just within my grasp. Her hand lightly smacked mine away as she giggled. ‘ La ! Wait your turn. If you keep sneaking those sweets, you’ll get fat! Here, take this plate upstairs, yalla. ’ She thrust a large plate into my hands and ruffled my hair as I moved off. ‘ Akh , Saida!’ She must have had syrup in her hands; my hair remained in place. I emerged from the stairs into a cool breeze. I hadn’t realised how warm it had been inside. The poor women in their traditional Palestinian thawb and abayah. I instinctively checked my forehead to see if I was sweating and nearly dropped the plate and, worse, myself. Down the stairs. But luckily I kept my balance. My chair remained unoccupied but for my Gameboy but my dad was smoking one of his Dunhill cigarettes now. He knew I hated the smell and the /+risk to his health, even at this age. So he would very rarely smoke in front of me. When he caught sight of me edging towards him with sweets, he quickly took another drag and stubbed the offending white stick on one of the many ashtrays, proper and makeshift, on the tables. When my eyes caught his, I rolled them and increased my pace. ‘ Baba , you said you wouldn’t! Saratan !’. Saratan. Áizhèng. Rak. Kanker. Cancer. ‘I know habibi, I know. It was just a little. I’ve just heard your great-uncle Radwan has died!’ ‘Oh?’ ‘You remember, you met him five years ago.’ ‘ Baba, how old do you think I am?’ He laughed as he picked up a couple of pieces of ghraybeh , a kind of shortbread.. ‘Take the sweets around ya Khalid.’ I moved around the circle of makeshift seats and the sweets began to disappear. When I had circled back to my chair, I put the plate in front of me and took my seat. There was a single piece of warbat left. I reached out to pick it up but as quick as a hummingbird, the plate left the table. Saida picked up the plate. ‘Mmm Warbat, my favourite.’ She grinned as she lay another fully-loaded plate back on the table. She winked at me and turned to leave. I shook my head and reached out to the new plate. There was no more Warbat . I didn’t care. I picked up my tumbler of tea again and sipped warm happiness. This is Hub . Hub. Ài . Agape. Liebe. Amour. Love.


Passing all of the road signs I've failed to notice. Hitting all of the bumps where new pavement was laid. All of the trees I've glanced at, but never saved. Every store, restaurant, boulder in the median, everything I’ve looked at but never actually seen. All present to me now, even more to miss. Funny, how we tune out the little components in life until we find a reason to look back. I look out the window at all of the scenery that I’ve glanced passed in the past. I take out the coin, one side a bronze steer-skull, with a backdrop of Texas painted in glossy red. On the back side, a sheriff star. The coin was given to me by my uncle. An agent in the Secret Service; he gave it to me right before he moved from his location in Arlington, to D.C. How the irony is strong. He gave me this coin and said to bring it wherever I might feel frightened. I’ve never felt so frightened in my entire life than in this rusty, faded white Honda Civic coupe. Two Berretta PX4 Storms lay in the trunk, in a useless gun case that I will never get to use again. I have never been one to cry, one to cower, one to fight. The driver, dressed completely in black, sped down the highway, almost there. I flipped the coin once more. Heads. Nobody can beat the coin toss, than why is it so hard to beat now? My motives are clear. I have grown tired of all of the unnecessary competition, the bragging, and the dominance. The coin toss is fair game. Nobody is better at flipping the coin than the next clown in line. I flip again, for good fortune, maybe this time things will change. Heads. I really didn't want it to come to this. I've never been violent in my past, always looking for the best in people. I flip. Heads. Looking at the steer, I tremble. Thirty heads, zero tails. The irony is that my uncle gave me this coin, under the impression that it would give me the motivation to do something great, to make a change, to do something great. Here I am, in some car, with someone I found on craigslist. Things are about to change. Heads.


Dragons are neither mythical nor magical. Merely rare. When humans think of us, many things leap to their minds. Many of those things are untrue. Others are not. We do, for example, have a tendency to hoard treasure, but what constitutes treasure to a dragon is individual. I’ve never met one of my kind who actually hoards gold, though some do, I’m sure. I, myself, hoard books. Most dragons would frown on me for collecting objects of human origin. Most dragons would frown on me for making my lair in a human structure. But my predilection for their writings necessitates proximity to those who would harm me. I am careful not to be seen by humans and I feel no need to defend my treasure of choice. Some of them tell wonderful tales. I stretched out on the platform of the abandoned subway station in which I live, enjoying my third attempt at understanding more than seventy percent of *Blood Meridian* by Cormac McCarthy when a noise broke my attention away from the pages. An old man lay collapsed between the disused rails of my entrance tunnel. A Niagara of lank, filthy hair poured out from under his Yankees baseball cap. His clothes were ripped and dirty. A bottle in a brown paper sack he had been clutching nestled beside him. I snaked my head between the support columns lining the platform to get a closer look at him. He looked unwell. One of the thousands of “tempest-tost” to whom this city promised illusory refuge. I suppose he must have drunkenly wandered his way into my lair, likely unknowing of his own actions. No human sound of mind would walk the subway tunnels let alone chance upon the hidden entrance of my home. As I scrutinized his shallow breathing form, a well of unexpected pity opened within me. This pathetic creature posed no threat. It was clear he led a life as lonely as my own, though for him it was not by choice. I folded my wings close to my body and moved closer. I grasped his limp frame, careful not to graze him with my talons as I lifted. I lowered him to the concrete station floor amidst my mountains of books and his glassy eyes cracked open. He looked up at me, swimming in delirium, for a moment before his eyes closed again. I found a blanket and laid it over his huddled curling body. He swooned in and out of consciousness. I have read that for humans, extreme abuse of alcohol can sometimes produce hallucinations. I believe he must have thought I was one such delusion. Late into the night, he began to shake and quiver beneath the blanket. Sweat beaded on his forehead. I crouched over the sickly man. “I wish I could help you,” I said. His agitated trembling seemed to be growing worse. “I wish I knew what to do.” His eyes were open but glazed in feverish half-sight. He curled a fistful of blanket to his face and muttered. I lowered my head closer. “What did you say?” I asked. Sour tears crept along the furrows of his nose peaking above the blanket. “Said ‘m sorry,” he murmured. “Sorry for what? You’re not...” I trailed off. He didn’t seem to be speaking to me. “’M sorry, mom...’m so sorry...didn’t mean t’be like this.” “It...it’s OK, son,” I said. I wasn’t sure what else to say. “...It’s OK, sweetheart.” I smoothed some of his greasy hair along his cheek with a talon, uncertain if this would bring any sort of comfort. Perhaps my voice sounded like his mother’s, I reasoned. His glossy eyes focused momentarily on the heaping tomes stacked all around us. “Will...will you read t’me?” he whispered. “Like you used to?” “Of course, dear...what would you like me to read?” “Th’one you always read...when I was sick...Th’chocolate factory.” There could only be one book to which he was referring. I weaved my head and neck between the towers of leather and paper until I found *Charlie and the Chocolate Factory* by Roald Dahl. I carefully slid it out from the pile with my teeth and returned to the man. I transferred the book to my claws and opened it, laying my head down beside him. “*These two very old people...*” I began. His bearing relaxed visibly but his tremors aggressed. I read. I did voices for each character. I turned the book to show him the illustrations, though I’m uncertain if he really saw them. He quaked. He listened. He thanked. He apologized to his mother. To me. I voiced Charlie on the final page. “’*Please don’t be frightened,’ he said. ‘It’s quite safe. And we’re going to the most wonderful place in the world!’*” A few lines remained, but I stopped reading as the man’s movements broke my attention away from the pages. His eyes clenched shut and a few violent spasms later, he lay still.


# 2. The Not So Great Beyond It took the better part of the afternoon for Adam to stop asking repetitive questions. Otis sat patiently through three hundred ‘why’s and ‘where’s before finally losing his cool and telling the man to suck it up. “We all got to die some time, just happened to be your day was today.” Those words had sent a cold silence into Adam that carried the three deceased into evening. No longer compelled to help by the young man’s weeping, Otis floated over to Maggie as she stared across the desert toward the setting sun. Despite the macabre nature of the hill, it provided spectacular views of the mountains, towering high and jagged above the flat expanse of dried rock. “That’s breaking it to him gently?” she asked with a hint of a smile. Otis sighed and stayed quiet for a minute, looking for something far away. “No, I’m not sure there’s a way to do that. It’s why we bet, isn’t it?” “No doubts there, but ‘we all have to die sometime’ is a bit rough.” Otis shrugged. “How about: Sorry, kid, there might be a great beyond but this ain’t it. All your friends are somewhere high above the clouds while you’re stuck here kicking around with our dusty old asses.” “It is an improvement.” A fly buzzed through Maggie’s nose, she swatted at it. It had been nearly fifteen years since losing her body, but she still hadn’t managed to kick the instinct. “Never thought I’d miss squashing flies.” “And I never thought I’d miss repairing shoes for people who hated my guts, but here we are.” Beneath the tree, Adam finally managed to float from his kneeling position to an awkward stand. A hard determination had replaced the tears in his eyes. “He’s going to run,” commented Maggie. “They always do.” Otis glided toward Adam, but the kid was already moving. Adam churned his legs as if it still mattered and zoomed across the dusty ground like an undead bullet. Otis and Maggie watched as his pale form streaked across Hangman’s Hill, heading for the desert beyond. “You really don’t want to do that,” called Maggie, putting no effort into it. “Everyone has to experience it at least once.” Adam heard neither of them and ran as fast as he could, trying to outrun whatever horrible limbo he was stuck in. Then, he hit the barrier. A blinding wall of white energy shot into the sky, soon fading to a wisp like a transient version of the Aurora Borealis. Adam flew backward, his otherworldly energy bursting and throwing up puffs of greenish white steam. “And down he goes. Good legs on him though. Took me forever to figure out how to move like that.” Otis flexed his legs as they hovered an inch above the ground, a strictly performative act that helped bring a sense of normalcy to a situation that was anything but. In the spirit world, movement was a matter of will more than anything else, and Adam clearly had that in spades. The explosive force of the barrier threw Adam backward, leaving him stunned and rotating midair. When he had recovered enough to feel pain, he let out a curse so loud that it could have cleared the desert for miles. Of course, the only people that heard it were the deceased. “Now that’s a swear I haven’t heard before.” Maggie whistled. “Alright, I guess I’ll take a turn.” She walked to where Adam was floating, still sizzling from his collision. “Hurts like a bitch, don’t it?” “How? How does it hurt?” Adam’s voice was strained and filled with pain. “Not sure exactly, but most try it at least once.” “Where the hell are we?” Maggie floated down, kneeling so they were eye level. “I don’t know, but we have some guesses. Why don’t you come over with Otis and me? We’ll fill you in.” Adam tried pushing himself to a standing position but succeeded only in pushing his limbs through the unnoticing earth. He grimaced and kicked his feet, sending himself into a slow spin. “Ah, yeah, that’s not how it works here. Try thinking about floating upright, but make sure you don’t go too high. Next, you’re going to get the bright idea that you can fly out of here, but let me tell you, it’ll hurt worse.” Maggie thought about her first attempt and felt the burning sensation on her scalp from where she had hit. “Suffice it to say, we’re penned in. It’s a pretty pen - when there aren’t rotting corpses that is - but it’s still a pen.” Adam strained, floating to a lopsided standing position. “Is this Hell?” “If it is, God didn’t put anyone here to torment us except us.” Maggie smiled. “Probably closer to the biblical concept of purgatory.” She floated in Otis’s direction and motioned for Adam to follow. He didn’t move, instead looking at her with suspicion. “Oh, come on, you’re part of the club now.” Maggie motioned to the scar around her neck and tried to ignore the neat bullet hole in the center of Adam’s forehead. Lucky for the kid, there were no mirrors and he wouldn’t be able to feel it. Adam floated forward, unsteady at first, but finding his way. “As far as we can tell, we’re stuck here.” Otis made a motion to the hill. “On Hangman’s Hill?” asked Adam. “Well, as it turns out, that’s not what the natives called it. The first hangman probably thought it looked like a good place to die, and didn’t bother to read the carvings at the base of the tree, or the signs along the trail to get here for that matter.” Adam squinted at the base of the tree. “Those are words?” “Just because our forefathers were ignorant, doesn’t mean we have to be.” Maggie rolled the words over in her mind, feeling a sting of pain saying them again. “She’s a bit touchy on the subject. It’s why she was hung in the first place.” “For reading the native tongue?” “Shoshoni,” corrected Maggie. “For suggesting we’re equal with them.” “Turns out, freedom isn’t actually meant for everyone.” Maggie stopped the rage bubbling inside and thought about the memory of what it was like to take deep breaths. It helped bring her back to a sense of relative calm. “In a fitting fate, the men who hung me couldn’t read Shoshoni. This was a place of communion with the gods, and that script was meant to keep unwanted spirits out of the conversation.” “Unfortunately, we think that’s what’s got us penned in.” Adam put his head between his legs, turning his slow spin into an endless somersault. “So, we’re stuck here forever?” Maggie chuckled at the morose corpse spinning like a children’s top. In death, she had found humor in the little things. “Not to put too fine a point on it, yes. You can stop that spin if you like, just think--” Adam let out a choked sob. “You’re embarrassing yourself more than usual for a man who’s soiled himself in front of company.” They might not have been able to smell it, but there was a telltale drip off Adam’s corpse as it swung lightly in the evening breeze. Adam stopped spinning and glowered at her. “You have some kind of--” “Boy, the sunsets sure are nice,” broke in Otis. “Why don’t we all take a moment and enjoy that before we return to this existential debate.” Over the horizon, the sun sank low in its arch, bathing the desert in blood red light. The blue sky turned shades of purple streaked with gold. Jagged outlines of far distant mountains became silhouettes of teeth consuming the fleeing sky. A coyote howled in the distance, waking for a night of hunting. Adam took a moment away from his petulance to appreciate the natural beauty of their surroundings, but quickly became distracted by the memory of his own corpse. Otis looked at him with genuine pity. “That’ll be gone soon enough, don’t worry about it.” “What happened to yours?” “Well...” “I think there’s still a rib bone over there somewhere.” Maggie pointed toward the hanging tree. “But the animals out here are hungry and quick. Trust me, they may not be here yet but they’re coming.” “What my tactful friend here is trying to say is that it’s all part of the cycle of life. The earth has fed you for many years, and now it’s your turn to give back.” Otis gave Maggie a reproachful look. “That is a nicer way of putting it,” admitted Adam. “Best we turn around and talk about something else.” On cue, moonlight reflected off a pair of eyes approaching from the darkening desert. Otis grimaced. “Maggie’s right though, they’re hungry. This might be the way of things, but it’s going to be gross. Why don’t we just walk away?” Adam’s eyes were fixed on the coyote. “You really don’t want to watch that.” Maggie was already floating away. Adam didn’t move. “Look, you might think you’ve seen it all, being that you’ve died and arrived on the spiritual plane, but watching yourself get eaten... No one needs to see that.” Adam remained silent. “Suit yourself, kid.” Otis joined Maggie just as the first coyote made its way up the hill. “Shoo! Get out of here!” Adam yelled. Otis shook his head. “That one’s going to be a handful.


“Where are we going, Daniel?” “The only place we can after what you did.” “...You know it was an accident, right?” “Yes, yes. And I promised not to tell anyone. As we discussed. ” “Boy... holding him is kind of...could you pick up the foot there?” “I’m not touching anything. I’m helping you out, Max. Besides, you’re stronger than me, aren’t you? A big, tough brute? Surely this can’t be your first-” “- Stop it! Of course it is. I don’t- I wouldn’t-” “Don’t tell me you’re about to cry.” “I’m not. I’m just tired and I don’t know where we’re going and oh my god I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” “It isn’t me you need to be apologizing to, Maxie.” “...Why are you here anyway?” “Why am I here? Well, well, Maxie, you have some nerve. Can’t a fellow take a walk around the campgrounds before dinner?” “We were just meant to be shooting at... the squirrels. You know that, don’t you Daniel? I know we weren’t supposed to but... oh god, he’s a lot.” “How long has he been dead?” “Dead...” “He’s dead, isn’t he?” “Yes...” “Well, how long?” “Maybe...half an hour? Before you came.” “Half an hour, damn it Maxie. You really sat on the lawn for an hour with his body slumped over there, where anyone could see?” “I didn’t know what to do .” “You really didn’t mean to, did you?” “Of course not!” “Why do you say ‘of course not?’ Is it so unreasonable to think you might have had something against him?” “I just...I don’t know what happened. I thought I heard something, saw something even, and then- then...Bernard was my friend .” “People do strange things sometimes. Even to friends. Or so I hear. I wouldn’t know, would I?” “Dan.” “My name is Daniel.” “Daniel. I know we weren’t the nicest to you. t’s- when we said those things about you...” “Yes?” “We were just playing around, you know.” “...I don’t think you were.” “No, I mean, I guess I can’t talk for the others- ahh! watch, there’s a root there, almost got me, watch for it- but sometimes when we see something we don’t understand, we act...wrong, at first. You know.” “What is it...that you don’t understand?” “Well, uhm. It’s. Like just these little things, I guess. Maybe rumors. Brendan said you talked in your sleep, but it wasn’t like normal words and your eyes were open.” “Brendan is an idiot.” “Ha. Yeah... that’s true, isn’t it?...I guess there’s also things like that feather you’ve got around your neck.” “What about it?” “Henry tried to touch it and you were all weird about it.” “Henry should have asked, shouldn’t he?” “Well, yeah, but-” “Have you ever had something precious to you, Max? Something that you liked to keep close, like a secret?” “I don’t like it much when anyone else touches my drum set, I guess.” “Well, this is like that. Except much, much more.” “Hhhh... man, I feel like I need to rest a little. What’d’you mean, it’s more?” “This, Maxie, is a talisman. It’s the feather of a barn owl. Do you know anything about barn owls, Max?” “No. They the ones with the white faces?” “We had a bunch of barn owls back where I come from. You learn things, if you listen to them long enough. If you know how to listen. Most people don’t. I was alone a lot as a boy, you know.” “Sorry.” “I did not say lonely. I said alone.” “Is there a difference?” “Oh yes, Max. During this time, the owls showed me many things.” “I don’t really like owls, much. There was this story my gramma told me and in it whenever someone saw an owl it meant something bad. Like they were gonna die or something. It was messed up. Plus they sound kind of spooky.” “They are hard to understand and so you think them...wrong?” “Um. I guess. You got me. Are we close yet?” “We are. Come this way. You can stop a little here, but then we’ve got to keep going.” “You think they’ll wonder where we’ve gone?” “They won’t. ... You are awfully silent now, Max.” “Yeah. I guess I was just thinking...am I doing the right thing? I feel like I should tell someone. Maybe we should just go back to the camp and-” “And what good would that do? Your friend would still be dead and you would be taken away.” “I just feel so... heavy. Like there’s a pile of rocks building up in the bottom of my stomach. And I don’t know if...even if I never get caught for it, will I ever stop thinking about it? Will the rocks ever clear away, or will they just pile higher and higher? Wh... why are you smiling at me like that?” “You are a good person, Max.” “I don’t-” “Yes. You are a good person, and I like you. And that is why I am helping you, Max.” “I really do appreciate it, but I don’t understand where this place is? What makes it different from any old place in the woods? Couldn’t we dig a hole?” “We could, Maxie. But if we never want your friend to be found, there are better ways. Better places. I know these woods well, Max. I’ve been here many times before. I know the twists and turns of the drying creek, I know the change of the seasons, the approach of an animal. I know the places no one comes back from.” “...How close are we? It’s getting dark.” “Almost, Max. You can feel it, can’t you?” “It’s kind of hard...to breathe a little bit.” “Yes. That’s natural when approaching the veil.” “The what? What’s that there, a cave?” “If you want.” “I don’t like it. It doesn’t feel right.” “Oh Max. Don’t be so judgmental.” “Do I just... put him in there? Like...that? Oh that’s weird. Daniel, will he be- that’s not a normal cave is it? If I put him in there, will he be-?” “Gone? Isn’t that what you wanted?” “It’s not...what’s that noise? It sounds like, oh god, it sounds like f-feathers. A lot of them. Oh my god. They’re here, aren’t they? The owls. They’re here.” “There, there Maxie. Don’t panic. As long as you don’t look up, you’ll be fine. A lot of people disappear in these woods.” “You... you?” “What about me, Maxie?” “Those others... from camp. It wasn’t- you didn’t, you weren’t the one who-?” “The one who what? We’ve been over this, Max. Sometimes things just... disappear.” “I want... I want to go back.” “I’m afraid that’s not possible.” “I’m bigger than you. I could-” “Now, Max. You and I are friends now, wouldn’t you say that? We share the most important of things; we share secrets. Only friends share precious things with one another. So I am going to share something precious with you right now, something of my very own.” “...Don’t. I don’t....” ‘Would you like to touch the feather, Max?”


As trash collection truck driver Tommy Robinson sat down for his second cup of coffee in the break room of Atlas Disposal Services he tried to again rid himself of the stench of packing other people’s discards into his truck. “Thought I had gotten used to this rotten job,” he said, “but this week tops them all. Today, while tooling my way through the overprivileged Watchung Mountain suburbs, I stumbled over a doubled-packed trash bag-knocking it across the roadside on Commonwealth Turn. “For the third time this week what spilled out stopped me in my tracks. “Of course, in 30 years of this so-called profession, both in hotsy-totsy suburbia and in the crappiest areas of the Garden State’s urban ghettos, discovering plastic hypodermic needles used to help heroin addicts to get their latest high should come as no surprise. “The size of this week’s discoveries knocked me off my feet-I found hundreds of narcotics injection tools on the property of estates in one of New Jersey’s, and the nation’s, most high end suburbs. “Couldn’t let this just pass as a normal run, so I looked up my customer registrations as soon as I got back to the garage. The mansions from which I made these collections during the last few weeks belong to some of the top surgeons in the county’s top-of-the-line medical center. These guys, even if they were stupid enough or had fallen so far, should have known better than to so carelessly dispose of the evidence. “I’ve heard that kids from down the hill have begun using the driveways of these showplace homes as shooting galleries because they believe the bigshot MDs who live in the palaces at the top of these long driveways either can’t see all the way to the bottom of the hills or don’t care to bother with the riff raff, just as long as we come along twice a week to clear away the evidence, but you would think the local cops would have busted the addicts and pushers by now and brought the bigshots the negative publicity they avoid like the plague.” Turns out the mansion owners knew more than Tommy imagined-they, in fact, supplied the “product” needed to continue the local drug trade-from the hospital’s own dispensary. “Even with the six-figure salaries, these physicians couldn’t afford to maintain these elaborate homesteads on the hills, buy uber-luxury cars every year and hold their wild parties every week. These extras required substantial extra income. That’s why the doctors signed on as suppliers to the local addiction-production industry. “I have a few friends in law enforcement that are so scared about payback for opening their mouths. They told me the heroin pipeline operators have carefully mapped out their strategy, up to now, including payoffs to law enforcement to keep their operation secret, and undisturbed.” After watching the drug pipeline feed the destruction of too many lives in his town, his neighborhood and even in his own family, the sanitation man decided to cut off one of the tentacles of the octopus. Tommy pledged to work for the rest of his life to save the lives of kids like the ones who had wasted away in the ghetto and now laid dead along the roadways on the fringes of one of America’s most wealthy areas. Additionally, the drug plague had claimed the life of his 17-year-old brother, Jimmy, only five years before. Jimmy had fallen prey to the glitz and glamour of the fast life promised by the merchants of death, who had persuaded him to inject their poison into his veins. Finally, he could not escape the iron grip of the deadly narcotic. Thinking back to the suffering of his brother, Tommy told his co-workers, “Kids from areas like my old hood should no longer have their lives wasted away so that some uber-rich suburbanites can destroy these children to allow the pushers and their supporters to reside in palaces at the top of the hill and clmb to the top rung of the social ladder.” Six months later, with his retirement from the sanitation industry,Tommy used a good chunk of his lifelong savings to help permanently shut down the drug pipeline. Careful investment had resulted in a nestegg amounting to about $1 million. He used his savings to establish the Recycling Human Potential Foundation. The organization worked with the top educational and medical minds in the country to offer to pay for complete rehabilitation services and full tuition at a community college for any youth who signed an agreement to bring one other addict into the program once they graduated, The former trash collector also enlisted the help of the Drug Enforcement Administration in breaking up the corruption-laden hospital-law enforcement chain. The DEA gave the destruction of the drug supermarket its top priority, setting up a huge interagency task force to cut off the tentacles of the far-reaching operation. Hundreds of federal agents from across the country joined forces with Tommy, his fellow foundation leaders and right-thinking hospital administrators and local law enforcement to cut off the corruption and stop the flow of narcotics down from the hills into the nearby city’s ghettos. They busted narcotics operations at every level, arresting pushers operating in palatial estates, darkened alleys behind police stations and hospital dispensaries. Even their expensive luxury automobiles and other millionaires’ toys financed by the operation did not escape the long arm of the law. Those involved in pedaling the poison didn’t go down without a fight, and Tommy suffered a number of severe injuries and close brushes with death at the hands of the gangsters’ enforcers. Yet, he and his foundation didn’t give up. They rescued over 200 youngsters over 10 years and resolved to continue the fight until they saw the drug lords locked behind the bars of the state prison or a federal penitentiary . The drug cartels recruited an army of attorneys in an effort to tie up the work of the foundation and its law enforcement partners in the courts. Breaking through the legal spiderwebs created by the pushers and their supporters,Tommy and his partners refused to surrender. After many months tied up in litigation, they saw far more success than any previous effort to rid the area of the narcotics plague that had controlled it for decades. The former trash collector felt Jimmy smiling down on him as he led his foundation in recycling many previously hopeless victims of the heroin trade into productive human beings and disposed of the trash that had destroyed his brother and so many others.


In the lord’s gardens at Lincolnshire, Isaac Newton knew of a tree that held the secret to all knowledge. Some said the tree had grown from a seed stolen by Marco Polo during his trip to the Orient. They claimed that Marco Polo had climbed the Himalayas and infiltrated a secretive order of monks who guarded a sacred tree. The leader of their order had the privilege of taking a single bite from its fruit in his lifetime. The monks believed that the fruit was so strong that a second bite would prove fatal, and that even the first bite would open the mind of man to the mysteries of the world which only the strongest of men could perceive and not go mad. And that Marco Polo, knowing these things and fearing for his life, escaped with a single seed from that tree, for which he earned a king’s ransom. Some said that the tree was cursed, that it had grown on a graveyard believed to be fallow before being transplanted to the lord’s gardens. That its fruit was haunted by the dreams of the dead the plant had absorbed, and those who tasted of it were filled with memories and impressions not their own, driven mad by spirits with unsettled business on this earth. And there were those who said that the tree was the original tree from the garden of Eden, for which God had exiled humanity from paradise simply for taking that first bite which extinguished our innocence, and awakened the potential for good and for evil. The tree had been stolen back from the promised land during the crusades and protected by good Christians ever since, who swore never to defy God’s commandment again. The last bite had changed the world. A second might destroy it. Only two things were certain. The tree was the prized possession of the lord of Lincolnshire. And no one was allowed to eat of it. The lord could sometimes be seen admiring it, but even he never succumbed to temptation: any fruit it produced was quickly collected and burned, under his watchful eye. To the undiscerning, it might have appeared to have been an ordinary apple tree. But young Isaac Newton knew better. The lost treasure of the east, the tree that carried the souls of the dead, the tree of the knowledge of good and evil... One of the stories had to be true. Perhaps even all of them. Isaac did not know how he would do it, or what the consequences would be, but he knew he had to eat of its fruit. The tree was sealed behind a gate of iron with bars too firm to bend even if Isaac had been exceptionally strong, which he was not. The gates were topped with a wide row of spikes making climbing them treacherous even if Isaac had been exceptionally agile, which he was not. The path through the castle to the garden was watched by guards too proud of their loyalty to their lord to allow so much as a child to slip through even if Isaac had been exceptionally charming, which he was not. Isaac was of average wit and ability, and had only one advantage on his quest to eat the apple. His mind was filled with dreams of its potential, and nothing, not even what seemed impossible, would deter him from his objective. Anyone who expressed interest in the tree gained the watchful eye of the guards: one of Isaac’s friends had heard the legend and asked one of the gardeners about it, and his trips to the garden quickly gained a chaperone. So Isaac never asked about the tree. To loiter around the gardens was also to gather suspicion, another friend had hovered near the outer gardens as the fruit ripened in the springtime, and had kindly been asked to leave. So Isaac never spent too much time near the gardens. One young lad had tried to rush his way to the tree, and earned a cuff on the ear from the guards and a lecture from his parents. So Isaac vowed to make no attempt on the tree until he could be certain of success. Once a year, come early May, Isaac would take a trip down to the gardens with a blanket in his pack, watching the tree, waiting for one single fruit to fall in the range he needed it to. He would push his luck for an hour, pretending to be admiring the spring air, before returning home empty-handed. A year would pass, the fruit would once again be ripe, and Isaac would return to the tree, staring up at it and hoping for a miracle. It was during what was to be his last year in Lincolnshire that the impossible finally happened. Isaac couldn’t say how, but just looking at the tree’s branches shake with the wind, he knew it was almost time. The miracle he had been waiting for was about to arrive. Sensing his opportunity was near, Isaac unfurled the blanket under the gate, rolling it down to where the edge of the blanket reached to where the farthest branch of the tree stretched out. As if on cue, there was a tiny snap from the tree and a single apple fell onto the edge of the blanket. Exhilarated, and scarcely believing his luck, Isaac carefully pulled the blanket back towards him, keeping the apple balanced on top until it was in grabbing range. Snatching the magical fruit and the blanket up, Isaac tore off in a sprint back to his home. Isaac couldn’t have said if anyone had seen him. His heart felt like it was beating a thousand times a minute as he raced his treasure home. It wasn’t until he reached the privacy of his own room that he trusted himself to look at his prize. A flawless red apple, with a tiny green leaf attached. The food of kings. Of gods, even. The Greeks had told a story of an apple hurled by Eris, the goddess of discord, into a party of the gods which had sparked the Trojan war over who would claim it. And if he believed some of the stories, that same fruit was in his hands. For only a moment, Isaac considered what would happen if he sold the fruit, or tried to plant a tree of his own from the seeds. But he knew what he needed to do. He had waited too long to think of anything else. Isaac took a single bite of the pure red apple and swallowed, waiting for the divine revelation to descend upon him, and the mysteries of the universe to be unraveled. And Isaac Newton felt nothing. Isaac paused, anticipating the moment when he would feel different, for some unexpected sensation to take him over. But the experience had produced nothing mystical in him. It had felt like nothing so much as eating an apple. Sitting in silence, after almost a minute had passed, praying he was not proving too greedy, Isaac took a second bite, chomping down onto the apple and savoring its mix of sweetness and bitterness before swallowing it down. And still Isaac Newton felt nothing. Isaac began to grow concerned. How long were the effects supposed to last? Was he meant to eat the whole thing in a single go? Isaac stared at the walls around him, his hands, and the contents of his room, waiting for his world to overflow with transcendent knowledge that would prove this had all been worth it. Isaac waited nearly an hour, and still feeling nothing, consumed the rest of the apple in a rush. And after all that, still, Isaac Newton felt nothing. Isaac stared down at his sticky hands and the remaining apple core, and felt like he wanted to cry. As best as he could tell, nothing special had happened, there had been no miracle contained in that fruit. He felt as though the scales were finally beginning to fall from his eyes, as the slightly bitter taste in his mouth started to nauseate him. The bright world of magic and mystery he had believed in was beginning to unravel, and be replaced with cold mundanity. There was a far more plausible explanation for everything he knew about the tree. The fruit was not of a variety intended to be eaten: perhaps slightly poisonous, or simply not as sweet as the apples he was used to. The lord must have admired the tree, but was careful not to let any reckless children eat from a plant he wasn’t sure was safe. It felt so obvious now that Isaac had thought of it, a thousand times more plausible than the childish supernatural fancies he had allowed to fill his head. Isaac lay in bed restlessly that night, unable to sleep, a mix of indigestion and disappointment. What a fool he had been. For thinking that all it would take was eating one fruit, and somehow he would be able to do more than anyone who had come before him in unlocking the mysteries of the universe. And then Isaac Newton began down the path that would lead to him doing more than anyone who had come before him in unlocking the mysteries of the universe. Lying in bed, trying to put his mind past the apple that had occupied his thoughts for years, a single nagging thought crept into his mind before he fell asleep that night. Why had the apple fallen? The question stuck with him until the next day. It seemed so obvious a point that everyone else must already know the answer, Isaac felt like a simpleton for even considering it. To mention it to his parents would be to admit ignorance. So at the end of his school day, Isaac mustered up the courage to ask one of his teachers in private: why did apples fall to the ground? And Isaac Newton was told that it was simply in the nature of apples to fall. And for a time this answer satisfied him. But after only a day, something about the answer began to rub him the wrong way, like an itch he couldn’t scratch, or a barb stuck in his shoe. Like the answer was glossing over something fundamental, a patch applied over a tear in cloth, or a coat of paint on a rotting house. The next day, Isaac came back to his teacher with another question: why did oranges fall? Or balls? Or any other object? And Isaac Newton was told that it was simply in the nature of all objects to fall. And for a time this answer satisfied him. But the more that he thought about it, the more questions he uncovered. The astronomers claimed that the moon, the stars and the planets floated through space. Why? What force compelled them to circle the earth in their skewed orbits? What caused the tides to change with the year, and be drawn in and out? And Isaac Newton was told that it is simply in the nature of planets to circle the Earth, the stars to float in space, and the tides to go in and out. And this answer did not satisfy him in the slightest. Isaac began to suspect that all of this was wrong. Or not so much wrong, as incomplete. That where his teachers had hundreds of reasons: one for every object, one for every phenomena on the earth, there was a single reason. Some unifying principle that could make sense of all of this, and show why all these things had to be true at the same time. Isaac’s teachers told him that objects fell more quickly based upon their weight. A man named Galileo Galilei claimed to have stood on top of the leaning tower of Pisa, and dropped two weights of identical shape but varying weight, and proved that they fell at equal speed. But Galileo could not explain why. Isaac’s teachers said the Earth was at the center of all creation, orbited by a moon, planets, and the sun in ever greater circles. Galileo alleged that he had seen through a telescope that the planet Jupiter had its own moons, and that the universe was filled with bodies circled by other bodies. But Galileo could not say why this was. Galileo had even argued for a great heresy: that the ground on which they stood was not immoveable, but that the Earth flew through space at unthinkable speeds in the orbit of the sun. But Galileo could not explain why this was true either. A mathematician named Zeno had once claimed that motion was impossible, since any object must first cross half the distance to reach somewhere, then half the distance again, and half the remaining distance, and so on forever. Something as simple as motion and describing the fall of an apple required a description of how the apple would cross an infinite number of intervals. And mathematics was not equipped to handle infinity. At least, not yet. Isaac Newton studied mathematics, and found it lacking. Mathematics could describe aspects of the way the world was, but not how it changed. Isaac Newton studied the philosophies of Aristotle, and found it lacking. Aristotle claimed it was in the nature of objects to fall according to their weight, a principle believed for nearly two thousand years. But if the stories were true, Galileo had shown otherwise. Isaac Newton studied the stories of astrologers who claimed that the stars and planets in heaven were moved by supernatural forces, and found their claims lacking. The planets moved with regularity, not purpose. They were less like men who chose to move, and more like apples. Compelled to move. Isaac imagined an apple, floating in space, that began to accelerate downwards, at two meters per second. Its acceleration would be constant, a flat line. The speed it had picked up could be defined by a line sloping up the graph at the rate of its acceleration. But what about its position? Since the apple picked up distance at every moment, its position had to be the area under the curve defining its velocity. Isaac drew the sides of a triangle that filled in the area under the curve of the sloped line up to a point. That area was a triangle, or half a square, so the position had to grow with the square of time... a parabola. Isaac looked at what he had written for each equation. “Position = X^(2)”. “Velocity = 2X”. “Acceleration= 2”. There was a profound relationship between each of those simple descriptions. Going forward, each equation described the rate of change of the last equation. Going backward, each equation described the area under the curve of the next equation. Given any graph, any pattern of movement, there had to be a similar relationship that could be described: the change taking place, and the impact of a change that took place at that rate. And so Isaac began to develop the mathematics of change. The mathematics of the infinite. It was many years later, after untold hours spent buried in his notes and research that Isaac Newton wrote a book describing the mathematics of infinity, and how it could be used to describe the force of gravity that bound reality. His encoding of gravity in numbers and strange symbols would have looked like witchcraft to the illiterate, trapping the complexity of the universe in arcane runes. He called it The System of the World. The moon circled the Earth, the tides of the Earth shifted with the moon, and apples fell all for the same reason. Because all matter in the universe was drawn together by a force proportional to the product of their masses and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them. All the motion in the world, from people, to ships, to avalanches were a consequence of Isaac Newton's laws of motion. Objects at rest remained at rest, objects acted on by a force changed their momentum in proportion to that force, and any force acting on an object produced an equal and opposite reaction. These were not simply stories that could be told, like “apples want to fall.” These were mathematical principles that could be used to predict the eclipses of the sun, the trajectory of an arrow, and the future of the world itself. For a brief moment, half a billion humans were alive on planet Earth, but only one of them could look at the world and see the fundamental forces that drove it, the machinery of nature expressed in mathematical equations. Untold trillions of creatures had lived out their lives on Earth watching the sun moon and stars float above them in the sky without understanding what caused the sun to brighten the day and disappear by night, and Isaac Newton became the first able to explain why. The first equipped with the knowledge to predict and change reality. And then Isaac Newton unleashed his science upon the world. The seed of knowledge planted by Isaac Newton would spread across the entire surface of the Earth. Knowledge of his Calculus and physics would allow for the creation of new kinds of machinery, great and terrible in destructive power, powered by energies gathered from deep beneath the Earth’s crust. It would allow the human race to send vessels to the sky to reach celestial bodies they had only glimpsed through telescopes, and reshape the Earth according to the will of mankind, shrinking the boundaries of nature and diminishing the role of magic and mystery. Some of this, Isaac would begin to see in his lifetime. Other parts of this story are still being told. It was many years later that Isaac returned to the gardens of the lord of Lincolnshire as an older and wiser man, to find that the tree had disappeared. A new lord ruled in the castle, and had no interest in an old tree the previous owner was afraid to let anyone eat from. Isaac Newton had been the last to ever eat of its fruit. Isaac stared at the place where the tree had once stood, filled with sadness and gratitude for the journey it had sent him on. When Isaac was asked in public how he had developed such amazing insights into the world, Isaac would modestly shrug, and say that if he had seen further, it was because he had stood on the shoulders of giants. But when asked by his closest friends, his thoughts would turn back to his memories of that garden and the legend of a tree’s fruit. And Isaac would say that all of it, the whole thing, had happened because of an apple.