Kyle rests back into the hospital pillow and lets out a sigh. “The doctor wants to keep an eye on that temperature of yours.” his wife says. “How do you feel?” “I’m comfortable now, Sara. A little sleepy, I think or...” “Kyle, the nurse gave you something to help bring the fever down because it was so high. She said you might drift in and out before it comes down. The nurse told you all that before, but you just rest easy. I’ll be here when you wake.” “Okay, sounds good. I’ll just close my eyes for a bit then.” Kyle’s breathing soon becomes more rhythmic. - Sara turns back to the book in her lap. Kyle opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling of his green camping tent and, rolling over, looked down at the other inhabitant, his dog Dingo, snuggled next to the sleeping bag. Putting a hand to his forehead in confusion, he says, “I feel like I was somewhere else a minute ago.” Dingo raised her head and blinked the slumber away. “Where?” Kyle looks at her, “I’m not sure. I think I was really sick, lying in a bed somewhere.” “Sounds like a dream to me.” Giving Dingo a gentle scruff, with a smile, he says, “You’re right. I’m sure it was; let’s have some breakfast!” He unzipped the sleeping bag, and they climbed out of the tent to stare at the sunrise. Kyle felt a little fuzzy about why he would be out here and looked down at Dingo, “What’s our plan today?” Dingo interrupts her bush sniffing to glance over at Kyle. “How ‘bout we go into that town we passed?” Kyle pointed to the nearby path. “That sounds like a great idea, and we can grab a little breakfast there. What do about that?” The path made a half-circle around town from the south to the north, ending a short distance from a café. Dingo and Kyle met a few people out walking the path that morning and one older guy riding a mountain bike. He slowed to pass-by and, looking at Dingo, stopped. “Is that a Kelpie?” “She sure is. About four years old, maybe. Her name’s Dingo.” He dropped a hand for her to sniff and said, “Hey, Dingo. Are you friendly?” Kyle was about to say, “Very.” but Dingo had sniffed his hand and was already leaning on his leg. The mountain biker pushed back his sweaty white hair, dismounted his bike so he could crouch next to Dingo. He sunk his fingers in Dingo’s fur and, with a grin, turned his face up to Kyle to share his happiness. “Is she smart?” “She’s super smart. In fact, that’s the smartest dog I’ve ever seen.” The mountain biker nodded and turned back to Dingo. “I’ve never met a person as friendly and open as a dog, and I’ve met many people.” Almost as if speaking to himself, he continued: “I have about 50 people working for me in my business, and I have three dogs at home. My dogs never meet people with callousness or any kind of pretense. It seems like all people are hiding behind something, kinda like a mask. It’s almost impossible to see beyond that invisibility cloak . With some folks, it’s possible, but it’s always there. Dogs don’t have anything like that. You might think it’s the person, but it’s just the thing they hide behind. It’s like some façade they want you to see. They think the mask makes them invisible, but it just makes it harder to know whom you’re talking to.” The mountain biker said, “Well, thanks for letting me pet your dog.” He stood up as if he’d made some monumental decision and mounted his bike to continue up the path. He turned back with a “Good-bye Dingo.” Kyle continued up the path. “That was really nice to meet another dog person.” Dingo fell in to step with Kyle wagging her tail and a ghost of a smile in her eyes. “It was, but it sounded like people had let him down. Human expectation often does that, though. People always seem to have some motivation or expectation in friendship. Still, there is nothing other than the expansion of the soul. Love that looks for anything besides it revealing its secret is not love. He probably just got distracted by something.” Demonstrating distraction, Dingo stopped to sniff a bush next to the trail. Kyle asked, “So, he was focusing on the mask he was talking about, instead of, as you put it, expansion of the soul?” Dingo looked both ways on the trail, maybe to make sure she wouldn’t be heard. “Yes, it seems he got distracted. Let me ask you, Kyle, what is a friend if you seek them out with hours to kill instead of hours to live? If it’s hours to live, then expansion of the soul just naturally happens. The point is if your focus is on something fruitless, then you will be rewarded with something fruitless. Here’s one for you: Think of your friend like a plant in your garden. You’d be grateful for harvesting any fruit, but if you planted the seed for that fruit, you might be even more grateful.” As they continued, Kyle got quiet as he examined his previous and present friendships for anything other than ‘expansion of the soul.’ He planted very few seeds and found he often got distracted by some façade. He inquired, “How would I not focus on illusion and then go after some fruitless distraction?” Dingo glanced back at Kyles’ question. “Simple. Just don’t. You choose your focus, just as you choose your distractions.” Dingo turned towards Kyle. “It’s kinda like meditation; maybe your focus is watching your breath. A distraction comes along, like what’s for dinner or paying some bill, but you see it and just return to your focus. The distractions arise almost endlessly, so at first, you may find you have to return to your focus continually, and you may find this truly challenging while you’re talking to someone. Eventually, though, it becomes easy to remain with your focus. If you, however, allow yourself to be perpetually distracted, fruitlessness will always be the result. Staying with your focus is the goal here. Whether the movement is away from some façade or towards some shiny object makes no difference. They’re all distractions and hold power to draw your focus.” Kyle struggled to understand. “It’s like you’re pointing to some aspect of friendship that I never realized was there, and now I have to learn a whole new way of relating. This all seems extremely complex.” “It’s not, at all. Looking at friendship in this way just requires a tiny shift in focus. Observe dogs interacting to see how simple it is.” They reached the end of the trail just as the conversation came to a close. Kyle headed toward the café patio. Settling into a chair at an outside table, Dingo found a good spot in the shade to lay down. The waitress spotted him and was soon standing near with a menu. Kyle smiled and reached for the menu but missed. His attention went to the hand that should be holding the menu. As he had trouble seeing it, he brought the hand a little closer to his face noticing he had another hand in his. The other hand belonged to Sara. He looked around the dim hospital room. “Sara?” “Yes, I’m here.” Dazedly, Kyle asks, “Where’s Dingo?” Wrinkling her brow in confusion, she says, “She’s fine. She’s at home. Why?” “Dingo was just here, talking to me.” Sara moves her other hand to his forehead. “Sweetie, you’re in the hospital. Remember? You’ve been asleep for hours.” “I guess that was just a dream then.” Sara reaches for her thermos and says, “Sure it was. Are you thirsty? The nurse said your temperature came down a bit.” “Yeah, I am thirsty. Thanks.” Sara poured a little tea into a cup and placed it in Kyles’ hand. “So, Dingo was talking? What was she saying?” “She was talking about how lots of people maybe have some sort of protective façade, and how not to get lost in the distraction of that façade. I think she may have been referring, also, to those masks that everyone is wearing now. And she was talking about how the skill in meditation is related to not getting distracted by any façade.” “Wow. She sounds super wise. Was it kind of like a bark or a growl?” Kyle shook his head, saying, “Nope. It was just a regular women’s voice, but it sounded like pure insight if that makes any sense.” “It does, and it sounds like you two had a great conversation, but she’s back at home right now. Our neighbor is going to check in on her. She’s probably asleep right now, and maybe you should try to rest some more too. I’ll wake you when they come around with breakfast. I think it’s about midnight now.” Kyle put his cup on the bedside table and, nodding his head, relaxed back into the pillows. “Maybe I have a high fever, but that conversation seemed real.” “I’m sure it did, but you need to sleep for a bit more.” Kyle closed his eyes and coasted back to sleep. Sara nudged him awake as the nurse came around with breakfast. “How’d you sleep?”


There were no zombies like he expected. There was no cataclysmic event that obliterated life on the surface of the earth which had been altered significantly since the great flood a few years ago that wiped out Florida and most of the Gulf Coast that now gave Tennessee a wonderful ocean shoreline, reducing the area of the United States by nearly fifty percent due to solar flares that the ozone could no longer protect the earth from. Instead the apocalypse came from Cylon Corp. that controlled the economy of the new United States and the thirty one states that were still remaining. The programmed revolt had come from within the nerve center of the super conglomerate that had risen from the ashes of the Super Depression four decades before the Programmed Revolt as the Cylon Corp. News Center was reporting on every network station twenty four seven. “Craig.” Some called to him, but with the power in the building shut down it was hard for him to see where the voice had originated from. “Yeah.” He called back. “It happened.” The voice sounded quite distrubed. “Yeah.” He sat at his station, too traumatized to move, his headphones still in place, but his screen was black. “What happened?” It sounded like Doug from three stations away from his. “Cylons are running things now.” He removed his headphones. “That’s not good.” Doug emerged from the blackness of the open room. “Tell me about it.” Craig was still trying to get his computer to respond by clicking the on off toggle switch, but he knew that no matter how many times he flicked it back and forth, the Cylons were now in charge. “What are we going to do?” Doug sounded genuinely frightened. “Sit here until we get instructions.” Craig answered, but there was not enough confidence in his response. “If we stay here, we’ll be sitting ducks.” Doug put his head against one of the dead control panels. “If we go out there, Cylon patrols will exterminate us.” Craig looked up at his partner. “You know I knew we were headed for trouble when the Cylons began coming off the assembly line.” Doug sat on the floor as his legs no longer seemed to be able to support him. “Yeah, but you know how the management felt.” Craig allowed himself to let out a cynical chuckle even though Doug did not seem to share in his humor. “Cylons produced over fifty percent of the corporation’s profits.” “You think the Super Depression would have taught them a lesson.” Doug whined. “Yeah, my old man told me all about it and how Russia was behind it.” Craigh snickered again, “But you know, it was even bigger than that. It was a worldwide effort.” “Cylon was involved.” Doug moaned. “Without a doubt.” Craig affirmed. “Why would they do it?” Doug asked. “Money. Plain and simple. It’s like that game our ancestors used to play...what was it...oh yeah Monopoly. The winner was the player who got all of the money.” Doug remembered reading about it in one of the online journals he subscribed to published by Cylon Publications. There was an explosion from somewhere just outside the building and Doug closed his eyes and started to pray, “Our father who art in heaven...” “You still remember that chant?” Craig chuckled again, pulling out his laser from his desk drawer. It wasn’t much, but it might stop one of those things in its tracks if it should come in looking for survivors. A few feet away, Mary’s body lay on the floor, her head crushed by a heavy file cabinet unit as her boyfriend Bart stood over her like an idle mannequin with a rod protruding through his chest. Craig began to suspect that he and Doug might be the only survivors from their section. Waldo, the section chief, had taken matters into his own hands, and put a pistol into his mouth before pulling the trigger. He made it very clear that if the Programmed Revolt happened, he did not wish to stick around and as it turned out, Waldo was good to his word. Craig walked into his office where he was still sitting upright with a look of horror on his face and the splattered pieces of the back of his skull appearing like some kind of Rorschach inkblot test on the wall behind him. When Craig tried to move Waldo away from his desk, Waldo’s body fell with a sickening thump to the tiled floor. Opening the desk drawer, Craig removed the code sheet, folded it and put it in his pocket. Turning to Doug who appeared as if he was going to puke as he stared at Waldo’s body sprawled out awkwardly on the floor. “C’mon, let’s go.” “I changed my mind.” Doug shook his head. “Those Cylons will be coming any minute and we don’t stand a chance.” Craig pulled at Doug’s arm. With a sad moan, Doug followed Craig out of the room. Once outside, you could see the endless expanse of the corporation as it spread over ten square miles in the secret compound, but there was no secret about Cylon. All technological advancements were spawned here including the Cylons. The Department of Defense was the main player in the development of the Cylons which were much more advanced than their predecessors the cyborgs. Ten years ago there was a huge war between the Cylons and the Cyborgs and little doubt as to the outcome. One of the errors was that the technicians made these Cylons superior to humans in both strength and cognitive functioning or as Craig had told his now dead coworkers with the exception of Doug that humans had just created their own doom. Waldo would always laugh hysterically whenever Craig spoke about his biggest fear, but now that fear had become a reality. Strange how what you fear the most about something is the exact thing that takes place. And when it does you have to deal with it. Cylons did not need weaponry like Craig did when he shoved that laser into his pocket and then retrieved the codes from Waldo’s desk. As the pair went by the main production unit, Craig saw one of the ugly Cylons standing at the entrance of the production unit that Craig told people was the size of Rhode Island. Carefully citing the laser, he pressed the button and pieces of Clyon rained down. He pulled Doug into a materials bin so the other Cylons who were searching for the person who had shot their cohort, would not see them. The engineer who had put the Sound Wave Destroyer into their program needed to become a victim of his own horrible invention. Sound Wave Destroyer was based on a physics theory that sound waves could produce matter like behavior and could even display actual mass and volume if concentrated and since Isaac Newton told us that two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time, the waves would obliterate the object in the space it wanted to occupy. It was messy and quite effective and it did not need any sort of pre-guidance mechanism to reposition the mass and volume of the obstacle. The Department of Defense was overjoyed to learn about this capability, but when the units were programmed, the artificial intelligence took on a life of its own and decided to use this engineered system to destroy their creators thus making Cylons the deadliest creation known to mankind. “Do you think we’ll have another solar flare?” Doug was suddenly concerned. “One crisis at a time, eh?” Craig snarled as he peeked out of his hiding place, not a Cylon in sight, but that did not mean they were in the clear. Still he pushed open the lid and together they stepped out into the darkness. It was so quiet for a moment Craig thought that perhaps he and Doug were the only ones left in the entire world. Seven million people were instantly incinerated where they were standing during the last flair. If you were not able to get into an underground shelter, you would be instantly melted. The alarm ub what was left of the city gave you about thirty seconds before the sun’s flare like a fiery tongue would slurp you up in a ball of flame. Craig had the pleasure of watching his parents succumb to a solar flair as they sat in the living room reading the Sunday online newspaper like all of the old folks did so many years ago. When he graduated from college, Craig had a portal installed so he could just plug it into the back of his neck where he had the portal installed. Such a primitive practice to read the things they put online. The remains of two security guards lay near the back gate where he and Doug were trying to flee. There were some safe places in the city they could go to, but these places were a few blocks away and there was no telling how many Cylons had already taken to the streets. As they stealthy moved through the dark city streets, there were random explosions in the distance. Was this the apocalypse? Judging from lack of human presence, this was a real possibility. Maybe Waldo had the right idea, but then it made him chuckle when he remembered the “Where’s Waldo” books his grandmother had read him when he was a toddler. After the Great Solar Flare, Craig had no idea what had become of them. Where’s Waldo? I know grandma, he blew his brains out in his office. Laughter follows. Craig raises his laser and blasts a Cylon who is feasting on the dead lying in the streets. Pieces of him rain down on the cold damp streets. Craig pushes Doug down to the street where they lie there for several minutes next to the dead bloated bodies as three Cylons come to investigate what the noise was. One of them bends down and sniffs Criag and for a split second, he thinks that it will begin to eat him thinking that he was dead like all the others. Sweat pours out of his forehead and he sucks in his breath as he hears his heart beating its way out of his chest. Much to his surprise and relief, one of the other Cylons pats the sniffer on his back and so he straightens up and joins the others on their patrol. “That was close.” Doug wipes the sweat off his forehead with his shirt sleeve. Craig does not say anything, he knows how lucky he is to be able to walk away. There are even more dead lying in the street as they continue, but Craig refuses to let the carnage get to him. He knows his brain has been scarred beyond repair, but survival seems to be the only thing he allows his brain to think about. He is also afraid that Doug is getting more fragile and if he cracks, Craig will not think twice about dispatching him if he needs to. Checking his laser, he notes that his energy level is low and he has two maybe three more blasts at the most. None of the dead have devices, so they tredge onward. When Craig saw him, a shadowy figure that appeared from an alleyway, he raised his laser and prepared to fire, but then when he saw the face, he could not believe who was standing in front of him. Dr. Crowder was the chief designer of the Cylon project. At one time, his face was more recognizable than the Premier who would address the country that all was well, when everyone knew otherwise. “I had no idea.” His face was white and there was actual terror streaking through his dark eyes. Doug pointed to a security hover cruiser manned by three Cylons and they knew that the security officers had been exterminated and the Cylons now controlled the streets. “How could you not know this was going to happen?” Craig was filled with hatred for his man who had brought the end of the world without a single note of regret or so he seemed when he was on television, but standing in front of him now, Dr. Crowder was a shuddering, frightened pathetic coward of a man. “I was told I was doing this for the good of humanity.” His voice was barely a rasp, “Come, I’ll take you to the shelter.” “Could be a trap.” Doug said dryly. “Doesn’t look like we have much choice.” Craig pointed to another security hover cruiser a few blocks away. There was another explosion and the trio picked up the pace a bit. “It was supposed to be the greatest achievement for us all and look how it turned out.” Dr. Crowder explained, “We had all of the elements. Our research was impeccable. We just count on artificial intelligence to be the problem. Once we had things set, the intervention of free will entered into the formula. We did not account for it and frankly we did not think it was possible for such a thing to occur.” “But it did.” Craig pointed out. “It was just like Oppenheimer observed during testing of the bomb in the Manhattan Project when the energy released during destination exceeded expectations and he realized they had tripped into the realm of the creator. When you put the intellect of a highly intelligent being into a weapon, you wind up with a very intelligent destructive weapon.” Dr. Crowder was nearly in tears. “How much further?” Craig asked, seeing yet another hover cruiser up ahead. “Right over there.” Dr. Crowder pointed to a blank storefront with the large window smashed in. Inside Craig could see a few soulless shells aimlessly wandering about in the darkness. Stumbling inside all of about two dozen empty faces stared up at the three of them. “It’s alright everyone, they survivors like you.” “They are from Cylon.” A woman stepped from the crowd. “Like you.” Another pointed a bent finger at Dr. Crowder. “It’s okay.” Dr. Crowder swallowed hard holding up his hand. “Why did you create those things?” The woman asked in a bitter tone. Dr. Crowder just collapsed on the floor and began weeping into his hand, making unintelligible sounds as he shuddered. It was known as the Programmed Revolt, because no matter how carefully the Cylon program was managed with the introduction of free will these Cylons became executioners, an unintended consequence of the whole project that had inevitably brought about the apocalypse. There was a small pocket of resistance, but nothing to match the horror that was going on in the streets of the ruined city. As the lights of the early dawn took over, making hiding in the darkness impossible, the survivors would have to use caution. There was a strange calm in the early morning light. Silence fell over them like a comforting blanket. The danger would be ever present, but as Dr. Crowder pointed out in the sun's first rays, we are the architects of our own destruction as we are given the tools only to build devices of hate instead of creation. As we peel away the mysteries of the universe, instead of learning the lessons of creation we choose to use the information to destroy instead. This Programmed Revolt occurred not because of the advancements, but rather because of our need to protect the resources we have. And as strange as it seems, we justify our reasons to use our limited resources for our own desires without regard to what we may require in the future. Dr. Crowder was filled with these philosophical ideals once he saw what he had wrought. The warnings and road signs were all in place, but just like the posted speed limits along the interstate, they are ignored until a flashing red light appears in the rearview mirror and by that time it is too late.


Liam checked his watch for what must have been the fifteenth time in the past five minutes. He was astounded to see the second hand still ticking along, reliably as ever. Had it still only been another minute? It felt like he was stuck in time; the waiting was interminable. Liam sighed and drummed his fingers on the table. If he wasn’t here in another five minutes, Liam was going to leave. He’d had enough of waiting, and he was wishing he just hadn’t come at all. Liam looked around the café in an attempt to distract himself. The door had just opened and a tall, thin man in a neat suit walked in. “Larry!” the barista called, her face cracking into a smile. “The usual?” Liam watched Larry head to the counter and pass over his credit card. What would it be like, to have such stability in your life that the barista recognizes you and remembers your order every time? He’d always been jealous of that type of person, who could stay put and stick to a schedule. Build a routine. He was always on the move and changing plans last second. Liam couldn’t even remember the last time he had lived in the same place longer than six months. He was adventurous, was what people always said. Or maybe he was just unsettled. Dissatisfied with the many lives he had attempted to live. Liam glanced at his watch again. It hadn’t even been a full minute, this time. He pulled his phone out of his pocket to reread the last text. “9 o’clock at Ground Beans good for you?” It was 9:05 now, though. Liam didn’t know what he had expected. To trust that someone so chronically unreliable, so perpetually not there, would show up on time, at the right place...it had been childish, to think this might work. He might as well just leave now and spare the inevitable pain of this meeting. It was infuriating that he had ever even agreed to put himself through this whole ordeal. By now if he actually did show up, which Liam was very much starting to doubt, Liam would have plenty to say. He had years of pent-up anger ready to boil over, and the wait was not helping. Liam peered out the window through the driving rain, trying to discern the faces of the pedestrians hurrying by. He could be any of them, really. Liam doubted he would recognize him. A barking laugh to his left jerked Liam’s attention from the street. A woman in spandex and a shirt so tight it left little to the imagination was laughing uproariously at something her similarly-dressed friend had said. Liam wondered if they had actually exercised before coming, or if they just dressed like they were about to in a way of justifying the calories of their sugary drinks. Their hair looked too pristine, their makeup too immaculate for them to actually be planning to get in a jog this morning. Maybe they were power walkers. “And then, he told me that his mom would be over any minute, so I might as well stay and meet her! So I was running around trying to find my clothes, get dressed and out of there as quickly as I could-” “You know that was a line, right? I bet that’s how he gets rid of girls every morning!” the second woman said with an almost indecent giggle. “Well, it worked!” The two women subsided into snorts of laughter, and Liam reluctantly felt the corners of his mouth twitch up. He picked up his phone out of habit so he didn’t look like he was eaves dropping, and his heart leapt into his throat when he saw a new text on the screen. “Running late, be there soon” , it read. So he hadn’t flaked, after all. Liam tried to keep his nerves in check. This was what he had wanted, right? At least he wasn’t going to get stood up. Probably not, anyway. But maybe the “sorry I’m late” ruse was just drawing out the inevitable. Why should Liam believe he would come today, after he had been absent for the past twenty-five years? The two women had quieted down now, and Liam scanned the coffee shop for another distraction to pass the time. His focus caught on a man and woman who were probably in their early forties. Husband and wife, maybe? Liam didn’t think so, somehow. The way the man’s pupils dilated when he looked at her, the way his eyes kept flicking down to her chest when she talked, made him think they hadn’t known each other long. While the woman swirled her coffee in its cup, the man picked up his phone and dialed a number. He stretched back in his chair, looking at ease and in complete contrast to Liam, whose muscles were tense, as though ready to spring into action at any moment. Liam’s fingers were drumming his leg incessantly as he peered down the sidewalk in both directions again. But he’d already said he was running late. He wouldn’t be here yet. “Hey, Jude, this is Charles,” the man’s voice boomed. “Yeah, I’m going to need to push our meeting back, if you’ve got some flexibility in your schedule today.” He paused, listening to the response on the other end of the line, and the woman took a large gulp of her iced latte. “Don’t I know it,” he said. “I’ve just been so swamped at the office this morning.” In spite of his worry, Liam couldn’t help but smile at the brazen lie. “I’ve been stuck in a meeting for a couple hours now, and I don’t think I’ll make it to your office by eleven. Can we push back to noon? Maybe even one, if you can?” The man gave the woman a grin and reached across the table to run his fingers up her arm to her shoulder. “I’m trying to rush the meeting and get out as quickly as I can. Sorry ‘bout this, Jude.” Liam noticed that he was playing footsie with the woman under the table now, too. “Ohp, they’re calling me back in. Just need to finalize this deal, and I’ll let try to get over to your office by one o’clock, maybe one thirty...Yup, alright...see you then. Cheers.” He ended the call and set the phone down on the table. “Agh, I just can’t arse myself to work today. Wanna go back to my place? Charlene will be at work by now, so we can have a bit more time together.” The woman shot him a cloying smile and nodded and Liam watched them walk out, hand in hand. Sure, his morals might be a bit askew for Liam’s taste, but what wouldn’t he give for just a bit of the man’s confidence. Liam glanced at his watch again. He was only eight minutes late. That wasn’t so bad on the face of it, but in reality, the wait had been not just the past eight minutes, but the past twenty-five years. Liam’s temper was still simmering just under the surface. Maybe if he couldn’t bring himself to arrive on time, he didn’t deserve another chance. No one could argue that he didn’t deserve a chance anyway, even if he had arrived on time. Why had he even reached out to meet now, after all this time? Liam considered getting up and walking out. What would he really lose if he left now? He would probably only say things he would regret later. They would all be true, of course, but maybe things would be better left unsaid. He could get up now and go back to his normal life. His hectic, unsettled, life. He had been fine enough before he agreed to this meeting, and he would be fine enough after. It didn’t matter much, how it went. But even as he stood and pulled his wet raincoat over his t-shirt, Liam knew he didn’t believe that. He had been dreaming of this day far too long to believe that he would be fine after, and yet he was still trembling, whether with anger or nerves, he couldn’t tell anymore. He’d had enough of this. Liam slipped his phone into his jeans pocket and was pushing his chair in when the door chimed and a man with a young boy in a dirty rugby kit walked in. “Don’t tell your mum I let you skip school today, right?” The boy giggled and nodded. “What do you want? A scroll? Juice?” Liam couldn’t tear his eyes away as they walked up to the counter, the young boy’s hand inside his dad’s. Liam could see the adoration, the excitement in the boy’s eyes as he looked up at his father. He wondered if his life would be different if he’d gotten days like this with his own father. Just the two of them hanging out, keeping secrets from his mum and having adventures together. Liam was standing in the middle of the café now, halfway between his abandoned seat and the door. He wanted to leave. He had decided to go. And yet something kept him rooted to the spot. He looked up at the boy again, whose face was now covered in powdered sugar, but not enough sugar to hide his ear-to-ear grin. Liam wondered if the boy and his father would still be close when he grew up. What would their relationship look like when the boy was Liam’s age? The dad looked down at his son, and even through his stern reprimand for the trail of sugar down his son’s shirt, Liam could see the father’s care. How different would Liam’s life have been, if his father had ever cared enough to look at him like that father did his son? How different would it be if his father looked at him like that, now? It didn’t have to be too late, did it? Almost without realizing what he was doing, Liam walked back to the table and slid into his chair once more, eyes still fixed on the father and son who were now chatting animatedly about rugby. When he couldn’t bear to watch them anymore, Liam found a teenage girl a few tables away to focus on instead. She looked nearly as on edge as he felt. She was twirling a lock of hair around her fingers, biting her lower lip, and fiddling with a paper in the other hand. As she fluttered the paper back and forth, he caught a glimpse- it was a resume. Looked like she was waiting for a job interview. Liam knew the feeling well. He had jumped from one job to the next ever since his first job at age fifteen. He had probably sat through more interviews already in the intervening fifteen years than this girl ever would. Her lips were moving soundlessly, like she was rehearsing answers for practice interview questions she had found online. He wondered if she would get the job. Wondered if she was even qualified for it. With how nervous she looked, how much she apparently cared, he hoped she got it. He wanted to walk over and tell her to take a deep breath, relax, not get herself too worked up. And then he considered that he could take his own advice. Liam had checked his watch this time without realizing it. He was closing in on ten minutes late, now. There was an elderly couple sitting one table over from the nervous teen. He looked at them, admiring the patience with which the man spoke to his wife, who appeared to be deaf, or very nearly so. They were four tables away from him, and yet their conversation was loud enough to cover the anxious patter of his own tapping foot. “I said, how’s your coffee?” The woman’s head bobbed in a perpetual nod, in that way of old people who spent most of their days sitting. “Good. It’s hot. Better than yesterday’s.” “I told you to send it back, if you thought it was bad.” “Send it back?” the wife shouted. “I said it’s good. Very fresh.” “No,” the husband shouted back, “You should have sent the coffee back yesterday , if it was cold.” “But it’s not cold! It’s hot! Don’t you ever listen, Howard?” The wife took another sip of coffee through pursed lips, probably because it’s so hot, Liam thought, and their bickering subsided. Liam wondered how much his father would have changed, as he aged. Surely not as much as this elderly couple had- his parents had had him young, and Liam knew his father was only in his early fifties. But time must have changed him. People don’t just stay the same, in twenty-five years of not knowing them. Liam himself wasn’t a child anymore, just on the threshold of kindergarten. And likewise, his father must have changed in unimaginable ways. Had he found someone with whom to grow old? Someone to bicker about coffee with? The couple had given up on talking now, but the husband reached over the table to grasp his wife’s hand in his. They just sat, gazing into each other’s eyes like they had nowhere else in the world they would rather be. How long had it taken for them to reach that point in their relationship? Maybe there was still time left, enough to salvage the lost time and recover from the years of hurt. He was eleven minutes late, now. How long before he gave up and left? How much would Liam really be missing, if he left before he showed up? But Liam knew he couldn’t leave. He would wait as long as it took. The husband stood up, put his coat on, and shuffled around the table to help his wife up. He helped her shrug a raincoat on and sling her purse over her shoulder, then held her hand tightly as they walked toward the exit. A man entering from the street took a step back out into the rain to hold the door wide for them. Twelve minutes late, now. The couple disappeared into a sheet of rain and the man stepped through the doorway, shaking water out of a sopping hat. He stood by the door for a long moment, eyes scanning the room, looking for something. Or maybe someone. His gaze caught on Liam and he paused, eyes searching his face. Liam saw that the man had the same heavy brows that he himself had. His chin was pointed, high cheekbones, they even had a similar build- tall, thin but muscular, broad shoulders- Before he had thought about it, without making a conscious decision to do so, Liam was on his feet. Heart in his throat, he walked out from behind the table and had crossed the café in six steps. The man was waiting, now with a nervous, hesitant smile on his face. “Liam?” Liam held his hand out and, for the first time in twenty-five years, his father took his hand.


On Thursdays, the library stayed open until 7.00pm. On this particular January evening, it was already dark outside, and when the occasional customer came in, the air, which blew in with them, was bitterly cold. It was quiet, not many people wanted to turn out on such a cold day to return or renew books, and much of the library’s business was now conducted on-line. Laura, a twenty-two year old, university graduate, the senior librarian, Mrs Selby, and Tom sat behind their semi-circular work station, idly chatting. At 6.45pm, Mrs Selby told her staff to ‘do a walk around the premises, and warn people that we’ll be closing in fifteen minutes.’ Laura and Tom set off in opposite directions, weaving in and out of the tightly packed shelves of books, peering into the various enclaves, which the bookcases made. As Laura approached the historical fiction section, an offensive odour accosted her, and there slumped on one of the library’s padded chairs, head on chest, legs splayed widely apart in front of her, soundly asleep was Ruthie. In the winter, she was a regular visitor, in summer they rarely saw her. Generally, she caused little trouble; she would shuffle in, sometimes pausing at the main desk to chat, select a newspaper from the rack displaying that day’s editions, and then secrete herself away in a secluded corner. There had been a couple of occasions when Mrs Selby had been compelled to ask her to leave: once she had arrived with her lunch of fish and chips, evidently expecting to eat them in the area of her choice, another time, she had settled in her chosen corner, and pulled a bottle of vodka out of her tatty shopping trolley, swigging from it with relish. Mrs Selby’s polite requests for her to go elsewhere were met with a long stream of expletives, but she had gone. Ruthie always pulled the shopping trolley along behind her. Today, she had a maroon crocheted beret pulled low down on her head, locks of salt and peppery hair hanging from it onto her shoulders, and a khaki mac encased her plump body, secured at the waist by a length of narrow rope. On her feet she wore voluminous, knee length wellingtons, and the gap between mackintosh and boots revealed a small expanse of purple blotched, bare legs. Laura approached her cautiously, the surrounding stink causing her to breathe through her mouth. She reached out and shook Ruthie gently on the arm, saying. ‘Ruthie, wake up. It’s time to go.’ Ruthie started, opened her eyes, lifted her head and looked blearily around her, before asking. ‘What time is it?’ ‘Nearly seven.’ At this, with surprising agility, Ruthie jumped to her feet, grabbed the handle of her shopper and shouted. ‘Fucking hell, I’ll never get a bed in the shelter now! Why didn’t you wake me sooner?’ Mrs Selby, alerted by the shouting appeared protectively at Laura’s side, to hear her say, in a placatory tone. ‘Now, now Ruthie. I’ll run you round there in my mini. It’ll only take us five minutes.’ Mrs Selby whispered to Laura. ‘That’s not a good idea. She could attack you or anything.’ Ruthie’s hearing was apparently acute, because she glared at the senior librarian and muttered. ‘Stupid bitch.’ In any case, Mrs Selby’s objections were ignored, Laura walked through the library, followed by Ruthie and her trolley, grabbed her coat from the stand behind the librarian’s desk, shrugged it on as she left the building, leaving Tom and Mrs Selby to lock up. The journey did only take five minutes, but it was an uncomfortable one. Laura soon found the stench of Ruthie sitting beside her unbearable, and so wound down her car’s windows. The cold air, which blasted in, as the vehicle sped through the nearly deserted streets, began to numb Laura’s face and hands. She compromised, heating full blast, windows half open. They arrived at the large church hall, which doubled as an emergency night shelter during the winter months. Ruthie hammered loudly on the hefty, double doors, and a woman cautiously partially opened one door and peered out. ‘Oh Ruthie. It’s you. I’m sorry, you’re too late we’re full.’ Ruthie began to hurl an impressive and imaginative list of insults at the woman, who calmly waited, half in, half out of the door until she had finished. Turning to Laura, she asked. ‘If I can find Ruthie a place in another shelter, would you be able to run her there? Laura nodded mutely. ‘It’s doubtful, they’ll all probably be full, but I’ll ring round and try. Get back in the car. I’ll send Don out with a hot drink for you, whilst you wait.’ Ruthie and Laura did as they were told, Laura opening the car windows and occasionally turning on the engine to keep them warm. Shortly, a man bearing two steaming mugs of tea appeared and passed them through the window. As they sat, hands cupped around the warm mugs, gratefully sipping their tea, Laura attempted conversation. ‘Where were you born Ruthie?’ ‘Don’t know.’ ‘Have you lived in Clacton long?’ ‘Can’t remember.’ All her attempts were met with similar evasive answers, so she soon abandoned the effort. Instead, both women sat drinking their tea, staring blankly ahead. Eventually, the female refuge worker appeared beside the car, crouching down, looking in the window and addressing them regretfully, she said. ‘I’m sorry, no luck.’ Laura asked.’Can you think of anywhere else where Ruthie could spend the night?’ ‘No, not really. I can give her a blanket if that would help?’ ‘No, it’s ok thank you. We’ll think of something.’ Retrieving the mugs, the woman disappeared back into the hall. Turning to Ruthie, Laura asked. ‘Is there a friend or relative who could give you a bed for tonight?’ Ruthie remained staring ahead, but now tears streamed down her face, and huge sobs shuddered through her body. ‘No, no-one.’ ‘Where would you normally go on a night like this?’ ‘Shop doorway, or a squat, or try and lurk in Asda until Security chuck me out.’ Laura was appalled, she rented a room in a family home, and she knew that her landlady would not permit Ruthie to stay there. ‘We’ll go back to the library.’ They drove back, parked the car. Laura unlocked the doors, disarmed the intruder alarm and allowed Ruthie back into the building. Deliberately, to avoid other people realising that, they were there, she left the main lights switched off. They found their way to Ruthie’s historical fiction section by the light from the outside street lamps and the blue security lights. Ruthie flopped down into ‘her chair’, announcing as she did so. ‘Hungry’ Laura had anticipated this, and on the return journey had been thinking, which takeaway she could order, that would be least likely to give the game away in the morning that they had been there. The fragrances of fish and chips, Indian and Chinese meals all lingered. There was a lot of packaging with pizza, but she could nip out the back and throw it in the bin before Mrs Selby arrived. As she placed the order on her iPhone, she asked ‘Pizza do?’ ‘Can you get us some drink?’ ‘Sure, what do you want, coke, tango, Pepsi.’ ‘No, real drink. Like this.’ With that Ruthie, rummaged in her trolley and produced a half bottle of rum. She commenced swigging from it, smacking her lips appreciatively. At one point, she proffered the bottle to Laura, who politely declined. ‘Got any music round here?’ By this time, Laura was not only feeling sorry for Ruthie, she was also becoming a little frightened of her. Obligingly she found her playlist, turned the volume up and placed her ‘phone on one of the nearby low tables. Ruthie stood up, bottle still in hand, and began to sway in time to the music, which then developed into an enthusiastic boot stamping, arm waving, swirling dance. She joyfully cried. ‘It’s a party! I’ll go and find my mates.’ ‘No Ruthie, absolutely not. Just me and you in here.’ Ruthie continued to whirl and spin around, sometimes staggering slightly, until she fell heavily against a bookshelf, knocking it to the floor. Shelving and books all lay in disarray on the carpet. Books were splayed half open; spines pointing upwards, others had travelled a surprising distance across the floor. It was a mess, but the crash appeared to have calmed Ruthie, she collapsed back into her chair. There was a tentative knock on the front door, and a delivery man peered dubiously through the glass doors into the library’s interior. Laura hurried to the doors and took the pizzas from him. She handed Ruthie her box, who opened it and began tearing large hunks off the pizza and stuffing them into her mouth with both hands. She ate ravenously, her mouth open, spittle and small pieces of food flying into the air. When she finished, she dropped the packaging, lent back and gave a satisfied belch. This developed into coughing and gagging, rapidly culminating in her leaning sideways from her chair, and depositing a large heap of vomit onto the carpet beside her. Laura was distraught, how was she ever going to clear this mess up before eight thirty in the morning. ‘Cold’. Ruthie was right, the heating had been off for some hours now and the temperature was dropping quickly. ‘Lots of stuff to make a fire with in here.’ Laura was cross. ‘How dare you even consider burning books! You’ve already damaged several valuable ones, when you knocked the shelf over.’ Ruthie regarded her with baleful eyes before uttering. ‘Cunt.’ Laura walked away, she needed some space to calm down. She suspected that, the only hope of retrieving the situation was for Ruthie to go to sleep. She knew that, they kept a blanket tucked under the desk, in case a customer fainted. She would cover Ruthie up, and hopefully she would drift off to sleep. Laura located the blanket and hurried back to Ruthie. She was gone! Panicking, Laura ran to the next aisle, and there she was lying on the floor, her head twisted at an odd angle. Laura called her name - no response. Ignoring the repulsive smell, she bent down beside her, there were no apparent signs of life. She put two fingers on Ruthie’s neck and was unable to feel a pulse. Shaking she got to her feet, went to her ‘phone and hastily dialled 999. The ambulance was quick, Laura let the crew in, who confirmed her worst fears, Ruthie was dead. ‘We can’t take her away.’ One of the crew explained. ‘We’ll alert the police, and they’ll take it from there.’ Soon the library was awash with police officers, uniformed men secured the front entrance with blue and white incident tape, white overalled forensics staff scooped samples of Ruthie’s vomit into containers and took photographs of her prostrate body. A female officer informed Laura that she would need to come to the station to be interviewed. Two days later, a letter came from the coroner’s office requesting Laura to give evidence at the inquest into the death of Mr Fred Burton. Letter in hand, she immediately rang the coroner’s officer. ‘I’m ringing about your letter, case reference 8113.’ ‘Ah yes, regarding the inquest of a Mr Fred Burton.’ ‘Well, that’s exactly it. I was expecting to attend an inquest, but for a female called Ruthie. I think perhaps you’ve sent me the wrong person’s letter.’ ‘Let me check. Your name is?’ ‘Laura Willis’ ‘Thank you. I’ve definitely got you down as a witness for Mr Burton’s case.’ ‘No, there must be some mistake. I was with a lady called Ruthie when she died on 28 th January, if that helps.’ ‘That’s the date of Mr Burton’s death. What is Ruthie’s family name, please?’ ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know.’ ‘Ok. Are you able to tell me where she died?’ ‘Yes, Clacton library.’ ‘Records show that’s where Mr Burton died. How strange. What I suggest is that you attend on Friday, it’s a legal requirement anyway, and we’ll sort it out then.’ ‘Thank you. Bye.’ ‘Bye, Ms Willis.’ So eight days after Ruthie’s death, Laura arrived at the County Council’s offices and found her way to the atrium outside the main meeting rooms. A middle-aged, suited man with a clipboard approached her. ‘Good morning. What case are you here for, please?’ ‘That’s just it. My letter says Mr Fred Burton, case number 8113, but I didn’t know him.’ ‘That’s odd. Can I borrow your letter, please? Let me find the coroner’s assistant and have a quick word.’ ‘I was with a lady called Ruthie when she died, maybe it’s a word processing mistake’ ‘Thank you. Take a seat over there. I’ll be as quick as I can.’ With that, he walked briskly off, threading his way through the milling groups of people. Laura cast her eye around, and saw that behind her there were chairs arranged along the length of one wall. She made her way over, found a space between an elderly woman, dressed entirely in black, and a young couple who were holding tightly onto each other’s hands. She sat and surveyed the space around her. The area appeared to be part of the original council offices and was impressive. The ceilings were high, and held up by large stone columns, the floors shiny and probably grey marble; the walls were adorned with wooden plaques, giving lists of past leaders of the council, and county councillors. There was also one recessed area, where a large statute of a bewigged gentleman stood, holding a scroll, and peering at it through half- moon glasses. Around her stood an interesting cross section of humanity: there were uniformed policeman, several smartly dressed men and women with document folders or laptop bags, people looking pale and drawn, others openly crying, some happily chatting and laughing. In other circumstances, Laura would have found the scene fascinating and enjoyed the experience. Eventually, her clipboard man reappeared. ‘Ms Willis, the coroner’s assistant says that you are to go into the inquest of case 8113 when called.’ ‘But...’ ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but I can’t discuss it any further. Please do as Mrs Winterton asks.’ With that, he turned away from Laura, walked off, apparently in search of other new arrivals. She remained where she was, and watched as case numbers were called, and several groups of people left the foyer, apparently to attend inquests. Eventually, case 8113, Mr Fred Burton was called and Laura stood and followed three other people into what may have been a court room or perhaps council chambers in a past time. The coroner, a woman in her early sixties, sat behind a desk on a raised diás. The three other occupants were: a woman who remained standing, a policeman and a young man who held a short hand pad, possibly a reporter from the local newspaper. The coroner made her formal introduction, and then continued. ‘This appears to be a straightforward case, so I’ll not prolong it any longer than necessary. I have the pathologist’s report, and his findings are as follows: Mr Burton was a fifty-seven year old man. Initial examination revealed signs of self-neglect, and his body was emaciated, his weight being only 101lbs. The primary cause of death was a cerebral aneurism, but the patient was also suffering from advanced cirrhosis.’ At this point, the coroner paused, looked towards Laura and said. ‘And now Ms Willis, I’d like you to stand and tell us about the night that Mr Burton died.’ Laura stood and deferentially began. ‘I’m sorry your honour’ (she thought that this was probably the correct way to address a coroner.) ‘I think I’m in the wrong hearing. The person I was with was a woman, and she was overweight and looked at least seventy years old.’ ‘Ah, I think that I can help with some of your confusion. Laura sit back down for a minute. Quite often when someone has led a neglectful lifestyle they can appear much older than their chronological years. At the start of his report, the pathologist notes that, before his examination could begin, it was necessary for him to cut away several layers of clothing from Mr Burton’s body, including two dresses and a jumper. Wearing excessive clothing like this could well have made the patient look as though he was bigger than he actually was. PC Bell if you would like to stand, please, I believe that you also can add some clarity to this matter.’ The policeman stood and read from his notes. ‘We found the birth certificate of Mr Fred Burton in the deceased’s luggage. Background checks revealed that Mr Burton had been discharged from a local children’s home in 1980, aged sixteen. Over the next couple of years he was arrested several times for minor felonies, such as shoplifting, being drunk and disorderly. Each time, he gave his address as no fixed abode. Then, in 1984, when he was twenty, he was again arrested, this time for assault. On this occasion, he was dressed as a woman, and insisted as being known as Ruthie. He remains a well-known figure locally, and we have been unable to trace a next of kin.’ ‘Thank you PC Bell, you may sit down now. Does that answer your questions, Ms Willis?’ Laura nodded. ‘In that case, if you wouldn’t mind telling us what happened on the night that Mr Burton died, but you can remain seated.’ Afterwards, Laura sadly realised that she, like so many others, had never truly looked at Ruthie. If she had, she may have realised that she was a man. Overall, she was glad that she had shown kindness to Ruthie on his last night. There was a consequence of her actions, following a disciplinary hearing; she was dismissed from her employment as a librarian.


You're tired of living on Earth. The planet's dying, the mass poverty is soul crushing as you can do nothing to help if you're not completely homeless. You have a tiny bit to spare because you work mind-numbing amount of hours to make for basic needs and wants. At least its not so bad. Until climate change forces you away from home, you look everywhere for relocation, you try your hardest, but the pathway you foresee is joining the endless sea of homeless. Risking being treated as a subhuman by so called "civilized" society, you become filled with dread. One advertisement appeals to you, an escape from this planet, a new frontier. Somewhere else, in artificially controlled environment, where the air is fresh and you'll have clean water to drink or your money back! You think that's a marvelous deal, so you sell nearly everything you have to take the voyage - not a big deal because you're billed by the gram anyway for transport. You head to a training camp where you meet James. James is a cool guy. He tends to know about things, he's friendly, outgoing, and he's a natural leader. James helped you pass a difficult test where you nearly flunked out which lead to a strong bonding experience. The training center was great, the people were amazing, the food was much better than the slop from the fast food joints and the water was endless. Your launch went well. James launch did not, his shuttle was impacted by some space debris. The footage from the Government's sUrveil-INet shown the corporation that produced the space debris was long since defunct. Not a large deal for the corporation, most of that shuttle had no next of kin anyway. A lot of Government Representatives were bribed and/or stakeholders in the corporation. You know the risk when you sign the contract, bad luck, so sad, too bad. You arrive to Mars. The first thing they do hand you an itemized bill. Every milliliter of water you consumed during training was billed at Mars rate. Every ounce of meat you consumed, Mars rate. Mars rate was not a fair rate, there wasn't competition or "choice" for your goods. This is a company town, where you get one choice of vendor, your corporation. If you don't like it, pay your bill and buy a ticket to leave. Can't afford a ticket? Work longer hours or have family/friends help. Or just get enhancements to get extra productivity bonuses. You do the math, if you live on bare minimum, you can scrape by and not only pay off your debt, but also be able to do minimal work [6 hour shift, 5 days a week] after merely 45 years. Of course, this also assumes 12 hour days, 7 days a week for the next 45 years. Never sick, never tired. You've already signed the paperwork, so be it. Three years in before you have your first mistake. You had company over and things lead to other things and you lost a few hours of sleep. This caused you to be very tired for your twelve hour shift. You made a mistake, a critical and costly mistake. 5 years. The mistake added 5 years to your debt. You honestly can't believe it... you start to realize the hole isn't just a deep hole, but it can get deeper. What choice do you have but to muddle through? To continue the struggle. You know now not to make that mistake. To focus on your efforts and spend less time socializing with others. Another 5 years goes by, you catch a flu that infects the entire colony. Everyone's sick for about 3-4 weeks. Of course, when you miss time from work, you either need to find someone to cover your shift or you owe the company for the lost productivity. You gain an additional 10 years of labor from this disease. You're tired, your limbs hurt, you want a break. You decide to finally look at those productivity enhancers. You decide to take the best option you can afford, some tool that is installed in your hand. You add 15 years to your debt, but with the productivity gains and benefits, you actually figure you can reduce your overall time spent by about 20 years by hitting those productivity quota goals/bonuses. The surgery and recovery is painful and adds another 10 years to your debt; no one mentioned the cost of training, re-gearing, nor the loss of feeling of the old hand. Touch no longer felt human but instead felt like trying to taste a picture, artificial and lacking of realistic sensation. You hum along for another 20 years. You wonder about when death is going to come, you realize that you celebrated another birthday, yet you don't feel much older than the day you landed. After your private inquiry, you learn that the water contains supplements to help aid life extension of workers, which is part of the reason the price of the water is so high. The nanites in the water was available back on Earth, but it was considered a luxury item, at least back when you were on Earth all those decades ago... where you could feel the breeze on your face and stare up at the sky to feel the warmth of the sun. Here, they merely had artificial lighting in the underground bunker that protected from radiation shielding. It's been decades since you've seen the natural sun. Another 15 years later, your debt grew through a series of unfortunate events. You realize that death won't come naturally and the system is designed to make the debt hole inescapable. You choose the one last free action you have, you decide to stop living. You wake up on a table, they revived you. They hand you a bill, and they say "due to the dangers you may do to others or yourself, certain freedoms have been restricted". sUrveil-INet is installed and you have a monitor to prevent any unauthorized actions. Thanks to your newly acquired medical debt, you debt hole went from in-escapable to completely collapsing in and the interest payments more to the debt than what you can possibly pay off. Your struggle continues, there is no escape, you are a prisoner forever.


Seeing the city in daylight was a startling change for Sarah. She was used to experiencing the city mostly at night, with lights shining from thousands of windows above her, and the fog of car exhaust from the street and her breath all mingled together against an ashy black sky. But today being a holiday, she had gotten out of work early, and the sun was just starting to set. Its golden light was diluted to a watercolor glow by grey clouds and grey buildings and grey asphalt. The people she passed as she walked home were vibrant with color, though, with rosy cheeks and bright coats and hats, instead of the silhouetted figures of black and grey she had grown used to sharing the sidewalks with. Not only that, but the holiday spirit seemed to have infected the city; there were smiles on faces and calls of “Happy New Year!” all around her. She felt dazzled, like there was something wonderful happening that she couldn’t participate in. Like Dorothy in Munchkinland when (Ding! Dong!) the witch was dead. When she got home and came in through the front door of the townhouse she shared with two other girls, she heard voices in the kitchen. One she recognized immediately: Cameron, her roommate's boyfriend, whose friendly tone and easy laugh brightened their home several nights a week and weekends, too. The other was her roommate, Jenna. After tucking her coat and bag away in her bedroom--everything in its place--she padded into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Her roommate Jenna was perched upon the counter, a bottle of beer in hand, and Cam was leaning next to her, sipping from his own bottle. As soon as he saw her, his eyes lit up and he greeted her the way he always did, by loudly announcing her name, "Sarah!" And as always, she blushed in response. Averting her gaze, she answered, "Hello.” Just like she always did, Jenna glowered at Sarah. "You're home early," she said. "Yes," was all Sarah could think to reply. Since she was busy filling the kettle and setting it on the stove to boil, she didn't have to look at either one of them. "Got big plans for tonight?" Cam asked, eliciting a derisive snort from his girlfriend. "If you're not busy, you could come with us. We're going to some fancy club." The way he said the last three words made it obvious it wasn’t his first choice. Jenna sneered, "She can't come. She has to stay home and light her candles." At this last dig, Sarah finally managed to level a gaze at her roommate. "Hanukkah is over," was all she said. Cutting through the tension, Cam asked, "Hey. You want a beer? Have a drink with us." Jenna turned to her boyfriend, shaking her head as if Sarah were pathetic. “You know she doesn’t drink.” "That's okay. Not everyone can be a party girl like you." He leaned in to kiss her nose affectionately, and she took the opportunity to wrap her arms around his neck, pull him between her legs, and kiss him long and deep. Sarah busied herself pouring hot water over a tea bag into a mug, her cheeks burning. Cam quickly broke the embrace and sat down at the table, beer bottle between his hands. "Hey, Sarah," he said, "maybe you can settle an argument for us. Right before you came in, Jen and I were debating the effectiveness of New Year's resolutions." Jenna quickly announced her position: "They're pointless. Most people just resolve to lose weight or something stupid, and then they never keep them anyway." Cam nodded slowly. "That’s true. Most people don't keep them. But if done right, if you're setting goals that are actually measurable and attainable, they can be very effective. And, either way, at least it provides an opportunity to examine oneself and how one might improve or grow. So...what's your vote? Yay or nay for resolutions?" "Ummm..." Sarah stirred a spoonful of honey into her tea, thinking for a moment. "Well, I guess you're right that it's a good idea to set goals and try to be a better person. But you don't really need to wait for the New Year to do that." "Ha!" Jenna nudged Cam with her foot in triumph. Cam persisted, "But don't you think the New Year is the perfect time to start fresh? Turn over a new leaf? Making concrete resolutions is a positive way to stay on track." "Yes...but personally I feel like making a resolution is too much like making a vow, and I don't think people should make vows they can't keep. Vows should be sacred and meaningful." "Huh." Cam looked thoughtfully into the distance, used his index finger to push his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. Sarah recognized the gesture as an indication that he was just warming up to a debate. Apparently, Jenna recognized it too, because she jumped down from the counter and grabbed his hand. "This is boring. Let’s go upstairs and get ready." Cam rose to his feet, his lanky frame unfolding fluidly. "Hey, are you sure you don't want to come with us?" he asked, genuine friendliness lighting his eyes. Sarah sipped her tea, and burned her mouth. "Thanks, but I actually do have plans." Later, Sarah was settled in bed with her laptop. She started a video call to her parents; when they answered and she saw them on the screen before her, she couldn't stop the grin from splitting her face. "Hello, Saree," her father boomed out. For some reason, he never could understand that you don't have to shout to be heard over the computer. "Hi," Sarah laughed. "Sarah," her mother started in, "are you in bed at seven pm? Are you in your pajamas?" Sarah glanced down. She had decided to pamper herself and wear the pink satin sleep set she’d ordered online. She realized the tank top was perhaps too casual for an audience with her parents. "So what if she is?" her father defended her. "What's wrong with being comfortable?" Her mother tsked in disapproval. "You should be out having fun, meeting new people. Isn't that why you moved all the way out there?" “No, Mama, I moved here for school, remember?” “Of course I remember. And how is school going?” Sarah fiddled with the tassel on the pillow beside her. “It’s...okay.” She had moved to this city because of a scholarship she had won at a nearby university. Her parents were so proud. They had hung onto the dream of her becoming a doctor ever since she had opened a pretend hospital for her stuffed animals as a little kid. But now that she had a year and a half of studies under her belt, the whole white coat and stethoscope act seemed all wrong. She just didn’t know how to tell them. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to be a doctor.” Mama’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why not?” Sarah shrugged. “I’m not...good at it.” “You’re plenty smart enough!” “It’s not that...I...” Struggling to find the words, she shook her head. “Never mind, Mama.” Her father smiled benevolently. “Don’t let it get you down, sheifale . We have faith in you.” She smiled weakly. “I know, Tatte .” “Maybe you could find someone there to cheer you up,” her mother suggested. “Aren't there any nice young men at synagogue you can spend time with?" Sarah was reluctant to go down this road. Her mother didn’t seem to know how very little experience she had with the opposite sex. “There are some,” she admitted, “but they don't even notice me." Both parents made noises of disbelief. "Are they blind, or just meshugga ?" Tatte demanded. Her mother shook her finger. "Jewish boys these days are not so smart. Remember our neighbor, Mrs. Kravitz? She had a friend who had to get a matchmaker for her daughter. At the time, I thought it was old-fashioned foolishness, but now I'm beginning to think I should do the same for you." "Mama!" Sarah protested. "It worked!" her mother insisted. "She found a nice Jewish man and has been happily married for several years." "Riva," her father gently chided. Her mother turned to him defensively. "I only want her to be happy! To have a husband, and children, and a happy home. Is that asking too much?" "Saree, we really do want you to be happy," Tatte said. "It hurts us to see you so lonely and sad. That's all your mother means." "I know. But you don't have to worry. I'll be fine. Really!" She managed another smile, but this time it was forced. If they knew she was faking it, they didn’t let on. Her mother launched into a monologue of all the neighborhood and family gossip; Sarah knew she only needed to contribute the occasional “Oh?” or “Mmhmm.” By the time an hour had passed, Sarah was desperate to end the call. “Well, I should go,” she finally said. “Okay. We love you, Sarah,” Tatte said. “ Zei gezunt .” “Love you too. Goodnight.” “Go find a nice young man!” Mama called. Sarah couldn't close the laptop fast enough. She heaved an exasperated sigh, her head thrown back against the pillows. There was a time when she could take all of her problems to her parents, and they would comfort her and help her look for solutions. Now, it seemed like they just didn’t understand her. Tatte thought she was still his little girl, and Mama apparently only thought of her as a broodmare for future grandchildren. No, she would have to figure things out on her own this time. She suddenly remembered what Cam had said about the New Year being the perfect time to try to improve and grow. She pulled a spiral notebook out of her bookbag and opened to a clean page. Just because she was a Jew didn’t mean she couldn’t embrace the spirit of the season. Measurable and attainable goals sounded like exactly what she needed right now. A few hours later, Sarah was almost asleep when she heard the front door swing open and slam against the wall. Then, someone raced up the stairs and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind them, causing her to jerk up in alarm. A second, heavier pair of feet followed up the stairs more sedately. She quickly crossed to the bedroom door and opened it a crack, listening and straining to see through the darkness. A man stood at the bathroom door, knocking quietly. "Jenna," he whispered. Sarah opened the door, light from her bedside lamp spilling into the hallway. "Cam?" He spun in surprise. "Oh. Hey, Sarah," he said, keeping his voice low. "Jenna's sick." As she stepped closer, Sarah saw that his thick black hair was mussed and his face creased with worry. "Sick?" she probed. "Like...drunk?" "No," he sighed. "Like maybe she ate something bad. I don't know. All she wanted was to come home." He shrugged. "Now she won't talk to me." This was answered with a retching noise from behind the closed door. "It sounds like she's in no condition to talk," Sarah said. Then she had a thought. "I'll be right back." She hurried into her bedroom and returned with a small basket. She slipped past Cam and knocked on the door. "Jenna," she called, "it's me, Sarah. Can I come in?" There was a groan from within, which Sarah decided to take as a yes. "You stay here," she whispered to Cam. Inside the bathroom, Jenna was sprawled on the floor, her head resting on the toilet seat. Sarah could see that her clothes were a mess. "Oh, dear," Sarah murmured. Jenna squinted up at her, tears and snot running down her face. "Go away," she ordered, then hiccuped. The hiccup turned into heaves, which after a moment subsided into sobs. There was another knock at the door. "Jenna?" Cam sounded slightly more concerned. "We're okay," Sarah called. "Don't come in." "I don't want him to see me like this," Jenna cried. "I know," Sarah soothed. While she talked, she ran a washcloth under the faucet. "But he must care about you a lot. He's still here, isn't he? Here." She handed the washcloth to Jenna, who mopped up her face. "Listen. I'll go to your room and get you a change of clothes. I’ll send Cameron home and then you can get into bed." Jenna nodded miserably. "Okay." "And I brought something." Sarah showed her the basket. "This is a little 'sick day' kit my mom made for me when I moved away. It has everything you might need when you’re sick: chicken noodle soup, seltzer, tissues, a heating pad, a thermometer...but here. Have a little sip of ginger ale. That should help settle your tummy." Jenna sniffled. "Your mom must be really nice." Sarah smiled. "She is." After helping Jenna get cleaned up and into some comfy sweatpants, Sarah made sure she was settled in bed with a box of tissues and a wastebasket nearby. “Does your stomach still feel upset?” she quietly asked her roommate. Jenna still looked sweaty and pale, but more than that, she seemed exhausted, struggling to keep her eyes open. “It’s better,” she weakly answered. “Okay. I’m going to take your temperature, just to make sure, okay?” Jenna nodded, and Sarah pointed the state-of-the-art infrared thermometer at her forehead. “Hm. A low-grade fever,” Sarah said. “You must have picked up a bug somewhere. But the best thing for that right now is rest. I’ll check on you again in a little bit.” Drifting off, Jenna whispered, “You’re going to make a great nurse.” “I--” Sarah looked at Jenna in shock, but the other girl was already asleep. “Thank you.” Downstairs, Sarah was surprised to find Cam sitting at the kitchen table. "You're still here?" she asked. "Yeah. Is Jenna okay?" "She'll be fine." "I didn't know if I should stay with her..." "She just needs to sleep. You can go home. I'm sure she'll call you tomorrow or the next day." Cam stood and awkwardly twisted his hands together. He looked tired under the bald fluorescent light. "Thank you for taking care of her. You were much better than I would have been... Much better than she deserves." He winced at his own words. "I mean, you were so nice to her. And she's never nice to you." "Oh." Sarah bit her bottom lip and looked away, then turned back with a little smile. "I guess you could say it's my New Year's resolution." He laughed softly, and she admired the way his eyes got lost in the depths of his laugh lines. After the silence settled around them once again, she felt the need to fill it. "You know,” she mused, “during the High Holy Days leading up to Yom Kippur, Jews spend a lot of time reflecting and considering how they should strive to be better people. I guess it's not dissimilar from your New Year's resolutions." He took a step toward her. "You don't have to strive to be a better person, Sarah. You're already pretty amazing." He closed the distance between them and kissed her before she even knew what was happening. His right hand cupped her cheek, and his lips were pillowy but strong against hers. She couldn't remember how to breathe. When he drew away, her fingertips flew up to her lips while she gasped. "Cameron! You're drunk!" He shook his head, a playful smile tilting his lips. "No," he murmured. "It's midnight. Happy New Year." “You shouldn’t have done that,” she said. “You’re going out with Jenna.” He hung his head sheepishly. “I know. It just felt right. And things with her...don’t.” Sarah shook her head. “If you want to break up with her, fine, but don’t put me in the middle. I’m not going to be that girl.” “It’s not like that. I just...” It was his turn to shake his head. “I’m sorry. I should head home, get some sleep.” She nodded. “Things might look different tomorrow.” He offered her a rueful smile. “Yeah. It’s better in the light of day, right?” “Right.” She smiled gently back. “Happy New Year, Cam.” Sarah returned to her room, intent on finally getting some sleep. But as she walked through the doorway, she spotted the spiral notebook spreadeagled on the floor by her bed. She gathered it up and in the dim light reread what she had written earlier that night. “MY GOALS” she had scrawled across the top of the page. “1. Have my first REAL kiss.” The one that had seemed the most impossible was right at the top. She grinned and grabbed her pen. “That was easier than I thought,” she said as she crossed it off. “2. Make a new friend.” She nibbled the cap of her pen. She was glad that she had built a bridge with Jenna tonight, but she didn’t think they qualified as friends. She wanted someone to talk to, to hang out with, to be herself around. She hoped such a person was out there. She would keep working on that one. The final item on the list was: “3. Drop out of school? Take a year off? Go back home???” This one she still didn’t have an answer for. Yet. But she took her pen and added one more option to the list: “Become a nurse?” As she climbed into bed and pulled the comforter up to her chin, she marveled at the possibilities that suddenly unspooled before her. She had started the night feeling trapped and alone and defeated, but now she felt light and hopeful. Excited, even. Cam was right, she thought as she reached to turn out the light, the New Year is the perfect time to start fresh.


Lachlan and Nye knew very well a haunting’s success lied in the delicate relationship between the haunted and the haunters, just like the food chain relied on the eternal dance between the prey and the predator. A falcon dies without a mouse to feed on, and so do the disincarnate. The two spirits had haunted Quaver House for decades, and they had learned to successfully prey on the manor’s buyers, feeding on their fears to the point where they ran away with broken souls that could never be mended. Three had been pushed to murder; four had been driven to suicide. The two brothers had died during a burglary in the eighties. As they broke into the house in search of valuable jewels to sell on the black market, Quaver’s homeowner promptly shot them down with his gun, and the ghosts sought revenge relentlessly, tormenting him until he turned the gun against himself many months later. His family fled, and the cycle of arrivals and departures thus began. It took a handful of tries before they truly mastered the recipe. The first two buyers that succeeded the original Quaver homeowners were elderly couples. In both instances, Lachlan and Nye were too quick to act. They unleashed the terror of shaking walls and ghostly appearances on the first night, and the couples died of heart attacks on the spot. Sudden deaths are rather peaceful and unsatisfying to a ghost, and these failed to feed their hunger for fright and dread. Subsequent hauntings were more on point. The duo lured new generations of homeowners into a false sense of safety in their first weeks and haunted them incrementally. For months of emotional torture, they both reveled in a feast of horror, tasting their victims’ succulent despair with a killer’s taste for blood. Shadowy reflections in mirrors. Bone-chilling voices whispering in the night. Scratches mysteriously appearing on the walls. What ultimately befell them was the plight that befalls all ghosts at one point or another. After a string of suspicious deaths and poor success on the real estate market, Quaver House was officially rumoured to be haunted, and not a soul dared to venture within its walls. The dry spell was difficult for the partners in crime. Without fright to feed on, ghosts starve and disappear. Their existence was threatened. Night after night, they hovered by the chandelier in the manor’s ballroom, waiting for a poor unsuspecting soul to pay them a visit, but a soul never came. Until that fateful October night, that is. They heard the sound of broken glass. Someone had shattered a window downstairs. This instantly triggered the spirits’ hunger. “It’s time,” whispered Lachlan to his brother. “It’s probably a burglar,” replied Nye. “What are we supposed to do? We can’t lead him on for weeks.” “It shall be a quick meal then. Sometimes, you have no choice but to keep it short.” Lachlan sat down at the ballroom piano and played an eerie melody, hoping this would startle the intruder. Nothing. The brothers sensed no fear whatsoever in the house. They made their way downstairs, remaining invisible to humans, in search of their prey. The parlour window was indeed shattered, but there was no trace of the man. “What if he left already?” wondered Nye. “No. Something’s not right. Someone is still here. Somewhere.” “Whoever it is, he’ll be out quicker than it takes for either of us to get any satisfaction.” “Nonsense! This might be the only chance we have to feed for another decade. We’re not passing on it. Let’s split.” The brothers searched the instinct that belonged to them while human. It was now buried deep inside of them, but it was still there. They had been burglars in their lifetimes, after all. A burglar’s first reflex is always to aim for the bedroom, where the valuables are. Lachlan searched the master bedroom, while Nye inspected both guest rooms. No one to be found. Lachlan made his way into the dining room. The silverware was still untouched. He felt an odd presence, as if someone had been there. The burglar must have passed by. Why was is none of the valuables had been taken then? Nye went for the lounge and the library. Again, no sign of life. Yet, he had this strange sensation of being observed as he meandered between rows of books. He knew this sensation very well, although he typically was not on the receiving side. The younger brother specialized in making the homeowners feel observed, preyed on, and he enjoyed watching unsuspecting victims glancing over their shoulders straight at him, unable to physically see his presence. All of a sudden, this sensation he typically thrived on was no longer enjoyable. The brothers reconvened in the parlour and were shocked to find the window intact. The glass shatters had vanished completely. “This can’t be,” said Lachlan. “The broken glass was right there.” “Was it? Maybe we’re just too desperate for someone to come. We see what we want to see.” “I sensed someone, he was right here, I’m sure of it!” “That’s what everyone says after seeing an oasis in a desert.” “It wasn’t like that, I--” His reflection was interrupted by a melody that felt all too familiar. Up in the ballroom, someone played piano. It was the very same piece Lachlan had played earlier. Slowly, both brothers made their way up the grand staircase again. The chandelier was lit, its amber glow refracting through the countless crystals hanging from its golden structure. At the grand piano sat a young girl with long raven hair, playing the keys perfectly in a bright pink evening gown. “That’s the burglar?” exclaimed Nye. “A little girl? She can’t be older than twelve.” “All the better,” replied Lachlan. “She’ll be easier to scare.” “Should we hide first?” “Hide? She can’t see us, you idiot.” “Yes I can,” replied the little girl. The ghosts stepped back as she turned towards them, her gaze intense and terrifying. “You’re...” began Lachlan. “Dead?” she concluded. “I am. Don’t be so surprised. You look like you’ve just seen a ghost for the first time. Have you never looked at yourself in the mirror?” “It’s impossible,” declared Nye. “You can’t haunt the house unless you died in it. We were the first ones to die here, and we’ve never seen you.” “You can’t haunt the house unless you died on the grounds,” she replied. “I was killed on the road by a drunk driver last year. The roots of the weeping willow on the front lawn extend beneath the road. Therefore, I died on the grounds.” She approached menacingly towards the brothers. “I had to wait, of course. You were too strong for me to act. But now you are weak. And this house is mine.” She opened her mouth, and the most dreadful of screams escaped from her throat. Blood flowed from her eyes, and her veins blackened at the surface of her skin. Lachlan and Nye cowered in weakness, unable to resist the banshee’s screech of fright. Their spirits fell to the ground, pulled into eternal damnation by the ghostly hands of the souls they had tortured over the decades, summoned by the eerie cry. The girl in the pink dress was now satisfied. Her hunger had been fed, and she got back to her piano for another melody. As they moved into an afterlife of pain, the brothers had learned a valuable lesson. A predator can prey all he wants, but there will always be another predator to prey on him.